by James Hanley
Meanwhile Mr. Corkran had returned to the kitchen. This was his den. It contained two chairs, a white scrubbed table, a chest of drawers, whilst on the walls hung some cheap oleographs. An almanac hung on one side of the grate. Mr. Corkran began looking at the letters. This was one of his great moments, the first survey of the mail, the mail of the clients who must wait. Above his head was a clothes-line upon which hung drying clothes, a shirt and some handkerchiefs. At the other end of the line hung Mrs. Ragner’s night-dress, silk knickers, and stockings. All these were washed by Mr. Corkran. There could be no question of any outside laundering, for Mr. Corkran would not hear of it. The fact that a man should do this kind of work, and like it, seemed to Mrs. Ragner merely a manifestation of his complete contentment, his willingness and his devotion. Briefly there was nothing that Mr. Corkran could not or did not do. As he sat looking at the various envelopes he heard the chair creak in the drawing-room. At once he put down his knife and fork and went off to the hall. Mrs. Ragner was already putting on her hat, and with the man beside her continued to fidget with this, all the while looking into the mirror, until she had it in the exact position in which she wanted it.
‘That’s better,’ she said—and smiled. Mr. Corkran nodded and that was all.
Then he said, ‘Will you be back at the usual time, mam?’
‘I think so,’ she replied, then after a pause asked, ‘Why?’ It was a rare occasion when Anna Ragner forgot an important matter connected with her business. But she had, for Mr. Corkran at once replied, ‘I understand you wanted to go over that Fury contract again, mam.’
‘Oh yes, of course! That is quite right. About the renewal of the loan.’ Again Corkran nodded his head.
‘I went there twice to assess, but each time there was nobody in.’ He began scraping his foot along the bottom of the hall-stand.
‘Yes, I think that matter had better be seen to. How I came to forget I really don’t know. But I have been much occupied in my mind lately with another matter.’ She looked at the man directly, questioningly, penetratingly, as though the indefatigable Mr. Corkran might be able at this very moment to reassure her upon a matter of which he knew exactly nothing. He, not being possessed of any psychic qualities, said, ‘Yes, mam, I understand, you have looked not a little worried lately. I hope you are not unwell.’ He returned her glance, but she saw nothing beyond two slits that seemed to shine like glass, cupped by thick brows.
‘People are so ungrateful,’ said Mrs. Ragner. She picked up her bag, and Mr. Corkran opened the door for her. ‘Here is Spencer now,’ she said, and descended the steps.
‘I shall go over those Fury papers, mam, and will go once more to Hatfields. I shall be back about four-thirty. Everything will be ready as usual.’
‘Very well. Good-morning, Corkran.’ Mr. Corkran watched the important figure climb into the cab, whilst Spencer, an old and bilious-looking cabby, relieved his horse of the nosebag, climbed into his seat, and picked up the reins. Number three Banfield Road closed its doors, and the cab moved off.
Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Ragner were almost old friends, for the cabby had a regular contract to drive the lady to her office in Heys Road, and on the mornings of court appearances he arrived at the house half an hour earlier. He put this down to Mrs. Ragner’s respect for punctuality, but this was not so. Punctuality was not in the vocabulary of any person for whom people were merely persons who waited and persons who were attended to at once. The earlier arrival of the cab made a leisurely drive possible, and naturally there were occasions when Mrs. Ragner, to use her own words, liked to ‘survey her lands.’ For this reason Mr. Spencer’s cab followed no set course. Indeed, no cab ever made such twistings and turnings as Mr. Spencer’s did on what he called ‘Court days.’ Mrs. Ragner’s net was wide. There were concealed turnings, twisting round corners into narrow streets, sudden backings when a short alley ended in a cul-de-sac. Passing through this maze of streets and roads and alleys, it was not unnatural that occasionally a client looked at the cab and remarked to her neighbour, ‘There’s Mrs. Ragner.’ These remarks were always audible, a clue indeed to the degree of astonishment which followed that lady’s sudden appearance upon ‘her lands.’ She liked to see the houses where clients lived. But at the same time she never recognized a client. That was not her business. It was she only who was to be recognized. Here a young woman suckling her child upon a step, there a woman with sleeves rolled up cleaning her parlour windows, there a man painting his house door. These were her clients. She surveyed and passed on. When the cab reached Mile Hill it stopped. Mr. Spencer descended from his seat and repaired to ‘The Robber’s Nest.’ Mrs. Ragner looked out of the windows of her cab. She never smiled. People passed by, looked in through the window at the stout lady in the fur coat, and passed on. For all these people Mrs. Ragner had a special look: the bent man, the raucous-voiced young girl, the babe in arms, the old men and women. Towards all of them she turned a calm, dignified countenance, the while she sat back in imperious attitude upon her seat. Whilst such people drew breath she could live. She was one with them, they lived for one another, depended upon one another. Mr. Spencer returned from ‘The Robber’s Nest’ wiping his lips with evident satisfaction, filled as he was by a new pride and a new voice, possible only through the kindness of that good lady sitting so contentedly inside his vehicle. The cab moved on. It began to rain. It poured. Mrs. Ragner buttoned her coat about her neck, put her hands through her muff, and crouched into the corner.
