Free A Pocketful of Rye by A. J. Cronin

have liked, I turned up the collar of my coat, stuck out my chin and set off at a hard pace down the road towards the railway station.

Chapter Five
    A hand on my shoulder was shaking me with unnecessary vigour. That, and the roar of a jet taking off, returned me to Zürich Flughafen. I started, turned sharply, and there was Lotte in the airport bar, standing over me with a woman and a small boy beside her.
    â€˜You went to sleep … again?’ With an embarrassing emphasis on the last word, Lotte laughed, put down the suitcase she had been carrying, then said to the others: ‘You are all right now I have delivered you. But do not trust this man too much, Mrs Davigan. He is not so simple as he looks.’
    Cathy muttered some words of thanks. I kept staring at her, in total unbelief, like an idiot. At first sight I had barely recognized her. My mental picture was not more than eight years out of date, but here was a woman who seemed much older, with a strained, almost broken-down look. Her expression was harder, her mouth, though full, was no longer tender, and her eyes, those wonderful dark eyes, had an edgy, questioning look, as though she would find it difficult to smile. She had on a felt hat without much shape and a brown suit, cheap-looking and shabby, but neat enough to do justice to the one thing that was unchanged. Her supple, fluid figure and the natural grace with which she stood and moved had the same appeal that had once made my heart turn over with desire. But now I had no more than a strange and painful awkwardness, pity perhaps.
    â€˜I’m afraid you had a bumpy flight,’ I said, when Lotte had gone. ‘Can I get you something before we start?’
    â€˜I couldn’t eat a thing. But,’ she hesitated, not looking at me, ‘I’d not say no to a drink.’
    â€˜Coffee?’
    â€˜I’d rather a brandy, if you don’t mind.’
    â€˜What about the boy? A sandwich?’
    â€˜He ate some of his dinner on the plane. He’s probably too tired to eat.’
    I bought her a cognac, with a ham sandwich and a Coca-Cola for the boy. He thanked me. Until now he had not spoken, although he had been studying me with observant eyes. He was extremely pale, too slightly built by far, with a reserved, examining expression – a delicate, even gentle look, if it had not been so composed. His brow was the best part of his face, which thinned towards the chin, a feature reminiscent of his father who, I recollected, had had a receding jaw. He was wearing grey shorts and stockings and a hand-knitted grey jersey. What was his name again? Of course … awful but inevitable … it would be Danny boy. Dislike rose up in me, at the memory of Davigan, but I checked it with a false kindness.
    â€˜Don’t finish your sandwich, Daniel, if you don’t want it.’
    â€˜I’ll keep this piece for later.’ He wrapped half in the waxed paper it had come in.
    His mother’s silence was so awkward, so restrictive indeed, I had to keep talking to him.
    â€˜Your first flight I suppose? It didn’t upset you?’
    â€˜Oh, no, thank you. I played a game part of the time.’
    â€˜A game?’
    â€˜Yes. Chess.’
    I smiled, in an effort to lighten the situation.
    â€˜Who did you take on? The pilot?’
    â€˜He plays games against himself.’ His mother broke in almost sharply, as though my facetiousness had offended her. ‘ He has a pocket set.’ After a moment, still in that unnatural and distant manner, she said: ‘Are we going to Davos or not?’
    â€˜Decidedly not. We have everything ready for you at the Maybelle.’
    â€˜The Maybelle?’
    Was there the vague inflection of a gibe?
    â€˜Ridiculous name, isn’t it? But I think you’ll like it.’
    â€˜Is it far?’
    â€˜A longish drive, I’m afraid. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.’
    When she put down her empty