The Secret Journey (49 page)

‘I wonder what she's done with them? I saw them there yesterday.' And how pitifully worn the arm-chair looked, its side greased and stained from dungareed elbows. He sat down in this chair and looked into the fire. For the first time ever since he could remember, the fire had not been backed up. It was, in fact, fast going out. It seemed so strange not to see the pile of slack and cinders heaped upon it, to hear the low murmurs that came through the bars.

There was the tin blower his father had made, but where was it now? ‘Mother must have forgotten it,' he thought. ‘Perhaps I had better back it up, after all. It does save time in the morning.' And he began putting coal on piece by piece, fearful of waking her. Then he shovelled cinders over it and then threw half a bucketful of slack. On top of this he flung the contents of the teapot. Now everything seemed natural again. The fire burning once more—the spitting noises it made as the moisture from the wet leaves found its way down through the slack.

‘I wonder how Mother felt when she said good-bye to him? I'm glad she went off with Aunt Brigid. I could have helped, but she didn't need it. She's suspicious, too. Ever since she found me hunting in the dresser drawer. I wonder where she does keep her loan books? I believe she's paying that woman nearly thirty-five shillings a week now. I wish I could find them. I wonder? I wonder——?'

He got up and made another silent ascent of the stairs. He took the bundle of papers from his grandfather's bed, and hurried downstairs again. His curiosity received a rude shock. The papers he held were back numbers of
Ireland's Own
. ‘Ah! Now I think I know where she hides them. Now I know!' And he looked at the papers, back and front. He turned over every page, and what led him to this sudden discovery was the soot-marks upon the papers. ‘Perhaps she has them in the chimney. Perhaps it's the same place where Dad hid that money for a rainy day. Why! I do believe those books she's so desperately anxious to hide from me are lying up the chimney in Grand-dad's room. How clever she is! She must have known nobody would bother to go to his room. Now I shall find out everything. But I'd better put these back.' He laid them on the table, and leaned his elbows on them. ‘What a fool Mother is hiding them like that! It's just like an ostrich trying to hide in a hole in the sand, for even Mr. Kilkey has a good idea of what she owes. But what can she be paying that thirty-five shillings a week for? That's practically Dad's and Anthony's weekly wage put together. How does she manage to do it? That's what I'd like to know. The rent's paid, the insurance is paid, there is food on the table. How is Mother doing all this? By God! I will get those papers out of the chimney. I will get them.'

He struck a match, lighted a candle, turned out the gas and went upstairs. He must be careful. The slightest sound and she might wake, and if she caught him like that, then there was no excuse. He was spying on her.

‘But it's only to help her. She will hide everything. And what satisfaction can she get out of it—a continuous struggle to keep everything behind her, when if only she'd say to what extent she's tied to that greasy old bitch—well, one might do something. But she won't. She just won't. She's determined, ashamed.'

Didn't he himself feel ashamed now, as he knelt before the grate in Mr. Mangan's room holding the lighted candle above his head, his free hand already groping up the chimney for the books? He gave a start. His hand lighted on a cardboard box. A shower of soot came down, covering hand and arm. Then slowly he drew out the box. Twice he pushed it back, twice he drew it out again. ‘All her secrets, all Mother's sacred secrets.' He blew out the candle and remained on his knees, quite still, one hand covering his mouth. He was afraid, and he was filled with shame. But he had this precious box, this mystery box which she thought would never be discovered. ‘And all because I put my hand under Grand-dad's mattress. How funny!'

In a few minutes he was undressed and comfortably composed in the bed—the cardboard box on his raised knees. He had lit the lamp, and turned it as high as was possible without danger of its light filtering its way under the door. ‘Now,' he thought, ‘I'll find out everything. I'll find out what she pays and what she owes. I'll find out what Joe Kilkey has to do with it, and why Maureen said she regretted ever getting Joe to put his name to the document. I'll find out all. Why the two chairs by the window have gone, and those green vases. Why. Yes, and why Mother sneaks off for two hours on two afternoons a week. Yes. I'll even find out why Grand-dad's been suddenly let go. That's the most curious thing. I can't fathom that at all. And she said she was only too glad to let him go. She even said she had grown to hate him. What an extraordinary confession to make, but I don't believe that. No! It's all in this box.' He turned the box upside down, and a veritable shower of papers, letters, books, receipts, and envelopes fell out.

