The Secret Journey (93 page)

He stretched out in the bed.

‘Yes, Des?' she said.

He seemed on the point of blurting something out, but suddenly he held his tongue. She switched on the light and looked down at him. To her he appeared just a sulky boy.

‘Switch out that light! What the devil do we want it on for?'

‘Something is wrong.'

‘Something isn't wrong. Go to sleep. Don't be worrying me, please.'

‘Are you worried, Des?' she said, suddenly putting both arms round him.

He turned over, facing her. His dark eyes seemed to blaze at her.

‘I understand lots of things, darling. I'm not a little child. Tell me about it. Somebody ill? Somebody you know? Who was it? I don't want you to be worried, Des. I want you to be happy——'

‘I am happy,' he said, and pressed her head over his shoulder. ‘I
am
happy.'

‘You're not.'

‘I feel ashamed,' he said quietly, and then was silent.

‘Good Lord!' She gave a little laugh. ‘What about? What about, darling?'

Sorry he had spoken, he growled. ‘Nothing! Nothing! Go to sleep now.'

‘But I can't now, you know I can't! Anything that upsets you, upsets me. Do tell me. It's something sad, isn't it? Look at me and say it is something sad.'

‘Worse than sad,' he shouted, raising his voice for the first time. ‘Rotten!'

‘Yes, but
what? What
is?'

‘Oh, God! Everything. You—me—the war—the whole bloody world! I've been to the Gelton General Hospital. My mother's lying there! She's unconscious. I met my father there! I could have cried! But I didn't! I just came away and now I know everything's lousy. Simply lousy.'

‘What?
What?
' she asked, irritated, wondering. ‘What?'

‘Everything! Go to sleep! I'll tell you to-morrow.'Night now.'

She lay there wondering. ‘Of what are you ashamed, Des?' she asked, and stroked his hair.

‘Don't worry me,' he growled at her. ‘Anyhow I can't sleep!'

He got out of bed. She heard him go into the next room. The door closed. She wanted to go after him, to talk to him. She hated Desmond to be worried, and he was worried about his parents. But she didn't go in, and some minutes later she was fast asleep.

But in the next room the big man lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. This
would
happen just at the time he was leaving Gelton. Well, he must do something about it. His father worried him far more than his mother. He knew his father. Sympathy was out of place. He could say: ‘I'm sorry about this, Dad,' and his father could say: ‘blast your sorrow!' Yes, that was the kind of man his father was. It did seem rotten that she should be lying there and not one of the family with her. They should
all
be there—the whole family. But how could he go again? After all the things that had been said, all the things that had been done? No! It was asking too much of him. A moral responsibility there was. Well, he would do something for them, but see them again, no. They wouldn't thank him for it. Too independent for that.

Though the room was cold he did not appear to feel it, although he lay thinly clad on top of the bed. It was full of draughts. The room was hardly ever used. But he had not been lying there very long before he realized that it was chilly. Might as well have stayed below in the sitting-room. Funny! All this time he had been pushing, climbing and after all he was getting somewhere—and all that time they had been living
their
lives God knows how. Thoughts crowded into his head. Where was Anthony, and Maureen and her husband? He hadn't seen them for years. Had they been to see his mother? Was his father still going to sea? Had they had any news from Ireland? Had she been informed? Was his mother still living in Hatfields. Did she hear from Peter? Hang it! Peter! Like talking about somebody dead a long time. He thought of the trial. He had not gone near his mother at all.

She
. Yes, she knew it.
She
had tried to see Peter. His own wife. After all that had happened. No! He had better not think about these things. He didn't want the old doubts returning. But did Peter write? Poor Peter! Only a kid really.

All the same they had had each other. His wife and Peter! Yes, that had been a blow. Suddenly he could laugh. He had been fair. A thousand men before she met him, but none afterwards. He loved his wife. He'd do anything for her.

Eventually he too fell asleep, no longer conscious of the chill of the room. In sleep he took on a certain brutality of countenance, that bore no relation to the thoughts that had finally rocked him to sleep. His powerful legs lay slantwise across the bed, his face towards the wall, his hands clasped under his head. Even in this recumbent position he was powerful, his body seemed to fill the room with a sort of aura of this physical power. The bed sagged beneath the weight. When he moved the springs squeaked loudly. His heavy breathing grew into a deep snore.

