Collected Stories (93 page)

“Look, Joe, I can't face it,” she said.

“Now, Brigid, you've done things a great deal more difficult than this,” he said comfortingly.

“I haven't, Joe,” she said. “You don't understand, I tell you. I can't go down to Cork tomorrow and meet people I used to know, and start inventing excuses for coming back.”

“You don't have to invent excuses,” he said patiently. “You're just here with your husband on a holiday—what's wrong with that?”

“And with a two-year-old baby in my arms?” she said bitterly. “I tell you, Joe, I don't give a damn what happens the child. I'm not going down.”

She frightened Joe. It was as though behind this façade of a capital with its Georgian squares and flashy hotels and expensive restaurants there was a jungle of secrecy and panic. But he did not want Brigid to see how he felt about it.

“Very well, dear,” he said patiently. “I'll go. I dare say your family can direct me.”

“I suppose they could,” she said doubtfully. “But if you have any consideration for them, you'll keep as far away from them as you can.”

He knew it was unsafe to argue with her. She was close to hysteria or he would have said it was rather peculiar to have a foreigner searching in unfamiliar country for a child of his family who had already been neglected for two years.

“Very well, dear,” he said. “If you say so, I shall.”

The trip on the train to Cork was pleasant, and his only regret was that Brigid wasn't there to share it with him and point out the places of interest: it seemed like the waste of a good excursion. The city itself seemed pleasant enough too, and he had a good view of the river and quays from his bedroom window. Downstairs, he talked to the hotel manager, who was big-boned, deep-voiced, and amiable and threw himself into the business of getting Joe to his destination as though he had no other aim in life. “Throw” seemed the word that suited him, for he literally heaved himself across the desk, looking at a map and studying a timetable, bellowed softly to members of the staff who might help, and even called in casual passers-by. This scared Joe, who did not want his business made public too soon. It would be time enough for explanations when he returned to the hotel with a baby—a difficult moment enough, as even he realized.

But the last ten miles of his journey seemed the most difficult of all.

“It's all right, Mr. Coleman,” said Joe. “I'll hire a car.”

The hotel manager glanced at the clock in the hall and said in his deep voice:

“You won't hire any car. I'll take an hour off after dinner and drive you.”

“That's very kind of you,” whispered Joe, “but it might be better if I did take a car. You see, it's rather a delicate matter.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to be inquisitive,” Coleman said with a touch of resentment.

“Don't be silly!” Joe said with a laugh. “You're not being inquisitive. I haven't anything to hide, and anyhow I'd have had to tell you sooner or later. Sit down for a moment and let me explain.”

The two men sat in a corner of the lounge and Joe explained. The hotel manager listened with a vague smile.

“So far as I'm concerned, I can keep my mouth shut,” he said. “But don't be surprised if a lot of the staff know who you are already. If they don't know tonight they'll know tomorrow. They'll also know who your wife is. This may seem a big city to you, but it's not big enough for those who have to live in it. Mind,” he added with a smile, “I wouldn't let that disturb me too much either. Will I get a cot into your room?”

“Not tonight,” said Joe. “I've tried to sort this thing out. It isn't easy for a man, you know, but I don't think it would be fair to the kid to bring her back tonight, particularly with no woman around. Even if Brigid was here it would be a shock. No, I thought I'd go to this house first, and let the kid get to know me before I bring her back.”

“Tomorrow I have the whole morning clear,” said Coleman.

“No, I didn't mean it that way either,” said Joe. “I can afford to hire a car. Damn it, having come all this way, I can't be stopped by the hire of a car.”

“No reason you should unless you want to,” Coleman said gruffly. “I think you're wise not to bring her back tonight, though. I'll see you in the lounge after dinner. I'd stick to the roast beef, if I were you.”

After dinner the two men set off in Coleman's old car. After a few minutes Coleman spoke.

“This isn't an aspect of life you get much advice on when you go into the hotel business,” he said in his good-humored way. “But, if you'll excuse my being personal, Mr. Saunders, you seem to me a rather unusual sort of man.”

“Do I?” Joe asked in genuine surprise. “I should have said in my circumstances most men would have felt the same.”

