The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  ‘Now there is only you and I and the two boys. Once there were nine of us. Sometimes when I think of it all I want to get up and fly—fly away, anywhere, and let everything go to the devil. You’ll say, “Fanny, you were a fool.” But we’re all foolish. Dennis says that for thirty years he’s heard nothing but the word money ringing in his ears. “Money.”’ The woman laughed.

  ‘Money! Well, I suppose we all talk about that, even millionaires want money, and some people want the moon. Well, I’ve had none of their money. Whatever came into this house went on to their own backs and into their own bellies. Not mine. I’ve ceased wondering what money is really like. It doesn’t worry me any more. All I want to do is to pay my way. No more than that, and that’s about all life is, God knows. Just paying one’s way. Here at least. But there’s one place where we won’t ever require it, and where there won’t be any more worries.’

  She took a large spotted handkerchief from her pocket and went over and wiped the old man’s mouth.

  ‘Ah! They’re all going off now, Father. Getting fed up with things. Even Maureen and Joe are going to leave the neighbourhood. What do you think of that? All clearing out one after another. I know what I’d do if I had my time all over again. I’d burn death-candles at their heads the moment they were born.’

  She closed her eyes, her body seemed to relax, sagged, and suddenly she was seated on the bed again, the lighted candle still in her hand, whilst the other stroked the old man’s face. She had felt that strange upwelling desire to speak, and she had surrendered to it. As she looked into the old man’s face, her mind became crowded with pictures that passed across it like a film. Peter would be downstairs, waiting for her. But she could not move. She was indifferent to everything except this panorama that floated to and fro upon the surface of her mind.

  Suddenly that helpless figure in the bed vanished. She saw no aged and paralysed man, but one who was tall, of fine physique—an upright and generous man. She could hear his voice, his laughter. What had been a blur became shadow—and shadow had become flesh. She could see her father quite clearly now, as she had seen him years ago in Ireland. She looked down, in these miraculous moments, upon something which had once been and could never come again. And this was the invisible link which bound them, father and daughter, something deeper than flesh and deeper than blood, an essence of the spirit, an invisible golden cord that held them together. She would always see her father thus, the finer thing, the man who had been, that seemingly imperishable and staunch link that held the memory of all that had been beautiful and happy in her life.

  This imprisoned and ageing flesh was but the magic mirror through which she could see like many bright suns the happy days of her childhood in Ireland. Through him she could resurrect those times past and gone. She could put out a hand and touch them, those magic and lovely days. Suns that sent warmth into her heart. In such moments her whole soul surrendered to a feeling, delicious, joyous, and yet melancholy, to which she could give no utterance.

  It was like an unsung song, or the soundless break of waters against the shore. Out of the memories of those lovely island days she drew as from some deep and fathomless well a secret, painful, and voiceless joy. The days she had used to spend wandering with her father in the green lanes—the Sunday drives in the carriage, seated between her father and mother when they went off to chapel at Barrymore. These memories were like the waters of content, into which she could sink herself. She remembered everything, and remembering, that hidden joy became wild and exultant, for she was a child once again. ‘Yes,’ she was thinking, ‘and that’s where he should really be—in his own land,’ for soon, she told herself, Anthony Mangan must rest, and what more natural than that he should be with her own mother in Cork? But how could she let him go? This one remaining link with that buried life. She dreaded to think of it. Her mind refused to face the inevitable. ‘Yes. He is very low. Very low. Perhaps I should have Dr. Dunfrey in again to see him.’ And now she did really feel afraid. She had to realize it. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she thought, ‘I don’t suppose Dad will ever speak again. Poor Father. It seems cruel. Perhaps I was wrong to bring him here, after all. This was not his life. This fighting and struggling, this scrimping and scraping, this endless——’

  She got up from the bed. ‘How mad I am to be dreaming like this!’ she said aloud, gave a last look at her father, blew out the candle, and then went downstairs.

  ‘I thought you’d fallen asleep,’ exclaimed Peter, pushing a chair to the table for his mother.

