The Secret Journey (70 page)

‘Would you have done?' he asked. ‘Would you have taken more money from her?'

‘I don't know what I would have done,' she replied sharply. ‘Maybe I would. I've gone past being able to help myself. Yes, I dare say I would have grabbed it from her with both hands. Maybe it's a good job she's called for this settlement.'

‘Maybe!' said Anthony, ‘I should damned well think so. And a good job, too, that we know at least what's been going on this past year or so. Crippling yourself like you do, and saying not a word about it.' He turned over on his side and faced the wall.

‘Thank you,' she said, ‘thank you. You've all been wonderful! Too wonderful! And I've been nothing but a fool.' She went and sat by the window. She kept raising her head, as though she were about to yawn. The landscape of her life had once been a mountain. The mountain had gone. It was only a dreary plain. She kept fidgeting with her dress—pushing back unruly wisps of hair—once she put both hands to her ears as though she meant to shut out some sound or other. These actions were unconscious. Then she sat quite still, as though she had suffered a sudden stricture. Anthony turned once again and studied her. Changing every day! Getting stooped, even! And somehow her face had a sort of deadness about it, her eyes were heavy, tired-looking. Yet she had lost that feverish, agitated look. Yes, that had gone. She just seemed to be resting.

‘Don't keep looking at me like that,' she said censoriously. ‘I thought you were tired and wanted to rest your feet.'

‘Can't you see I'm resting?' he replied. ‘Oh, why isn't Dad here, anyway? He's always away when anything happens. I'll be glad when my ship's in. That's straight! Oh, I'm not being cruel, Mother, don't think that, but I'm so afraid if I worked ashore I'd just crock up, and then what? Haven't you just got rid of one invalid? You wouldn't want another! God! It is lousy. I can see now! Are poor people always like this? I wonder? The Possies, for instance.'

‘He has worked in one job all his life. There is one son, and he has worked regularly ever since I can remember. Yes, everybody's different, you see.'

‘It is funny that feller never came in for his dinner to-day,' Anthony said. ‘Does he always—I mean, does he often stay to his dinner?' he asked.

‘I don't know. I'm sure I couldn't remember what he did,' she said. She seemed to be talking to him from far away. ‘Well, you better have your rest.'

Anthony struggled to his feet. ‘I know you just
can't, can't
get it off your mind. I know that you can't sit still. That every minute you're expecting a knock. Well, whoever comes, I'll hear them, and I'll be down. Cheer up, Mother! I'm certain that——'

‘I wish I could. One might imagine it to be a bloody fairy tale! But do I worry about the money, about the roof over one's head, or is it the disgrace? Oh, the disgrace, the disgrace!' she exclaimed as she made a sudden dash from the room. ‘And that woman, that woman,' she kept repeating as she went slowly down the stairs. ‘Like stone! Like solid stone! To take that poor old man all the way to Lourdes! To kill him. That's all! Poor Father! Poor Father! Oh, Denny, if you had only stayed with me it would have helped. I mean, you would have been here beside me.' She smiled. Beside her! When had he ever been beside her? She simply couldn't remember. All too long ago. Well, he never had. He didn't know what living was. For some reason or other, and without the slightest intention of going out, she put her hat and coat on, and sat down on the chair near the door.

‘Yes! It is funny that lad not coming in to his dinner! At least he would have told me he'd make up something for his dinner. Now, why hasn't he come? And I had such a lovely stew for him. Such a lovely stew! Perhaps I might ask Mrs. Postlethwaite!' Maybe she meant to go out for that purpose.

Mrs. Postlethwaite was in her house. She answered the woman's knock. Were the men in the Loco working late to-night? The woman said, ‘No! At least, I know nothing about it. They might be, of course,' she said with an expansive smile, fat finger pressed against her red cheek.

‘Andrew doesn't tell
me
everything, Mrs. Fury,' she continued. ‘What man ever does?'

A big job? No. She couldn't recollect her husband making any mention of a big job. ‘They might be, of course. And if they did, I suppose your son would work on with the rest of them. But I
do
believe Andrew would have mentioned it, though! Lovely day, isn't it?' She made to shut the door.

‘Lovely,' Mrs. Fury said. ‘George working, I suppose?' she asked.

‘Aye! They're always working in
this
house, Mrs. Fury,' replied the little stout woman. ‘That's their job, isn't it? Working! Keeps them out of mischief.'

