The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  Oh yes. That was where Dennis’s pipe-rack, a homemade affair, used to hang. It was gone with him, she supposed. Fancy a man his age suddenly taking it into his head to go to sea again. ‘But he doesn’t seem to have upset her very much.’ She was thinking, ‘Fanny’s like steel.’ And then Mrs. Fury returned to the kitchen. She was smiling. Indeed, it seemed as though Mrs. Fury had been standing impatiently in this dark lobby waiting for her very knock. As the woman poured out stout from a jug Miss Mangan exclaimed boisterously, ‘You’re looking well, Fanny, I must say. Changes don’t seem to upset you at all. But how unfair of Denny to go off like that!’

  ‘Unfair!’ replied Fanny Fury. ‘But he did it before. Somehow I don’t mind so much now. You see, the last time he went off like that—that time he deserted his ship in Boston and tramped right through the States—he left me to keep myself and four children on five-and-fourpence a week. It’s different now, and I’m not caring much. It seems awful to say it, but I’ve just got that way. He’ll be tired of it soon, and then he’ll come back again. And the home will still be here, Brigid, always be here.’ She pushed a glass over to her sister. ‘Your health,’ she said. Then she too sat down. She looked hard at the lady dressed in brown and said, ‘Well, Brigid, this much can be said—you actually look after yourself, and God knows I don’t blame you. No, on sober reflection I really don’t. It doesn’t always pay to be considerate of others and leave yourself on the shelf. But you were always that way. Independent. I could never have imagined you marrying and having a family.’ She laughed then, but somehow it seemed hollow to Aunt Brigid. It didn’t have a genuine ring about it.

  ‘Certainly if I had done I would never have thought of living in Gelton.’

  ‘Of course not. I understand you perfectly, Brigid. But then, one can’t always choose where one is going to spend one’s life, can one? Sometimes one allows oneself to be pushed into the wrong place. Still, what’s the use of talking?’

  ‘Yes. What is the use, Fanny? The same old story all over again. I must go up at once and see Father. How is he? I heard from Miss Pettigrew.’

  She half rose from the table when Mrs. Fury said, ‘Oh, you’ve been there, then. Well, well! But I understood you to say in your letter that you were staying here. There is room now, of course.’ She too got up, barring her sister’s path, as though she were bent on an explanation before she allowed Aunt Brigid to go upstairs to her father.

  ‘It was only natural,’ said Miss Mangan, ‘that the man who usually takes my box should leave it at Miss Pettigrew’s. But I’ll probably be able to get a boy to bring it round this evening. Now which room is Father in? Oh! and I forgot. I asked Mr. Dingle—what a nice man he is—to send along a bottle of White’s port this evening for Father.’ ‘Isn’t he nice?’ commented Fanny Fury, as she led the way upstairs, and behind her Miss Mangan followed on tiptoe.

  ‘I was surprised at Dingle’s,’ Miss Mangan was whispering as they climbed the stairs. ‘People in Gelton I’ve found awfully rude as a rule. But Mr. Dingle is a kind man. I thought he was Irish, Fanny.’

  ‘Plain English,’ said Fanny Fury.

  They stood outside Mr. Mangan’s room. Mrs. Fury opened the door, and Brigid Mangan passed in. She stood in the middle of the floor, looking at nothing in particular, but with ears tensed and waiting for the sound of the closed door. Even when this did shut behind her, she still remained standing there as though rooted to the spot. Not till the sound of Fanny’s footsteps descending the stairs died away did Miss Mangan move. Then she went across to the bed and gingerly sat down on the edge of a chair.

