The Secret Journey (20 page)

‘Take that child into the house at once, Missus,' said the policeman. ‘You know if anything happened to it you could be arrested.'

He picked up the child and handed it to the woman, but as she took it from him he quickly turned his head away, for he could not bear to look at the woman's face. ‘Take the child in,' he said.

A woman emerged from the crowd. ‘Come now, Ellen,' she said. ‘Cheer up. It can't be helped. Those swine have no feelings at all.'

All this time the woman had not uttered a single word. She allowed herself to be led silently to the door of her house. Then she passed inside and the door closed. At the same time Mr. Truslip's van turned the corner into Purves Street. The sudden bang of the door seemed to galvanize Mr. Corkran into life.

‘Stand back,' he said with great authority. ‘Stand back.' And the crowd made way for the van. The street lamp for some reason or other decided to deny Mr. Corkran and Co. the only light available. It suddenly went out, and the whole street was wrapped in darkness.

Joseph Kilkey had not moved from his place. He had stood there, looking on at this scene, like one in a dream. Words filled the air, people moved about, the wheels of the van rattled on the cobbles. He stood rigid, as though bound to the spot. Then Peter came up.

‘I'll have to go now,' he said. ‘Can we talk about that matter another time?' Peter patted him on the back. ‘Rotten, isn't it?' he said.

‘It's awful,' said Joseph Kilkey, and there was an expression of horror on his face.

‘Well, so-long,' said Peter, and quickly passed through the crowd, leaving Mr. Kilkey to watch Mr. Truslip's hefty men place the furniture in the van.

‘The poor woman!' he said. ‘It's awful.'

The van moved off, the crowd drifted away. One after another the doors of the houses closed until the street was deserted, save for Mr. Kilkey, who stood transfixed, staring at that row of houses, and now wondering into which one that woman had disappeared. Who lived in those mean-looking houses? Workers, he supposed. But he did not know them. They were all of them strangers, as now that street in which he stood looked strange. The low-roofed houses, the blackened and towering walls of the warehouses, the cold, bleak and utterly desolate atmosphere, the dirt-strewn pavements, with their hard and uneven surfaces, the derelict shops, the dilapidated stables and offices, and over all this the peculiar smell that filled the air. Alien ground indeed. Not often did Mr. Kilkey stretch his legs as far. That tiff with Maureen, the thought of his surety, the hard words with Peter, the uncertain position of everything within the orbit of his world, all these things seemed meaningless, for somehow as he surveyed the scene before him, with that crowded and desperate life hidden behind the opposite walls, and those grim bleak buildings, it seemed as if that world before his eyes, and under his hand, and bounded by his thoughts, were endowed with a sort of terrifying meaninglessness. But why was he standing there? Why didn't he go home? Yet he did not move. He had become one with the scene, one with the street. Aloud he exclaimed, ‘What a place!' He turned his head and looked back the way he had come. And far behind that sea of slate and brick which separated him from the long King's Road, far behind, lay Hatfields and Price Street—his world; and as he looked in that direction he could imagine its warmth, its comfort, its assurance, its permanence; it reached out hands to him, and called him back.

Hang it all, what the devil was he doing in this place anyhow? He would walk away. To-morrow he would have forgotten all about it. That life would carry on just the same, just the same as he carried on in his little world of Price Street and the King's Road. He did not belong here. Yet he was stirred by certain feelings. The street fascinated him. Yet he hated it, just as that dumb, defiant woman had thrilled him and moved him and made him sad. They had just seen a glimpse of a crowd of people, and together Peter and he had gone down that street. What had made them look that way? He did not know. What had made that nightmarish half-hour seem so meaningless?

Mr. Joseph Kilkey had made a discovery. He had in fact looked over a high wall, and had made the astounding discovery that down that dark evil-smelling hole, hidden away from the main road, which even by day must be infested by a gloom and darkness, a darkness like none other, for this street breathed out its own, he had found people. People living, breathing, speaking. That was what had so astonished Mr. Joseph Kilkey.

By a sheer accident he had been flung into a world of people to whom he had never as much as given a single thought, for he had never believed they existed. Yet there they were, alive, human, buried from the light.

