by James Hanley
‘Yes, Mother.’ He sat up in bed. He avoided her glance. He could not look her in the face. And she stared so. His mother went out. Yes. He was really back home again now. He jumped out of bed and began to dress. No. He hadn’t been dreaming. He was really back home. He could hear his mother washing crockery in the back kitchen. He went downstairs. The kitchen fire blazed. The big chair which his grandfather occupied all day was empty. Mr Mangan did not rise until nine, when he was washed and dressed by his daughter and carried downstairs. Peter sat in this chair, his feet high up on the kitchen hob. He was fastening his bootlaces. His mother came in and laid the table. He looked across at her, but she avoided his glance. Then she went out again. ‘Peter!’ she called. ‘Better come out and wash yourself before breakfast.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ replied Peter.
Somebody was coming downstairs. Aunt Brigid came through the back kitchen. Peter looked at her. How horrible she looked, he thought. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, her eyes were half closed. She coughed. She put her hand on the latch. ‘Good-morning, Peter.’ The boy did not reply. She went out to the yard.
Peter filled the wash-bowl with cold water and began to wash. As he wiped himself with the towel he stole occasional glances into the kitchen. It was empty. Mrs Fury had gone upstairs. There was a rap at the door. Peter dropped the towel, saying ‘Post!’ and ran out of the back kitchen. He stopped. Aunt Brigid was coming in, and already his mother had rushed downstairs to get the letter. He could even hear her slight exclamation as she picked it up from the floor. He went back again and started to dry himself. Aunt Brigid was standing by the big fire in the kitchen. She heard her sister pass upstairs. She sat down in her father’s chair. Miss Mangan was so preoccupied with her own plan of campaign that she could hardly wait until breakfast was over. She must go upstairs immediately and dress. There was Maureen to see, and, of course, her eldest nephew. It would be mean of her to go away without seeing them, and she was still optimistic enough to believe that she would be safely on the ten o’clock boat the next night. She had brought Peter over. There was nothing more to do. She had not slept the whole night, and still looked tired. What with her sister and Denny and Peter, her imagination had run riot. Peter came into the kitchen and sat down opposite to her on the sofa. Miss Mangan said, ‘Well, Peter,’ paused, then got up and went out to the hall. She met Mrs Fury coming downstairs.
‘Why, Fanny!’ she exclaimed, ‘are you ill?’ The woman grinned. ‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘Whatever put that idea into your head?’ They went into the kitchen together. When Peter looked at his mother he knew the secret was out. There was no denying it now. She had had a letter from the Principal. The very expression upon her face was proof enough. They all three sat down. Aunt Brigid became talkative.
She had a busy day before her. She must see Maureen, and of course her husband. Then she might slip down to see Father Moynihan. He came from her parish in Cork. Mrs Fury poured out the tea. Her hand trembled, she spilt tea on the clean cloth. ‘Fanny! my dear …’ Brigid hastened to her assistance. Mrs Fury said tartly, ‘All right, sister. I can do this.’ Then silence once more. Peter did not look at either of them. His face was almost hidden behind the tea-cosy. When Aunt Brigid picked this up to re-cover the teapot, he lowered his head still more. ‘Now, Brigid,’ Mrs Fury said, ‘you’re not eating. Peter, make your aunt a piece of toast.’ Peter got up and went to the fire. He knelt down in front of it, holding the toasting-fork in his hand. ‘Why, you fool!’ cried his mother, ‘you’re burning the toast. Look!’ Peter did not seem to hear. Mrs Fury rushed from the table and took the fork from him. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ She returned to the table. ‘I know,’ she called out to him. Her son came back to the table. Aunt Brigid said, ‘Good gracious, Fanny! You do get excited over little things. The child could not help that. Why, I never …’
‘Child! Child!’ Mrs Fury burst out laughing. ‘Oh Lord!’ Miss Mangan now felt that she was only just beginning to know her sister. But really, and she had to admit it, she was not interested in Peter, or the toast, or the fact of her sister’s strange manner. She had something else in mind which occupied her far more. She put down her cup, saying, ‘Well, Fanny, I think I’ll go up and change. Then I’ll go down to Mass.’ Mrs Fury said, ‘Of course. Off you go, Brigid.’ If she had only left out the word ‘Mass’, Mrs Fury was saying to herself, it would have been all right. But now she had given the whole show away. She knew what Brigid’s Mass-going involved. Meeting the neighbours, old friends, and then, to crown everything, she would rush off to the children. The children! Mrs Fury wanted to get up and shout, ‘Children! Children! She still thinks they’re children. The fool! She’s still living twenty years in the past.’ Oh heavens! She pushed herchair away. Peter sat back. He was embarrassed. He did not know what to do. He ought to say, ‘Well, I had better go to Mass too, Mother.’ If he said nothing it would be just as bad. But Mrs Fury saved him the trouble. She cleared the table. Then she went to the foot of the stairs and called out, ‘Brigid, I want to see you before you go off.’ Brigid appeared half-naked on the landing. ‘Yes, of course. Whenever you are ready,’ she called down. Then she vanished into the room again.
