The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  One after another the visitors departed. Mr. O’Toole was the last to go. Miss Mangan walked with him to the gate. He was full of praise.

  ‘It was you, Brigid, who should have gone from Ireland. You would have made your road anywhere. Now I keep asking myself why for all those years I never came near to see the old man. Hear me? But then I’m old myself, old, Brigid, and old people have funny ideas, haven’t they? God be with the times now gone! I’m grieved, Brigid, grieved. I never knew he was so ill, that he had the stroke. God bless us all—I nearly jumped out of my own skin when I saw the man. He’s like a shrivelled-up little boy. Well, now I have to be off, or else Miss Duffy will be wondering where on earth I’ve got to.’

  ‘And you’ll come round first thing in the morning?’ asked Miss Mangan.

  ‘Yes!’ said Mr. O’Toole as he drew back the rusty iron gate.

  ‘Why not come early?’ she said. ‘Come for breakfast, Patrick.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ he said, ‘I’ll see! It depends entirely on my rheumies. I have the rheumies bad these days—but listen at me, just listen at me complaining like a sour old woman, and that dear friend of mine upstairs who can’t tell us how he suffers at all, at all. Good-night, mam!’

  ‘Good-night, Patrick,’ said Miss Mangan, and stood at the gate watching him go down the road. ‘If he can’t help me, nobody can,’ she thought as she locked the gate and walked slowly back to the house. And there on the step was her little tortoise-shell friend. ‘Oh, you little beauty,’ she said, and picking up the cat in her arms she held it to her face. She shut the door, locked it, and putting the cat down, went upstairs. ‘I must sleep in his room this night,’ she said to herself. ‘To-morrow I must see the doctor.’

  At half-past eight the following morning Mr. O’Toole arrived. Brigid Mangan welcomed him in. They began breakfast in the big stone-flagged kitchen. Miss Mangan’s idea of frying ham was not quite to Mr. O’Toole’s taste, but he was not the sort of gentleman to tell her. He preferred to skirmish obstinately round this large, thick, pink slice of Danish ham. He laid his egg in the middle of it and then commenced operations. Brigid Mangan pushed the bread plate across.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said. She had only a slice of fried bread on her plate. She doubted if she could even manage this. She didn’t want to eat at all, really, and as she watched Mr. O’Toole making cautious circles round the ham she said, ‘Aren’t you eating the ham, man? It’s beautiful! It’s best Irish ham, my dear.’

  ‘I’m enjoying it,’ replied Mr. O’Toole.

  ‘Now,’ she began, ‘I want your help. Tell me what you know. But before you begin I want you to understand this: I had long long ago decided to bring Father back here! that’s all.’ She cleared a space in front of her and rested her elbows on the table, looking at Patrick O’Toole.

  ‘If she leans forward any further she’ll cover the whole table, and I’ll disappear from sight eventually,’ he said to himself. Well—he simply could not manage that ham—at least not the centre of it. He pushed the plate aside. ‘Of course, Brigid,’ he said, ‘of course. Sure, I known the Mangans all me life. And at his great age—well, one never knows—God’s will be done—well, one never knows. Though I suppose even if he had died over there, mam’—he had a habit of saying ‘mam,’ even to his housekeeper—‘I suppose he could have come back here just the same.’

  ‘Dying in Gelton is not like dying in Ireland,’ Miss Mangan commented. ‘But please go on! I can see you don’t like my ham. However——’

  ‘Well, Brigid, mam, this I can say, and say with gospel truth—your father had money in a branch of the Hibernian. I know that, for I saw it with my own eyes that day he drew it out. How about that now? A few hundred—maybe three, maybe two, but nevertheless a few hundred.’

  ‘Did he say why he had suddenly decided to draw it out of the bank?’

  ‘No. At least he said, “I’ve taken out my savings, O’Toole, and I’m going to keep them out.” A funny remark to make, I must admit to you, Brigid.’

  ‘But what’s he done with it?’ asked Brigid. The cat jumped on her knee, but she swept it off ruthlessly, and humping its back it stared with surprise at Aunt Brigid, gave a little squeal, and then disappeared under the table.

