An End and a Beginning

by James Hanley

  “Put out the light, it’s not included to that extent.” The tired voice came to her through the door, and it said, with tremendous effort, “It’s out.”

  “And I should damn well think so. The very idea of it.”

  “I must have left it on,” Peter thought, “fell asleep, been dreaming.”

  His hand reached high above the bed, and as he took the switch between finger and thumb, he gave a quick glance about the room. The very look of it exhausted him. He turned out the light, and buried his head under the clothes. He dozed off, woke again, dozed. Early traffic rambled along the roads, a steam engine whistled, a ship’s siren answered the minute hoot of a tug.

  “Perhaps I’m ill, perhaps I’m ill, and I don’t know it.” He pressed his head into the straw pillow.

  “Perhaps I’m dreaming, just dreaming.”

  “Somehow I can’t believe—I mean—can’t believe I’m no longer there, can’t believe about mother, that she’s no longer here, she was good—so was I—once.”

  He fell asleep, and it was the striking of a church clock that eventually woke him. He counted the strokes. “Seven o’clock.” He opened his eyes under the blanket, the darkness there was warm, inviting. There were two hard kicks on the door. “Seven o’clock, number three.” At The Curving Light, nobody knocked on a door.

  “All right,” faintly, muffled.

  “Just telling you, that’s all.” The voice was light, high-pitched, perhaps a girl, perhaps the voice of a boy.

  Slowly he put out his head. A greyish light filled the room. He sat up. The first thing he saw was a cigarette lying on the floor. He stared at this as though he had never seen one before. He looked at the walls, the wash-basin, the photograph on the mantelpiece, the bricked-up grate. He looked upwards, and the brown patch was still there. Suddenly the room was clear, revealed. He watched the linoleum rise and fall from the draught under the door. He felt the room, every object in it touched him, from the dirty windows to the brown, damp patch. He shut his eyes, he felt it creeping towards him. Then he jumped from the bed. “I must get down below. I must move. I must hurry.”

  He picked up his hat, coat, handkerchief, he almost ran down stairs. When he reached the kitchen the heat of the coke stove rushed out at him, and he drew back, leaning on the door. He thought he would faint.

  “You all right?” Peter saw a red face, a dockgateman’s hat, bright buttons.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  He pushed his way into the kitchen, and took his place at the long wooden table. An arm came over his shoulder. “Breakfast.”

  A mug of tea, a rasher of fat bacon, two slices of bread. “Hope you slept well, mister.”

  He heard the keys rattling behind him, against the Talon thigh.

  “And at any time,” Mrs. Talon said, “at any time, mister, if any of your friends want a room, just mention me. Talon’s the name. Ma Talon. Just mention The Curving Light. Don’t mind gaol-birds, don’t mind nobody much, so long’s they pay. Yes.”

  “Yes,” Peter said, but he did not turn to look at her. He had seen her the previous evening, and once was enough.

  But she was there again, closer, bent over him. “What’ll you do, mister?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, more conscious of the weight, the height that towered above him.

  “A pity,” Mrs. Talon said, and went away, and he heard the keys rattle all the way through the enormous kitchen.

  He drank the harsh, strong tea. He felt the thick, hot fluid stick in his throat. And then he was quietly studying the other occupants of the table. Nobody bothered, nobody noticed him. He was just an-other. What to do now? How to pass the time, kill it. Not outside, not another walk. He had had enough of that. He would go back to his room and stay there. He would stay there until it was time to go to the boat. One and another got up and left the cavernous room. He was alone at the table. He had better see Mrs. Talon, settle things. There was nothing to pack, nothing to carry. A very much simplified journey. He got up and walked across to the stove, and stood staring at its red glow. Looking about him he knew that he hated this place, but at least it had served its purpose. Another visit to The Curving Light would be quite impossible. It suddenly struck him as very odd that anybody should be singing at this hour of the day, one of the kitchen helps, and a very young voice at that. Looking the length of this room he saw daylight at its end. Walking towards it he arrived at the open front door. He leaned against this, taking in great gulps of the morning air. People passed in and out, and each time he moved his body slightly to allow them to pass. Nobody spoke to him. He might have been one of the doorposts.

