The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  All the essence of her very womanhood reached out and touched him, and again he felt that pain that was no pain, but a delicious feeling that flowed through him like rivulets of fire. He jumped from the bed and ran to her.

  ‘But I must be ruthless,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now go downstairs and wait,’ and she followed him to the door. But there he remained. He would not go. He put his back against the door, saying, ‘Hurry! Hurry, Sheila.’

  ‘Aren’t I hurrying?’ In a few minutes she was ready. They went downstairs. ‘Sheila! No matter how you dress, whether it’s day or night, wet or fine, you always look lovely.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t paw me like that, flatterer, or I’ll think it’s your brother and not you.’

  ‘He has gone to London, then? You are sure?’ asked Peter, as he turned out the gas and they passed through the dark lobby.

  After he had opened the door for her, she stood down on the step, saying, ‘Don’t bang it. Look! I have a key. I can turn the lock and shut it without a sound. There you are! Now this way. We can catch a tram at the Custom House.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He kept close to her, and they hurried through back Prees Street. ‘Here you are,’ Sheila said.

  It seemed that every time he came to her he shed a kind of skin, a growth that carried with it the very odour of the Hatfields neighbourhood. Now it was gone again. He felt light and clean, it was like a bath, a most invigorating bath, this sudden emergence from that skin, and feeling this being at his side, he could experience only a passionate tenderness, a longing to embrace her again, here in the very street. All that was monotonous and dull and miserable was meaningless until he walked by her side, and then it seemed he saw it all revealed as though under a microscope.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. They stood at a street corner waiting for a tram.

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said. A tram came up; they boarded it, and had to be content with single seats until Ferry Place was reached, when they alighted.

  ‘Ah! I know where you are going,’ he said. ‘I used to often wonder why you went off alone to sit on the shore. Do you like the sea, Sheila?’ he asked.

  She put an arm in his, and they went down a tiny cobbled street to emerge at the end on to the shore itself. ‘How lovely and fresh and clean,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it, Peter? Oh, I love coming here. Do you know this is the first time I haven’t been alone? Often I used to go to the shore when we lived in Vulcan Street. I used to walk for miles on the beach. And I had a favourite place too. I used to sit against an old, rotten, upturned boat, and I’d sit there for hours looking out over the sea, seeing nothing but those wide stretches of water, and drinking in the clean air, alone. I thought of nothing, at least I tried to at first. I tried to let my mind sink into the whole scene, to be drawn into all that peace and loneliness. But I never could. Somehow something would move—some thought disturb. I’d see something on the horizon when there was really nothing. Let’s go along near the edge of the water, for I like to hear the ripple as it comes up on the beach. And the smell. Isn’t it wonderful?’ He felt a tug on his arm. She had stopped.

  ‘Here’s an old wooden bench. It must have come from some park or other.’ They sat down. Peter looked one way, Sheila Fury another. They spoke no word. It was as if the sea itself had cleaved them apart, as though each had unconsciously surrendered to the magic of the sea, as though the watching of those restless waters had cast a spell upon them. She felt his arm in hers, but even consciousness of this disappeared after a while. They were one with the silence, a silence broken only by that ceaseless murmur of the water. When Peter looked at her he felt as though he had spied upon something sacred and lovely in her person that in this quiet moment had come to flower. Her eyes had a yearning, far-away look. He drew back, put his hands in his pockets and stared down at the sand, and at the hole he began to dig with the toe of his boot. How far off Hatfields seemed, how far off that college in Cork—how dim the faces of his mother, and of his father, faces that seemed to rise out of those waters and then rapidly disappear again. It was like living upon the edge of another world, as though, stripped naked, he had plunged into the water of a new life.

  ‘Sheila!’ He broke the silence at last. ‘Sheila! Have you thought over what I have said?’ He put his arm round her neck. ‘Have you, Sheila?’

  ‘And have you thought too? Have you asked yourself those questions yet? Aren’t you afraid of Desmond, and aren’t I many years older than you?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of Desmond,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s only you I’m afraid of, Sheila.’

