by James Hanley
A few minutes later she was fast asleep. The engines hummed, but she did not hear them. About two in the morning she woke up suddenly, to the sound of continuous pounding. The ship was experiencing anything but a calm passage.
‘Oh dear!’ she said, ‘I do hope I’m not going to be sick,’ and she thought of the light and the bell behind her head. But she dropped off again, and it was broad daylight when she woke. The ship had passed through St. George’s Channel, and already the loud crying of gulls reassured Miss Mangan they were not far off now. She sat up in her bunk.
‘Wonder what time it is?’ She pulled her watch from under the pillow. ‘Well, imagine! I must have slept ten solid hours.’ And she rang the bell.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, tea, please,’ she announced as the stewardess stood by the door, betraying in her face a certain disappointment with her charge. Why this stout, middle-aged lady, who looked so much a heart case with her violently red cheeks, should come through such a rough night without once ringing the bell was beyond the lady’s comprehension. Miss Mangan, in the middle of her morning prayers, was now thanking God and our Blessed Lady for an excellent passage, one free from inconveniences of every kind.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said smilingly, as the tea appeared. ‘What time do we get in?’
‘About ten, mam,’ said the stewardess.
‘Thank you.’
Once more Miss Mangan gave up her thoughts to Gelton. Perhaps her sister might even come down. Well! Well! Here she was back again after an absence of thirteen months, and with what pleasurable anticipation she could now look forward to seeing her father, to seeing everybody, in fact! ‘Things have altered, of course,’ she was saying to herself. ‘If all that Biddy tells me is true, there have been big changes in that family. I wonder—I just wonder if Fanny would return to Ireland?’ Horrible thought. She must not even think about it. That would upset all her plans.
Having finished her early-morning tea, Miss Mangan got out of bed, gave a little shiver, and looked at herself in the mirror on the bunkhead. She filled the wash-bowl and began her ablutions. Half an hour later she was on deck, the key of her cabin clutched tightly in her gloved hand. She was completely dressed in brown even to her stockings, and she walked leisurely round and round the deck, interesting herself in everything. She watched the sailors getting the ropes ready, and studied the clothes of the other passengers, who seemed to be as happy and carefree as herself. After a while she sat down on the hatch and looked out over the waters. Gulls wheeled round the ship, the steam-whistle blew—passengers crowded to the rails. There was the land. ‘Gelton at last,’ exclaimed Brigid Mangan under her breath. ‘Gelton.’ It couldn’t be long now. Thank God! What a lovely calm journey! She only hoped—all going well—God willing, that the journey back with her old father would be as smooth and as uneventful. Still, that was hoping too much, perhaps.
The rails were lined with cheery and excited passengers. From the saloon deck Miss Mangan could look down upon the main deck where the less fortunate were also gathered, though, unlike the saloon passengers, they seemed all huddled together as though for warmth. Indeed, as Miss Mangan looked down she could not espy a single happy face. Women with children—men carrying tool-boxes and bags—men from the West going to work in the harvest at Gelton—potato-pickers, labourers, young girls, a motley crew, and about their feet an indescribable conglomeration of bags, boxes, and cases. The deck littered with orange-peel, chocolate papers, cigarette-packets. ‘How untidy they are!’ thought Brigid Mangan. Nobody moved. This mass huddled together on the after-deck seemed quite unconscious of the nearness of Gelton. From the hull there rose the warm animal smell of the cattle and sheep. She turned away and went back to her cabin. Only ten minutes or so and the ship would be tying up at the quay. The ship was drawing nearer, the life of the river became more crowded, the gulls’ cries became more and more frantic, as though the voyage would end without a single crumb being flung into the swift flowing waters over which they wheeled and hovered, their cries at length drowned by a series of loud blasts upon the ship’s whistle.