‘What a place! What a place!' thought Joseph Kilkey, and nothing seemed so warm and comforting, so bright with welcome, as his own small kitchen, the cosy fire, his newspaper; and quickly he made his way out of the street, though every now and then he cast a furtive glance behind him, as if he wished to see it for the last time, as if its spirit were touching his shoulder and trying to draw him back. Only when he finally reached the King's Road did normality return.

‘How late it is!' he said. ‘Maureen will be furious.' And then he had wasted the whole evening. The whole evening. Well, there seemed nothing else for it but a heart-to-heart talk with his mother-in-law, and as a last resource, a visit to Banfield Road.

Maureen and the child had already gone to bed when Joseph Kilkey let himself into the house. It was the first time he had gone out to Confession and come back so late, and he felt angry with himself as he realized he had wasted the whole evening for nothing.

‘Damn it! Why did I have that row at all? A little thing like that,' and he thought of that street again, and the scene with the bailiff.

‘Is that you, Joe?' Maureen Kilkey had heard him come in, and was now calling over the banisters. ‘Is that you?'

He could hear her breathing in the darkness. ‘Yes,' said Mr. Kilkey. ‘It's me all right.'

‘Good God! The hour it is,' she shouted down. ‘How late you are!'

‘Aye. Coming up in a tick,' said Joseph Kilkey, and he smiled to himself, for even in that angry tone of voice he was conscious of warmth, of the security of his home, of his child. He was back in his own world again. He hung his coat and vest on the nail in the lobby. Then he went to bed.

Peter Fury as soon as he left Mr. Kilkey had rushed breathlessly up the hill, for he had suddenly remembered that Mrs. Ragner was a strict woman about her hours of business. It seemed there were only ten minutes left in which to reach that big, ugly, and lifeless house hard by the pickle factory. But he had managed. He slowed down after he had breasted the hill. Of Mr. Kilkey, of anything that his brother-in-law had said, Peter Fury treasured not a single thought. He had completely forgotten it. He thought only of the task in hand, and if it could be done in, say, ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, then he would still be able to catch a tram and hurry off to see if Sheila was there.

‘She might be,' Peter was thinking. ‘She might be. Hang it all, why doesn't she do what I ask? Run away. It's obvious she hates Desmond. Yes. Why doesn't she do something?'

He kept on repeating this in a sing-song manner under his breath. This repetition of phrase seemed to give it urgency, as though now, this very minute, the thought must result in actions, swift, tumultuous, and final.

‘Sheila! Why
don't
you do it?' he said savagely to himself, and then bounded up the steps of Banfield House and rang the bell.

Peter stood there after the door had opened, for this had happened so quickly that he did not realize it. In fact, Mrs. Ragner's factotum might have actually been awaiting him, hiding behind the door.

‘Yes,' said Mr. Corkran in a low voice, drawling the word.

Peter Fury looked up at the man.

‘But twenty-five minutes ago,' he thought, ‘that fellow was down in Purves Street loading the furniture in the van. The man must have wings, or seven-league boots.' Mr. Corkran seemed quite at ease, calm and unruffled. Indeed he was quite unhurried. He was dressed exactly as Peter Fury had last seen him, even to the hard hat. Maybe he had just come in.

‘Yes,' he repeated, this time a little impatiently. He moved forward and stood on the step. Not a sound. He was wearing his rope shoes.

‘Is Mrs. Ragner in?' asked Peter. There was something about this man that always made him feel uncomfortable, unprepared, even a little afraid.

‘At this time of the evening,' said Mr. Corkran, ‘Mrs. Ragner is always in. But she does not necessarily see every caller. Your name is Fury, isn't it?' The man pushed his face close to Peter's and grinned. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘Fury, an old name on the ledger.'

‘That's right. Here's a letter for Mrs. Ragner. Will you please give it to her?' Peter pulled the envelope from his pocket and held it out to Mr. Corkran.

The man drew himself up and looked at the letter. He drew aside to let a client out. As soon as she had gone, his attitude changed.

