The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  ‘I already knew she was involved with a moneylender,’ said Peter Fury.

  ‘Did you? Did you know she raised the money to settle your affairs? That’s what it was for. And since you know, can you tell me where all this money is going? I can’t understand it—neither can Maureen. We often talk about it. Your mother tells nobody anything. It makes it difficult. But what about you? You shrug your shoulders, you’re not worried about it. You clear off every time. Peter, my lad, if you think you’ve paid your last debt, you’re mistaken. Listen! The trouble with you is that you don’t know what you want. You think you’re happy because this woman loves you. H’m! Watch out! That’s all I have to say. But you can’t back out of this. Your mother has money coming into the house—she has yours, she had your dad’s, she has your grand-dad’s little pension, and only a short while ago she had some compensation money from Anthony’s accident. Where does it all go? Your mother must eat the money. Can’t you tackle her about this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘I could ask Mother lots of things. But you see—oh, to hell with it! We’ve all tried at times to open Mother’s secret cupboard. It’s not easy. You know what keeps the door fast shut—don’t you?’

  ‘Her pride,’ replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘But that can’t count very much. She’s had it pretty well flattened by now.’

  ‘I have to go now,’ said Peter. ‘Look at the time on that clock.’

  ‘Shall I go with you?’ suggested Mr. Kilkey. ‘It hardly makes much difference now.’ And the two men went on.

  When they turned the corner into Instone Road, Mr. Joseph Kilkey divined at once the nature of Peter’s errand. Hadn’t he walked up this same road with Maureen the evening they went together to put his name to the surety note? Now he remembered the envelope in Peter’s hand. It was either money or a placatory letter. Somehow the whole situation seemed fantastic to him. How could he ever have imagined that he would again walk up this same road, though not in the quite optimistic frame of mind that was his on the former journey? The whole position was now difficult. He, he of all people, was in Mrs. Fanny Fury’s hands—and she in turn was in Mrs. Anna Ragner’s net. It all seemed incomprehensible to Joseph Kilkey, at least to that mind of his that functioned to a pattern that was moulded to certain thoughts, certain habits, and certain beliefs. It had never occurred to him that he would be tied up like this. True, he had put his name to that paper, thereby incurring responsibilities and obligations, but Mr. Kilkey had never done anything like this before. Now he was worried, very worried. This threw him into a state of mind that made him act in a peculiar way. He walked away from Peter, even going a little ahead. Peter caught up with him. He was quite unconcerned about what his brother-in-law might be thinking, for his own state of mind had fallen into a particular order of excitement by reason of the fact that he was reflecting upon certain words of his sister-in-law’s. He was indeed, at that very moment when they walked up the high hill towards Anna Ragner’s house, in deep and silent communion with that woman whose presence, whose touch, whose word, and whose very existence had thrown him down headlong into a mass of the most indescribable sensations.

  No longer did that presence lurk round the corner, for it filled the whole of Instone Road, he breathed it in, rather was it reality that lurked just round that dark corner.

  He walked on, his head held high in the air, his whole being flooded by this presence, as though if he put out his hand he could touch that delicious, maddening and passionate flesh.

  In this state of mind he walked on, Mr. Joseph Kilkey walking silently beside him. He did not speak, for he felt somehow that he had already said too much. At least he assumed this, judging by the silence that had so suddenly fallen between them. When they got to the top of the hill, they both stopped. One looked one way, one the other. They seemed a pair of bewildered and embarrassed beings.

  ‘If she would only do as I say,’ Peter was thinking, ‘we could go—and all this—all this,’ he swept an invisible hand in the air, ‘one would be clear of all this.’

  If Mr. Kilkey could have divined his thoughts, could have asked him, ‘Why did you sweep your hand through the air, with that awful expression of disgust upon your face?’ the youth must only have answered, ‘I hate all this. I only want to fly from it all.’

  This passionate thought winged in only one direction—towards only one distant star. The world for him was a road, a single road, at the end of which stood Sheila Fury.

  Mr. Kilkey broke the long silence at last.

