The Secret Journey (50 page)

He blew out the lamp. Now in the darkness of the room he seemed more conscious than ever of the sea-mist, now banking itself up against the window, now seeking its way in, over the bed. He could smell it. It was in his mouth. It was all over the place, in every corner, under the bed. What a mist! Could he remember ever having seen one like it? No. Never! And how suddenly it had come sweeping in—when all the doors were closed. When people were lying asleep in their beds.

Gelton must be thick, must be almost white with it. He turned over on his stomach, rested his chin on his hands and looked out through the window. No sound, everything hidden, buried beneath the blanket of mist. Hatfields was hidden—the King's Road was hidden. Mr. Quickle's shop was buried in it. She was hidden in it, Sheila. Yes, even that tall, ugly, dark, fantastic and ominous house in Banfield Road must be buried beneath it. Prees Street was buried in it.

The long mournful sounds of the horns could be heard far out on the river. With their sound the desolation seemed complete. Every few minutes their cry was heard.

Mist. Thick, greyish-white mist that obliterated facts, meanings, that wiped out streets, houses, walls, buildings, roofs, even chimneys. Mist creeping everywhere, curtaining windows, piling into rooms, and carrying with it that damp, that peculiar clamminess, a sort of sea-like breath. All Gelton became transfigured by it.

Peter Fury got out of bed. He couldn't sleep. He kept thinking of the papers, the bills, the notes, the documents, the whole mountainous pile of dumb witnesses to something that was smeared, secret, furtive, foul—the whole mountain of threats, promises, pleadings, humiliations, satisfactory settlements. He looked under the bed where he had pushed the cardboard box. Yes. Even that was hidden. He could see nothing. The mist seemed to have crept there too.

He put on a dirty, patched, blue dressing-gown—a onetime present from his Aunt Brigid in more prosperous, more innocent and happier days. The end of the sleeves almost reached his elbows. It looked more like a monkey-jacket than a dressing-gown. He went back into his grandfather's room, carrying the cardboard box under his arm.

‘I'll put it back now—but to-morrow I'll ransack the place. Turn it upside down. Secrets won't be worth tuppence then. I wonder what the litter can be?' He knelt down, and making as little noise as possible he pushed the box back up the chimney. ‘If she does wake—I'll hang on in here. She'll think it's mice. There are plenty of the damned things here, anyhow.' Here one could breathe in that mist as though its very essence had floated in, had overwhelmed the room, buried from view that stripped and deserted bed. Even in Grand-dad's room. ‘It seems awfully thick here.' Why, it almost seemed as if this stuff were somehow conscious of that other mist—that strange human mist that had been there so long—his mind a fog, his body a fog, his heart, his soul a cold, bleak, impenetrable fog. All the windows were open—his mother's room window, his own, Mr. Mangan's. The mist poured into them all. ‘I wonder if it will clear before morning?' he asked himself. Shivering he sat down on the bed. He drew the dressing-gown tighter round him. ‘Why am I sitting here when I might be lying snug in bed? Why don't I get up and go and——? But I can't! I keep thinking of Grand-dad! Of Sheila! I keep thinking of them all.'

He lay down on the cold, hard mattress. And suddenly there flooded into his mind the memories of the evening on the beach. Her words lived in his ears, her feelings stirred him. She was looking down at him lying there, eyes fixed upon his eyes, and in them he could see the most infinite yearning. He raised his hands as though to touch her face. ‘Sheila! Oh, dear Sheila! Why are you so cruel? So cruel!' He sat up. ‘What was that? Funny! I thought I heard a sound. It was like the rustling of a dress.' Then he fell back again. He felt neither the cold nor the damp, he was neither tired nor sleepy. Then that face seemed to lower itself, the mouth to open, the eyes to widen; her hands seemed to hold him now, and he even experienced that same thrill as though she had touched the soundboard of all his feelings. ‘I can't see you, Sheila,' he said. ‘I can't see you!' He felt her lips upon his own. ‘Why were you laughing at me to-night? Why did you torment me? At first you said if I got money you would come away with me. Then you laughed about it. You were cruel. Oh, Sheila! Don't you see now? Why, I love going wherever you are. Can't you see?' As his eyes pierced the darkness of the room he imagined that her face began to melt away, as though it were beginning to dissolve in the fog itself.