With that the interview ended. The door closed with a snap. Mrs. Fury returned to her house again. She went upstairs.

‘Something's going to happen. Four o'clock,' she said, ‘—and she meant it, too—but why does she go on tormenting me like this? Does she do it to everybody? I thank God that I am not like her. Yes, I thank God!' Pray! Yes, she had prayed. She knelt in front of that altar, but not for long. She left it feeling numbed. Suddenly she went to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Anthony!' she shouted. ‘Are you asleep? Anthony!'

‘Yes—hello! What is it?' He opened the door and looked out. Mrs. Fury was standing on the lower stair.

‘There's somebody here now, I saw from the parlour window. There! He's knocking now.'

‘Yes, but who?' asked Anthony, eyes blurred with sleep. ‘Who is it?'

‘The man from Mrs. Ragner's house. Listen! He always knocks like that.'

‘I'm coming down,' he said, and dashed back to get his trousers. The knocking at the door became louder. The woman stood trembling, hesitant.

‘I don't want you to come down. Go and lie down. I can look after this myself. D'you hear me? Get back to bed, and rest your feet. Do I want you on my hands next?'

She stepped into the lobby. Anthony followed. They faced each other.

‘I have a right,' he said. ‘Whatever business this fellow has he'll see me as well. And he can touch nothing here yet. Please let me be in the kitchen with you.'

‘For Christ's sake,' she shouted, ‘why not strip me naked and have done with it?'

Then she went down the lobby and opened the door. With an almost beatific smile the gentleman said, ‘Good-afternoon.' Half-way up the stairs, Anthony Fury sat down on the stairs. ‘May I come in?'

The woman drew wide open the door and Daniel Corkran stepped in.

‘It's the account, you see, Mrs. Fury,' he said. ‘Sorry to have been so late. But business was rather rushed this morning, and Mrs. Ragner, I'm afraid,
had
to go into town to-day, having let business lapse there these last few days.'

He did not remove his hat. Still smiling, he went on: ‘I dare say Mrs. Ragner informed you as to how we stand at present?'

Mrs. Fury said nothing. She was looking out through the open door, watching some children making mud-pies in the gutter. Mr. Corkran's smile disappeared. ‘What an extraordinary person this is! She must think this is a joke.—My orders, mam, are to collect the account forthwith. My orders are to remain here until five o'clock. That, at least, does give you a chance to think about it. But don't be long thinking, mam, of course. Mrs. Ragner has been very kind to you, I must say. She's given you more than she ever gave any other client!'

The woman raised her hand and suddenly struck, the man in the face.

CHAPTER XIX

‘You're as cute as the rest of them,' remarked Mr. Andrew Postlethwaite as he picked up his oil-can and disappeared behind the engine. Peter Fury picked up his scraper and followed the old man. ‘Only here three days,' he roared into Peter's ear. ‘You youngsters give me the pip. They say you can tell the size of a man's backside by the way he walks, and there's a lot of people round here who like to do nowt except sit on it. Give me that waste.' Peter Fury handed him the bundle of cotton waste. ‘When I was a lad'—but the remainder of the sentence was drowned by the roar of an oncoming engine. ‘All right,' he shouted, ‘don't stand there glaring at me—stand back from that piston. Want your bloody head knocked off? Christ! You must have got outside the wrong end of the bed this morning. Watching the bloody clock. That's all you lads seem to do.' Peter Fury climbed up again, leaned over the iron door. ‘I'll get used to it,' he said. Andrew Postlethwaite looked up at him. ‘The way you young pups talk, you'll get used to it. You talk as though the job was a dose of the pox. Your old man was the same. Never gave himself to the job. You ought to consider yourself bloody lucky to have a job at all. Did you bring that knife with you?'

‘Yes! I have got it here,' said Peter. He joined the old man in the engine-cabin.

‘Let's have a look at,' he said, and Peter took the sheath from his back pocket. Mr. Postlethwaite drew out the knife and laid the blade gently across his palm. It glittered in the half darkness.

‘Nice bit of work that handle,' he said. ‘Your Dad do it?' He ran his finger lightly along the blade edge, which tapered to a point.

‘Yes,' replied Peter, fastening the cabin door and leaning against it. ‘You won't find a knife as good as that in any shop in Gelton! Look at the way he's corded the handle. Dad was a good one at rope.'