  ‘What is that crowd gathered there?’ He stopped and pointed a finger towards a small street on their left, in the middle of which a small crowd had gathered.

  ‘Looks like a street brawl,’ said Peter. ‘Shall we go and have a peep at it?’

  Joseph Kilkey hesitated. ‘All right, and then I’ll leave you to your business.’

  They went on towards the street.

  ‘What a funny place it is,’ remarked Peter.

  ‘I can’t see anything funny in it,’ replied Joseph Kilkey, who had suddenly caught sight of a woman perched precariously on the top of a table, and as he drew nearer he saw that she was surrounded by furniture.

  ‘Why, it’s an eviction,’ said Peter Fury. ‘Let’s go further along.’

  They elbowed their way through.

  ‘By gosh!’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘By gosh!’ He gripped Peter’s arm and added, ‘It is an eviction. There’s the bailiff standing at the door.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Peter replied, his eyes fastened upon the gentleman at the door, with whom stood a policeman. They were both engaged in earnest conversation about something.

  ‘Why! It’s that fellow from Mrs. Ragner’s,’ exclaimed Peter under his breath.

  It was quite dark. Like many streets lying off the Instone Road, Purves Street contained a single row of houses. On the other side were warehouses, stables, empty buildings, dilapidated-looking shops to let. The street was very narrow. When one came to the end of it one arrived at the rear of the large pickle and sauce factory whose frontage faced Banfield Road on its south side. Some doors were open so that spears of light shot from kitchens across the street. Here and there a man or woman stood, half in and half out of the door. Their attitude was one of complete indifference. In the middle of the street where Mr. Kilkey and Peter Fury were now standing, a crowd of men, women, and children were gathered. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, whilst all eyes rested upon the small heap of furniture that was now lying in the middle of the street. The woman sitting on the table was presumably the owner of the furniture. She sat with her head down, arms stretched, and her two hands gripping the top of the table. Only the top part of her face could be seen. Seated thus, she gave one the impression of a dog standing guard over a bone. She looked aggressive, and this aggressiveness was enhanced by her very silence. She seemed in the act of springing upon the crowd that had surrounded her. Occasionally she raised her head and looked over the heads of the crowd, as though she were expecting somebody.

  The silence was broken by a voice saying, ‘It’s a bloody shame, that’s what it is.’ Then silence again.

  Peter Fury and Joseph Kilkey had separated. Peter had slowly withdrawn from the crowd and worked his way to the side-walk. He now stood listening to the conversation between the policeman and the gentleman from Banfield Road. Mr. Corkran, for it was none other than he, had turned round and was now facing the crowd. At first that peculiarly dressed figure seemed comical, but only for a moment. He had been joking with the officer. He now looked worried. From time to time he adjusted his hard hat to a rakish angle upon his head. A few seconds later he took it off, looked inside it, and then put it on again.

  ‘What are you going to do, sir?’ asked the policeman. He stood with his hands behind his back, feet spread well apart, and commenced a sort of rocking movement with his body, raising himself up and down on his heels.

  Mr. Corkran, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, replied, ‘I�
��m waiting for the men from Truslip’s.’

  ‘And how long do you suppose they are going to be? I’ve been knocking about here since half-past six, and that woman’s been sitting on that table all that time.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Mr. Corkran. ‘She would do that. They all do it. They seem to have no principle at all. They are loaned money, and you must admit it, that it is loaned out of sheer kindness, and yet when they don’t pay, they expect us to do nothing about it. I ask you—where would these people be but for us? We carry out our obligations. But they never think of carrying out theirs. Consequently when we distrain on them we are called all the vilest names in the world. Wait till you see her when the van arrives.’

  Mr. Corkran now walked across to the woman seated on the table.

  ‘Now, Mrs. O’Hara,’ he said, ‘you must be sensible. You must get off the table.’

  The woman never moved. Mr. Corkran repeated his demand. Then he called,’ Officer.’ The policeman came over.

