by James Hanley
‘Turn round, bitch! Look at me.’ He forced her round, held her tight and, laughing in her face, exclaimed:
‘Gosh, chucks, you’re getting fat. Don’t get too fat, will you?’ he said. He didn’t like women too fat. A good figure certainly. But not too fat. ‘Go and lie down, Maury,’ he said. With that he left her and went out of the room.
This outburst was upsetting. Well, he would go up to the attic and see Mr. Doogle. Mr. Doogle was the very man to talk to. It was rather awkward, of course. Here they were, all set with their plans for Monday, and now, because that mug had come and taken the kid, she had suddenly had this mood. Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t reasonable. When she loved him, and he her, then there should be no moods, nothing. Just everything sailing along grand.
‘I believe Doogle’s right. Give them too good a time and it goes to their heads.’
Now he felt sorry he had sent Mr. Doogle back to his attic. Should have sent her out. Cure her mood. Let her sit in the bloody toilet and weep there. She did seem to enjoy weeping in closets. And Mr. Slye thought of the train and the nightmare journey, and the child calling him ‘da.’ That had been the limit. Still, he was gone. Damned good thing! And soon she’d be glad. His kid would be along before you could say ‘Hello.’
These thoughts swam about in Mr. Slye’s mind, swam like stray swans on an enormous lake as he climbed the stairs to Mr. Doogle’s room. For a second or so he had remained standing outside his own room, listening, and he had heard a strange noise. That could only be the bed. Nothing else in the world but that bloody bed could make a noise like it. She had flung herself on the bed most likely. Hearing her cry, he thought. ‘Do her good.’ Nothing like a bloody good cry. No, sir! Wash all the nonsense out of her. And, by God, he’d be as cool as a cucumber for the rest of this day. Wouldn’t even kiss him! No. Hang her. Let her wallow in her lovely bloody mood.
‘You there. Doogle?’ he bawled through the door. ‘You there?’
‘Yes! What’s up?’ asked Mr. Doogle, opening the door. ‘You look as though somebody has hit you.’
Mr. Slye went in. ‘I’ve changed my mind about Maury,’ he said. ‘She’s coming in on this. She’s in a bloody mood at present. Work will do her good. Good for her, good for the kid, good for me, good for you. She is, in fact, us, Mr. Doogle. Isn’t it?’
‘Now you’re talking!’ said Doogle. ‘It’s what you call her background, Slye, boy; that’s the cause of her bloody airs and nonsense. You got to get them to do things. Make her a gilt-edged security, Slye, boy. Not a moody bitch who’s going to upset our livelihood. She may fly away, even die. But we have to earn our living. Mind you, I warned you at the beginning. Give her something to do. Make the bed the incidental, not always the last hope.’
‘You’re a crafty, clever bastard, spite of the fact that you’ve no education to speak of.’
‘And when you’re about to discuss business,’ said Mr. Doogle, with a most surprising rudeness, ‘you might close the blasted door after you!’ and after saying this he swung the door violently, and its loud bang carried reverberations all over Brick Row for some seconds. ‘Now we can discuss the round for Monday.’
Maureen lay on the bed and cried. She could get up now, walk out into the street, go home to Joe and Dermod. She could go home to her mother. She had brothers; she could go to them. She could even go to Father Moynihan and he would help her. They would all help her. She felt she would like to write to ‘poor Peter,’ or ‘poor dad,’ but the wish was stronger than the effort. She could get up and go away for ever from Blacksea. But she knew she never would.
She loved Dick. Sometimes she wondered why. She didn’t know. It was something quite unfathomable. Its very unfathomableness made her laugh. It was funny. Funny how you could wish with one side of your will and defeat it with the other. Funny that you should love madly a man like Slye Esquire, and yet be incapable of understanding why. Was it something mercurial in Dick? Something you couldn’t see—couldn’t touch? Something that might even die if you touched it? Slye fascinated. Slye loved her. Slye could drag her anywhere. A man whose whole nature would to-morrow revolt her—yesterday carry her to dizzy heights of love—of fawning, and crawling. And she thought of these things and went on crying.
