The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  ‘A few,’ she replied, still unable to look him in the face. Why had she begun this overhaul of the old bills and letters just when he was coming downstairs? She made a heap of everything on the table, swept them into the drawer, and shut it.

  ‘There!’ she said. ‘I won’t talk about it any more. I’ll forget. There! Sit down, Anthony, you oughtn’t to stand about so much on your feet, especially when you have the chance of sitting down comfortable.’ She pushed him on to the sofa, and herself sat down.

  ‘How well you play the accordion!’ she said. ‘I never thought you could play so well.’ Then she was silent.

  ‘I know what she’s going to ask me,’ thought Anthony, ‘and—oh, I wish she wouldn’t. Do I want to stay ashore? No. I don’t! What’s the good of me being here like this? I’m quite contented where I am. All right for Peter, he can make any circumstance fit in. But I can’t. I hate looking at her. I can tell quite easily that she’s only got one thought in her head, and it’s about my staying at home. But why should I? It’s Dad’s place to be here, not mine. I can’t do any other job than what I’m doing now, and I hate the very idea of chucking. It’s a swine. She makes it so difficult. That’s how Mother is. Aye! She says Peter’s only too glad to be at home; maybe—but he only stayed here to suit his own ends, that’s all!’

  ‘What are you thinking of, Anthony?’ she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Nothing! Nothing! How could I be thinking of anything but what happened last night? It was real good to see you laugh—and as for that song you used to sing as a girl, well, the last time you sang that I was a nipper at school. But didn’t you honestly think of Father when you were having such a good time? Not once?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I never did. I thought of my own father, and am still thinking of him. I wonder how he got on? I don’t suppose your aunt would ever think of letting me know.’

  ‘Did you think of Desmond and Maureen?’ Anthony asked. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t.’

  ‘Why should I think of them when I was thinking of you and your grandfather?’

  ‘Me! Of me? Listen, Mother! I hate saying this, honest I do, but I don’t want even to think about this going down to Gregson’s. Not yet. Give me a chance. I know you think about it for my own good, but I can’t make up my mind in five minutes, can I? Can I?’ He turned round and looked at her.

  This time she did not evade his glance. ‘I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ve had some of that before, and I have paid for it, too. You please yourself, Anthony, that’s all. But it has been nice, hasn’t it? There hasn’t been a smile in this place for months. You took me quite by surprise. And then, of all things, asking me to sing that song. Ah! It did make me think of the time when I was a girl, when such a thing as Hatfields never entered into it; certainly your father marrying me was far, far away. But there, that’s the way things happen. Yes, I will say this. I enjoyed myself last night. Somehow, I wouldn’t have done it if your father had been there. He would always put his foot in it. Anthony, you know right well we always rowed with each other. You see, son, it’s nice to have you both here. That’s all. If Peter had gone and you had gone—well, I would have been alone, wouldn’t I, and what kind of life is that to me who had a family of five children, I ask you?’

  ‘But Dad hasn’t gone for ever, Mother! He’ll get tired of it, the same as he got tired of it before.’

  ‘Yes, and you see what I got for his bloody way of suddenly getting tired. Lucky man! I wish I could get tired and change my mind as often.’

  ‘Don’t start that, please! I’ve never heard much of it, it’s true, but I don’t see what Dad and you have to do with me. Listen to me, Mother. If you want Peter and me to stay at home, to be with you, then you must be honest and fair to us. Both of us. D’you understand?’

  ‘But, Anthony, when haven’t I been?’ she asked, the colour coming into her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, lots of times. Don’t let’s talk any more. Many a time I’ve been tempted to ask what really is going on in this house—but out of respect I haven’t.’

  ‘Anthony!’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘for one thing—where’s all the money going? Dad’s, mine, Peter’s. We haven’t even got all our furniture. Where’s that gone? Oh, Mother, I’ll only say something to you far worse. I’m going out for a while.’

  ‘Anthony!’ she called. ‘Anthony!’

  Her son stood in the doorway.

