by James Hanley
Peter replied, ‘Hello, George! Thanks. I …’ he almost said, ‘I know all about it,’ but saved himself in time. The door in front of him opened. The person must have been standing behind this door, for Peter could not see anybody. The door opened slowly and a woman’s voice said, ‘Come in.’
Peter entered the lobby. The door closed. George Postlethwaite continued to stare.
In the dark lobby he touched the woman’s hand. This was the light, this was the beckoning light that wiped out the vision of his kneeling mother, of his father reading upstairs, of his ugly grandfather. This light swept everything away.
‘Hello!’ he said, and touched Sheila’s arm.
‘Come,’ Mrs Fury said. They went into the kitchen. She drew out a chair for Peter, saying, ‘Wait, I shan’t be long.’
Then she went upstairs. Peter sat straddled upon the chair. He looked round the kitchen. Yes. There was the draught-board that he had upset, there the table against which her body had leaned, there the patch on the floor where she had broken the mantle, and she had leaned heavily against him as she put a fresh one on. He felt a strange sensation as he recalled the pressure of her body and how he had felt its bulk. As he closed his eyes, the whole thing came to him again, crystal-clear. Sheila’s feigned surprise on that first morning he had called. He had divined it at once. And of course he had said, ‘Is Desmond in?’ And the woman, laughing, had replied, ‘He isn’t in.’
She knew that too. She knew he had come to see her. At first he had been shy and embarrassed. He remembered how he had first walked along the dark lobby to emerge into the lighted kitchen and see her standing under the gas. He had felt like a person who is walking barefooted along a lengthy carpet in the darkness, whose knowledgeable feet have told him that further and still further there is more carpet. Then suddenly he steps into a pool of icy water. Yes, that was how he had felt at first. He had sat straddled upon this same chair, content to sit looking at her, caring not whether she ever spoke, as long as she remained there and he could sit looking at her. She was wearing a long velvet dress, her throat was bare, and her mouth was partly open. The camera had lied to him, for he saw that her mouth was bigger than it appeared to him on the photo which he had torn from the card. She had a broad forehead, and her large eyes were set well apart. But the mouth seemed to upset the harmony of the features. She had small teeth and her lips were red and full. He remembered studying them, thinking of his sister’s coarseness. No. Maureen was not like that. Perhaps the jute factory had made her so. Sheila Fury showed up Maureen more clearly than a microscope. Once Sheila had leaned towards him, saying, ‘You are funny.’ And then she had asked him why he left school in Ireland. Yes, she had caught him out. He hadn’t known what to say. Just the same old thing, ‘I didn’t like it. All a cod.’ A screen for his dirtiness. Yes, a screen for his dirtiness. They had had breakfast together.
‘I like you,’ he had said, and Sheila had smiled. He sat upright in the chair and exclaimed aloud, ‘And I do like her.’ He put his hand to his mouth. ‘Why not love me? I am so lonely. Have you got my card? Do come and see me some time!’ Then he burst out laughing.
Sheila Fury came into the kitchen. She was dressed for going out. Her lips had framed a question, but she said nothing, just stood at the expression on Peter’s face.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing, Sheila,’ replied Peter, and he waved his hand in the air, as though he were casting out from his mind the vision of his strange companion on that memorable Monday night. He got up from the chair and smoothed his coat and trousers with his hand. ‘Ready,’ he said. ‘Which way?’ He stood, hands in his pockets, looking at the woman. ‘This way,’ she said quickly, and they went out by the rear entrance. The entry was narrow, so that they pressed against each other as they walked. When they came out into the street, they increased their pace, slowing down to a rambling gait when they reached the main road. They were obviously two persons wholly undecided what to do or where to go. They stopped again, and in the dark shelter of a shop doorway Sheila asked, ‘Does your mother know you have been to see me’ – she paused – ‘three times?’ She did not look at him, but away up the street.
‘No. That doesn’t matter, anyhow.’
‘I know where we’ll go,’ Sheila said. ‘Come.’ She caught Peter’s arm. He felt the softness of her arm against his own, and her action was significant. If he had not been sure before, he was sure now. He was certain. It was the breaking down of the barrier. Shyness and embarrassment fled from him. He kept looking up into her face.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, not caring whether she replied or not, not caring what she said. That arm that had crept round the door was through his own. Yes, he even had some of those threads from the black bodice in his pocket.
‘To have tea,’ Sheila replied. They passed four streets without speaking. Sheila Fury then said, ‘We turn this way.’ She intended to go to a café situated at the bottom of Circular Road, but now as they came in sight of it she realized at once that they ought to have gone the other way. A crowd of people was standing at the top of the road. It was a silent crowd, and it seemed to be waiting for something. Peter had seen it too.
‘There must be something up here,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and see?’
‘Yes.’ The woman’s voice seemed to come from far away. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘We ought to have gone the other way. It’s difficult to get through crowds like this.’ As they came up to its fringe, the whole body of people seemed to turn their heads. They were looking down the Circular Road.
