The Secret Journey (25 page)

She got out of her chair, and moving to the other side of the table took his hands. Then she dragged him to his feet, and before he could realize it he was clasped in her fierce embrace.

‘You are still my son.' She kissed him. ‘I only want you to do what is right. To be clean and honest and never to forget your duties. How many times have I said this? My God!'

‘Mother! Mother!' cried Peter, and buried his head on her shoulder.

They stood thus in silence for some time, then Peter exclaimed:

‘Mother! Won't you tell me what is worrying you? You see, I can notice the change in you. Everybody has noticed. Do tell me! I want to try to help you.'

She freed him and went and sat down again in her chair.

‘Oh no,' she said, ‘I can't do that. There is nothing to tell, anyway. I've given up hoping for anything except a little peace, and that's all I want. When your father gets fed up with things he can go off. He's free. Can I go off? You can go on Tuesday and forget everything in a few minutes. But can I when I'm in the middle of it? I have to stay here. No, Peter! We look at things differently now. But don't you worry.'

So she was retreating now, thought Peter, and he was angry with himself for ever supposing she would open her mouth. He turned round and exclaimed savagely:

‘Why
don't
you be frank, then? You're mad, that's all, just because you can't get your own way any more. Why did Desmond go? Because he hated seeing me at that college into which you pushed me to satisfy some crazy idea of your own. But I upset your calculations by kicking my way out of it. And since I have done this I'm supposed to hang my head down—say not a word. I've got to do this and I've got to remember always this awful thing I've done. You say you've forgotten all about it, but you haven't, you're only kidding yourself, Mother. Just kidding yourself. Maureen went too. Why did she go? You know you stopped her marrying twice. Just because you were afraid. But look at her now—just kicking her heels to get away from that sloppy, sentimental, ignorant old man she married. You know all these things, Mother, but you won't admit them. And now you're tied hand and foot to this woman, and you won't say a single word. Not a word. I've said I'd help. And I would help. But you're so proud—and so jealous for fear anybody should open that secret cupboard you've got. Do you suppose you are the only person in the world with any feelings? I'm not a fool. I understand things too, just as well as you. I know that all we have to do here—in this stinking hole—is keep our heads above water. But we are not the only ones. There are thousands like us. I'm not going about with my eyes shut.'

‘Good God!' said Mrs. Fury. ‘Is this the education Mr. Mulcare has given you?'

She folded her arms and stretched out her legs. Her expression was one of absolute bitterness. But even this attitude, a sort of pathetic rallying of the old spirit in it, had no effect whatever upon her son.

‘Mulcare. That fellow with such a high and cocky opinion of himself! What has he to do with me? Mother, you must tell me all about Mrs. Ragner. I still want to help.'

‘Do you? Fancy! And have you the right to talk, who are not even honest. Even now you are thinking of how soon you can see that filthy wretch?'

‘What filthy wretch?' demanded Peter, his face flushed, his hands shaking, his eyes glaring at this seated woman who seemed so bitter, so resolute, so determined.

‘You know. You are still carrying on with that one. If you're not blind, neither am I. But take care where you end up. You seem to like scraping about in the filth, into which you could fling me too as though I were a bad twopenny-piece. I don't forget everything. You devil! The way you can stand there and insult me—yes—my God, and insult me, here—here'—she thumped the table—‘here where I have struggled and reared you all. Does your father know anything of that? Not he. You slink away of an evening, and one can tell how happy you must be when you step foot out of the house. You hate it. Yes. You were spoiled. There is no doubt of that. But I can remain buried here—I and that helpless old man—whilst you go off and indulge in your filth, and then when you come home you have a smile for everyone—a sly smile—but if one wasn't so used to this world, and smiled with you, how soon we'd see that devil under your smile. You would disgrace me and think nothing about it. And now you want to help me. Help me what? Build more castles. Don't make me laugh. I'm undoing all I have already done. That and no more. In other words, I'm paying my way.'

She got out of the chair and went to her son.

