The Secret Journey (30 page)

‘But I couldn't come,' said the woman. ‘As true as I'm sitting here I couldn't come. There is only myself and an old man in the house.'

‘Your son is here. He came to us twice. He came in your place.'

‘Yes, but my son has nothing to do with this. If I had been able to go up, I should have gone.'

‘Can you see Mrs. Ragner, say on Sunday? Sunday's a holiday, isn't it? I mean, everybody has more time on Sunday. Shall we say Sunday evening, then?'

Mr. Corkran had made himself thoroughly at home, for he now leaned across the table until his face almost touched that of the woman, whose own seemed suddenly frozen, as though the flesh had shuddered into this position. She could see nothing except that hard glint of the man's partly closed eyes, and smell the pomade upon his moustaches.

‘You see,' he said, ‘there will have to be some adjustment of the interest.'

The woman drew away from the table. For one thing, his breath smelt strongly of spirits; for another, the interest in Mrs. Fury seemed to be based not only in her physical presence, not only on her history which he had so carefully recorded in the large ledger at Banfield Road, but also it was the interest of a man who was aware that he was the manifestation of a power that seemed now to emanate from his presence and fill that kitchen. Mr. Corkran was aware that poverty was like a great beast that disgorged what it had already swallowed. Poverty swallowed blood and regurgitated it as filth. In Mr. Corkran's case, this monster disgorged two things. It disgorged power and it disgorged favours. This tall, lean man appeared repulsive and devilish to the woman at the table. His curious way of looking at her, that low and narrow forehead. Mrs. Fury had met many men in her lifetime, but never one like Mr. Corkran.

He placed a hand on Mrs. Fury's knee and said, ‘Of course, if you wished, you could come to some arrangement here, or would you care to come to the house?'

The woman jumped to her feet. She could not understand. She seemed unable to realize that such assistance as she had received, and might yet receive again, carried with it certain obligations, obligations already manifested in Mr. Corkran's action. She resented his familiarity.

‘I must see my husband,' she said quickly, a remark which made Mr. Corkran say coldly:

‘How can you see your husband, who is already at sea nearly a week? Do you suppose we are not fully acquainted with things?'

‘I don't know!' she said, ‘I don't know! Will you please go now? I'll come myself to see Mrs. Ragner. Please go. My son knows nothing about this, and I don't wish him to know.'

The man did not move. ‘Nobody is pressing you,' he said. ‘We are only advising you. May I see your other furniture?'

He left the sofa and stood waiting for the woman to move. But she blocked his path.

‘I have been sent down here,' remarked Mr. Corkran, with decided emphasis, ‘to look over your furniture. Have you any objection?'

Without a word she moved away and he went into the front parlour.

‘My God!' she thought. ‘I don't seem able to realize anything to-day. My God! This is Mr. Kilkey. Have I to believe it? Have I to believe it?' She leaned against the wall. She stood there, motionless, her thoughts running riot.

Mr. Corkran came back into the kitchen and sat down.

‘How much further must I go?' she said to herself. ‘How much?'

She looked at the man, absolute horror on her face.

‘I can see you're not used to this, mam,' he said, ‘but one comes to it after a time. I have a form here, already made out, and it only requires your signature. By signing this you can have a renewal, equal to the amount of the last loan, but at a higher rate of interest. Perhaps I had better explain. This note is for twenty-five pounds. Out of that we should, of course, deduct twenty to clear off outstanding interest still unpaid on the loan you had three months ago, and off which you have already paid twenty pounds; that is to say, twenty pounds out of the thirty we received from the shipping company. It's a great pity you do not make an effort to come and see us. Mrs. Ragner is much better at this sort of thing than I am. In any case, this is a privilege, and one which we only exercise with certain clients. You can, as I say, sign it; on the other hand, you can refuse to sign it. Please yourself, but you must remember that the scale of interest fluctuates, if you gather what I mean. That is to say, the interest is reckoned on the total amount due—somewhere round sixty-one pounds eleven. The three loans are lumped together in one. When a person has had three or more loans from us, we always advise this; and naturally the offer of a renewal enables you to clear off some of the interest—but none of the principal, mind you. You see, the principal we add to this loan which we now offer you. Mind you, we do this only because we are satisfied, after careful investigation, that your family income can cover it. We even make provisions, but only in special cases, where the family income works out, say, at 8 per cent. less than that obtaining when the loan was first contracted—we make a renewal on a similar scale. Say ten pounds loan. This enables the borrower to get what we call a breather'—Mr. Corkran laughed—‘but if you would go to Banfield Road I am sure Mrs. Ragner would show you more quickly and more clearly than I.'