  “What shall I do until ten o’clock this evening?” He sat down on the step, and rested his head in his hands.

  “See that man Delaney? Perhaps I’d better call. He seemed decent enough. No. I’ll see Talon, then go back to my room.” Behind him, at the end of another dark passage, a light was shining in the tiny room whose window was never opened. This was her room. Mrs. Talon appeared the very instant he knocked, she might have been waiting for him.

  “Well?”

  “This room I’ve got, Mrs. Talon. May I have it for the day, I’m leaving around nine o’clock.”

  She only half opened the door, she leaned out and spoke. “Welcome to it, mister. Nine and six. Pay on the dot. And don’t you waste no damned light neither. The way people carry on in this house. Terrible, mister, terrible.”

  Peter fished out the money and placed it in her large red hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, that’s that,” he said.

  “Extras two shillings if wanted,” she said.

  “Extras?”

  “Curtain for the window, saucer for your ash, cup of hot for your shaving.”

  “That room has a lock. Could I have a key?” he asked.

  “No keys allowed. All doors open in this place, mister, none locked, never. Daren’t do it. Sailors start bringing their women here, can’t allow that, get in trouble with the cops. Nobody’ll pinch anything of yours, mister. Not to worry. Leave any valuables in my safe, charge one shilling, paper and envelopes sixpence if you want any, write in my kitchen. But no keys for locks. Anything else, mister?”

  “No thanks.”

  Peter found his way back to the room. He sat down on the cane chair under the window. He watched the traffic below, the people passing by. He stared up at the clock of a neighbouring church. “Yes, I’ll clear out of the place.”

  It was the phrase that came easiest to his tongue, though he never knew to which place he really wanted to go.

  He sat on, heard the clock strike eight, and nine. Then he lay on the bed and fell asleep. At ten o’clock somebody was calling his name. But there was no answer. The voice called again. The man who would answer it was deeply asleep.

  Mrs. Talon was shaking him. “Wake up, somebody wants you,” she said.

  Peter opened his eyes. “Who wants me?”

  “Someone what says he’s your brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “That’s right, mister.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “Ask him yourself, he’s coming up now.”

  When Desmond Fury came into the room and saw the man lying on the bed, he could not speak. Nor for a moment or two did he recognise him. He stood there, taking in the surroundings. It had been an awkward position for him. It still was. The door-knob, which was broken, fell to the floor as he closed the door. The man on the bed never turned his head, he seemed not to have noticed the man in the room. He stared upwards. He might be a man fast asleep with his eyes open. Desmond Fury approached the bed and looked at his brother. He held out a big hand. He thought quickly, “This is terrible, I can’t smile.” “Hello,” he said, after fifteen years, then he sat down gingerly on the bed. He was speechless again.

  A candle spluttered, the air was stale. He saw the barred window. The green carpet at his feet had a sickly shine to it. He looked at the ugly mahogan
y dressing-table, at which giant women must surely have sat. The top of it was a pattern of grease marks made by candles. There was the soapless soap tray, the towel-less rail, the wash-basin and the stone jug, both broken, both a riotous blue. The chair balanced on three legs. He saw the bricked-up grate, the faded photograph on the tiny green-painted mantelpiece. He looked closely at this, it was a diversion from the awkward moment. It showed a seated gentleman, a dog on his knee, doggy eyes staring up into a doggy face, a knowing face. He saw the five-year-old newspaper that had covered the window, and a heavy black headline attracted him. “Greatest heat wave in a quarter of a century. England swelters.”

  Suddenly, quietly, almost without realizing it, he was looking at the man on the bed.

  “I’m glad you’re out,” he said, “that’s over anyhow, thank heaven. Will you shake hands?”

  Peter drew up his knees, he took the proffered hand, held it for a moment, then dropped it. He put his arms under the bedclothes. He stretched once more in the bed.