‘Get up,' she shouted. ‘Get up at once. You sly wretch. I could strike you to the floor as I've done before. But I have more sense now. I've seen how easy it is to be fooled, to be lied to by my own children—yes, and deserted by my own husband. Still, I'm here, d'you see? I'm still here. Now get up. Do you hear me?'

She stood erect, her arms still folded; all the old spirit seemed to flow back to her again.

‘Get out of my sight. Go on! Get up!' She stamped her foot. ‘Are you deaf?'

Without a word he went upstairs. He lay on the bed fully dressed. After a while he heard her mount the stairs. The door banged. Then silence again, broken only by the deep snores of Anthony Mangan in the back bedroom.

So she distrusted him. He knew, he understood. She was suspicious, and yet she hadn't said anything, not a word. Yes, he had noticed the change when he came home. He had noticed how she only shook hands with him as he stepped in the doorway, how she had carried on all that past week, treating his very presence, his absence, his words, everything, to the same dignified silence. How clever she must be, even without knowing it.

For suddenly he was filled with shame, a shame that did not urge him to go and ask her forgiveness, a shame that would not send him to her, pleading, contrite, but one that filled him with anger—so that after a while he shouted at the top of his voice:

‘Yes. I do hate the house. I've always hated it. Ever since I was a child. I hate everything—Hatfields, the people, the dirt, the smells—yes, and I am happy now. I have somewhere to go. I have something lovely to look at. Yes. I am happy—happy at last. And I don't care. Don't care.'

He shook himself in the bed.

‘And you are tied hand and foot and you won't admit it—won't breathe—you are silent. Why are you silent? You know. You are silent so I can always feel this shame. You are clever, Mother. Sometimes I simply hate you. Hate you. Because you won't listen. You
won't
listen.'

He hammered on the bed-rail with his fist.

‘You've driven everybody away with your tongue and your temper. Even Dad.'

Then he lay still. Not a sound from the next room. Was she asleep, or just lying quiet, all alone with her thoughts? ‘I wonder?' He crept out of the bed and tiptoed to the door. He opened it and crept softly outside. He stood on the dark and draughty landing, listening. Then he heard a faint sound. It was the sound—yes, he remembered—for weren't those sounds the ones he had used to hear when he was a boy? The same. They rose on the air, strange, fascinating sounds—like music. He crept to the door of his mother's room. Noiselessly he opened it and looked in. ‘Ah! I knew!' he said to himself. ‘I knew.'

Mrs. Fury was kneeling before the altar of the Sacred Heart that stood on the high shelf in the corner of the big bedroom. She was saying her night prayers. He held his breath and stood watching her. Then he went inside. He pushed the door to, but did not close it. He crept up behind his mother, and without a sound knelt down behind her. As though he were once again serving the Mass at St. Sebastian's. He closed his eyes, joined his hands, the tips of the fingers almost touching his nose, and listened.

She had undone her hair, and it hung now like a great cloud over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with the white of the cotton night-dress. Everything seemed so still, so peaceful, as though no hard words had ever filled the air, as though in a single flash all was as before. Looking at her, at the uplifted head, whose eyes he supposed must be riveted upon that stone figure of the Christ on the shelf, almost hidden by wallflower and daisies, and seeing that imperishable light that burned at the figure's feet—looking at this he was disarmed. He bowed his head.

‘Poor Mother!' he said to himself. ‘Poor Mother!' She knelt there, as always, believing, devout, her whole soul offered up to the altar, and yet behind her, just behind her, yes, even looking over her shoulder, was all that seamy, hard, and unrelenting reality in which she was trapped. And now she was free. By a movement of her hand, as she made the sign of the Cross, she had burst free from that mesh and stood shrouded, secure, at peace.

‘Poor Mother!' he said, and knew that this—this was the only happiness she had known. This silent communion. That flickering lamp was her bright sun, that raised stone hand the protector, that tragic face the gateway into the world of her dreams. She seemed at last to sense the disturbance of the air. She could feel his breathing and at once divined his presence. She swung round and said quickly:

‘You! Go away. Do you wish to insult me still further by kneeling here?'

‘Mother! I'm sorry. Really sorry. Forgive me. I was wrong. Please.'