  ‘I wish you were afraid of him. Then we would both start from scratch. I mean we would both be equal. For I’m afraid too!’ She lowered her head.

  ‘Afraid! Afraid! Of who? Desmond? Sheila, how silly! Silly!’ And Peter laughed.

  ‘I’m afraid of myself,’ she said. ‘Now you see. Now you understand. Before, all was freedom and emptiness. Now, it’s prison and contentment. Sometimes a woman is glad to be imprisoned, shut up behind walls. And I’m shut up. I’m behind the walls of Gelton. Now you’ve come and all is changed over again. It’s cruel to be a woman sometimes. Nature’s not fair. I married your brother when I was desperate, and a moment later I hated him. I don’t know why. I hated him. Perhaps I was beginning to feel the chain for the first time, and then after a while it wore off. I can’t help myself now, and I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why, Sheila? Why? I knew you weren’t happy. Oh, Sheila!’ and he kissed her mouth. She saw his earnest, passionate face, so young, so full of enthusiasm, of confidence, of blind faith. In her! ‘And you said you’d tell me all about yourself, but you haven’t. Won’t you tell me, Sheila? I’d so love to hear it.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you, then?’

  ‘Yes. Do tell me,’ he said. They snuggled into each other on the seat.

  ‘Imagine a valley, a valley so green that there is no other green like it in all the world, and in this valley and on the bank of an old river a large white house. And imagine the hills, the woods, the streams, the birds, flowers, think of all these things, and then think of the white house in the middle of it all. Sometimes I think of it as on the shore, and though I can see it all so clear if I look long enough and hard enough, I don’t feel anything, the living thing has gone. But I always think of it in the winter-time. It’s funny, isn’t it? In the winter I used to love the rain, and all the smells that come into the air, wet leaves, wet grass, glistening moss on the banks, the dull leaden sky, the running water, the flights of birds over the house just as it was getting dusk. I used to walk in the rain, all by myself. Father was always away in London, Mother didn’t care much. I had all this to myself, and nobody to say nay to even my smallest wish. Everything was mine, everything. I was as free as the birds in the air.’

  ‘Why did you run away?’ asked Peter. ‘Weren’t you happy even there?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now,’ she replied. ‘I’m here, living in Gelton, married to a man who wants to rise in the world, and if he only realized what I thought about it all——’

  ‘And what do you think, Sheila?’

  ‘Nothing. But I am thinking of that extraordinary life I led at home. So full and yet so barren, so hopelessly empty, but I didn’t realize it at the time. Father was rarely at home. Mother suffered silently, she knew something was going on in London. My brother didn’t care, and I was left entirely to myself. Quite alone. Every day I used to go for long walks, all by myself, and I used to think how futile everything was. Nothing to do, nothing to think about—just wandering aimlessly, no discipline, no care, no worry. I knew what my father was doing. Still Mother said nothing, and I grew to hate her for her silence. I loathed her. And yet I was only loathing her for a cowardliness that held me too. It was shameful. Oh, I can’t talk about it. Please don’t ask me. Yes, I know I said I would tell you all about myself.’ She began to laugh. ‘But does it really matter? And what good will it do, resurrecting these old ghosts? P
eter dear, do you know what I’m thinking now? I’m telling myself that at last I am secure, at last I am content, because I’m buried alive in Gelton. How funny that seems, and here you are wanting me to escape out of this prison. But is it a prison? And can you be sure that you love me? That I love you? That in my deep self I might not have some feeling for your brother? He is like a big child. I could work him round my little finger. Do you know he doesn’t even know what part of Ireland I come from? He doesn’t know who my parents are. In fact, he knows nothing, and how wise he is—he asks no questions. Once we were really angry with each other, and then he did ask where in Christ’s name I had come from. But I never told him. Why should I? It’s not worth it. And the next minute he was on his knees saying how sorry he was. And he has never asked since. It’s not what he says, but how he looks at you. He has a sort of dog-like devotion for me. There are times when I do feel I really love him, and that’s when the beautiful simplicity of his nature shines out, all unknown to him. The way he looks at me when he comes in of an evening. The way he stands watching me as I move about the kitchen, or making the bed, or putting on a dress. And you can tell by his eyes that he knows well that this voiceless adoration is his best security. I’ve been married to him two years, and now something strange has happened. Peter! I believe I love him. Can’t you see now how cruel it is for me? I was never used to this kind of life. Now I am. My weakness is money. Desmond knows this, and, wise man, he keeps it. But I look after the house, feed him, in fact I am a good, devoted housewife now. Sometimes I tell myself that I am a fool. Peter, why do you want me to run away with you? Where could we go? We have no money. And what can you do? You’re only beginning to realize what life is really like, and suddenly you want to run away from it all. From what? From your mother, from that house in Hatfields. But why? Is it all so dull, and after all, aren’t there thousands like you? Aren’t we all dissatisfied, aren’t we all mean, selfish, thinking only of ourselves? Aren’t we all wanting to do things without having to care a hang about the responsibilities involved? And aren’t we dissatisfied even when we’ve got what we want? You hate the monotony, and I like it. It sounds strange, but I do. Desmond hates it, and he is bewildered by my calm acceptance of everything.’

