The Secret Journey (68 page)

‘I hung on—hung on—one after another they went! And he with them. Where is he now? Standing by me—where is he? Smoking his pipe, no doubt—a thousand miles away!' Did she deserve this? Who had reared a family. Upbraid her for her foolishness—yes—but even then, did she deserve it? Hadn't she tried? Or hadn't she? Had she been merely pretending to herself all the while? Was the continuous struggle to keep going just something that had happened in a dream? And the calm surface. Yes! The calm surface. Had that been fake too? ‘I might have done different. I might have starved them and put clothes on my own back. I might have let them go in rags and enjoyed myself. Oh! what's the use of thinking of it any more?'

What was the use of thinking of anything? Why had this woman turned so spiteful all of a sudden?

‘Well, I suppose she has even a right to be that. That's what she could do! Let her come—and that devil with her. Let her take every stick, every stone! I won't!' She struck her fist on the table. ‘I won't do any more! They've every one of them turned against me. Every one. And they've laughed at me! Poor Father! How glad I am now he's gone! For though he couldn't speak he could see. And what would he have seen? ‘She covered her face with her hands. She began walking towards the door, as though some sudden thought had prompted the action—then she flopped down into the chair. She was like a rat in a trap. Everything—the kitchen became humanized—the old things, the familiar things, the sacred things, they all laughed and jeered at her. They laughed at her efforts and resolves, courage and silence, they laughed at her misery. ‘And she has left that man.'

What next would she hear? Was she cursed or what? ‘Or am I mad? Sometimes I think I really am.' She thought, ‘The talk of the whole street.' She would never hold up her head again. Never! And to be caught, right on the chapel step, so to speak, to be caught out by that sly, inquisitive, chattering old woman. Wherever she went, eyes would follow her about. When Anthony was gone, she would go off into a room. Yes, she would tell Peter too. He could go. Do as he liked. Nobody respected her any longer. Decency was really dirt. Why had she been fooling herself? No more family! No more. She had had quite enough! The thoughts came in flood. She felt hot, then cold; she felt sick, tired. Finally she fell asleep where she sat, her hat and coat still on, and the mouth, partly open as she slept, seemed to hold in it a light, mocking smile. The fire burned low. Time dragged on. No knocks. A stony silence.

Anthony Fury received no answer at Price Street. The woman next door informed him, the while she scrupulously examined his person from head to heel, that there was nobody in, but Dermod was with her and now fast asleep. Mr. Kilkey? Why, Mr. Kilkey was at his work, where every man worth his salt should be, and she looked Anthony up and down with the greatest curiosity. ‘You'll find him on board the
Tesnie
, I have no doubt, or maybe having his dinner in the shed.' And that was that.

‘Thanks,' Anthony said, and started off towards the docks. ‘I wonder where Maureen can be? She can't think much of Dermod, leaving him alone so much. Oh, I wish my bloody ship was in.' As he went along, he hummed to himself,' Hurry, Ship! Hurry, Ship!' Round the corner straight down the King's Road. Past Mr. Quickle's shop—yes, and he had better hurry past it quickly, looking the opposite way, too, for the temptation to put his nose against the window and look at that magnificent Italian piano-accordion was exceedingly great. Forty-one guineas. He'd be an old man before he had that much. He did, however, give one shy, furtive glance at the instrument in the window. Then he hurried on. It was getting near twelve.

‘Somehow I feel Joe will turn up trumps in the end. But hang it all, what on earth has Aunt Brigid gone off to Lourdes for? Shows she has money, though! The mean, sly old cow. That's what
she
is. A mean old cow. And after all the times Mother has put her up, and the times she was ill. By Christ! She knew who to send for then. Well, please God,' and he got a thrill of satisfaction from this latter thought, ‘well, please God she'll be ill again some time, and she'll send a frantic wire for Mother, the only sister she has—and Mother'll struggle to pay her own fare, as usual. Ah! But I'll see she doesn't go. I hope that when Aunt Brigid dies she hasn't a single friend at her bedside.'

Here was the dock-gate. He crossed the road and went in. Men were pouring down the ship's gangways in hundreds, it was twelve o'clock.

S.S.
Tesnie
. Where was she lying, exactly? He asked a passing man.

