by James Hanley
A bite in the air sent him away from the window. He began to dress.
“Here within the hour,” he thought, “Sheila. Within the hour. I can’t believe it. I expect she’s quite changed after all this time. I’ve changed. We can expect shocks.…”
“I’ve changed all right,” as he shaved, as he watched closely in the looking-glass.
“She was good. Never stopped writing to me, all the time I was there. One a month, just like old Kilkey, regular as the clock itself. But not a line from him. An unforgiving swine. I’m rather glad in a way. We’ll never miss one another. I expect he’ll be as busy as ever, he always was, very, very busy, organizing the workers. Poor bloody mugs. He just hadn’t got the time. I wonder what kind of life she leads with him? It staggered me when it happened, it still does.”
And in a moment he seemed to see his brother standing in this room, very tall, powerfully built, black-haired, the hard, greenish-grey eyes under the bushy brows. “As bright as stones,” he thought. “He was even handsome in a roughish sort of way.”
Through the looking-glass he seemed to see his brother addressing the mugs.
He finished shaving, washed and changed.
“What a rootless, lonely bloody lot we are,” and he spoke it into the room with a sudden intense disgust.
“God knows where Maureen has ended up. A lamb marrying the goat, a nice little bit of Irish stew. No. No. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t. I’m sorry I said it. Poor old man,” and he thought of the room, and the man in it.
“Perhaps I should have stayed. Perhaps it was a duty.” Instead of which he had landed himself in this fantastic mausoleum. “Yes, what the devil am I doing here, anyhow?”
For the hundredth time the “murdering feet” were breaking over Miss Fetch’s head. She heard him go to the bathroom and return, she heard the feet up and down the bedroom.
“I’m longing to see her, longing to, and yet I’m scared stiff.”
He was at the window again, looking out, looking down. “What a country. What silence, how shut off from the world. I suppose one could be happy here. I wonder why they were not, I wonder why they ever left it. Falling to pieces, it seems to have nothing more to give out, to yield up. I wonder what started it all? I’d love to know. And imagine Miss Fetch living here alone all this time. I’ll bet that old woman is as tough as a lion. Why does she stay? Perhaps she’s happy here, perhaps there’s something she gets out of this life. I’ll bet she’s good, I’ll bet she’s very good. I wonder what time Sheila will arrive. God, I’m so keen to see her, just seeing her—but I wonder. Yes, what’s the damned use, we’ve all changed.”
He thought of the man, the hoe, the long, long fields. “He seemed happy enough to me. Yes, they are good people, good people.”
He returned to the dressing-table, studied his reflection in the glass.
“She’ll be grey too,” he thought, looking at his hair, “stout, too, perhaps,” noticing his fullness of shoulder, “Lined—she had such lovely eyes, they couldn’t change. I used to love watching her smile.” And he smiled at his reflection as though she were suddenly standing behind him.
“But I’ll never understand why she chose him. Never. I suppose if I’d been old enough then I would have run off with her, like he did. He was certainly the most furiously jealous man I know. I wonder if he’s as jealous now, too busy to notice, too excited to, too damned determined to keep pushing on, up, forward, what—a hypocrite, even the little that man Delaney told me was convincing enough.”
He stood there, quietly laughing at his reflection.
“Yes,” he thought, “I was young then. And now, in some strange way I’m glad it’s over. One bleeds so easily, one’s always dreaming.”
He turned his back upon the grown man, and returned to the window.
“The things one does when one’s young, the things one doesn’t. The things one can’t,” he thought, remembering the first days at the seminary, the erstwhile pupil, the longed-for priest, searching and doubting. Pushed in, shut up, against one’s whole will. “Never asked for it, never wanted it, just mother’s big dream. And it didn’t happen. Her wish. My bone. No, and that’s over, too. Another dismantled Roman wreck, one more crashing priest.”
He could hear the housekeeper at her most active, heard the noise of pans and crockery, heard a window thrown up, a door banged.
“If there had been just one to come back to.”
It made him feel outside, cold, isolated, strandless, rootless again. He shut the window and went back to the bed, throwing himself down, giving way to the question again. “What the hell am I doing here?” He could not answer it. Would not. Somewhere inside him he yet felt certain remembered moments, warm, snug, deep down, delicate, sensitive as flowers. He had lived them, he had never forgotten them.
“Mother never once forgot where I was. And Sheila remembered too.”
At thirty-three he wondered what he would do with his life.
“Must do something soon, must get somewhere,” he told himself.
Ireland was out, he knew it from the beginning. Cactus land sign-posted with old men. The land of winter where the child was hated. Love under the ice, the bent bones crawling to the hearth, embracing only their own. A hungry old bitch, but many had lived on the scruff of her back.
“Why the hell should I go down there? I don’t want anything and I’m not hungry. Yes, why should I? Not once since I came here have I felt comfortable in the company of that woman, Miss Fetch.”
