The Secret Journey (36 page)

‘Oh my dear! my dear!' exclaimed Aunt Brigid, and entered the kitchen, almost prostrating herself before the cradle. ‘My dear dear!' She looked up at Maureen, as though for her assent, as she put her hands into the cradle and brought Dermod Kilkey into the light.

‘Oh, how sweet! the little darling! the little darling! Maureen, isn't he the sweetest thing you ever saw? My Lord! you must be proud of him!'

Mrs. Kilkey managed a smile, but again she held the apron to her mouth and stood watching her aunt fondle the child. Miss Mangan sat down with Dermod upon her knee, and she did not look up again for some minutes, which she spent in many and vain attempts to make him smile. But it already seemed that Master Kilkey had decided otherwise. It may have been the heavy, red face, appearing above his eye like some enormous sun, or it may have been the deep breathing of Miss Mangan, but certainly no effort of hers could induce the child to smile. But Brigid Mangan, far from being disappointed, actually lowered her head and smiled into Dermod's now puzzled face, the while she tickled him under the arm with her thumb and finger. Only once did she actually scowl, as though she were saying, ‘Drat! you little devil, smile!' and then she looked up at Maureen. It seemed evident that the child and she were not going to get on very well together. And Miss Mangan did at least experience a slight twinge, a sort of pain that made her make a wry face at her niece and exclaim, ‘Maureen, I half believe the child hates me!' And she put him back in the cradle, when he at once settled himself comfortably on his back, stuck one thumb in his mouth, and proceeded to stare up at the dark roof of his cradle, which, judging by the changed expression upon his small plump face, was at least less threatening than that monstrous sun that had hung so low over him a moment before. He was happy, and quite indifferent to everything except his own happy state.

Brigid Mangan crossed over to her niece. ‘My dear child! my dear child!' and in a flash most of the upper part of Mrs. Maureen Kilkey had completely disappeared between those long stout arms, her head sunk upon that deep and expansive breast. ‘Dear child! dear child!' said Brigid Mangan once more, and held her more closely against her breast. ‘There's no need to ask how you are, nor how your husband is.' She raised her eyes and glanced furtively towards the dresser, but Joseph Kilkey had gone some five minutes before, not out into the street, but upstairs to his room, there to ruminate, no doubt, upon the storms and stresses of married life. His door was shut, and not only shut but locked, for Mr. Kilkey was in a determined frame of mind, and he was going to have absolute privacy here, for he had much to think about.

Maureen Kilkey came in from the back kitchen. She had hastily washed her face, patted some powder on her cheeks, and rearranged her hair. Brigid Mangan had taken off both coat and hat, and her ample form seemed to overflow from the small wooden chair in which she sat.

‘Maureen,' she said, ‘this is terrible. This is most distressing. It grieves me to see you like this. What is wrong, my dear child?'

‘Nothing, Aunt.' Mrs. Kilkey's attitude, and the tone of her voice, betrayed her state of mind, and certainly her aunt's reply was not making her feel any more amiable.

‘Good God! don't make me laugh, Maureen dear.'

‘Oh, it's nothing, Aunt,' said Maureen sharply. ‘Besides, we always have these tiffs. It's nothing. Don't take any notice of Joe. He doesn't worry about what you think. But you do appear like a bullet from a gun, Auntie, and you mustn't expect people to be other than human when you spring such surprises. What made you come?'

‘I just felt I needed a little holiday,' replied Miss Mangan,' that, and a sudden desire to see your mother. How is she, Maureen, and your father, and Peter?

‘Oh, Mother's no different to when you last saw her. Dad's gone to sea again. And I believe Peter sails some time this week.'

‘What! Your father gone to sea! Well! Really, Maureen! You stagger me! How did that come about?' She leaned forward and gave a fleeting glance at the child.

Maureen shrugged her shoulders. ‘H'm,' she said, making a grimace. ‘I don't know, I rarely see them, anyhow. I've a lot to do, Aunt. I can't be running round there every five minutes. It's only what I expected. Father shouldn't have kept up the pretence. He was only kidding himself, and everybody else. But I'll bet he's happy now. Everybody is when they get out of Mother's way.'