‘Dear Peter!' she seemed to say, and he replied, ‘Yes, Sheila! What? What, Sheila?' He could feel her warm mouth against his ear. Her breath made a draught down his ear. He began to laugh. ‘Isn't it awful? This mist from the sea.'

He jumped off the bed. ‘I must have been falling asleep. I must have been dreaming.' He ran back to his room and buried himself under the clothes. Yet he still felt that presence.

‘Peter!' she seemed to speak through the clothes.

‘Yes, Sheila! What?' And he pushed his head out of the clothes. ‘I am dreaming,' he said to himself.

‘We are all in the mist, Peter.' Sheila spoke into his ear. ‘All in the mist.'

CHAPTER XIII

The appearance of a cab in Hatfields was an event that excited special interest. Miss Mangan could not have chosen a more auspicious occasion, for it was that time in the evening when the men are home from work, doors are open, and women hot from the kitchen fire come out to sit on the step. Even Mrs. Postlethwaite was squatted down looking the very picture of content. Since Mr. Fury's somewhat dramatic departure from the Loco Shed the relations between the two families had, it seemed, come to an end. Nobody in Hatfields could recollect a cab drawing up at half-past six on a summer evening. Cabs, and even hearses, had now and again rolled along between half-past one and half-past two. But this was in the general order of things. That the cab in question should draw up outside number three made the curiosity all the more exciting. The cabby, whose purplish face was almost hidden behind a great overcoat even on this warm summer evening, pulled hard at his reins and called out ‘Whoa!' Such a word and such a stentorian voice brought George Postlethwaite to the door at once. ‘Whoa' was a word that had quite a significant meaning for the teamster.

‘Why, it's a cab outside the Furys' door, Mother,' he said. ‘What's up, I wonder?'

‘Yes, it certainly looks like one, doesn't it?' replied his mother, and wiped her nose on the end of her apron. ‘Really, I can't imagine ever living next door to anybody else but them. And how dull it'll be if they all go. It certainly looks like it. They're actually taking the poor old man away. That swanky-looking woman is Mrs. Fury's sister. The father's cleared too. Why, I remember the time when there used to be seven or eight in that house. Remember the lodgers they had, George?'

George Postlethwaite said ‘Yes'; the word seemed to come from afar off. He was looking at the door of the cab, which now opened, and out of it stepped Miss Mangan. Everybody looked at once, eyes followed her as she crossed the footpath, and somehow the imperious way in which she carried her buxom figure was not without its comical side. Miss Mangan was most comical when her thoughts were most serious. Looking neither to right nor left she walked up to the door and knocked. In the parlour of number three Mrs. Fury drew back the curtain a little and looked out.

‘She's here! Yes, of course. It's all too true, Dad's going away.' She felt sick in her stomach. She stood there looking out through the window, seeing the inhabitants of Hatfields already appearing at the doors, whilst quite a crowd of children seemed to have collected round the window. She heard her sister knock.

‘Oh! What a journey!' exclaimed Miss Mangan, stepping into the lobby. She immediately sat down, pulled out a handkerchief and began to fan herself.

‘Fanny, please don't say a word. Here I am, and there is the cab—and the best I could find. Mr. Deery, it seems, has a retaining fee with fat priests and fat nuns. Father Geraghty himself suggested Mr. Deery. And there's a young man out there too. He's going to help. He's what they call braconniere or whatever Father Geraghty calls it. Well, Fanny! I see you are nearly ready. Thank heaven for that. You know I've been telling myself all along that you've been thinking it was all a dream. But there! There's no time for talking now. Is Father ready? I had better call in Mr. Deery.'

And Aunt Brigid went to the door and called, ‘Mr. Deery! Mr. Deery!' Somebody outside laughed. Aunt Brigid went up on the first syllable, and descended to the depths on the second. Mr. Deery was already climbing down from his cab.

‘And the young man,' said Fanny Fury, ‘is he coming in too?'

‘Why! What am I thinking about? Mr. Delaney! Mr. Delaney!' she called from the door, and again somebody laughed; others joined in, and Brigid Mangan hastily retreated before her rude chorus. ‘Fanny! It's simply disgraceful! A week in this street would drive me mad.' She turned round. Her remarks had not reached Mrs. Fury, who had now gone into the kitchen.

Dr. Dunfrey was seated at a table in the window. He got up as the woman came in.

