The Secret Journey (69 page)

‘It was rotten! Bloody mean and rotten. I would never have believed it, Mr. Kilkey, never!' and he squeezed the hand that was even harder than his own. Poor Joe! Never done anybody a day's harm. Left with the child.

‘I hate her for it! Hate her for it!'

‘Well, don't, please don't,' said Mr. Kilkey. ‘She's only a silly little child.'

He liked this lad—good, hard-working, never complaining, going out trip after trip, turning up his money regularly. Poor Anthony! His life was certainly not very exciting. A few shillings in his pocket, a few friends, easily satisfied. ‘But he's a cheerful, happy lad, anyhow.'

‘Everything'll come straight, lad, you see! Everything'll come straight for us all.' He began rubbing his bald head, warmed to the job, and rubbed still harder, as though in imagination he were rubbing away from his mind all the frettings and hurts and discontents. Then he looked at his watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to go. I'll walk up with you as far as the gate,' he said, got off the chute, hid his tin can, and together they walked slowly up the shed.

‘Why, your mother! Yes, tell me about your mother, Anthony. Has anything happened? Can anything be done? Are you sure the woman will seize your mother's goods? I doubt it.'

‘I don't,' replied Anthony, ‘I wouldn't put it past her doing
anything
from what I've heard of her. I even went to see my other brother.'

‘What did he say?' asked Mr. Kilkey. They emerged from the shed into the sunlight, and Anthony at once slackened his pace. Mr. Kilkey walked even slower. He had a sudden idea the lad's feet were paining.

‘He said he could do nothing. Maybe he couldn't. But I knew all along. I don't suppose, even if he did have any money, he'd offer to help us.'

‘Yes,' said Mr. Kilkey, ‘I never imagined your mother would appeal to him.' Aye! One could measure the desperateness of that woman by that sudden climb down. ‘Your mother seems to walk into these things quite naturally. Well, as I said to you, Anthony my lad, I have my own troubles, though I'm not indifferent to other people's. But this is where I'm no use. I've my few sticks of furniture. What's that? A few pounds. And a constant job. And what's that? Bread and butter, and a pipe of tobacco and the evening papers. A new suit once a year. Boots twice a year. A charabanc trip in the summer with the Young Men's Society. Will you listen to me complaining? Damn! I ought to kick my own backside for talking like I do. Tell your mother I'll come and see her this evening. Tell her not to worry. God's good. Oh, and I'll bring the youngster round, too. He doesn't see much of his grandma these times. Now, ta-ta, and the final word, my lad, is—easy on those pins of yours.'

He waved farewell, and went back to his work. Anthony Fury started back for home.

So that was how it was! ‘Oh, Lord! I've certainly come back to see a real packetful.' When he came to the brow, he stopped. He went into the herbalist's, ordered a packet of cigarettes, a glass of balm beer, and sat down. Yes, he had to admit it. His feet were paining. That gnawing little fear somewhere at the back of his mind was growing bigger. His feet weren't right. NO! They weren't right! Two doctors, three hospitals, two solicitors, hundreds of journeys, thirty-five pounds compensation—but they weren't right.

‘I wonder what Mother did with that money? It's simply amazing. She's like somebody drunk. She must have flung it everywhere. Oh, I can't be bothered thinking about it any longer.' Suddenly he said, in a low voice, ‘Oh! The pain! The pain!'

The man behind the counter looked up from the newspaper he was reading. Anthony sipped his beer, then lit a cigarette and sat back in evident contentment. So that was how it was! Maureen had done the dirty on her husband. Well, there was one thing, anyhow. Mother couldn't be blamed for that. But how rotten! How beastly and mean to leave the man alone with the child! She ought to be punched for it. ‘That's what I'd do if I was him. Aye! And perhaps that's the kind of thing that does happen to people when they're soft, and he is soft, no doubt about it. But, no—that's wrong. I mean, he's too kind to her. That's what it is. Too damn bloody kind. Well, I for one won't fall for a Judy. No marriage for me. No, sirree. From what I've seen of it it's just a mug's game. Oh! The pain,' he said.

‘Are you all right there, young man?' And again the herbalist looked anxiously at the customer.

Anthony, smiling, said, ‘It's my feet! They hurt a bit.'