‘It’s soldiers!’ cried Peter. He pulled roughly on Sheila’s arm. ‘Soldiers!’ he said.
The crowd were waiting to see these mounted troops pass by. A detachment of thirty Hussars were coming up the hill at a walking pace, headed by an officer. Sheila and Peter stood a little away from the road, and waited. Just beside Sheila a young man was standing. He was about nineteen years of age. He was in his shirt-sleeves. Hearing the noise outside, he had come out of the house. The soldiers were drawing nearer. The crowd began talking loudly. Here they were – the Hussars, who two nights ago had galloped off to Mile Hill to break up a disturbance that had broken out between two sets of strikers and their families. A religious feud. Yes. Here they were – the fellows who had gone forward with fixed bayonets and dragged people from their beds, who had shot dead an elderly man for no other reason than that he had been standing in the line of fire. The angry murmur rose in the air.
‘Here’s the bastards!’ shouted a voice, as the mounted men drew nearer.
‘Yes! Here they are, the dirty swines!’
Sheila held on to Peter’s arm. ‘Yes, here they are!’ shouted a woman’s voice in the crowd. ‘Give them a gutful, the swines!’
‘I’m going,’ announced Sheila, but Peter held on, saying, ‘Wait, Sheila! Please wait!’ The crowd had begun to move forward in a body towards the troops, who had now reached the top of Circular Road. As if from nowhere, police appeared and began to drive them back towards the kerb. ‘Please wait!’ Peter said.
There could be no doubt about the ugly temper of this crowd. They pressed forward. ‘Hait!’ cried the officer. The troop halted. ‘About turn!’ he cried out, his eyes surveying the crowd. Hands were raised. ‘Give it to the bastards!’ From an upraised arm a glass beer-bottle flew. It struck a horse, that reared, almost throwing clear its rider. At the same time the crowd rushed forward on the smashing of the glass. The troops had levelled their rifles.
‘Stand back!’ The crowd pressed on.
‘Fire!’ shouted the officer, now red in the face. ‘Ugh!’ the crowd stood cowed. They made a wild rush for the kerb.
Peter screamed. ‘Sheila! Sheila! Oh Christ Almighty!’ The young man on her left had fallen. From his breast there rose a veritable fountain of blood. ‘Sheila!’ screamed Peter. The woman had collapsed in his arms. Then she fell. She fell, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, conscious only that her face
was wet. The boy’s hands were trembling. He knelt down, wiping her face. He could hear somebody shouting, ‘Stand back! This woman is dead. Stand back!’ Peter began shaking, his hand dropped the bloody handkerchief. ‘Is she hurt? She has fainted.’ A great noise flooded Peter’s ears. Then somebody was saying, ‘Fainted! It’s blood-splashes.’ And the speaker was looking into the boy’s white face. ‘Are you with her?’
‘Yes, yes!’ His eyes were full of tears. ‘Yes! Is she dead? Please!’ He began shouting, wildly, incoherently, but the same calm voice now said:
‘It’s only the splash of blood from that man. See!’ And he pointed to the dead youth, now covered by a soldier’s overcoat.
‘Take the woman home.’
Sheila Fury had opened her eyes and looked into Peter’s face.
‘Let me help you,’ the man said. Somebody was holding water to her mouth. ‘There! There!’ A space had been cleared. Everybody seemed to be yelling, shouting, swearing.
‘Take her out of this,’ the quiet-voiced man said.
‘Are you all right, Sheila?’ Peter stammered. He trembled violently, holding her hand.
‘There, go now.’ The boy put his arm round the woman and they pushed their way through the crowd. A lump had come into his throat, he could not speak. Through dark passages, through entries, he hurried with Sheila. Yes, they had better go back. ‘Home!’ Peter was saying. ‘Home!’
They entered the house by the back door. Peter could not drive out that flood of sound in his ears. He saw Sheila sit down on the sofa and rest her head against the wall. The fire burned low in the grate. He said, ‘Shall I light the gas?’ but the woman said, ‘Sit down.’ He sat down by her side. Sheila seemed unable to speak. Her face was pale. She breathed quickly, holding her hands to her side. The boy looked into her face.
‘Oh! The blood!’ Sheila said under her breath. ‘The blood!’ Peter did not hear her. He was deaf, and he was blind. He did not see the fountain of blood spurt from the youth’s chest, he heard no cries. He saw only this face in front of him. This face had looked out at him from its welter of blood, and he wanted to fling himself upon her body. He gripped Sheila Fury’s hands.
‘Sheila!’ he said. ‘Oh, Sheila!’ Her face was expressionless. ‘Sheila!’ cried Peter, pressing her hands. Then he leaned forward and kissed her. She sat motionless.
‘Did you not see me behind you? You are callous, my boy. Your mother cannot come. She is chained to some heavy wood. She cannot come. But I shall not spoil your dish. Ha ha!’ Sheila Fury leaned towards the boy.
‘Peter! Peter!’
‘Are you all right, Sheila? Please tell me!’ His hand were trembling.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked faintly. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing! Nothing!’
