An End and a Beginning (10 page)

He played with the words, sent them ringing round his head. “If only Maureen had been there. She would have understood. It would have begun to seem like home. But she wasn't, only an ageing man, long deserted, living alone. Of what use to remain in Gelton? None at all.” After a while his head began to nod, he dozed, and finally fell fast asleep. The ship ploughed on towards a white harbour.

A long way, a lone way, but at last he was here. This was what he had come for. And here it was. The beginning and the end. It was under a tree, a wind-blown ash whose winter branches were as white and lean as bone, and they caught the pale light of the morning sun. But for directions he would never have found it. The Sacristan had given him the number, 214. Now he stood looking down at it, a heap of earth, tufts of sour, wintry grass, nameless. He was quite alone. It was half-past ten o'clock.

He had put up at a small hotel. After a wash and change he began to feel better. But for long hours he had thought of this, and now he realized that he should never have come. Looking down at this grave he saw the mountain of struggle that had been laid in it, the hope, and the great shield of courage. On this day it seemed meaningless to him. He stared down, numbed, unable to move, and for some minutes unable to think. The secret and sacred dialogue that gave life to memories could no longer sustain him. He felt imprisoned by the inscrutable silence. And at last, and with a great effort, he exclaimed, “So this is it.”

He turned away his head, looked stupidly down the long narrow path that ended at a white gate. “I'd better go,” not going, not moving, unable to move. “I can't even cry. One time I would have cried. I know I would. Now I can't.”

A woman holding a child by the hand had passed him by, but he did not notice her, though the path was so narrow they practically rubbed shoulders. But the child glanced back at him, and cried, “Mummy. Look at that funny man.”

A hand pulled the child forward. “Come along, dear.” And it was the woman's voice that startled him. He swung round. Then he hurried away from the place, walked slowly back towards the hotel.

“Those long, grey days,” he thought. “Those happy evenings. That man Mulcare. Perhaps I could go on to Dublin, see Anthony's wife, the children. Yes, I might even walk as far as Aunt Brigid's place. Why not. I wonder what she looks like now? Very old, of course, she must be. She was so fat, the way she used to laugh. How Dad used to loathe her.”

Suddenly he turned and looked back at the white gate, the church. “No. No. No. I'm glad I came, yes, I'm glad I came. I would have always been unhappy if I had not. But it
is
over.” He knew he must hurry away out of it, and that he must never go back. Already he sensed a weight falling away from him. It meant nothing any more. He had tried so hard to remember, to hold and treasure some fragment of that life, a look, a sigh, a movement, a gesture, a word, a feel of the patient, blind, and willing hand. “It's finished.” The words turned in his mind like keys. He was clear, he was out. “Yes, back to the hotel.”

When he reached his room he sat down on the bed, then carefully counted his remaining money. He had seven pounds. At this time of the year the hotel was empty. He was its sole guest. He went down to the tiny bar, dark, warm, comfortable. He got himself a drink and carried it towards the fire. The garrulous, talkative barman was soon sitting beside him. This quite shapeless man draped the seat, and he indulged in a series of unwanted, unlistened to, colourful, and humorous reminiscences of former guests. He was an observant man, he remembered incidents in a vivid way, he stored away in his mind the oddities of people. Now it all poured out, presumably for the stranger's benefit. But the guest was an iceberg, and he made no response. Defeated, the man returned behind his counter, sang himself a ditty, and got busy washing and wiping the glasses. He indulged in whispered conversations with himself. Now and again he looked at the man, but he could get no change out of him.

Peter Fury was thinking of a woman and child walking a path, of an envelope he had received at the gangway head, the short note from his brother. The disappointment in this brother was like a knife in him. He might have gone to Ralston Park with him. But what would he have done there? What would he have said? And she would be there. The one who remembered.

“I was about seventeen at the time, and it was the first time. She was beautiful, and it was the happiest moment in my whole life. Such a warm heart. How he hated me for it. A jealous swine.” And the few shining words of Sheila's note came clear.