At eight o'clock in the morning he was still deeply asleep, the first streaks of light now pushing their way through the misty window. The atmosphere of the room, still cold, now carried a dampness with it. This happened whenever fog lay over the river front.

There was something bleak and bare about this room. The plain-carpeted floor, the quite bare dressing-table, a small three-legged table by the bed, a single chair. It was one of those rooms which is familiar, but never used. One lives beside it for years, and suddenly stepping into it feels as though one had stepped into alien country. After a while one recollects that years ago one had put some furniture into this room, and then quickly forgot all about it. Its wallpaper was an orgy of pale pink roses, hanging from foliage at once too lush and far too green.

The sleeper turned over on his back, yawned, opened his eyes, sat up, fell back again. Once more he slept. Somewhere beyond the road a church bell rang, a dog barked outside the house, a car backfired. These sounds ushered in the new day for the inhabitants of Repton Park Road. Later a man came down it crying the morning papers.

The sleeper awoke suddenly, sat up, threw his arms into the air, yawned again, fell back, finally jumped out of bed. Good heavens! What was he doing in this room? He stared down at the undisturbed bedclothes. Then he shivered violently. He didn't recognize, didn't remember this room. What was he doing in it?

‘God,' he said. ‘It's cold,' then shouted: ‘Up, Sheila? Up, darling?' He went over, opened the door. He heard her call from the bottom of the house. She was up. Breakfast would soon be ready; he went into his own room and began to dress. Then he went for a cold tub. She was waiting for him when he came down.

‘Letters from London, Des,' she said, and raising her face he bent down and kissed her. ‘Feeling better now?' she asked.

Not answering, he went to his breakfast. He read his letters. After reading them he stuffed them into his pocket and said quickly. ‘I've to go to London Saturday. I'm wanted there! It means, Sheila, that we have to leave Gelton! The sooner the better. The bloody place smothers me. And now I
want
to get out of it. I've been thinking over it half the night.'

She leaned over the table. ‘Not worried or anything, darling? Yes—no—yes.'

‘I was,' he said, ‘but not now. My conscience was sticky all night, like treacle. Now about breakfast. I've got lots of work to do. Understand, darling. Work!'

She nodded assent. They began their breakfast. Whilst they ate a young girl wearing a servant's cap and apron appeared, deposited a pair of heavy boots, size twelves, upon the floor without a sound.

‘Thank you very much,' he said, and this amused his wife. He was so profuse in his thanks. It was one of the many amusing things about her husband. She smiled across at him. He smiled back at her. He was very pleased with himself. She liked him like that. He smiled again, then said, with an air of importance: ‘I seem to have started something which I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.'

‘What, darling?'

‘Oh, nothing.' There was something in the tone of her ‘darling,' that always silenced him. Nevertheless he bestowed a much broader smile later and after all he could afford to. Yes. He could afford to smile! The world flowered under the hand. He raised a hand and people moved. He wrote and they acted. He said no, and the machine stopped. Yes, reflecting upon this sudden call to London, he
could
smile.

Three years ago he swung a platelayer's hammer on the permanent way and thought workers were mugs. Well, weren't they mugs? He had nothing to be proud of except the strength of his body. Now he could be proud of his achievements. It had been a struggle. It meant a break with his home, with his friends. He didn't care. With the workers-mugs, he couldn't and wouldn't go on being one. He had ambitions.

This led after a while to a dingy office in Royalty Buildings. He had become a union delegate. He organized the workers, collected the fees. The inspector came once a month. He envied the inspector, but not for long. Nine months after collecting he had become an inspector. Six pounds a week. Marvellous. At this rate one might reach the moon. On a holiday in Ireland he met a young woman, fell in love with her, and, on the spur of the moment, married her. He knew nothing about her. What did that matter? She was beautiful, he loved her. A lady without a doubt. He became more ambitious, more jealous.

