The Closed Harbour

by James Hanley

  "You are in a situation, and it is not resolved," the Mother Superior said kindly. "Do you understand what you are doing, Madame Madeau?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "You intend to retire from the world?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "You are un-happy?"

  "I have had some happiness, Mother."

  "Your mother comes of good family at Nantes, and has left that place, and will not return there owing to some disgrace brought upon her by your brother? Where is your father?"

  "He is dead since the First war, Mother, he was on a battleship."

  "And you have left your brother now, alone in Marseilles, looking for a ship. You think he will find one?"

  Madeleine hesitated, then replied, "I hope so, Mother."

  "And I understand your mother has sold up her property and intends to give the money to the church."

  "Yes, Mother," Madeleine said.

  "And thinks that her situation is resolved by doing this?"

  "It is her wish," Madeleine said.

  "What is the wish of one, may be the hurt of another. Has she discarded her son?"

  Madeleine bowed her head in reply.

  "Why?"

  She saw the muscles of the face contract, the lips start to tremble, she turned her head away and glanced out of the window.

  "I will not press you."

  "I cry so easily," Madeleine blurted out, "please to forgive me, Mother, I am like that."

  "Your mother looks as though she had never cried in her lifetime, perhaps if she did so she might be happier than she is, strength is not everything. Why has your brother been discarded, I use the word that fits best."

  "Sometimes," stammered Madeleine, "sometimes I dream about him, I think, one evening he will, as sailors sometimes do, come in on me."

  "Your brother?"

  "My son."

  "He was lost then—at sea?"

  "He was murdered," Madeleine said.

  "By whom? Do you know that?"

  "By my brother."

  "This is true?"

  "He has told me. But still I do not believe. He talked of another ship, a strange ship, I could not understand, a ship my son could never have been aboard, I clutch madly at an error."

  "I will talk to your mother, child," said the Mother Superior.

  As she rose to her feet, Madeleine rose also, they drew close together, the nun placed her hands on the other's shoulders, their faces almost touched.

  "An error is not a strong hold, child, and will anchor nowhere. What are you trying to tell me?"

  She felt the body slacken under her hold, and gripped harder, she led her to a chair and said, "sit down."

  She put a hand in hers.

  "Rest there. Quiet yourself. When you are calm again go to your room."

  And as she reached the door, "I must talk to your mother."

  Madame Marius sat on, and only when the young novice came in with a large tray and began to clear the table, did she rise, and as she went by the girl smiled and said, "good-morning, Madame," and the old woman replied, "good morning," but did not glance her way and went out of the door and returned to her own room.

  She took a chair to the window and sat down.

  "Another chair, another window, I seem to spend so much of my time sitting in windows, looking out, thinking.

  "What a lovely garden it is," she said to herself as she stared about the unfamiliar ground, drowned in sunlight, the flowers wide and abandoned to the warmth and light.

  "I could rise up from here, this very moment, collect my things, travel back by the road I have come, my child with me, go back to where I first drew breath, touch all the things I knew, see the old faces, sit in a garden again ... no, it is done with— snaring happiness, what use is that?

  "I could go back to that horrible city, become swallowed up in it, watch him falling to pieces—I could delude myself."

  She got up and opened the window, she leaned into the garden, all the scents were strong to her nostrils. In the distance she saw the passing whiteness of nun.

  "It is a peaceful place," she thought.

  "Who is to set himself up in authority and to say that my pride is destroying me? Look at the world without it. A beautiful spectacle. Forgive him! Why should I forgive him? Who is to question my deepest feelings. He has done a terrible wrong, to both of us. Mercy? Rubbish. Perpetuating the horror. One cannot help what lies in one's bone, and I thank God I have some pride left."

  Madeleine came in.

  "There you are," Madame Marius said, "do bring the other chair over here," and Madeleine brought the chair and she sat in the window with her mother.

  "Did you have a good night, mother?" she asked.