‘What a heap! What a tangle! What a mixture. Ah! what's this one? 14th March—let's see. It must be last year. “Dear Madam, Unless we receive payment in three days I shall be reluctantly compelled——”' He flung it aside. Here was another. ‘“7th Jan. With regard to your enquiry
re
a renewal of the loan. We are carefully considering this, and will advise you——” Hello, what's this? “Dear Mrs. Fury, You seem not to understand quite clearly the rules set out on the document you signed. I have asked Mr. Corkran to call and see you to explain.” H'm!' exclaimed Peter. ‘That has no date. What a mix-up! Oh! Here's something. “20th Feb. Dear Madam, We are now satisfied as to the surety you offer, and if you will call here on Thursday next between 7 and 9 p.m., I shall be pleased to accommodate you. A. Ragner.” I wonder if this is the first loan she ever got? That loan she got from. Mrs. Ragner to keep the authorities in Cork silent. I wonder?' He rumbled amongst the papers. He picked up yet another. ‘“Dear Mrs. Fury, This is to inform you that the surrendered compensation advisory note has now been cleared, and in accordance with your favoured instructions we have cleared the principal and nine pounds seven of the interest on the renewed loan of 6th November last. Please acknowledge receipt of five pounds, enclosed herewith. A. Ragner.” Compensation note! What compensation note?' Peter asked himself. ‘Can it be Anthony's? Impossible! Quite impossible! It's all a terrible bloody mess. No wonder Mother goes about like a funeral. Fancy keeping all this to herself! Even from Dad!'

He lifted a series of papers fastened together by a rubber band. He took the rubber band off, the papers were all relating to his brother. All were receipted bills. ‘“Dr. Dunfrey, Two pounds seven; Jones & Hobbs, Solicitors, Four pounds sixteen and eight; Dr. McMichael, Examiner to the Torsa Line, One guinea.” Oh! Here's one from old Mr. Doherty himself. “To sundries, February-April, One pound eleven shillings. Crutches, Eleven and ninepence; Wilbraham and Day, Solicitors, Five pounds nine and sevenpence; Dr. Colby, professional services, One guinea.”' What bills! What secrets coming to light!

‘Savings Bank Book, Dennis Fury.' He opened this. Cash, ten shillings, running right down the first five pages. Withdrawn, eight pounds. Cash, ten shillings; withdrawn, eighteen pounds. ‘Phew! That's last Xmas.' He read on the next page, ‘Cancelled 30th Dec. E. J. P.' ‘Then Dad must have taken all the money out. I wonder why? Why, what a fool I am! That must have been the money he put up the chimney. But I wonder why he withdrew it all? It was quite safe in the Post Office, and what could Mother have done with it? She certainly took it. No doubt about that! Perhaps she hadn't found it all up there.'

Oh! Here was the past rolling up now. ‘God! I must have been a swine. “Receipt for seven pound seven, quarter's fees.” The bloody college. “Receipt seven pound seven, tuition, College of——.” Oh, Christ! There's scores of them! Well, by heaven! I never knew that. So that's what it costs to be a priest. Well!' He suddenly bundled the papers and flung them into the air, bills, receipts, letters, cards, books, but they showered down upon the bed again. ‘Now I see why they hate me. Now I see! Mother must have been mad. But I was worse. Good lord, it mightn't have been any different, even if I'd never gone.'

Here they were, skeletons from the cupboard, the whole box of tricks. ‘Let's see. Anthony leaves an allotment note, that's twelve and six a week. Dad leaves fifteen shillings, that's one pound seven and six. Grand-dad had a few shillings, better leave him out now. Twenty-seven and six, and I left ten a week, that's one seventeen and sixpence. But that's stopped now. Well, I'll have fourteen shillings a week in the shed, that'll be one pound seven and six and fourteen—that's forty-one and six, and she's paying thirty-five a week now to that woman, that's thirty-five—forty-one. Why, it can't be done. It's impossible! God! I wish I could find the damned paper I'm looking for. Kilkey says she must have a book or something which shows the latest state of the account. No wonder she's worried! But how mad of her to hide it all!' He searched about amongst the papers. He went through them one by one. No—the thing he wanted wasn't there. ‘Maybe she carries that about with her. Inside her blouse. Certainly not in her purse.'