  ‘You weren’t always like this, Sheila?’ Peter said, and something seemed to freeze in his breast.

  ‘Sheila! Dear Sheila! What are you telling me? Don’t you love me any more?’ And he crushed her mouth against his own. ‘Don’t you understand? Will you understand? And can’t I get money? How do you know that I can’t get money? And what has my mother to do with it? What has Hatfields got to do with me? You see—oh, you don’t realize how much you mean to me. Be honest with me. You don’t really love my brother.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘sometimes I went out of a night, and Desmond often wondered where I went, but I never told him. Only once did he ask me directly.’

  ‘Where did you go? Sheila, where did you go? I know you used to go out. People used to talk about it. Even the men on the railway talked to each other about it.’

  ‘Perhaps at that time I wasn’t fully aware of what I’d really done. When one’s whole life has been free, irresponsible and quite aimless, without hope, conviction or purpose, one is a little bewildered when one realizes that suddenly one has ceased to move, to grow, to think, to believe, to wonder. One doesn’t realize for a long time that freedom has ended. One can’t understand. Then I realized I was actually married. I was chained at last. Here in this large city, hemmed in by walls, bricks, slates, people, conventions, ideas. I was at last a prisoner! I was saved! I was saved from myself. I had found a rock to which I could cling. I was a mystery—he an unknown quantity. Here was a meaning to life, after all. People doing things, men working, women working, night and day, eating, sleeping, seeing. Everything became orderly, chaos vanished. Existence had a purpose. One was beginning to grow.’ She paused for a moment, then continued:

  ‘He knew—your brother Desmond knew, and now I know too—that he loves me deeply, passionately, with all the simple faith of a child. But I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? Because I didn’t know my own self. That lonely, senseless, mean, selfish life from which I ran away had blocked the way to all understanding. But that’s not all, no, that’s not all. When one decides to break away from that which is rooted and strong, and seemingly impossible, and one does break away, one pays for it. And I have paid. Yes, paid. Oh, Christ! When I think of it. But it’s nightmarish. I won’t—I refuse to talk about it any longer. Here I am just beginning to grow—to grow, and do you know what you have done? Do you realize, Peter my dear boy, what you have done? You have frightened me. You have awakened something in me that has hidden itself so deep down, has lain there so long, that I never, never realized that it did lie there—that in my deep self it was actually living, only waiting for some hand to touch it, some breath to stir it into being again. You have made me afraid again. I know it was you, your voice, your feelings, your lips, your hair, oh, everything about you, that made this sleeping thing suddenly burst into flower. Now I am afraid—not of you, or of Desmond, but of myself. I can’t trust myself—it’s like being in the middle of some desolate desert. Something in me is dead, voiceless, empty. I can strike and find it hollow. My past won’t let me alone. It dogs me everywhere. I am ashamed, miserable. I can’t help myself. Peter! Please! Please! Don’t mention running away, please, not yet.’