It was a tangle. If only one could love everybody. It would be wonderful. But Dick at the moment might be God, though to the Gelton police he was a mere rat and to Joseph Kilkey a fat worm from Hell. Dick was her life, though Mr. Doogle thought he had a swelled head, and wasn’t much to shout about when you took intelligence into account. Maureen would never for a moment have believed that Slye Esquire was the scum of Gelton, though many would say that one scum attracts another scum. And Maureen, making her first communion, would in her young mind have envisaged this personage as nothing more or less than the evil devil from whom she was well rid when the white hand of Father Richard Moynihan had touched her brown hair, had placed the Host upon her simple tongue.
No! she loved Dermod, and there was something about Joe that she liked. But she loved Dick. She loved Slye Esquire. She even loved ‘poor Peter,’ ‘poor dad,’ ‘poor Anthony ‘; but somehow it was all negatived by Richard Slye. She would like to go back, but she knew she would never go back. She would like to see her mother again, and they would both hate it. No! She had moved one way and moving had broken the others. And she cried herself to sleep.
Mr. Slye came in and went out again. Mr. Slye returned accompanied by Mr. Doogle, carrying large packets of prints of the Sacred Heart. And Mr. Doogle said, looking down at the upturned face: ‘Slye Esquire, you know how to pick them. She’s a beauty. Every time I look at Long-legs, it makes me feel I ought to have got married myself, fact!’
‘Maury looks sweet. Bloody sweet lying there,’ replied Slye Esquire, and then he pulled at Mr. Doogle’s arm. ‘Still, we have to do business. Leave those things outside. And another thing, Doogle, never get too personal with me. I mean when Maury’s about. Understand what I mean? I’m not just a sod out of an alley bedding a bitch because I like nothing else. You know, Doogle, once or twice, though you mightn’t remember, I’ve heard you say one or two things to me that made me want to give you a slap on your mousy face. Fact. Give your mouth a little white tail and nobody’d know the difference. However, that to one side. We want another four hundred prints out of that attic. Now go and get them,’ he concluded.
And when he had gone: ‘I’m not going to let him run me. By God no! Nor am I going to have him think for a moment that I don’t love my Maury, anyway. By God, no!’ He went over to the bed and looked down at her. ‘And I do, don’t I, ducks? Aye! Don’t I love my Maury-Aury? Aye, chucks.’
Maureen heard quite distinctly but gave not the slightest move. She listened with closed eyes, motionless body. It sounded to her like the jitterings of a drunken man. She hardly moved or blinked when he kissed her. Then he shot away from the bed as the door opened and Mr. Doogle came back. He felt like a cheap sneak thief, bending down to kiss his own Maury.
‘Got them?’ asked Slye Esquire, and darted a furious look at his partner. He adopted an aggressive attitude. Mr. Doogle was quite surprised by the sudden change in Slye Esquire. ‘And none of your sly hints?’ said Mr. Slye. ‘We’re not all in love with each other, but in business. Now just run through the names of those streets. And you, Maury, me ducks. Come on—you too. Come and learn your job for Monday.’
‘Don’t get your shirt out, Slye Esquire,’ said Doogle. ‘Think Long-legs is crying over you. Forget it. It’s her ma? I know. Isn’t that right, Long-legs? Crying after your ma?’Course you are. You’re only a kid after all. Why shouldn’t you cry after your ma? Slye Esquire thinks he’s a fine feller, but he doesn’t know nothing about women.’
Having said this he got up, picked up his street lists and made for the door. ‘Looks to me,’ he said, ‘as though you two preferred your own company. Well, I’m not in love, but in business,’ and with that Mr. Doogle went out.
‘Come, me chucks,’ said Sly
e Esquire. ‘Doogle’s right. Bit a’love won’t do any harm.’
CHAPTER VII
I
The whistle shrieked, and the train roared into the tunnel. Here and there pin-heads of light peered out upon the onrushing train. Smoke came into the corridors. The first-class dining-car of the Gelton express was occupied by two people. Captain and Mrs. Fury. So far they had the whole place to themselves, but at lunch-time the place would be crowded.
