The Closed Harbour

by James Hanley

  Moving, she was conscious only of height, of weight, and yet she bore this mass with some dignity.

  Before a mirror in the morning she would suddenly tilt back her head, stretching the fullness of the flesh, and shut tight her eyes, and this action was like a duty in the sad, brutal moments of revelation.

  She wore long plain dresses that draped, and sat carefully in every chair. Her teeth were her glory and she was forever cleaning them.

  She suddenly heard Madeleine moving in the bedroom, and thought, "well that's over, she'd had her little weep."

  She thought the regularity of this weeping had removed from it the last trace of any sadness, the whole thing was undignified. Sometimes she would exclaim, "horrible, listening to it, why can't she brace herself why does she go on and on. No miracle can happen. Nothing could bring him back now. I'll be glad when we've gone. Thank God when the day comes. I wish Father Nollet would come. Perhaps he will, this very day."

  Sometimes she saw her son, but always to his disadvantage. She would see him eating, it made her think of peasants, she would note the grip of a fist on a wine-glass, as though he were holding a bunch of carrots.

  "I shall never understand why he was different. To-day I am glad I burned his rags. I feel sure that he will at least look distinguished," and the smile was fleeting.

  Madeleine was down again, she could hear her in the kitchen.

  "Such a blow," thought the old woman, "if I'd been an elephant it would have felled me. But her—she's got the docility of a cow."

  She called then, and Madeleine came in.

  "What time d'you suppose he'll come?"

  "I can't say, mother, some time to-day, I'm sure."

  "I'm going to lie down," Madame Marius said, and without another word she went out.

  Madeleine followed her to the stairs.

  "I do not want your help," her mother said, and she started to climb, leaning well forward, hands pressed upon her knees.

  She called over her shoulder, "and every time you go to your room you do not have to lock yourself in. I heard the key turn. Perhaps you think somebody will come in and kill you."

  And from the top of the stairs, staring down at her daughter who leaned against the banister.

  "Somebody called for him to-day, too. Looked like something out of a circus. Gave no name. Probably hasn't got one."

  She went in and banged the door.

  Sometimes she would pause, stand as in the act of listening by the door of the remaining room, but she heard nothing, it was always empty.

  "Perhaps he never sleeps at all," she would tell herself, "and I'm not surprised."

  She had hardly lain down and settled herself when she heard the knock.

  "There is somebody knocking."

  "I heard it."

  "Then answer the door. If it's the priest, we cannot keep him standing in the street."

  "Yes mother."

  "'If it's him, I'm in my room."

  "Shall he come up, mother?"

  "I'll come down."

  She heard the door opened, the sound of a man's voice.

  "Why, Father Nollet," she heard Madeleine exclaim, "how good of you to call. Please come in, Father. I'll tell my mother."

  She threw wide the door, saying, "excuse our untidiness, Father Nollet."

  She led him through the kitchen into the sitting-room.

  "Is that the priest?" her mother called.

  "Excuse me a moment, Father, my mother is calling me.

  "Yes mother."

  "Come up."

  "Coming."

  Madame Marius was lying full length on the bed.

  "A moment ago I felt so exhausted, I had to lie down at once—"

  "Mother!"

  But Madeleine's concern was waved away.

  "I'm all right, only ask the good priest to excuse me for ten minutes. I shall be down."

  "You're really tired, mother, he'll come up here, I'll ask him."

  "I said I'll come down."

  "As you will."

  She returned to the sitting-room to find Father Nollet seated in her mother's chair in the window. He was studying his hands, closely inspecting his finger-nails, he was so absorbed he hardly noticed she had returned.

  "You have a beautiful view from this window," he said, and turned to look at her, he had the close, searching look of a short-sighted man.

  "And yet we hate it," he heard her reply, and then she sat down.

  "You're Madame Madeau?" he asked.

  "Yes Father."

  He sat somewhat gingerly on the chair edge, and in the moments when she was not looking he stared about him, and gave the impression that at any moment he might jump up and run out. Certainly he might not stay very long, like somebody who has got into the wrong house by mistake.

  Madeleine was looking at him. They smiled at each other, it was the signal for calmness.

  She saw a small and wiry man, with a wind-beaten, sun drenched skin, eyes barely discernable, they seemed only half- open, it made her think of an aged farmer, and certainly the hands were hardly those of a priest. They were hard, leathery, the veins stood out, and here and there the skin was flecked by brownish spots.

  "He is a man of the deep country certainly," she thought.

  A man of rude health, nut-shining cheeks, a very blue chin.

  "Well, as you see, I have called. Where is your mother?"

  "She will be down directly, Father," and watched him dangling his hat in his hand.

  "I'm sorry, Father," and she took it hastily from him and hung it behind the door.

  "You are strangers here," he said.

  "That is true, Father."

  "How long have you been here?" he asked.

  He seemed a little more at ease, he had made himself more comfortable, sitting right back in the chair. She noticed that his feet were unduly large and clad in rough black boots with laces of heavy leather.

  "Some weeks now."

