The Secret Journey (23 page)

Anthony, I want you to come home. You see—oh, I don't know how to put it. Everything is breaking up. I feel quite helpless and old too. I never thought I should find myself, at my age, having to write like this. But, dear Anthony, I want you here, home in the house with me. The others have gone—they don't care—but I still feel that you
do
. I've tried my best to keep our little home together, in good and bad times we've managed along. And you see, I distrust Peter. It galls me to have to say it of him, for I pinned all my hopes on him. I'm not thinking of the priesthood—that's past and done with. I forgave him that, but what I can't forgive and can never understand is this grudge he has against me. I'm not imagining anything. I can see it. I can feel it. It's all about, in the house, in his face, in the things he says. I rowed with your father. We had terrible words. And now I see he was right when he told me that he would clear out unless Peter left the house. I thought, ‘What a lame excuse that is, but a dashed good one,' for he found the chance of getting off at last through Peter.

It's not that he had a right to do it or that he hadn't, nor that we've had continuous differences over him—and not only over him, but over you all—but just that he went. That's all. Please don't think I'm making a song about little things. I have never done that, thank the Great God. Ah! We were a happy family once. I've been in this house nearly thirty-two years. I want you to come home, to try and get shore work so you can be with me. I feel so terribly lonely. Dear Anthony, please don't upset yourself over this letter. You are a good lad, and an understanding one. Would that the others had been like you. Who would think that your younger brother, after the way I brought him up, should this very day be so indifferent as to neglect his most solemn duty?

I feel miserable, not over what I have to do, but just this—that to find Peter neglecting his religion is a terrible disappointment to me. But that's not all—my greatest misery is because I have no longer the energy or the heart ever to mention it to him. He has been home, as I said, some days. He sleeps in bed till eleven, and only common decency compels him to help me with your grand-dad—he has his breakfast and dinner all together. Then he goes out and I don't see him for hours. He just drops in for tea and goes off again, and if he doesn't go off, maybe his conscience pricks him now and again, then he just sits and says nothing.

But what I hate—what I loathe—is this dropping in. My Christ, I loathe it. It's as though he were just a lodger in his home. He must hate it and hate me, as he must hate everybody. He seems happy out of it. One face for the house, but quite another one when he gets into the street. I never realized I would rear such a son. Of course, there are times when I am alone and I sit down and think about things. Sometimes I even feel sorry for him. But now I can't feel that way any more. I simply can't. Something has gone out of me, been sucked out. He knows I am worried, he knows I have many things to do—but he takes advantage of my forgetfulness. But all the time I know—I know what's going on—but I couldn't stir a hand or a foot to prevent it. Yes, I know in my heart
all
the things—but I can't do any more. That's what makes me miserable. Your sister I hardly ever see. Like Desmond, he is completely outside my life. And would you be surprised to know, my dear son, that I actually saw that surly devil in the town the other day? He's getting on. He's growing fat, and to look at him you would hardly credit him as being one of the family at all. He
has
changed. But he says he's getting on. It made me laugh. We are all getting on, some very slowly, some very fast. He did ask me how I was, and I said very well.

When I got home I found a pound in my purse. It reminded me just for a few minutes of the old trick he had of giving me surprises when he was working at the timber yard.

Maureen never comes here but to insult me. I'm sorry for that young woman, however, for even now, after being married over two years, she doesn't seem to realize what a good man she's got. A real kind-hearted fellow is Joe, and I have many times repented what I said about him. But we're the best of friends. If only Maureen was like him I'd feel, oh! I'd feel very happy. For their little boy is a darling, and growing fine, and whenever I've gone there he's been delighted to see me, and I thought if Maureen would only settle down and be sensible. You see, and you must know, all the time I've been here I've kept to myself, for I was never one for getting too pally with my neighbours. And, naturally, when I think of Price Street, not a stone's throw away, I always say to myself, ‘How nice to be able to go there—to see them happy—to see that darling child, and maybe to have a nice cup of tea together.' I would love that.

