The Secret Journey (90 page)

She cried: ‘Don't touch me! I'm tired.' They left her sleeping.

She was alone in the house. She woke suddenly. ‘Fifteen years,' she said. ‘Fif-teen.'

She sat up. People looked in. She heard voices. A man came in by the back door. ‘I asked you to keep away,' she began shouting. ‘I hate the sight of you.'

Mr. Kilkey remained quite calm. He knew the woman. He understood the woman. Her pride was gone. She walked round the kitchen, then said: ‘Why don't you go?'

He sat down instead. That would pass soon. She was frenzied yet, he thought. She insulted him again—suddenly said: ‘If he was here. If Denny was here.'

‘Did Maureen come?'

‘No.'

‘Did the other fellow?'

‘Who?'

‘Did Desmond come?'

‘No. Here's a letter. From your son—I think.'

‘Peter?'

‘No, Anthony. Here's another one. It's your husband's handwriting. Know it anywhere.'

‘I don't want them. Burn them. I'm going away. Why don't you leave me alone?'

‘I can't, Mrs. Fury.'

‘I'll strike you with something. I'm sick of people. I want to hide. Go away.'

Faces pressed on the window. No check on Geltonian curiosity.

A priest came in. Mr. Kilkey went away. He did not see her again. The priest consoled with her. She began to laugh. He was sorry for her.

A woman came in, then another. They put her to bed. She slept heavily.

A draught of air came into the ward. Two came carrying cloths. Bending down they wiped the sweat from the tossing twisting body. The ward grew dark. Outside a light came on. One went away, one remained seated. Watching.

‘I won't hope any more. I don't believe in people! Go away from me.'

The nurse wiped more sweat away. This would end soon. She knew. A light shone over the bed. Beyond the window darkness banked up like a black mountain. The nurse breathing, and the creaking bed. She wiped the mouth clean from which the words flooded out.

‘This is the third night. It cannot last longer. She will collapse.'

‘She will! The heart is quite sound. But she cannot remain here. It's mental.'

‘Yes. She
will
have to be moved Friday. These nightmares are weakening.'

‘The temperature is still high. Call in Doctor Tomlin.'

‘Yes! He would be able to say better than anybody.'

The body gave a final convulsive movement, then lay still.

‘She will be removed on Friday. It's nervous collapse. She is doing no good here.'

Two men came in, stood at the end of the bed. Both watched, the nurse focussed the light full upon the woman's face, they saw drops of sweat glisten on the forehead.

‘That will do.'

‘No visitors may be allowed to-morrow.'

They leave the room.

Again silence makes an arch. Beyond it lights are dimmed. Faint sounds of running water in the distance. From the river the echo of a siren swelled out, diminishing. A rush of something wheeled down the corridor. The woman's mouth opens and closes, as though mouthing this silence. The lips are dry. The hair combed out, the face washed, the hands hidden under the clothes. The bone of the nose showing under the light, a lightning ivory spread under the skin.

The hill is green and the women pass. Their veils are blue. She smiles, watching them. The soft rain comes without a sound. She listens to the distant singing. The sun comes out, and raindrops glisten upon the tips of hoods, upon sleeves, her hat. She walks along and the air is full of earth smells. She says a decade of the rosary, following them. A black mass of rebellious hair is held by the hat. They watch her following, a man winks at her. The Children of Mary at Barrymore.

Hey's Alley is narrow and one can hide there. She will go to-morrow. Where was Denny?' Denny! Denny! Don't go away any more. Please stay! Denny!'

‘I have to,' Peter said.

‘Wretch! You disgraced me who asked nothing but cleaniness of you, to remember your God.'

‘I'm sorry! I——'

‘Am I?'

‘Oh, Mother.'

‘My name is Kilkey. I will take this woman home. My name is Kilkey, Kilkey.'

‘Eat the bloody stuff. Suck it. Choke yourself with money, but don't cry: “Money.”'

‘The signed contracts, bad or good, form no part of the evidence of this case.'

‘Blood does.'

‘The knife was long.'

‘I said Jesus Christ, man! What are you—have—done?'

‘Remove that man who laughed. Silence in the Court please.'

‘Is it to be expected that people living amidst these cesspools of vice and greed …'

‘Remove that woman.'

‘I don't believe you. Never shall'

‘He is one of a large family. The woman struggled for nothing. Hanging's too good.'

‘The woman is to blame. Leading him on.'

‘Special! Special! Sensation in Court.'