  Mrs. Fury sat down.

  ‘Did you?’ she said.

  How quiet, how strange the house was since Dennis had gone. It seemed to dawn on her now with such terrible certainty. The house seemed deserted. Yes, even the smoke from that horrible shag which he smoked—she missed that, for it was unusual to find the air freed from those overhanging clouds of bluish-black smoke that Mr. Dennis Fury sent up from the hot bowl of his pipe. It seemed unthinkable to suppose for a single moment that he had actually gone. Might he not drop in at any moment? Perhaps he was upstairs after all, fast asleep, or maybe sitting on the closet reading the back numbers of Ireland’s Own.

  ‘What are you smiling at, Mother?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said coldly. ‘I didn’t know I was smiling at anything.’

  ‘You were,’ he replied, filling her cup with tea, which he also sugared and milked. ‘Bread, Mother?’ he asked.

  The woman said, ‘No, thanks,’ and was thinking, ‘Why all this sudden attention?’ It seemed rather late in the day. She began sipping her tea.

  ‘Mother,’ began Peter, pushing his cup and plate away, ‘something is not quite right in this house. You’re worrying about something. Won’t you tell me what it is? I’ll try and help you.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t laugh,’ he went on. ‘I mean it. What is all the trouble between Mrs. Ragner and you?’

  Fanny Fury’s body seemed to stiffen in the chair as she said, ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘Well! What if I do?’ remarked Peter. ‘We’re always surprising each other.’

  ‘I have never been in the habit of telling my business to my children. Why should I tell it now?—least of all to you. Peter, the time to help me isn’t now. It’s gone. That’s all too late. In any case, I can look after myself. Why should I trouble my children at all? Bitter experience has taught me to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about anything. I am worried about your grandfather. He is very ill. Your grandfather means a lot to me. You may not think so, but he does.’

  ‘How are you going to look after him?’ asked Peter. ‘There is nobody here now.’

  ‘I shall see to that too. Did you suppose I should ask you to stay?’ she went on, her tone of voice cold and indifferent. ‘Did you?’ she repeated. And without waiting for him to reply, went on, ‘Are you as considerate as all that? You who have been home nearly a week, and whom I’ve hardly seen. Who comes and goes like a lodger—who feels because he has handed his wages over that the matter is closed. Haven’t you any feeling at all? I don’t believe you have. You may have’—she raised her head and looked him straight in the face—‘for somebody outside the house. But I’m not going to worry myself about that any longer. You are no child now, Peter, though sometimes I get a little pleasure when I think of a time when you really were. But all that has finished now. If you want to help me you can do it by carrying on as you are. You go to sea day after to-morrow. Well, you must do that. I can manage along quite well. When I find that things are getting on top of me, I shall ask Anthony to get work ashore. It’s hard for me to have to say it, but that boy, whom you were all so fond of calling “Softy,” has proved himself the best of the crew. Desmond and I have forgotten each other, and perhaps that is as well. If Maureen calls, it is only to insult me. The best you can manage is to run a message for me. You were always good at running messages. I won’t speak of your father. He stands by himself. Outside of everything. But this I can say, and I say it
with great pride. If any of you can prove as good a man by the time you’ve reached his age, well, you will be able to pat yourselves on the back. No, Peter. You have forced me to be frank with you, and I am being frank. I’m not thinking of your college affair. I’ve forgotten all that long ago. It’s hard for me to have to say it, but I distrust you. I can see now why your father did not want you back. But now, even now …’

  She got out of her chair, and moving to the other side of the table took his hands. Then she dragged him to his feet, and before he could realize it he was clasped in her fierce embrace.

  ‘You are still my son.’ She kissed him. ‘I only want you to do what is right. To be clean and honest and never to forget your duties. How many times have I said this? My God!’

  ‘Mother! Mother!’ cried Peter, and buried his head on her shoulder.

  They stood thus in silence for some time, then Peter exclaimed:

  ‘Mother! Won’t you tell me what is worrying you? You see, I can notice the change in you. Everybody has noticed. Do tell me! I want to try to help you.’