When Brigid Mangan came out on deck again, there wasn’t even elbow-room at the rails. She could see nothing of the quay towards which the ship was now nearing. She saw hands raised, handkerchiefs flying, heard shouts, laughter, but beyond this long line of black and serge suits worn by the men and the many-coloured dresses worn by the women Miss Mangan saw nothing at all. Indeed, her height was her disadvantage now, for not even by trusting her fifteen and a half stone to the tremulous and uncertain balance of her toes could she avail herself of the sight and scenes upon the quay. Her eagerness pushed her forward, but her small stature was against her. The quay was crowded with waiting relations and friends. ‘Heavens!’ thought she, ‘there seems such a crowd gathered down there and I can’t even see them’—and it was so necessary that she should. To descend the companion-way was impossible. The main deck was littered with every kind of obstacle, and sailors were raising the mail-bags out of the hold. Hardly a sound from the holds, as though the beasts below, dimly aware of this sudden cessation of the ship’s engines, were now terrified into absolute silence. ‘Thank God!’ said Brigid Mangan, when a sudden bump shot her forward and one fat hand clutched desperately at the tail of a gentleman’s coat. This man now left the rails and Miss Mangan took his place. What a crowd! What a noise! What confusion! Was there one single face amongst them which she could recognize? Desperately her eyes darted from one corner of the crowd to the other. Her eyes ransacked this welter of excited faces but without reward. There was no Fanny Fury there. There was just one chance. Miss Pettigrew, braving the rigours of a down-town journey at her great age, might by a miracle be in that crowd. Again Miss Mangan’s eyes roamed desperately about, looking at one, now another face—and every face seemed the same.
‘Dear! dear!’
Well, she would get a cab and drive direct to Hatfields. The gangway was going up. The crowd at the rails seemed to wheel round in a body and surge towards the companion-ladder. The rows of faces on the quay seemed suddenly to disintegrate, people were hurrying towards the gangway. Then Miss Mangan smiled and said half aloud,’ Thank God!’ For she had espied not a face but a bonnet, and in that bonnet some red roses which, for some reason, bobbed violently about.
‘My Lord!’ she said. ‘Biddy’s here. Dear old soul! Marvellous old woman!’
Miss Pettigrew indeed was there, standing isolated now, dressed in her black satin skirt, black cape and bonnet, in which the roses still continued to bob as though they mirrored the agitation of the old woman herself, whose clasped hands held a useless white handkerchief, useless, for she had been quite unable to wave it, hemmed in as she was by the crowd round the gangway. But there she was. And there was Brigid Mangan.
‘Oh, Biddy!’ cried Miss Mangan, and began waving her handkerchief. Miss Pettigrew’s head bobbed up and down. She smiled acknowledgment, and even at that distance Miss Mangan could see that toothless cavern of a mouth.
‘Dear Biddy! Dear Biddy!’ she exclaimed under her breath, and, picking up her bandbox, struggled to the ladder. Here a kindly sailor carried it down for her.
‘Please take it to the quay for me,’ she said, and watched the man raise it on his shoulder. She followed him down the gangway.
She rushed forward and smothered the old woman in a passionate embrace.
‘My dear! My dear Biddy!’
Then she looked round at the ship, at the hurrying crowds, the procession of cabs and lorries—heard the shouts and cries and laughter—and once more she hugged the old woman in her arms. Miss Brigid Mangan had arrived in Gelton at last.
CHAPTER IX
‘My dear! My dear!’ said Brigid Mangan, who seemed loath to release the old lady from her grasp. Judging by the now puzzled look upon Biddy Pettigrew’s face, it seemed that Miss Mangan’s degree of affection had exceeded itself, for she continued to hold the old woman in her arms, beaming down into that queer, wrin
kled face, the while a patient porter stood by holding the bandbox, quite indifferent to this display of human warmth. ‘Biddy! How wonderful you are,’ she said for the third time, ‘coming all this way so early in the morning to meet me.’ She looked round on hearing strange, guttural sounds to find the porter communing with himself, whereat she said sharply, ‘Do get me a cab, man.’
‘Yes’m.’
‘You shouldn’t have done this, Biddy,’ remonstrated Aunt Brigid, releasing the old woman at last. ‘It was good of you, nevertheless. I looked round on the off-chance I might see my sister, but I never expected to see her, of course. Now! Here’s the man with the cab. How well you look!’ concluded Miss Mangan. Then to her astonishment a young woman came up, smiled at the old woman, saying, ‘Are you all right now, dear?’ and then proceeded to subject the buxom arrival to a thoroughly scrutinizing examination.
‘Oh, Brigid! This is Molly Byrne from next door. She came down with me.’
‘How are you, Molly?’ exclaimed Miss Mangan, extending a gloved hand. She was affability itself.
This polite exchange of compliments was now interrupted by the porter, whose patience was at an end. He announced loudly, ‘Your cab is waiting, mam.’