Six pounds a week. He must get higher than that. He got on to the Gelton Council. He was a mountain of energy, and out of the mountain came streams of ideas, longings. The Gelton Council admired and hated him at the same time. The mixture of innocence and duplicity in him made one wary. The Council chamber trembled under the torrents of invective and abuse, and they listened with great patience. He preached the worker's cause, spoke of the millennium. The root of all evil was lack of opportunity. He ranted and raved, and worked and sweated. Gelton was too backward, too provincial, one-eyed, narrow-minded. Damn Gelton! He would get out of it soon.

What about Parliament? It wasn't impossible. No! By God, he'd see it wouldn't be. What about the others still swinging hammers in the length? Oh—that was a long time ago. He'd forgotten all about it.

Sometimes he saw his father, who was a sea-going man. He never saw his mother. He had married outside his religion. That was enough for her. Help? She didn't want
his
help. What he had given had been given begrudgingly. Let him go his own way. She was through with anybody who could go and marry any woman like he had. No! If he had no pride, she had.

That settled the matter and he did not see them again. But other things happened. What he had expected, in fact. His youngest brother broke college, didn't want to be a priest. It struck his mother a cruel blow. But worse was to come. The young brother was running about after
his
wife. That
was
bad. He could have killed him. Well, where was he now? In prison! Who put him there?
He
hadn't, anyway. It was hard, for the lad, only a kid, but it was harder still for the woman who had caused it. Desmond and his mother were strangers. Anyhow, he had got out of it. He had one ambition. To climb. One rule—‘Climb every second.' Well, wasn't he? Now here was the war, and a war that might last for years. How glad he was he hadn't left Gelton! Now he could show what he was worth.

The Gelton authorities who had flayed him came to him on their hands and knees. That was a position in human beings that he really liked: he went to the docks and organized all the port's labour. He welded the workers together, not for the millennium, whose horizons had now become far horizons—but for the prosecution of a war. He forgot the union. This was a new world. The old world meant Hatfields, his foolish struggling mother who believed in God and in being decent, it meant his father going and coming for years and years, and imprisoned in the monotonous rhythm of a life that never showed horizon at all. It meant his sister and her mug of a husband, and most of all it meant his duties. ‘Your duty.' The two words rang in his ear from the time he could talk. Well, he had organized, and he had militarized the mugs.

He had not wholly deserted his beliefs. This war meant for him an experience for workers. This organization would be a sort of prelude, a testing ground. Let workers get the experience. When the time came they would be in a position to put it to good use. At the same time others far cleverer were seeing in this man the nucleus of a brilliant idea.

The idea flowered in due course. They had made him an officer. He, Desmond, who a few years ago sweated in the length. It was a dream—a fairy tale. It was wonderful. He must organize all over the country. His name spread. He went from town to town, port to port, speaking, organizing, planning. Now he had reached the most important part of his climb. He had become indispensable. They simply couldn't do without Desmond Fury. He lived in a land of excitement, the possibilities were immense. Yes. He could indeed afford to smile.

But if he lived, others lived also. And he had only now seemed aware of the fact. His mother and father had gone on living. He had never thought of them. But last night he had seen his mother! She was older, more worn. He got quite a shock. She might die! He had seen his father!' Poor dad.' He might be more sorry for him than her. Perhaps in spite of all that had happened he might have thought of them more often. They
were
his parents after all. This visit to Gelton General Hospital had been a very uncomfortable jerk. He still thought of it—he couldn't get them out of his head. Mother dangerously ill—dying perhaps. He hadn't done much. Poor dad! He was an honest, hard-working man. A decent man—and yet, he hated to say it, he was a mug, too.

Perhaps the whole world was made up of mugs, he, Desmond excepted. Should have shown more feeling towards his father. More concern for his mother.
Had
he any feelings? What depth of feeling lay in ‘I'm sorry, Dad.' But then, damn it, what did it matter? His father could hear him say it, and as well reply: ‘Don't kid yourself.' Yes. His dad was a man like that. Quick to sense falseness, quick to sense hurt. He didn't like sham. He wasn't a clever man, but he was a decent man.