Miss Mangan sighed. ‘Yes, yes. I suppose so. Dear, dear! how horrible people can be! Tell me about yourself, child. I often think of you, Maury.' She got up and, kneeling on one knee, wagged a forefinger in her niece's face. ‘You know, child, I knew all this would happen. If you had done what I asked, aye, what I begged you to do long ago, you would not be in this dreadful state.' She made a wild, sweeping movement with her hands, which seemed to signify that the child in the cradle over which her arm circled was also part of the dreadful state, with the tiny but clean kitchen in which she sat. ‘Now would you, my dear child? I warned you a year ago. You're not happy. You only lie to me when you say you are.'

Her niece glanced up, then buried her head in her hands. Aunt Brigid was certain now that Mrs. Kilkey had actually scowled at her. Certainly this commiseration with her state, this reminder of her warning, this accusation of actual lying, of hiding the truth, produced in Maureen Kilkey a feeling of loathing, not for her own state, but for the aunt who sat so serene in her chair, like some sort of fat god dispensing advice from his throne.

‘Oh don't! Don't I know I'm a fool—but all that won't make it any better. Besides, you know nothing, Aunt, and never will,' and Maureen looked not at her aunt, but into the cradle where the child was now whimpering. She lifted him out and held him on her knee.

‘I suppose Mother doesn't even know you're here,' remarked Maureen, as she allowed Dermod to suck her own finger.

‘Oh, yes she does,' Aunt Brigid beamed at her niece, ‘oh, yes she does. This time there are no excuses for coldness and rank indifference, my dear child. I have come over here to rid your mother of a burden. I wrote her I was coming. Not that I was obliged to. You see, silence between your mother and I is an understood thing. I'm not springing any surprises on Hatfields, though I seem to have done here. Even the child seems to hate my presence,' and Brigid Mangan reached for her hat.

‘Don't be so silly, Aunt,' said Mrs. Kilkey, and with a quick movement she pushed the brown toque out of Miss Mangan's reach. ‘Do sit there! I want to talk to you. You see, Mother and I don't see eye to eye with each other lately. Oh, but what's the use of talking—I—yes, what's the bloody use?' she repeated to herself, as the door opened and Joseph Kilkey came in. He stood for a moment looking at the visitor, and then said to Maureen, ‘I'm going round to see your mother.'

‘Well, that won't be before time, will it?' she flashed back at him, and then proceeded to ignore him.

Even though feeling most embarrassed, he crossed the kitchen and said to his visitor, ‘Good-day, Miss Mangan. How are you?'

He stretched out his hand, which he first rubbed on his trousers, and only the tip of Brigid Mangan's fingers seemed to touch it as she said without any warmth whatever, ‘I am very well. I hope you are.' Then she sat down again.

Joseph Kilkey collected his things and went into the back kitchen. They heard him washing. After a while they heard the door bang. He had gone out. The banging of the door set Brigid Mangan on her feet at once. She took her chair to the table near which Mrs. Kilkey sat nursing the child. She put one arm round Maureen's shoulder.

‘Maury, my dear. To tell me that everything is nice and cheerful here is to insult what little intelligence I have. You're not. You're very unhappy. Do tell me what is wrong. You see, I wish to help you.' And she leaned on her niece and stroked her hair. ‘You were such a pretty girl, Maury, before your mother rushed you into that awful factory. My God! If I had a daughter I'd rather she kept her feet in the farmyard. At least, it's cleaner. Your mother must have been cracked to let you land yourself for a marriage like this. It makes me sick to think of it even. And now I can see you
are
beginning to realize your mistake. But for God's sake don't be like your mother. Make up your mind before it is too late. You are only young yet.'

‘Aye! I am only young yet,' Maureen replied with sudden fierceness. Yes, that was the devil of it. She had hardly had time to live, and now here she was landed. Maybe a convent was better.

‘And yet,' went on Miss Mangan, ‘the good God has compensations for us all. Just look at that lovely child with not a single resemblance to his ugly father. I'm sorry, child. I do detest the man. I simply can't help it.'

‘Oh, but he is good, Aunt. He is decent, you know. Sometimes this goodness, and his meek acceptance of everything, gets me wild. But you can't do anything. And he loves Dermod! Loves Dermod! It can't be helped—and it's no use talking about it any more. So please don't you start worrying that head of yours over me or him—or Dermod. You know how you worry so about people, don't you, Aunt?' and she smiled at Miss Mangan, feeling that impulsive, that irresistible desire to prick this solid mass of content and hypocrisy. For that is how Brigid Mangan appeared to Mrs. Kilkey at this very moment. She got up, and began walking the floor, hushing the child to sleep, until at last she replaced him in the cradle and began to rock.