  ‘Ah! Now you’re talking,’ said Mr. O’Toole. ‘Now you’re talking. But I can’t help you there, mam, much as I’d like to do. Supposing you never got this money. Sure! Wouldn’t you call it a scurvy trick? Mind you, I wonder myself why he had made the sudden decision, because it was as safe with the Hibernian Bank as anywhere. I remember I did say to him, “What a fool you are, man; sure, you’re getting interest on that.” All he said was, “O’Toole! A man can do what he likes with his own money” And that was that.’ Mr. O’Toole lit his pipe.

  Miss Mangan bowed her head on her hand and became contemplative. ‘Can you remember the day or the year?’ she asked after a long silence.

  ‘No! To tell you the truth, I couldn’t. I do know, however, that it was about a couple of months before he went over to England to live with your sister.’

  ‘Yes,’ thought Brigid, ‘that would be the time we had such a frightful row. God! I was a fool. I believe he took out his savings for sheer spite, and he certainly could not have known that I was letting him go to Fanny. No! I can rule that out! Where has he put it? He hasn’t spent it, I’m certain.’

  ‘Of course, Brigid,’ remarked Mr. O’Toole, as he sent a cloud of smoke into the air, ‘he might well have taken it to England. He might have given it to your sister. You say she kept him nine years. What was to stop him showing his gratitude? Ah, Brigid, you’ve made a mistake letting your father go.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘You don’t know what he was like after Mother died. I was only too glad to get some peace and quiet. As for giving it to my sister—ridiculous!’ She waved a hand in the air. ‘Quite ridiculous,’ she went on. ‘When Father left here, he had some twenty or thirty pounds in his pocket. I know it was no more—because I counted it. I could tell you now, Mr. O’Toole, everything that he had in his pockets. Everything. He took his black box with him, and I know what he had in that. Wasn’t it only natural I should be inquisitive, especially when my sister seemed so anxious to take him away?’

  ‘So!’ replied Patrick. ‘But you seem to have some funny ideas about your sister, all the same.’

  ‘Maybe! I wouldn’t trust her with money, and that’s a fact. But all this isn’t helping us, is it? My father had money in the Hibernian Bank. That I already know. What I didn’t know was that he had drawn it out. Why did he take it away? Not because we had had a row. Not because he was going to live with Fanny, for he had no idea at the time that any such idea was in my head. He didn’t take it with him. I’ve searched this house, upside down and inside out. Well, here is my father, helpless upstairs. He has this money, somewhere, but where, God alone knows. Why should he have done this to me? What harm have I ever done him? No, I mustn’t talk like that. No! No! But just think, even if he wanted to leave us his money—I mean the two of us sisters—he would never be able to tell us. How can he? The man can’t speak.’

  ‘Brigid Mangan,’ said Mr. O’Toole, ‘it may be—yes, it may be that the Almighty’s hand is in this.’

  ‘Good heavens! What do you mean, man? What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Just this, mam—and I hope you won’t be vexed with me. After all, I’m the man who saw the money. I mean—supposing that the mere fact that he can’t tell us is God’s silence on him. Oh no! No! I mustn’t say that.’

  But it set Miss Mangan wondering.

  ‘He’s never spoken. Never,’ she said.

  ‘God bless us all! It’s sad indeed! But I wouldn’t be despairing, mam. Everything will come all right in the end. It may be that all along he has wanted to tell you where he put it, and now he simply can’t. How sad indeed! And I’m sure he wouldn’t leave his only dependent daughter like that. He wouldn’t do it. Maybe you ought to help him, Brigid.’

  ‘How
can I help him?’ asked Brigid Mangan. She looked miserable. Her smile had gone. Had she brought him all that way for nothing? Was there to be no acknowledgment? Heavens! Supposing he did die. ‘Yes, I would be left absolutely! I’m alone. Fanny at least has her family round her. Of course, I can keep myself. I can go on as I am! But just think of it—money lying somewhere, and yet we can’t get it. And I’m certain—absolutely certain—Father would not have left me penniless. Hard-earned savings, ‘tis true. And I can satisfy myself also that none of his money went over to that spendthrift crew. I am glad I asked about his box, nevertheless. No! I am certain, as sure as I’m sitting here, that this money is here—somewhere in Cork. But how am I going to find out? How am I going to get it? It’s not that I’m greedy—I never was. It’s just that I see no reason why it should be useless. After all, I am not an old woman. I have my years to live yet—and Dad’s money would at least keep me independent. I am not married with security, like Fanny, and I shan’t always be able to save, either, or even attend to the priests—bless them.’

