The Secret Journey (81 page)

Mr. Fury longed to fly from it. It didn't seem fair. All those years, all that toil, and just ended in this. It seemed cruel, and now there was not one child to whom he could turn. They had well scattered. He made a solemn vow that they would not remain in Hey's Alley for long. What exactly had made her come
here
of all places?

The more he asked himself why, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He felt fooled, frustrated. He wasn't exactly crying about it. Not he. But no man with a bit of decency in him could look twice at the place without asking himself what forty-six years of hard work meant.

He was a happy-go-lucky sort of man, who could be, and had been called a fool for every day of his sea life, but had swallowed it all good humouredly. He always said: ‘Fanny will grow out of that,' but his reckoning seemed quite disastrous, for she went on calling him a fool, to which he parried by saying that her silly ambition would get her nowhere. Their life was as full of wrangles, as it was of regrets. Why didn't he look to his family more? How could he? He never saw them. He was always at sea! Then why didn't he think of her more? He did! He loved her. The best woman in the world for him. Then lighter moments came. They went off to the country for an occasional walk. They went to the music hall. And then the man sailed away again. These diversions weren't quite enough, however. The woman complained by letter. He never answered them.

The children were growing up. He hardly knew them, nor they him. The woman ruled the house. Living was a struggle. She kept on saying this with monotonous regularity. But what could he do? Nothing more than he was doing already. Working hard and earning money. Yes. But look at the lost opportunities. Look at the chances he had lost through not staying in America. After all it was a wonderful country, and the foster home of the Irish. Familiarity bred contempt. Mr. Fury shut his mouth and kept it shut. He sailed away and came home again. The children went on growing. What a father? Well, if he couldn't show ambition she
would
. She would make a priest of one. She knew who. He said: ‘Fantastic, can't afford it.' She laughed, she went on, quite determined. The other children hated her for showing favouritism, for offering things they had been denied themselves. They decided to get out of the place. The eldest married and never returned to see them. The daughter flung herself into a marriage which she had broken asunder only a year after it had taken place. The treasured favourite failed. It was the end. Now she didn't care very much; she had been fooled all along the line; she had kept her father for years, for nothing, and had received little thanks. What bit of money he had saved went elsewhere. Not to his daughter, who had endeavoured to make the last years of his affliction as easy as possible for him. She had piled debt upon debt about herself in order to satisfy her pride. It had been struggle all along the line. It had ended in murder. Only a masterly defence had saved her treasured son from the rope. This was a cup she had to drink, overflowing with gall.

Here in Hey's Alley she knew nobody and spoke to nobody. The spaciousness and greater freedom of the Hatfields district did not exist here. Here it was much darker, though there was at least no odour thrown up by bone-yards. Here the air smelt of rope and of the sea, and the people who lived in it.

‘Fanny, woman,' Mr. Fury had said, ‘surely, surely there were hundreds and hundreds of places to come to besides this? Surely?'

Well! she preferred this. It suited her. She wanted to hear no more about it.

Then Anthony. He wouldn't like it, a young man like him——Well!

That couldn't be helped either! She was satisfied here. It was a step down. All the better! She could hide. Besides, in this place people weren't so curious.

Mr. Fury made no more comment. But he thought a lot. He thought it was sad to see this hard-working, good-living woman stuck in a hole like this. No doubt he would be blamed for that too. His own foolishness again. Let her talk. There was nothing more to be said, need be said. Down and not up. Into a hole to hide. Well! Well! So it had come to that.

Having made up his mind, Mr. Fury went back to the house. He had been wandering around since eight o'clock and now it was near midday. Again he rang up the hospital. This time they told him the woman was unconscious, but he could come any time now.

Before the altar on the kitchen dresser Mr. Fury knelt down and prayed. He hoped, hoped,
hoped
Fanny would get well. For suddenly there came into his mind the thought of all she meant to him, of the happy times they had had, they could still have. Lots of things to do for her. Just he and she on their own. Five years ago they might have been. But she had said ‘No.' Well, it couldn't be helped.

He had something to eat, a slice of cold ham and bread and butter. He made more tea. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but somehow could not endure the thought of going into a pub whilst she was lying so ill; no, he couldn't do that.

