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

elegance was now brought to the verge of the ridiculous by a bowler hat which sat down on his ears, causing them to protrude. Prejudice, no doubt, made me liken him to a stage butler in a second-rate farce. I avoided the gesture with which he attempted to take my arm as we set off towards Renton Road.
    â€˜A heavenly affair,’ he began. ‘And what a fine turn out. You were a shade late in getting in, Laurence.’
    Being first named by Davigan did not lessen my resentment, but I made no protest, except to maintain silence.
    â€˜I noticed you didn’t join us all at the altar rails. You’d see we all took Communion. Oh, I don’t doubt you’re in a state of grace all right. I daresay you weren’t fasting. Of course, Dr Ennis was an absentee. No use to pretend he was out on a case. He’s not really one of us now, Laurence. No, no, sadly fallen away. Ah, what a sorrow for the young priest. But the mother, ah, there was a joyful face, even though the tears were running down her cheeks. A saint. That’s where Francis, I beg his pardon, Father Francis, gets it. His holiness I mean. They say the Canon hasn’t bespoke him for St Pat’s, but the mother will press for it, I’ll be bound. Though they tell me the young Father’s not too glib with the sermons.’
    A further silence followed, then with a sly side glance he said:
    â€˜And what did you think of Miss Considine, Laurence?’
    â€˜Cathy? I thought she looked extremely sad.’
    â€˜Ah, didn’t we all now, more or less. A fine young man giving up the world for God. But she looked well, you thought? She’s come on, like, in her looks?’
    During the Mass I had found myself watching Cathy, thinking that she had altered in some way but that the change, whatever it might be, had given her something that was not there before.
    â€˜She’s an extremely attractive young woman,’ I said shortly. ‘And an interesting one.’
    â€˜She’s all that, and more,’ he agreed fervently. ‘Of course, being all in the black for her mother’s decease hardly gives her a chance.’
    â€˜What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is Mrs Considine dead?’
    â€˜She is that, none the less. This couple of months past. And after a long and painful illness, God help the poor soul. May she rest in Peace.’ He tipped the bowler and made the sign of the Cross. ‘It’s hard on Cathy, for you understand …’ he gave me a look, ‘the pension died with her, the mother I mean. Still anon, the dear girl has friends, that fine Spanish lace mantilla she had on came from my own mother, just to show you an example.’
    He had my attention now.
    â€˜But what’ll Cathy do with herself? Has she a job? She’ll have to give up that big house.’
    â€˜Well, no.’ He assumed a considering manner which widened his smirk. ‘She’ll not be given notice to quit. You see, Laurence, being in the building trade like, my old man has bought the house. It’s a desirable property and may come in handy in the not too distant future.’
    â€˜Why so?’ I asked sharply.
    He let the smirk go. Instead he faced me with a defiant yet triumphant grin.
    â€˜As a matter of fact, Carroll, you may as well hear it now, sooner nor later. It’s not out yet because of the other attraction, the ordination. But when you speak of Miss Considine you’re speaking of the future Mrs Davigan. Cathy and yours truly are engaged to wed.’
    I stopped short.
    â€˜You’re joking, Davigan.’
    â€˜Devil the joke, Carroll.’ The grin had become a sneer. ‘ We’ve come up the in world since you and your stuck-up Prot relations looked down your long noses at us. Take a peep up there.’
    We had reached the end of Renton Road where it branched to Craig Crescent and Woodside Drive. He was pointing to the lower slope of the Longcrags, visible now beyond the