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ replied Brigid Mangan, and without even glancing at him put a shilling in his hand, and, going to the door, pulled it open and exclaimed, ‘In you get, Biddy. That’s right. The porter has seen to my bandbox. Is Molly coming?’
‘No! Molly has shopping to do, Brigid. Thank you, my dear. Thank you, Molly.’
A few minutes later the cab moved off along the Stage. Brigid Mangan sat bolt upright in the cab, looking now to the left, now to the right, as the life of the water-front on this early June morning sailed slowly by. The old woman was huddled up in the corner, head nodding, the roses in her bonnet bobbing to and fro with the anything but smooth progress of the cab. Miss Mangan was greeting all things with a smile. Everything would be splendid if progress were as easy as this. She completely ignored her companion for the first few minutes, as though she were settling down to the new rhythm and the new life. And also she wanted to think over things. Biddy Pettigrew seemed to have welcomed this temporary respite, for she was, in fact, very much out of breath, and Miss Mangan’s boisterous spirit had been a little too much for her. Suddenly Miss Mangan looked at the old woman. ‘Biddy,’ she said, ‘I do declare you are really looking younger,’ and she laughed. Whereon the old woman’s head was raised and she turned upwards a face that seemed to mock Miss Mangan’s remark, to reveal its sheer falsity, and commented drily, ‘Brigid, you amaze me.’
‘It looks as though we shall have a beautiful day,’ said Brigid Mangan.
‘I hope so,’ replied Miss Pettigrew. ‘Brigid, you are looking very well indeed. You must be the only Lady in your family. But then, you always looked it. You know how to look after yourself.’ The old woman was actually shivering in her corner.
‘My dear Biddy! You are shivering with the cold. I do wish you hadn’t come to meet me. It was good of you, just the same. It quite puts my sister to shame. But now we must do something. I cannot let you make that long journey home without a stimulant.—Driver! Driver!’ she began calling at the top of her voice. And after much frantic effort she managed to draw the man’s attention. He looked down at Aunt Brigid, an expression of utter hopelessness upon his face.
‘Please drive us to “The Mermaid.” Do you know where “The Mermaid” is?’ Once more the cab moved off, but not before the old woman had sat up sharply exclaiming, ‘Brigid! “The Mermaid!” “The Mermaid” of all places! Why—why?’
Miss Mangan’s knowledge of Gelton was scanty, her knowledge of its public-houses even more so. ‘It was the only one I could think of, Biddy,’ she said. ‘I remember it because my uncle always put up there when he sailed into Gelton Dock.’
Biddy Pettigrew said nothing. The remainder of the journey was continued in silence. The cab suddenly swung round a corner, the old woman fell heavily against the stout lady, and the vehicle came to a halt. There was ‘The Mermaid Tavern.’ The cabby got down from his box, opened the door and announced gruffly, ‘Mermaid, Ma. Going on afterwards?’ For some reason or other he seemed a little suspicious of this lady dressed in brown. Miss Mangan puckered her brows.
‘Shall we have him wait?’ she asked of Miss Pettigrew as she helped the old woman out of the cab. The door slammed with a loud bang, the horse stamped its hoof upon the cobbles, the cabby stood waiting.
‘I shouldn’t bother, Brigid,’ replied Miss Pettigrew. ‘We can get a cab any time.’
‘Very well.’ Miss Mangan took out her purse. ‘How much?’ she enquired.
‘Two and sixpence to you, mam.’
‘Frightful, frightful,’ replied Brigid Mangan. ‘Perfectly frightful. Here’—and she thrust the money into the man’s hand. ‘Come, Biddy my dear.’ She took the old woman by the arm, and said, ‘Please put my box inside the doorway.’ Then they entered ‘The Mermaid.’