  “He’s changed. I don’t really know him. Hard to believe he’s my brother. Fifteen years is a long time. And all the way here I told myself there would be lots of things to say, many things to discuss, and now I can’t find two words to put together.” The old saying leapt up again. “It’s awkward.”

  He was shocked to notice the grey in his brother’s hair, the lined face, the sunken cheeks, the pallor, the unhealthy look.

  The man on the bed looked straight at him. “You never came.”

  “I know. I’m damned sorry about that, Peter, damned sorry. So many things to think of. It hasn’t been easy for me, sometimes——”

  “You never wrote.”

  “I know—I hate myself for that, God’s truth I do——”

  “Kilkey wrote.”

  “I admit that. Yes, I’m really sorry about it,” Desmond said, “but you know me, never any good at letters,” and he stopped quickly as he saw the other’s head turn towards the window.

  “Did you go to Mother’s funeral?”

  “I did.”

  He was glad to be able to say it, he felt warmer already, as though the sun had shone through the dirty window, melted the room’s frozen look.

  “You don’t mind these questions?”

  “Mind? Good Lord. No, Peter, why should you think that?”

  “Do you ever see Kilkey?”

  “Sometimes——” Desmond looked away to the door.

  “This is a grown man,” he told himself, “I am talking to a stranger.”

  “Ever hear anything of Maureen?”

  “No. Afraid not, I’m sorry to say. Pity about her. A great pity.”

  Desmond leaned across the bed, and he rested a hand on either side of Peter’s head. “You know I’m sorry the way things went.” Only now was he aware that the man was sleeping in his clothes.

  “I want to help you in any way I can,” Desmond said. “As you know there was a suggestion that you might go to America. We can get you the passage across all right.” He paused. He wanted to cry out, “Stop staring at the bloody ceiling,” but he couldn’t say it, and he wasn’t quite certain, even now, about anything. Fifteen years. It was a hell of a long time. He wanted to say, “When I last saw you, you were a fine healthy lad,” instead of which he remained tongue-tied, staring stupidly at the foot of the bed. “He has changed, terribly, I can’t believe it. I knew this would be awkward, and by God, it is.”

  “I can’t say any more than that, Peter. I’m sorry about the way things went, always have been. I know you’ve had a lousy time. But take my advice, get out of Gelton. There’s nothing in it, it’s finished. And I myself won’t be here much longer. London is my next move.”

  “You haven’t changed,” Peter said.

  “Not much.”

  A silence fell between them. Peter noted the carefully brushed black hair, the grey suit and the white collar, the tie, the gloves, the overcoat, the hat. The heavy, fleshy face, the same Desmond. No change.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What d’you think I’ll do?” asked Peter.

  “I don’t know.” A pause, and then a silence.

  Desmond lost control and shouted into the stale air, “Can’t you say something. God! I know it’s been a lousy deal, I know it, but can’t you say something? Instead of lying there staring at nothing.”

  “I’m glad you went across to Ireland that time,” Peter said. “It makes you believe in something. Yesterday morning, at eight o’clock, I came out and was met by a little man with an umbrella. He gave me five shillings and his hand, and he wished me well. All I wanted to do was to get warm. I still want to get warm, because I haven’t felt that way for a long time. I moved off. But all the time I felt I was being followed, somebody peeping over my shoulder, a door banging, keys turning in locks, walls moving up at you. I met an old man named Delaney. I liked him. Should have seen him this morning, at nine o’clock. I wouldn’t go. Should have seen you, didn’t turn up. I asked myself why I should turn up anywhere. Knew you’d be there, waiting, your wife, that solicitor. Didn’t turn up. I went to Kilkey. His kindness frightened me, He asked me to stay with him, he’s lonely now, his son at sea. When I heard that it didn’t make me feel any younger. He begged me to stay, the old chap cried. But I said no, and I came away. Can’t believe his son’s twenty now. Dermod when I last saw him was around four or five years old, a kid. Funny. I can’t believe anything much, dreaming all the time, drowsy, falling asleep, frightened when I hear a door close, can’t get my breath, feel I’m choking, dreaming here all night, thinking about it this morning. Is it real? Dream about Mother, Dad, wake up, wonder what I’ll do, how I’ll do it, after all that time, head full of clocks, all striking together, looking through a window, spitting dust out of my mouth. Wondering what it’s all for. This woman’s name is Talon, seemed to know me as soon as I asked for a room. Her keys rattled, I couldn’t speak a word to her. I never thought you’d find me. Now you have. Now you’ve seen me.”

