An End and a Beginning (4 page)

He began to cough, and drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it across his mouth, and from behind it he said, “Excuse me.” Then he put away the handkerchief.

“If I give you Joseph Kilkey's address, will you promise to go and see him? As I said, he is an old man now. He has never recovered from his experiences as a conscientious objector in that war, and he still carries that frightful scar. However, I know he kept contact with you all those years, but he would do that, it is one of the principles of our society. I know he would like to see you again. Will you promise me two things, Mr. Fury? First, to go right along now and see Kilkey, and secondly to come back to me at this office at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. Can I have your promise?”

“What happened to my mother?”

“Mr. Kilkey will tell you.”

“Has he ever found his wife?”

“You refer to your sister?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Who is that?” called Mr. Delaney.

“Miss Francis,” piped a high feminine voice.

“Do please come in.”

Miss Francis came in. She was dressed entirely in blue, and she carried a soiled brown-paper parcel under her arm. She glanced at the visitor. “Another one.”

“I've been down to Lawton Street, and have seen that woman.”

“Mrs. Corles?”

“Yes, Mr. Delaney.”

“Do sit down,” he said, and took a chair to her. “You won't mind this gentleman being here. We understand each other too well for that. Now about Mrs. Corles?”

Miss Francis put down her parcel.

“Here are the things, Mr. Delaney.”

“I presume the police put them together.”

“Yes. The sergeant handed them to me half an hour ago.”

He opened the parcel, from which he extracted a blue handkerchief, a pair of scapulars, a cheap pair of spectacles without case, three silver coins, two photographs, a scissors, a small leather purse. This contained a single halfpenny.

“Where was she found?”

“Behind the area at Grand Street, just a hundred yards away from the Angel.”

“I see.”

“She lives in Lawton Street.”

“Of course. I've the number here,” said Mr. Delaney, as he pulled a stub of pencil from his pocket. “Fifty-three. Thank you, Miss Francis,” he said.

Peter Fury glanced at the parcel's contents. They seemed to carry with them the very aura of their owner, the very breath seemed contained in the handkerchief.

“You see, Mr. Fury,” announced Mr. Delaney, as he looked up from the desk, “I really deal in human débris,” at which remark Miss Francis looked quickly up at the visitor.

“All right, Miss Francis, two o'clock this afternoon at 53 Lawton Street.”

Miss Francis got up and wished the old man a good morning. Glancing at the other, she wished him a good morning, too, and then was gone.

“One of my helpers, Mr. Fury,” said the old man. “What we learn in our work is the very essence of the human situation. What we discover is not the excesses, but the pathetic limitations. And you would be astonished, though we are
not
, not at the height to which the human creature can climb but to the depths to which it can sink. I say it in no admonishing terms, young man, it is far too tragic for censure. How unimportant you seem to me when I think of the creature picked up at half-past one this morning. But to return to the other matter. I hope you will do what I ask. I am thinking of your interests. I shan't hold you for a single moment longer if you will give me that promise. And, by the way, five shillings after fifteen years is humiliating. You require clothes.”

He handed Mr. Fury ten pounds, and added disgustedly, “And burn that horrible cap.” He stood up. “Well, good morning. I am glad you kept the appointment,” and he crossed the room. As he opened the door he said, “I noticed your interest in that girl. A Miss Tilsey, spinster, runs this establishment. You will have noticed the patrons, mostly middle-aged women, many of them unmarried. In her spare moments Miss Tilsey comes and helps me, and I am always glad of it.”

“How did you know I was coming out this morning?”

“Little we don't know, Mr. Fury, little we don't.” He pushed wide the door. “Take care of yourself. Good day.”

“A weak man,” he reflected, as he closed the door and returned to his desk.

“Yes, I must go and see Kilkey,” thought Peter, as he went slowly down the stairs. On the bottom stair he stopped dead. The noise, the chatter, came fresh to his ears.

“Not that way,” he thought, “there must be another way out.” He stood looking about him, then saw a long dark corridor, flanked by empty trays and biscuit tins. He went down until he came to a yard, and there, in front of him, lay an open gateway to the street.

