The Secret Journey (78 page)

‘They told me on the'phone,' he said, and his words were leaden, falling so from a tongue that was now swelling inside his mouth. He felt it was choking him.

‘Seriously ill. I thought you had better know.' These words went round and round the Captain's mind. Poor mother! It
was
a long time since he had seen her. When he felt shame creeping over him like some repulsive unwanted skin, he balanced himself, he balanced the scales evenly by reflecting now that it was she who had made them, and not only made them, but driven them from her, and from each other! When at last the nurse stopped he saw, and realized at last.

The bed was screened. Captain Fury stopped dead. He looked at the nurse. Was he simply imagining all this? Was it the effects of all that wine? That high chatter, that … and then the same hand touched him again and the voice said: ‘This way. Very quietly.' She led him round the screen and at last he saw her.

‘Mother! Poor mother!' he said.

The nurse vanished He knelt down at the bed and looked into her face. When he placed his hands on the bed he realized something else.

His mother was strapped down to the bed. And in the far corner, almost half behind and half in front of the screen, a figure sat, head in hands, and was motionless But Captain Fury had not noticed. He saw nothing at this moment except the prone figure in the bed. The white face, the closed and sunken eyes, the slightly fallen chin, the fine nose, the lined forehead, the straggling unruly hair, now greying fast.

For a long time he looked into her face. Then he raised his hand to touch her cheek. She must be deeply asleep, he thought. ‘Oh poor, poor mother.'

Collapsed! Where? Where? How? He wanted to stroke her face. But suddenly he withdrew his hand as though the face were flame, for soft spoken words came round the screen and Captain Fury gave a little jump and looked up at once.

‘Don't touch, please!' the voice said.

Captain Fury rested his head on the sheets. So this was his mother. Strapped to the bed. He should have seen her more often. He should have done more. He should have tried to be——‘Good God!' he muttered under his breath. He touched her hand. He ran his finger up and down upon her fingers. Then he lowered his head. He really wanted to cry. He felt unutterably sad.

When he looked up again he stared not at the screen, not at his mother, but into the eyes of his father; for that silent huddled figure had sat up, had moved nearer to the bed. They looked at each other in silence. Captain Fury could not speak. Not across that figure in the bed. He rose to his feet, went round to the other side of the bed, gripped his father's hand.

‘Dad!' then he paused, ‘I'm so sorry.'

The man's hand hung loosely in his own. The hard gnarled hand he knew so well, the tattooed hand, the hand that had worked for them all, and sometimes cuffed. He said again: ‘Dad! I'm so sorry. I——'

‘Are you?'

A silence followed. Suddenly the nurse was speaking over the screen top. They must go now.

‘Yes,' she said, coming round to them, ‘you must go
now
.'

Desmond Fury did not move, did not hear. He just went on staring into his father's face. How white and drawn, how terribly, terribly old he looked. He saw the lips tremble, the hands, the clumsy hands pulling continuously and distractedly at the seams of his trousers, then pulling at his vest. Poor mother! Poor dad! And whilst he stared he wondered about the others. Had they been? Anthony? Was
he
home? Had Maureen been? And Mr. Kilkey? Perhaps. But did they know? Lord! How frail she looked in the bed. How sorry he was for his father! Peter would never know. Should he tell Sheila? Had his father told Aunt Brigid? Had there been a priest?

His mind rocked under the thoughts that tossed and sank and rose again and finally left him sick, bewildered, afraid and wondering. Wondering. Here it was staring him in the face. The end of things when all he had been thinking of this last hour or so had been the beginning, the hopes, the desires, the urging, compelling desire to leave Gelton! To finish with it for good. He had always hated it, hated it still! It was dreadful. This seeing her here, like that, and dad standing there helpless, afraid like himself. He turned and looked at her again. She lay quite still, breathing deeply. They had strapped her down. His mother! Helpless. Like that. Why …?

‘Please! You must go now. This way, please! You can come again any time. Or ring.'