‘You must have a cup of tea, Aunt,' she said, and made to get this ready, but Miss Mangan said ‘No' so definitely that Maureen sat tight.

Aunt Brigid now felt it time to go. She said smilingly, ‘Just hold my coat, child. Thank you. Even on a summer's day this awful town feels cold. It's peculiar, isn't it? It has so many holes and corners. So many draughts. Ah! Give me Cork every time, where the sea breeze simply will not allow you to feel cold for a moment. D'you know, Maureen, I always sleep with open windows even in winter, and
never
feel cold. But the moment I arrive here it's terrible. And I have enough weight to carry about with me, God knows, without having to carry this coat. D'you know, I had that coat from your grandmother just before she died, and I've had it dyed twice, and it's almost as good as new. But times were very different then, my dear girl; not like to-day with all these shoddy things. And the styles. My Lord! I saw a girl to-day trying to climb into a car, and really it was perfectly disgraceful. You could see the shape of that girl's leg right up to her thigh, and every moment I expected to see the whole thing burst asunder. I hope you don't take to the hobble, my dear, but then,' and she winked at Mrs. Kilkey, ‘but then you are getting stout like myself. Well, I must be off. I'm sorry to have come in just when you were going at it hammer and tongs. It makes one feel, oh so—but there!' She embraced Maureen, kissed her passionately on both cheeks, and then stood aside to let her pass into the lobby. She gave a last look at the now sleeping child, and went to the door.

‘I wish you could get out of this awful place, Maureen child. It's a filthy hole. You're not used to it at all, whereas your mother seems to have been born to it. But there! The world is a strange place.' And with this final comment upon the state of Gelton still ringing in Mrs. Kilkey's ears, Miss Brigid Mangan stepped out into the street. She turned and waved her hand. ‘I'll be seeing you again, dear, before I go.'

Mrs. Kilkey shouted back, ‘Yes, of course,' and number thirty-five Price Street's door slammed with a terrific bang.

Hatfields was but a stone's throw from Price Street. Vivid memories floated across Miss Mangan's mind as she walked slowly along, and every brick, every stone, every dirty shop window, every heap of rubbish in the gutter, every smell and every human face, in fact the very air itself, seemed to proclaim one thing, and to proclaim it stridently, passionately, and urgently into Brigid Mangan's ear. ‘I must get Father out of here. I must. I'll never let him die in such a hole.' She gave a little shudder as she saw some children gathering horse-droppings from the middle of the King's Road, and she felt as though Gelton had put out its slimy hand and touched her. ‘And here we are at last,' she exclaimed under her breath as she stopped at the second house on the left-hand side of Hatfields.

Price Street seemed to have telegraphed to Hatfields, for the first human voice in Hatfields was that of Mrs. Postlethwaite, who boldly announced to Miss Mangan that she thought Mrs. Fury was out. Mrs. Postlethwaite's familiarity passed all bounds, for she asked the astonished Brigid Mangan how she was, and ‘Have you just come over, Miss Mangan? Well! Well! She will be surprised. My, you are looking grand, Miss Mangan. Isn't it a pity you and her can't change places for a while?' She gave a most audible sniff and continued, ‘I'm not sure that your sister's in, in fact I believe a man called here about half an hour ago and nearly broke the door down, but I didn't see him go in. Perhaps she hasn't come back from work yet.' She began buttoning a blouse which seemed to show great objection to being buttoned at all, and indeed it did burst open again, so that Miss Mangan's own expansive bosom was thoroughly put to shame. ‘Absolutely shameless!' thought Brigid Mangan. ‘What people! What people!'

‘Work!' she said, startled, ‘work! But surely—does my sister go out to work?'

‘I think so—I'm not sure, mind you—but I think so—such a lot of people come banging at the door lately. It is a nuisance, you know—you see, this week my husband's on nights, and devil a wink he's been able to get.'

‘Oh dear! I am sorry about that,' remarked Brigid Mangan, and turned her attention to the door again.

‘Fanny working! Ridiculous! Absolutely! Why should she do so—with money coming in from half the family?' She looked towards Mrs. Postlethwaite again.