A Pocketful of Rye Read Online Free PDF

were occasionally accompanied by that other youth, Daniel Davigan, a despicable hanger on, a clod who, though he had outgrown it by two years, was still at St Patrick’s parochial school, and whose obsequious attempts at friendship I had stiffly discouraged.
    This co-optation of Davigan in my place was a bitter pill and since it has point later on he must merit a more accurate portrayal. In appearance he was not prepossessing: a flattish face with ill-assorted features, rusty red hair and the blanched skin and pale greenish eyes that often go with such colouring, as if all his pigmentation had been expended on his scrubby brush. Yet it was his manner that offended me, a blend of truculence and ingratiating intimacy with which he sought to advance himself. Doubtless I was prejudiced. Frank, who disliked nobody, was at least prepared to tolerate Dan who, after all, had his social difficulties as the eldest son of a small jobbing builder, a short, hairy red gorilla of a man lampooned in the town for his feat of propagating sixteen children, eleven of which survived. Once on a rare visit to the Davigan home I had caught a shuddering glimpse of the marital chamber with its huge brassbound bed on which such incessant procreation and parturition had been enacted and which seemed to justify the lines dedicated to Mrs Davigan, whose maiden name was O’Shane, and generally attributed to Dr Ennis.
‘ Oh, a terrible life has Bridget O’Shane,
Three minutes’ boredom and nine months’ pain
A fortnight’s rest then at it again.
Oh, a terrible life has Bridget O’Shane. ’
    This admittedly was a hard thing for Dan to live down and although I grudged him the privilege of accompanying Frank and Cathy he at least served as a kind of watch-dog. Indeed I began to want him to be with them, since when he was not, and they went alone, I suffered most cruelly, broodingly picturing them, not only in the most tender intimacies, but hotly and falsely endowing them with every act of sexual abandonment. Indeed, on many of these summer afternoons I hung about the vicinity of Craig Crescent, behind a convenient wall, in the vain hope of observing some evidence of misconduct and throwing it in their faces. Once, unable to restrain myself as they came down from the wood, I stepped out and brazenly accosted them, peering for signs of guilt. Alas, they only looked happy. Cathy certainly was bright-eyed and moistly flushed, diffusing a heady perfume, entirely her own, and gaily excited, full of life and undulant movement, but Frank, calm and undisturbed as ever, wore unmistakably that confounding expression of happy, guileless innocence. I was on the point of turning away when he called out.
    â€˜Look what we found today. An absolute rarity. A bee orchis. And by the way, Laurie, I have to go to the Rectory tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t you take Cathy up the wood.’
    It seemed the chance of a lifetime to get even with her. While she watched me with a queer expression, half derisive, half expectant, I said,
    â€˜Sorry, Frank, I wouldn’t be found dead with your Cathy, in or out of the wood.’ And I walked off.
    From the first I had not meant to go, equally convinced that she had not the least intention of keeping the appointment. Nevertheless, at two o’clock on the following afternoon I was drawn irresistibly to that now detested end of Craig Crescent. And as I came round the final bend there she was, perched on the gate leading to Longcrags Wood. Surprise rooted me.
    â€˜So you decided to turn up,’ she said.
    I found my breath. ‘I wanted to see if you would.’
    â€˜Well, I did. Disappointed?’
    â€˜Not particularly.’
    She laughed. ‘That’s a strange admission from the Bruce heir apparent. I thought you hated me.’
    â€˜Isn’t it the other way round?’
    â€˜I ought to be pretty sick of you, Frank’s been feeding me your good points until I