A Pocketful of Rye by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online Page A

her head.
    â€˜You are a nice man, Laurence, of whom I am so fond. I never thought for an Englisher I could feel so much. Don’t spoil it all with such sentimism.’
    â€˜Sentiment,’ I amended sadly. ‘And I’m Scottish.’
    I brought the car round to the front entrance and we drove to Kloten. You may accuse me of being oversold on Zürich when I commend Kloten Airport as the best in Europe – meticulously efficient, immaculately clean, with a first-class restaurant and a snack-bar serving the best coffee I ever drank. We each had a quick cup, standing up. Typically, there was no one at the B.E. A. counter, but from the long range of bustling Swiss desks on the other side Lotte came back with some bad news.
    â€˜Your flight is seventy minutes late.’
    â€˜Oh, blast.’
    She showed all her lovely teeth in an irritating smile. ‘You must sit and dream of me, liebling. With your so tender heart. And I tell you. When your friends arrive I bring them quickly through customs to you.’
    I went through to the lower bar, found a quiet corner and ordered a Kirsch. Suddenly I felt tired and unaccountably depressed. No, not unaccountably – it was the old post-copulative triste. The Augustine tag came to my mind: Post coitum omne animal triste est. How true, how everlastingly true! Usually I can ignore it but today I failed to shake it off. Her crack at my secret hallucination had upset me. And what a fool I was, wasting my time, and substance, in fact wasting my life with these frivolous fringe benefits. Lotte wasn’t a bad sort, but what did I really mean to her. A partner in fun-fun. And although she wasn’t promiscuous, I had a dismal notion that I was not the only one to share her suspiciously broad and springy bed. But this was the least of my sudden dejection. That mood was coming on, that familiar cursed mood, the epigastric syndrome, or if you prefer it, that psychological punch in the guts. For me there was no escape. Never. Even as a backslider I could not escape that sense of guilt. I had been brought up on sin, both varieties, venial and mortal, the latter, if unforgiven, a prelude to damnation. Ah, goodness, that comprehensive word, that ever elusive, state of good!
    Oh, cut it out, Carroll. Be your age. You gave up all that truck years ago. And nowadays who gives it a thought? And if you want to argue, hasn’t the recent Commission of Christian Churches practically sanctified all forms of premarital sex, throwing in a few self-service practices as extra jam, with three hearty Christian cheers for Lady Chatterley’s Lover!
    With an effort I turned my thoughts towards the approaching meeting, which disagreeable though it might be, was not without a certain mild expectation. Interesting, in a minor way, to see Cathy again and to know if anything of that juvenile regard for me remained. The probability stirred faint memories and, encouraged by another Kirsch and a sustaining club sandwich, I drifted back to Levenford, to that eventful day, and the events leading to it, when I had last seen Cathy Considine and Francis Ennis, the day of Frank’s ordination.

Chapter Four
    The summer that year had been exceptionally fine, and on that late August morning as I set out from Winton station the sun beamed benignly in a cloudless sky.
    The train was a ‘local’ and as the slow journey wore on with stops at several stations, I had ample time to reflect on the event that was bringing me to Levenford. Actually it was an inconvenience for me to make the trip since, having graduated M.B. at the University during the month before, I had signed on as ship’s surgeon in the s.s. Tasman , a cargo-cum-passenger liner plying between Liverpool and Sydney, due to sail on the evening of the day after the ceremony. But I had promised Frank to be there on his big day, although since leaving Levenford to attend the University, my communication with him, to say