‘You asked me that last time,' said Mr. Corkran coldly. ‘And I told you, I believe I did, that I never deliver notes to Mrs. Ragner from personal callers. Do you understand, my young friend? You always seem to be in such a terrible hurry. I am certain that Mrs. Ragner won't eat you. If you will wait there one moment I'll make enquiries. It may be that you are too late, anyhow.' He looked at his watch. ‘It has gone nine o'clock, and Mrs. Ragner sees nobody after nine. You may stand inside.' He said this in the most begrudging manner, and drew back into the hall. ‘Let me see the note,' he said, and took it from the other's hand. He looked at the writing on the envelope, and then handed it back to Peter. ‘Will you please shut the door?' he asked. Then he went along the hall.

Peter stood waiting. One minute became two, two became five. He was standing in the hall. Mr. Corkran reappeared, but he passed Peter without even glancing at him. He went into the big room where the clients were interviewed, and where the loans were paid out and the repayments made. Peter heard him switch off the light. Then a feminine voice called from an inner room:

‘Will you show Mr. Fury into the back room, Corkran, please?'

‘Yes, mam.' He came out silently, and said to Peter, ‘This way.'

He led him to the end of the hall, and pushing open a door, said, ‘In there.' Then he went in himself. The place smelt musty, here and there dust covered articles of furniture and gave the impression that the room had not been in use for a very long time. Mr. Corkran pushed out an easy-chair. Peter sat down. In the same begrudging, indifferent way Mr. Corkran exclaimed in a low voice, ‘I don't know how long Mrs. Ragner will be.'

It seemed as if Mr. Corkran's sole business in life was to put a damp sponge upon all human hopes. His manner infuriated Peter, who said sharply, ‘I can't wait here all night.'

‘Mrs. Ragner herself waits here all night, attending to clients who seem to have very little appreciation of what she does.' Mr. Corkran put a hand on either side of the chair in which Peter sat, and lowering his head, went on, ‘Here one must have patience, young man. Your note is still there. Nobody wishes to detain you. You may go. Mrs. Ragner can deal with her customers
outside
as well as inside. Here!' He thrust the envelope into Peter's hands. ‘It is easy to see that you are not familiar with the rules. Understand that Mrs. Ragner is always treated with the greatest respect. When a client comes in here he must leave his importance, his dignity, and his feelings outside. We do not deal in those things. One comes to borrow or one comes to pay. Beyond that Mrs. Ragner is not interested. Your mother is on our books here. She is like all our other clients. Understand. She will receive the same consideration as the others. No more. And no less. I am not here to carry letters. I suppose it is one of those long, long letters we usually get—on behalf of people like you who have not the patience to wait like anybody else. Do you wish to wait or not? It is half-past nine. This is the second occasion you have been here, and if I remember rightly, your mother promised Mrs. Ragner that she would come herself. How is it she hasn't turned up?'

‘I don't know. How should I? I know nothing about Mother's business.'

‘If you knew as much as she does, you would learn to be a little more humble.'

Peter Fury got up. ‘Then don't take the note,' he said angrily. ‘What's it got to do with me?' He stood looking at the envelope, now much thumbed, dirty and almost yeasty with the sweat of his own hand. It might be that such a fastidious gentleman as Mr. Corkran might even refuse to handle it at all. But the factotum had vanished. He seemed to have been spirited away. Peter Fury looked round the room. What an amazing place! What a curious man! And what an atmosphere! The wall behind him was partly concealed by a curtain, behind which was a small window that looked into a larger room, in which Mrs. Fury and Maureen had had their first interview with Anna Ragner.

The curtain had been swung back, for the little window was open and Anna Ragner herself was looking into the room where Peter was standing. She saw him turn round quickly, as though conscious of her sudden movement. But he had not seen her. He was studying the water-colours hanging on the wall, the heavy Victorian furniture, the deep pile carpet, the heavy chandelier with its rusty chain that hung over his head.

Mrs. Ragner smiled, for she could see him quite plainly, whilst he was quite unaware of how near she really was. Maybe she enjoyed that look of bewilderment, coupled with a certain agitation, that gave his features a fretted and impatient look.

‘Good-evening,' she said, and Peter Fury swung round. His astonishment increased, for he looked everywhere but at that part in the curtains.

Mr. Corkran threw open the door and said gruffly, ‘Come this way, will you?'