  She freed him and went and sat down again in her chair.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that. There is nothing to tell, anyway. I’ve given up hoping for anything except a little peace, and that’s all I want. When your father gets fed up with things he can go off. He’s free. Can I go off? You can go on Tuesday and forget everything in a few minutes. But can I when I’m in the middle of it? I have to stay here. No, Peter! We look at things differently now. But don’t you worry.’

  So she was retreating now, thought Peter, and he was angry with himself for ever supposing she would open her mouth. He turned round and exclaimed savagely:

  ‘Why don’t you be frank, then? You’re mad, that’s all, just because you can’t get your own way any more. Why did Desmond go? Because he hated seeing me at that college into which you pushed me to satisfy some crazy idea of your own. But I upset your calculations by kicking my way out of it. And since I have done this I’m supposed to hang my head down—say not a word. I’ve got to do this and I’ve got to remember always this awful thing I’ve done. You say you’ve forgotten all about it, but you haven’t, you’re only kidding yourself, Mother. Just kidding yourself. Maureen went too. Why did she go? You know you stopped her marrying twice. Just because you were afraid. But look at her now—just kicking her heels to get away from that sloppy, sentimental, ignorant old man she married. You know all these things, Mother, but you won’t admit them. And now you’re tied hand and foot to this woman, and you won’t say a single word. Not a word. I’ve said I’d help. And I would help. But you’re so proud—and so jealous for fear anybody should open that secret cupboard you’ve got. Do you suppose you are the only person in the world with any feelings? I’m not a fool. I understand things too, just as well as you. I know that all we have to do here—in this stinking hole—is keep our heads above water. But we are not the only ones. There are thousands like us. I’m not going about with my eyes shut.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘Is this the education Mr. Mulcare has given you?’

  She folded her arms and stretched out her legs. Her expression was one of absolute bitterness. But even this attitude, a sort of pathetic rallying of the old spirit in it, had no effect whatever upon her son.

  ‘Mulcare. That fellow with such a high and cocky opinion of himself! What has he to do with me? Mother, you must tell me all about Mrs. Ragner. I still want to help.’

  ‘Do you? Fancy! And have you the right to talk, who are not even honest. Even now you are thinking of how soon you can see that filthy wretch?’

  ‘What filthy wretch?’ demanded Peter, his face flushed, his hands shaking, his eyes glaring at this seated woman who seemed so bitter, so resolute, so determined.

  ‘You know. You are still carrying on with that one. If you’re not blind, neither am I. But take care where you end up. You seem to like scraping about in the filth, into which you could fling me too as though I were a bad twopenny-piece. I don’t forget everything. You devil! The way you can stand there and insult me—yes—my God, and insult me, here—here’—she thumped the table—‘here where I have struggled and reared you all. Does your father know anything of that? Not he. You slink away of an evening, and one can tell how happy you must be when you step foot out of the house. You hate it. Yes. You were spoiled. There is no doubt of that. But I can remain buried here—I and that helpless old man—whilst you go off and indulge in your filth, and then when you come home you have a smile for everyone—a sly smile—but if one wasn’t so used to this world, and smiled with you, how soon we’d see that devil under your smile. You would disgrace me and think nothing about it. And now you want to help me. Help me what? Build more castles. Don’t make me laugh. I’m undoing all I have already done. That and no more. In other words, I’m paying my way.’

  She got out of the chair and went to her son.

  ‘Get up,’ she shouted. ‘Get up at once. You sly wretch. I could strike you to the floor as I’ve done before. But I have more sense now. I’ve seen how easy it is to be fooled, to be lied to by my own children—yes, and deserted by my own husband. Still, I’m here, d’you see? I’m still here. Now get up. Do you hear me?’

  She stood erect, her arms still folded; all the old spirit seemed to flow back to her again.

  ‘Get out of my sight. Go on! Get up!’ She stamped her foot. ‘Are you deaf?’