Peter was still sitting at the table. His mother took no notice of him. Peter felt more awkward than ever. Each time she returned to clear articles from the kitchen he went pale. He could feel this fear growing upon him. He turned round and stared at his grandfather’s chair. Suddenly his mother was standing in front of him.
‘Peter,’ she said, ‘I want to talk to you. Go into the other room.’ Peter replied, ‘Yes, Mother.’ He went into the parlour and sat down. His mother followed. She went and stood by the window. Mrs Fury stood like a statue. She stared out of the window, looking at nothing in particular. She was thinking of how she had rushed down the stairs on hearing the rap at the door, and of the long, official-looking envelope that lay at her feet. She remembered that the Irish postmark was the first thing to catch her eye. Then she had picked up the letter and gone upstairs. She locked the door of her room and went and stood by the dressing-table. She put the business-like envelope on the table. She knew who it was from. She sat down on the bed. She was filled with fear now. What was she going to read? Perhaps they were his examination papers. She got up again. There was a decided air about that letter. It seemed to cry aloud to be opened, to proclaim its urgency and importance. She reached in the corner of the dressing-table drawer for an old knife. She slit open the letter and carried it to the bed. She sat down again. Her hands shook. She began to read. Then the letter fell to her knees.
‘Regret … out of bounds … running counter to the strict rules of the college … would advise control …’ the words began to dance before her eyes. ‘Discovered after hours, Brother Twomey …’ The woman gave a low scream and collapsed on the bed. Almighty God! So this was the failure! This the examination he had failed to pass! This letter, those words! Liar! Beast! Her whole soul revolted. She could not cry. She lay there as though struck. Inert. Peter was whistling in the kitchen, she did not hear him. After a while she sat up. Her face became suffused with blood. She stood erect. Then she tore the letter into shreds. So that was it! Seven years of sacrifice, humiliation, and hardship for this. Oh! The last child. Words, disjointed phrases sprang to her lips. ‘After eleven o’clock … out of bounds … regret …’ And he, Peter, was down there. Now. He was sitting at the table. What was he thinking about? She began to pace the room aimlessly; she walked round in half-circles, stopped suddenly, then crossed to the window. Then back to the bed again. She flung herself down.
She wanted to cry. Her mind was distraught. She could stand anything but this. Then she rose to her feet and resumed her aimless pacing of the bedroom. If Denny knew! If Maureen knew! But they would laugh. She could even hear them talking together. ‘Well, there you are,’ her husband would say. ‘So your mother got what was coming to her. It’s a lesson.’ And her daughter’s laconic, ‘Serve Mother right.’ Was th
is a child? A child of her own that she had reared and suckled? Suddenly she pulled up sharply in front of the dressing-mirror and began to hammer upon it furiously with her clenched fists. She could not avoid seeing herself in the glass. Good heavens! Must control herself. She went downstairs again. Peter was still sitting at the table. Aunt Brigid was already suspicious. She was going up to dress. H’m! She was off for the day. Lord! Her tongue would wag today. Titivating herself before the glass upstairs. She stood opposite her son now. Was it the agitated woman now leaning against the kitchen dresser that sent the message to Peter’s brain? His mother had heard.
‘I want to talk to you,’ she said. He moved away from the table. He walked into the parlour and sat down on the sofa. She followed and went up to the window.