‘Here we are,’ said the cabby. ‘Court Place.’ The cab pulled up outside the gate. A motley crowd was collected. Policemen moved about amongst beshawled women; two old men leaning against a shop window displaying pornographic literature looked out of watery eyes at the stout lady now descending from the cab, whilst through the assembly like an undercurrent passed the word ‘Moneylender.’ For a moment the lady stood looking over the heads of the crowd. Then she told Mr. Spencer to be back at noon, and passed up the yard towards the court. For the first time that morning she smiled, for right in front of her were some other followers of her own profession, all women. They were talking animatedly in whispers about a case that was at that moment about to be heard. Mrs. Ragner bid them ‘Good-morning’ and passed on. Exactly at five minutes past twelve Anna Ragner, Moneylender, 3 Banfield Road, Gelton, climbed once more into Mr. Spencer’s cab and was driven to Heys Road. She entered her small office and began business for the day.
At two-forty-five Mr. Corkran returned from Hatfields. He rang up the office at Heys Road. Mrs. Ragner was engaged at the time with a rather impecunious merchant, whose optimisms about the future had so far failed to have any effect upon the lady who could lend five pounds to five thousand pounds on note of hand alone. Hearing the bell ring, Mrs. Ragner said, ‘Excuse me one moment,’ and picking up the receiver recognized her factotum’s voice at once. To get a ring from Mr. Corkran was the most unnatural thing in the world. ‘What is it, Corkran?’ she asked, fingering her necklace with her hand, the while her bosom rose and fell to the uneven rhythm of her breathing.
‘It’s this Fury business, mam,’ said Mr. Corkran from the other end of the phone. ‘I called at Hatfields to-day and saw the woman. I thought I would ring you in case you might wish to alter your decision, mam. I assessed the furniture at seventeen pounds, but even allowing for regular payments, that assessment would hardly cover the interest on the first loan. I thought it curious, if you will excuse me for saying so, mam, I thought it curious you wished to renew on the original loan of twenty in view of the fact that the interest on the first and second loans is now twenty-two pounds, and of the original loan of twenty itself only twelve has been cleared. I pointed out that a renewal was of course entirely a matter for your own discretion. I——’
‘Mrs. Fury herself applied for a re-loan at an interest rate upon which we were both agreed. But this loan was to be given in view of certain surrender rights to a compensatory document. I have not altered my decision, Corkran.’
‘That is correct,’ replied Mrs. Ragner. ‘The loan equals the value of the document so surrendered, but the interest on this renewal is higher than on the initial loan. The valuing of the furniture is a precautionary measure. Did you get the other information that I asked?’
Mr. Corkran replied, ‘Yes, mam. I got that. I have a paper here showing full ingoing income. The point is that I hold the document, but no money has been paid over.’
‘That is quite correct, Corkran. I shall see to that matter when I return in the evening. Whilst you are here you might tell me what has happened in the Joyce case.’
‘Oh yes. They distrained this morning, and I arranged with Mr. Elton to auction on Thursday. I hope that was correct, mam.’
‘Quite correct, Corkran,’ replied Mrs. Ragner, and banged down the receiver.
If she had seen the expression upon her factotum’s face at the other end of the line, Mrs. Ragner would no doubt have wondered what could have caused it. For it was a rare thing for that gentleman to show such a pained, even humiliated expression as he did now, as he stood in front of the phone in the hall at Banfield Road. A too conscientious devotion to duty could have its share of alarms as well as excursions. In fact, Mr. Corkran’s curiosity prompted him to go into the little office behind the sitting-room, and take from the cupboard set high in the wall the large black ledger. Mr. Corkran took this ledger into ‘his den’ and, seated comfortably before the large fire, opened it and turned the pages until he came to F, and then to Fury. Immediately he concentrated all his attention upon the page in front of him.
This tall thin man wore a sailor’s jersey, blue dungarees, and a pair of rope shoes. His thinning yellow hair was brushed down neatly on his head, and he wore a fringe over the forehead; his eyes were so small that for a moment an observer would take him to be eyeless, until he spoke, when he opened them wide and looked at you in the most distrusting manner. But usually he went about with half-closed eyes. He seemed to see a person clearer this way. His long arms were bared to the shoulder, for the sleeves of the jersey had been cut off. He had one leg doubled under the chair, the other leg stretched across the hearth. His attitude was studious as his fingers ran up and down the column of figures, whilst he muttered in his throat, ‘Fury. Number three Hatfields. Loan. Twenty pounds. Husband. Railway man. Income all told, one pound fourteen shillings. Surety. Joseph Kilkey, Stevedore. On furniture. Assessment, forty-five pounds six shillings. Interest on capital sum, ten pounds. Repayments weekly, twenty-two and sixpence. January 10th, payments lapsed. January 17th, payments lapsed. Charges, one pound. Payments resumed January 30th. February 5th, loan renewed. Sum due on first loan, eight pounds. Interest due, eleven pounds—deducted from the renewal of twenty pounds, eleven pounds ten. Charges, ten shillings. Total interest, twelve pounds. Total sum due, forty-three pounds. March 18th, payments lapsed. March 30th, payments resumed. Collection charges, seven and sixpence.’