“Well! And why not? Why shouldn't I go there. I remember
he
went there a few years ago. And I've often wondered what the Downey house is really like. I've heard enough about it, God knows. I wonder where it is exactly, and how far?”

“What's that, sir?” asked the barman.

“Did I say something?”

The man at the fire looked round, and immediately the barman was free of his counter. “You asked me how far some place was,” he asked.

“I did? Did I?”

“You did indeed, sir. Which place would you be wantin' now?”

“A place they call The Ram's Gate, it's got an Irish name, too, but I can't remember it. People by the name of Downey.”

“Downey, Downey. Sure there's a powerful lot of people in this country by that name. Now there's Peter Downey the jarvey, and Old Tom Downey used to take the boats out of Cork, and then there's Sean who used to be with the old Globe Insurance people.…”

“A place named The Ram's Gate,” Peter said.

“Ah! Now I have you, sir. You mean the queer lot? I'll tell you about that. The old man's been gone away for years now, and the old lady died, and they've a brother away in China, I think, and they've a daughter what run away with an English feller that was on holiday once in these parts. You mean them people, sir?”

“That's right.”

Peter sat listening for the first time. And when he had heard it all, he said quietly, “I'll be leaving this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Bring me another drink. Then have the bill made out. How far is The Mall? I used to know, but it's years since I was in these parts.”

He gave the barman a drink.

“No more than fifteen minutes away from this hotel, sir. Was you looking for somebody there, too?”

“Get me the drink.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Fifteen minutes away,” thought Peter. “Fancy that. Aunt Brigid. Eighty-four years of age. Just think of that. Extraordinary.” It startled him when he heard it from Kilkey's lips, and it startled him now. He even resented it, her great age, her very survival. She had beaten his parents to it, even his slobbering grandfather. “She is my aunt, after all. Yes, I'd better call and see her. One of the family.”

Maureen crept into his mind again. He wished he had seen her, if only he knew where she was. Gone off with that queer man Slye. What a pity. And how strange that she should go off with such a person.

“I always liked her. I still do, whatever she did. Desmond might have made some effort, if only for old Kilkey's sake. I wonder if she even knows about mother.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, taking the drink. She was back again. God! He couldn't stop thinking about her.

“To go home at last, and to a place you never wanted to leave. To go back with a full life behind her, her old heart swimming with hope—and then to fall to an Irish bullet.”

“Cruel,” he cried in his mind, “bloody cruel,” unaware that he had shouted it into the empty air. “Meaningless.”

“You called, sir?”

“I said nothing.”

“I
wish
I could have seen Maureen. But I will. I'll find her, I'm certain I will.”

The mysterious shut-away, locked-in house amongst the hills began to attract him. Why go there? Why not go there? And he concentrated his thinking on The Ram's Gate. He imagined a great white house, lost in woods, warm in a fold of the hills. He thought of a single room in it, a high up, quiet room, a warm room, safe. “God! How I'll sleep. How I'll sleep once I get into it.”

The house moved with him as he made his way towards The Mall. The aged occupant of a three-storied, red-brick house was far from his mind. The Ram's Gate had always seemed to him a kind of fairy castle. He had heard so much about it from his brother Desmond. A silent house, in a more silent countryside. “The housekeeper's even getting ready a room there. She must have written her about me. I wonder what she said. Perhaps she even wrote before I got out. I never even thought about that. Yes, why shouldn't I go? I'd love to see the place. I could be alone for a while.”

He leaned heavily towards this haven, he drew back; he still wasn't quite sure.

“Why did she want me to go there?” He hadn't the answer to that one.

“What a difference there is here,” he exclaimed, “the air so different, even the road is clean.”

And there was The Mall. He hurried on. He knew the house well, he would recognise it, he would go to the door, ring the bell.

“I suppose it's all right, coming like this, without a moment's warning. I wonder?”

