The Secret Journey (72 page)

Damn! He was actually crying. His whole body shook. Everything appeared hazy. He dragged himself from the table. The big man turned round. Peter Fury stood looking at Sheila. He leaned over the table. He did not see Sheila Fury's friend—in fact, he did not exist. He looked in her face. He opened his mouth to say something—stammered—then he blurted out:

‘I am only sorry for you.'

The woman lowered her head, and out of the corner of her eye she looked at the big man across the table, but when again she raised it to look at Peter, Peter did not know her. The whole face had become transfigured. There was something empty, a deadness, as though this woman in that moment had suffered some stricture of the soul. She was merely staring into space, for Peter Fury, tears running down his face, had fled from the room. A clock struck. Tables were being cleared. Luncheon was over.

‘No! I'm not sorry at all! I only lied to her! I hate her—loathe her! Fooling me! Fooling me!'

The flood of feeling broke loose at last. He covered his mouth with his dirty, greasy handkerchief, choking with sobs. He couldn't help it. He had to. And he had to sit here—in the darkness and security of a public lavatory—to give vent to the feelings that had been stirring in him all morning. He was overwhelmed by them. How could he have been such a fool? Hadn't he genuinely loved her? It was she who was the fool. She couldn't see—couldn't understand him. Could nobody understand him? Was this what life was like, trusting people and being laughed at for it? If only she had raised her fist and struck him in the face. That at least would be honest. And at the other end, the black, stinking end, nothing. Not the slightest bit of honesty. All lies, lies. Had people so saturated themselves that they couldn't help lying to him? Was love as easy as that? Something you could put on and take off like a coat—yes, or like some slimy skin?

‘I ought to have spat at her.'

But what was he doing here, in this dark filthy place, with its rank smells, its dense vileness? Yes, he had run here to hide, to be alone, to cry, to let loose the feelings that had been strangling him. What was the use of doing anything? Lies from the very beginning. Yes, from the very beginning. His mother, the priests, his father, his sister, all the same! He ought to feel ashamed. Well, wasn't he? Wasn't he ashamed now? And he had only to switch himself away from the morass in which he floundered, to find himself in the greater one of an unchartered future. He could think what he liked, feel what he liked, but two miles away there was Hatfields.

Somebody was thundering on the door.

‘Coming,' he said, ‘coming.'

It was the lavatory attendant. Peter wiped his eyes, straightened himself up and shot back the lock.

‘Thought you were up to something,' the attendant said. ‘Feeling all right?'

He scowled at the man, ran up the slimy steps and emerged into the street. Nearly three o'clock! If Mrs. Ragner went out to lunch—he supposed she ate like any other human—then she must certainly be back now. A sudden longing to see the moneylender seized him. He must see her! But where was her office? Perhaps he had better go into the Library and look up the Directory. He dodged his way along the pavements. People seemed to crawl like crabs, and how indifferent everybody seemed—streaming up and down, full of their own importance. The quick glance, the toss of the head, the skulking woman, the bovine features of the policeman, the red face of the cabby, the consumptive-looking clerk. There was something repulsive, something frightening about this swaying mass of people who seemed to be going round and round in a kind of maddened circle.

Here was the Library, and in ten minutes he had found the address.

‘Ragner, Anna. Moneylender. 41 Heys Road. First floor.'

‘Good,' he thought. Why, he was actually standing in Heys Road. He looked up at the numbered shops. Fortyone—just across the road. Here it was. Number forty-one. First floor. He mounted the stairs two at a time. There was the brass plate. Ragner. He knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, then discovered that the door opened to the lightest touch. It was an outer swing door, and in his excitement he had not noticed it. He passed inside. A bare room. A counter, on which stood a glass partition with a small window, covered by a shutter. In the corner, what looked like a moth-eaten horse-hair chair. Behind him an old desk, on which lay a pen. The nib was covered with rust. Evidently it had not been used for a very long time.

In spite of the summer's day, there was something cold about the air of the place. Something more than a mere coldness. It was like a place where no one has ever stood or breathed. He rapped on the window. Immediately the shutter was pushed back, and the inquisitive, penetrating eye of Daniel Corkran looked out at him. He shut the window again without a word. He seemed to be standing still behind the partition.

