by James Hanley
The woman looked at the door. ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said under her breath.
‘Can’t you see the eye?’ he said breathlessly. ‘Look! It watches all the while. In case. Did they search you, Mother? They always do,’ and he leaned his head on her shoulder.
‘I went to a room—a woman searched me. I thought it disgraceful. Why don’t you talk about something else? What will you do with yourself if you get out?’
‘Yes, what will I do?’ he asked himself. He hadn’t even thought of that. When he got out—out! He looked at her, at her nose and tight mouth.
‘I don’t know.’
‘There! Look at the time,’ she said. ‘Peter, every morning, for a whole year, I went out. I went down to Mr. Trears’s office. I asked him the same question every morning. Could I come? Is there any news? Every day he said no. He said he was sorry. And I believe he was. He was one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever met. There are so few in the world, that when you meet one, well, it’s just wonderful! Look at me,’ and she put a hand on each cheek. ‘Look straight at me! That’s right,’ she said. ‘Now I am seeing you as I want to see you.’
No, she thought, there’s little difference! He’s—yes, he’s my own son.
‘There,’ she said, ‘there,’ and she dropped her hands, glanced once more at the brass face of the clock, watched the racing hands. The same eyes, she said to herself, but they don’t look at you in the same way. Not like Anthony, nor his father. No! They were not steady, they were frightened eyes. Was he still afraid of her? Did he hate this sort of thing? Was it just nonsense to him?
‘You haven’t said much,’ she said, a sudden sadness in her voice. ‘Peter, I love you very much, yes, in spite of everything. You were a foolish boy. Foolish! Have they a priest in the gaol? Do you ever go to mass? Will you tell me? I remember when you were a little boy. I remember how good you were at Latin. Do you still remember those days? What kind of priest is he?’
‘There’s a priest here, and I go to mass when I can,’ he said, and she saw his head lower, and somehow he glanced at her out of the tops of his eyes. ‘I’m not as bad as you think,’ he said. ‘I remember that, Mother.’
She threw her arms round his neck. ‘Tell me,’ she said slowly; somehow the words were an effort, ‘tell me, do you really go to mass, Peter? Is this the truth? It’s one of the things that makes me sad. Don’t cheat me; you did before, but please, don’t do it now. I’m getting old. It’s not fair,’ she cried. ‘Oh God!’ she spluttered, ‘you’re afraid of me—I can see it in your eyes. What have I done? Don’t you—didn’t you want me to come? I—I——’
‘Listen, Mother!’ he said, and taking her hand in his own, he separated the index finger and placed it on her forehead. ‘I go to mass. And I am telling you the truth. I swear I am! I’m not afraid of you. Once I was. I—I can’t explain. Listen now? Eaonoman a—na—argus a vix, argus a spiritu nave—Amen,’ and as he said this he moved her finger to her breast, to the right and left shoulder. ‘There! Have I forgotten?’ He was smiling now. ‘Is that the sign of the cross in Irish, or isn’t it? And if you like I’ll speak it in Latin. Mother, I loved you coming. Honest. I’m happy. I don’t care how long I’m here. I’m happy.’ He spoke with sudden fierceness. ‘You have come all this way, Mother! I love you for it. You are good, and now I know it. Mother, tell me something. Some little thing. Any little thing,’ he spoke so quickly that splashes of spittle began to come with his words. His hands were pressed on the bench. ‘Tell me something I can take to bed with me to-night. To work to-morrow.’
He burst into tears.
‘Tell me about uncle piloting the first mail packet into Queenstown?’ he said, and then he dropped his head on her shoulder.
But he did not think of the mail packet, or his uncle, or the coast of Ireland. He saw only the coast of Gelton, of Hatfields. The coast of struggle, of humiliations, of deceit, of every effort. She was talking now. Mumbling her words, they tumbled out of her mouth, fell into the room. They struck on the silence, against the face of the clock, they tossed in the air, clouted the eye through the door.
‘I remember that June day——’
‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, not thinking of the June day, ‘yes, Mother …’
He saw only Gelton, his father carrying his bag, a brother falling down the mast, a brother striking a hammer on the railway line, Mr. Kilkey dancing Dermod on his knee, Desmond and he fishing for perch, Maureen singing in the choir at Saint Sebastian’s, Father Moynihan laughing in the circle of women on the charabanc treat into the country, Mr. Corkran rubbing the rim of his bowler hat.