Here was the house. And surely they were the same curtains, on the same windows. That garden, that red door. He went up the step and pulled at the bell. He waited, listening, watching the front window. There was no sound. Was she in? Was she gone away? He rang again. He stood there for a full minute, beginning to doubt. It was a long, long time. Would his aunt know him? Would he recognise her?

The door opened. A short, slight woman stood looking at him. “Yes, sir?”

Peter drew back, watching her. “Miss Mangan?” he asked.

“And what d'you want of Miss Mangan?”

“I'm her nephew, Peter Fury. Is she in? Is she well? I——” He stared hard at the woman. “At first I thought you were Miss Mangan.”

“I think you'd better wait,” she said. “
I've
never heard of you. I'll go and see. Perhaps she hasn't heard of you, either,” and she shot a suspicious glance at the big man on the step.

He watched her go slowly away down the hall. He remained on the lower step, waiting. The woman returned.

“
She
can't recall the name either,” she informed him, still suspicious, still ready to slam the door in his face. “But perhaps you had better come in—for a minute, that's all. We get all sorts of customers here nowadays, the country is in a state of ruin so it is.” Peter slipped into the hall, and removed his hat.

“This way.” He followed her, and she turned twice to look at him, and he knew she didn't believe him. She opened a door. “In there,” she said, giving him a final distrustful glance.

“Aunt Brigid,” Peter said.

For a moment he did not see her. She seemed so frail and small in her invalid chair by the fire. She wore a small lace cap on her head. She looked up at the man in the doorway, but there was no sign of recognition. She lifted a thin hand. “Sit there.”

Peter sat down.

“Who are you? I don't remember you.”

He was unable to speak. The woman kept looking at him. “I don't know you.”

He had to strain to catch her words.

“I'm your nephew, Peter,” he said.

“Are you?” She laughed.

“I've been away for a long time. Just here on a visit. You must remember me. My mother was your sister, Fanny Fury. She came over to see you a few years ago, I believe. You sent for her. You were very ill——”

“Was I ill?” The small brown eyes widened, she suddenly began shuffling her feet.

“And when she got here, I mean my mother, when she got here——”

But already he realized the futility of it all, and it saddened him each time he glanced across at her. It was hard to believe that this woman was the one and the same person who had shaken Hatfields with her laughter. She stared at him now, head bent forward, and he stared back.

“You know me, Aunt Brigid—you know where I've been. You know why. You know everything.”

The old woman shook her head. “I don't know anything because I can't remember anything. I'm just old and tired. What do you want? Bread? Some money? I sometimes help a deserving creature. You say your name is Peter Fury. Funny. I've heard the name somewhere before, yes, I know I have, but where, no, I don't know you at all. Is Fanny your wife?”

Peter made no reply. It was useless. He should never have come. “I don't recognise her at all, but I do remember that queer old work-basket of hers,” and he shifted his glance from woman to basket. “I don't suppose you make any more altar cloths now?” he said.

“What's that?” she asked, straining forward again. All this time the door behind him was open, and watching him closely was the old woman who had opened the door to him. Her eyes never left him. Her folded hands resting on her breast, she watched him, and over and over in her mind she uttered four words. “He has a gun.”

“I said you
don't make
any more
altar
cloths now.” He had drawn closer to the chair, and suddenly he wished to touch her hand. If she would reach out and touch his. Her eyes, once so large and bright and shining, were half-closed, yet he could see how the deep colour had gone. It was like looking into water.

“You
must
know me,” he said, and then he had taken her hand. The old woman muttered something in her throat. She gave him a curious smile. “Leave me alone.”

Something made the man swing suddenly round, and there was the other old woman, erect, still watching him. “Leave her alone,” she said, and came into the room. “She doesn't know you. She doesn't
want
to know you. She doesn't know anybody. You'd better go, young man. Miss Mangan is not really with us now.”

She saw Peter kneel down in front of the figure in the chair.