She was now standing with her long arms resting against the wainscoting. Peter, watching her, noticed how she continually drummed on the wood with her fingers. He himself was pulling furiously at the sofa cushion, and thinking of the many times he had played upon it as a child. The same old horse-hair sofa. There was a vacant, almost helpless expression upon Mrs Fury’s face. She cried out, ‘Close the door,’ and heard him go over and shut it. She did not move. She heard him sit down again. She knew exactly how he sat, what he looked like, what he was doing. Fidgeting about, his guilty conscience tormenting him, Peter sat quietly watching her. He could not see her face, yet her very attitude struck him as terrifying. He had never seen his mother like this before. He stared at her back, and even studied the lines of her figure – how it broadened out at the hips, her long arms, the thick bunch of hair resting against her thin neck. Then he looked at her shoes. How firmly her feet held to the ground! It was like the root of the determination in her. He knew it so well. His mother did not stir. He heard her breathing. She was not thinking now. She had passed beyond thought. Why think? A fly ran up the window-pane. Her eyes followed it, then returned to the street. She watched a man filling coal into a cellar.
Why didn’t his mother speak? Why was she standing like that? His father was different altogether. Had she gone mad? What was she looking at? What was she thinking about? He could not keep still. A lump came into his throat. Of course. Nothing else. Best to get it over and done with. Well, he was ready as soon as she was. He opened his mouth to shout something to her, but the words refused to come. Then Mrs Fury swung round and came across to him, dragging a cane chair behind her. She placed this in front of the sofa and sat down. They were facing each other. Peter felt his mother’s knees against his own. How soft they were! They caught each other’s eyes. No holding back now. The whole truth. The expression upon her face, her eyes, seemed to penetrate him. He lowered his head. He thought she grinned at him. What was she going to say? He looked up at her. She seemed cool, calm, collected, but her expression was grim. He could not conceal his agitation. Be cool. Mustn’t show fear now. Then there came to his nostrils a most offensive smell. The circumstances of the occasion seemed to have heightened his nasal sense. Peter put a hand to his nose. Yes. He had smelt this before, but now it seemed one thousand times worse. ‘Phew!’ he exclaimed, and looked at his mother, a horrified expression upon his face. Mrs Fury was like solid rock. She suddenly swore to herself. A smell. H’m! Complaining like that! At such a time. Under the present circumstances. She leaned forward in her chair, gripped him by the arm, and hissed savagely into his ear, ‘We’ve had that for years.’ She laid emphasis upon the word ‘years’. Then she shouted at the top of her voice ‘YEARS.’ Peter drew back. It had begun. His mother drew her chair more closely. She gripped his other arm. Peter gasped. Her hands were like steel. He was imprisoned. She had pinned him down with a glance from her flashing eyes.
‘Well,’ she said … A long silence. He could not look into that face. He could not keep still. He kept moving from side to side. How strong her hands were! Nearly sixty years of age, and she was as strong as ever. ‘Well!’ The word shot from her lips. When he did not answer she released one of his arms. Then she struck him a violent blow in the face. ‘The truth, Peter. The truth.’ Why couldn’t he open his mouth? He must open his mouth. Mrs Fury stood up. She had gripped him by the shoulders and was shaking him violently. She was unconscious of the ridiculous figure she now cut, shaking this son taller than herself. Rage, blind rage, stirred to life within her. He must speak. She would kill him. So many things had been held in leash. She had held them back. Hope, disappointment, misery, lies, deceit. They overwhelmed her now. They controlled her body and her spirit. She could feel this rage. It must soon run amok. ‘Open your mouth!’ she shouted. At that, Peter forced himself to his feet. He looked full into his mother’s eyes. She turned her head away suddenly. His former expression had gone. Astonishment. She had never seen such an expression upon her son’s face. Was this her son, her own child? Without knowing it, she had gripped him again and was shouting, ‘Swine! Swine! Well, I want to talk to you. I want to know.’ Her mind cried, ‘I must and I will know.’ She was like a hungry animal. She felt a numbing sort of pain. Those things. How they goaded her now, and laughed in her face. Misery, dirty hints, lies, and meanness. All for this. Tell me the truth,’ she cried. ‘I have had a letter from your Principal. Tell me everything. Everything.’ She darted away and began the same wild pacing of the room, swinging her arms about. ‘Oh Jesus Christ! I …’ She became so carried away on this wild tide that she could not complete her sentences. Peter shuddered. Never had he seen his mother in such a temper. She was like a wild beast. And he had imagined he knew her. knew her more intimately than his own father, than his sister and brothers. But he did not know her at all. How should he begin?
