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

Crescent, that wooded hill where the thrushes nested and wild flowers grew, the choice beauty spot of the town, that same wood where Cathy and I had almost found our Eden. Now the wood was razed, and amidst the stumps a rash of jerry bungalows was in process of eruption.
    â€˜Oh, God, what a bloody mess!’
    â€˜That’s what you think! Let me tell you, it’s the Davigan Building Estate. Our own financial empire! And it’s going to make our pile. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you half-baked snob!’
    He left me with that parting shot and after a long speechless inspection of that shameful, hideous vista I made my way slowly to my grandparents’ at Woodside Avenue.
    Here was a different atmosphere. They were quietly pleased to see me, finally qualified as a doctor, a result atoning in their eyes for my indifferent start in life. They gave me a simple lunch, a kindness I was able to repay by prescribing for the old lady’s rheumatoid arthritis. Bruce himself had slowed down but, still haunting the field of Bannockburn in spirit, spent a good hour showing me marked passages in an old Parish Register he had recently uncovered from a barrow in the Levenford Vennel. My present mood was tolerant of his obsession – it seemed less a prideful mania than an old man’s pathetic delusion – yet while I bore with him my mind kept grappling with that incredible situation not half a mile away, in Craig Crescent Cathy and Davigan … it simply couldn’t be! I had to get to the bottom of it. Although I was not due at Frank’s until six, towards five o’clock I said goodbye to the Bruces and started off by the back road towards the Crescent.
    No sign of life was visible in the curtained windows of the Considine house as I came through the front garden, and when I rang the bell there was a longish pause before Cathy appeared, still wearing the black dress that Davigan had deplored. It made her look older, but to my mind, lovelier. How to approach her? – it was difficult. I smiled in a friendly manner.
    â€˜May I come in? I’m too early for the banquet next door.’
    She held out her hand without surprise.
    â€˜Hello, Laurence. I sort of thought you’d look in.’
    The parlour was exactly as I had known it during my rare visits in the past, the same formally placed furniture, stiff, polished, and lifeless as the vase of dried-up honesty on the chiffonier. And there was little animation in Cathy as we sat down on hard chairs on opposite sides of that dead room. Her eyes were dull, she looked only half awake. Perhaps she read my mind.
    â€˜I was trying for a bit of a nap after one of the tablets Dr Ennis has been giving me. I don’t sleep too well these nights, alone in the house.’
    â€˜I was sorry to hear about your mother.’
    â€˜She’s better gone. Cancer isn’t much fun.’
    â€˜It must have been hard for her, and for you.’
    A silence fell between us, stressed by the slow beat of the longcase clock in the hall.
    â€˜And now, Cathy,’ I said, trying to speak lightly, ‘what’s all this I hear about your engagement to Davigan?’
    â€˜It’s no hearsay.’ She answered at once, as though prepared for the question. ‘While nothing’s settled, Dan wants to marry me.’
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜I’d be better off married.’ She said it quite flatly, then after a pause: ‘Dan’s no prize packet but he’s been helpful and kind. His parents too. Since Mother died I’ve been sort of sunk, Laurence. And of course with the pension gone there’s nothing but debts. I wouldn’t be in this house now if it weren’t for the Davigans.’
    â€˜Cathy, you’re not the one to give up. You’ll get over this … this upset, and find a decent job.’
    â€˜Such as? I’m not really qualified for anything.’
    â€˜At least you could try … to