  ‘Will you come upstairs, Patrick?’ she asked. They went to where Anthony Mangan was lying. As they entered the room the man’s eyes opened. He seemed to be looking at these people.

  ‘Oh, Father! Father!’ Brigid Mangan rushed to his side. ‘Look!’ she said excitedly to Mr. O’Toole, ‘he’s looking at me! He’s never done that before. I mean, not like this. It’s almost as though he knew I was coming up. Oh, Father! Father!’ The old man suddenly shut his eyes again. ‘This has gone on for years,’ said Brigid Mangan. ‘Years. It’s terrible! Always the same! Neither better nor worse. No recognition! Nothing! Stone! Solid stone! Look at him now. One would imagine that at any minute he was going to burst out and say something. But he won’t—he won’t,’ she cried, a break in her voice. Then she cried. She buried her head on his breast. ‘Oh, Father! Father! Why do you keep silent? Speak to me, please.’

  ‘Come, Brigid, mam, you’ll only be upsetting yourself,’ said Mr. O’Toole. ‘Come now! Come downstairs at once. It’s very hard on you, my dear woman, very hard! But think of your sister too! She had him like that for years. It’s pitiable watching him. Wouldn’t it be the greatest blessing if God took him out of his misery?’ He turned away from the bed, his arm round Brigid Mangan’s shoulder.

  The woman looked at him with sheer horror. ‘Mr. O’Toole! It’s cruel to say that! Indeed, it isn’t decent.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Mangan, what in the world is decent?’ replied Mr. O’Toole.

  They went downstairs again. All thoughts, suppositions, suspicions, conjectures—all could be cleared away, and only two single thoughts remain. Two single thoughts that from this moment became the scaffoldings upon which her future now rested. Father had money in Ireland, but how was she going to get it? Might not Mr. O’Toole be telling a fairy tale? Ridiculous idea. Why should he want to tell fairy tales?

  ‘Patrick O’Toole,’ she said, as they made their way leisurely downstairs, ‘now, I have something on my mind. Something I have to think about.’

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘And what precisely was that?’ He looked hard at Miss Mangan.

  ‘I must not lose my father’s money.’

  ‘Who said you would?’ he replied. ‘Who ever said you would? Haven’t I just told you that the money exists and only one thing has to be done?’

  ‘I must get the money. D’you understand, man?’

  ‘Supposing that you went out on a dark night and suddenly you lost a shilling. Now tell me, my good woman, what you’d do. You’ve lost it in the dark and you must have it. It’s all you have. Now d’you see?’

  Miss Mangan laughed. ‘I should say “Hail, Mary” to St. Anthony and ask him to help me find it,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you would! You’d pray! And how, may I ask, are you going to get your father’s unless you pray? I’m surprised at you, Brigid Mangan—and a fine, grand Catholic like you. That’s what you must. You must ask for help. God will understand! You’re over fifty, you’ll be soon a lonely woman. You’ve time to live. Need I say more to you? Now I must be off. You see, I haven’t been of much help to you, have I? Well, well! And what kind of game might you call this? Sure, your father’s been a cute man all his life, mam, and you know it. Listen to me, my good woman, for here’s a fine idea I have in my head. Have you never thought of anything but doctors? Mind you, I think Dr. Hunahan is a splendid fellow—but what can he do for your father? Keep him breathing a while longer, and no more. But can he make him speak? Not at all. Sure, isn’t it beyond the power of any man to make him open a mouth that God’s hand has closed. Who, then, is going to open it?’ He paused, said, ‘Excuse me, I must have a gobful of incense, mam,’ and he took out a small plush-covered snuff-box, and, taking a pinch in his hand, snuffed it up his nose. ‘Let me go and sit down, Brigid. Now d’you see what I’m meanin’? ‘he said.’ Why not take your father to the Holy Well, Brigid? Mind you, with the most reverent intentions. But why not? Who could make him speak now but God Almighty Himself? Don’t you see what I’m telling you, Brigid? Take your father to the Holy Waters. Are you going to tell me that you wouldn’t pray to God to help you find that money? Why should it be hidden when you have to live yourself, and how long will your father live?’

