The Secret Journey (15 page)

‘Mother!' said Desmond. ‘I can always tell when you're putting up a show. You used not to talk like that one time.'

‘Time changes people, I suppose. Take a good look at me, Desmond, and then ask yourself if it was all worth it. Go on, don't be ashamed. We shan't end up by eating each other.' She sat erect at the table, her folded hands resting on the edge of the tray. She saw him blanch—saw him fidget, but though he opened his mouth no words came. And at last he blurted out:

‘No! All this is useless. We should have just said “Hello” and passed on. On the other hand, I'm rather glad you're here because there's something I want to say to you, and this is a good opportunity. But I'll tell you about that later. You say I look prosperous. So I am. To a certain extent.' He laughed. ‘But I'm only beginning, you see.'

‘You're not on the railway, then?'

‘No! I left that months ago as I had determined I would, and I have. I am now a delegate of the Federation. I have a little office of my own in town here, and very respectable hours. But, as I say, it's only the beginning. Funny, though. One time I would never have thought of such things. I would have been content to go on swinging my hammer into the Length day after day, year after year, with nothing to come out of it either. But I threw all that to hell. D'you understand, Mother? I'm through with that sort of dope. The world is made up of two kinds of people—wise men and mugs. Workers are mugs, damned mugs, and I spent years telling how it all began and how it would end. But were they interested? Not at all. So I decided to cut away from the mugs, and so I have, and here I am.' He slapped his chest. ‘Listen, Mother, tell me more. Is it true that Maureen has a little boy?'

His whole manner changed at once. There was something gentle and considerate in this brutal-looking man. But the mother did not seem to notice it at all. She picked up the musical-box wrapped up in brown paper, saying, ‘Yes. She has a boy a year old. I was buying this for him.' She began swinging the parcel by the string, saying, ‘A lovely child. Lovely.'

‘Well! Well! I am surprised. But, Mother, you are changing, aren't you? Is Grand-dad still with you?'

‘Yes, your grandfather's still at home.'

‘How did Anthony get on with his case?' asked Desmond. He began pouring out more tea.

‘Oh. It was fairly successful,' said the mother. ‘We got more or less what we expected, though by the time we had reached a settlement a lot was swallowed up.' She took an envelope from her bag, from which she drew out a letter, and said, ‘I've just had a letter from Anthony. Would you believe it? He writes and says that he is saving up every trip in order that I can go on a holiday to Ireland. He says his own dream is to get me a cottage where your father and I can settle down. The boy was always a fool—but his heart is there all the same.'

Desmond exclaimed, ‘H'm! H'm!' and looked out through the door into the corridor. ‘Talking about compensation,' he said. ‘I'm dealing, or rather our office is dealing, with a peculiar case. Very extraordinary case—oh, well—that wouldn't interest you very much, would it, Mother?' Desmond laughed again.

‘I'm afraid not,' she replied, and made as if to get up and go.

But Desmond put his hand on her arm and said quietly, ‘Not yet. There was something I wanted to ask you.'

She turned her back on him and began calling the assistant. Unseen, Desmond pulled a pound-note from his pocket and slipped it into her purse.

‘Tell me what you want,' she said, just as the assistant came up.

‘I want to talk to you about Peter,' said Desmond. Then he paid the assistant.

‘Aye,' thought Desmond, ‘she's still in Hatfields. Still tied to the same old round. Never any changes. My Christ! I half believe she likes it.' Yes. That was the trouble, though it didn't concern him at all now, but it was the trouble. They all liked it, grovelled in it, were contented, and if you so much as hinted at their pig-headedness, they stood on their dignity at once. The damn fools! They felt insulted. They became cocky, pathetically cocky, sunk in their damned misery. ‘Ah well, they can sink in their own bloody muck.' Looking at his mother now, he could see no change at all, except a thinning of the face, and the lines around her eyes. But when he looked into her eyes he saw something that gave him a kind of uncomfortable jerk. Something had gone. He wanted to say, ‘Mother, you look contented at last. You've lost all that restlessness you used to have, that urge to do things.' But he could not say it.

‘Mother,' he said, ‘tell me what is the matter with you? Have you given up? Surrendered at last? Have you stopped being a fighter?'