  ‘Look. Look.’ She dragged out the dresser drawer and turned its contents on to the fire, where they burst into flames. ‘There! There! That’s the end of it. There goes my misery and why I’ve been silent. Yes, and why I haven’t been honest to any of my family. I’ve been a damn fool. I might have spent my nights sitting drinking in a pub, instead of worrying my soul out wondering how we’re going to live. Money! Jesus! Do you think I eat your money? Do you? Where does it go? Don’t you eat it yourselves? Aren’t you clothed? Do I look as though I got anything out of it? Do I? Do you worry? Does anybody worry? Do I hear a single voice in this house say, “How are you getting on, Mother?” Am I greedy? Do I stuff my own belly? Have I ill-treated you—stolen from you? Have I half-starved you? Any of you? Do I depend on you? No! No more than I depend on the man who still likes to call himself a son, who disgraces his family. Do I depend on him, or that woman who never comes near me and says she is my daughter? Ah! You make me feel at times that I ought to go mad, set fire to the damned wretched hole in which I’ve been smothered, buried, lost, satisfied to take the smiles that must have pained you when you offered them. I depend on nobody. Never have! I’m in a hole. Yes! I’m in a hole. And I’ll get out. D’you see? I earn my own living. D’you understand? Sixty! Reared a family! I go out to work. Yes. Don’t look surprised. I go out to work. I scrub up other people’s mess, and glad to do it. I’ve done worse—but all the same, I’ve never whined. No, by God! And I don’t want your company. Christ! Have I to go on my own knees to my children? I’ll never do it! I’ve lived longer. I’ve seen enough to turn me into a wretch—into a beast; but—well—thank God, there was father! All the other things! H’m!’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘You have asked me to be honest. About what? Are any of you unhappy because of me? Who? Nonsense! You only think of yourselves. Yes, you too, Simple Simon. Be honest yourself. You sat there, afraid, yes, afraid I—your mother—might ask you to stay ashore. Your father! What have I seen of him that I should miss him now? I’ve seen nothing! I do believe—yes, I believe to this day that Peter would still be at that college if it hadn’t been for such a whining crew. Writing letters and letters to the lad. Turning his head against me, and then when the mischief’s done you turn round quite unconcernedly, and because I look worried—when did I look anything else?—yes, because I look worried, you say, “What is wrong?” “And where is all the money going?” Don’t! Please don’t make me laugh. Money! Thirty-five shillings. All the money. And what about strikes, doctors, fares, food, firelight, more strikes, more illness? Do you think it possible to be an angel? And I’m not the only one. Every woman in the street goes through the same thing, has the same things to do. Yes, even now, after my letting my father go—a good, kind man, the one person who I really felt was with me—yes, even when I let him be taken away, I still hoped we might be happy together again. And last night, seeing Peter and you together, and George laughing and joking—yes, I was crazy enough to believe that we might be a happy family once again, which shows the bloody fool I am! Yes, it makes me swear. Go! Go, if you want to! I’m not cringing for your money or for your sympathy. I’ve learned enough after a lifetime of poverty. Yes, I’ve learned to cringe at the right time—and to be proud at another and independent at another! I’ve learned all the lessons. Now, go out, as you want to do.’

  ‘After what Peter did, I should have thought you would have been glad to see the last of him. But I really think that this idea in your mind is never to let go of him at all. He hasn’t any will of his own, and never will
have. Everybody must do as you say. That’s the ticket in this house, Mother. I’m sorry, Mother, that we’ve had to have this row—I hate it, honestly—and I’m sorry you have to go out to work at your age. We’re not all Desmonds and Maureens. We are a bit decent. But I can’t earn any more. And, for God’s sake, get it out of your head that because we ask a question we want to pry into your business. After all, is it all that secret, anyhow? D’you think Peter goes about with his eyes closed, even though he’s in love—worse fool for that, that’s what I say. In love! At his age. It makes me laugh.’

  ‘Of course it does. You all scoffed at him because I gave him the chance to have a better education. Why shouldn’t I have done? None of you paid for it. I paid it, thank God—and your grandfather.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’ll do something really good, then,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s done nothing so far but earn a few shillings and loaf the rest of the time. D’you think if he had any will of his own that he would have given up his job? Not at all. He’s not built that way. You’ve made him selfish—that’s what you’ve done. Oh, hell!’ he shouted. ‘Why didn’t I get up and go out? Don’t start, Mother, please.’