Mr. Corkran paused, then looked up. A continuous drip from Mrs. Ragner’s knickers had trickled right down the left-hand page, and he had not noticed it. ‘Damn!’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the page. Then he resumed. He had raised his voice, and now said aloud in a sort of sing-song manner: ‘May 1st, application for renewal of loan, for certain sureties, under consideration. Capital sum due, forty-nine pounds five. Charges for collection, ten shillings. May 5th, capital sum due, forty-nine pounds five. Interest on capital sum, twelve pounds three. Total, sixty-one pounds. Charges, one pound.’
Mr. Corkran closed the book. ‘H’m,’ he said. ‘H’m.’ Then he got up and carried back the ledger to the cupboard. He went to the desk by the window, undid the keys that hung on the back of his trousers’ belt, and opened the desk. From this he took a hand-written document which read as follows:
‘I hereby agree, in return for loan of twenty pounds, to surrender rights in the attached documents, such rights to remain henceforth the property of the assignee. And further, in consideration of the sum of thirty pounds being deducted from the capital sum and interest now due on the original loan of twenty pounds, to be placed to my credit, when the sum named upon the attached document has been paid over as compensation by the Torsa line to me, I hereby agree to hand same to assignee less the balance of five pounds. Signed Fanny Fury. Witness, Daniel Corkran. Dated June 11th, 19..’
Underneath this agreement, the sole effort of Mr. Daniel Corkran himself, he had written, ‘Under consideration.’ ‘H’m,’ he said, laughing, ‘H’m.’ Then he locked it in the desk again. It was now turned half-past four o’clock. Mr. Corkran decided to lay the table in the drawing-room, and immediately afterwards to get his own tea. ‘Well, I suppose she knows best,’ he said as he threw back his arm and yawned. ‘She knows best. But I wonder why she is extending so much consideration to this client—I wonder?’
Mr. Corkran moved about the house as silently as any cat, and as he laid the table in the big room he formed a picture in his mind of this woman Fanny Fury. A tall woman. The first time he had seen her she was accompanied by her daughter. She had been on many other occasions, but by herself. There was something about her that he rather liked. He didn’t know exactly what, and had he been asked direct would have been quite unable to make reply.
Having arranged everything for Mrs. Ragner’s return, he made his own tea. As soon as he had had this he would get the big room ready for the clients. It was one of his duties to open the door, and sheer length of devoted service had endowed him with the power of admittance or rejection. There were people who called to see Mrs. Ragner who never saw that lady, as also there were people whom Mrs. Ragner would never have consented to see but that Mr. Corkran, using the rights he guarded so jealously, pushed the newcomer into the long room before Mrs. Ragner herself. There were persons, too, whom Mr. Corkran felt that nobody could admit, let alone grant a loan to, and his knowledge of the world was wide, deep, and various. Mrs. Fanny Fury was a case in point. But for Mr. Corkran that lady’s admission and eventual acceptance as a client worthy of a loan could not have been made possible. ‘There are always applicants,’ Mrs. Ragner told herself, ‘and therefore Corkran can afford to discriminate.’ Mrs. Ragner’s town clients were attended to privately at the office in Heys Road. That was sacred territory on which Daniel Corkran had never set foot. Then there were the clients who did business by post. The callers at Banfield Road generally came from the district, and sometimes from outside Gelton itself. These were Mr. Corkran’s.
There came a ring at the bell, and Mr. Corkran went to the door. Anna Ragner had returned.
‘Didn’t you hear the cab draw up, Corkran?’ she asked brusquely, and without waiting for a reply went upstairs to her room. One thing was certain. Mr. Daniel Corkran would follow her, and that was what Anna Ragner liked. She liked him to follow her about like a dog. As she began taking off her things she heard him ascending the stairs—not that he made any sound, except his heavy breathing and the tap of his ringed finger on the banister.
‘Come in!’ she called out. When the man entered, Anna Ragner was lying stretched upon the bed, her head resting in her clasped hands. One foot lay over the other. The room was heavy with the scent with which her corsage was covered. Mr. Corkran always hated this smell, though for his own moustache he used a strong-smelling Hungarian pomade, with which he religiously waxed it every morning.
‘Sit down.’
‘Yes, mam.’ Mr. Corkran sat down, his hands flat upon his bent knees.
‘You never heard the cab, Corkran.’ She said this without looking at him. Her eyes wandered across the stained ceiling.
‘No, mam.’ The man’s tone was apologetic. He began scraping his foot upon the floor.
‘Don’t do that, Corkran. I’m always asking you not to. When will you get out of that public-house habit? I’m expecting every minute that you’ll spit.�
� The man said nothing.
Mrs. Ragner, still surveying the ceiling, continued: ‘Will you bring me the document you received from the woman in Hatfields?’
Mr. Corkran jumped up and hurried out of the room. In a few seconds he had returned with this paper, which he immediately handed to the woman. Then he stood by the dressing-table.
‘Did you get me the things from the chemist, Corkran?’
‘Yes, mam. Won’t you have your tea now? It is all ready below.’