‘What is it you want to know about Peter?' she asked, quite ignoring his remark. ‘I can't stay here any longer. There's nothing I wish to know about you. We understand each other very well, I hope. Yes, I am changing, but that can't affect any of my children. I feel quite contented being left alone. Quite content! I sort of feel everybody is satisfied now that there's no more need to worry about anything. That is good, for now I may be able to live the rest of my days without so much worry. So please say whatever you have on your mind!' She rose to her feet and picked up her bag. When she looked up at her son she knew he had nothing more to say. Why, then, did she stand here like a fool? She turned to go. ‘Good-bye,' she said, not looking at him, and crushed her way through the line of people coming and going in the restaurant. Desmond stood watching her go.

He had meant to say, ‘Mother, Peter is hanging round after my wife, and if I catch him, something will happen.' But by the look she gave him she had stilled that voice in him. He ran after her, coming up with her on the threshold of the store.

‘Mother,' he said. ‘Just a minute. How do I know when I shall see you again?'

‘Please! Please! I quite understand everything, do let me go! Please do!' And she passed out of the stores.

He stood there, looking foolish, out of place; he stumbled twice as he dashed up the stairs to the street. Mrs. Fury had gone. She was on her way home. Hatfields seemed to call to her, to call her away from all this light and colour, these crowds, the sweetish perfume that filled the air, the smell of coffee in the restaurant. Hatfields called her back to where she belonged. She was now hurrying towards the terminus to catch a tram, and it seemed as if that heavy brutal face of her son was looking over her shoulder, the mouth half open to ask a question. H'm! what had Peter to do with her now?

When Desmond Fury left his mother he hurried back to Full House Lane and entered Royalty House. At the top of this dirty and ugly-looking building he had his office. The Federation Gelton Branch had considered itself very lucky indeed to find a home where business could be transacted for the sum of seven shillings per week, light included. Light included was certainly a concession, for Desmond Fury had not been long in the office before he discovered that the gas must burn all day.

What he took to be a coating of black dirt on the window turned out to be black paint, and to remove it obviously meant removing the glass also. For some reason or other, the landlord required this not to be disturbed. Mr. Fury did not ask why. He put it down to sheer oddity on the part of the sixty-eight-year-old landlord, who was making a quite comfortable income from Royalty House.

There were three floors, containing fifteen offices. Fourteen of them were used by mail order concerns, from purveyors of female pills to publishers of ‘art models' for students only. It seemed a sad commentary upon human affairs that the Federation people, who at least stood for the welfare of the workers, should be tucked away in the complete darkness of floor three.

Desmond would certainly have liked a better and lighter office. Callers had to make tortuous, bat-like movements down the dark smelly corridors until they reached the wooden stairs, up which they blindly groped their way until they reached the top. There was a printed notice outside the door informing all that the Labour Federation Branch had its office there, and looking higher one discerned the shadow of a man behind the frosted-glass door.

Desmond would have liked the office on the ground floor, so that passers-by would at least know that one of the arteries of the Trade Union was beating there. To be hidden away in the darkness seemed quite wrong. However, landlords were queer creatures, and funds were low.

He went to the office about half-past nine, went through the letters, attended to phone calls, then busied himself with the card-index—examined the books, counted the cards, and most of the work was done.

In the afternoon it became a sort of dispensary. People called for advice, which he dispensed freely. Men behind in their payments called to explain further, or to settle up; sometimes a child called and asked for the new button for her father.

The office consisted of two chairs, a bare wooden table, a broken-down typewriter, a desk, and the files. There was no fire or stove. A gas-light burned in the right-hand corner of the room, near the window. The windows could not be opened, by reason of the iron bars in front of them. When Desmond had been smoking ten minutes, he found it necessary to open wide the door in order to clear the air.

In the top drawer of the desk lay a tin box containing the members' subscriptions. This was always kept locked, whilst the key lay securely in his pocket. When he closed down for the day, he always took the box home with him. Indeed, he would never have thought of leaving a brass farthing in such a filthy hole.

Once a month a delegate came from the District Office and examined the books, enquired about the health of the Branch, suggested ways of increasing the membership, and then went off again. This monthly visit from the inspector and auditor always excited Desmond. It seemed to him that one went up by stages until one either reached secretaryship or was adopted as parliamentary candidate. The inspector may indeed have been a working man at some period of his life, but he certainly wasn't one now, and that Mr. Desmond Fury realized at a glance. He reflected that if only one had brains enough, one could climb higher and higher. Look where he was to-day. Local delegate, with a better wage than he ever received for slinging a hammer in the Length, an office of his own—and what was more important, able to wear his Sunday clothes on week-days.

