The Secret Journey (71 page)

He went out of the shed, leaped across the points, and went out into the street. He felt in his pocket for the sandwiches. Perhaps he had better go home just as usual. Besides, it couldn't be so bloody uncomfortable with his brother there! ‘He's a funny type, he is, all right! Softy! Some softy all right. He knows which side his bread's buttered. But, God, I wish I could think of something.' It was simply rotten the way that things happened. And it must have happened to other people in Gelton too! But one never heard a word about these things. Was it always going to be like this? This living business. And every time he went into the southern end of Gelton he felt amazed at how different everything was. ‘Well, we're bloody silly mugs, as Desmond says—and maybe that's a meaning to all this.' Yes, and if he had not come out of that college when he did he would never have known anything. This would not have happened. No! That is quite wrong. It
would
have happened! In the southern part of Gelton the houses were bigger, even the people seemed bigger, and the place looked clean, comfortable, secure, satisfied. But here, in Hatfield, it was quite different! Well, damn, you can't square it with the dope they push down your throat in the college, and that was that.

He went into an almost empty dining-room and sat down. He ordered a large mug of tea and commenced his dinner. He took a bite out of a large cheese sandwich, but somehow he couldn't swallow it. He gulped down more tea. No, it was impossible to eat the stuff. It choked him. The same maddening circle of thoughts, the same miserable feeling as when he had left his house that morning. ‘She'll think only of the disgrace of it. That's all.'

He finished the tea and went out, leaving the sandwiches lying in the newspaper. Twenty past twelve! He made his way towards Hatfields, but when he reached the bottom of the street he stopped, thinking, ‘I might get her at that office yet.' He tried hard to remember the address. Oh well, he'd go down. Somehow when he got into the town it would come back to him. ‘What I can't understand is why she's done this so suddenly. As far as I know, Mother was paying the money quite regularly.' He stood waiting for a tram. His face and hands were black with oil and grease, and he was wearing his dungaree jacket and trousers. As he boarded the tram he smiled, as though he were caught up once again in the rhythm of old associations with this journey. It was as though he were going to see Sheila again. Her name hung upon his tongue, he was filled with a desire to go and see her now. This very minute. Not that she could do anything. He only wanted to see her again, to feel her presence, see her smile, listen to her chatter. Always he had gone off furtively, yet feeling no shame at his action—happiness which drew him towards Prees Street clouded that out. Why should he not go now? Besides, everybody knew. It was no longer secret. Like his mother, that secret had been rifled at last. ‘I wonder what it'll be like when I go home in the evening? Yet somehow one can't imagine one leaving Hatfields. It sounds crazy, we've lived there so long—been a family together so long. And yet it might be——but here thought stopped altogether. He only experienced a certain languorous and pleasurable feeling as the car began to rumble down the long Mile Hill.

When he reached the terminus it was ten minutes to one, it was too late to go back now. He went into a public convenience and had a wash and brush up. He left his dungaree trousers and jacket behind him, and emerged looking spruce and clean. This afternoon time was his own, the whole city was there to be looked at, the thousands of people, the rushing traffic, the delicious smells that came out of the restaurants, the brightly dressed shops. Hatfields was like a dirty dark hole compared with the feast before his eyes. He stood on the parapet, entranced by the life that surged and flowed about. A priest came hurrying along, but Peter Fury turned his head away. He went across the road and entered a public garden and sat down. The sun shone down on the regimented flower-beds, children played and chattered like magpies on the gravel path. Opposite him sat two very old women like two carved statues, the only signs of life being the continuous movement of their mouths. They were dressed in stiff black and wore bonnets. They seemed to be looking at him too. An old man came along and sat on the same bench as Peter. In a moment he had begun to clear his throat in the most audible manner. Peter moved to the end of the bench. The sight of this asthmatic person, red in the face, eyes starting from his head, gave Peter the selfsame feeling. He too wanted to clear his throat. It made him sick. It reminded him so much of his grandfather. ‘Perhaps it's that what I've missed so much these last days. His little staring eyes.' Outside, trams roared, horses beat a steady tattoo upon the road, voices were raised. In the river, tugs' and ships' sirens blew. The ferry-boats carried their happy human loads to the golden shore but a mile or two away from Gelton, from all the welter of movement, the incessant roar of the traffic. Sitting in the quiet and peaceful garden was like sitting in that peaceful quadrangle in Cork. There before him, catching the fan-wise rays of the sun, was the Custom House building, and beyond that lay Prees Street and in Prees Street Sheila lived. She could be there now! He conjured up pictures in his mind, all the while holding in leash the tumult of emotions he could feel stirring in him. Yes, she could be there. Lovely Sheila! How rotten everything was! He was happy, happier than he had ever been in his whole life, and people called it filthiness. It made him sad. Why filthy? Or was it that what was but filth to them was but a mirror reflecting their own? Why didn't he get up and go to her? Why didn't he forget everything, even the trouble his mother was in? Yes. Why didn't he get up and run there now, at once.