  ‘You poor soul,’ she exclaimed, as she looked at the old man. ‘Well, I’ll soon have you out of this, never fear, Father. I’ll soon have you out of this,’ and she looked about her with an expression of disgust. ‘To think I’ve let you live here all this time.’ She bent down and kissed his forehead that had the colour and cold touch of marble. ‘Poor old man! Father! This is Brigid, Brigid; come here to take you home. Dear Father,’ and she laid her head on his breast. Mr. Mangan lay like a log. He was fast asleep. She stroked his cheeks, but no sign came from the still figure. He was quite unaware of his daughter’s presence. ‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘This! This! But she has tried, of course,’ and she fingered the heavy brown overcoat that served as top blanket for old Anthony Mangan. And she looked also at the big black coat that draped the rail-head, and which seemed to throw up more clearly that large white head that rested upon the stained pillow. There was one clean cloth in the room, however, and Brigid Mangan’s experienced eye knew that it was a Communion cloth. Her father must have received the Sacrament that very day. A sinking feeling, a feeling of frustration, came over her, for she was experienced enough to know that a man must be very low indeed when he received the Sacrament. Brigid Mangan did not cry. The sight of that cloth only increased her determination. ‘Well, God willing, I’ll have him out of it.’ She stood and looked towards the door. The house seemed strangely silent, deepened by the atmosphere of the room in which she stood that was now in half darkness although the front room of the house was white with the light of the sun. She fastened her eyes upon her father and muttered under her breath, ‘They’ve had their share of you, and now it’s my turn. Yes, Father, it is Brigid’s turn. God knows what has happened all these years, but it’s my turn, and you, only you, know where that money is.’ Yes, that still figure knew. ‘Unless, of course, Fanny knows about it already,’ she exclaimed viciously. Then she tiptoed out of the room and went downstairs.

  Fanny Fury had meanwhile washed her face and hands, and put on a clean holland-coloured blouse, though she did not dispense with the coarse apron that shielded her best skirt. ‘Well! what did you think of him?’ she asked.

  Brigid Mangan resumed her seat. ‘I can’t say; it’s very hard. But I do want to talk about the matter, Fanny. It seems to me a very urgent one.’

  ‘For you,’ interrupted Mrs. Fury, who was admiring the brown costume her sister wore.

  ‘For him, of course! Do you suppose I’m only thinking of myself all the time, Fanny? Be fair, my dear woman. Besides, I think I put the whole case quite clearly when I wrote to you, and I say again that I have been worried lately; you see,’ she said with a knowing smile, ‘you are not the only worried person in the world. Well, I’ve worried over Father for a long time now, and if you’re quite fair—at least I hope you will be for his sake—you must admit that to get him back home—for he has never belonged here, never was used to such living, Fanny—is a kind act. Father hasn’t very long to go, and at least, in common justice, we can see that when God does call him—praised be His Blessed Son—it will be with the knowledge that we have laid him with Mother. You know, of course, that we have our family grave there, Fanny. Of course you do. Well, now, what is your opinion?’

  ‘I don’t seem to have any,’ replied Mrs. Fury, a remark that excited Brigid Mangan into exclaiming, ‘Ridiculous. Well, have one now, for let me assure you, my dear sister, that you are not the only person who has consideration for Father. In fact, don’t you think it a good thing—a wise thing?’ and Aunt Brigid reached forward in her chair, her expression tense, for she realized now that the testing time had come. The only obstacle in her path sat before her now, and what seemed somewhat frightening, a most enigmatical look appeared in Fanny Fury’s face. ‘All or nothing,’ thought Miss Mangan,‘all or nothing. If she says “Yes,” I am certain she knows nothing whatever. If she says “No,” then—then some day I’ll ask her——’

  ‘Brigid! Do you suppose I have any objection to Father going? I haven’t. If you had come here six months ago hoping to drag an old and helpless man across to Ireland, I would have said “No,” emphatically, but now, I say “Yes,” on one consideration.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘That you take Dr. Dunfrey’s advice before you do anything. I have done a lot for Father, but now I’ve been thinking over your letter and somehow I feel you are right. But if anybody’s conscienc
e is troubled, it is not mine. You ought to have looked after Father when you had him. I half believe that had he remained in Ireland this tragedy would not have happened. But you have only yourself to thank for that. I should hate myself to think that Father was buried in this dirty hole. I’ll miss him too, Brigid. But I don’t think you’ll ever understand how——’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I had thought of doing something. You’ll miss his pension, however small.’

  ‘No! That was quite useless to me, Brigid. I wasn’t meaning his pension, which by no means kept him. All Father’s pension assured was a weekly bottle of brandy, which is the only thing that has kept him alive. How quick you are at assuming things. No, I’ll miss him other ways. Do you know, we knew each other, we understood each other so well—so well,’ there was a break in her voice, ‘so well! It was like his dumbness had been a godsend and not an affliction at all. Sometimes when I was alone here, sometimes when I was worried about something or other, or felt depressed, I used to go and sit with him. It used to help me. He was a friend as well as a father.’