Captain Fury jammed down the window. ‘Tunnel,’ he said. Later he said: ‘This is the longest tunnel on the route.’ Sitting opposite her in the darkness he watched her eyes. The light came back gradually. ‘Getting clear now,’ he said.
Then they were out. He still watched her. She had concentrated on the window ever since they had left Gelton. There she was, still looking out. Well, probably she enjoyed train journeys. They rather bored him. They had hardly spoken to each other since the train left. And Sheila had cried a little. This quite mystified Captain Fury. Why should she—what was there to cry over? Well, he wouldn’t cry. Not he! Glad to be out of that ‘stink hole’ of a city. And this train was going to London. That was the great thing, that every minute he sat there, watching her, they were leaving Gelton further and further behind.
He pulled out his cigarette case. ‘Have a cigarette?’ he said.
She hardly glanced at him. ‘Not now, darling; you smoke,’ she replied.
‘Like a chocolate?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you will have something to eat later?’ he said.
This time she looked at him. ‘Yes, perhaps I’ll have some lunch, Des,’ she said. ‘The country’s lovely.’
It didn’t look like it to him. Earth rolling past with monotonous regularity, telegraph poles whizzing by. And quite bare fields. Rather dull to him. ‘It’s nice in the summer, I’m sure,’ he remarked, as he lit his cigarette.
‘It’s quiet, peaceful.’ She remained looking out of the window.
In a way he wished she wouldn’t. He would rather talk. Talk of the future. ‘You look sad, Sheila! What’s the matter, really?’ and he leaned towards her.
‘Nothing. I’m not sad.’ She looked at him and then laughed. ‘Do I look sad?’
‘Well, you were crying, weren’t you?’ He spoke it as though it were an accusation.
‘Was I? Oh, yes. I did a bit. But I’m not now, Des. Am I?’ She laughed again.
‘I wish you were as glad to get out of Gelton as I am. That’s a fact. I could never get on in it. It was a lousy place. Come, Sheila. Buck up, let’s be happy about it. You ought to be proud of me in a way. I’ll never be ashamed of saying how I pushed up out of nothing. No, you don’t know how glad I am to get out of the stinking place. Come and sit here.’
‘I’d rather not. I’m enjoying looking out. Why don’t you read?’
But he didn’t read. Instead he watched her. He enjoyed looking at her on the sly. When she wasn’t looking. And how well she looked. Yes, she was a beautiful person. She was his, too. Wonderful! The world was fine. But how quiet she was. Why didn’t she laugh and chat? Time to be happy.
‘Sheila?’
‘What?’ She never turned from the window. ‘You are tiresome. Read your paper.’ She felt his hand on her knee. She looked down at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I wish you’d talk. You are sad about something, I can tell, Sheila.’
She ran a gloved hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sad. I told you so.’
Truculently he replied: ‘But you are, what is it? I want you to be——’
‘You couldn’t even understand. There, now. Go to the toilet and comb your hair. It’ll be something to do,’ and she turned to the window again. How could he understand that she loved Gelton. It was a new life, a new world to her. How could he understand that all its violence and colour and movement, even its filth—that all that was restful to her? Yes, Gelton was a restful city to her. Its violence was restful. She was far away from it now. How could he understand that? Simply think it funny.
Captain Fury ran his hand through his hair.
‘Des,’ she said softly.
‘What?’ He immediately sat down beside her.
She squeezed his hand. She had him. He was violence. He was Gelton. It wasn’t too bad. He was life. She could almost feel the energy in him. She loved him for that.
‘Kiss me.’
‘Sheila,’ he said. ‘Now you’re talking!’ and he embraced her passionately.
‘Go and tidy your hair,’ she said, suddenly pushing him away. ‘People will be coming in to lunch soon. Run away now, there’s a good boy.’
Laughing, he jumped up and went out. The sliding door opened and shut.
‘You are sad,’ she said to herself, repeating her husband’s words. Yes, she was. But though he said it, he knew nothing about it. What sadness was, she knew, she felt. It was a closed book to Desmond. But it didn’t matter. Shared sadness was not lessened sadness. You had to hold the body of it to yourself. She had loved Gelton. It was her first break with living. The break from the old dead world. Why should he ever know what that dead world was? He would never understand. She didn’t want him to. There was a lovely innocence in him. She wanted all that, untainted. And in the midst of these thoughts he returned to the car.