‘And suppose I absolutely refuse to contract another loan?' said Mrs. Fury.

‘In that case,' said Mr. Corkran suavely, ‘we have no alternative but to press for immediate settlement. But we have rarely to do this, and naturally we are most reluctant to do it, because in nearly every case our clients agree to a renewal.'

‘But I have paid off principal and interest of my loan of twenty pounds last year to the extent of over thirty-two pounds. I don't …'

‘Oh!' said Mr. Corkran, and he wagged his finger in the air. ‘You forget, and I feel called upon to remind you, that there were certain renewals, and certain renewals meant paying you solid cash, and paying you solid cash meant drawing on what we call our reserves. But people do forget these things. Ha! Ha! We all forget things, Mrs. Fury. We are all human, aren't we?'

He drew a long pink form from his pocket and spread it out upon the table. ‘You sign here, or not, as you wish—we never compel anybody to do anything they don't wish to. We, as a firm, lend money, but not to everyone. One can't afford to throw money about in this world, can one, mam?' He sat down again.

‘Why are you so anxious to renew this loan?' she asked, and it seemed as though she were looking at Mr. Corkran for the first time with complete composure.

‘Because it is in your own interests to renew it,' replied Mr. Corkran.

‘Can I think it over?' she asked. ‘One must think about it.'

‘Of course! It's only natural. But we must know within two days.'

He picked up the form and slowly folded it, but, being a business man, he did not put it in his pocket, but held it in his hand. Some clients were most difficult to deal with.

‘Will you leave it here?' asked Mrs. Fury.

‘I'm sorry, I'm afraid I could not do that. At least, not without express instructions from Mrs. Ragner.'

‘Not if I return it this very evening by my son?'

‘Your son!' said Mr. Corkran. ‘This son of yours has taken a great liking to our establishment lately. I've been wondering whether he was looking for a job in our office. Nice young man,' Mr. Corkran beamed. ‘Well, I'll see Mrs. Ragner. I shall tell her what you said, but I'm rather afraid she won't agree to this renewal now. We hate tardiness, Mrs. Fury, speaking as a firm of such long standing.'

‘If you'll give me this form, I'll sign it,' said the woman.

‘Oh! But one requires a witness. Perhaps I could witness it for you.'

He spread the form on the table, then he handed Mrs. Fury a pen. He watched her write her name. Fanny Fury. It was quite a well-known signature by this time.

She handed him the pen and exclaimed savagely, ‘I've never in my life known a person like you. Never.'

Smiling, Mr. Corkran signed his name on the form. He held it in front of the fire, and when it was dried folded it up and put it in his pocket.

‘We'll send you your money and a statement by registered post,' said Mr. Corkran, but the woman did not seem to hear him. She thought to herself, ‘It's not the money—only a little peace!'

Then she showed Mr. Corkran out.