  The inevitable had happened. Mrs. Fury burst into tears. He went out, carrying his cap and coat on his arm. ‘Why is it always like this? Confound the bloody house. It’s almost like somebody had chucked prison into it. By God, I’ve a damned good mind to go down to the shed and meet that fellow. We do at least understand each other.’

  He waited outside the Loco Shed until dinner-time, when his brother appeared.

  ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘I’ve just been out for a walk. God! I’ll be glad when my ship comes back. I’ll never, never, never do anything like it again. Never. I’m a damned fool, a fool.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Peter. He wiped oil smears from his face with a cotton rag.

  ‘Wrong! Well, it’s Mother again. One time she’s as nice as pie, the next she’s like a raving lunatic. I’m sorry I stayed at home to please her. I’ll stick it till the ship comes back. No, sir. No shore work for me! No wonder Dad flew. Who’s going to blame him? Mother’s become old, grey, crabby, sly; she’s become—oh, I’m so mad with myself. I said some rotten things to her.’

  ‘Yes, what did you say?’

  ‘I said you were a mug, for one thing. Peter, you were a mug. It’s impossible to live with Mother any longer. It’s all so easy when you write it in a letter, but it’s quite different when you come to work it out. I believe none of us could live with her now. Honestly, I think you were right. I believe Mother’s going potty. That’s what I believe! Yes, and I said she’d made you selfish—and that’s true, for you haven’t any will of your own and you’re scared stiff of your own shadow. Mother thinks you’re marvellous.’ He laughed.

  ‘Are you the only one blessed with any feelings? Well, what about me? I didn’t know you were so interested in me before. But you’re not, really, of course! You just say that. I’ll be even more honest. I’m not a bit interested in you, even though you’re my brother. Like father, like son. You are clear of everything. You know nothing of the house—or how well Mother does with the money she gets. You did ask her about money, didn’t you? Haven’t you? Haven’t you plagued her to know what she does with it? And look at me. I nearly lost both feet a year ago, and am lucky to be alive, and I got awarded thirty-five pounds compensation. What about that? Did you ask her where that went?’ Anthony thrust his face forward at his brother. ‘You know everything in the bloody house, then where’s that gone? Same place as Dad’s money, I suppose? Or has Aunt Brigid just come over in the night and walked off with the lot?’

  ‘I know where all the money goes now,’ Peter said. He kept wiping his face with the rag. ‘Yes, I found that out, and I’m going to settle that matter.’

  ‘Good! Good! I was saying to Mother only this morning that her favourite might do something worth while. How’s Sheila these days? See how sly you really are. You never mention her, although—well—one hears things, you know. Why don’t you clear out altogether and get down to work? Why should you have to do everything Mother wants you to?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Peter angrily. He flung the cotton rag into the gutter. ‘I hope you’re not looking for a row, Anthony,’ he concluded; ‘blast it, why should we quarrel?’

  ‘Yes, why should we? Still, if you chucked up your job on the ship it was because a shore job suited you both better. Anyhow, I’m going to see Desmond this evening. Shall I tell Sheila you were asking about her?’

  ‘You are looking for a bloody row,’ said Peter, ‘I can see that, but I’m not having any,’ and he strode away, leaving his brother standing by the green door. A few minutes later Anthony Fury limped his way home again. Peter suddenly stepped out of the entry at the corner of Hatfields. The two brothers faced each other.

  ‘Listen,’ said Peter. ‘You come home here, and the first thing you do is to copy Dad. Isn’t that so? I mean, you suddenly find yourself asking questions, and asking them in a sort of roundabout way. Dad used to do that. He’d give Mother his wages, and the very next day ask her what had happened to them. You know what I mean. As though Mother were a thief. As if she wasn’t entitled to his wages—as if she had actually robbed him. Was that fair? I used often to wonder what all the rows were about. Between them they could make quite a noise. It was about money. It’s always been about money. Now I see he was quite wrong. I was wrong—and so are you. Mother does nothing mysterious with it. It’s not in her hand long enough to do anything mysterious with. Now I can tell you not only where the money’s gone, but where a lot of things have gone. They’ve all gone the same way. When she gets your money she doesn’t put it in a purse. What use is that? She just puts it on the dresser. When she gets Dad’s she puts that there, too. On a Friday, all that money except a few shillings goes to a moneylender.’