‘You're going and I won't see you again. You always wanted muck. You liked the gutter.'

‘He brought me here—held me down. That's all he cares.'

‘You may be sorry for saying it.'

‘But there are times when we must cry or burst.'

‘Don't lie, in God's Name. You've lied enough. Tell the truth.'

‘I did it.'

‘I advise you to consult your counsel, as to that plea, which I do not wish to accept. I appeal to counsel to discuss with his client.'

‘Where's Maureen? I'd like to see her. They'll hang me.'

‘She isn't here.'

‘She is.'

‘She isn't.'

‘Clear the Court.'

The woman turned over on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. Her hands were through the rail. She shouted. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop hammering.' She threw herself upon her back. She screamed: ‘I loved you too much! I'm a fool!'

The body began its orgy again, orgy of twistings and turnings; she screamed: ‘Go away, the lot of you! Leave me alone! I'm sick of you all. Don't touch me.'

The movements grew in violence. The bed creaked. The very air became electric with it. She laughed now. ‘A priest! A priest! Let go of me.'

But they did not, nor would not let go, for, rushing in, they found her half out of the bed. They dragged her back, held her down. They watched the face—the eyelids trembling, the froth at the mouth. They felt the roots of violence in clenched hands. They waited for others to come.

‘Money,' he shouted. ‘Eat it, bite it, kiss it, suck it! Here's your crying money!'

One leaned over her, and the door opened, and he trailed behind him the sounds and movements and smells of the larger ward. The door banged.

‘If I could have believed in you. If all I did. I called your father a fool. He is not a fool. Leave me go, I tell you. Take your hands off, you——'

‘My name is Joseph Kilkey.'

‘Is it! I don't care. Damn you and your name! They deceived me.
All
of them.'

She hurled herself about the bed, but now another came, and whilst two held, another applied the straps. She was done. She was strapped and could not move. She sobbed.

One said: ‘That is a good sign.' All went away. At the door they turned, looking in on her. One said: ‘She's in high delirium.'

An hour later doors and windows were closed against the flood of blasphemies and oaths that streamed from her lips.

One wrote:

D
EAR
S
IR
,

This is to advise you that the patient, F. Fury, will be removed from here on Friday morning next, and, owing to the nature of her illness, we shall be glad if you will call here at three-thirty to-morrow afternoon.

L. D
ANKS
.

‘It came this morning,' Mr. Fury said. ‘Ah! I don't know what to say about it.' He folded the letter again and put it on the mantelpiece. Then he turned to Mr. Kilkey. ‘Well, Joe Kilkey. It's nice to see you again. It was good of you to go in and see my old woman. What d'you think about her?' he asked. He sat down opposite the visitor, who, hands flat on his knee, rocked gently to and fro.

‘I think she's very ill, Mr. Fury, and she'll want looking after.'

‘I see! Ah well, so you found us out all right. Hey's bloody Alley! That's it. You're right in it, Mr. Kilkey. Lovely, bloody place, isn't it? Just like home sweet home!'

Mr. Kilkey took a quick glance round the place. ‘Hey's bloody Alley!' he echoed the words of Mr. Fury. Aye! It was a bit of a come-down. Hatfields hadn't been bad, boneyard or no boneyard. To Joseph Kilkey it was a deep disappointment. It did seem the very last street on earth. The kitchen was small, the only article of furniture he recognized was the table. A Hatfields heirloom. When he looked at the fire he saw the result of Mr. Fury's enforced bachelorhood. The range was littered with pots, pans, cups, some unclean plates. The hearth was a pile of ashes.

And Mr. Fury noticed everything. At last he said jocularly: ‘Well, I've seen worse, Kilkey, if you haven't.'

‘I had quite a job finding my way here, Denny,' said Mr. Kilkey, taking out a pipe to fill.

‘You would! Fanny, she wrote me saying she was shifting. Then when I came up from the dock I had a bloody time of it, I can tell you! Took me an hour to find it, and me with a bag on my back. Still—what's the use of grumbling? I'm fair worried about the missus, I can tell you. And what's worse I have to sail to-morrow week, no matter what happens,' and he looked long and earnestly at the visitor as though to say: ‘
You
can solve this.'

‘I heard about it,' said Mr. Kilkey. ‘As a matter of fact I enquired about her on my way to work. They let me see her. Only a minute, though. Your wife is very ill, Mr. Fury. I'm awfully sorry about it. Awfully sorry.'

