The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  He had meant to say, ‘Mother, Peter is hanging round after my wife, and if I catch him, something will happen.’ But by the look she gave him she had stilled that voice in him. He ran after her, coming up with her on the threshold of the store.

  ‘Mother,’ he said. ‘Just a minute. How do I know when I shall see you again?’

  ‘Please! Please! I quite understand everything, do let me go! Please do!’ And she passed out of the stores.

  He stood there, looking foolish, out of place; he stumbled twice as he dashed up the stairs to the street. Mrs. Fury had gone. She was on her way home. Hatfields seemed to call to her, to call her away from all this light and colour, these crowds, the sweetish perfume that filled the air, the smell of coffee in the restaurant. Hatfields called her back to where she belonged. She was now hurrying towards the terminus to catch a tram, and it seemed as if that heavy brutal face of her son was looking over her shoulder, the mouth half open to ask a question. H’m! what had Peter to do with her now?

  When Desmond Fury left his mother he hurried back to Full House Lane and entered Royalty House. At the top of this dirty and ugly-looking building he had his office. The Federation Gelton Branch had considered itself very lucky indeed to find a home where business could be transacted for the sum of seven shillings per week, light included. Light included was certainly a concession, for Desmond Fury had not been long in the office before he discovered that the gas must burn all day.

  What he took to be a coating of black dirt on the window turned out to be black paint, and to remove it obviously meant removing the glass also. For some reason or other, the landlord required this not to be disturbed. Mr. Fury did not ask why. He put it down to sheer oddity on the part of the sixty-eight-year-old landlord, who was making a quite comfortable income from Royalty House.

  There were three floors, containing fifteen offices. Fourteen of them were used by mail order concerns, from purveyors of female pills to publishers of ‘art models’ for students only. It seemed a sad commentary upon human affairs that the Federation people, who at least stood for the welfare of the workers, should be tucked away in the complete darkness of floor three.

  Desmond would certainly have liked a better and lighter office. Callers had to make tortuous, bat-like movements down the dark smelly corridors until they reached the wooden stairs, up which they blindly groped their way until they reached the top. There was a printed notice outside the door informing all that the Labour Federation Branch had its office there, and looking higher one discerned the shadow of a man behind the frosted-glass door.

  Desmond would have liked the office on the ground floor, so that passers-by would at least know that one of the arteries of the Trade Union was beating there. To be hidden away in the darkness seemed quite wrong. However, landlords were queer creatures, and funds were low.

  He went to the office about half-past nine, went through the letters, attended to phone calls, then busied himself with the card-index—examined the books, counted the cards, and most of the work was done.

  In the afternoon it became a sort of dispensary. People called for advice, which he dispensed freely. Men behind in their payments called to explain further, or to settle up; sometimes a child called and asked for the new button for her father.

  The office consisted of two chairs, a bare wooden table, a broken-down typewriter, a desk, and the files. There was no fire or stove. A gas-light burned in the right-hand corner of the room, near the window. The windows could not be opened, by reason of the iron bars in front of them. When Desmond had been smoking ten minutes, he found it necessary to open wide the door in order to clear the air.

  In the top drawer of the desk lay a tin box containing the members’ subscriptions. This was always kept locked, whilst the key lay securely in his pocket. When he closed down for the day, he always took the box home with him. Indeed, he would never have thought of leaving a brass farthing in such a filthy hole.

  Once a month a delegate came from the District Office and examined the books, enquired about the health of the Branch, suggested ways of increasing the membership, and then went off again. This monthly visit from the inspector and auditor always excited Desmond. It seemed to him that one went up by stages until one either reached secretaryship or was adopted as parliamentary candidate. The inspector may indeed have been a working man at some period of his life, but he certainly wasn’t one now, and that Mr. Desmond Fury realized at a glance. He reflected that if only one had brains enough, one could climb higher and higher. Look where he was to-day. Local delegate, with a better wage than he ever received for slinging a hammer in the Length, an office of his own—and what was more important, able to wear his Sunday clothes on week-days.