  "I had noticed you first at the altar rails," he said, "you are daily communicants."

  "Yes Father.

  "At first," she went on, "it was very lonely and we did not go out."

  "Naturally, a big city like this. From where have you come, Madame?"

  She told him, yet spoke so low that he had to crane forward, a quick hand to his ear to grasp what she said. She told him that they had moved to various places on their journey, and he said, laughingly, "you get about."

  A woman of middle age was sitting before him, run to fullness of figure, a woman, who, though she may have had some pretensions to prettiness when she was young, was certainly at this moment very plain, very matronly. Looking more closely at her features he told himself that they might be those of a man or a woman, it was a curiously sexless face, only its human-ness looked out at him. Even her hands were plain, thick, short-fingered, they might have been the hands of a small man.

  "Forty four or five," he thought, noticing her eyes.

  They seemed devoid of any colour; he might have been looking into clear water.

  "Of course I don't know what your mother wishes to see me about. She has never on any occasion spoken to me beyond saying a good-morning. You have both been somewhat reserved I feel. I am the priest of this parish. I am quite in the air," and he gave Madeleine a searching look.

  "I promise I'll make all endeavours to help you in any way I can, my child," he said, and suddenly threw one knee across the other.

  She thought he looked somewhat grave as he said this.

  "You are unhappy," he said.

  "Perhaps I am."

  "And your mother? Does she like Marseilles? Are you settled here? Are you alone?"

  "We are not settling, Father and we are not alone. My brother is here, too."

  "I see. He works here?"

  "No Father. He's a sailor. He has come to look for a ship."

  "Times are not very good. One time ships cried out for men. Now its the other way round. You think your brother will find a ship?"
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  "I don't know. We hope so, Father."

  "I hope so, too," Father Nollet replied. "What is your mother's name?"

  "Marius. Genevieve Marius, Father."

  "You have come far," he said. "A pretty little place that is, though I have never seen it."

  "It was our home."

  "And you are not returning?"

  "No Father."

  "May I ask you why you have left. I can see that you are not happy, my child."

  She was unable to speak, and he said gently, "I will not press you, Madame Madeau."

  Madeleine sat up in her chair and blurted out, "I'll tell you everything, Father, everything—"

  "Perhaps its something your mother can better explain. It was she who sent for me."

  "Whichever speaks, it's the same," she said.

  He left his chair, crossed the room. Bending down he put a hand on her own.

  "I will do what I can, my child."

  "We both of us wish to enter a religious house," she said, and avoided his glance, as though for an instant she had regretted her words.

  "Perhaps I'll wait for your mother," he said, and returned to his chair.

  "Tell me about your brother. What kind of person is he? Perhaps I've seen him at the Mass."

  "He does not attend the church, Father, though we Marius's are all of us good Catholics."

  "Where is your father?

  "Dead in the first war—"

  "I see," and added quickly, "just the three of you."

  "Yes Father."

  She kept looking anxiously towards the door, wishing her mother would come.

  "I'm sorry she's keeping you waiting, Father, I'm sure she'll be down any minute now."

  His smile was re-assuring.

  "I'm in no great hurry," he said.

  "A furnished place," he thought, remembering the kitchen, "the language of squalor, it could frighten such people."

  "How do you pass your time here, Madame Madeau?"

  "Very quietly. We hardly ever go out. In the morning certainly, then perhaps a little shopping and back home again. If the evenings are cool we may go to Benediction."

  "And your brother? What is his name?"

  "Eugene."

  "Has he friends?"

  "I don't think he has any friends," she said.

  "You all of you seem pretty isolated," said Father Nollet, "I don't think that is very good for you. You do not know this city at all?"

  Madeleine hearing steps on the stairs, had risen, as she replied, "no, Father, we do not."

  "An enormous place, my child, it's like no other city on earth. I cannot think how you came to this part, it might be said that you are amongst the animals—"

  He stood up, waiting, the door opened, and Madame Marius came in.

  She crossed at once to the priest and offered her hand, and a slow smile, she was measuring him up, as a man, she had only seen him remotely upon the altar.

  "My mother, Father Nollet," said Madeleine.

  "How are you, Madame Marius? We have met before of course, but at a distance, never so intimately as now. I'm always glad to meet my parishioners," and he hurried forward to get a chair, but she disdained this and made for her usual place in the window.

  "This is my place, Father. I always sit here. It is good of you to call."

  "I have an hour to spare, the rest of my day is heavily tied up."

  He resumed his seat. He felt quite insignificant sitting there, he had never seen so big a woman.

  "So tall, so fat," he thought, trying to define her age, sixty— seventy?

  "Well Madame Marius," he said.

  "You're not very comfortable there, Father," she said.

  "I am quite comfortable, thank you," he waved away all help," you wished to speak with me on some matter or other. If there is any help or advice I can give you—I shall be glad to do so."

  "Madeleine, you will go out now, and later perhaps you will bring the coffee, and a cup for the Father," she said.

  "Yes mother."

  When the door closed behind her, they found themselves looking steadily at each other.

  "Well now," he said.