‘And you want three bob for it?' remarked the old man. He shook his head, made a grimace, and replied, ‘Isn't worth it! I could get a new one for three bob.'

‘Maybe! But a new blade is never as good as a seasoned one,' said Peter.

The old man hesitated. An excellent knife and sheath at the price. Better than any cobbler's. ‘No!' he said—‘besides, I haven't got three bob. Give you one and a tanner for it.'

Peter Fury took up the knife, half thrust it into the canvas sheath and said disappointedly, ‘Christ! One and a tanner? Give us two bob for it, Mr. Postlethwaite. It'll cost you half a dollar to get one not a tenth as good.'

But Andrew Postlethwaite shook his head. ‘One and a tanner,' he said.

‘Hell!' said the other. He shot the knife home in the sheath and climbed down from the engine. His coat was hanging over the steel buffers. He put the knife in the inside pocket and returned to his work.

‘If you sharpen it a bit more,' said Mr. Postlethwaite, ‘you'll be able to use it for cutting your toe-nails.' He began scratching his head, bits of clinker were stuck to his greasy cap. Occasionally an engine slid out a puff of steam, a whistle, a slow movement of her pistons and she was clear of the darkened shed.

Peter Fury felt miserable. He could not keep his mind upon his work. Three times that morning Andrew Postlethwaite had sworn at him. What the hell was wrong with him? And why hadn't he filled the big can with oil? And why didn't he stand clear of that bloody plate? How many times was he going to be told? He'd get his head knocked off. Such were Mr. Postlethwaite's observations. What the hell did he mean? It was irritating.

‘You're not paying attention to your job, me lad.' This was bellowed into Peter Fury's ear. Each time he had looked at the old man, saying, ‘Yes, yes.'

‘Yes, yes,' roared Postlethwaite—‘You mean No, no. You're as bad as your old man was.'

‘Bloody old growl! You keep my father's name out of it,' he shouted back in the old man's face.

‘All you think about—and he was the same, young fellow me lad—all you think about is picking up your dibs on Friday.'

‘Oh, bulls!' Peter cried, and went off again behind the engine to his rags. ‘I can't pay attention! I simply can't! It's awful. I keep thinking of Mother all the time.' He looked round at the old man now busy oiling in the cabin. He looked at the engine. The engine was no engine, only a great black shadow, and set in this shadow, a blur. The blur was Andrew Postlethwaite. ‘Growler!' said Peter. ‘Bloody old growling swine! He's all right, though. No wonder Dad said they were a lot of old women! Yes,' he said to himself, ‘he's thousands of miles away and he knows nothing. I can see Mother sitting there, like a little old woman, just like a little old woman. Talking, talking.' All the morning he had been awkward, forgetful. He had spilled the oil twice, he had dropped a scraper on the old man's foot, tripped over the grating. He should not have come this morning. He should have stayed with her. Perhaps he had better go home for dinner, after all. His mind became confused. His mother, like some dream-like figure, stood between him and all actuality. She followed him round the engine. She hid the engine from view, she obliterated Mr. Postlethwaite! It was no use! Might as well sleep on it. What could
he
do? Nothing! But he had made a fool of himself. Yes, he had made a fool of himself. He burned with shame. ‘I must try and see her myself. Yes, I must do that!'

He looked up at the clock, and suddenly it was dinnertime. The concourse of sound ceased, the deluge of movement died away and the great shed became for an hour the prisoner of silence, the more complete by this instantaneous cessation of sound that had been ear-splitting, strident, thunderous, devastating. Men began drifting out into the light in ones and twos, Andrew Postlethwaite went to the buffers, picked up his coat and followed the others. Peter stood motionless by the engine, watching the figure stumbling over the points, then walk along the narrow wooden platform and so beneath the covered bridge. If one could only imagine this woman was joking; on the other hand, if one could only think of
some
way of getting the money. Yes. If he could get it he'd go up there at once—he'd stuff it into her mouth. Choke her with it. ‘The lousy beast! But I was worse! Yes. I was worse!' The horizon of his thoughts was bounded by this cavernous shed. He sat down on a wooden box and stared straight ahead. To think that every stick in the place—every single thing was mortgaged to that woman. Why had she gone on and on, putting a rope round her neck and saying never a word? ‘Is it that she's not really caring any more?' Oh! damn it! What was the use of sitting there moping? To the devil with it!