It quite touched Mr. Fury. ‘Thank you for seeing my woman, Kilkey,' he said.

‘D'you have to sail?'

‘'Course! Under the Government now. Trooping, you know. Extra ten bob a month, danger money too. Aye! I have to sail, though I don't mind telling you I don't half like it. But then, things happen and you have to make the best of it.' He leaned forward in the chair. ‘I'm glad you came! Honest I am. I haven't seen anybody I know for years,'cept my shipmates, and I know them too well. Ah well! Let's talk of something else. How you're doing yourself? You look well. Plenty of work now, eh? Nothing like work to keep you from worrying, eh?' He laughed softly. ‘You know, Fanny thinks sea life is one long holiday. I wish she really knew.'

‘It's going to be awkward for Fanny. I mean when she comes out.'

‘Well, to tell you the truth, Kilkey, I don't want to talk about it.'

‘Right! Look here. I brought a pint of ale in for you. I don't go into pubs much, as you know, though I'm not narrow minded about it. I'll even have a glass with you,' and from his pocket he took a bottle of beer and unwrapped it. ‘How long since you had one, Mr. Fury?' he asked.

‘It's a surprise. I haven't had a pint—well—you know, I generally have a pint every night. But down here—I don't know—everything's different. You do miss faces, Kilkey. I suppose you're still in Price Street.' He poured the beer into clean cups. ‘Price Street, wasn't a bad neighbourhood. Ever hear anything of Maureen?'

‘No! I'm completely on my own now. She came and took Dermod away.'

‘She what!' Mr. Fury was on his feet instantly. ‘And you let her. Oh, you are a mug, Kilkey! How'd it happen?' and to himself he said, ‘A mug. The bloody mug of mugs!'—‘How long ago was that?' he added quietly.

‘Oh! Some weeks ago. Still, I saw her point. I couldn't look after the kid. Mrs. Ditchley did her best. When he fell ill I thought it best to write Maureen. I've never seen
him. She
came. I thought she was going to stay. Forget everything. She cried just like a kid. But she took him.'

‘I'm damned!' exclaimed Mr. Fury. ‘I never knew that. But now we're on that point I'll tell you something: I'm finished with the lot of them. Anthony's the only decent one of the bunch and I haven't seen him since the war began. I suppose you'll be getting called up, too.'

‘I suppose so,' replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘They're calling everybody up now.'

‘D'you think the Germans will win?'

‘I dunno! Won't make much difference who wins, come to think of it.'

‘Perhaps not.'

‘Well, here's your health, Denny, and wishing your wife a quick recovery.'

‘Here's to you, Joe Kilkey, and the very best of luck, man.' He banged down the cup. ‘Here's a bit of news for you, Kilkey. The morning I had to rush to the General to see the old woman, I met Desmond. What d'you think of that? Quite strangers we were. But you could have knocked my head off. I got the surprise of my life. A bloody Captain. In the
Army
, mind you. I could have laughed! But I couldn't then. And he'd come to see Fanny! He looked hale and hearty and all the rest of it. I only saw him a few minutes, though. He was in a fix. Didn't know what to say, what to do. Suppose he was ashamed to see me. I dunno? All the same I said to him: ‘What's all this bloody tommy-rot?' but he didn't say anything except he was sorry. No, Joe Kilkey, I'm through with the lot of them. From now on Fanny and me live our own lives. But I wish him luck just the same. He's a clever lad, and he's a pusher too. But to be honest I've come to agree with my old woman. Let them go to the devil! I said that years ago. But I was told to shut up. If I'd had my way I would have had them working like niggers.'Course I never saw them. Away all the time. She ran the whole bloomin' show. See the thanks she got? She was a foolish woman, though mind you I wouldn't stand for anything being said against her. No sir! She's a real brick, that woman is.'

Again he leaned forward, spoke in a low voice, as though none but this man should hear and know. ‘I'm making a little plan of me own for her. I've been saving up now for nine months, and I got almost her fare to Ireland and back,'sides a couple of quid! See! I planned it long ago. Never said a word to her. I went off to see a chap at the Catholic Truth Society, they arrange these trips. Now Fanny'll be able, when she gets better I mean—she'll be able to go to Mount Mellery for a whole fortnight and have a nice quiet rest there. With the monks to wait on her hand and foot. She'll just love that, Fanny will. Remember that time you gave her the ticket for the charabanc trip? Well, she hasn't been any place since then. This is strictly between you and me, Joe Kilkey.'