Oh, Anthony! I'm becoming more bitter and hate myself for it. Sometimes I tell myself that I should never have married your father, though he's a good man—generous, and this I will say, he's clean-living and honest though a bit of a grumbler. He says I taught him that. But I often wonder if I wouldn't have been far better off at home with my father in Ireland. At heart your father is a devil-may-care, a real harum-scarum, real come-day-go-day. But experience has taught me—at least living in Gelton has taught me—that that kind of spirit is foolish. I simply can't do it when all my time is spent trying to keep the home together, food on the table, the roof over us, and clothes to wear. I've brought up a big family, and just look where I am to-day. Father Trooney used to say that one can't ever go from where one belongs, but that can't be true, unless I was actually born for this kind of life, for I haven't the faintest desire to stir from the house, and Ireland, well, that lovely land is like heaven, a long way off.

Anthony, my dear son. You are the genuine one in this family, and I love you for that. In spite of everything you've kept to your promise. I always pray for you when I go to Mass, for I remember when you were a little boy how you used to serve Father Geraghty at the altar. Keep to that, and you'll never be unhappy. No matter what happens. I can always turn to the chapel. I always feel happy there. When I kneel down I feel contented. I feel I've left all that worry and Hatfields and Gelton far behind. You feel clean, you feel secure. So don't ever forget your beautiful religion. I can say this, that it has kept me up. Kept my head up, and I feel as proud to-day as I did over fifty years when Bishop Moriarty put his hand on my head. That's all I've asked of my family. To keep their faith—to be clean and to be honest. That's not much, is it? Well, I'm afraid you'll have fallen asleep long before you reach the end of this letter, but somehow I felt I must write to someone, and naturally I could only think of you, who have been so good, who have helped all along, never growled but did your work.

George Postlethwaite and yourself are much the same, for no matter what happens that man is always smiling. He asks about you and wishes to be remembered to you—also Mrs. Sliney and Father Moynihan. If you get this letter as soon as you reach New York, I want you to write me and try and get the letter off by the
Transenia
, which I see in the
Shipping News
leaves New York on the twenty-third.

I still get the loan of the
Shipping News
from Mr. Nolan.

Well, Anthony, I hope you'll think over all I have said. You see, in spite of everything that has happened, I'd still try—all over again if I thought we could hold the home together. You see the home is all I have. I have no interests outside it. I love my home and my family, so do think over what I have said. Who knows, but one day we might all be together again.

My best love to you.—Your fond mother,

F
ANNY
F
URY.

When she finished reading this letter, she was crying. It was as though those words were so many hammers upon the pages, and that they had struck deep down in her soul, had broken through into the fastness there, and revealed her emptiness. She felt suddenly lonely, her whole soul cried out for affection—for love, for human warmth. She folded the letter up and placed it in an envelope. She sealed it, stamped and addressed it, and then called Peter. He came down. At once he saw she had been crying.

‘Take this letter and put it in the box at once, as I want it to go in the early collection. The mail boat sails on the afternoon tide to-morrow.'

He went out with the letter. The pillar-box was at the bottom of Hatfields. In a few minutes he was back again. It was half-past eleven.

‘You've had no supper,' she said, and pointed to the bare table.

‘I thought we could have it together, Mother,' said Peter. He put his hand on her arm, and added quickly, ‘You are worrying. You have something on your mind, Mother. And now I want you to tell me everything.'

Her expression was wooden; she did not respond, just stood there staring at him as though he were a complete stranger. He took his hands from her arm and said, ‘I'll make tea.' Mrs. Fury went out of the kitchen.

‘Where are you going? Aren't you going to have supper, Mother?'

‘Yes,' she replied, ‘call me. But first I must attend to your grandfather. I am very worried about him.' Then she went upstairs to Mr. Mangan.