He bundled the papers back into the box and placed it far under the bed. Then he stretched himself, put his hands behind his head and thought, ‘Now I've got it. Now I see how it's done. By God! it's the cleverest thing I ever heard of. She's getting re-loans at higher interest in order to pay off the former ones. But, God Almighty, this might go on for ever! ‘For ever and ever.' What was the end of it going to be? ‘And I actually took money from her myself. Oh, Christ! How I hate myself. How I loathe myself. She must have hundreds like this. Tied up in knots, and that sinister, sly, bitter, ugly swine who lives with her. I believe he's half the business himself. Who would have thought that one crazy idea in Mother's head has led to this? And that idea was me! Me to wear a collar back to front. Me to go about wearing silk waistcoats, whilst they lived on here—the same old grind, day after day. Yes! I can't blame Desmond or Maureen! They had a right to hate me. Yes! They had a right to go off and get married. They're free now. But I'm on the shelf. I know nothing. My mind's full of old junk, hell-fire, flesh, breasts and miracles, the History of the Popes, Mulcare's sweat, Grand-dad's phlegm, Mother's old hat; my mind's full of dirt, holy incense, crazy ideas, cowardly longing. I'm no good! No damn bloody good. God! God! I'm ashamed of myself! And here's Mother
nailed
—yes nailed to the floor—and I sneak off, sly, afraid. I run away from this to her. Hot hands—beastly thoughts, skins, hair, flesh. Oh, Jesus! Sometimes I could scream out how I hate them all—hate them with their saints, their holy mass, their miracles, and limbos and jumbos. And the people at the chapel. They look as if they want to walk on me, tramp me down. Damn ignorant fools, with less brains than I have myself, showing off their dignity, their colossal ignorance, their stinking holy piety, and throwing up their hands in horror because I was expelled. And now I hate them too. Now I'm glad I am expelled. Now I'm glad I went with Sheila! Oh, Sheila! Even you—even you don't understand me.' He buried his face on the pillow and burst into tears. His whole body shook in the bed. He pressed his mouth against the pillow. ‘It's their fault. Their fault! Yes, it's Mother's fault—the priests' fault, making me think I was better than anybody else—nursed me—and I like a fool licked it all up. The world's lousy, and now I know why. People are lousy, and that's why. Faith is only a mean bloody thing. Faith is an embezzler. It laughs at you. Yes. Christ, it mocks you! It mocks Mother—it mocks Mother in her misery—Mother who hopes to die a happy death.

‘I believe in nothing any more. People stink! Corkran, Ragner, Fury, Downey, Moynihan—they all stink. Ugh! I simply loathe myself.

‘Poor Joe Kilkey. Who'd have thought he would be drawn in on this too? And twelve months ago everything was all right. Sometimes I wonder if Desmond and Maureen saw this coming, and then cleared out. But what am I to think of Dad? Going off leaving Mother like this. I wonder what Grand-dad would have thought had he known. But he didn't, and he never will. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he snuffed it on the way. I liked him, though. He was a kind old man. Not used to living in big cities. But he did make me sick now and again with his old slobber. I can see him now, lying in a nice clean white bunk and Aunt Brigid smiling down at him, and hardly able to believe her father is really there, lying in that very bunk. Ah! There's something queer about the sudden way she drops in and carts away that poor old man, bag and baggage. Aye! If Dad hears about that he'll laugh—he'll laugh till his sides ache. But couldn't Grand-dad have cursed him and called him a mean-spirited man? I wonder if Maureen is really meaning to do the dirty on Joe. What a mess-up everything is! It's just as if we were all marionettes now, and we jumped and moved about when that woman and her bloody servant at Banfield Road pressed the button. But I don't think Maureen could have the heart to clear out and leave the kid. Still, one never knows. I wonder if Mother knows what's happening round there. Poor old Joe just complimenting himself, and happy as Larry with Dermod, when all this happens. Yes, it's just as if that woman—ugh—every time I think of her, and her—“Oh! How people loathe me! But you don't, do you, little boy?”

‘Yes, it's just as if her instinct prompted her every time, as if she knew everything that's going on. Every single thing. Why, hang it, she even knew Dad had gone. That's how it is. You can't move but they know. The two of them. They seem to take a pleasure in surprising you with their jumping-jacks, surprising you—throwing you off your balance. You can't cough. Why, she knows how much we each own, what we own, what we live on, what religion we are, where we work, if we go or if we stay. She knows everything.'