by James Hanley
‘A job isn’t everything, anyway,’ replied Peter. ‘Look out, you’re burning that. I was sorry when I came home, just as I was sorry when I came back from Ireland. I’m not now. I’m glad. I’m beginning to learn. Really beginning to learn.’
‘Really! Fancy that! You are a clever chap,’ said Anthony, laughing.
‘Don’t act the bloody goat. I tell you that now I am glad I’m home. I can see what I’ve never seen before. I can understand how Mother lives. Yes, you can grin away, and I don’t get my shirt out about that. Yes, I went off the deep end all right. But you heard about that. From the first day I saw Desmond’s wife my whole life changed. The house became prison, I couldn’t sit in it a minute. I was never in, I was always there. Always.’
‘With Sheila, you mean?’
‘Yes, with Sheila. I never felt happier. Never. Everything changed for me. All was bright colours. Yes, I was happy. I was mad enough to want her to run away with me.’
‘Why didn’t she?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Peter. ‘Oh! I did worse than that! And now I find it’s all a bloody cod. A bloody cod. She was only playing the fool with me.’
‘Well, there you are. She’s got Desmond on the string too. She’s a real tartar. Did she ever tell you about herself? She’s a lovely-looking woman, isn’t she?’
‘Yes and no,’ replied Peter. ‘But that doesn’t matter a hang. She’s a dirty, rotten cheat. And all the while I was doing this on the sly, Mother knew nothing. Yes, and all the time I was revelling in my happiness I was blind to one thing—Mother’s struggle to keep the home over our heads. She paid money for my education, and she made a fool of me instead. I must have been going round with my eyes shut. I was a rotten coward, really, sheltering behind what this woman offered me. I’ve learned a lot of things. I’ve changed my mind entirely. For one thing, I don’t believe in our religion any longer.’
Anthony Fury let fall the toast he was buttering.
‘Peter!’ he said. ‘Peter!’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ went on Peter, ‘don’t look surprised at me. I tell you it’s all bunk. What we should ask ourselves is why we live in Hatfields and others live in Gelton Park. It’s not Mother’s fault she’s poor, nor Dad’s; it’s nobody’s fault in Hatfields, anyway. We live next to a stinking bone yard, and we’ll go on living next to a stinking bone yard. Look at Mother now. Sat on. Sat on. And you, with all your goody-goody stuff, would turn your back on her as quick as anybody. Now we’re all in the bloody soup. Every one of us. And we can’t move an inch. Do I blame Mother? Hell, how can one? Can you blame her, carrying this load on her brain all this time, and hiding it from us—saying nothing? God! I’m proud of my mother. And she’s upstairs now alone, miserable, desperate, and we can do nothing.’
‘To hear you talk,’ said Anthony, proceeding to partake of his toast and tea with the utmost composure, ‘to hear you talk, one would think we were absolutely broke.’
‘Well, aren’t we?’ said Peter savagely. ‘Aren’t we broke? And think of Dad miles and miles away, knowing nothing. But then he never has. We all think Mother foolish—even hopelessly mad—but she’s not. She’s quite sane. Yes. Quite sane. She feeds and clothes us. Keeps the roof over us. She’s done this for six of us. Her whole life has been spent doing it. Never a complaint. Food always on the table. Go to your duties! That’s her cry, Anthony, don’t you understand—are you so bloody pigheaded that you can’t? Haven’t I feelings? Can I help being sad when I know I can’t please her that way? I can’t do it. In fact, I really think that God, liking us poor and plain, is the best financial investment that was ever invented. Poor Mother! What will she do to-night? Sleep? Not a bit of it. By God! she’ll lie awake—she’ll rack her brains, rack them and rack them trying to find a way out. That’s Mother, you see. Won’t be beat, won’t be downed. She always held her head up. Always. I’m so miserable, so ashamed, so helpless, not to be able to do anything, that I just feel I want to go outside and be sick.’
‘Ah!’ said Anthony, ‘all that bloody rigmarole. I really believe you could have made a good priest. You can spill it off like water. Mother is all right. She’s good—we all know that—but it’s not common sense to say we as her children have done nothing for her. It was always us doing as she wished. Advice from us was laughed at. She refused to believe we had grown up. Oh, the real trouble is that Mother should never have married—never have left Ireland—and we should never have been born. Anyhow, all this bother gets you nowhere. If anybody calls here to-morrow and wants to seize anything, I’ll have something to say about it. Anyway, I’m dead beat. I’m going to bed. Mother wants you to get to bed too. You have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Listen, Anthony,’ said Peter, ‘it’s no use talking like that. We have to think about now.’ He crossed to the table and refilled his cup with tea.
