The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  Still holding his head upon her knee, she now smiled down at him. ‘Peter Fury, Peter, dear little Peter! You amuse me, and that is all! And I could amuse you too. But you poor, ignorant fool, you are too clean. You are above such things.’

  Peter Fury looked up at the shining eyes, and he actually believed them wet with tears. ‘I’ll do anything you ask,’ he said, ‘if you will free my mother.’

  ‘Now you are really showing intelligence,’ she said, and when she kissed him again, she seemed to suck rather than press her lips upon his own. ‘Yes, I was almost on the point of saying the same thing—slyness with slyness. Yes, it pleases me to hear you talk so sensibly,’ and she drew him back upon the bed.

  He thought of his mother, he thought of how twice a week she journeyed into town and came home again and counted her money. He thought how she never put this in her purse—of how the purse lay useless upon the kitchen dresser. He thought of her going to the Post Office—of her sending the payments to Mrs. Ragner. He thought of her silence, the calm way in which she went about her work in the house, and of her saying her night prayers before the altar, and he thought of the simple happiness she prayed and longed for. He thought of his father, far away upon the sea—happy, carefree, indifferent to all the world. He thought of Maureen, sour, bragging, dissatisfied, gnawing at herself for her foolishness, and he thought of Mr. Kilkey, kind, faithful, honest. He thought of their daily life, and he seemed to hear Joe Kilkey singing at the top of his voice as he bounced Dermod upon his knee, ‘Hi tiddly-hi ty.’ He thought of Desmond, climbing, eager, sullen, and suspicious. He thought of Sheila. He could see her laying the table for Desmond, and looking more beautiful than ever and hardly realizing it. He saw her with Desmond—everywhere about the house. He saw her alone, sitting upon the shore—thinking of what?—perhaps the life she had left behind. He saw all Prees Street stare every time she went out. He saw Father Moynihan tapping his stick outside on the grand path of St. Sebastian’s. He saw Miss Pettigrew sucking her jujubes and looking just what she was—a mischievous, wizened old monkey. George Postlethwaite with his perpetual smile and his shrill whistling which got on everyone’s nerves except his own. He could see Aunt Brigid swelling with pride, sailing down the aisle of the chapel, and hoping that everybody would rest eyes upon her dress—upon her matronly dignity, even matronly beauty. He could see Sheila again. She was laughing at her husband if only because he was wearing a most puzzled expression, an expression that seemed quite out of place on such a big, brutal-looking face. He saw them all. They passed before him, one by one, returning again and again. Sheila stopped to look at him. She frowned, then laughed. He was puzzled. His hands were upon Mrs. Ragner’s neck. ‘If I squeezed it hard enough,’ he thought, ‘I could kill her,’ and suddenly put a hand to his head. It was covered with sweat. The procession moved again. Father, Mother, Maureen—the long line passed before him. ‘To-morrow I’ll wear blue overalls, and I’ll work in the Loco, and I’ll be able to hear how hard Andrew Possie swears, and I’ll have fourteen shillings. I’ll come home from work each evening, get washed, changed. It’ll be like all the other evenings—I won’t know what to do with myself. Oh yes! Anthony will be home soon. And if he isn’t like all the other stuck-up pigs, I’ll have somebody to talk to. Aye! And we’ll both work hard and try to help Mother! Poor Mother! If we could give her a real holiday in Cork! Ah! That would be fine. I wonder—I wonder if I could—no, I’d better not think of it.’ And a voice seemed to say into his ear:

  ‘No, don’t! Think of me! Think of me! I’m always here, Peter, waiting, and one day I will go away with you. But don’t be tiresome—don’t ask me so many things about myself.’

  ‘Sheila! Dear Sheila!’ he thought, ‘you do understand me. You do understand! I love being with you. It’s like the world full of bright colours again. Ugh! I’d like to choke this thing now. Right now! This big, fleshy, greasy creature, who thinks she is loved. I want to laugh. I want to yell in her face. And when she shouts Corkran I’d like to yell in his too. Yes! I am going to be happy. Everything’s going to be different soon. It’s all this sliminess that has followed me from Ireland. That’s what it is. We are as good as anybody else in Hatfields, or Gelton—as good as anybody else in the whole world.’

  Suddenly he said aloud, ‘Don’t! Please don’t!’ and forced himself away from Mrs. Ragner. She touched his lips with hers.

  ‘You dear boy. You dear boy. How could I be cruel to anybody who is so kind?’

  CHAPTER XIV

  At a quarter to six Andrew Postlethwaite had knocked upon the wall. Peter Fury had risen, put on his new overalls, had some tea and bread and butter, taken his mother a cup—which was now cold and untouched on the table by her bed—and had then gone out. He had begun, thanks to Mr. Postlethwaite, his new job. And, Mrs. Fury hoped, a new life. She woke again, hearing the door bang. Then complete silence again. The alarm had not gone off. ‘Well, I do believe Denny actually smashed the clock for spite,’ she thought. Peter would certainly have been late for work but that Mr. Postlethwaite had knocked on the wall. Mrs. Fury fell asleep again. At ten minutes to eight there came a loud rap on the knocker. The woman sat up in the bed with a start. ‘What was that?’ Who could it be at this hour of the morning? It sounded rather like that Mr. Corkran’s knock—but, no, it couldn’t be him. She was quite certain he was not about at such an early hour. The knock came again. It resounded through the whole street. Whoever it was continued to knock and to add force to the blows. Mrs. Fury got out of bed. ‘Whatever am I thinking of? Sure, it must be the postman.’ She threw an overcoat over her shoulders and went downstairs. True to tradition, she first went into the parlour, and cautiously drawing the blinds, her heart thumping, she looked out.

