The Secret Journey (91 page)

With this off his chest, Denny Fury sat back in the chair. He seemed cheered up by the visitor. He felt much happier, less afraid of having to go away to sea and leave Fanny alone. Mr. Kilkey would help. ‘Anyhow I'm going to tell her to-morrow when I go there.'

‘That's a good idea,' said Mr. Kilkey. ‘When is she going to go then?'

‘Soon's she's able, I suppose. Will you look in on her now and again while I'm away. You know the bastard of this war is this, I never know just
how
long the ship'll be away. And I
do
want the woman to get that rest. It'll do her good. She'll be a new woman after it.'

Mr. Kilkey, though deeply interested, did not show it to quite the same extent. Indeed, he was rather doubtful about it. It seemed too easy, too good to be true. As for seeing her now and again—well that was difficult. He hadn't forgotten his treatment, treatment he could never understand.

It wasn't the taxi incident, when she had raged at him, and told him to go to the devil. He knew she was beside herself with worry and grief over her son. That incident had passed out of his head altogether. But on two occasions he had called to see her, and each time she had slammed the door on him. Why, he didn't know. Perhaps Mr. Fury might know. But Mr. Fury was silent on the matter.

The cups were refilled. Mr. Fury became expansive, reminiscent. Joe Kilkey listened with great patience. Let the man get it off his chest. The old things all over again—the things that got nobody anywhere.

He looked out of the window, and into the grate. He looked up at the ceiling, under the table, and all the time Mr. Fury went on talking. Sometimes he seemed to be talking to himself, as though he, Kilkey, were not there at all. Forty years at sea and what had he got out of it? Well, what? Reared a family! What had they done for him—
or
their mother? Well what? And so it went on and Mr. Kilkey puffed at his pipe and was silent.

There was one thing he could say. Rough, garrulous, even indifferent as Mr. Fury was, he was nevertheless a decent man, and a hard-working one too. If two cups of beer went to his head, simply because he had got out of the habit of holding a pint glass in his hand, well, what about it? Mr. Kilkey thought how lonely he must be without his wife. She had always mattered to him. They had rowed and argued many a time, but Mr. Fury always came back to the same thing. Fanny was a real brick. And if
she
was, he was too. A decent man. The woman had ruined the children. A daughter had run off, and a son had run off. And another had paid by fifteen years in gaol. Through having ideas put into their heads—through a foolish woman.

At this point Mr. Kilkey showed signs of restlessness. Mr. Fury might talk on and on, but he himself was tired. He wanted to go home to bed. Twice he looked at Mr. Fury as though to say: ‘Well, I'm getting along,' but each time there was something that held him in the chair. He hated to leave this man alone. The whole place depressed. What on earth could have made Mrs. Fury come and live in such a hole? But suddenly he had made up his mind and he was on his feet.

Denny Fury got up too. ‘Sorry you have to go, Kilkey,' he said. ‘Been just like old times, sitting here and talking. Ah well! I suppose you must go. Glad you came. I'll walk as far as the corner with you, anyhow.'

They left the house by the rear entrance, Mr. Fury leading. It was instinctive for him to leave a house by the back rather than the front entrance. To Mr. Kilkey, Hey's Alley did not improve by a second look. The place was depressing. Surely there were plenty of places for two people to live besides this one. Hatfields was heaven compared with it.

They passed the house where the singing was going on. It had now become more boisterous. Somebody shouted, a girl squealed, a crowd of children stood around the door waiting for bits of the wedding cake.

Joseph Kilkey felt relieved when he got past this house, for he remembered, and not without a sense of humiliation, being dragged in there by a drunken soldier who had mistaken him for some long-lost friend, and had, eventually, emerged with his own cap jammed in his pocket and a red or pink paper hat on his head. He felt even more relieved when they got out of the alley. Again he said to Mr. Fury, ‘You know, Mr. Fury, this
was
the worst place to come to. I don't know what Mrs. Fury could have been thinking of. It's a horrible place. And dirty—dirty——'

Mr. Fury's hand slapped his shoulder. ‘Between you and me, Kilkey, if I'd known half the things Fanny was thinking of I wouldn't be here on my own to-day.'

