Father Bailey felt his eyes closing and he was thinking sleepily that it was many years since he enjoyed a conversation like the one this evening . . . a very enlightened man that. Of course, God help him, he was entirely wrong in many of his opinions, but there were some which tied up amazingly with those of the Church. Peter Bracken’s idea, for instance, that the spirits, termed guides, and through whom the healing was done, were the good people who had gone on, whom he and all Catholics termed saints. Now that was an interesting point . . . He was awakened, startlingly, by a gasp from Mary Ellen.
They exchanged glances and looked towards the bedroom door; the bed was creaking heavily. There was a shuffling, a short silence, and John appeared at the open door.
It was only two days since Father Bailey last saw John, yet the change in him hurt the priest; he looked gaunt and twice his age.
But now was not the time, Father Bailey told himself, to waste on useless pity. Of all the times John could have chosen to wake up this was the worst; even if he drank the stuff this minute, as strong as it was, it was doubtful whether it would take effect before the arrival of the men.
John shook his head and ran his hand over his forehead. Then he looked dully but enquiringly at the priest.
And Father Bailey said promptly, ‘Your father’s not too good, John. Your mother called me in.’
John accepted this, and looked at his mother; then from her to the clock . . . twenty minutes to one! The pain of his existence flooded back to him . . . he had slept for hours! They would have got him away then. Well he had to sleep some time. But, oh God, why couldn’t he have got him first, then this agony would have been appeased. Now it would go on for ever.
‘Have this cup of tea, lad.’ Mary Ellen was pouring the black tea into the cup with shaking hands.
John ran his hand round his face and shook his head: ‘I’ll have a wash first.’
‘I could do with another, myself, Mrs O’Brien. Have a cup with me, John, it’ll pull you together.’
The priest took the cup from Mary Ellen’s hand and stirring it vigorously, passed it to John.
Without demur, John took it and drank a mouthful of the hot tea. He pursed his lips before replacing the cup on the table. Huh! the taste . . . his mouth was dry and thick!
Going to the hearth, he picked up the kettle. It was empty; and the occurrence was so unusual that he shook the kettle, then glanced at his mother. It seemed a symbol of the new life . . . nothing would ever be the same again.
Mary Ellen took the kettle from John’s hand, whilst he went to the table and finished his tea. The priest sighed and sat down heavily, saying to John, ‘Sit down, lad.’
Docilely, John sat down, as if his being knew nothing of hatred and the craving impulse to destroy.
Mary Ellen passed between him and the priest and placed the kettle on the fire. Then she too sat down, and the silence became heavy; until Father Bailey exclaimed, ‘Well, Mrs O’Brien, I must soon be making my way home.’ But he didn’t move; and into the renewed silence came a soft padding. It bore no relation to footsteps. Mary Ellen and the priest exchanged quick glances, but John went on looking at the kettle, which had begun to hiss softly.
The padding which came from the wall at John’s back now passed on to the ceiling. The priest turned his gaze from Mary Ellen and stared into the fire . . . Well, if they made no more noise than that, it would be all right—the old stockings round their boots were quite effective. Another two or three minutes, and it would be over.
The minutes passed, and John stood up and lifted the kettle from the fire, forcing back into himself the urge to be going. What was he idling here for, anyway? In another few minutes he’d be asleep again. And there was still the chance he might find him; for how did they know how long he would sleep. They might have been afraid to risk getting him away. This time he would stay at the bottom end of the streets; it was ten to one he was there, for his cronies were in that quarter.
‘That water isn’t hot,’ Mary Ellen broke in, getting to her feet—in the scullery he would be standing under the staircase and the padding had started again.
‘It’ll do.’