‘It was a beautiful morning, and the sun was up early then. It had been raining, that kind of rain you only get in Ireland, soft like dew. And then away beyond the white wall I saw the packet, and I saw the sail of your uncle’s little boat—God rest him—and I stood on the wall-top waving. I was pretty then. Many the men ran after me those days. Ah! I think of those days. They were beautiful. Your uncle, why he’d a voice like thunder. He was shouting …’
‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, and when he looked at her he knew she’d gone away. She wasn’t there, the room was empty, the clock stopped, the eye behind the door closed, the words no longer in the air, but on the wall, the words she spoke running down the wall like water, sounding like music. She was gone. Gone away! He knew this, looking at her. His eyes were on her eyes, but she didn’t see him.
‘What a fine nose mother has,’ he said to himself. ‘She was fine those days. Fine! I love her. I love my mother!’
‘There was a man by the name of Clancy. John Clancy. And he’d a powerful job at the Bank of Ireland—a fine big man he was, and when the packet sailed in, why, he stepped out of it and he looked at me and said: “Why, you’re a striking girl, sure, who are you?” and I said: “My name’s Fanny, and it’s my uncle’s boat has brought you safe to harbour.” Ah! Those days, there were fine men about! Fine men! You’ll never see them again. Those times are gone, but I thank God I lived then. They were beautiful.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ He began playing with the ring on her finger. It was loose, and he ran it up and down the finger. She’s gone thin, mother has, he thought.
The room was windowless, yet there might have been one in front of her, so intent, so far away the look in the woman’s eyes. ‘Your father’s family were not like mine——’ she was saying. ‘Still’—and then she paused a moment. ‘Your uncle was a most respected man. He was liked by everybody. I wish sometimes you were all born there. It’s so different, so different—so very different,’ and her words took on funereal pace; there was something pretentious about them, like the overture of an opera; there was something else to come.
He listened, but he did not think of those things. He held her finger, and touched the cold of the ring, but somehow she wasn’t there. She was gone searching after those days.
‘Yes, Mother! You often talked about Uncle Michael!’
‘I must have been mad. Mad! I stuffed money down that mouth. I spat on money and stuck it on that face. I was covered with muck. I must have been mad!’
Suddenly he shook her violently and blurted out. ‘Mother! I feel ashamed. I am ashamed. I feel——Oh, Mother! I can’t get the things out of my head,’ and he put the tip of each finger gently under each of her eyes, as though he wanted to hold them still, to break the spell that held her. ‘Mother! It’s getting near time,’ he said, glancing at the clock.
In a few minutes she’d be gone. Gone! All the way back to Gelton! And then the man would say: ‘This way,’ and she’d go out through the door.
And in the morning he would break stones, break down mountains.
‘It’s getting near time,’ he said, ‘near time. Look! Look!’ and she was indifferent, his sudden agitation didn’t seem to matter. She wasn’t there. He wasn’t there! They were walking together on the King’s Road.
And then she returned to earth. ‘Don’t be ashamed,’ she said. ‘You are a lonely creature
! Don’t be ashamed. Listen! If I’m alive when you come out—well—Peter, I tell you that sometimes I think it would be wonderful if we could all be together again. Would it? Wouldn’t it? I’ll help your father. We’ll have a nice home again. You see! God’s good. Sometimes I long to do it. I like a nice home. Not Hatfields, not Hey’s Alley, but a nice home. Looking after you all. I’ll build it all up again. I will, Peter, you’re only a boy. An innocent boy. You’ve all your long life in front of you. Think of that. Would you like to go to America? Just think of Anthony getting married,’ and then she laughed.
Peter laughed. ‘Anthony married!’ he said. ‘Oh, Mother! I can’t believe it.’
‘Nor can I. God knows what your father will say! Everybody’s running away from me. Well, she’s a nice girl. I wish sometimes that Desmond had married a good Catholic girl. I’ve nothing against him but that.’ She gripped his chin, raised it, looked down at him. ‘You think I talk like an old fool. It’s not his marrying that woman. Let him marry who he likes. It’s the disrespect. I expected better from him. But there!’ She half rose, but he pulled her down to the bench again.