‘Have we?’ said Anthony, rising to his feet. ‘Then let’s talk about now to-morrow. Good-night,’ and he limped out of the kitchen to bed.
Yes. Peter could clothe that delight he had felt—that happiness, that feeling which had so stirred and moved him, those bright colours that had enchanted him, that lovely face that followed him about, that flesh that sent the blood whirring through his brain—he could clothe all that, even that quavering pain he now felt, he could clothe it all with the flesh of reality. He could clothe his youth, his enthusiasm, his yearning, his love of beautiful things, with something that a while ago had seemed far off and of no significance. Now it was very near to him. The mesh of reality was all about. It was fashioned from the life all about him. He could cover his illusions with the life of Hatfields, the daily life of his mother—of all mothers in that street. He had been living on illusions. What he thought was full and living was dead and empty. His innocent hopes, his faith in that woman, mocked him. He could scourge himself for his foolishness.
He was a cheat. He had thought he was running towards happiness—and he was not. He was running away from the miserable life of Hatfields.
‘Yes! I never once thought of Mother, never once—of all she had to do, of her smiles when she thought she was really being sucked down. Poor Mother,’ he said. ‘A fool! But she can’t help being a fool.’ He got up, took the clock from the mantelshelf and wound it. At least there was one, yes, one who might have comforted her, gone round many a time and sat with her. Maureen. Bitter, sour, mean. All because she made a mistake. No! That’s wrong. Just mad with herself because she hadn’t the bloody brains to see her mistake until it was too late. He locked the doors, hung his coat on the nail on the wall, and went upstairs. He set down the clock.
‘If I went in now I know what she’d be doing. Kneeling! Praying! To St. Anthony maybe. To find her money.’ As if money by some mistake would pour through the ceiling! He went to her room door.
Something told him that she was lying awake. He knocked. He heard Anthony snoring. Then his mother said jerkily, ‘Who is there?’
‘Me, Mother. I’m coming in a minute. I haven’t a match! I think there’s one on your table,’ and he entered the dark room. He searched about on the dressing-table for the matches he did not really want, and then said, ‘Oh! Here’s one!’
He went across to the bed, and kneeling down, said, ‘Mother! I am sorry! Really, really sorry. You have been so good—a brick.’ And he placed his hand in hers. It seemed quite cold. ‘Please don’t worry, Mother. Please don’t worry, there’s one decent thing I can do anyway.’
‘Go to bed, Peter,’ she said. ‘You’ll never get up in the morning. Good-night.’
‘Oh, yes I will,’ he said laughingly—thinking, ‘She and not the clock will wake me.’ He crossed to the door. ‘Good-night.’
At half-past five o’clock he woke his mother. He had a cup of hot tea in his hand. ‘Drink this tea, Mother!’ he said. ‘It’s nice and hot. You weren’t asleep, only pretending.’
She sat up in the bed. ‘I must have been dreaming,’ she said.
Peter lit a ca
ndle and placed it on the table by the bed. ‘I set the alarm half an hour earlier,’ he said, and sat down whilst she drank the tea. ‘Shall I make Anthony a cup?’
‘No. Don’t bother. He sleeps like a log. He’d probably growl if you woke him.’ She handed him the cup. ‘That was lovely,’ she said. ‘Have you a cold?’ she asked. ‘Surely not. Your hand is all shaking.’
Laughing, he said, ‘Bosh! Now I’m going. Good-morning.’
‘Good-morning,’ she said, and lay down. Then she blew out the candle.
He called back suddenly,’ I may be late to-night, Mother. Very late.’
‘Why?’
‘Working on a big job. Ta-ta.’ She heard him running down the stairs.