“Felt the same, I've no doubt,” said Coleman. “I'm not so sure they'd have acted the same, though. Naturally, the first thing I did when you told me your story was to ask myself what I'd have done in your place.”

“Yes?” Joe said eagerly.

“And I decided—don't think me impertinent now!—that I'd think twice about it.”

“Don't worry, old man,” Joe said with a loud laugh. “I did. I thought three times about it, as a matter of fact.”

But those few words seemed to have cleared the air between them. They had passed the city boundaries and were driving along a river-bank with a tree-lined walk at the other side of the water. The main road led along a smaller river wooded to its bank. Finally they reached a little village with a church and public-house where they went off on a byroad up the hill. They came out of it above the river and harbor, stopped to inquire their way, and drove slowly for some miles along a deserted upland road. It was darkening, and Coleman drove more carefully. There was a cottage on their right and two small children with bare feet were playing in the roadway outside. He stopped the car suddenly.

“I have a feeling this is it,” he said, and bellowed to the children: “Is this Mrs. Ryan's?”

“What's that, sir?” asked a little boy.

“Mrs. Ryan's, I said.”

“'Tis, sir.”

“And is this Marie?” Coleman asked, pointing to the little girl who accompanied him.

“No, sir, 'tis Martha,” said the child.

“Then where is Marie?” Coleman asked, and suddenly a tall, rough-looking woman with rosy cheeks appeared by the white gatepost. Afterward Joe thought he would never forget that first impression of her with the white gatepost and dark fuchsia bushes, cut out against the sky.

“Is this the gentleman from England I have?” she called. “Marie is inside, gentlemen. Won't ye come in?”

Joe got out first and held out his hand.

“I'm Joe Saunders, Brigid Healy's husband,” he said. “And this is Mr. Coleman, the hotel manager from Cork. He was kind enough to give me a lift.”

“I was after giving up expecting ye,” she said, showing her big teeth in a smile. “Come in, let ye! I'm afraid the house is in a mess, but 'tis only the children.”

“You don't have to apologize, Mrs. Ryan,” Joe said. “I come of a large family myself.”

But even Joe's large London family had not prepared him for the little cottage, even if the shadows inside gave little opportunity for deciding whether or not it was in a mess. An open door into the bedroom suggested a big bed that had not been made, and the walls of the kitchen were bare but for a grocer's calendar inside the door. Sitting round the open fire were three other children whose faces he could scarcely see, but it was clear that the bare-legged two-year-old who toasted her feet before it was Brigid's child. Suddenly he wondered what he was doing there.

“This is Miss Healy's little girl, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Ryan. “She's the spit of her mother, but ye can't see. I'll light the lamp. I suppose ye'd like a cup of tea after yeer journey?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Ryan,” said Joe. “We've only just had dinner. Besides, we won't stay long. We thought we'd come back tomorrow morning for Marie, just to give you time to get her ready.… Hello, Marie,” he said, taking the child's hand. “I bet you don't know who I am.”

“Hullo, Marie,” Coleman said with casual amiability and took her hand as well. She looked up at them without expression and Joe suddenly recognized her resemblance to Brigid. That gave him a turn too.

“Run out and play with Martha and Michael,” Mrs. Ryan shouted to the other boy in the room. “And bring Kitty along with you.” Silently the two children got up and went out, closing the half-door behind them. It was not as though they were frightened but as though they saw no reason for disobeying, and for some reason this struck Joe as even worse. He felt that a natural child should be curious. Mrs. Ryan lit the lamp, squinting up at it.

“Wisha, sit down, let ye,” she said, pulling up two chairs and wiping the seats vaguely with her apron. “And how is Miss Healy? You'll have to forgive me. I forget her married name.”

“Saunders,” said Joe, sitting down and opening the little case he had brought with him. “She's fine, Mrs. Ryan. She probably told you we have a little girl of our own now. She wasn't well or she'd have been here herself. I don't want to rush you. These are a few clothes I brought, and perhaps you can tell me if they'll fit.”

He passed the frock, overcoat, and hat to her and she held them to the light with a vague smile. Then she peered at the shoes.