As he made to pass her, he was brought to a halt by the sound of something falling on to the floor above. It could have been a chair or a box, or any piece of Peggy Flaherty’s ménage. Perhaps John would have let it pass as just that had he not looked at his mother and from her to the priest. The apprehension in their exchanging glances was like a revelation to him . . . ‘The bitch!’ The words were forced out through his clenched teeth—at this moment he wasn’t thinking of Dominic so much as Peggy Flaherty. It was as clear as daylight . . . her trailing round with him to throw him off the scent of that swine! What a bloody fool he was! He almost threw the kettle on to the hearth; but when he turned to dash out of the back door he found the priest barring his way.
‘Get by!’ he said grimly, towering over the tubby figure of Father Bailey.
‘Listen, John. I’m not going to get by . . . Now you listen to me!’—the priest stared up at John with as much aggressiveness as was in him to portray—‘you can do nothing . . . you’re as helpless as a new-born babe. Get that into that big head of yours. You’ve just swallowed an excellent sleeping draught, one that would put a horse to sleep. And that’s where you’ll be in a very few minutes.’
John stepped back and glared at his mother. Mary Ellen, her hands clasped, her eyes dumbly pleading, said nothing. He remembered her laughter, earlier on, and her jumbled words about Molly and the pills, and the queer turn of the priest . . . Now Father Bailey sitting there waiting, with that tale about his father. Why, they’d all hoaxed him like a child! But he wasn’t asleep yet. No, by God! not by a long chalk.
He swung up the bucket of water standing by the tin dish and bending, poured it over his head; then towelled himself vigorously. And before Mary Ellen and the priest were aware of his intention he was through the front room.
In the street, he ran as he had never run before, round the bottom corner and up the back lane. But when he reached the backyard he found only Mary Ellen and Peggy there. They were standing by the kitchen door, an epitome of the conspiracy against him and of its successful close.
In the moment of his pausing he was made aware of the effects of the drug, for he had the desire to push past them into the kitchen and to sit down. But the desire was swept away and he turned and ran again, for the main road now. However they tried to evade him, eventually they must make for the main road.
A cold drizzle was falling, and already his shirt was wet; but this would keep him awake. There was no-one in sight, as far as he could see, and he stood in the shadow of the wall, scanning the openings to the streets. There was a lamp at each corner, but so far did the streets seem to stretch away into the darkness that he realised he must keep on the move if he hoped to discern any movement from the lower streets.
His lids felt heavy and drooped slowly over his eyes. He stretched them and swore grimly to himself. They had only to play a waiting game . . . they were in there somewhere still, he was sure. How much longer could he fight against this increasing drowsiness?
He had to lean against the wall. Gradually his anger died in him, and all he wanted to do was to lie down . . . Blast them! He started to walk, briskly as he thought, but soon stopped again and leaned against a lamp post. His head was throbbing to the rhythm of approaching horse’s hooves. Soon the black shape of a cab rocketed towards him, and ahead of it, on the pavement, he made out the scurrying figure of Father Bailey.
Panting, the priest came alongside John and laid a hand on his arm. He murmured something, but John did not hear what it was. He was looking at the cab, which was now abreast of him . . . and there was Dominic’s face! His eyes were turned towards the window. They were sockets of darkness in a white blur. Time seemed to stand suspended, giving the brothers the opportunity to exchange their last looks of hatred. Then something sprang from John and leaped upon the sneering face of his brot
her. But whatever it was it had no effect . . . the cab rolled on, the bandaged face disappeared. And John, like a child, allowed himself to be led gently away by the priest; he was thinking dimly that all his life there would be a want in him . . . something uncompleted.
13
Renunciation
The under-manager of the sawmill watched John jump the wall; he was waiting for him on the pavement of the main road.
‘You know, that’s a punishable offence,’ he said evenly.
John straightened his cap. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, I don’t want to seem stiff’—the man was almost apologetic—‘but it’s got to stop. I shouldn’t mind if it was just one doing it, but it only needs a start you know, and we’ll have everybody living in Jarrow coming out this way, and I leave you to guess what’ll happen to the timber . . . It’s got to stop you see.’