They passed the ‘Turk's Head.' Mr. Kilkey said: ‘Have another drink,' but Mr. Fury declined. He
was
sorry Joe Kilkey was going. What a pity he had to go to work, even to sleep! He would like to have Kilkey with him all the day.

‘What ship are you working at, Joe?'

‘
Kensa.
'

‘That thing!'

‘Yes, that thing. And as good a ship as ever. Well, here's my tram coming.'

The two men stopped dead. Mr. Fury felt so sad at his going that Mr. Kilkey might just as well have said: ‘This is the end of things.'

‘Why don't you come up and see me, Mr. Fury?' he asked. They held hands.

‘I'd like to. I might. But—look here, Kilkey, I've been talking away all the time, and I never even said a word about you and Maureen. You know I hate the girl for treating you like that. I do, honestly. But let's hope everything will come right in the end. This bloody war's no joke.'

‘Yes. Aye! No——' Mr. Kilkey could hardly deal with two such dissimilar points of the compass. ‘I'll look you up again. I hope you find your wife much better. Give her my best regards. Take care of yourself. So-long.'

Mr. Kilkey waved. Mr. Fury waved. Then the tram was gone and Denny Fury was alone on the pavement.

Gelton sprawled, Gelton rose and fell and swam around him. What should he do? Go home? Go and have a drink? Slip up and see a friend? What friend? Where? Should he have a walk? Walk! Hadn't he walked and walked? He might even go to chapel. The things he might do were so numerous that they appalled. He didn't know what to do. Time hung on his hands. Why did it always hang on your hands? Make you glad to be aboard your ship, and off to sea again. He didn't know.

He experienced feelings he was quite unable to understand. It wasn't exactly sadness, or being alone. It wasn't hope, or happiness, or pride, or jealousy, or desire. It was just an emptiness. He felt empty, standing here washed up on the kerb by the rushing tide of Gelton. He thought of his wife behind walls and behind windows. Shut in. The Fanny who didn't know, who couldn't see him, who didn't understand how he was feeling now, standing by himself on the kerbstone—she yet seemed to put out an invisible hand and touch Mr. Fury. She might lie there, quiet, resting, thinking or not thinking of him. But she could pillage his spirit. She filled him with dread, the dread of being left, of having nothing, of being lost, just as he was lost on the kerb at this moment, wondering what to do. Trying to make up his mind. Perhaps it would have been better if that fellow Kilkey had not come. No! That wasn't a very nice thing to think. But he must move—he must go somewhere and do something. And the worry of Fanny—of going away, worrying how she would manage. In ‘Hey's bloody Alley,' all on her own. Straight out of a sick bed. She mightn't care to go to Mount Mellery. She could be so contrary. So contrary and stubborn.

Life rushed past him, whirled round him, Gelton roared and swept, and he was in the middle of it. Suddenly a car blew its horn, advancing at speed just as Mr. Fury stepped off the pavement. It blew its horn furiously then, and the man made a rush across the road. He got out of the way just in time.

That was Gelton! That was the city. ‘Look out! I'm coming! Make way there! Make way! To hell with everybody.'

Denny Fury decided to go back home. He entered by the same way he had left. He went upstairs, pottered about there. Came down again. He went and stood by the window, watching the children play, listening to the wild drunken singing from the house where the married soldier was. He went to the dresser and hung cap and muffler on the back of it. He sat down at the table and emptied the beer botttle He drank it but spat it out again. It didn't taste nice now. He got up and went to the chair by the fire. It burned low.

II

‘You are Mr. Fury?' said the doctor. ‘Please sit down,' and he took a good look at the man as he did so. ‘I want to have a little talk about your wife. Then you may go in to see her. She's much better, Mr. Fury, but don't be optimistic; she will want careful attention.'

Whilst the doctor said this Mr. Fury leaned forward, the cap swung pendulum-like past one knee, past the other. Twice he glanced up at the doctor, and looked beyond him at the immaculate walls, the polished furniture, the closed door.

‘Yes,' said Mr. Fury. ‘Thank you, doctor. I am glad she is getting better,' and the doctor was silent, watching those shaky hands, watching the man's face.

‘We have had a lot of trouble with your wife. She should never have been brought here in the first place. We are removing her in a few days. Tell me something about her—about yourself. She seems to be suffering from a kind of phobia about something. It would help us, you know.'