‘No, Mother! Not yet! Don’t go! It’s not time. Four minutes yet!’
‘You’ll write to me,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you get on.’ Then she put her mouth to his ear. ‘And do be careful. Be careful. Remember your beautiful religion. And try, try! But I don’t want you to go to the war. I’ve two in it, and that’s enough. George Postlethwaite has gone to France and so’s his father,’ and she gave a little laugh, then raced on, knowing that time was flying, ‘I’ve been dreaming, son, and so have you. Yes, and a good many young men have gone from that neighbourhood and been killed. We’ve had riots too. Sure, your father’s old ship—at least I believe it’s your father’s, he was on it once—was sunk by a torpedo or something. It’s an awful war. Peter! Dear son! I don’t want you to go and get killed. For God’s sake don’t do anything rash. In a minute now I’ll be gone—and only the good God knows what may happen. Take care of yourself. Try to look to some future. Forget all that’s gone by. It doesn’t matter. I’ve seen so many things. If it’s not the sea, it’s the gutter, and if it’s not the gutter, it’s the sea. You can’t be happy ever without God. I tell you, Peter, it’s all, it’s everything! Look at me! All my life I’ve kept my faith in God, and in His Sweet Mother, but it hasn’t done anything but keep me up. Kept me alive—kept me——Oh, Peter, one day you’ll see, you’ll know what I mean. It’s easy to be bad, but it’s hard to be good. I remember those words, spoken to me by a man who thought much of you, and loved you when you were a little boy. Father Moynihan. D’you remember him? Well, he’s been away in Ireland a whole year or more, and now he’s back at Saint Sebastian’s. Just the same as ever. Hardly a day older.’
‘D’you see him, Mother? D’you ever hear from Aunt Brigid?’
She was patting his hand, looking at the door, the walls, the clock. ‘No! I see nobody. And I never heard a word from Ireland. I don’t even see Father Moynihan now. I go to Saint Augustine’s chapel near where I live. I am content. All around me are strangers and I like that. This woman—she has a funny name, Gumbs her name is—she is my one good friend.’
‘When you see dad tell him I’m all right, and if you see Des, or Anthony, or Maureen, well, tell them I’m all right. I wrote to Joe Kilkey but heard nothing. Sometimes I write letters, hundreds of letters, in my mind, when I’m lying in bed at night, and I post them, and I dream of hundreds of replies. Oh, Mother, you don’t know, you don’t——’ He stopped. ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Time, Mother!’
‘Time,’ she said. ‘Oh, God, Peter, time! I’m to go. God keep you! You poor child! Why, I——’
‘Ssh!’ he said, as there came one loud knock at the door.
‘Mother!’ He clung to her, kissed her passionately, on eyes, nose and mouth.
He heard the door open, the warder come in. The clock ticked.
‘Peter! Oh my God! My son! Be good—Peter. Look after yourself. Remember what I said. Think of that. Please! It’s everything. It’s all that matters.’
She was crying again, her breath was hot upon his face, the words poured out in a torrent, and then his own mixed with hers, as he stammered:
‘Yes, Mother! I’ll not forget. Remember me to—I won’t forget. Tell Anthony——Oh, Mother—will you—tell Joe——I—will you send me Maureen’s address? I’ll do what you say. Don’t go! Don’t go!’
‘Time now,’ the man said.
‘Time now,’ the clock ticked.
‘Time now!’
They clung together in the middle of the room.
The man approached them.
She kissed him, pulled down his head, kissed his close-cropped hair. ‘Look after yourself. God and His Sweet Mother look to you. Oh, dear Peter!’
He sobbed. ‘Go now. It’s time. Good-bye, Mother. Good-bye, Mother.’
He could not free himself. She clung—her arms were like steel bands encircling him. He looked at her face and it was sad, and it was full of hope.
‘Good-bye, Mother. I—when——Oh—tell Father—good——’
The warder approached, put his hand on the woman’s arms. ‘It is gone time,’ he said, and gripping her began pulling her away.
‘Christ! Oh no—no! Peter. Good-bye—good—bye——’
‘Good-bye, Mother. Write to me! I’ll write to you. I’ll write—I’ll——’
‘This way.’