John merely nodded before moving off; and the man, looking after him, thought ‘poor devil’. It was right what they said, he had gone a bit queer. What other reason could there be for him not using the dock gates—for though the sawmill yard might be a short cut to Jarrow, it was difficult of access. Perhaps the lad thought he was still chasing his brother. Well, whatever he thought he was doing now, he’d have to find some other way of doing it but by this wall . . .
John realised this as he strode homewards. But there was no other way to avoid meeting Mary; if he used the main gate sooner or later they would be bound to meet. For four weeks now he had come out by the wall; it cut off the arches and the length of road past the Simonside bank. It did not cut off the gut—no deviation could cut off the gut. At first, he was determined to avoid Mary only until he should feel strong enough to face her; but with each passing day he became weaker, and told himself that in the silence between them the madness would fade and he would not have to see her. Then her letters started to come. Every day for the past three weeks there had been a letter. They were all neatly stacked in his box under the bed . . . and all unopened. With the coming of the first one he knew he must not open it, for the words it held would break down his reserve.
In the long stretches of the night he would think of the letters and what they held, and it would seem as if their substance created Mary herself, bringing her into the room to him . . . at times, even into the bed. He would feel her there, even smell the faint perfume that was hers, and his arms would go out to her, and in pulling her to him he would come to himself and, getting up, would stand on the cold floor, staring out of the window into the black square of the backyard, or up at the piece of sky visible between the houses, and know that Mary and the magic world that she alone could make was not for him—this wherein he stood was his world, this his night view for all time . . . this was his far horizon; this was the limit to all his wild hopes; here in this house he would have to work out his salvation. Sometimes he would lean his head against the window frame and murmur, ‘Katie, Katie,’ as if asking her forgiveness . . . If only he had never had the idea of making her a teacher! It was his fault, for she was a child and would have forgotten about it. Then he would never have got dressed up to go and see . . . her. And not seeing her, he would have come to love Christine; and the issue between him and Dominic would have been finished earlier, and his Katie and Christine would have been alive today . . . Again, had the Brackens not come next door, and, like a disciple, he had not sat at Peter’s feet, lapping up all his mad ideas about the power of thought, this would never have happened.
Well, he was finished with thinking . . . his mother was right—it got you nowhere. There would be no more wild imagining for him. The road he was on held no space for flights of fancy. He had been mad in a number of ways. Between her and Peter he had gone crazy for a time. She even made him believe that the quaint thoughts which came into his head were unpolished gems, holding poetic qualities . . . and Peter, that life held something gigantic for him, that one day he would lead men, not into battle, but out of it . . . out of the battle with squalor into brighter and better conditions. Peter even egged him to take on the job of being a delegate to the Labourers’ and General Workers’ Union . . . God! how far above the earth he had walked; until that business of Nancy Kelly’s! Even then he saw his Mecca in America. But now it was all over. He knew where his Mecca lay . . . in this house, in the fifteen streets and in the docks, working to feed his mother and father and Molly and that other growing Dominic.
Yet as he walked up the road, he knew that it wasn’t all over; the hardest part for him was yet to come. He would have to see her and finish it. Far better to make a clean cut than try to keep dodging her. Once it was done, he would feel better; he could not feel worse.
Saturdays were like the opening afresh of a wound; the week-ends altogether were a torture. And now another was upon him. Since jumping the sawmill wall, he knew how he must spend this one . . . he must read the letters! . . .
When he entered the kitchen, his eyes, in spite of himself, were forced to the mantelpiece. There was yet another letter against the clock. He thrust it into his pocket, then washed himself before sitting down to dinner. Shane was already at the table, and John, out of the pity growing in him for his father, answered his questions patiently . . . Yes, the first boat of the year was in from Sweden with Lulea ore, and it seemed heavier than ever . . . yes, there was one due in on Monday from Bilbao.