That was final. And father and son went off down the ward and when they came to the door both looked back, and Captain Fury looked hard at the screen and the quietness about him, the loneliness and desolation of the place chilled him. The nurse was gone. They found themselves standing facing each other in the long cool corridor. A nurse passed. A door opened. A doctor came out, and passing quickly hardly glanced at them. A porter whistled somewhere in the depths. They both wondered why. The place seemed to grow around them, rise higher, spread out and out, until suddenly it was pressing upon them both, smothering them.

‘Come, Dad.'

Captain Fury put an arm through his father's. The old man said no word. Like a child he allowed himself to be led out of the hospital. When they got outside it was pouring rain. Desmond could feel his father trembling. ‘Hell!' he said to himself. ‘Hell! It's just rotten! Rotten! Lousy! Lousy!'

Where did his father live? In the same house, of course! By himself now. But he, Captain Fury, lived in Repton Park Road, and Sheila had gone on home and would be waiting for him. Should he take his father home? Should he go with
him
. Or——They must do something. Get Maureen. But Mr. Kilkey. Yes. He was the one. Dad could go there! Just the place. Mr. Fury all this time was staring up at his son. Not at his face, not into his eyes, but at his uniform, his belt, his leggings, his polished boots. And then to the son's surprise the old man took hold of his coat and felt the texture of it. Then he ran his hand down the cloth from shoulder to hip. The action amazed Desmond. He was trying to make up his mind too. But it was so funny to see his father doing this sort of thing. Mr. Fury gripped the belt, the brightly polished Sam Browne belt, and pulled at it, then suddenly let it go.

‘What's all that bloody tommy rot?' he said.

II

About half-past two that morning a policeman on his beat, passing the vicinity of Gelton gaol, saw a woman standing in the doorway. He stopped suddenly and watched her. Being in the shadow she could not see him. Her back was towards him. He flashed his lamp on her. But the woman seemed quite unaware of this. ‘This woman again,' thought the policeman. He had taken in everything. The dress, the height, the attitude of the woman. Yes. He had seen her before. Questioned her before. He remembered quite vividly. It was without doubt the same woman. He stood still, watching her.

She was as yet quite unconscious of his presence. Or was it indifference? Nevertheless he would watch her. One thing he did not want to do. He did not want to frighten her. It
was
the very same person. The woman he had found kneeling against the door, fingering the massive steel studs of it as though they were precious flowers. He nodded his head. He had seen also a dark object on the ground beside her. He knew well enough what that was. Hadn't he questioned her about it, opened it and found nothing inside but bundles of newspaper cuttings, reports of a trial a year old, photographs of a young man, rosary beads, a holy picture, an almost blackened handkerchief, and in the bottom of it two shillings, and a few coppers? He looked at her again. Would it be that she was actually asleep, standing like that? Not leaning against anything, just staring towards the door. No! If she was asleep she wouldn't be staring. He scratched his head.

How long had she been there? A fine place indeed to hang about on a cold November morning. He had called her mother, saying: ‘Now, Mother, what's all this about? Looking for a lodging for the night, or have you a date with the warder?' He had joked with her about it. She had shown no interest in his remarks. He had held her by one arm; she had flinched a little under his gaze, and he knew she was frightened. Why did she come here? Had she somebody in the prison? And even if she had, of what use was it for her to stand outside the door? No miracles happened there! She must go home.

He had seen her again some months later. This time he felt less sorry. He thought she was a nuisance. His slow-moving mind at last connected the contents of her bag with this vigil at the prison. But the mind rendered this up only after the greatest effort. She must go home. He became a little brusque with her, a brusqueness that grew from her silence. The woman said nothing, neither who she was, nor what she was. Where she belonged he did not know. Should he walk the woman the two miles to the station in order to find this out? Hardly. It didn't seem worth the effort.

‘You can't stand about here, lady,' he said. ‘You should be at home in your bed.'

No, she couldn't stand there. There was nothing there but a massive door and towering walls, and behind her a wilderness of brickfields. She had gone, and he had watched her go, her black bag held securely under one arm.