‘The swine!' thought Peter. This time he thumped the window with his clenched fist. Daniel Corkran looked out again.

‘What do
you
want?' he asked. ‘You have no business here, young man. Your mother's business with us is finished. There's nothing more to say.'

His mother's business was finished. Then that meant—but——

‘Even if it is, you can at least answer a civil question.'

Daniel Corkran grinned.

‘When you've asked it, I might answer it. It all depends how I feel, young man. I've been watching you for some time now. I advise you in your own interests not to interfere with matters that don't concern you. You should be working. That's what you should.'

‘Why has Mrs. Ragner been such a beast?' Peter said. ‘Yes. Answer me that.'

‘You amaze me! You simply amaze me! Do you think I'm a magician? How can I answer a question you can only answer yourself?'

‘You mean——'

‘I don't mean. I say. In any case, I'm busy, and Mrs. Ragner is on important business to-day.' He raised his head and looked at the ceiling.

‘You mean she's really gone to my mother about the loan?' asked Peter.

‘Precisely! Who else do you suppose would go? I, of course, usually collect the accounts, but Mrs. Ragner decided to collect the money herself.'

‘And if we haven't got it?'

Mr. Corkran shrugged his shoulders.

‘H'm! That's another matter! Quite another matter. Of course, we have ways of dealing with such circumstances.'

Peter Fury went right up to the window and said, ‘And Mrs. Ragner would seize everything we have? Wouldn't give us a single chance?'

‘Don't get so excited, young man! You are apt to let your emotions play tiddlywinks with what common sense you have. And suppose we did, would it be so extraordinary? And is your mother so different from everybody else that she looks for different treatment? You make a mistake, young man. Your mother is just like everybody else—though I might tell you, just in case you don't know it, that we have been very considerate to her. She owes us money. We want it back! When it isn't forthcoming we have what we call legal redress—if you know what that means.'

‘Then she is quite determined?' demanded Peter. ‘I mean, she is determined to put us in the gutter?'

Daniel Corkran raised his chin. ‘Your ignorance is astounding, young man. You seem to have no idea at all about anything. Putting you back in the gutter! Gutter! How can Mrs. Ragner put you where you've always been? If I lend a shilling to a man in the gutter, and then demand it back again when it's due, how can you say I am pushing him into the gutter? But instead of standing there, looking at me as though I were going to poison you—you might well come inside.'

He lifted the counter and Peter Fury walked under it. He was in Anna Ragner's office.

‘Now,' began Corkran, ‘just what have you come for? Did you expect to find her here?'

‘Yes! I thought she was here,' Peter replied. ‘Can't you do anything? Don't you understand what it will mean for my mother? The disgrace. Oh, it's hellish! Is she that mean? Can't she wait?'

Mr. Corkran looked at the dismayed youth.

‘If he goes on like this for long I'll be beginning to feel sorry for him—the sly young swine.'

‘You're too sensitive! So is your mother! There's no disgrace at all. As for waiting. We've waited a long time, Mr. Fury. I thought you were working on the railway.'

‘I am.'

‘Then why aren't you at work?' he asked.

‘Christ!' shouted Peter. ‘What am I doing standing here—talking to you when it's her I want to see?' And he made to go, but Mr. Corkran caught his arm.

‘Not so fast, young feller me lad. D'you suppose she'll listen to you, after what you've done? D'you think I'm as blind as all that? Amusing yourselves in the dark. But she knows better now. She's herself again. Ah! The woman would be nowhere but for me. It's I who have the power now, young man. It's changed round.' He pushed Peter towards the counter, raised it, and pushed him to the door.

‘If you want to see her you must go home. You'll find her there, I have no doubt. Now you get out, and listen to me,' he hissed into Peter's ear. ‘Don't let me see your face again. Understand? And keep away from Banfield House. You'll have the woman rocky soon.'

Mr. Corkran was gripped at the shoulders. ‘Is this your work?' Peter asked.

‘Me? Why me? No. Mrs. Ragner. Not me. Mrs. Ragner wants her money, and Mrs. Ragner intends to get it.'

‘Then she'll never get it. Understand that! You ugly-looking bastard!' He struck the man across the mouth and went out. At the bottom of the stairs he put his hands in his pocket and pulled out some coins. He went off towards the docks. He went into a dining-room, asked for a cup of tea, and sat down. It was getting on for four o'clock. He fell asleep.