  ‘Yes, Fanny, I understand! Then maybe there has been some compensation for my very indifference to him.’ And she turned away, quite unable to look at Fanny for a moment as she concluded, ‘Yes, you’ve been good to him, and now it’s my turn. But tell me, what time does this Dr. Dunfrey come?’

  ‘Some time in the evening,’ replied Mrs. Fury. ‘Have you thought about all the difficulties?’

  Brigid Mangan said quite plainly, ‘No. But I didn’t know there were any. Is it going to be all that trouble getting him to Cork? I don’t think so, Fanny,’ she concluded.

  Miss Mangan pushed back her chair. The heat of the kitchen on this June day was absolutely unbearable. How did the woman stand it? She ought really to take off her things. Times her hand went to her head as though she meant to remove her hat, and she continued to fidget in the chair until at last her sister exclaimed excitedly, ‘For God’s sake, why do you go on sitting there? Take your things off,’ and she got up and helped Miss Mangan remove her coat.

  ‘I could never stand the heat, Fanny. You know that,’ Brigid said. There, that was better. She felt more comfortable in body but certainly not in mind. She hated sitting there, hated having to look at Fanny at all. It made her uncomfortable. If only the old man could have been spirited across to Ireland! It certainly would have saved all this embarrassment, all these strange feelings that ran riot within her. She felt ashamed, too, sitting here in her brown finery whilst that sister sat staring at her as though she were some absolute stranger from the other world. One would suppose that Fanny had never seen anybody dressed in brown before, nor seen a healthy round red face. She doubted very much whether her sister’s welcome was genuine or not. At last she said:

  ‘Fanny, I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. You make me feel, oh, you make me feel quite guilty. You make me feel as if I were responsible for your position. But surely—it’s not as bad as all that. You have two sons working and you have Denny’s money. Really, you’re letting yourself get into a groove. Don’t do it. Hold your head up. So long as one is honest everything is all right. But the way you act—I wish you’d be different.’

  Fanny Fury laughed.

  ‘I didn’t know I’d changed so much. You astonish me.’

  ‘Oh, but you are changed. You’re quite different from when I saw you last. It—I can’t explain it exactly.’

  ‘Don’t be worrying yourself, Brigid.’

  Somebody was knocking at the door. Fanny Fury jumped up and ran into the parlour, but not before she had fastened the kitchen door behind her. Sometimes awkward visitors arrived, and a look through the parlour curtain enabled one to see at once who the person was and so prepare accordingly. Now she saw it was the doctor himself. Dr. Dunfrey had called much earlier than she had expected. She ran back into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s Dr. Dunfrey,’ she called to Brigid Mangan. Miss Mangan made no comment. She sat motionless in the chair. To herself she said ‘Damn!’ for had she not planned to call and see the man himself early that evening, and before he had a chance to talk to Fanny about her father? Now here he was actually standing in the lobby, his loud voice and boisterous good spirits floating down into the kitchen. She heard his heavy tread and at once rose to her feet as the tall, black-haired man came into the kitchen.

  ‘This is my sister from Cork, Doctor, Miss Mangan.’

  Dr. Dunfrey held out his hand. ‘How are you, Miss Mangan? Lovely day. Hope you had a nice passage across? It’s generally rougher than usual this time of the year, at least it’s my experience,’ and he laughed, showing his big teeth.

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, and now for Grandfather. Any change, Mrs. Fury?’ he asked, his eyes taking in Aunt Brigid whilst he tapped his black bag with his finger. ‘Just the same, I suppose?’

  ‘He’s no different, Doctor,’ said Fanny Fury. ‘He had the Sacrament to-day. Somehow he always is greatly comforted after that. To-day he’s been sleeping as peacefully as a child.’

  To this remark Dr. Dunfrey made no reply. Mrs. Fury would imagine such a thing, he thought.

  ‘Well!’ He put his hat and coat on the edge of the chair and picked up his bag. Mrs. Fury led the way upstairs. Miss Mangan was about to follow, but he put a hand on her arm and, smiling softly, said, ‘Please, if you don’t mind,’ and opened the kitchen door. Then he went upstairs.