  Desmond turned away. “I know now,” he said, “I know that we’ll never be brothers, never be friends. It’s silly, but there it is.”

  He thought of his wife. “I should ask him home. If only he’d be sensible, get away to America. Nothing here for him. Never was. If only he’d do it, and try and build up his life again, nothing comes easy, you have to struggle for anything you want, and that’s what makes it worth while. Should get away, find a job, meet some nice girl, get married. Get out of Gelton.”

  “I want to see where Mother lies,” Peter said. “Last time I saw her she was seated at the end of a long table, looking at me, and I remember quite clearly what I said to myself at the time. She did what she thought best, and I did what I thought was best, and we ruined each other. The more I think of her, the more I realize that her life was built up into one great dream. From the very moment Dad took her away she was aching to go back. She ached not to go. See how things happen? She got her wish in the end and went back.”

  “She was a good woman,” Desmond said, “but she was never right, not once. God help her, she was nearly always wrong.”

  Desmond wanted to go. He felt cold, he wanted to stand up and thresh his arms and get warm. He realized why Peter was dressed, under the blankets. And he really ought to be getting back. He took a rapid survey of the room, and of a sudden it was screeching at him, and it was squalid.

  “Well, look here, Peter,” he said quickly, “hadn’t you better come along home with me?” and regretted it the moment it was out.

  When Peter said, “No,” he felt a great relief.

  Trembling on the edge of a precipice, Desmond said, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m going away in the morning.”

  The expression on Peter’s face changed immediately, and it astonished him.

  “I want to see where mother lies,” Peter said. Desmond made no reply.

  “I would have liked to have been able to see Maureen. But apparently she’s out of our live
s now. There were some happy times, and it’s nice to be able to remember them. Happy days, as a family. Sometimes I think very hard about it. It’s a wonderful thing to belong, to have something to hold in your hand. But it’s all finished, scattered, and I’m only kidding myself when my mind suddenly leaps up and rushes off in search of them—the further it goes the more scattered, and smashed, and finished everything seems to be. Three times this morning I lost my way. The place is different. People are different, you’re different—— I——” He stopped suddenly. “You know I know. Why don’t you leave me alone? Why don’t you go home?”

  He flung back the overcoat, the grey blanket, and sat up. Desmond moved away. Peter got out of the bed. He stood and faced his brother.

  “There never was anything between us, there never can be. I never expected you to come here, but now you have come, and in some queer kind of way I’m glad, so I’ll shake hands on that.”

  He took the other’s hand.

  “What about money?”

  “I don’t want any of yours.”

  “But Peter——”

  “I’d rather you went now. It’s best for both of us. I know how it all seems to you, and I’m glad I know it. What is the use of talking?”

  “But you must have money, man,” said Desmond, already groping for his wallet. “Besides there’s some other money. It was taken to Delaney’s office last night for you to collect. Didn’t you call?”

  Peter shook his head. “I’d rather you went now,” he said. “It must have been a damned nuisance for you, to say the least. This finding me, this knowing I was out, you having to come here, out of some queer kind of decency, awkward facing up to it, awkward meeting me. I understand. If you hadn’t come——” and he crossed to the door and opened it, and the expression upon his face seemed to say, “hurry.”

  As Desmond reached the door he felt a hand on his shoulder. “A moment,” Peter said. Through this open door Desmond got the full force of the smells from the kitchen. He looked down the landing. Then he turned and faced his brother.