Later he went upstairs. He put on a collar and tie, one of his son's collars, and laughed when he found it was much too big. Better than none at all. He put on his tie, his bowler hat, then left the house. The thought of going to the priest, of having made up his mind, of actually being on his way, lightened his step. Please God, everything would come right. He went straight ahead till he came to the tram stop. There he stood deliberating.

There was Father Jolly. Yes. But, well—no. He'd always been after him to sign the pledge. Why, of course, there was Father Moynihan and then his heart sank again. Father Moynihan was no longer in Hatfields. In fact he was actually in Ireland—had been for some time now. With Father Moynihan off the list, Denny Fury began to feel that he was alone in the world. No matter. He'd go to Saint Sebastian's. He'd find Father Tierney. Two priests couldn't be in Ireland.

When the tram came he went to board it, hesitated, finally let it go. It had just occurred to him that as soon as he got off the tram at the King's Road there would be people who would recognize him. And they'd ask questions and in the end there would be nothing but talk. He didn't want to talk. He was sick of talk. He boarded the next tram.

Having paid his fare he went upstairs. There were only three passengers on top. A matronly lady, and two young girls, who ate chocolates and giggled at one and the same time. Mr. Fury seated himself right in front. It would be curious going back along the same route. Seeing the familiar roads and streets and shops, the well-known landmarks. He looked out at the passing people. All were strangers to him. He knew nobody at all in this part of Gelton. The tram rattled on like a tank, even swayed and rocked like a ship. He lit his pipe and sat well back in the seat.

Soon he was seeing known things. Here a street he knew only too well. Lord! How many times had he walked down there to his ship? Yes, and there was the Grapes. Heavens above! Why the last time he had stepped into that house had been when he was on strike. It brought a Mr. Postlethwaite into mind. How was that fellow getting along? And George the son. In the army by now, no doubt. Those Orangemen were loyal. And poor Mrs. Postlethwaite. Lord! It seemed like a dream. Why, it must have been five years since he had seen the place. Was it as long as that?

Suddenly he exclaimed under his breath: ‘Damn me! Look at it. Still standing. Well, just fancy that! The old Lyric. Good Lord!' Many a time he and Fanny went there. Ah! It was hard thinking of her laid low—but all the same—and here the man was strongly tempted to spit, and only the warning in front of him held it back. Yes. Here were the old things and the old times. All swimming back, a whole flood of them. What a pity these things had happened. Well! You never knew, simply never knew! Yes. It hadn't been easy for Fanny. Suddenly thrust back from Hey's Alley to Hatfields made him understand. Aye! He supposed he would have done the same as her. Run away and hid himself.

The matronly lady never budged, the giggling girls having finished eating their chocolate giggled louder, and their giggles rose and fell in waves, shot forward and backwards, made arcs in the tram. But Mr. Fury pulled hard at his pipe. Once he slapped his knee. Yes. Better go right to the end of the journey.

He paid the extra twopence fare. The gigglers got off. and some shipworkers came aboard. The tram rattled on. He would get off there and walk back. Just get him to the King's Road by the time darkness fell. He felt ashamed to go about in broad daylight. He was well known in the district. He didn't want talk; he'd had enough of that. No time for it. Got to see a priest, any priest, one preferably who knew Fanny. No matter what happened then, he would feel rested in his mind. He thought of her every minute, every second, and wondered and hoped, and remembered, and felt miserable, then happy, then bewildered. She was all he had now. Home two days. Lord! He had never expected this.

The tram had climbed all the way. A long hill. Mr. Fury turned in his seat and looked back. What a hill, and that hill made Hey's Alley a greater hole.
What
a hole! Never mind. Something good would come. No! If anything happened to her now—it couldn't—no, it wouldn't be fair. The tram pulled up with a jerk, the conductor crying: ‘Terminus! Terminus!'

He went slowly down the stairs, stepped down into the street. He stood there looking about him. He felt like a child who has suddenly emerged from a dark room after being shut in for a long time. Right opposite him stood the ‘Glow-worm,' tall, solid, violently red, bright brasses, ornate decorations. ‘Imagine the “Glow-worm” still standing,' he said to himself, and he looked at it almost with devotion, as though it were a century and not just nearly two years since he had stood in front of it. Here were all the old sights. Now he must look about him. He smiled at the thought. Watch without being watched. For old faces, old signs. The world seemed suddenly alive again. Crowds of workmen, poured past him coming out of the docks, the roads were jammed by inward and outward dock traffic. Cars hooted, horses struck hoofs and sparks flew, voices hailed, a brake screeched, trams clanged. Mr. Fury now decided to move.