  Speechless, Aunt Brigid sat down. Her first thought was, ‘I knew it all along, knew it. I’m a fool not to have seen through her slyness, her charming manner. Confound it! Keeping me away from my own father. No doubt they are talking now, deciding to keep him here. To think of it! Parading her misery, and all these years she must have been living on his money. She must know all along. God! She’s got courage, but she’s sly too. Why didn’t I see through her smiles and her self-pity? All a blind. She’s afraid. That’s what it is. Afraid I’ll take him.’ Aunt Brigid stood up and raised her head and looked at a holy picture upon the wall. She joined her hands together and muttered with all the fervour and passion of a crusader, ‘I will, I will. I will have him home.’ Yes, what had she come for? A mere pleasure-trip. To make a tour in this abominable hole. Not she. ‘I want my father,’ she said. Then she sat down again.

  Meanwhile Dr. Dunfrey had completed his examination of the old man. He was seated on one side of the bed, Mrs. Fury on the other. Like Aunt Brigid he had an eye for detail, but he did not look quickly away from the slobber-stained pillow.

  ‘Your father mystifies me, Mrs. Fury. One day he’s low, very low—the next he’s normal again. I think he’s one of those men who will hang on and hang on. My word, I compliment you upon your father! Do you know what has kept him alive all this time?’

  ‘What, doctor?’

  ‘Spirit, spirit. It almost seems to me as though he realized something, I mean—but there,’ and Dr. Dunfrey broke off very abruptly, and once more felt Anthony Mangan’s pulse.

  ‘Mrs. Fury, you’ll hardly believe what I say, but at this moment your father has the pulse of a young man of twenty. It’s extraordinary,’ and he knew then what Mrs. Fury meant when she said:

  ‘He always feels more rested, more peaceful after he has had the Sacrament.’

  Of his imminent departure not a word had been spoken. And only when Dr. Dunfrey shut his bag with a sharp click did Mrs. Fury explain to him.

  ‘You have met my sister before, Dr. Dunfrey?’ she said, but the man shook his head. He could not recollect having done so.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Doctor,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’ and did not pause, for Dr. Dunfrey sat down at once.

  ‘My sister has come from Ireland to see about taking my father home.’ She stopped suddenly, listening. Then she went on. ‘What is your opinion, Dr. Dunfrey?’

  Had she but known it, Miss Brigid Mangan was now standing half-way up the stairs, listening intently. Nobody could have seen her because the stairs and landing were the darkest parts of the Hatfields house. Having hea
rd the question asked, she decided it would be wiser to sit down. In Mr. Mangan’s room the doctor, head bent, hand on his forehead, was thinking about the matter.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it, Mrs. Fury,’ he exclaimed, and he spoke so low in his throat that Miss Mangan posted outside could not catch what he said. But she certainly heard her sister.

  ‘You wouldn’t advise it?’

  In that same tone of voice that so enraged the woman upon the stairs Dr. Dunfrey replied: ‘For one thing, speaking as a doctor, I wouldn’t advise his removal; for another, and speaking as a man, I wouldn’t remove him out of respect for his age. At the same time there is no law to prevent your sister removing him—but you must carefully consider the possibilities. There are many. Your father is a curious case, Mrs. Fury. I have often wondered what precipitated the stroke, but that’s stretching a point. You can’t say he’s a dying man, for that he certainly is not—and at the same time Mr. Mangan is far from well. He’s quite helpless, but his mental faculties must not be so very bad, for how else could he continue living? Could you tell me why your sister wants to take him away, Mrs. Fury?’

  Here he raised his voice, and here, too, Brigid Mangan moved up three steps and leaned against the banister. This muttering behind closed doors could only mean one thing to her. A conspiracy. She hung on, breathlessly waiting for her sister’s reply. What she heard was utterly confounding.

  ‘My sister,’ said Fanny Fury, ‘has been thinking for a long time now—I dare say her conscience has been troubling her—but she has been thinking of getting our father home. For this reason, and it’s one with which I am entirely agreed, I know that she would hate to think of Father being buried here—in this lonely place——’

  ‘Lonely,’ said Dr. Dunfrey, smiling. ‘Gelton has a million and a half people.’

  ‘Yes, lonely. Perhaps it’s a funny idea I have, Doctor, I find life in Hatfields very lonely too—although I have many neighbours. But the fact is we have one family grave—in Cork, Doctor, and Mother and Mother’s two sisters are buried there. We both would like when the time comes to see Father laid in Ireland.’