  "Fair enough, my bones ached a little when I got up. A beautiful little chapel they have here. You did not go to the mass, I noticed."

  "No, I slept late, I was very tired. Have you seen the Mother? We must go on Friday morning..."

  "I know that. We're going to Lyons." She suddenly exclaimed, "you wish to say something?"

  Looking at her daughter she had divined in an instant a momentary urge, and then a sudden hesitation, "what is in your mind?"

  "I was thinking," Madeleine began, but Madame Marius never found out what it was, for the door opened and the Mother Superior was coming towards them.

  "Madame Marius."

  The old woman rose and gave a short, stiff bow.

  "You wished to speak to me, Mother Superior?"

  "Yes, there are some matters I would like to discuss with you," she replied.

  "Madeleine," her mother said.

  "She need not go."

  "I would rather she did," said Madame Marius.

  The door closed.

  "I have here a letter, Madame Marius, which you may hand to the Mother Superior when you reach the Home at Lyons, but before I hand it to you it is necessary that you should answer me a single question."

  Madame Marius looked up.

  "I do not question the step you wish to take, that is understood, but does your daughter—is she of like mind. Is it her wish to do this?"

  "It is."

  "You are not forcing her against her will? I do not question her loyalty."

  "She is all I have, all I have ever had, we are terribly close to each other, it is difficult to explain. Also I am now old, and I dread being left..."

  "But you have left your son behind you who is ill?"

  "It is so simple," said Madame Marius. "He is a sailor, he is unlucky, he cannot get a ship, he gets depressed, he drinks heavily, it is that kind of illness ..."

  "Madame Marius, will you call in your daughter?"

  Madame Marius walked slowly across to the door and opened it.

  "You may come in now," she called.

  The Mother Superior walked straight up to Madeleine and asked, "is it your wish to join with your mother in her intentions?"

  "Yes mother. I have promised..."

  "I am not asking what you promised. Do you wish to retire with your mother?"

  "I do."

  "I am glad of that. These things are not simple."

  She handed the letter to Madame Marius.

  "There is a train at nine-thirty in the mornings, and in the afternoons there is one at four-thirty," the Mother Superior said. "You will be given a meal for the journey."

  "Thank you, Mother," the old woman said.

  And when the door closed upon her she went to her daughter. She put her arms round her.

  "Think," she said, "a meal for the journey, we have been reduced to tramps."

  "It is how they think, mother," Madeleine replied, "charitably."

  "I do not wish to stay here," said the old woman, "I would like to move on, we will go this afternoon. You still wish to come with me? They think here that I am forcing you against your will. That is not correct. You are free to do as you wish, to go …"

  "Where can I go?"

  "All the same you are free, Madeleine," Madame Marius repli
ed.

  "I have never been free, and now I would be frightened of it," Madeleine replied.

  XIII

  "LABICHE" called Follet, the moment he heard the clerk's door open, he hurried to his own door and looked out, "and be quick about it," he cried as he went in and slammed it after him.

  And hearing the tap he roared, "come in, come in."

  He swung round in his chair, "Sit down."

  Labiche sat down.

  "What on earth has come over my right hand man," said Follet. "One does not mind five minutes, Labiche, not even ten, after all, things happen to people, illnesses, sudden deaths, traffic hold-ups, but almost an hour, so unlike you, most punctual man we've got ..."

  "It's like this, sir"...

  "Yes yes, explain yourself" Follet said, he picked at his finger nails, refused to look at Labiche.

  "I had a call from the Director of Administration at the hospital, sir, and I had to go, and when I got there I found myself in the line ..."

  "My God! I thought that affair was finished, done with. You've done what you wanted to do, Labiche, you've saved your man, what more do you want, there is work to be done here, much work, and I have to rely on everybody, take them on trust, I can only say it's quite unlike you, Labiche. You can go back to your work," and Labiche had gone. That was yesterday.