At half-past four Daniel Corkran went out, caught a tram and dropped at Hatfields, where at number three he was to meet Mrs. Ragner as arranged.

The old man in the shop woke Peter up.

‘Can't stay here all day for tuppence,' he said.

Peter rubbed his eyes. Why, he had actually fallen asleep. It was nearly five o'clock. He left the rooms and went into the docks. He wandered about from one quay to another, passing lorries, seeing ships, tugs, dredgers, tankers. He was caught up in the desperate life of the docks. If one could fall asleep for a long, long time, and wake up and then find that it was all a dream—his mother and Mrs. Ragner, Mr. Corkran and his father, Anthony and his accordion, Sheila and the man in the black coat, Mr. Kilkey and his bald head. If one could wake up with one's mind clear of all the events, all the people, that festered round the horizon of his mind. If one could forget beastliness, forget one's lies. What was home—family? Just a place where one ate and slept—and growled and listened. Home! Everybody lying to outdo one another in sheer lying—parading their misery, hiding their real selves. Human shells moving about in an everlasting fog. He walked across bridges, through sheds, under hoists. He passed out of one gate, entered by another. His stride was hurried, yet aimless. He didn't know where he was going. Behind him Hatfields, and in front of him the sea.

‘I must go home! Yes. I must go home! Something dreadful's happened. I'll swear it. Yes. We're a family no longer. Mother's hauled down her flag at last.

‘Dad smokes his pipe in perfect content. Anthony doesn't give a hang. Only waiting a chance to get away again.' And Mother stood quite still. Yes, she remained rooted. Hatfields, the whole world, had revolved about her, it had dizzied her. Now she was still. The world that was Banfield House was spinning round number three. That accursed woman who had hounded his mother! And never a murmur. ‘It makes me feel like—oh, I could——' He would stop suddenly and laugh.

He was on the Dock Road again. How far had he walked? He didn't know. Where was he, and what time was it? Fancy falling asleep in that musty old room!

Dusk gathered. Here and there lights appeared. Before him a chapel. He stood to read the signboard. It was a Catholic Chapel. He went in and sat down. How quiet and peaceful! Perhaps that was why he had so often found his mother in St. Sebastian's. It was so quiet and peaceful. The air was heavy. He was a part of the living world, that was yet outside the world. Ten years ago he had used to kneel at an altar and say the Mass in Latin. Suddenly he found himself saying, ‘Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus tuis ad laudem et gloriam——' No, he hadn't forgotten it. ‘Gloria tibi, Domine. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti——'

Why, he believed he could recite the whole Mass. He was quite alone. He began reciting aloud. As the words fell from his lips he seemed to be carried back those ten years, to be standing robed in white, behind the priest clothed in the rich vestments of his office. He could smell the incense, the air was heavy with it, the chapel seeming to vibrate to the sea of murmurous sounds as the congregation rose for the Last Gospel.

In the midst of these reflections he suddenly said under his breath, ‘I wish I'd bought that pie. I'm as hungry as a lion. Let's see.' He took out the money again. Two shillings and five pennies. ‘I'd better not stay here!' he thought. In a few minutes he was on the road again.

Five times he had turned his head towards Hatfields, but always he had retreated. He had gone away. Was there something so devilish about the place that he was afraid to go home? No! Out here, walking the streets, he was free. Free! He could think of everything. At home he could think of nothing except the same old thing. Money! Money! Money! And again it was money. ‘She's gone too far. She couldn't do it—but no—she couldn't be told—it was all right.' Of course! Everything was all right. And look at her now. Stuck fast! Caught. Unable to move, without a penny, not knowing where to go for help. And it was only the disgrace. That was all. That was all she thought of. The disgrace. He exclaimed savagely, ‘No doubt she'll pray to St. Anthony and everything will come all right again.' Would it? It was getting dark. How long had he been out? Since half-past five this morning. ‘I really don't want to go back. I hate the very idea. And of course the whole bloody thing began with me! That's right! Me! Not her! It's none of her business. It's mine. My account.' He was in the Salter Road. The air was heavy with the smell of rope and tobacco. Yes. There was the big warehouse.