  ‘My God! If it isn’t Anthony! Well, well! I——’ And trembling with excitement she rushed to the door and opened it. ‘Anthony! Anthony! Oh, my dear son! My dear——’ and she fell into the young man’s arms. ‘Oh, my dear child,’ she said.

  Anthony almost carried his mother back into the kitchen, then went out and picked up his bag from the doorstep. Slinging it down in a corner of the lobby, he quickly closed the door and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘How are you, Mother?’ he said, took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘Fancy you not knowing my knock.’ He laughed.

  ‘I hear so many, Anthony,’ she replied, her eyes full of tears, lips trembling, arms round her son’s neck. ‘Well! But how well you look! Oh, my dear, sit down. Tell me, how are your poor feet?’

  She drew a chair and sat down beside him. Yes, how splendid he looked—how healthy, how clean—yes, one could tell he had come from the sea. He talked, she just stared, carried away, her joy mounting in triumphant waves. It was not what he said—she had hardly any ears for that. It was the fact of his being home—there in that chair—alive and well—her son Anthony.

  ‘Oh, I’m so happy—so very happy to see you home, Anthony.’

  She laid her head on his shoulder. He pressed his lips on her ear, saying, ‘Are you, Mother?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said, and began to laugh, wiping away the tears with her apron. ‘You must be hungry, Anthony,’ she said. ‘I’ll fry you a little bacon.’

  ‘Yes. And make me a nice big jug of strong tea. I’ve had nothing since nine o’clock last night when we came into the river. Hello! Where’s Grand-dad’s chair? Is he out?’ He looked at the bare corner by the cupboard.

  ‘Your grandfather’s gone, Anthony. Be off now, and take your bag upstairs. I’ve made ready a room. Something told me you’d be coming home. I’ve been watching the papers, though not for the last few days.’ She wiped down the table.

  ‘Have you, Mother?’ he said, and then went into the lobby.

  She heard him carrying the bag upstairs. ‘Your grandfather’s old room, Anthony. I’ve cleaned it.’

  ‘All right!’ he shouted back, and continued on his way.

  She heard him dump the bag on the floor. ‘Good Lord! How things h
ave been happening! One comes, another goes. Yesterday it was Father. And now here’s my lad home. God! I do believe—yes, something tells me everything’s going to be good soon. And Peter off to work and out of mischief. Lord! It’s going to be wonderful.’

  She kept dropping things from her hands—first a knife, then a spoon. She was carried away by her excitement. Every now and again tears rolled down her cheeks. She heard him dashing down the stairs. She set breakfast before him and sat down. She sugared and milked his tea, and all the while she kept her eyes fastened upon him. ‘You do look well,’ she said. ‘What a surprise this is! But tell me, are you sure your heels are getting better now?’

  ‘Heaps,’ he said, and then took a great bite of bread. ‘Heaps.’

  ‘Why do you look like that at me, Anthony?’ she asked. ‘Oh, there! Please don’t take any notice of me. Please don’t! I’m all excited.’ And covering her face with the apron she struggled awkwardly from the chair, and ran off into the parlour. Anthony went after her. She was sitting in the window.

  ‘Leave me just a while! I’m excited. I’m glad you’ve come. Glad you’ve come. Now go and finish your breakfast like a good child. Go on now. D’you hear?’

  And Anthony went back to the kitchen, and went on with his breakfast.

  ‘How dirty, old and untidy she looks,’ he thought. ‘Not like she used to be once.’

  Whilst he breakfasted, his eyes wandered round the kitchen. It did seem strange without that black chair. When he was finished he stretched himself out on the sofa. How quiet the house was. His eye returned again and again to the kitchen dresser. To Anthony it almost looked as though it had been swept by a cyclone. ‘What’s she done with all the things, I wonder? And she used to have the place shining once.’ He heard her coming out into the lobby. ‘Been crying, of course. Mother would do that. She’s silly, but she’s good,’ and as the thought passed through his mind, Mrs. Fury came into the kitchen. She did not look at her son but went straight into the back kitchen. He knew she was making herself more presentable for him. How bare that space under the window. It seemed it would be best to shift the table from the middle of the floor and fill the space under the window, for as he looked at it now it seemed to cry out for the chairs that had stood there so long. Yes. That was another thing he missed. The chairs. Mrs. Fury came in and began to clear the table.

  ‘Don’t bother, Mother,’ he said, putting out his hand. ‘Sit down,’ and the mother sat down. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now tell us all the news. So Grand-dad’s gone. Who’d ever have thought it? When you told me, I naturally thought you meant he’d passed out. How did it come to happen? Did Aunt Brigid just come over and take him?’