‘Out of a job?' the asthmatic gentleman said. That was the spring. Peter Fury jumped and walked away. He followed a group of people across the road, heavy with horse-drawn traffic, and turned into Morton Square. He was clear of the general flood. Here was Prees Street. Peter Fury looked up and down. There was nobody about. A few children were playing in the gutter. ‘No, I won't,' he said to himself, ‘it only makes me more miserable than ever. She's stuck here—God knows why.' As he turned away he heard a door bang. A woman had just come out of one of the houses. It was Sheila Fury. She seemed in a hurry. And she stopped to brush down her coat, then hurried on. Peter drew his breath. He wanted to run after her, but his feet were leaden, he wanted to call her name—but a lump came into his throat. He watched the departing figure. ‘Sheila,' he kept saying. But where was she hurrying to? The moment she turned the corner he walked quickly down the street. His heart began thumping again. He wanted to catch up and surprise her, to put his hands over her eyes as once he used to do, and to say, ‘Who?' ‘I am running off like this, and Mother is waiting for that woman.' Sheila crossed the road. Peter followed. She entered an hotel. Peter went in behind her!' She doesn't know I'm behind her,' he said to himself, and smiled inwardly as he got a last glimpse of her skirt at the top of the stairs. The bar-room was crowded. Men stood drinking at the counter. The whole bottom floor reeked of smoke and stale beer. Above-stairs was the general restaurant. Peter stood in the middle of the floor, a scared look upon his face, whilst people pushed rudely past him. Then he went upstairs. At the top he stood and surveyed the many tables. Where had she gone? All the tables seemed to be occupied. A passing waiter looked at him suspiciously, and then asked, ‘Looking for somebody, laddie?'

‘No! I'm looking for a table,' he replied as loud as he could.

‘This way!' The waiter led him to the far corner of the room. Above the clatter of the knives and forks he heard the waiter say, ‘Sit here.'

‘Thank you!' He sat down, lowered his head, and stared at the white linen cloth, the shining cutlery, the serviettes. He kept his head lowered. People seemed to be staring at him. Suddenly his hand went to his coat pocket. That was what they were staring at. The bulge in his pocket. Trembling, he slowly raised his head. Nobody stared. Attention was confined entirely to the food before them. Yet somehow those eyes seemed riveted upon his pocket. Perhaps the knife had been sticking out. Yes, and all these people were well dressed—they were business men. There was a black smudge on the collar he wore, which, during the morning, had been entirely hidden beneath the collar of his dungaree jacket. Damn it! What had he left his clothes lying in the convenience for? Supposing somebody had seen him and had followed him!

‘Yes, sir?' A waiter was standing by his table.

‘A glass of bitter and some beef sandwiches,' he said, raising his head to stare at the white-jacketed man in front of him. He felt nervous, he knew his face must be very red. And he had never been in a public bar before, except once when he had gone with his father to meet that fellow Mulcare.

‘Snacks below. This is the luncheon room,' the waiter said.

‘Yes, I made a mistake. I'm sorry! Please let me have it here. It's crowded below.'

Where was she? Somewhere in the room. To his right was an alcove. Perhaps she was in there. Only a black velvet curtain separated them. Supposing he caught hold of it and flung it back and they came face to face with each other? Sheila and he who had been together so often—who had been with him on the shore only a few days ago! She must be behind the curtain. He could tell! A something feminine, a smell seemed to emanate from behind it.

‘One-and-three, please.' The waiter put down the order.

‘Oh yes, of course!' More agitated than ever, he began to search in his pocket for the money. ‘Ah, here you are!' and he handed one-and-six to the man.