  ‘Come, Missus,’ he said, ‘you must get off that table. I’m sorry, but you must. The gentleman must do his duty. And I am here to see that justice is done. Will you let me see that paper again, sir?’ He reached out a large fat hand and took a sheet of paper from Mr. Corkran. He read it. Then he laughed. ‘Well. Well, after all he’s not taking everything, is he?’ and he leaned forward and patted the woman on the shoulder. ‘Come now, Missus, be sensible.’

  The woman lifted up her head and looked at the policeman. She said nothing. Just looked at the officer, a wooden expression upon her face. Only her hands seemed alive, for they increased their vice-like grip upon the table. She was middle-aged, slightly built, and that motionless face seemed to ask a question.

  ‘Come now,’ entreated the policeman. ‘The gentleman must have his furniture. Isn’t that only natural since you’ve had his money?’

  Still the woman refused to speak.

  This silence seemed to cast a spell upon the audience, for they too were silent, though their eyes seemed to ransack this isolated woman in front of them. Mr. Corkran had arrived promptly with a companion at six o’clock, with whose help the furniture had been removed from number eleven Purves Street. Mr. Corkran’s companion, having been paid his half-crown, had long since disappeared, and was at this moment seated in the bar parlour of ‘The Grapes.’

  The crowd fell apart, one or two drifted away up the street and returned again. Like Mr. Corkran, they were waiting for the arrival of the van from Truslip’s, but whereas this was a duty for the one, it was merely idle curiosity for the others.

  Mr. Corkran again spoke to the woman: ‘Mrs. O’Hara, you must please get off the table or I shall have to ask the officer to remove you.’ He cast an appealing glance at the constable, but that person’s expression was now one of complete boredom with the whole affair. This boredom, like waves, wafted about, touching the crowd, touching Mr. Corkran, floated back to the crowd, touched the policeman. The first thrill was over.

  ‘Now, Missus.’ Mr. Corkran’s sensitive ears seemed to have caught the first faint rumbling sounds of Mr. Truslip’s van, for he put his two arms round the woman and with a sudden jerk lifted her from the table.

  ‘Aw,’ said the crowd, ‘Aw …’ a cry in which Mr. Joseph Kilkey himself joined.

  Mrs. Ragner’s factotum gave one glance at the crowd and shrugged his shoulders. ‘H’m,’ he said. ‘H’m.’

  At the back of the table and entirely hidden from the crowd lay a large drawer, which had been extracted from the dressing-table to facilitate its removal from the house. In this drawer a child lay fast asleep. The crowd’s ‘Aw’ had come fast upon this discovery of the sleeping child.

  ‘Take that child into the house at once, Missus,’ said the policeman. ‘You know if anything happened to it you could be arrested.’

  He picked up the child and handed it to the woman, but as she took it from him he quickly turned his head away, for he could not bear to look at the woman’s face. ‘Take the child in,’ he said.

  A woman emerged from the crowd. ‘Come now, Ellen,’ she said. ‘Cheer up. It can’t be helped. Those swine have no feelings at all.’

  All this time the woman had not uttered a single word. She allowed herself to be led silently to the door of her house. Then she passed inside and the door closed. At the same time Mr. Truslip’s van turned the corner into Purves Street. The sudden bang of the door seemed to galvanize Mr. Corkran into life.

  ‘Stand back,’ he said with great authority. ‘Stand back.’ And the crowd made way for the van. The street lamp for some reason or other decided to deny Mr. Corkran and Co. the only light available. It suddenly went out, and the whole street was wrapped in darkness.

  Joseph Kilkey had not moved from his place. He had stood there, looking on at this scene, like one in a dream. Words filled the air, people moved about, the wheels of the van rattled on the cobbles. He stood rigid, as though bound to the spot. Then Peter came up.

  ‘I’ll have to go now,’ he said. ‘Can we talk about that matter another time?’ Peter patted him on the back. ‘Rotten, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘It’s awful,’ said Joseph Kilkey, and there was an expression of horror on his face.

  ‘Well, so-long,’ said Peter, and quickly passed through the crowd, leaving Mr. Kilkey to watch Mr. Truslip’s hefty men place the furniture in the van.

  ‘The poor woman!’ he said. ‘It’s awful.’

