A Pocketful of Rye by A. J. Cronin Page A

following me into the dispensary.
    â€˜Don’t hand me that eyewash.’
    I gave him his injection – I had put him on a course of colossal iron – then told him to go and get dressed. In the office I had some paper work to get through but I could not settle to it. My thoughts were depressingly clouded by the campaign that almost certainly had come into being against me. Before this went further, counter action, I clearly perceived, was demanded of me.
    The ladies, if I may use the word, returned in excellent spirits and a continued sense of intimacy which persisted during the midday meal. Once or twice I caught Matron’s button eyes upon me with an admixture of inquiry and that sly glint of jocular malice which, in the Swiss, passes for humour. But as I had wisely decided to say nothing, the expectation that I would complain about the breakfast was frustrated. This at least afforded me a minor satisfaction and for the rest I maintained an attitude of quiet dignity, reserve and, let me add, determination. I had fully made up my mind to have things out with the soidistant Caterina.
    She had the habit now of walking after the Mittagessen , taking the uphill path beside the little stream that tore down through the pasture with picturesque abandon, between banks of meadow sweet and celandine. Today she did not disappoint me. After she set off, I established Daniel on the terrace and followed her with such discretion that she remained unaware of me until she had actually seated herself on the grassy hillock that marked the end of the lower slopes before the mountain took over in a steep glissade of scree. Beyond, the massed pines climbed darkly into a rarefied world of their own.
    â€˜You’ve discovered a favourite spot of mine,’ I said, companionably.
    She looked up, without surprise or any sign of welcome.
    â€˜I suppose you’ve noticed the heather …’ I had to keep talking, ‘not the usual Swiss erica, real Scottish moorland heath. And there’s lots of harebells among the bracken.’
    â€˜Quite like home sweet home for you,’ she said. ‘Should it remind me of our happy days together?’
    â€˜Well, it ought to arouse your botanical instincts.’
    â€˜I’ve lost all my instincts.’
    Her response wasn’t encouraging but I maintained my air of sweetness and light.
    â€˜May I join you?’
    â€˜Why not? I half expected you.’
    I parked myself on the short heathery turf. Glancing sideways surreptitiously I had a sudden warm appreciation of the change wrought in her by alpine air and the Maybelle cuisine. Bareheaded, in a simple Swiss blouse and dirndl skirt which I strongly suspected Matron had bought her that morning, she looked younger and, this came to me with a start, definitely bed worthy. But enough! After a pause of recollection, in a tone which combined both conciliation and reproach, I began:
    â€˜It’s true, I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to talk with you. I’ve had the strangest and most unnatural feeling that in spite of all I’ve done and intend doing for you and your boy you’ve … well … turned dead set against me.’
    â€˜I have. And I am.’
    The brief reply, delivered without emotion, shook me.
    â€˜For heaven’s sake why?’
    She turned slowly and examined me.
    â€˜Quite apart from your character, Carroll, which is unspeakably and sickeningly detestable, you’ve always been a sort of evil genius for me. Yes, from the day I first saw you on that railway platform. If you want it in a few sloppy words, I’d say you have botched up my life.’
    Speechless, I could do no more than gape at her. She went on.
    â€˜I never thought I’d have the chance to even the score. Now I have.’
    Was she out of her mind? I struggled to find words.
    â€˜But Cathy … how can you … it’s inconceivable that I should want to injure you. I’ve always