  He could go home at half-past five in the evening, with the whole night before him and no necessity to rise before eight the next morning. The psychological effects of this sudden change in his way of life were deeper and more far-reaching than even he could understand. True, the Federation had a purpose—to weld the workers together, so that they would be able to stand up for themselves. But when the inspector, wearing his Raglan overcoat and carrying a rolled umbrella, came in through the door, purpose went out. There was no longer any purpose, only a sudden quickening of the spirit, a delicious thought that he, Desmond Fury, would one day be in the inspector’s place.

  It was usual with him to spend the late afternoon contemplating, not upon the state of the world and the welfare of the workers, but upon his own unbounded opportunities. He would sit dreaming of the future, the while his eyes rested on the black-painted window. Occasionally callers disturbed, but they were momentary invasions of his happy state of mind. He dealt with them quickly and efficiently, and then fell to dreaming of the future once more. This afternoon he did not follow the usual custom. He sat looking at some letters on the table. He seemed quite uninterested in their contents, he was listless, fretful. His day had been disturbed, and that by an astounding accident. He felt rather ashamed, angry with himself; contemplation upon the bright future was for a moment smothered. He could see his mother quite clearly standing up at the table, and hear her say, ‘Take a good look at me, Desmond, and then ask yourself if it was all worth it.’ He couldn’t wipe the picture from his mind, nor shut his ears to those words. The picture became clearer, larger every second—the words sounded thunderous in his ears, and at last he thumped the table and exclaimed:

  ‘Damn! Damn! She’s a silly woman. A silly woman. But what can one do? Nothing. All advice is useless. Hopeless. She looks at this world one way and I look at it in quite another.’

  Aye, and he had to admit it—his father was a mug—a real simp, a decent old fellow, but a dud. ‘Aye, a dud. And now he’s gone. Well! Well! I never thought he even had the guts to do it. Now she says he’s satisfied, and so is she. But, Christ Almighty, what’s all this to do with me? I can’t help what they do and what they think. No. God, no! It couldn’t have been any different, not the least bit. With people like Mother you can’t do anything. It’s impossible. Well, I’ll never be able to understand—never, no, never—how a woman can give a shilling to a priest when she wants it herself for bread. And likely as not, all the damned crow does with it is to buy a packet of cigarettes. But Mother’s not the only one. There are thousands like her, and the beggar of it is they seem quite happy. And it looks as if it’s going to be that way always—for ever and ever.’

  The light from the gas fell upon his hair, thick brown hair that, judging by its unruly state, had defeated all efforts with the comb. He kept fingering the unopened letters. He picked one up and looked at the handwriting. ‘H’m!’ he said. ‘That is about the sick pay again. I can tell as soon as I look at it.’ The letter was addressed to him entirely in capital letters, as though the writer had never heard of such a thing as small letters. ‘Aw!’ he said, and with a flick of finger and thumb he sent the letter whizzing across the desk. Hang it all! What was the matter with him this afternoon? He had an uncomfortable feeling. Try a
s he might, he couldn’t efface the picture of his mother from his mind. ‘But fancy meeting her there,’ he said to himself. ‘There of all places. It’s not often Mother leaves Hatfields to go shopping. Oh well, here goes.’ He opened the letters, read them, put them on the file, and then rose to search for the other one. But it seemed that this letter, which by the very shape of the handwriting on the envelope almost cried to be opened, would not be opened at all. At least not to-day. Somebody was knocking at the door. The office had no bell. When a caller knocked, Desmond Fury shouted out, ‘Come in.’ There was no half-way method in the top floor of Royalty House. When the caller opened the door he did in fact slip right into the heart of the matter. There was no counter, no waiting-room, no porch, no windows, and no privacy at all. The caller seemed to be hesitating. ‘Come in,’ shouted Desmond, quite unable to disguise the irritation he was experiencing. Here he was trying his best to think, and somehow he always got a violent headache when he did this—here he was in a frame of mind that simply demanded privacy and quiet, and somebody must call at nearly four in the afternoon and disturb him. That was bad enough, but when on top of that he was making every possible effort to rid his mind of the picture of that tired, sour-looking, embittered woman, whom sheer accident had flung into his path—well, it just made one want to shout. If he hadn’t felt a little ashamed of himself it wouldn’t have been so bad—but he was ashamed and he could not drown this feeling. ‘Will you come in,’ he shouted again, this time so loudly that the brass knob of the door seemed to shake beneath the violence of the sound, but it turned out to be the caller’s hand upon the knob. Then a voice unmistakably feminine called out, ‘I can’t open this door at all,’ and the knob rattled loudly again.