‘Tesnie
? See that ship over there,' he said, and pointing to a four-master with blue funnels, added, ‘Well, that's her! Cross that bridge.'

‘Thank you.' Anthony made his way over the bridge. ‘
Tesnie
. Hope I don't miss him!' And he started to run, but stopped suddenly. That was going a bit too far. Not steady enough on the old feet yet. He stood at the bottom of the gangway, anxiously searching the procession of faces. The man he was looking for was on deck, directly in front of him, doing something to a guy rope over the hatch. The procession ceased. Had he missed Joe Kilkey? He looked higher. Ah, there he was.

‘Hey there, Mr. Kilkey! Joe!' He whistled. The man turned round, looked at him, waved a hand, and smiling came down the gangway.

‘Hello, Anthony,' he said. ‘What brings you down here?'

‘Nothing much! The only thing that usually brings me down this way is my own ship. But, you see, this time I had to——'

‘Silly lad,' said Joseph Kilkey. ‘Silly lad! Well, I happen to be going over for my dinner. Have you had any? You can buckle in with me if you like.' They crossed the road and passed into the shed. Here they stopped.

‘What have you come down for, then?' asked Joseph Kilkey. ‘I believe it's about this business. Well, really, Anthony, it's hard to explain. You see, I told your mother when she was round yesterday I—but wait a mo. I must slip over there and get my can filled.'

Anthony watched him go into the dining-room at the top of the shed.

‘Funny!' he thought. ‘She said nothing to me when I said I was going round to see Maureen.' He sat down on a case of bacon, waiting for Mr. Kilkey. In a few minutes he emerged, carrying a can of steaming tea.

‘Come over here,' he said, ‘I have a place here. I always take my meals in the shed. It's nice and cool, too.'

He led the way to the back of the shed. They sat down on an old cargo chute.

‘You'll have the top of the tea, anyhow,' said Mr. Kilkey, to which Anthony replied he didn't mind. Mr. Kilkey filled a cracked cup.

‘Now,' he said, ‘what's the bother? I mean, what brings you visiting me here?'

Anthony looked at the man with not a little astonishment. Why was he so gruff? This was most unusual. This change in Joseph Kilkey dampened his spirits at once.

‘Oh, nothing,' he said, and his face reddened considerably.

‘Nothing! You've come all the way about nothing?' said Mr. Kilkey, his manner as gruff as before. ‘Well, some people do take the cake. Fancy you coming down all this way for nothing, and you with your bad feet. Anthony, what's up?'

‘You're not angry at me about anything, are you?' asked Anthony, quite unable to conceal his surprise, and a certain uncomfortable feeling that came over him. ‘You look vexed, and you talk as though I'd hit you.'

Mr. Kilkey's dirty face expanded into a smile.

‘I'm not angry with you, Anthony. Don't get such silly ideas into your head. Really, I'm not. But I
am
angry with myself for being a fool, and a quite helpless one at that. No doubt your mother thinks I'm nothing but an indifferent brute—she almost said as much. It's about her you've come, isn't it? Well, you've wasted your time.'

‘I don't understand,' said Anthony. ‘Why are you angry with yourself?'

‘Oh, I don't know! Yesterday your mother came round asking me if I could help her. She must think I'm a bloody millionaire.' He stopped suddenly, for a peculiar expression appeared upon the other's face. It was the first time Anthony had heard him swear.

‘But I'm not.
I'm
only a poor man, and like everybody else I had my few pounds saved up too. But that went bang when Dermod was born. Do you really know what's happened, Anthony? I've been made a mug of. Yes, a mug. It's common knowledge that your brother's education simply put your mother in a strait-jacket. You can't afford to be extravagant when you live in Hatfields, or Price Street, or anywhere else. Well—but who would have thought it cost all that much? It made me scratch my head, I tell you. And supposing he had gone through! Who would have benefited? Nobody. For a priest can't keep himself, Anthony. You know that! Well, then, right on top of his finishing up there under a cloud, so to speak, you have your accident, and then your old man goes on strike! It wouldn't be your mother if she didn't have everything at once. Maybe it's a test for her. Maybe to see how she can stick it. She did, though. She's a brick, your mother is, Anthony, and every one of you will thank her one of these days. I mean, when you're real men and find yourself up against tough things. Ah! But this business with the moneylender has got her down all right. Broke her spirit clean through. You can see it as soon as you look at her. Did I swear at what she said to me yesterday? NO! I have better sense than to pile it on. I couldn't do anything, anything, and I told her so. So if you've come to see me about that—well, all I say is, it's awful. Do you know Maureen cleared out? Aye! Cleared, and left Dermod with me. I have to pay each week to get somebody to look after him—and as well——'

‘Maureen! Maureen left you! Oh, God! How rotten. How cruel to the kid!'