‘Oh dear! That's bad! Perhaps you walked too far. Have you rheumatics?'

Laughingly, Anthony said ‘No!' Anyhow, he couldn't sit here any longer. He had had his bit of rest. Now he'd better get back home. ‘I wonder if anything's happened? I just wonder. All right for Peter! Out at work all day. God! Wouldn't it be a disgrace if that woman did send bailiffs down? I wonder what's she like? I've never seen her, and there's a funny-looking man who works for her—so Joe Kilkey says—and who does all the pitching out.'

His imagination became highly coloured; in a few seconds he had visioned every conceivable kind of catastrophe. The walk up Bank Hill was long, slow and tortuous. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have stayed at home after all. And yet. No, the trouble is that they've only half mended my feet. Damn them! That was my fault. Saying yes when I should have said no. Got up too early—threw those crutches away far too soon.'

He addressed a question to himself. ‘Aye, but damn me—you
were
glad to get rid of them, weren't you, glad to see the last of trams, offices, hospitals and doctors, of course?' Yes, he was. He had been glad when it ended. Happier at sea. Far, far happier. ‘I'll never leave the sea! Never! Even when I've done round thirty-odd years of it, like dad—I'll still hang on. Living ashore, working ashore—ah, it's a bum's life. A bum's. Here we are! At the top of this bloody awful hill at last. Why don't they have trams running up Bank Hill? Nearly home now, thank the Lord! And not a thing done. Not a single thing.' Help! He might as well have asked the brick wall against which he now leaned to rest.

‘Poor old Joe!' he said. ‘Poor old Joe!'

Here was Dacre Road. At last! Another few streets and then he'd be home. He kept thinking of his mother. What would she be doing? Getting dinner ready, no doubt. Oh, but it was after one. Would she still have her hat and coat on? He laughed. He couldn't help it. He had to. She looked so funny in that black straw hat. And he had never noticed things like that before. He turned out of Dacre Road, went along the King's Road, and this time, temptation overcoming him, he stopped outside Mr. Quickle's shop. What a simply marvellous instrument that was! Suddenly he was prompted to go into the shop and ask to look at it. Mr. Quickle, the best sitter in the neighbourhood, smiled, rubbed his hands, and called to his son. The accordion was taken out of the window and laid upon the counter. Anthony Fury's eyes seemed to grow bigger and bigger. He picked up the instrument and held it in his hand. Wonderful! Wonderful! In his hands. He looked at Mr. Quickle.

‘Can I try it?' he asked, his fingers, already bewitched, having passed through the leather handles and settled themselves upon the keys. He smiled broadly.

‘Certainly, sir! Certainly,' said Mr. Abraham Quickle, and settled himself more comfortably to listen. He had never heard an Irish jig before, but he listened to one now. It was called ‘The Donkey and the Devil.' Anthony, carried away now, drew farther away from the counter and began to swing his arms higher and higher, until at last the instrument seemed to throb to this whirling, impassioned movement of his body.

‘You play well, young man,' said Mr. Quickle. ‘D'you know, that instrument has been in my window over a year? Times are pretty bad now, sir, but I tell you what I'll do. I'll knock it down to you for twenty pounds.' Judging by the expression on his face, it seemed that Mr. Quickle was hopeful of a sale. ‘How's that, sir?' he added.

The music stopped. Anthony put down the accordion and his face was sad. ‘It's a lovely instrument, Mr. Quickle,' he said, ‘but far too dear for me!'

‘I have cheaper ones,' said the jeweller, ‘and very good ones, too.'

He called to the boy to bring three accordions down from the storeroom. Anthony Fury shook his head.

‘As a matter of fact, I was only interested in that one, Mr. Quickle. I've had cheaper ones and they're no good. All right for learning on—but that's all.' He looked hungrily at the instrument as the boy picked it up and put it back in the window.

‘You could pay a pound down and a pound a month,' said the jeweller, who was now all attention. This young man might be indeed the very person for whom he had prayed. Mr. Quickle wanted somebody to buy the piano-accordion, but to buy it with ready cash. Now, it seemed he might, if the young man could be persuaded, enrich himself to the extent of one whole pound per month for the next twenty months.