Two waitresses were coming in his direction, and as they passed him he turned his head away, then ran through the gate.

“Can't look at people. What the hell's wrong with me?” He turned into a pub, and elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Yes?”

“Whisky.” He carried it away to the end of the room, drank it quickly, put the empty glass on the window ledge, and went out again.

“Another tram. No, I ought to try and change somewhere. I'll change at Kilkey's place. That's it.” He was walking blindly from one street to another, and he heard the roar of trams, and he couldn't find his way back to the main street; he was lost in a maze of alleys and areas.

“A 19a. Where are the trams?”

The boy looked up at him. “Just through there,” he said. He took sixpence from the man with the cap and didn't thank him.

“I've been walking in circles,” he thought, as he stood waiting for the tram. When it came he stood back from the other passengers, and when all had climbed aboard, he followed.

“Could you put me off at Bonin Road, I'm a stranger here.”

“Righto.” The tram moved off.

“It'll seem strange seeing Kilkey after all this time. Expect he's bent, really old, seventy if a day, must be. Can't believe him an old man somehow.”

He mused in his seat. He thought of Mr. Delaney, his mother, Anthony, his sister, of Rath Na.

“Been arranged. Damn them. I'll go to New York on my own.”

“Bonin Road.”

He descended the stairs, jumped off, and stood momentarily lost amongst the passengers on the pavement.

“Bonin Road. Is this Bonin Road?”

A man was only too ready to oblige. “This is Bonin Road all right,” he said, “tell Bonin Road from anything else in Gelton. It stinks.”

“Thank you.”

Peter Fury walked away, he began searching out numbers. “It's away at the other end. Fancy! I can't believe that in just a few minutes I'll be sitting talking to Joseph Kilkey.”

The nameplate, Bonin Road, stared down at him. That was the only thing that stared at him, since in Bonin Road he aroused no curiosity whatever.

“Wonder what he looks like?” He crossed the road, checking the numbers. It was a narrow street, so narrow that it almost shut out the sky.

“Always preferred the south to the north, but I don't know why, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one—I wonder where Maureen is at this moment, wonder if she knows I was coming out to-day? Forty-five or something like it when he married her—should never have happened—it was asking for trouble—sixty-seven, sixty-nine—expect he's very old now—imagine Dermod being at sea—Christ, it makes you feel old—seventy-five, seventy-seven—here we are. At last. One-hundred-and-one, Bonin Road.”

He stood at the door, hesitant. Then he knocked, softly at first, then loudly. He had a sudden feeling of hopelessness, insecurity, of being lost, a great uncertainty. He knocked louder. There was no answer. He knocked yet again, and in doing so, the door gave to his weight; it had never been shut. He pushed it open and stepped inside. He entered the kitchen without a sound. And then he saw him. His eye took the measure of the man, the kitchen. It might have been only yesterday, in spite of that fellow Delaney. Mr. Kilkey was sitting in front of the fire. Peter Fury stood motionless, staring at the back of his head. His legs sprawled, there was something casual and comfortable about this man. One hand held the stem of a pipe, the other was fast in his trouser pocket, he puffed smoke upwards.

“Mr. Kilkey.”

“Joe.”

“Must have grown deaf. Mr.
Kilkey,
” he called loudly, and his eye ransacked. The objects in the kitchen, the cleanliness, the extreme tidiness, and he recalled Kilkey's ruthless habits. He had always been particular, even to the point of fussiness. The kitchen was dark. He glanced across at the windows, heavily barred outside. The table was cleared of everything save a cloth, a faded green cloth from America, covered with the most ornate designs. The alarm-clock, also American, ticked away. Familiar objects came under his eye. The canvas pipe-rack that had been a present from his father, the lace mats on the dresser, his own present to his sister. His eye searched out; it was like looking for old friends who have outlived their friendship. He walked slowly across the floor and touched the man on the shoulder. The pipe fell to the floor. The man jumped, he swung round.

“
You!
” He got to his feet, flung his arms round Peter, held him. The big bald head hardly reached to Peter's shoulders.