Should he go back by the top road? He might meet friends the other way. Nothing would be so awkward as explaining things, trying to be cheerful. Refusing a drink, having a drink. Talking about old ships, old trips. No! All that was done with. This wasn't the time for dreaming. He rang the hospital from the first telephone box. Better news. He wanted to shout out his relief. Fanny was awake. Awake! She was taking nourishment. Thank God!

Passing St. Peter's chapel he stopped, then went in. He knelt down and said a prayer for his wife. His step was light when he came out. Thank God! She was still alive. Fanny! Now he could see the priest and be easy in his mind. It was really splendid. Twice Mr. Fury stopped and said to himself, ‘Wonderful. Fanny'll come out of this, I'm sure.' He even laughed. ‘A real brick Fanny is!'

When he came to a pub he stopped dead. Why, with this good news, shouldn't he go in and have a pint? Fanny wouldn't mind, anyhow! He hadn't had a drink past his lips for days. Almost without realizing it he was pushing open the swing door. At the counter he called for a pint of Falstaff. Then he sat down, blew a little of the froth off and drank his wife's health.

The place oddly enough was empty. At this time of day it should be full. But it wasn't. He looked at the licensee, an immense man with outjutting ears, a cast in his eye, an enormous collar round his neck, and a frontage like a mountain. All the same he didn't know him. They threw each other superficial glances. Mr. Fury knocked out his pipe and filled it again. He sent clouds of smoke round the bar of ‘The Mariner's Arms.'

Ten minutes later he left and went slowly on. He hoped it would get dark soon. He didn't want to be seen by anybody. One never knew. There was an old hag of a woman named Pettigrew! She might see him, at least if she was still alive. He remembered Miss Pettigrew and her jujubes. She had a general shop round the corner from Saint Sebastian's church. Rather be dead than meet that old woman.

He laughed, suddenly remembering a time he had got drunk and had almost fallen off the tram, and a lad had guided him to her shop of all places. Poor old woman. If he remembered rightly he had insulted her. Well, she was the type who wanted insulting. Taking Fanny's sister as a lodger when she came over from Ireland, as though the house in Hatfields wasn't good enough for her. Was she still alive? That sly devil of a sister of Fanny's. The last he had heard of her was that she had dragged her father to Lourdes. He wondered now—and it amused him to think of it—he wondered how many times she had ducked old Mangan's head under the famous waters. ‘The poor old man,' he found himself saying: ‘The poor old,
old
man.'

Why, here was Christmas Street, and Derby Street and Long Lane! Here were the old cotton warehouses and the hoists, and the streets full of the debris of the day. Bills of lading and newspapers and bits of cotton sticking to all the neighbouring walls. He couldn't be very far off now. Suddenly he was tired. He crossed the road and sat down on a stone bitt outside the flour warehouse. He rested for a few minutes and then went on.

He lowered his head at the approach of people. He simply did not want to be caught out. He'd see the priest, and then he'd get right back to Hey's Alley. He longed for his bed. Hadn't had a decent sleep since he'd been home. It was the devil having to sail away so soon! But nothing could be done about it. He'd signed for the duration; they were under the Government. No use troubling about it. He was sure the priest would help. He wished she could go to Mount Mellery before he sailed. But that was quite impossible.

‘Ah well!' he sighed, ‘we've got to do the best we can for her. That's all.'

When he reached Princess Street he turned into it and at the top found himself at the corner of Sebastian Place. He had walked down that Place hundreds, thousands of times, and though he wanted to avoid meeting people he knew, and though he hated that Pettigrew woman like the devil, he was tempted to go down to the end of Sebastian Place, stand on the opposite side and look across at the shop. When he saw the name ‘Guiness' on the fanlight he received a shock. Not Pettigrew. Then she must be dead. Well! Poor old woman. Fanny
would
be surprised.