  "There's a time in life," said Madame Marius, "when there is a sudden stop, as though we had ceased to grow. One has had some happiness, has done the things one wished to do, and sometimes those things which one has not, still one hopes, as God meant them. One has seen enough, has had what one's wanted, some dreams have come true and some have broken. But there is nothing more. It is time to be off, it is like that. I am old, my only daughter will not re-marry, some things are too late and one knows it."

  Father Nollet leaned forward in his chair, clapped hands on his knees.

  "It's like an ultimatum, Madame Marius," he replied.

  She appeared not to have heard, as though she had not been listening, not waiting, had for the moment forgotten him.

  Her attention had been drawn by the high prattle of some children who were playing outside the window. Beyond their cluttered heads she saw a great ship moving seawards.

  "There were some happy times with my husband, my father. I like to remember them. Even my children. There was even a grandson. A little plain, but my daughter is plain as you will have noticed. It seemed strange to me."

  "You were somewhat disappointed in her marriage I take it," said Father Nollet.

  "It does not matter now."

  Father Nollet looked at his watch.

  "And about this advice, Madame Marius."

  The old woman picked up her black bag and laid it at her feet.

  "My daughter and I wish to enter a religious house. That is our great desire, Father. We have thought this over, and over again and again and again. It would make us happy—"

  "One would have to think carefully about that. Such things are major decisions," he said.

  "I'm a hard one to satisfy, Father," said Madame Marius. "I do not like this," she lifted a great arm and waved it towards the window. "We have had enough of it. Enough. It is too much. In these months I have felt gutter slime on my skin, and I'm not used to that. I never thought I would reach so low, I may in all honesty acquaint you with my feelings, Father."

  "You seem to be pitying yourself," said the priest, "and we are no further on, anywhere. Am I to say whether you should retire from the world, Madame? In matters like this one does not think of oneself alone, but of others, and there are others. You have not yet spoken to your son?"

  "He knows best," she replied, flinging the words down hard, like stones.

  "You mean he may look after himself?"

  Already the priest could feel a pressure here, a dominant force. In this room the mother was everywhere. Madame Marius might be a ventriloquist, the daughter seemed like a puppet.

  "I shall come to the son," she said.

  When she laughed it shocked him, yet at the same time it released the sense of pressure, of power. But the body was yet obedient to the will, it was yet motionless.

  "At fifty, or nearly so," she went on, "well—he is a man. At least he says he is."

  She saw him turn away his head, he had indeed fixed his eye on the lamp-post outside.

  "You appear to have a grievance against your son," he said, and thought, "if one squeezed her words long enough acid would drip out."

  "I could well say that. At one time in my life I had my name. That was something. It always is. Something growing up around one, and it's like a light. I mean one's name, if that is good."

  Ignoring this he asked, "what have you against him?"

  "Madeleine," she called," please to bring the coffee in. Wc are waiting. You will honour us, Father Nollet. Thank you," and then she forgot him again, waiting for her daughter.

  "You had best speak with my daughter, after all," she said.

  "And now," she said to herself, "I shall split myself clean in halves, I shall be opened up at last."

  Madeleine handed out the coffee. Madame Marius got up and drew down the blinds.

 
"It's like this most days, no shade anywhere, one goes to bed to keep cool. The light can be bitter on the eyes," she had noticed the priest's sudden discomfort.

  Madeleine's hand touched his own as he took the cup from her, and he was struck by its coolness.

  "Thank-you."

  "You despise your son?" he asked.

  There seemed hardly any need for her to answer, her expression was enough.

  "For one so despised you seem to have followed him a long way," he went on, as he slowly sipped his coffee.

  "I shall come to that," she said.

  "Then I can only ask you Madame Marius, to come to it soon, for I must be off, I have much work to do, and mine is a large parish as you may know."

  "I know nothing whatever about your parish, Father," she replied.

  He was aware of a continuous grudging note in the old woman's voice.

  "Well!" he asked.

  "He came here," said Madame Marius, "and we followed him, that is but natural. In any case we could not remain where we were."

  "Why not?

  "The disgrace of it."

  "Of what?"

  The old woman had shifted her glance from Father Nollet to Madeleine, and she said slowly, and with some effort.

  "Madeleine, that letter for Father Gerard, I did want it to catch the early post."

  At once her daughter got up and left them, and later they heard the door close, a latch fall, and then there was silence again.

  Madeleine had understood, it was only another way of saying, "you are not wanted here."

  "He had taken a ship out to sea and he had returned without it, but worse than that he had returned alone. I shall not soon forget that terrible night, for believe well that the whole place was in flames, even now I often feel myself turning slowly in the hall of my home, it was filled with a most unnatural light, and my daughter hearing voices walked into it. One might have felled an ox. He stood there silent—and when he spoke—the crudity—the sheer clumsiness of his explanation—it made me want to shriek. He had taken with him on his third trip a certain person and he had not brought him back. Worse still, he had survived, imagine it, a Captain saving himself, I thank God this day my husband was not there to see it, he at least was honourable and went down with his ship—"