‘I’m feeling hungry,’ he said, gripping his belt and rucking his tunic.
‘Splendid! Already I can smell mutton that is nearly burnt, and cabbage that has been cooked too well.’
‘So can I,’ he said.
And these odours began to float into the dining-car; and presumably they rolled farther, right to the end of the train, a sort of grim warning that lunch on the Gelton express would soon be ready.
‘I always feel hungry,’ he said, settling himself comfortably in his seat. The table in front of him was a constant irritation. Shining glass and cutlery. Why didn’t they hurry? And why, instead of keeping a man waiting, why didn’t they serve him as soon as he was hungry, instead of having to wait until everybody else was hungry?
‘I wish we had the whole car to ourselves,’ he said. ‘Ah well, the sooner the food comes the better. You will eat something?’
‘You’re such a big, strong, healthy person, darling,’ she said. ‘Always hungry.’
‘Sometimes I wish I had a little more brain,’ he said, and she detected a something almost sad in the way he said it. He wanted more brains.
‘I wish you wouldn’t, then. Brains aren’t everything. You’re very fortunate.’
Then she looked out of the window again. So he wanted more brains? The silly man. He didn’t know how fortunate he was. That was another kind of innocence. When she looked across at him, hearing a sharp noise of a metal button scraping on the glass, she found him looking out of the window. And the broad smile on his face made her ask quietly: ‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Come and look this side,’ he said, ‘then you’ll see.’ He beckoned to her.
Outside a large gang of men were working on the line. She looked out.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘I wondered what made you like the passing country so much.’
Smile. He could afford to. Sitting in a first-class dining-car, and expecting a good lunch at any minute now, and seeing those ‘mugs’ working on the permanent way. What did it mean to him now? The four and the six foot—the lengths of rail, the sacks of wedges, the piles of fish-plates. The swinging hammers. They didn’t mean a thing except this. That but three years ago he had been ‘one of the mugs,’ and now here he was, actually on his way to London, and leaving all the mugs behind, and he could say that literally—leaving the mugs far far behind him! It made one smile, the smile rose from a feeling of gorgeous, almost resplendent satisfaction. He had pushed up and out of it. He had won. But it wasn’t the end. Far from it. There were many more roads to take, many more obstacles, but he would take them in his stride. He wasn’t going to worry. He was happy, and when he looked at Sheila he could see his happiness lighted up in h
er face. ‘By God, I’m lucky!’ he reflected.
‘Sure you won’t have a cigarette, Sheila?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Chocolate, then?’
‘No, thank you.’
Well, that was definite enough, anyhow. It was a mood. She would get over it before they got to London. He wouldn’t bother her any more. There were times for bothering and for not bothering. Leave her alone. Let her watch the ‘lovely bloody country.’
That was where she had come from. He knew now. Fourteen thousand acres—lakes, parks, etc. It was really amazing. Run away from that——Must have been plumb crazy. Well, all that could sink safely into a corner of his mind. It was safe there, and it gave one a nice feeling just knowing that it could be drawn up and thought about, again and again. Fourteen thousand trees. Wonderful! Run away from it all. Astounding! Wouldn’t go back to it. Crazy! Wouldn’t even talk about it. Stubbornness! Wouldn’t even recognize, wouldn’t—she didn’t know she was born. Funny! Crying like that, leaving Gelton. But didn’t she look marvellous to-day! Just wait till they started rolling into lunch. Make them stare! And at this moment two dining-car attendants passed through, carrying tickets in their hands, visible warning that the burnt mutton and the too-well-cooked cabbage were now ready, and the etceteras.
Captain Fury took a good look at them as they passed. Soon be entering. He put his case back in his pocket and his hand touched paper. Suddenly he pulled out a letter. He had quite forgotten about it. And as he stared at the ‘Return to sender, address unknown,’ boldly printed on the envelope he experienced an uncomfortable feeling. A temporary annoyance. He looked at it and thought: ‘Blast! That’s another thing. Hang it all, I should have gone to see mother. Yes, I should have done that.’