‘That’ll mean piece work,’ his father said . . . ‘five shillings a shift.’ He shook his head and looked down at his trembling hands. ‘Perhaps if I made a start I would steady up . . . eh, lad?’
‘Give yourself time,’ said John, knowing that all the time in the world wouldn’t put his father back in the docks.
‘Yes. Another week then,’ said Shane, with pitiable relief.
Silently, Mary Ellen moved between the oven and the table. Into the love she held for this son of hers was creeping a feeling of awe. The letters were creating it. The lass was writing to him every day, yet he was standing out against her. If ever a lad was in love, he was. But he was renouncing her . . . and for them. Where did he get his strength? She recognised him as a man with a man’s needs, and her humility ignored the origin of his strength in herself. If only in some way he could have the lass . . . But it was impossible, the house depended on him; they could only live by him.
Here was another Saturday. How she dreaded and hated Saturdays! She seemed to spend her weeks gathering strength to face the Saturdays. Yet life went on. Round the doors, it was back to normal. Already the incident was being referred to as something long past, in remarks, such as, ‘That was a Saturday, wasn’t it?’ or, ‘That day the two bairns went down.’ The only ones outside the house who still felt the weight of that day were Peggy Flaherty and the Kellys . . . Peggy, because John, as she said, wouldn’t look the side she was on. He wouldn’t forgive her for duping him, and her fat was visibly disappearing through the worry of it. Her simple soul felt that until she was on speaking terms with John again nothing would be right. The Kellys were affected because now there could be no redress for Nancy. They would be saddled with her child and their scraping to live would become more difficult, while the possibility of yet another Nancy would be growing under their eyes. Mary Ellen, too, often thought of this. In a short while now, the child would be born, and she would be a grandmother. And always there would be Dominic across the street from her . . . from behind the curtains, she would look for the traits to show. She could see herself doing just that all down the years, for there was no possibility of her ever leaving the fifteen streets. Nor did she want to now; all desire for a change had long since left her, and she knew she must see life out to its close here. This did not worry her, but what did was that her lad would have to do the same. She hadn’t wanted him to go to America, but that wasn’t saying she wanted him to be stuck in the fifteen streets all his life . . . Dear God, no . . .
The meal was over, and while Molly cleared away Mary Ellen, taking Mick’s shirt from the top of the pile of mending, cut off the tail a
nd pinned it across the shoulders, before sitting down opposite Shane and beginning to sew.
John came from the bedroom, and looking hard at Molly, asked, ‘Did someone call here a while ago? You know who I mean.’
Molly, after staring back at him for a second, hung her head and answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
Molly turned her head a little and stared down to her mother’s lap . . . How could she say to him, ‘You were all mad when she came’? She recalled going to the door on the Sunday afternoon and seeing Miss Llewellyn standing there. She had asked to see her mother or father, and Molly had said she couldn’t, they were both bad. It felt nice, at the time, to deny something to her one-time teacher, a teacher who had never taken any notice of her; and when she was able to deny her John, saying that he was out and she didn’t know where he was, she experienced a definite pleasure. There was no room in her to feel sorry for Miss Llewellyn, who looked pale and bad. She didn’t want her here, anyway. She guessed that Miss Llewellyn had clicked with their John, and she was puzzled, yet made bold, by sensing the come-down it was for anyone so swanky to click with their John. And so, after Miss Llewellyn had gone, she forgot about her. And now here was John blaming her, and she didn’t want him to be vexed, for the daily aim of her life was that he and her ma would come to like her as they had liked Katie.
When she gave him no reply, John went back to the bedroom. He picked up the letter he had been reading . . . ‘Dearest, I felt I must come and see you. Judged by my own sorrow, yours and your people’s must be unbearable . . .’ She had come here, to this house. Through the open door she must have glimpsed the conditions from the bareness of the front room, yet it had not put her off; nor the fifteen streets themselves. Nothing would put her off. She would go on believing that when he had accepted his sorrow he would come again to her.
The Fifteen Streets Page 21