PART II

CHAPTER VIII

In the quiet and cosy study of Father Heeney, senior priest at St. Andrew's, two people were engaged in earnest conversation. One of them was Father John Heeney himself, a lanky, big-boned man in the middle forties. His thin grey hair was brushed back from his deep forehead. His face had the same colour as that of a cabby, he seemed to have been much exposed to the elements. In fact, he looked very little like a priest, and this was increased somewhat by what might be called his unpriestly attitude, for he sprawled rather than sat in his cosy arm-chair, his long legs dangling over the arm of it, his two hands in his pockets, three buttons of his vest undone, and upon his face an expression which seemed quite alien in a man of his calling. He was by the look of him a very satisfied man, there was something leisurely about him. But his whole attitude was in no way strange to the occupant of the study—a very buxom lady, of medium height, in the fifties, who sat in a chair that seemed ready at any moment to give beneath her weight. She was dressed in brown, which included a brown toque set a little rakishly upon her head. This rakish position of the toque was purely accidental, for the lady was a person of the strictest propriety, and only when from the depths of the chair there arose a deep and hearty laugh did she seem aware that in her extreme hurry to the vestry had she thrown her propriety to the winds. If Father Heeney's attitude was most unpriestlike, Miss Brigid Mangan's, for that was the lady's name, was one of utter abandonment. Her expansive person seemed to overflow over the arms of the small leather-backed chair, her coat was open, her expansive bosom rose and fell, and her round good-humoured face seemed redder than ever. Her large blue eyes looked out upon the priest, whose curiosity she already realized had been aroused by her sudden arrival at the vestry at this early hour, for the eight o'clock Mass had only just ended, and she had journeyed straight from the chapel to the vestry. From beneath the hem of her brown skirt two fat feet stuck out encased in shoes of an even more vivid brown than her costume. In one fat red hand she held a handkerchief, the other supported her head as she leaned heavily on the arm of the chair. Her breathing was short and sharp. In fact, Miss Brigid Mangan looked as though she had just recovered from a heart attack. Every now and again her handkerchief went to her mouth for no other purpose than to lessen the sound of her own laboured breathing, which, for some reason or other, caused her the greatest concern. She was so rarely excited. She must indeed be careful. Father Heeney grunted something under his breath, and slowly his person was submerged in the depths of his chair.

‘You surprise me, Brigid, to say the least. I thought you had seen Gelton for the last time. No! Perhaps I should not have said that. After all, there is your sister and your father. But when you came back twelve months ago—I remember it so well—you seemed to be determined not to venture again in the direction of Gelton. Of course, I am thinking of your awful experience there. That is only natural. And you are no longer young, Brigid. I had thought you so nicely settled down, and everything had settled into the old rhythm. You have done so much for us——'

Here Miss Mangan interrupted with a ‘Yes, Father. But not all I should like to do.'

‘You have been most kind, Brigid. Most kind. And this idea of making your house into a hostel, so to speak, for all the young people who are passing through the portals of the one true Church. It was splendid. And now'—the priest gave a sigh—‘and now you're going to leave us again, Brigid. It is sad, a nuisance really, for I now find that on Wednesday next three of the Passionist Fathers are due here for a week's mission. It is most awkward, Brigid. I must admit, your help is so wonderful and has been so consistent, so regular, that I myself feel quite helpless in the matter—and I never could stand Miss Hegarty. Never. She's good, mark you, does things for me with the best will in the world, but somehow—oh, I mean she's not like you, Brigid. She doesn't put her heart into it, and really …'

Miss Mangan beamed. High praise indeed. But she must control herself. If she did not watch out she would find herself so sorry for Father Heeney in his predicament—and most awkward it was—she might yet change her mind. ‘No,' she thought quickly, ‘I mustn't do that.' Impossible. Too much had happened. She must work at the same speed with which the present situation had developed. Brigid Mangan had not got over her surprise, her startling discovery. ‘It is a great nuisance,' she was thinking, ‘but I mustn't change my mind.'

That idea seemed to have occurred to Father Heeney also, for he now asked, ‘Brigid, couldn't you postpone this visit to Gelton, say, until next week?'

She avoided the priest's eyes, steadied herself, and said, ‘Oh, Father—I really can't. You see, it is Father, he's so low, and I don't want him to die there. I couldn't
bear
it, couldn't think of it. Surely I am not as indispensable as all that.'

She laughed, and her whole body shook under the effort. The priest said, ‘Oh dear me! It's a nuisance, but there, it's no use my trying to dissuade you, Brigid. Besides, perhaps it's hardly fair. I'm selfish. That's what it is. I shall try and manage with Miss Hegarty. But will you do me a favour? Can you leave me the key of the house, and, with Miss Hegarty to help, I might be able to put my brothers up. You see, visitors no longer come to me, Brigid, they come direct to you. The house isn't a large one that I can do much, two beds, but, well, we'll say it's settled and agreed. Thank you so much, Brigid.'