‘No!' said Anthony. ‘Sorry! I couldn't do it. It's far too dear.
Far
too dear. I'd have to be a millionaire. But it's a lovely piece of work,' he said, and his was all the enthusiasm and delight of some connoisseur who has suddenly stumbled upon some long-searched-for object of art. He shook his head. ‘Sorry to have troubled you,' he said. He blew his nose into a red handkerchief.

‘It's a pleasure, sir! But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep the instrument in the window for a month, and if I haven't a purchaser for it in that time, I'll take it out and put it away. Maybe you'll drop in and see me again,' concluded Mr. Quickle. ‘You see, you never know your luck, sir.'

‘Thanks very much,' replied the other, whose eyes were focussed on the back of the window where the accordion lay. ‘I've often stopped to look at it.'

‘And that I well know, sir, for I can recall at least half a dozen occasions on which you have stopped outside my shop, young gentleman, and I've said to myself, “Abraham, there's nothing more certain than that one fine day that young man outside will come in and buy that accordion off my hands.” And that's the truth, sir. That instrument will be yours one fine day. You were made for each other, young gentleman, and how nicely you play!'

They bid each other good-afternoon. Mr. Quickle leaned on the counter, looking very pleased with himself, the white linen cuffs of his shirt falling down over his fat, podgy white hands.

Anthony Fury reached Hatfields at last. He had spent his fourpence, and he had had a little adventure. He felt no pain in his feet now. That was gone. He found his mother in the parlour. She was writing a letter. They glanced at each other, but that was all. Who was she writing to? Then he saw that the envelope was addressed to his father.

‘Has that woman been, Mother—or her handyman?'

‘No.' She went on writing.

‘Then I don't believe anything will happen. It's just a scare. All these damned moneylenders are the same. They work it on people like us,' he said.

‘I don't know,' said his mother. She added that Peter hadn't been in to dinner.

‘But then he probably took it with him. He did say he would be working late to-night.' She pushed the paper away. ‘I was writing to your father,' she said.

How tired she looked.

‘Aye! He might well. I suppose he was ashamed to come to his dinner in case the bailiffs did come. But they won't come now.'

‘I don't know,' replied Mrs. Fury.

‘This “I don't knows,”' said Anthony, ‘is bloody irritating, that's all I know. Have you heard about Maureen?' he said. Something in the tone of his voice made Mrs. Fury look up at him. She sealed the letter, still looking at him.

‘Yes, I heard,' she replied. ‘You saw Joe Kilkey, then? Isn't he working to-day?'

‘What do you think of it?' he asked, ignoring the remainder of his mother's remarks.

‘Disgraceful!' she said.

‘My God, I should think so,' he replied, and went out of the parlour. Three o'clock. Lord! That all it was! What use sitting here? He couldn't get a word out of his mother!

‘I might well go and lie down. At least, I'll rest my feet.'

Hearing him go upstairs, Mrs. Fury went out and followed him up.

‘Are you tired?' she asked.

Yes, he was. His feet were paining! He had walked all the way to the Morton Dock and back.

‘You shouldn't have, Anthony.'

‘Oh,
why
shouldn't I?' he replied irritably. ‘Well, why shouldn't I?'

‘Because you shouldn't! Because you had no right to go all that way. Because the next thing you'll find yourself laid up. That's all! And I have worry enough!'

He looked at his mother with something like subtle scorn in his expression. ‘D'you suppose I should worry you about my feet?'

‘It's not what
you'd
do! It's what I would
have
to do! I say you went too far.'

‘Well! I went for you. D'you think I walked two miles just to amuse myself, or to admire the lovely scenery down there?'

‘Anthony, please! Please! Is it—is this the time to quarrel? Please try. I'm sorely tried at the moment. But listen to me! I might as well tell you now as later. Then I won't be tormenting myself for having spoken too late. When you go away this time, I'm going to leave Hatfields.'

‘What!' he said. ‘Leave Hatfields? Don't make me laugh, Mother,' and yet he was alarmed. ‘Don't talk so silly! Things can't be as bad as all that. Supposing I went up and saw this woman. Surely she's going to give you a few days to think about it. Oh, don't talk such silly rot. I don't want to hear about it. It can't be any worse than it is already.'

‘Time!' she said. ‘I've had that before! Mrs. Ragner is not like any other woman I've known. It almost seems like personal spite. A week or so ago she actually wanted me to renew another loan.'