  Brigid Mangan said not a word. What was this man saying? What was he suggesting? ‘It’s not greed in me,’ she said. ‘I’m not hungry for his money.’

  ‘Of course you’re not! But by every mortal right it’s yours, mam, and I’m thinking it if you only took him on a pilgrimage to the Well and prayed—God would unseal his mouth. Don’t you see now?’

  Again she was silent. ‘I don’t know! Please! I must think! Besides, I will have to have advice there.’

  ‘Isn’t mine of any use, then? ‘he asked.’ Aren’t I trying to help you? Would you have ever known where and what he did with his bit of money if by the sheerest miracle I hadn’t seen it in his hand, and heard from his own lips that he was planting it?’

  ‘Planting it! You never told me that, Mr. O’Toole, really you didn’t.’

  ‘Come now! I told you your father had put it somewhere, and if he had, and you don’t know, and I don’t know, where—wouldn’t that be planting it? Apart from all this, just imagine if that miracle happened. Him being able to speak your name! And just think, all those years’ silence. What hasn’t he stored up in that head of his, having the advantage of keeping it there, for how could he lose it only by talking, like we all do? And what a tale he would tell you, my good woman. You can think what you like about me, Brigid—but that’s my suggestion. And it’s my opinion that the joy of finding where he’s put this money would be nothing to that of hearing him speak. To hear him say, “Brigid! Brigid!” Doesn’t it fill you with hope? And haven’t other people been cured of everything under the sun? Broken backs and diseases of the liver, and the deaf and dumb, and oh—well, now I must really be trotting away. But do think over what I’ve said, Brigid.’

  She gave a nod of the head. Somehow she couldn’t open her mouth. Thoughts choked her. Yes. She would think about it. But it was a long way, and then—‘I’ll speak to Father Twomey about it,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Mr. O’Toole! Oh! I was going to ask you. D’you think the Hibernian Bank might help?’

  He shook his head! ‘No,’ he said. ‘What could they do? Tell you he had his money in, and then drew it out, that’s all.’

  ‘All the same, I’ll make enquiries there,’ she said to herself. She put a finger under her chin, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, ‘Patrick!’

  ‘Yes, mam!’ He was all attention. A request. Nothing plainer in the woman’s face. ‘You were Dad’s oldest friend. You are an independent man. You have little or nothing to do. Supposing I did take Father on a pilgrimage, would you come?’

  ‘I’d have to think about it, Brigid. I’m not one for travelling much, never was, and then I’m not the man I was. Still—I’ll think over it. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see my oldest
friend’s daughter content and settled down comfortable. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, a cautionary tone in his voice, ‘it’s only an idea, and ideas aren’t everything when it come down to brass tacks, are they, Miss Mangan?’

  ‘This is a very good idea, Mr. O’Toole! Why I didn’t think of it before I don’t know. Supposing by some miracle he was cured. Just supposing——’

  ‘Anthony Mangan is eleven years older than me, Brigid. Be careful, mam.’

  This sudden caution only increased the sudden flow of optimism that burst upon Miss Mangan.

  ‘Yes. But, Mr. O’Toole, just imagine it. Great God! Father cured—the money found—and think if he got well.

  Both of us here together. I——’ She became almost rhapsodical.

  Mr. O’Toole picked up his hat. This kind of thing was like skating on ice for the first time. You never knew where you were going to land. And it certainly seemed that his grand idea had had a most extraordinary effect upon Brigid Mangan. He shook hands with her, saying, ‘Well! I’ll come round and see you again, Miss Mangan. I suppose you leave Miss Hegarty looking after the old man whilst you get on with your arrears of work at the chapel?’

  ‘Yes! She is staying here with me at present. Puss! Puss!’ She called the cat in from the garden. ‘Good-bye, now!’ she said, all smiles, ‘good-bye.’

  She did not return to the kitchen. She stood in the hall, thinking hard. ‘I’ll go and see the priest at once. No! I’d better not! I’d better think over it.’ She went into the front room and sat down. Yes, she had better think about it. The responsibility was great. What matter! ‘I have no right to refuse Father.’