  The van moved off, the crowd drifted away. One after another the doors of the houses closed until the street was deserted, save for Mr. Kilkey, who stood transfixed, staring at that row of houses, and now wondering into which one that woman had disappeared. Who lived in those mean-looking houses? Workers, he supposed. But he did not know them. They were all of them strangers, as now that street in which he stood looked strange. The low-roofed houses, the blackened and towering walls of the warehouses, the cold, bleak and utterly desolate atmosphere, the dirt-strewn pavements, with their hard and uneven surfaces, the derelict shops, the dilapidated stables and offices, and over all this the peculiar smell that filled the air. Alien ground indeed. Not often did Mr. Kilkey stretch his legs as far. That tiff with Maureen, the thought of his surety, the hard words with Peter, the uncertain position of everything within the orbit of his world, all these things seemed meaningless, for somehow as he surveyed the scene before him, with that crowded and desperate life hidden behind the opposite walls, and those grim bleak buildings, it seemed as if that world before his eyes, and under his hand, and bounded by his thoughts, were endowed with a sort of terrifying meaninglessness. But why was he standing there? Why didn’t he go home? Yet he did not move. He had become one with the scene, one with the street. Aloud he exclaimed, ‘What a place!’ He turned his head and looked back the way he had come. And far behind that sea of slate and brick which separated him from the long King’s Road, far behind, lay Hatfields and Price Street—his world; and as he looked in that direction he could imagine its warmth, its comfort, its assurance, its permanence; it reached out hands to him, and called him back.

  Hang it all, what the devil was he doing in this place anyhow? He would walk away. To-morrow he would have forgotten all about it. That life would carry on just the same, just the same as he carried on in his little world of Price Street and the King’s Road. He did not belong here. Yet he was stirred by certain feelings. The street fascinated him. Yet he hated it, just as that dumb, defiant woman had thrilled him and moved him and made him sad. They had just seen a glimpse of a crowd of people, and together Peter and he had gone down that street. What had made them look that way? He did not know. What had made that nightmarish half-hour seem so meaningless?

  Mr. Joseph Kilkey had made a discovery. He had in fact looked over a high wall, and had made the astounding discovery that down that dark evil-smelling hole, hidden away from the main road, which even by day must be infested by a gloom and darkness, a darkness like none other, for this street breathed out its own, he had found people. People liv
ing, breathing, speaking. That was what had so astonished Mr. Joseph Kilkey.

  By a sheer accident he had been flung into a world of people to whom he had never as much as given a single thought, for he had never believed they existed. Yet there they were, alive, human, buried from the light.

  ‘What a place! What a place!’ thought Joseph Kilkey, and nothing seemed so warm and comforting, so bright with welcome, as his own small kitchen, the cosy fire, his newspaper; and quickly he made his way out of the street, though every now and then he cast a furtive glance behind him, as if he wished to see it for the last time, as if its spirit were touching his shoulder and trying to draw him back. Only when he finally reached the King’s Road did normality return.

  ‘How late it is!’ he said. ‘Maureen will be furious.’ And then he had wasted the whole evening. The whole evening. Well, there seemed nothing else for it but a heart-to-heart talk with his mother-in-law, and as a last resource, a visit to Banfield Road.

  Maureen and the child had already gone to bed when Joseph Kilkey let himself into the house. It was the first time he had gone out to Confession and come back so late, and he felt angry with himself as he realized he had wasted the whole evening for nothing.

  ‘Damn it! Why did I have that row at all? A little thing like that,’ and he thought of that street again, and the scene with the bailiff.

  ‘Is that you, Joe?’ Maureen Kilkey had heard him come in, and was now calling over the banisters. ‘Is that you?’

  He could hear her breathing in the darkness. ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘It’s me all right.’

  ‘Good God! The hour it is,’ she shouted down. ‘How late you are!’

  ‘Aye. Coming up in a tick,’ said Joseph Kilkey, and he smiled to himself, for even in that angry tone of voice he was conscious of warmth, of the security of his home, of his child. He was back in his own world again. He hung his coat and vest on the nail in the lobby. Then he went to bed.