‘Thank you!' The man seemed to say it through his clenched teeth. Then he went away. Peter took a sip at the beer. He had tasted it before.

‘What sour stuff it is!' he thought, and then began the sandwiches. His eyes never left the curtain. She was there—he knew now—he had recognized her voice. ‘Good God!' he thought; ‘she does this on me too.' A liar, a deceiver. Making a fool of him. And he had been so sincere, so full of genuine affection for her. Then he heard a man speaking.

‘I think you'd better come now,' the man was saying.

She may have answered, but Peter did not hear it. A sudden clatter of knives and forks on a near-by table drowned her voice. Supposing at this very moment he reached across that latch and dragged back the curtain. What would she do? How would she look at him? Would she just laugh, or would she bow her head in shame? Maybe she would be afraid. If nothing had happened at home, if he had gone back to his work, then he would never have found this out, consequences were more important than he had realized. How different everything was here! Well-dressed men, spotless clothes, shining silver, plenty of food, the air full of its rich odours. How different from that stale cheese and bread in last evening's issue of the
Gelton Times
. His mother had never been in a place like this. He began wondering what she would do if she were suddenly transplanted from Hatfields to the Stork Hotel. And everybody looked so happy, talk, laughter floated about the room. The busy waiters rushed from table to table. It was one of these men who came up suddenly, in order to relay a now vacated table in the alcove, and drew back the curtain. The blood mounted to Peter's face. Blushing the colour of a beetroot, he stared across at the table. It was Sheila; she was sitting directly opposite him. She wore a blue print dress, and round her neck a long green scarf. She was leaning her elbows on the table, the strap of her bag clutched in one finger. She seemed to be studying the menu. Whenever the big man opposite her moved he blotted the woman out. Who was the man? He looked at her black hair, at the top of her forehead, at her long white hands. What could it mean? A feeling of revulsion rose in him. The cheat. The liar! Why was she here? What was she doing? And who was this big black-coated figure? They had finished their meal. Some people got up from a near-by table and went downstairs. Peter fastened his eye upon the lowered head of the woman. He could see nothing but her face. The background was only black darkness, her face a white light in the midst of it. The silence in the room became tense. More and more people left the tables. Peter glanced slyly at the clock. Perhaps all luncheons had been served. At any minute she would get up, and perhaps that man too. Would they go off together? Where? Hatfields faded away, the events of the past few days seemed to fold themselves up and roll away. There was this room, that woman, this moment. Suddenly she raised her head. They had recognized each other. It was as if her head had been caught in a vice, not a muscle of her face moved. And whilst she sat staring at the young man at the opposite table, the big black-coated figure turned round and looked at Peter.

Perhaps it was the sight of one so young sitting before beer and sandwiches, or perhaps the young man looked funny enough, for the man gave a little laugh—‘Ha, ha,' and then turned round.

Sheila gave a glance at the man and then smiled at Peter. But he did not return it. She saw only something bitter, something cruel in his glance. A waiter came up, looked at the single occupant of the table, and then placed two glasses on the table where Sheila Fury sat. Peter looked round the room. Now that he had turned his head and seen the long room with the empty tables, he realized that there were but three people in it—Sheila and that man and himself.

Still with his head turned away from them, he thought, ‘Can one believe in anything?' No. It was impossible. One simply couldn't believe in anybody any longer. There she sat; she whom he had loved so much, with whom he had spent such happy times. Yes, there she was, sitting with a total stranger. But he must turn round—he couldn't go on like that. Staring down the room like a fool! Yet somehow his head seemed to remain quite rigid, as if it could never move again. The sound of glass clinking rang in his ears. Slowly he turned his head round. But he did not look at her again. He looked at the remains of the sandwiches, the half-glass of bitter beer. Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks. He gripped the table with his hands. Were they looking at him—was she—was she thinking anything—feeling anything? What did he look like to her—sitting there with a man's beer before him? And that great black smudge on his collar, and his hot, sweaty hands gripping the snow-white table-cloth. Was it really her? Was it Sheila? Yes. It was her! Hadn't he watched her leave her house in Prees Street, and hadn't she walked surefooted to this hotel? An appointment! She had an appointment with this man! This big man who, glimpsing him, had laughed. That swine had laughed, and she had smiled. Did he look such a fool, then? Such a poorly dressed, clumsy lout. ‘And Desmond's up to his bloody neck, setting the world to rights.'