Fanny Fury's father was now turned eighty years. She had brought Anthony Mangan to Gelton some years previously. He had come from Ireland especially to be looked after by her, and to be kept clear of one whom Fanny Fury considered to be a ‘most unfeeling sister.' A few years after settling down in Hatfields he had had a stroke, and had been helpless ever since. He was paralysed, unable to speak, and as helpless as a child. But this helpless figure had become a staunch pillar of the Fury household. Fanny Fury became his slave. She washed and dressed him, undressed him, and carried him up and downstairs. She carried out these duties cheerfully, it became her particular pleasure to be his handmaid. If Anthony Mangan was a burden, it was only to himself, and possibly to Dennis Fury, who had never spoken of the old man as anything but ‘him.'

Dennis Fury and his father-in-law had once had a heated argument over the latter's supplying of money for Peter's education, Dennis Fury's only complaint being that it was done behind his back. He had resented it, he felt that he was well out of the picture, that he didn't count—at least so far as his son, Peter, was concerned. Thereafter they treated each other to a contemptuous though dignified silence. When Anthony Mangan was seized with the stroke the silence was sealed completely. To see this old man seated in the high-backed chair, belted round the waist for fear he should fall out, to see him there day after day, hour after hour, year after year, became in the end unbearable. It seemed that when Mr. Fury came home from work in the evening those staring eyes met him as soon as he put his head in the door. They followed him about, waking and sleeping. They became an irritation, an obsession. Somehow he felt his home was no longer his own, and already his long life at sea had made him a stranger among his children.

He had left the sea, begrudgingly it is true, but he had done so for the sake of Fanny Fury.

There was no longer any privacy. This house was so small that it was impossible to sit down anywhere and be quiet. He hated to sit in the kitchen, at least until the old man had been shifted off to bed. If he went into the parlour there was bound to be somebody there. To have gone upstairs and sat down would have meant one thing only. Number three Hatfields had three rooms above-stairs and three below. To have retired upstairs at any other time than bedtime would have been considered a disturbance, for, in the Fury family, this could only mean one thing—moods. One could go to bed—even lie there all day and all night if one felt ill—but to go and sit there, that was quite different. It meant that one refused absolutely to be in the general swim. If a member of the family suddenly disappeared above-stairs, there followed the quite natural enquiry, ‘Is anything the matter?'

Dennis Fury after one or two futile attempts to enjoy his own company had given it up.

‘I want to be alone' meant the inevitable ‘But why? Aren't you well?' Privacy was quite impossible. The four walls of Hatfields cried aloud that such could never be.

When the family retired to bed, Mr. Fury remained behind. He would sit in the chair by the fire, thinking of nothing in particular, and gradually surrendering himself to that happy state when nothing matters and consequences even less. He would sink into the chair, stare into the fire, and after about an hour go up to bed. He always felt better after this private communion—the silence of the kitchen. The very atmosphere was peaceful. This habit of staying up after all had gone to bed soon spread. In time it became the rule. Mrs. Fury sometimes sat alone in the kitchen for an hour after the rest of the household were in bed.

It was no longer considered strange to seek this quiet hour—absolutely alone.

Mrs. Fury could hear her son laying the table below, but her thoughts at this moment were all of her father. Looking at him lying there, she could not help but remember all that had happened in the house since Anthony Mangan had come from Ireland, just as she could not but help seeing as she looked down on the bed, not the helpless old man, whose pittance of a pension she drew each week in return for her devoted attention, but another figure: a figure from the past, shadowy, dim, which at length became flesh and blood. She was looking at a tall man, of splendid physique, and not a little attractive in features, with his long ruddy face with its well-shaped nose, large eyes, and a head covered with black curly hair.

This was her father. That aged figure in the bed, imprisoned by years and by his ageing flesh—time's journey-work, almost complete—this became a mirror through which she saw that which had once been and could never come again. This was the link, this the firm bond that held them together. The more burdensome Anthony Mangan became, the stronger became the tie. Nobody ever enquired about the old man, whether he was alive or dead, whilst as for this ‘unfeeling daughter' of his in Cork, she was far too busy ever to give him a thought.