‘Yes, by God! My hand is shaky. I must have a cold.’ He packed a few slices of bread in paper and put it in his pocket. Then he sat down to a hot mug of tea. ‘Twenty minutes yet,’ he said to himself. He was all ready for work. Changed, a clean pair of overalls, clean muffler. He stood in front of a small mirror standing against the teapot and brushed back his mop of hair with his hands. ‘It’s far too long. Must get it cut. I wonder if that witch will really come down here? Oh well! What does it matter?’ He went to the bottom cupboard, and from it took an old diddybag of his father’s. He opened it and groped about among its contents. He found what he wanted. A large sheath-knife. He slipped it into its canvas cover and put it in the back pocket of his trousers. Then he turned off the gas-stove and went out. He saw a light in the Postlethwaites’ top bedroom window. It splashed the roadway. Down at the other end of Hatfields a door banged, and a man’s hob-nailed boots began beating a tattoo upon the pavement. Then he vanished round the corner.
Ten minutes to six. Still ten minutes to six. Still ten minutes to go. He turned out of Hatfields into Price Street. He looked up at the Kilkeys’ house. He hadn’t seen Maureen for a week. He went down Price Street, crossed into St. Sebastian Place and stopped outside the chapel. It was open. Only a single light seemed to be burning inside. He went in. The place smelt stuffy, as though there was yet some stale incense floating about in the air from the previous evening’s Benediction. The chapel was empty, except that a woman kept travelling to and fro from the altar to the vestry. ‘Must be dressing the altar. Let me see! What feast day is this? I can’t remember.’ He knelt in the bottom bench. As he looked towards the altar he imagined that the woman arranging the flowers in the vases was his mother. He could even see himself there, carrying the heavy book round to the left side of the altar for the Last Gospel. How long ago that seemed, and whilst he stared at the crossing form passing up and down the steps, and whilst his thoughts were of the day when he had muttered his ‘Et cum spirita tuo’ with such innocent heart, he began reciting the ‘Hail, Mary’ in a low voice. He recited like an automaton, he seemed quite unconscious that words were falling from his lips. He kept his eyes on the altar. At two minutes to six he got up, made a hurried and it seemed a begrudging genuflection, and left the chapel. He went straight to the Loco Shed.
At nine o’clock Mrs. Fury got up and called Anthony. He yawned and got back again. She went into his room.
‘Anthony, please get up. Please get up. A funny feeling has come over me. Do come downstairs, I can’t sit by myself.’
‘Ah! Oh, Mother, don’t be silly! All right. I’ll be down in a second.’ He got up and dressed. ‘Blast it! I can’t see head or tail of this. How can they come down here and ship everything we’ve got? I’ve a bloody mind to go and see her myself.’ Dressed, he went downstairs. Not a sign of breakfast. His mother was sitting at the table. She had a pencil in her hand, a sheet of notepaper in front of her was scribbled over.
‘Sit down! I’ve just tortured myself for over an hour. Look! I’ll do what you said. Here is a message, will you send it for me from the Post Office?’
‘Now you’re talking, Mother! I’m certain Aunt Brigid will do it.’ He picked up the telegram. ‘Is there any breakfast, tea or anything?’
‘Yes, get your coat on. I’ll pour some out for you.’ Suddenly she put down the cup, gripped her son round the waist, and held him.
‘Oh, Anthony, I hate myself for this. I am thoughtless. Here you are running around like a madman, and your poor feet hardly mended yet. But listen!’ There was something fierce, something electric about the woman as she held her son. ‘I’ve always done my best for you all. I’ve been afraid of nothing. Nothing!’ She shouted a second time, ‘Nothing,’ and then concluded in a sort of whisper, ‘but I am afraid of this woman.’
He went out with the telegram. ‘Yes, it’s real! It’s real,’ he kept saying to himself as he limped down Hatfields to the Post Office. ‘It’s real. And her disgrace if anything happens. Mother’ll never hold up her head again. Aye, and every beggar in the street talking. Oh, Aunt, you must help, you must help! You mustn’t ask questions. Just help Mother right away. She’s always been decent to you.’
He entered the Post Office. For the first time he was conscious of shame. The telegram form lay there, and yet it was so simple. A few words, ‘Mangan, Nine The Mall, Cork. I need your help. Urgent. Fanny.’ Quite simple, but how hard to write it out. The cry of somebody in the gutter, and his mother had never been in the gutter. Well! It was written, and now he must hand it to the man behind the grill. The words, ‘I need your help,’ began dancing in his brain, he could see them a foot long, lying right down the whole length of the counter. And the whole staff were now reading those huge words, ‘I need your help. Urgent. Fanny.’ He pushed the message under the grill, put down two shillings, and hurried out of the Post Office. He never thought of change, he only thought of his mother, of her fear, of her misery, of the way she had taken this. ‘Mother’s still wrong about Aunt Brigid,’ he kept saying as he returned slowly to the house. ‘Well, my ship will be here next week, and I’ll be out of it. Have to. Nothing else for it. Must work, and be bloody glad to have it.’ He went in by the back door.