“My dear lad. It
is
you. I can hardly believe it. At last. Thank God.” Tears welled into his eyes, he smiled, he clutched Peter's hands.

“This is good. This is wonderful. At last! Well indeed!”

Peter was moved. It was the first time he had ever seen an old man cry.

“I meant to be outside this morning,” Kilkey said. “I heard. I knew the day, the time, but I couldn't, I couldn't manage. Got called out to a job.”

“Do sit down, Mr. Kilkey, do sit down,” Peter said, speaking close against the old man's ear. Then he shouted into it, “Have you gone deaf?”

“That camp I was in fifteen years ago,” was all Kilkey said. They stood silently looking at each other.

“You wouldn't remember that. Never mind. But I've something ready for you. Knew you'd come, knew all along. Oh, I
am
glad. Sit down. Rest yourself. Fancy. Out at last.”

“Yes, perhaps I am, somehow it's hard to believe. I keep asking myself stupid questions. It's the backwash of the nightly confessions when the door closes in the evening, and they shut you in. Maureen! Where is Maureen?”

“Eh! What's that? Can't hear you. I told you, that camp did it, can't hear you—a bad clout, affected both ears. Shout.”

“
Where is Maureen?
”

“Don't know. I never know. Hear rumours. Last time somebody saw her in Halifax, of all places. That's Yorkshire.”

He took a pipe from his pocket, and began filling it. “You'll have something to eat directly. My Mrs. Turner will be here any minute now. She always gives me a midday meal.”

“I want clothes. Have you anything here that fits? I must get out of this. Christ! I can't believe I'm alive. Keep touching myself just to make sure. Just lying here, back on this sofa, quiet, the door fastened, no staring eye, you can't believe, you can't,” speaking at the top of his voice.

“I shan't disturb you,” said Kilkey, and left the kitchen. He went upstairs to his room. “Have to get him something to wear. Nothing here'll fit. He's changed greatly. like a stranger.”

Peter came into the room. “A woman has just come in,” he said. “I came up here. I'll wait. You better see her.”

“It's Mrs. Turner,” replied the old man. “When it's time to come down, I'll knock on the ceiling.”

From a top drawer of the dressing-table he took a box of cigarettes which he handed to his brother in law.

“Never smoke them. Keep them here just in case——” and he shuffled out of the room. The moment the door closed Peter stretched himself out on the bed.

“I'll get away to the States. I'll find Cavanagh. Delaney's quite right, it's no use thinking of yesterday, and there's nothing you can patch up. I'll go and see him in the morning. In a month I'll be in New York, it's hard to believe I can do it,” and he began staring round the room, noting every little object in it. Like the lower part of the house, everything was tidy, scrupulously clean. It was a bachelor's room, and it signalled to him the end of a chapter, a final resignation.

“She'll never come back. Wonder what he really thinks? Hell, it's sad, he's old, old, you can see that. And all on his own. Wonder what his son is like?”

Cigarette followed cigarette; the room was thick with smoke when the old man returned.

“All right, now. You can come down. She's gone. Hot meal ready. Come along, son.”

He followed the old man down. The table was laid for two.

“Make yourself comfortable, at home. At any time this is your home. You know that.” They began to eat.

“I'm going out at half-past five this evening. Night shift. Overhauling a beef boat, she's in the graving-dock.” Smiling, he added, “You see, I still work.”

Again Peter nodded, but he saw no ship, only the box-like kitchen, the small, yellow-stained ceiling, the clutter of familiar objects. They cried aloud to him that life was no bigger, and never would be. Here was an old man, still living in a box, after fifteen years.

“More cheese? Have some more tea. Don't know whether you take a drink, Peter, my housekeeper would have got you something,” but the visitor waved a hand, and went on eating.

“Seen anybody at all since you came out?”

“A Mr. Delaney.”

“A good man,” Kilkey said, “a very nice man, and sensible. Spent the whole of his life at that kind of work. More bread?”

“No, thanks. I'm finished,” Peter said, and pushed away his plate. “Mr. Delaney said you would tell me about mother,” he said. He got up, pushed his chair to the wall, and went and sat in a small rocker by the fire. “He told me to ask you.”