He buried his head on her breast. He could feel the woman’s heart beating against his head. He burst out laughing now.
‘I thought somebody was shouting into my ear,’ he said.
‘Please!’ the woman said.
She rose to her feet, and drew her hand slowly across her forehead.
That incident in the Circular Road had had a peculiar effect upon her.
‘Well!’ she said.
Then she pushed him away with her hand. He stood, watching her go, and as she closed the kitchen door she slid her white hand up and down.
She went upstairs. The boy stood looking at the door. Then he sat down on the chair and laid his head on the table.
‘What is the matter with me?’ The feelings that ran riot in him were strange and terrifying.
‘You are a young fool,’ said Professor Titmouse.
Yes, that was who it was. That was the voice always raging in his ears. That was the person he had dreamed about.
‘It is just that she cannot help it. Go up. She is waiting for you. Do not hesitate.’ And, as though the man in the deerstalker hat had lifted him from the chair, Peter rose to his feet, opened the kitchen door and went upstairs.
Professor Titmouse seemed to tramp behind him.
‘Here vanity has flowered anew, my young friend. Her fastidiousness will excite you tremendously. I should call this social cowardice, but then, you are not interested. You are too young. Besides, that chained woman can wait … Horrid? … Life holds out many delicious flavours!’
The black satin rag seemed to wave in front of Peter’s face.
‘Yes! That was a phenomenon. I myself was there. That bright fountain of blood, my friend, was a gleaming sword. But whose hand will hold it? Away! Up you go! She is waiting for you. You tickle her vanity. You stir her latent maternal feelings, and of course that Black Bull is at present in Garton.’ The man seemed to look into the boy’s face. ‘I wish I could share your feast, but all that is too late. It is a good feast, a rare feast. It shall blot everything out. And now, good-bye.’ Peter stood outside the door of the bedroom. ‘Come in.’ He opened the door, closed it silently behind him and stood looking down at the woman. Sheila Fury was naked. She was lying on her side in the bed. ‘Go forward. Why hesitate?’ croaked the voice in his ears. He walked up to the bed and stood looking down at the woman. Yes, this was the light, the bright beckoning light. ‘A single flash. No more.’ croaked the voice, ‘That soft flesh is not soft. It is steel. Many a man breaks his head against it.’ The boy knelt down at the side of the bed and looked into the woman’s face. Where and when had he knelt like this before? Ah yes! When he received his first Communion.
‘Well!’ said the woman, laughing. ‘You are a funny boy. Come here.’
He climbed on to her bed, and gripped her arms. ‘Sheila!’ he said. ‘I love you.’
‘How much? How much do you love me?’ She turned over and lay looking at him. He only smiled, the while his eyes roamed over her naked body. Her very skin seemed to shimmer in the candle-light, whilst her hair, which she had let down, clouded the pillow.
‘Are you afraid?’
‘No.’
‘Not even of Desmond?’
‘No.’
‘Come, then,’ she said, and drew his head down upon her breast. She kissed him. Her blood quickened. It pleased her to see this boy’s head upon her breast. She liked the feel of it, as she liked the feeling of his hot and clumsy hands. The candle burned low, gave a final splutter, then went out. This sudden darkness seemed to accentuate their heavy breathing, just as the air around them seemed to throb to the desires that filled and held them fast, flesh to flesh.
Peter felt as though rivulets of flame were sweeping across his body. He felt the woman’s hot breath upon his face. And he was actually floating in the air, bathed in the light of her body. Suddenly he began to sing. His clear alto filled the darkened room.
‘Ssh!’ the woman whispered in his ear. ‘Ssh! …’ But he only sang louder. ‘Ssh!’ she said. ‘Tell me what you are singing.’ She crushed his face against her own so that their eyes seemed to meet, and Peter was gazing as he sang, gazing into two deep pools of living water. He stopped singing.
‘I was singing a song about an Irish King,’ he whispered in her ear. He heard her laugh, and it seemed to violate the silence of the room, that now harboured the lovely tones of Peter’s voice.
‘But I couldn’t understand you.’
‘I was singing it in Erse,’ Peter said. He lay limp across her body. He felt as though some great weight had been lifted from his own, and those pools of water into which he rapturously gazed scintillated, seemed to whirl round in one luminous circle. Against this vision there sounded from below the sharp chiming of a clock.
‘Get up now,’ Sheila said. ‘Get up.’ The clock had struck in the kitchen. But Peter did not move. He lay heavily upon her; seeming to draw, as though by a peculiar magnetic power, a sort of vapour from those depthless pools, a vapour that clouded all about him. It was as if he had been drugged. The woman pushed him away and sat up. For the first time he seemed to see her smiling face. Before, it had been nothing but those dancing waters. Yes, she was smili
ng, and he had turned away his head. ‘Look at me,’ she called to him. ‘Peter! Look at me.’ But he only turned his head further away from her. She caught his arm and pulled him towards her. ‘What is the matter, darling?’ she said. ‘What is the matter? You are crying.’