The two women passed through the public bar-room, whose long low counter was already crowded at this early hour of the morning. With the help of an obliging barman they found a quiet corner in a secluded room, one used only by what the barman described as ‘those gentlemen, mam,’ those gentlemen being certain brokers from the Corn Exchange. ‘The Mermaid’ was famous, not for the liquor, nor indeed for the large amount of money that daily passed into its till, but famous for its great age, and its ‘simply splendid’ hostess, who always had a warm welcome for boys or girls from across the water. Other public-houses might go the way of all things, but ‘The Mermaid’ was destined to go on for ever. The ugly, low building, with the gaudy frontage, its flaming lamp that flared at night and lighted the whole street, seemed immune from the inevitable perishability that comes to all things. And now, safely hidden behind its stout walls, snug and warm in the corner of its ‘special room,’ Miss Brigid Mangan and her friend could give vent to all the curiosity that had festered in them ever since they embraced each other on that crowded Stage. They could sit back and survey each other with that calmness that could only come to a person so comfortably ensconced in the back room of ‘The Mermaid.’ The man had gone away for the refreshments, a hot gin-and-lemon for Miss Pettigrew and a glass of porter for Brigid Mangan.
‘How you travel, Brigid. How you do get about,’ commented the old woman, breaking the silence at last. Then the barman came and put the drinks on the table. When he had gone, and the door was closed, Miss Pettigrew continued, ‘You never change at all, Brigid, that’s what amazes me.’
‘Tut! tut! Such nonsense. Here! Drink this. It will send those shivers away,’ and Brigid Mangan handed the glass to Biddy Pettigrew.
‘I’m thinking now,’ said the old woman, ‘that if we had taken the tram at once we should have been safely home by now.’ She picked up her gin with a shaking hand.
‘Don’t be silly, Biddy. Besides, I feel none too good myself.’
They drank each other’s health.
‘The very best to you,’ said Brigid Mangan. She sipped delicately from her glass.
‘And the same to you,’ replied Miss Pettigrew.
The old woman leaned back on the settee and thought, ‘She certainly knows how to look after herself.’ It was not often that one got a chance of studying Miss Mangan in repose—but she could do so now. Her stoutness seemed to have increased since they had last met. But Miss Pettigrew made no comment.
‘I never thought I should see you here—at least so soon,’ said the old woman.
‘I had already thought of coming over a month ago,’ replied Brigid Mangan. ‘Biddy, you must tell me about Father. Is he very ill? Poor Dad! Poor Dad!’ She put down her glass, and stared disconsolately at her gloves.
‘Well! I wrote you a few days ago, and he’s no different, Brigid,’ replied Miss Pettigrew. ‘Your father is badly. Badly. Perhaps you were right to come over.’
‘Right! It was my duty to come over, Biddy. I had to come
. Indeed, I made up my mind long ago about that. Dad is so old. I’m afraid, Biddy—I should hate to see Father die in Gelton. Horrible place, and in that house. Oh! my God! No, Biddy, I have come over here not so much through what I have learned—and how kind you have been to keep in touch with me all these years—but through certain pangs of conscience, Biddy. I was a fool letting him go—so here I am, and I’m going to take him back.’
‘What! Dear God, Brigid! Are you mad? It will kill the old man,’ and Miss Pettigrew threw her thin bony hands high into the air. Her mouth remained wide open with astonishment, so that Miss Mangan could see right inside that toothless mouth, and marvel, not at the old woman’s astonishment, but at her volubility, which suffered not at all from the absence of teeth. In the twenty years she had been without them she had managed very well; she had perfected a quite new technique and spoke with ease.
‘Brigid, I don’t think your sister would allow that.’
‘Why not? Is she able to look after him? Isn’t he my father as well as hers? I wish Father to end his days in Ireland, and I see no reason why Fanny should object. Indeed, if she thinks as much of him as I do, she will at least see reason in allowing him to die in his own land. Don’t you think so?’
‘But, Brigid—it all seems so sad! Fanny has had him for years.’
‘I well know. I don’t think Father has served her badly at all,’ said Brigid Mangan. ‘She must have drawn quite a little pile from his pension these last nine years. And I am certain that Father paid for that young devil’s education in college, still——’ She lifted her glass and began to sip again. The old woman had nothing to say. She was disgusted by such a remark. ‘It is my intention, God willing,’ continued Miss Mangan, ‘to have Father home in Cork before the week’s out.’
Miss Pettigrew damped her ardour at once, and even took a malicious pleasure in doing it. ‘Do you think your sister will let him go after all these years? Not likely! She may have had his few shillings a week, but she’s had to keep him. He must have been a positive scourge at times, poor creature. Remember how difficult it was for her. It may not be so now, of course. Things have altered. But she’s done a lot for Mr. Mangan, and I’m surprised, Brigid, surprised that you should show so little appreciation. After all, whether he goes or not depends on Fanny, doesn’t it? Of course.’