‘Phobia,' echoed in Mr. Fury's mind. ‘Tell us about yourself' had a most convivial meaning to the man. Something like talking to a chap as a pal. The doctor looked a nice man, too. About forty, he supposed. How clean and fresh looking these doctor fellows looked, and Mr. Fury thought of the hundreds of times he had stood naked before Dr. Sampson, the company's doctor.

Mr. Fury hesitated.

The doctor looked at him again. ‘She has a strong heart,' he said, and said this by way of encouragement. Somehow the man seemed as wrought up as the woman. He added quickly, ‘You look as though a rest wouldn't do
you
any harm, either, Mr. Fury.'

This made him laugh. It certainly opened his mouth. ‘Oh, I'm all right, doctor, really,' he said, with quiet assurance. ‘'Course I'm a sailor, and naturally, doctor. I sleep better at sea than when I'm home. About my missus, I'm not surprised seeing her like she is. She's had a hard life, doctor,' and quickly, as though anxious to cover the point, ‘no fault of hers, of course. I've not been a very good husband.'Course I've spent my whole lifetime at sea. We had a big family, doctor. And you know how it is. I said one thing, she said another. She didn't want them to do this, I didn't want them to do that. Anyhow, the children cleared out of it. They're all on their own. In a way I'm glad. For the wife's sake.'

‘I see. Your wife has had some great trouble lately. I happened to read about it'—in an apologetic tone—‘of course I hardly ever read the papers—haven't the time. But the name on the chart struck me—I remembered it then. I'm awfully sorry about that, Mr. Fury. Still we mustn't get off the main point——' and he changed the subject. ‘We're going to send your wife to a good hospital where they can treat her for her nerves. She was in a very collapsed state when she was brought here. We had a good deal of information from the police. Now, Mr. Fury, you mustn't worry. As I said she is a wonderfully strong woman—the heart is so sound that——'

‘She
is
a brick, doctor,' broke from Mr. Fury, but the doctor did not appear to notice the interruption.

‘With a strong heart like that we have a chance of getting her better! How often do you sail, monthly or——'

‘I have to sail in a few days, doctor, which is what worries me, because, as we are on Government service, we never know how long we'll be away on any particular trip. And between you and me, doctor'—as his earnestness grew and shyness melted away, the man leaned farther and farther forward in the chair until his head was now almost level with the doctor's knee—‘well, I'm worried. Suppose she comes out of this place while I was at sea? You see, I couldn't lay hands on my son or daughter at the moment. But I have a friend—as a matter of fact he is my son-in-law, and he'd be handy—and I know …'

‘Don't worry yourself on that point, Mr. Fury. Your wife won't be better for a long, long time. She must have months and months of rest. Plenty of good food, quietness, fresh air. I shouldn't worry on that matter, and may I offer you a word of advice before you go in to see her? I don't want you to talk about anything that will excite her. This family trouble of yours, for instance. Cut that right out. Talk about something to cheer her up, and if she begins to talk about those things you must try to get her to talk of something else—let me see—talk about your ship, your life at sea, you know,' and here the doctor got up and Mr. Fury followed.

‘You really think the woman will get better?' asked Mr. Fury. He had been waiting to ask this question, ever since he had arrived. He looked the doctor square in the face. Yes. This was a matter of anxiety—of honesty. Best to know now, good or bad, hopeful or hopeless. It had been dragging on his mind for days, weeks: ‘Will she—I mean …'

‘Your wife will get better. But, mind you, only because she is strong, physically.'

‘Fanny's got—I mean my wife has spirit, doctor—always had.'

‘Spirit can be the reverse of good sometimes,' the other said, though he did not seem inclined to explain this to the now impatient man.

Mr. Fury thought the doctor was very nice, the interview hadn't been half so bad as he expected, but now he wanted to go in and see his wife. This was more than a surprise. She must
really
be getting better. So now he'd see her. He'd be able to talk to her. For a moment he saw her unconscious, and indifferent to the world. For a moment he saw her staring at him vacant-eyed, not knowing him, nor understanding. The doctor saw this impatience too. And by way of signifying that the interview was at an end, he said quietly, slowly, as he stepped forward and opened the door. ‘But it is a pity you have to sail so soon, Mr. Fury. Yet I suppose it can't be helped.'