  To-day, the Heros calendar standing on Monsieur Follet's desk showed Tuesday, Fifth, the Heros clock showed a quarter to one. Follet had made some notes, was still making them when Labiche knocked and came in. He had been expecting this all morning, he had not liked it, but here he was, what could he do about it? Nothing. The best clerk he had ever had.

  "There you are, Labiche," he said, and did a thing he very rarely did, he got up from his desk crossed the floor and shook hands with his clerk.

  "This is damned bad news, Labiche. We're sorry to see you go, I suppose there's nothing I can do now—it has come as something of a surprise. And you suppose that a Secretaryship of a charitable organization will pay you enough to live on? As I pointed out to you only a month back, there was Philippe's place, he retires soon, it would mean a big increase in your present salary ..." and suddenly he stopped, turned his back on his clerk, went to his desk, sat down, picked up some notes, read them through.

  "I couldn't stop him," he thought, "nobody could, what's the bloody use, the man's a crusader, a zealot, it's the work he wants, almost cries out for it. I'll just have to content myself with somebody else, but blast it, he'll have to be trained. How difficult people can be. Ah well!"

  He dropped the notes on his desk, sat back and looked at Labiche.

  "We're all sorry about this, Labiche, everybody here, but I shan't try to persuade you, it's the kind of work you want, and good luck to you. But we shan't see anybody as reliable as you for a hell of a time, I'm afraid. By the way I was thinking over that matter last evening, and I can see no harm in your leaving a collecting box here, it can stand on the desk in the receiving office. From time to time you can call for it."

  "Thank you, Monsieur Follet..."

  "And of course I'll personally see to it at our next director's meeting, that a bonus of some kind is given you."

  Labiche stared down at his feet, his mind was far away at this moment, stretching out as far as Lyons ..."er—thank, you, sir."

  "How is he?" asked Follet. "What a strange thing."

  "He has crossed the border," said Labiche.

  "You mean crazy?"

  "He is probably happy, certainly safe," Labiche said.

  Follet sat up in his chair. "Did you find the women?"

  "It was difficult at first. Madame Touchard—that's the woman next door to where they were living—she did not even know who the taxi driver was who had driven them to the station. However she was helpful and we went to the station together. We found him. Chap named Despard. He was the only person who could have helped me. I was able to discover that they had gone to Cassis. The Administration have already written her about her son."

  "But imagine leaving him like that," Follet said, "you can't account for people—they must have positively hated him, or else they were scared to death."

  "I saw him this morning," Labiche said, "he is calmed down a little, perhaps he is safely wrapped in his dream. But I shall not forget the night in the church, it is difficult to describe ..."

  "I'm sure it is," replied Follet, whose fingers had begun to drum upon the desk.

  "I think the doctors are hoping he will recognise them. I hope so, too. I would like to see reconciliation. They have also sent for his clothes ..."

  "Yes, yes, of course. Perhaps I might have seen the fellow," Follet said, "but you know how difficult everything is—and there are bums all over the place. Sometimes I think a great clean up is necessary. What do you think?"

  "It was very sad," Labiche said, "nor could I understand..."

  "Yes," shouted Follet," what is it?"

  The door had opened. A boy stood holding the cable in his hand.

  "A cable from Manos, sir..."

  "Yes yes, all right, bring it in, can't you?"

  He grabbed the paper from Marcelle's hand, and Marcelle got out in a hurry. Follet in a temper was best at long range.

  "Blast and blast and blast this bloody man," cried Follet, he had jumped to his feet, waving the cable in the air. "My God, just look at this, one thing after another, Labiche. You come and tell me you're leaving, now I have a cable from Manos, bad news, he's held up at Leghorn, repairs, think of it, and cables me to say that the Clarté will have to lie up some days, Heavens above. And how I told him to ram it down Duvenet's ear that he must nurse those engines, and now look, the bloody engines have begun to whine. And of course the Heros will pay the crew for sitting on their useless arses, doing nothing, no questions asked—"

  Follet rolled the piece of paper into the tiniest ball and hurled it into the grate. Then he flung himself into his chair, grabbed the telephone.