  ‘A moneylender!’ exclaimed Anthony. ‘Mother actually borrowing when we’re all working.’

  ‘Actually borrowing when we’re all working. You’ve said it correctly. Now! How do we live? I mean, where does she get the money to buy food, pay rent, buy clothes, buy coal, gas—oh, everything? Where does she get it?’

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ growled Anthony.

  ‘Well, you don’t know! Well, she borrows it. That’s all! And she keeps on borrowing to pay back what she’s already borrowed. Don’t you see? We’re all living in the air!’

  ‘But how long has she been borrowing money? God! Fancy Mother coming to that!’

  ‘Yes! That’s what makes me so sorry for her. She did it for me. D’you see now?’

  ‘For you? I know nothing about all this,’ said Anthony. ‘She said nothing.’

  ‘She was ashamed to,’ went on Peter. ‘I’ve found out everything. She doesn’t care any more. She doesn’t want to. She let Father go, and she said she was glad, but she’s not. She’s breaking her heart in secret. That’s what Mother’s doing. She even said she had grown to hate Grand-dad, and she let him go too. Mother can’t help being like she is. All she wants is very simple. Even Maureen was entangled in this. So was Mr. Kilkey. But I found out that Maureen actually borrowed money from that foreman at the Jute Factory in order to get a note cancelled. And for some reason the woman did cancel it. There was a terrible row round there too. Maureen threatened to clear out. She came round here and insulted Mother, although it was her idea in the first place. She took Mother to the moneylender. Can’t you see now?’

  ‘You don’t mean Maury deliberately got Mother entangled, do you? Surely?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. This was a new aspect of the matter. No! Surely not. That would be monstrous.

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and get your dinner?’ said Anthony. ‘It’s gone twelve long since.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, let’s go! We’ll go in the back way. But I must talk about this afterwards. This is a bloody mess-up. Somehow I wish you hadn’t told me.’

  Peter looked har
d at him and said coldly, ‘It won’t make any difference to you, anyhow, whether you know or not. It’s all my fault, really. You see, I got expelled from college for messing about with women, so there! If you didn’t know before you know now. And another thing, I can’t help messing about with women, honestly! They drag at me. I can’t help it.’

  They passed into the yard. ‘Ssh!’ Anthony said. ‘Talk afterwards. She’ll hear us.’

  They went on in silence. There was nobody in the kitchen.

  ‘Mother! There, Mother?’ Peter called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘She must have gone out,’ he said, as he looked round for signs of dinner.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Anthony said. ‘She said she was going to wash some clothes.’

  ‘Probably had to go out,’ thought Peter, when in the oven he discovered both his brother’s and his own dinner all ready set out on plates. He lifted them out and put them on the table. ‘She’s gone farther than Hatfields, anyhow,’ he said.

  The two brothers sat down to dinner.

  ‘Last night was great, wasn’t it?’ said Peter.

  ‘Yes, I really never expected Mother to start singing, did you?’

  ‘When you come to think of what she has on her plate I’m more than amazed. Maybe she’s so well trained that she can forget things easier now. But what made you drag old Kilkey round here without Maureen? He didn’t look a bit cheered.’

  ‘Aye!’ said Anthony, in between mouthfuls of Irish stew, ‘I thought we’d have a bit of a do, just to liven the bloody place up. But no matter what Kilkey did or said, Maury wouldn’t come. She was in a temper, about what I don’t know. It did remind me of Mother that first time we played truant from Mass. D’you remember that?’ Anthony started to laugh. ‘Anyhow, Kilkey was quite to the point. “You can come or you can lump it,” and the damned kid yelling its head off. From what we’ve seen, Peter, since we opened our eyes in Hatfields, marriage is a bloody wash-out. So is love, I should say.’

  ‘You don’t care about women—I mean girls, then?’ said Peter.