A Pocketful of Rye Read Free

pursuit until suddenly a dog barks and all is still again.
    Oh, come off it, Carroll, and stay happy. No one is interested in your private little phobia, at least not yet. It was time for me to get back to my tea and ramekins.
    Then, as I turned, I saw someone come through the lodge gates – Hans, the postmaster’s son, hurrying up the drive, now waving to me with something in his hand. A letter.
    â€˜Express, Rekommandiert, Herr Doktor. ’ It was probably my monthly cheque and for this the Swiss post never keeps you waiting.
    He was pretending to be out of breath, but as I was in a soft mood, when I signed the receipt, I told him to hold on, went into my sitting-room which opened off the terrace. This was a snug little room with a warm red carpet, solid, well-polished, comfortable furniture upholstered in brown velveteen, while on the table Matron very thoughtfully kept me supplied with a bowl of the Valais fruits, apricots, pears, apples and cherries, which were so plentiful at this season.
    â€˜Catch, Hans.’ I threw him a big Golden Delicious apple from the open window.
    He wouldn’t eat it now, I felt sure, but as a true little Swiss, to whom possession is ten points of the law, take it home, polish it, and keep it – at least until Sunday. I watched him go off with a vielen Dank, Herr Doktor.
    Then I examined the letter, and was suddenly set back on my heels. It wasn’t possible! The envelope was postmarked Levenford, that most distasteful, almost fatal word from which in all its connotations I hoped I had finally cut myself adrift. Reluctantly, I opened the envelope. Yes, from my old playmate, Francis Ennis.
My dear Laurence ,
    I must ask pardon for failing to write congratulating you on your appointment last summer. There was a very pleasing little paragraph in the ‘Winton Herald’. May I now, belatedly, wish you every success in your new and most worthy endeavour.
    And now I hesitate to proceed. For I am constrained to ask a special favour of you.
    You remember Cathy Considine, I’m sure, that very sweet companion of our boyhood days who married Daniel Davigan, and was so recently and tragically widowed. Yes, Laurence, theirs was a model marriage, a shining example of marital unity. It was a fearful blow when Dan was taken. You must have seen the account and obituary notice two months ago in the public press, locally, at least, it created quite a stir. And lately, alas, another affliction for the sorrowing widow. The only child, Daniel, just seven years of age, and without question a most remarkable and exceptionally clever little boy, has turned quite poorly. Very pale, glands in the neck and, not to put too fine a point on it, a suspicion of T.B. Canon Dingwall, though in retirement and still in his wheel chair following another slight stroke, has shown a great interest in the boy, has brought him along in every way – actually Daniel is two classes ahead of his age – and he has taken the matter up strongly with Dr Moore who at once suggested a spell, brief we hope, in a sanatorium. All very well to suggest, but here, with the waiting under the new Health Scheme it would be a good six months before a place could be found for Daniel. And then only in the Grampians, which I dare say bear no comparison with your sunny Swiss Alps.
    So it has been decided that Cathy must take the boy to Switzerland and devote herself to his cure. The two dear pilgrims propose leaving here on Tuesday of next week, October 7th, arriving Zurich Airport at 5.30 p.m., and as they have no contacts in that city and must feel quite lost, I am relying on you at least to meet them. If you can do nothing further, please see them on their way to Davos where they have an address from Dr Moore. But Laurence, if it is at all humanly possible, won’t you take charge of them yourself, find a place for Daniel in your clinic, get him well again? Please! For the boy’s sake. God will bless you