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

gone sour and it was making the journey twice as long.
    However, towards eleven o’clock we were there at last, and as we came up the drive it was a relief to see lights in the guest chalet. I had been a trifle uncertain of Matron, but she had actually stayed up, well beyond her usual hour of retiring, to make a welcoming party of one.
    â€˜Ach, so! You are tired. So late, and so much journeyings.’ With an arm round Cathy she helped her from the car. ‘And the leetle boy? Sleeping. That is goot. But so pale. Can you take him, Herr Doktor? We are all prepared.’
    Inside, the chalet glowed, a bright fire in the little sitting-room warmly burnishing the freshly polished furniture, gilding the pot of white cyclamen that since morning had undoubtedly found its way from the village Blumengeschäft to the centre table. Nearby, on a tray, was a Thermos jug flanked by a plate of pretzels. A clean warm smell of burning pinewood seeped from the burning logs. Shaded lights were on in the large and adjoining small bedrooms, both beds were turned down, and on each, light as swansdown, lay that unique provider of nocturnal comfort, a Swiss Steppdecke.
    What a tribute to myself that Matron had put herself to such trouble to achieve so warm and convincing a welcome. Cathy, tired and exhausted to the point, almost, of an estrangement from me, looking about her with an expression of dazed surprise, had clearly expected nothing so attractive, so heartwarming.
    â€˜You like, ja?’ Matron said, in a pleased tone, studying her.
    â€˜It’s perfect … so lovely … and comfortable. I … I don’t know how to thank you.’
    â€˜Goot! Now you must take your hot trink while I put to bed the chield. And for you, Herr Doktor, there is also hot milk and pretzels already in your room. So, gute Nacht. ’
    She bustled through the main bedroom into the little room where I had taken Daniel. As Cathy stood motionless and silent, her eyes lowered, I unstoppered the Thermos and poured a glass of milk which I slid along the table towards her. I scarcely knew what to say, exactly what note to strike, how in fact to break the ice which seemed to have congealed between us. But it was she who spoke first. Apparently still thinking of Matron she said, almost to herself:
    â€˜That’s a kind-hearted woman.’
    â€˜She is, Cathy,’ I endorsed heartily, then with some justification, feeling that I might take my fair share of the credit, I added: ‘We both felt, she and I, that you deserved the best.’
    â€˜Because I was your cousin?’
    â€˜Well,’ I shrugged, ‘that was just to help things along.’
    She did not answer but remained, with head averted, not looking at me. At the sight of that drooping figure, still slender, even youthful, another touch of pity came at me. Not the journey alone, trying though that might have been, but some other, harrowing experience, anxiety for the brat, perhaps, I couldn’t yet discover the hidden cause, but whatever it might be, had worn her down.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Cathy. We’ll get the boy right, and you too. I’ll examine him first thing tomorrow, and do everything I can to help you.’
    I came towards her and took her gently, soothingly, by the arm.
    Instantly she froze. In a low but intense voice, looking me dead in the eyes, she said:
    â€˜Keep your dirty fingers off me. You … you lying woman chaser.’
    I was staggered. After all I had done; inviting her to stay; meeting her; driving her in the pitch dark for hours over those damn dangerous mountain roads; to be blasted like some bloody sex maniac. Then I saw that she was more upset than I, and at once everything became clear. Not just her seeing Lotte, of course, the big Swede had given me away, yes, all the way – I might have known she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut – and Cathy, eagerly looking forward to meeting me again, had