‘Aye,' said Mr. Kilkey. It was almost a growl. ‘Cleared! But I—I felt it. I felt it. I loved Maury. She's only foolish—headstrong. She'll come back. But I won't ask her to. Won't even look for her! What time have I to be seeking out foolish people and trying to make them see reason? But see how clever your sister is. You might as well know all, now. Maureen herself had a loan from this woman. A small one, it is true. And I had to sign for it. Don't ask me why, because I'll only answer you that we kind of people can't always live on fresh air—though your brother Desmond thinks we can. Well, we cleared that. The next thing I knew was that I was going surety for your mother. Why me? You must ask your mother. If she says it was because she was afraid of any of you knowing—even your father, who couldn't want to understand anything, anyhow—well, she'll be giving you the only correct answer. Why did your mother want the money? To save her from disgrace in the chapel. You see, there are people in our parish who also have sons going in for the priesthood—and at the same college. She got the money. That's all I know. But whilst it was owing
I
was responsible. What happened? Maureen turned on your mother after a while—called her a fool—oh, everything, and from that day my life was hell. That's the truth! But I never altered my opinion of Maureen. Never once. Half a dozen times she wanted me to go round and see your mother. Why should I pry into her business? Her business is her own, not mine. Now d'you see what happened? It's so clever. I'm only beginning to see it now—it's so clever that a woman like her could walk round ten Mrs. Ragners, your mother included. She had never loved me. Understand? Hard to say—it's the truth. But there she was, itching to clear out. Simply bursting to go. And then she made your mother the excuse. What did she do? She got money from a foreman under whom she used to work at the jute factory. How much, God alone knows—and what she's done for it, I—oh, I hate thinking about it. She went to Mrs. Ragner, paid her this money, and whatever went on between them, it's a mystery to me. She came back here with a surety form I had signed, cancelled. Can you believe it? We had a frightful row. It was lying amongst papers in an old box for nearly a week, and I never knew. She actually told me she'd shown it to me. Can you believe it? All well and good, I thought, that's the end of that. But was it? No. It was only the beginning. She used it as an excuse to clear out, and I half believe it's with the foreman she's gone. But just think of it. She couldn't be open. Couldn't! She was a coward. I knew all along I had made a mistake. I'm much older than she is, it's true, and I'm no Don Juan. But still, I think I did my best for her, and when Dermod came it was all going to be so lovely. Ah! It makes me sick, Anthony, and that's the truth. I feel I could vomit my guts up this minute. Was I to go round barging into your mother? Was I to let her down after signing the note? Couldn't do it. I'd hate myself ever afterwards. It's pitiful, really, the things people will do. Simply pitiful.'

Joseph Kilkey drained the tea-can, got off the chute, and ran to the tap, where he rinsed the can out. Then he put the top on it, rolled up the newspaper his dinner had been in and flung it into the corner. He lit his pipe. Anthony lit a cigarette.

Anthony Fury turned away. He looked out over the river. He seemed to see with his father's eyes the same things in just the same way: the life of the river and the sea, the clean, clear, untrammelled life, free from all hatreds and jealousies, all meanness, pettiness, lies, dirt—and now he looked out over the waters that shimmered like molten glass beneath the noonday sun. He thought if his mother had been a man she would have looked and felt in just the same way. Yes. Perhaps she would have made a fine sailor. He looked round at Joseph Kilkey. Old, ugly—but how old, where ugly? No! This man was splendid. He put his hand on Mr. Kilkey's, and with passionate sincerity he exclaimed, ‘Joe! I'm sorry! I'm
so, so
sorry.' Yes, he meant it. Every single word of it. And why shouldn't he? Just as he felt sorry in his heart for his own mother. That's all he could do. Feel sorry. What else? He couldn't help. He had no money—no power. He could, like all the rest of his race, respond by that single, heartfelt sincerity.