‘Go away,' she said, and turned her back on him.

She heard the door close. She continued her night prayers. She blessed herself and got into bed.

Peter had raged, had shouted through the wall, but she had heard nothing. She lay down. She felt fortified for to-morrow. She blew out the candle and was soon asleep.

In the next room Peter began undressing. He thought of his mother, but suddenly this figure was blotted out by the stout figure of Mrs. Ragner, and again this disappeared and the entrancing one of Sheila Fury came before him. These figures seemed to be chasing each other.

His thoughts were chaotic, whirling about, without aim or purpose. He would try to disentangle Sheila from the clutches of those other figures, but always this one figure was swamped.

‘To-morrow,' he said under his breath. ‘To-morrow she is going to tell me all about her life. And then we will make plans.'

Then of a sudden he saw the three figures standing together. He saw Mrs. Anna Ragner lift up her fat hands, saw those glittering rings—and suddenly she crushed the other figures out of sight. She was standing in front of him.

‘You see,' he could hear her saying in that oily sinister voice of hers, ‘you see, I would never tell anybody this—only you.'

He smiled all over himself. The woman must have fallen in love with him. It thrilled him to think that that fat middle-aged woman, who certainly looked like a Jewess, should have such feelings for him. Fancy having two hanging on to you!

‘Ah! If only Sheila would run away. Yes. If only she would fly off with me.'

He was still seeing these figures, strutting about like animated marionettes, when he fell asleep.

All in Hatfields were now covered by sleep, but in Banfield House there were two people who were very much awake.

Although turned five minutes past twelve, Mr. Corkran and Mrs. Ragner had considered it expedient to discuss a matter of business, a matter indeed which required urgent attention.

This matter was Mrs. Fanny Fury.

CHAPTER VII

At half-past seven, and the very moment at which the steam-whistle of the S.S.
Sardonia
blew, a stream of men poured down her gangway on to the quay. Here they dispersed, going off together in twos and threes. From this crowd of rushing bodies a medium-sized man with a dirty-looking skin and drooping moustache disentangled himself, and instead of making for the dock-gate, as was his usual custom, went straight along the quay, finally disappearing into a shed at the south end of the dock. In three minutes the ship had discharged its workers, and the quay was deserted save for one man who stood at the foot of the gangway throwing anxious glances up and down the quay. Then he looked towards the gangway-head.

‘Fancy now, I've missed him!' the man said aloud, and once more made a sweeping glance down the quay. Then he too went away.

The ship's isolation was now complete. The man passed out through the dock-gate, still wondering how he had happened to miss his mate. Every evening for the past year they had gone home together to Price Street, Mr. Joseph Kilkey to number thirty Price Street, Mr. Nolan, for that was the disappointed gentleman's name, to number eleven.

‘Funny he should have cleared off,' thought Mr. Nolan as he made his way home all alone.

Joseph Kilkey had gone ashore in the usual manner, but as soon as he reached the quay had turned off towards the jetty. He was now sitting on the jetty wall, lost in contemplation. He looked worried and stared gloomily into the oily waters below. He was certainly not used to contemplating in this fashion; the kitchen arm-chair, rather than the jetty wall, seemed the only place for such a man as Joseph Kilkey. And the expression, the whole attitude of the man, seemed alien and out of place.

If his expression seemed pained it could only have been the natural result of hard thinking, and he was never a man for that. Yet to sit here and reflect upon the matters that by their very urgency had traced that pained and petted expression upon his face seemed inevitable. Such problems as came within Mr. Kilkey's orbit were generally examined and settled in the arm-chair, or in the confessional box at St. Sebastian's, or in the billiard hall attached to the chapel. But they were simplicity itself compared with the problem that now confronted him. The argument of the previous night between Maureen and himself had been worrying him the whole day. He hadn't been able to concentrate on his work at all, and added to this was the humiliating thought of his messing up a job on the hatch-top. The matter of the guy rope which had fouled through an awkwardness that rose purely from his state of mind was as vital to Joseph Kilkey as those about which he was at present racking his brains.