He could go home at half-past five in the evening, with the whole night before him and no necessity to rise before eight the next morning. The psychological effects of this sudden change in his way of life were deeper and more far-reaching than even he could understand. True, the Federation had a purpose—to weld the workers together, so that they would be able to stand up for themselves. But when the inspector, wearing his Raglan overcoat and carrying a rolled umbrella, came in through the door, purpose went out. There was no longer any purpose, only a sudden quickening of the spirit, a delicious thought that he, Desmond Fury, would one day be in the inspector's place.

It was usual with him to spend the late afternoon contemplating, not upon the state of the world and the welfare of the workers, but upon his own unbounded opportunities. He would sit dreaming of the future, the while his eyes rested on the black-painted window. Occasionally callers disturbed, but they were momentary invasions of his happy state of mind. He dealt with them quickly and efficiently, and then fell to dreaming of the future once more. This afternoon he did not follow the usual custom. He sat looking at some letters on the table. He seemed quite uninterested in their contents, he was listless, fretful. His day had been disturbed, and that by an astounding accident. He felt rather ashamed, angry with himself; contemplation upon the bright future was for a moment smothered. He could see his mother quite clearly standing up at the table, and hear her say, ‘Take a good look at me, Desmond, and then ask yourself if it was all worth it.' He couldn't wipe the picture from his mind, nor shut his ears to those words. The picture became clearer, larger every second—the words sounded thunderous in his ears, and at last he thumped the table and exclaimed:

‘Damn! Damn! She's a silly woman. A silly woman. But what can one do? Nothing. All advice is useless. Hopeless. She looks at this world one way and I look at it in quite another.'

Aye, and he had to admit it—his father was a mug—a real simp, a decent old fellow, but a dud. ‘Aye, a dud. And now he's gone. Well! Well! I never thought he even had the guts to do it. Now she says he's satisfied, and so is she. But, Christ Almighty, what's all this to do with me? I can't help what they do and what they think. No. God, no! It couldn't have been any different, not the least bit. With people like Mother you can't do anything. It's impossible. Well, I'll never be able to understand—never, no, never—how a woman can give a shilling to a priest when she wants it herself for bread. And likely as not, all the damned crow does with it is to buy a packet of cigarettes. But Mother's not the only one. There are thousands like her, and the beggar of it is they seem quite happy. And it looks as if it's going to be that way always—for ever and ever.'

The light from the gas fell upon his hair, thick brown hair that, judging by its unruly state, had defeated all efforts with the comb. He kept fingering the unopened letters. He picked one up and looked at the handwriting. ‘H'm!' he said. ‘That is about the sick pay again. I can tell as soon as I look at it.' The letter was addressed to him entirely in capital letters, as though the writer had never heard of such a thing as small letters. ‘Aw!' he said, and with a flick of finger and thumb he sent the letter whizzing across the desk. Hang it all! What was the matter with him this afternoon? He had an uncomfortable feeling. Try as he might, he couldn't efface the picture of his mother from his mind. ‘But fancy meeting her there,' he said to himself. ‘There of all places. It's not often Mother leaves Hatfields to go shopping. Oh well, here goes.' He opened the letters, read them, put them on the file, and then rose to search for the other one. But it seemed that this letter, which by the very shape of the handwriting on the envelope almost cried to be opened, would not be opened at all. At least not to-day. Somebody was knocking at the door. The office had no bell. When a caller knocked, Desmond Fury shouted out, ‘Come in.' There was no half-way method in the top floor of Royalty House. When the caller opened the door he did in fact slip right into the heart of the matter. There was no counter, no waiting-room, no porch, no windows, and no privacy at all. The caller seemed to be hesitating. ‘Come in,' shouted Desmond, quite unable to disguise the irritation he was experiencing. Here he was trying his best to think, and somehow he always got a violent headache when he did this—here he was in a frame of mind that simply demanded privacy and quiet, and somebody must call at nearly four in the afternoon and disturb him. That was bad enough, but when on top of that he was making every possible effort to rid his mind of the picture of that tired, sour-looking, embittered woman, whom sheer accident had flung into his path—well, it just made one want to shout. If he hadn't felt a little ashamed of himself it wouldn't have been so bad—but he was ashamed and he could not drown this feeling. ‘Will you come in,' he shouted again, this time so loudly that the brass knob of the door seemed to shake beneath the violence of the sound, but it turned out to be the caller's hand upon the knob. Then a voice unmistakably feminine called out, ‘I can't open this door at all,' and the knob rattled loudly again.