‘Did you send it?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s gone. Reply paid, too. There can’t be any mistake. Breakfast? Good! A good cup of strong tea, a slice of fried bacon, and some nice fried bread. Aren’t you having any?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve had mine. Give me a cup of tea, anyhow.’ She held out her cup. ‘God, I dread it! Dread it!’ Twice she spilt tea on her blouse, a clean one only put on that very morning. ‘Anthony, we’ll have that celebration one fine day,’ she said. She finished her tea. Anthony went into the parlour; a few minutes later he returned to the kitchen, then went back to the parlour. Finally he went upstairs.
At a quarter to twelve a reply came from Ireland. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Fury,’ she said,’ no answer.’ She stared at the buff envelope. She dropped it, picked it up again. ‘Anthony,’ she called. ‘Anthony.’
‘Coming! Coming, Mother!’
‘Here’s your aunt’s reply. Open it. I can’t, I’m——Oh, what does she say?’
‘“Impossible. Father and I leaving for Lourdes to-morrow. Brigid.”’
‘Lourdes! With Father! What does that mean?’
Mr. Anthony Mangan had not only survived his long journey home, he was on the eve of another. Had he but known it, he had become an important person overnight. Brigid Mangan had now been home a week. She was met at the quay by an ambulance, out of this vehicle had emerged three people, Father Twomey, Mr. Patrick O’Toole, and Miss Hegarty. Handshakes, smiling faces, kind enquiries about the invalid. How well she looked, never looked better. The woman was actually getting younger instead of older. Really, it was amazing what sheer determination and self-confidence could do, and now, how was the old man? Brigid Mangan, smiling, was brief and to the point. ‘He is splendid. He has managed very well. You might almost have thought the old man smelt his native land from a far, far distance.’ And the trip itself? Miss Mangan merely said, ‘Very nice indeed, no trouble at all.’ And that was all. And how was everybody in Gelton? Father Twomey learned in two words. ‘Very well.’
In fact, the whole world i
n this triumphant moment was very well indeed. A very fine place to live in. Mr. Mangan, after much trouble, was transferred to the ambulance. The four people sat on the seat opposite the stretcher, and the party moved off towards the Mall. Now and again one or other of them bent forward to look upon this figure—this flesh that was dead, and yet not bad. This dumb, paralytic figure.
‘Poor man! A long death-bed for him.’
Everybody agreed with the priest. Mr. Patrick O’Toole looked at his old friend, and said to himself, ‘Anthony, my good man, where have you put that bit of money you had?’ Yes, what had he done with it? Brigid Mangan was full of enquiries, enquiries that concerned the health of various clerical friends, one or two parishioners.
‘You’re looking very well yourself, Father,’ she remarked to the priest. Smiling, Father Twomey said he always was.
‘Lucky man!’ said Mr. O’Toole. The two men fell into whispered conversation. Miss Hegarty and Brigid Mangan talked about the cat. The silent figure on the stretcher was well clear of the world, and of things human. The ambulance rolled on. Rays of bright sunlight poured through the ventilator. At last, the Mall, and home. Everybody sat to attention.
‘Here we are,’ said Brigid. Yes, here they were, and the ambulance came to a halt. All alighted. Brigid Mangan searched in her bag for the key, and then suddenly remembered she had left it with her friend, who had already walked up the path and opened the door. Father Twomey and Mr. O’Toole stood by to watch the two attendants draw Mr. Mangan out.
‘Go in, Brigid,’ said the priest. ‘We’ll see to this,’ and Brigid went in.
Twenty minutes later the ambulance had gone. Anthony Mangan lay between clean white sheets. ‘He would hardly sleep the first night,’ was the thought in Miss Mangan’s mind. ‘Her father was in a clean bed, a new bed, he was in her own home again, after all those years. How could any man sleep on his first night? Yes, and especially when one remembered the kind of bed that had been his for nine long years. But she supposed Fanny had done her best. Yet after a while even the kindest people become indifferent, and it might be that in the last two years her father had had a pretty thin time! Such were Brigid’s thoughts. ‘Still, we can thank God for a safe journey and an uneventful journey.’