‘Well!’ she yelled at him from the middle of the room. ‘Aren’t you going to speak? Has your conscience struck you dumb?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother!’ At last he had spoken. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ he said again. He wanted to cry. He was sorry. He felt it in his heart. Sorry and ashamed. He went up to his mother. Mrs Fury suddenly drew her arms behind her back lest she might touch this son of hers. ‘Go away! Don’t you come near me. Beast! You’ve ruined me. Ruined my whole life.’ She made a mad rush at her son, and carried on by her own impetus bore him back to the sofa. The two figures staggered about. Then Peter fell back upon the sofa. His mother sat down again. ‘You’ve wounded me. Do you know that? Pig! I’ve done almost everything for you. But why should I start going into details? Yes, why should I? Now.’ And she repeated the question in her own mind. Yes, why should she go through it all again, only to arrive at this muck-heap in the end? She couldn’t do it.
‘Seven years ago I sent you to Ireland, and I thought to myself, “Peter will do it. Peter will shine out above the lot of them.” It wasn’t easy to send you there. I was prepared for the battle. What a battle it was! I had to fight tooth and nail with your father. With Desmond, with Anthony, with Maureen. Excepting your grand-dad. And John. Poor John! He helped, and now he’s dead. I am glad. You should be glad too.’ She made the sign of the Cross upon her forehead and lips.
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘Mother …’
‘Shut your mouth! Four pounds ten per month it cost to keep you there. Four pounds ten per month. I paid it. God!… Yes, I paid it. Your father was away. What did he know? Nothing. Did he care?’ She burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. ‘Desmond helped.’ She laughed again. ‘Helped. Anthony helped. Maureen helped. Begrudging, a mite. One had to drag it from them. They hated it. Now they’ve gone. Good riddance. I say. Desmond is finished with me. I with him. He and his beautiful prostitute!’ Peter suddenly said, ‘Ah!’ It was the first time he had heard the word cross his mother’s lips. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘Don’t I know! And now it’s all finished.’ She kept her eyes fastened upon her son’s face. How powerful filth was! What a magnet the gutter seemed to be! Low – just low. They could not climb. Her family. She laughed again.
‘It was my great hope that you would do something. That you would be better than the others. Your father. Oh Lord! When I think of i
t! What an example! He threw up everything himself. For what? The gutter. He dragged me down with him. But you, you couldn’t even fail honestly. You couldn’t even leave with your head high in the air. Could you? Understand this. I’ll hear everything. I’ve talked to your Aunt Brigid. I know lots of things already. You must crush me down. Crush me down. Do I deserve it? Has any action of mine justified it? Peter, what did you do?’ Peter turned his head away. There was something almost repulsive in the expression upon Mrs Fury’s face. She jerked his head back again. ‘You won’t say! Well, well!’ Then she spat in his face.
‘I never wanted to go. I never wanted to go. You fooled me yourself. You begged and begged of me to go. I went to please you. I went to please you. But I never liked it. It was like gaol. Worse than gaol. I hated it. And now I’m finished with it. It’s silly. It’s mad. Mother, I’m sorry, but …’ He could say no more. He got up from the sofa, and as he moved away his mother’s head fell forward. He did not look at her. He went and stood by the door, his hand upon the knob. His face was white. ‘A dirty woman!’ his mother exclaimed. Peter turned round and ran to her. When she looked at him he flung his hands into the air. He imagined she was going to throw herself upon him again. ‘Mother, I …’
‘Go away,’ she said. She heard him walk across the room, heard the door open, close. A long silence. Then she began talking again. It was incoherent, a mere gabbling of words, confusion. What had she been saying at all? Good God! Great convulsive sobs broke from her. Her whole life seemed to be rooted up by a relentless hand. It lay before her now. In pieces. If only he had spoken. Only hinted. If he had straight out and told her, ‘No, Mother, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be a priest.’ But that silence. It was foul, poisonous. That silence. All those years. Why had he stayed? Why hadn’t he come home at once? Impossible question. But that lie. It was a great festering sore across her heart. If he had simply said, ‘No.’ Just that word. It would have been a disappointment. But this. It crushed one into the mud, into the earth. It debased. Her whole frame shook. They would every one of them laugh in her face. Even Denny. Her body slipped lower. Her head fell. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh!’ She dragged herself to her feet. She sat down, holding on to the back of the chair with her two hands. Her hair, now loosened, hung about her shoulders. In the struggle her comb had fallen to the floor. It lay in pieces at her feet. Peter had trodden it underfoot. She kept biting her lower lip. She looked round the room. She was alone. She went over and closed down the window. The smell from the yard had suddenly become repulsive to her. ‘Well,’ she said to herself, ‘that’s over.’