The man was forcing his mother through the door. Another warder came in, approached the lad, but now he made one last rush to the door, tried to embrace his mother, caught only the hem of her sleeve, put it to his mouth—and she was gone.
The door closed.
He cried. She was gone! All the way back. To the end of a world. To the end of a world! And he had once spat upon notes and plastered them on her face. Her sad face that was full of hope. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He went out. The door closed. The room was empty. The walls as bare, the clock’s tick as loud, the stuffed grate as drab.
The air was free of the warm words. The words had followed her to the end of a world. The air was free, the stone was free. She had gone.
PART III
INTERREGNUM
CHAPTER XI
I
It was always hard going from the Strand at Ballin up to the Big House. Nobody knew this better than Mr. Cullen the postman, who, as he pushed his bike up the hill, studied the broad back, the tall figure, the big feet of an English officer who climbed the hill ahead of him. When eventually he came level with him he was surprised to discover that the officer’s coat collar was thrown open, his tie undone, which hardly seemed dignified in a captain—‘and that,’ murmured Mr. Cullen, ‘is what he is.’
‘Am I right for the Downey estate?’ asked Desmond Fury as the postman drew level, and then he saw this hot, perspiring postman, saw his red and wrinkled neck. How hot it was to-day! They looked at each other.
‘Yes, sir! This is the way. Powerful hot to-day, sir,’ announced the postman.
‘Very,’ replied Captain Fury, and marched on. If he’d known it was going to be all uphill like this, why he might have taken a car. He wiped his forehead.
‘Never seen an August like it, sir!’ said the postman, and wheeled his bicycle with an almost fierce energy, trying to keep up with the captain. A gentleman to pass the time of day with was half the hill climbed. ‘Terrible hot!’
‘Indeed.’
‘Yes, sir. The hottest August we’ve had for years in Ireland. Powerful hot, too!’
‘Where exactly is the Ram’s Gate?’ enquired Desmond, and he stopped a moment to look back down the hill. How white the low walls, how hot and dry the stones.
‘You mean the Big House, sir. Sure nobody calls it the Ram’s Gate now, since Mr. Downey went off to London. Ah! sure it’s a big owld place going to pot.’
‘What was Mr. Downey like?’ asked the Captain. It seemed time to be curious.
Mr. Cullen to
ok a good look at the Captain. ‘Ah! Sure he was just like one of us.’
Further than that the postman would not go.
Desmond Fury stopped again. Looked back. Below he could see the silken sheen upon the blue waters. He glanced up at the sky. Deep blue, cloudless. ‘By God! it’s hot to-day!’ he announced.
‘’Tis so.’
Desmond Fury, with the postman six yards behind, at last reached the top of the hill. He was at the beginning of a lane. A long narrow lane banked by overgrown and sprawling hedges, the lane itself running amok with weed, and here and there, threatening the high stone wall, weighty branches of fir and pine.
Mr. Cullen came level again, and he saw how the Captain looked at things. ‘The place is going to the dogs, sir,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ asked Demond, taking three strides to Mr. Cullen’s one, and squashing flowers and weeds in his path. They reached the end of the stone wall.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he said. ‘Good day to you,’ and Mr. Cullen went on down the lane.
Captain Fury stopped dead. This was the place. This was where she had come from. Somewhere about this part of the country he had met Sheila. Inside this gate she was born, lived, ran away from it. ‘H’m,’ he said.
The big white gate was in front of him. Nettles, thistles, chickweed grew in abundance upon the drive. It grew up riotously on either side of the gate. Flanking the drive the tall trees with their dead and dried limbs shooting out from the masses of foliage, and the whole weight and mass of it trembled with the burden of heat. At the end of the drive Captain Fury saw a door painted green. Its paint was blistered and flaking, and on the step was a milk-can with a note attached to its lid. He tried to push open the gate, but found it impossible. Nature had closed it more securely than any bar or bolt. He climbed over the gate and stood in the drive, looking about him, hardly noticing two rabbits that suddenly dashed across his path. A sea of weed. This was her place. He began slowly walking down the drive. It was like walking on a thick pile carpet. He stopped again.