Now here was the woman again. Once more he flashed the light upon her, and now he thought he saw her give a sudden start, though she did not turn round, nor show any interest in where the flash of light came from.

Whoever she is, she's a poor creature, standing like a statue at this time of a winter's morning. What should he do? Put the same old question? Or saying nothing simply take her arm and walk her down to the station. Used to lonely night beats as he was, he had not always the reserve of nerve necessary for occasions like this. He thumbed his lamp again, strongly tempted as he was to flash the light again and this time hold it. What should he do? Tell her to clear to the devil or simply take her to the station. He didn't even have to make up his mind. For something happened so suddenly that quite unconsciously he flashed the light again. He knew what to do now, for the woman had suddenly fallen on her knees and began beating the door. And as she beat against it, she cried:

‘Peter! Peter!'

The policeman dashed up and gripped her by the arms: ‘Come, lady! What's all this about now? Just what's it all about?' and he tried to raise her from the ground. But she was stronger in this moment than he. She beat with two fists upon the door. The light was flashed in her face; he saw her face clearly. It was unmistakable. He struggled with her, she was violent. ‘Come! None of this! You can't go shouting here at this time of the night,' but she did shout, and with a wild abandon.

‘Peter! Peter!'

Her whole body seemed to throb. He put his arms right round her, and again had to raise her from the ground. Then he suddenly let go of her and ran to the bell. He rang. The woman had reached the other side of the door; she hammered on it. The policeman ran to her again. He appealed. Was gentle, then brusque, then finally angry. Once he felt in his pockets for his handcuffs. He heard feet in the courtyard beyond, heard a man swearing in the cold night air.

A smaller door set in the great door itself was opened, a head peered out. What was all this fuss and noise about? The policeman was standing before him. At that moment the woman collapsed. He had meant to say, angry as he was, that he wanted the door open, the large and the small,
all
doors, so that she could go inside and then that all doors should immediately close again. He was sick of the woman; she had been a real nuisance, not only to herself but to him. Instead he found himself saying, in an agitated voice: ‘Ring for an ambulance right away.'

The head disappeared, the door closed again, the policeman returned to the woman; she lay in a heap under the big door. He picked her up in his arms, and as he did so a number of lights appeared. Then he saw the gaol ambulance coming purring down the yard. The great door swung open. The ambulance drove out into the long deserted road.

‘Where is she?'

‘Here.'

‘Right-o. Get her in. Where to? Southern? General?'

The policeman, with the help of the warder, managed to get the woman inside. The warder closed and locked the door. The engine opened out.

‘No hospital except the nearest one,' he called through to the driver. ‘The woman is in a bad way.'

The ambulance moved off, gave a grunt or two, then purred gently away from the prison.

The policeman suddenly found that he had lost his lantern. He must have left it on the ground. How dark it was. Ought to have a light. Instead he struck a match and looked down at the woman on the stretcher. Was she looking at him or was it imagination on his part? ‘Poor old woman,' he said, then made himself more comfortable on the opposite seat.

The ambulance reached the populated area. They weren't far off. Before he realized it they had stopped dead. They had reached the hospital.

At five minutes past three the same morning a policeman on a bicycle jumped off at No. 17 Hey's Alley. He gave three loud bangs on the knocker, and in the long silent street its sound was thunderous. He heard feet on the stairs. When the door opened he flashed his light on the man, for the house was in complete darkness. ‘Name of Fury?'

These three words were followed by a torrent from the man at the door.

‘Yes! My Christ, man! What's the matter! I——Oh God, what's all this about? Yes, my name's Fury. Dennis Fury. Tell me——Oh, Fanny, Fanny! again,
again!' His voice broke.

The policeman switched off his light. It was kindness to do this. He leaned forward and put a hand on the man's shoulders. Mr. Fury had both hands to his face. He shivered. He stood in singlet and drawers. The shoulders continued to shake under the hands.

‘All right! Now don't you worry! It's nothing terrible. But you must go and get dressed right away. There's a good man. There's a woman lying at the General Hospital. You'd better hurry. You know the way? It's not far.'