  Desmond Fury got up and went to the door. That door would have to have a new lock and a new knob. ‘I suppose it’ll have to come out of the petty cash, seeing that swine of a landlord only gave us the place on his own particular style of lease.’ Then he thought, ‘Five minutes more and I might have been off.’ He opened the door so quickly and so violently that the person holding on to the knob was half swung into the room.

  ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Well! I’ll be …’ He seemed to stagger back towards the desk against which he leaned, whilst open-mouthed he stared at his visitor. The woman stood in the corner by the table which held the card-index boxes. ‘You!’ exclaimed Desmond. ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered.’ He stared at the visitor, bewildered as though somehow he couldn’t believe it—couldn’t acknowledge the presence. Then he rushed to the door and kicked it shut. ‘Well!!’ He went up to the woman. ‘Maureen! This is surprising. What brings you here? How on earth did you find me out?’ Without giving his sister any time to reply he caught her in his arms and gave her a resounding kiss full on the mouth. ‘Maureen!’ he kept saying. ‘This is most surprising. But do sit down.’

  Maureen Kilkey sat down rather gingerly on the corner of the chair. Judging by her demeanour she wasn’t to stay very long. She looked at her brother. Like her mother, she hadn’t seen Desmond since his marriage. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ she said, straightening out her skirt, which had become ruffled. She was wearing a red tam-o’-shanter, seated rather rakishly on one side of her head. Her red, fuzzy hair caught the light so that it shone like a flame. She was wearing a green skirt and white blouse. Her long brown coat, with a large patch on the left sleeve, was open. She looked hot and tired. ‘My God!’ she said; ‘what a place to put yourself in!’

  Desmond laughed. ‘I go where I’m put, and I never complain.’ He pulled a watch from his pocket and said quite casually, ‘I haven’t got long, Maureen.’ He sat looking at her. He might never have seen her before. She seemed quite a stranger. ‘Well, I believe you have a little boy now. What’s he like?’ He pulled his chair along the floor and leaned forward, his large hands clasped and resting on Maureen’s knee.

  ‘Oh, he’s a nice kid,’ she replied. ‘You’ll like him. But who told you about it? I’m curious to know.’

  ‘Mother!’ said Desmond. He seemed to enjoy watching her face. ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘When? Mother! You saw Mother?’ exclaimed Mrs. Kilkey.

  ‘Yes, but do sit still,’ said Desmond gruffly, ‘and do sit in the chair as though it were a chair and not a red-hot plate. Why shouldn’t she have told me? Who else would have done? You? But still, that’s a small matter. The real matter is this. What brings you here, hunting me up after all this time? I hope we shall understand one another as well as Mother and I did. Anyway, let’s have it. What’s all the excitement about?’

  Maureen Kilkey said quietly, ‘I want you to help me, Desmond.’

  The big man looked straight into his sister’s eyes and said, ‘Is this Mother?’

  ‘No! it has nothing to do with Mother. It’s me. I want you to help me. Can I explain?’ She seemed uncertain about her position, then added quickly, ‘You don’t seem very interested.’

  Desmond laughed. ‘Perhaps not. It all depends on what kind of a surprise you have up your sleeve. When anybody from Hatfields or Price Street wants help, one can guess at a glance what it is. I seem to know already what you want.’

