A Pocketful of Rye by A. J. Cronin

Yet when I thought on the instigator of all these scheming little tricks, these dropped hints and innuendos, I felt like wringing her neck or, better still, setting up a good rough bedroom scene with her. What the devil was she after? Beyond the recognition of that strain of antagonism which had always existed in our complex relationship, especially in our early days when she had tried to get the better of me, I could not even guess. Seeing her every day, in the same house, made it worse. Recovered from the journey, refreshed by the mountain air, she had shed a few years, lost that beaten look, and in the words of that murky ballad, begun to bloom again.
    There was a knock at the door.
    â€˜Come in!’ I shouted.
    Daniel’s head appeared inquiringly round the lintel. He smiled.
    â€˜Are you busy, Dr Laurence?’
    â€˜I’m busy trying to get enough calories out of this bloody bad breakfast.’
    â€˜It doesn’t look too bad.’
    He advanced and sat down. He was still in his Maybelle dressing-gown and pyjamas, holding his infernal pocket chess board.
    â€˜It’s just that Mother and Matron have gone shopping in the car. I was wondering if, since we are alone … we might try a few moves.’
    So they had paired off again. I glared at him.
    â€˜I believe I told you to stay in bed until I came to examine you.’
    â€˜Well … I had to get up.’
    â€˜What for? To piss?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, adopting my vocabulary. ‘To puke.’
    â€˜You were sick?’
    â€˜I only threw up a little. It’s a bit of a habit I seem to have developed.’
    â€˜Since when?’
    â€˜Just the last few days. I think it’s the codliver oil. What comes up all tastes of it.’
    I looked at him and nodded.
    â€˜That’s probable. It’s pretty foul stuff. We’ll knock you off it and put you on extra milk. Now back to your room.’
    â€˜Won’t you? I’m rather tired of playing against myself.’
    I finished my tepid coffee and pushed the tray aside leaving the ballons conspicuously untouched.
    â€˜Come on then. I’ll give you a game. Then you must come to the dispensary and have your injection.’
    â€˜Good,’ he said. ‘It’s a deal,’ and began to set out the board.
    Although I was no Capablanca I played chess off and on with the kids during wet recreation hours, and I meant to knock him off quickly, partly to take him down, but also to eliminate the nuisance of further games.
    We began calmly. I had the first move. But why make a song about it. There is no disguising the sordid facts. This unnatural little upstart mated me in exactly six moves.
    â€˜That’s extraordinary.’ He smiled. ‘I never knew the Giuoco Piano opening succeed so easily. I fully expected you to use Petroff’s defence.’
    â€˜You did?’ I said sourly. ‘Well, I don’t go for Petroff. Suppose you play me another without your queen.’
    â€˜Certainly. In that case you’ll probably open with the Ruy Lopez.’
    â€˜Not on your life. I’m anti-Portuguese.’
    â€˜Oh, Lopez was a Spaniard, in the sixteenth century, Dr Laurence. He invented his attack – where caution and safety are essential for the defenders. And I’m sure you’ll remember to respond with P to K4.’
    â€˜That impertinent remark costs you another three pieces,’ I said, removing his two bishops and a castle. ‘Now I’ll give you and Petroff a damn good licking.’
    Even so it was no use. I was cautious but not safe. When he looked at me reproachfully, sparing my feelings by not saying ‘checkmate’, I scattered the pieces back into the box and stood up.
    â€˜I’m used to playing with experts: when I’m up against a beginner it throws me off balance.’
    He laughed dutifully.
    â€˜You’re just a little out of practice, Dr Laurence,’ he said apologetically,