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

nothing of my visits, had been infrequent. Frank’s sudden decision to enter the priesthood, so logical in one sense, had taken me by surprise. He had never spoken to me of a vocation although I had long suspected it. I had already surmised that a subconscious aversion to his father’s way of life, while never admitted, perhaps never recognized, had deterred him from continuing the Ennis general practice. But he had meant to be a teacher, and had set out to take his M.A. degree at Edinburgh. And beyond all other considerations his future had been centred on Cathy, their marriage was an understood thing, practically preordained. What could have upset the apple cart? A sudden call to give himself to God? Perhaps there had been pressure from the everlasting Dingwall. This I was inclined to doubt, recollecting an incident when the Canon, detaining me after one of our Friday sessions, had caught me by the collar and shaken me till my teeth rattled.
    â€˜It’s you I want, with your good Protestant blood. What use would Frank be on the parish milk round? Put a rosary in one hand and a lily in the other and you’re done with him.’
    Had some deeper psychological reason inclined him towards celibacy? There was the occasion when, during one of our conversations – I was then a three-year medical student – Frank suddenly exclaimed:
    â€˜Isn’t it disgusting, Laurence, that the organ of procreation should be the very sewer through which half the impurities of the body are discharged?’ And how his expression had frozen when I laughed.
    â€˜You’ll have to blame that one on the Creator, Frank.’
    â€˜Not blame, Laurie,’ he said severely. ‘ It was meant. By omniscient design.’
    He was an interesting conundrum, still open to speculation! For reasons that were unrevealed, and remained inexplicable, Frank had suddenly slipped out of his commitment to Cathy and taken off for the seminary.
    The train was late in arriving and although I put on speed from the railway station to St Patrick’s, the service had already begun as I slid into an inconspicuous seat beside a pillar. From this retreat I had a clear view of the altar and of the two front rows, where I made out amongst a number of others, Mrs Ennis, Cathy, and what looked like the entire extensive range of the Davigan family.
    This ceremony is always impressive and I admit it gave me a bit of a turn. The sight of Frank, all in white, prostrate in an attitude of supreme subjection, made me feel a bit of a sickening character. Since I’d cut loose from Levenford I had not infrequently been in the same position for altogether different reasons.
    After the final blessing I waited outside, the emerging congregation, which was large, milling round me. Aware that I should not immediately see Frank, I hoped that Mrs Ennis or Cathy might give me some idea of his arrangements for the day. However, it was Dan Davigan who found me, pumping my hand and patting me on the back with the insufferable presumption of a lifelong boon companion.
    â€˜Well met, man. I saw you, had my eye on you, as you slipped in. Why didn’t you come forward, proper like, to the place I’d reserved for you? I’m a St Pat’s sidesman now, y’understand, and I throw my weight around. Anyhow, here we are, and I’ve an invite for you. Celebration repast at the Ennis’s home for six o’clock. You’ll be there?’
    â€˜I’ll try.’
    â€˜Oh, but you must, or Frank’ll never forgive you. Sure, your name’s never off his lips.’
    Restively, I looked about me. I still hoped to have a word with Cathy, but she was lost in the crowd or had already gone. I had begun to move away when Davigan exclaimed:
    â€˜And now I’ve a message from the Canon. He wants to see you. In the sacristy. Poor suffering soul, he’s a done man, due for retirement to the sisters next month. In you go, I’ll wait