  ‘I should have thought you had forgotten all about the people in Hatfields and the help they want occasionally, at least by now,’ and she flung him a glance that was at once vicious and sharp as a rapier-thrust. Desmond said nothing. She went on, ‘At least my eyes tell me as much.’

  ‘Then be more careful with your eyes,’ replied Desmond rudely. ‘They mightn’t light on what is always good for them. I know what you’ve come here for. But let me tell you at once that you’ve arrived at the wrong shop. This isn’t a philanthropic institution. It’s a Trade Union branch. The only thing we supply here is education. D’you understand? This is one of those places where people can’t get what they want. Everybody wants something, it’s true. All we can do for people is to tell them how best to go about getting what they want. But you’re different, you want something for nothing. That’s it, isn’t it? You want …’

  ‘Yes, I want money,’ said Maureen. ‘Desmond, can’t you help me? I’m in a fix too, we’re all in a fix. Oh, you don’t understand, but in a few minutes I can tell you everything. Do please listen.’ She caught her brother’s arm. She almost touched his heavy, fleshy face with her mouth, ‘Can’t you listen?’

  Desmond gently removed her arms. ‘Now listen to me. I’ve been here all day—all day, and it’s now time for me to be off. This afternoon I bumped into Mother—not an hour ago; and now you’re here. Why shouldn’t I think there was something fishy about it? We had a cup of tea together. In five minutes she’d gone again. I was glad. It was rather uncomfortable, I can tell you!’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Maureen, ‘I should think it was. But this matter has nothing to do with Mother at all. Honestly it hasn’t.’ She rose to her feet. ‘It’s my fault. But also it’s that other bloody fool I married. The …’

  ‘Maureen!’ Desmond leaned forward on his desk. ‘Things don’t seem to be going too well down in your establishment. Now listen to me. If you’re in any trouble, I’m sorry about it. Very sorry. But there the matter ends. I’ve always made it a rule to mind my own business. D’you see? I’m not the least bit interested in anybody else’s. Mind you,’ he went on smilingly, ‘there are exceptions. If you had come here to introduce a few new members to the books—now that would have been worth while. You see, that’s the only business I’m interested in, Maureen. Don’t forget that. I didn’t reach these conclusions without having learned lessons first. The world looks a very nice place from here—from this office—but it never looked the same from my room-window in Hatfields. Remember my room, Maureen? Tell me what you want exactly. Not that I’m going to do anything, but quite naturally now you’re here I might as well know.’

  ‘I want money,’ said Maureen, ‘and I want it as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Oh! I see. Well, I admire your optimism,’ said Desmond. He seemed to speak out of the corner
of his mouth. He looked at the drawer wherein reposed the tin box containing the month’s subscriptions. Then he looked at his watch again. By right he should really count that money, check it up against the books, and deposit it in the bank. But with this visitor it seemed diplomacy to let it rest there. He must wait until she had gone.

  ‘D’you think I’m a millionaire?’ exclaimed Desmond. ‘It’s two years since we have seen each other, and here we are; everything’s the same. The same old bloody cry. Money. Isn’t Mother in this business? Don’t say she isn’t, for I’ll never believe you. Now tell me. You see, I have to go at five o’clock. I’m a busy man.’ He pushed aside his chair, and stood up. Maureen burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, chuck it, for Christ’s sake. It seems to be all the artillery the workers have. Bloody tears. People come here every day, crying, crying their hearts out—aye, crying their guts out. We’re used to it. But what can we do? Only one thing. Socialize the country, and then there won’t be any more crying. That’s logical enough. Stop it. I hate women crying. It always makes me want to be sick. I can’t help you with any money. I haven’t got any. I have a wife and home to keep like everybody else, and I’m not getting a Prime Minister’s salary either. A few shillings more than what I used to get for sweating like a bloody mug on the Length—but still’—he got quite excited and even laughed. ‘Still, I’m moving. I don’t intend to moult long in Royalty House. Maureen, although I can’t help you, I’d like to know the exact reason for this visit. It’s so suspicious. Right on top of Mother’s too. My head’s going round, from sheer dizziness.’