  Without a word he went upstairs. He lay on the bed fully dressed. After a while he heard her mount the stairs. The door banged. Then silence again, broken only by the deep snores of Anthony Mangan in the back bedroom.

  So she distrusted him. He knew, he understood. She was suspicious, and yet she hadn’t said anything, not a word. Yes, he had noticed the change when he came home. He had noticed how she only shook hands with him as he stepped in the doorway, how she had carried on all that past week, treating his very presence, his absence, his words, everything, to the same dignified silence. How clever she must be, even without knowing it.

  For suddenly he was filled with shame, a shame that did not urge him to go and ask her forgiveness, a shame that would not send him to her, pleading, contrite, but one that filled him with anger—so that after a while he shouted at the top of his voice:

  ‘Yes. I do hate the house. I’ve always hated it. Ever since I was a child. I hate everything—Hatfields, the people, the dirt, the smells—yes, and I am happy now. I have somewhere to go. I have something lovely to look at. Yes. I am happy—happy at last. And I don’t care. Don’t care.’

  He shook himself in the bed.

  ‘And you are tied hand and foot and you won’t admit it—won’t breathe—you are silent. Why are you silent? You know. You are silent so I can always feel this shame. You are clever, Mother. Sometimes I simply hate you. Hate you. Because you won’t listen. You won’t listen.’

  He hammered on the bed-rail with his fist.

  ‘You’ve driven everybody away with your tongue and your temper. Even Dad.’

  Then he lay still. Not a sound from the next room. Was she asleep, or just lying quiet, all alone with her thoughts? ‘I wonder?’ He crept out of the bed and tiptoed to the door. He opened it and crept softly outside. He stood on the dark and draughty landing, listening. Then he heard a faint sound. It was the sound—yes, he remembered—for weren’t those sounds the ones he had used to hear when he was a boy? The same. They rose on the air, strange, fascinating sounds—like music. He crept to the door of his mother’s room. Noiselessly he opened it and looked in. ‘Ah! I knew!’ he said to himself. ‘I knew.’

  Mrs. Fury was kneeling before the altar of the Sacred Heart that stood on the high shelf in the corner of the big bedroom. She was saying her night prayers. He held his breath and stood watching her. Then he went inside. He pushed the door to, but did not close it. He crept up behind his mother, and without a sound knelt down behind her. As though he were once again serving the Mass at St. Sebastian’s. He closed his eyes, joi
ned his hands, the tips of the fingers almost touching his nose, and listened.

  She had undone her hair, and it hung now like a great cloud over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with the white of the cotton night-dress. Everything seemed so still, so peaceful, as though no hard words had ever filled the air, as though in a single flash all was as before. Looking at her, at the uplifted head, whose eyes he supposed must be riveted upon that stone figure of the Christ on the shelf, almost hidden by wallflower and daisies, and seeing that imperishable light that burned at the figure’s feet—looking at this he was disarmed. He bowed his head.

  ‘Poor Mother!’ he said to himself. ‘Poor Mother!’ She knelt there, as always, believing, devout, her whole soul offered up to the altar, and yet behind her, just behind her, yes, even looking over her shoulder, was all that seamy, hard, and unrelenting reality in which she was trapped. And now she was free. By a movement of her hand, as she made the sign of the Cross, she had burst free from that mesh and stood shrouded, secure, at peace.

  ‘Poor Mother!’ he said, and knew that this—this was the only happiness she had known. This silent communion. That flickering lamp was her bright sun, that raised stone hand the protector, that tragic face the gateway into the world of her dreams. She seemed at last to sense the disturbance of the air. She could feel his breathing and at once divined his presence. She swung round and said quickly:

  ‘You! Go away. Do you wish to insult me still further by kneeling here?’

  ‘Mother! I’m sorry. Really sorry. Forgive me. I was wrong. Please.’

  ‘Go away,’ she said, and turned her back on him.

  She heard the door close. She continued her night prayers. She blessed herself and got into bed.

  Peter had raged, had shouted through the wall, but she had heard nothing. She lay down. She felt fortified for to-morrow. She blew out the candle and was soon asleep.