‘I've given your father drops. He will sleep almost all the way. I've examined him, too: he could at a stretch stand the journey, but I repeat, at a stretch. The responsibility lies with your sister and yourself.'

‘But surely you must understand, Dr. Dunfrey. Didn't I explain it all to you yesterday?'

‘Yes! Yes! Of course I can see the fine points. But now I'm afraid I must be off.'

‘You won't wait whilst they put him in?' asked Mrs. Fury. And she looked anxiously at the doctor, who put on his hat, shook his head, and said:

‘No. I have an important call. Best of luck to the old man. Hope he arrives safely. But I could hardly have thought that you'd agree to such a thing, Mrs. Fury.' Then he went out.

A murmur of noises rose in the air. Here was the doctor. Mr. Deery, coughing and spluttering, and continually endeavouring to clear his throat, slipped into the lobby. Mr. Delaney, a tall, thin man about thirty, followed him. Mr. Deery was big, gruff, and very fussy. He stamped his way into the parlour. Aunt Brigid followed them inside. Both men sat down.

‘Now if you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen,' said Aunt Brigid, and left them staring at each other in the parlour.

In the kitchen Mrs. Fury was standing by the black chair. Mr. Anthony Mangan sat in this chair, looking very old, very helpless, and apparently quite indifferent to everything. And he was dressed in a new suit. Where this suit had come from, Miss Mangan did not know—nor did she make enquiries. Enough that her father was in it, even though its loud bottle-green was against her liking in being that particular colour. In fact, eighty-three-year-old Anthony Mangan was looking very smart this evening. Miss Mangan had nothing but admiration for her sister.

‘Fanny! You are wonderful! How on earth did you get the collar on?' And she looked at the clean linen collar, which unfortunately for some reason or other refused to button either back or front. But a blue tie dotted with little white stars had been made into a sort of bow, which now hid the unbuttoned end. Mr. Mangan's bald head seemed to have been scrubbed to-day. It shone. His boots shone, his collar shone.

‘The job I had with him. It took Peter and myself just an hour and a half to get him ready. You see how well I can handle him, Brigid, and now you know what you're taking on.'

‘That's pretty obvious, Fanny, and what a lot of unnecessary things you say. Is Peter here?' She looked round the kitchen as though she expected her nephew to dart suddenly from some corner and present himself to her.

‘No! I'm afraid he isn't here! I think the lad did very well. We washed and dressed Father, and carried him downstairs. But though Dad looks heavy and awkward, he really isn't. Just a little, old child, God help him! That's all. Poor Father! Oh, how happy I'll be when I know he's in Ireland. How happy!'

‘It does you credit to say such a thing. But there's that man calling now,' and she went off into the parlour to see what Mr. Deery wanted. That gentleman was now looking a little desperate and agitated.

‘Mam,' he said. ‘Excuse me! This gentleman here's been telling me about the old man. I very much doubt whether my cab can accommodate you all, though it has a reputation for the best and most comfortable cab in the whole Ferry rank. But, well, you show me the old man. Maybe I'll get a better one! At a pinch I might hold five—but only at a pinch, mam.'

All three went into the kitchen.

‘Ah!' cried Mr. Deery. ‘He'll have to come out of the chair, of course! That's the most essential thing, ah yes, indeed.'

‘There you are, Fanny! How utterly ridiculous you are! There you go roping Father in like some prize animal, and I told you all along that we couldn't get that chair in.' She looked at the cabman, who in turn looked at Mr. Delaney.

‘Perhaps the thin gentleman with the butterfly collar and gay tie might have an idea.' But Mr. Delaney had none.

Mrs. Fury left them and went out into the street to look at the cab. The crowd drew nearer. Mrs. Fury seemed not to see them. ‘I am sure one could get that chair on the floor between the seats. Lord! Men are simply hopeless in these matters.' She hurried back to the kitchen.

‘Why, it will go in easily. There is only my sister and myself going with him. You'll have Mr. Delaney with you on the driving seat.' She took a half-blanket from the sofa and wrapped this round her father, pushing the ends under the arms of the chair. Then she took a hard hat, and put it securely on the old man's head.

‘Does he really want a hat at all? The man looks a sight in that,' said Brigid.

‘Well, mam,' said Mr. Deery. ‘Maybe you ladies had best get in first. Then this gentleman and I will start to move your father.'