  "Get me Corbat."

  "Hello hello hello—that Corbat, no, then for Christ's sake get me Corbat, yes at once, what d'you take this place for, a morgue," and then Follet lowered his voice, and muttered and swore under his breath.

  "Hello. Corbat? Good. And not before time. What the hell are you people paid for, what—I've had an S.O.S. from that damned Spaniard—I'll pitch him out—he's getting old— hello, yes, can you hear me, take this down for immediate transmission to Manos—"

  Still holding the receiver Follet swung round and looked at Labiche.

  "All right, clear out, Labiche. I want those Clarté files on my desk, immediately after lunch. Understand. Good. All right, clear out."

  And Labiche cleared out.

  Seated at his desk, Labiche gave never a thought to the files. He was thinking of Marius.

  "It will be sad for them when they see him, and when they are no longer able to be silent, it will be too late, there will be nothing to understand."

  "On Saturday I shall be gone from here because the world is too big, even for the Heros, and beyond this place there are things to be done."

  "To think," reflected Madame Marius, "just to think that I have not to travel any more. It's wonderful. And there, in the laundry is Madeleine washing clothes. There is something about the place that slowly induces in one that feeling of resignation. I can feel it."

  She knelt down by her little white locker, opened it, took out a bottle of wine, filled herself a glass, corked and put back the bottle, then returned to her chair.

  "Of course, I'm not used to living with four people in a room—one will get used to that—they are an odd lot."

  Madame Marius sipped her wine, with pleasure, with content. The recourse to the locker the moment the other women went out for their morning walk, had become a ritual with her. But once they returned she never went near the locker for the rest of the day. Even the replacing of the empty glass had become ceremony, and as she put it back on the top shelf, she saw, as she always saw, the black bag stuffed back on the
bottom one.

  "I offered them this money, which I did not want, and they refused it. It hurt. If they had given their reasons. But since it is not wanted I will henceforth sit on it."

  "They do not know where I come from, and they do not worry me with questions."

  Rising she walked the length of this room and back again, suddenly flung her hands into the air and exclaimed:

  "The calm, the peace of it, it makes one wonder what one is doing outside at all. I am at last content. I need not write anybody, and there will be no more letters and I am glad of that. I have had a fairly long life, some of it was so happy I shall treasure it away, and always guard it. A good husband, a faithful daughter, a good name, yes, thank God, Marius is still my name."

  She wandered idly about the room, stood for a moment at the foot of each bed, once she picked up a shawl hastily discarded by Madame Bazin as she hurried to join the others in their walk. The old woman had carried it to the light and carefully examined it, studying its colour and pattern, the quality of the wool, and she saw how poor a quality this shawl had, then quickly she had flung it back upon Madame Bazin's bed, thinking of lice. There were people who sometimes harboured them, and they were Madame Marius's horror.

  "Why they don't sleep altogether in the one bed I do not know," she thought.

  She had never seen women closer to each other than these four, she wondered what they thought of her. She could see them in a slow, doddering line, moving off down the drive, their terribly used bodies muffled against sharpness of morning air, moving down the tree-lined avenue towards the park.

  "I would have paid for a room for us both—but no. One gets used to things and life here is levelled flat. It is peaceful, what more does one want. Soon I shall get so cushioned in this peace that I know I will once more take up my knitting and my embroidery, something I have not done for a long time."

  In the corridor one morning she had passed Sister Therese, the head of the laundry and had spoken to her.

  "You think my daughter is content, Sister, happy I mean?" she asked.

  "She's very quiet, barely speaks, she works well."

  "She was always like that."

  "It's difficult for anybody to say what happiness really is," Sister Therese replied. "But she is a good worker, Madame Marius."