“Wisha, aren't they lovely?” she said. “Aren't you the lucky girl, Marie? Ye're sure ye won't have the tea? 'Twouldn't take me a minute to boil the kettle.”

“Certain, thanks,” said Joe, who only wanted to get out of the house quick. He crossed to the half-door, and again he caught an image he felt he would never forget of the lamplight on the hedge and whitewashed gatepost where four children were crowded together, talking in whispers. “Better come in now,” he said with a laugh. “I bet you heard every word we said. Are they all yours, Mrs. Ryan?”

“Ah, no, sir,” she replied almost reproachfully. “We had no children of our own. 'Tis on account of my husband's death I had to take them.”

The four children came in and stood fidgeting by the dresser, two little boys and two little girls, apparently well fed if not well dressed or clean, but somehow lacking all the spontaneity of other children. Joe took out a fistful of coins and distributed them. The children took the money meekly, without gratitude.

“Well, Marie,” he asked, stooping over the child on the stool, “how do you think you're going to like me for a daddy?”

“She's strange,” Mrs. Ryan said apologetically. “Most of the time she have plenty to say for herself.”

“I'll bet she has,” said Joe. “And in a couple of days she'll be giving me cheek as well. Won't you, old lady?”

They sat and talked for a few minutes longer. Then Joe said goodnight, kissed Marie, and patted the other children on the head. It was already dark on the road, and he was glad of the headlights that made the green banks seem theatrical but concealed his face.

“Well, I don't know how you feel, but I'm ready for a drink,” said Coleman. “A large one, at that.”

“What I should like is to buy a few toys for the other kids,” said Joe.

“Too late for that, I'm afraid,” said Coleman. “The shops are shut until Monday. You might be able to pick up a few cheap toys in a sweetshop, and a couple of bags of sweets. If you mean they won't have the money long I'm inclined to agree with you.”

As they entered the hotel the tall night porter looked up from his evening paper and said, “Night, sir. Night, Mr. Saunders,” and already Joe knew that his business was being discussed. The waiter who brought them their drinks in the lounge seemed to know as well, but Joe had the idea that he approved. He might have been a father himself. He might even have known Brigid and Marie's father. The pair of them might have sat drinking in this very lounge like any of the couples who sat there now. It was only the other side of the picture that he had been looking at that evening in a lonesome cottage on the hills. He felt very depressed.

Next morning he was more cheerful. He woke to the sound of bells. He had never heard so many bells, or else they sounded louder in the hollow of the city. A pious people all right, he thought. On their way out of town he saw the well-dressed crowds on their way to Mass. In the first village they came to there was a large group outside the church and a smaller one outside the public-house.

The four elder children were waiting for them in the roadway, and as they approached, two of these rushed in to give warning. They had all been washed and two of them even wore boots. When they went into the cottage Marie was sitting stiffly on a low chair by the door, as though she had been glued there to keep her from soiling her new dress, and she looked up at them blankly and pointed to her shoes. “Look! Shoes!” she said shrilly, and Joe, stooping to admire them, saw that they were too big.

“We'll get you properly fitted tomorrow, old lady,” he said.

He distributed the few presents he had managed to buy, shook hands with Mrs. Ryan, and carried Marie to the car. The other children followed, and he shook hands with each in turn, and then laid his hand gently on each one's head. Over the low wooden gate he could see the tall figure of Mrs. Ryan, holding the doorpost and gazing up and down the deserted road.

As the car started he turned to wave to the little group of children. They stood in the roadway, their presents clutched in their hands, and he saw that they were all weeping quietly. It seemed to him that they were not weeping as real children weep, with abandonment and delight, but hopelessly, as old people weep whom the world has passed by. He was the world and he had passed them by. He knew now why he had not dared to kiss any of them. If he had kissed them he could not have left them there. His first thought was to prevent Marie's seeing them, but he realized that he needn't have worried. She was leaning forward, enchanted, trying to touch her beautiful new shoes. Coleman drove with his eyes fixed on the winding roadway over the hills, and his fat sulky face was expressionless.