  He released his hold upon her, sat rigid and stared out over the darkened waters. ‘Now she is afraid! God! Is she just fooling me? And yet, I could get money. Yes, I could get money from that fat, greasy bitch.’

  ‘If I got money would you come away with me? Oh, Sheila, don’t you see that you are the most beautiful person in my life? Have you no pity, only for yourself?’

  ‘Go away? Would I? That is being ruthless. And I know full well what that word means. I learned it well. But here one can’t be ruthless. This is a different world. Peter, don’t you think I owe a certain duty to your brother? Have I to go on and on hurting people, humiliating myself, confronting myself with my own emptiness? How can I run away now? And when you have put all this behind you—what you call the misery and monotony of Gelton behind you; when you have shut your ears to what you called that frightful sound—you know the sound I mean—what then? Have you thought of that? Aren’t you thoughtless and impossible, and even a little indifferent? Don’t you ever think of how sacred that life must have been at home with your brothers and sister, your father and mother? Do you ever ask yourself what you will really do when you have put all this far behind you? You are eighteen, you are intelligent, you love me. You want me to fly away. One has to have wings first, and one must grow them. Listen: in ten years you’ll be indifferent, in twenty you’ll hate me. Just think of that. I am just turned thirty-three now—you are just a boy. I can understand your ruthlessness, your indifference, even your egotism, for that is what it really is, isn’t it? Isn’t it the voice of your own youth?’ She gave a sigh.

  ‘In the two years I have lived in this city I have seen many youths just like you, lost, helpless, blowing about in the wind in this large city, and I have seen them working too. Every one of them teaches me something, every face, every smile, every frown, every barefooted child, every starving woman, every miserable thing that rings their lives around, upbraids me, scoffs, torments me. I set foot in this strange world, and at first I thought I had fallen into some forest among wolves, into some jungle among wild beasts. But time passed, things changed, pictures changed colour, voices changed sound, all the daily life of Gelton changed meaning. I don’t know what made me marry your brother. Perhaps I was mad at the time, but I seem to have just flung my whole life and future at him. And we were married. At first I hated him, loathed him for his ignorance, his arrogance that mocked this very ignorance, his narrow-mindedness, his extreme selfishness. Then gradually I learned what a rock he was—and then I knew why I had run off with him. I wanted to cling to something, and here
was a solid rock. I wanted to be taken out of myself, and here was a strong hand. I wanted to live, and here was a living being, passionate, earnest, ruthless, mine. Here was one whom I now find sly, dishonest, more ruthless than you could ever be, for you are at the mercy of your feelings and your intelligence. He is not. He is a solid block. He pushes himself along, not by the ordinary routes, but the hardest one. And he is going to climb right to the top.’ She stared out over the water.

  ‘He soars on illusions, they apply the power to push this solid block up the hill. He has turned his back on everything, as you hope to do, but he knows where he is going and you do not. Don’t you understand, Peter? Don’t you? I do love you, really. But be patient. Be patient. You will when you understand me better. When two people from quite different worlds meet for the first time they are awkward, tongue-tied—they cannot comprehend one another for a long time. Why! You are crying. Oh, my dear Peter.’

  She tried to lift his head, to take his hands away from his face, but she could not move them. It was as though they were welded there. She could not move them. And he felt her hot breath upon his face.

  ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ he mumbled through his fingers. ‘You are only fooling me.’

  All trust, all hope, all kindness, all faith, ran amok in him. He wanted to shout, to scream aloud how she had soiled his trust, his real love, his beautiful dream. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, to shake the life out of her—to strangle that mocking voice. Yes, it did mock. She played on his feelings, she touched all that was most sensitive in him, the fruit and essence of his love for her were sinking in the quagmire of his discovery. She lied to him—she only pretended she loved him.