  ‘Well, it amounts to that,’ replied Mrs. Fury. ‘It’s strange. I was thinking exactly the same things as your Aunt Brigid, and stranger still, at the same time.’

  ‘Aye! That is unusual for you and her to agree so easily. Are you glad he’s gone, Mother? Perhaps it’s as well. He used to get on Dad’s nerves no end. Didn’t he?’

  ‘I loved him,’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘I loved him. And though I miss having to do the little things for him—well, I feel happy that he’s going home—even if it’s only to die. But there! Let’s not talk about that. You said your feet were all right, but are they? I know you! You’re like your father! Whenever I asked him about his rupture, he used to say, “Oh it’s not hurting now,” though at the time he’d be crucified.’

  She drew the table towards her and leaned across it, her eyes upon Anthony. ‘D’you know, Anthony, you’re the only one who hasn’t changed. You just look as you did when you were going to school. Show me your feet,’ she said.

  Anthony sat up and took off his boots and stockings. His heels were bandaged.

  ‘Oh! That’s splendid, isn’t it? The swelling’s gone down and all that redness has gone. That was a miracle, indeed. But Dr. Dunfrey always said you were a hard case.’

  ‘Mother,’ he said, gripping her hand, ‘we’re going to celebrate this time. You know the compo money? I was told by the shore captain when he came aboard in the river that the case was finished. I’m so glad. It must have been rotten on you. All that running up and down to this office and that office, seeing this doctor and that doctor. Oh, well. Let’s forget about all that. We’ll celebrate, Mother. Shall we?’

  She put her hand on his head and began ruffling his hair. ‘Of course we’ll celebrate,’ she said, laughing.

  Anthony Fury was next to youngest of the family. He was short, thick-set, and had greenish-grey eyes set in a face that was round, much tanned, and on the right cheek a long scar that ran from the ear to under the chin. This had been caused by an uncontrollable ship’s fall, and had marked him for life. Whenever he laughed or became unduly excited this scar became a livid red. He had a heavy mouth, the nose was short and snub. His hands were large, calloused like his father’s, and, like his face, were deeply tanned by wind and sun. His hair was thick and tousled. It seemed to defy comb and brush. Briefly, Anthony Fury, now lying on the sofa, looked exactly what he was—a simple and hardworking sailor. Like the other children he had left school as soon as he was fourteen, and had gone straight to sea. His interests were few. He never read books or newspapers. He liked a football match, he liked a good pantomime, and he liked a good music-hall show, preferably at the Lyric. The whole Fury family had unbounded admiration for the Lyric Theatre. Anthony Fury looked at you in only one way. He looked right at you. He believed in a simple directness. He asked the most awkward questions quite innocently, and expected a direct answer. There was no hesitation about him whatever. At times he could be very blunt. Anthony Fury trusted people. The simplicity of his character was unspoiled. He was a very skilled worker. There was no job aboard a ship that he could not turn to with complete confidence. At present his job was steering a ship to America and back again. But he had also served on deck, done some stewarding, and once, when necessity arose, helped to fire his ship. He was thoughtful, considerate, generous, and only once had veered away from this steadfastness, and then only because he felt he was right. He had objected to his brother going in for the priesthood. He liked his work. His only weakness was a certain pride he took in his job—at least, his shipmates looked upon it as a weakness. For them work was a means to an end. Not so with Anthony Fury. What he liked was doing the job. Although he did not know it, he had the instincts of an artist, he had an eye and a feeling for whatever job lay under his hand. Anthony liked doing things. He was very particular about his appearance, always liked to look neat, and when ashore sported a deep linen collar and black tie. His friends were few. He had one special one. His name was George Postlethwaite. George lived in Vulcan Street. He was a teamster. It might be said that they were twin brothers. The only difference between them was a religious one. Anthony was a conscientious Catholic—George Postlethwaite a conscientious Orangeman. No shore-leave could be called complete if these two young men had not played at least one game of chess together. It was a passion for this game that first brought them together as boys, and they had cherished it ever since. And judging by the happy look upon his face at this moment it might be that he was already contemplating a game with George in the evening. But before that could happen there were other things to be done. First he must take his mother out and buy her some small thing for a present. Then he must go round and see Joe Kilkey. There would be a game of pool with Joe, and a date for a visit to Brown’s Bioscope with his sister. Then there was Dermod. He would have to be carried on his shoulder all the way down to Mr. Doherty’s shop to get a barley stick. Anthony’s first day home would be occupied in carrying out all these things with the same fervour as before. But now something new had stepped in. This something new was his brother Peter. He had not seen him for eight years. What would he be like? And how would they feel when they met each other for the first time? ‘What’ll he talk about, I wonder?’ he was thinking. ‘I wonder what he looks like.’ He turned to his mother, saying, ‘It’ll be funny meetin
g Peter again. Fancy his swallowing the anchor! Well, well! I suppose he’s quite a toff too. He would have big ideas after being at college. But——’