No. He was simply an intruder. At that moment he heard her passing his door, and he knew the day’s adventure of the rooms was now beginning. It made him think of Miss Fetch as an entire life passed in nun-like silence. All her days spent going in and out of lifeless rooms, and the hours of greater silence in her own little cell.
“Perhaps it’s a kind of happiness for her,” he thought. “Sitting there alone, perfectly content, resigned. Sitting there, and thinking. Of what? Of her frustrated Colonel? Perhaps. Remembering her granite-like father? Perhaps. Or merely dreaming? I wonder what she dreams? I wonder what she thinks of me? How much she knows? I wonder.”
Suddenly his eye fell upon the letter on the table. He reached forward and picked it up. It was still unopened. He turned it over and over, he studied the handwriting. Whose hand?
“I quite forgot it was lying there, never even noticed it.”
He wanted to open it, he didn’t want to open it. It had become a kind of challenge to him. He puzzled about the writing, he did not recognise it. Who in Gelton wrote such a fine bold hand? He hadn’t a clue, and over and over turned the letter, and finally he let it drop back on the table, and turned his back on it.
“It’s strange really, one time I would have gone crazy to get a letter, especially one like this, from some unknown person. And now I’ve hardly any curiosity about it. Not a bit.”
Curiosity lay in another channel. He thought of what was coming.
“She was quite beautiful when I last saw her. I’ll never understand why she married Desmond, what she saw in him. Never. I hated his luck. But she was kind, and I’ll remember that as long as I live.”
At any hour now he would see her, coming up the drive, in through the door. He tingled with anticipation. He did not hear the now familiar voice, but the sudden knock made him jump.
“Your breakfast is out long ago, and is probably cold.”
He didn’t want it, he knew he didn’t. He refused to stir. He would listen, he would wait.
“I’ll know her voice for certain. The smile will be the same, warm as her whole nature.”
Later, Miss Fetch heard the feet, up and down, and up and down, and she knew he would not come. Then let him stay.
The book he picked up he could not read, the words danced on the page; the cigarette he tried to light shook in his fingers. The woman in the dream moved when he moved, looked where he looked. He heard the hall clock strike eleven.
“I wonder when?” he thought, and again i
t was the window, the sentry waiting.
“I wonder why she’s come. It’s all so sudden, unexpected, and it’s——” The sound of wheels on the gravel reached his ears. “It’s her,” he said. “I’ll go down now.” Instead of which he stood quietly there, watching, waiting, wondering. And then the car was there in a moment, a battered brown taxi. And at the same time he heard the front door opened. He pressed his forehead against the glass, listening. Miss Fetch came out. He saw her go to the car door and open it, the woman step out. Was it really her?
It was certainly her. He stared down at the two women. They were motionless, facing each other on winter ground. Across a desert of years they exchanged smiles. For a moment they seemed not quite real to the man at the window, but like figures in a dream. In this moment of shock Peter gave a quick tug on the curtains, and shut them from sight.
“Good God!”
He knew they were moving by the crunching sound upon gravel. Then he heard the closing of the door, the feet in the hall. The sound of the taxi faded away into the distance. He heard Miss Fetch talking. “No, ma’am. Not down yet, but will be directly. I think he had a rather disturbed night. I’ll go and give him a shout,” Miss Fetch said. “I’ll go up,” he heard Sheila say.
And only then did he realize that he must go down. He walked to the door, fiddled at the knob, turned it, opened the door, shut it again, went back to his bed and sat down.
“Her voice has changed, I wouldn’t have recognised it.”
“Leave everything where it is,” he heard her say. “It can be shifted later.”
“I’ll away and make some breakfast,” Miss Fetch said.
“Thank you.”
He heard her on the stairs, heard her call back, “Which room?” And Miss Fetch shouting, “Your brother’s room. The one you said, of course.”
She came on up, and the man did not move from the bed. “Now she’s here I’m scared stiff, I can’t move,” waiting for the knock.
The handle turned, the door opened. She saw him sitting on the bed, and from the doorway she smiled at him, and remained standing there, as motionless as he, the sudden shock of recognition a barrier. He got up and walked slowly across the room. He held out his hand, and she took it, and said softly, “Peter. At last. Thank God.” He was stiff, speechless, just staring, feeling the hand in his own, and for a moment the distance of years seemed no wider than his own spread fingers. He received her smile, her scent, and was afraid of her nearness to him.
“I’m glad it’s over, done with, finished for ever,” she said.
He drew back a little, but she clung to his hand, and said quietly, “Are you comfortable here? Has Miss Fetch looked after you properly?”
“Yes,” he said, “thank you, Sheila.”
“How are you?”
Words would not come, and he gave her only a faint smile, conscious only of the warmth of the hand that lay in his own. He could not answer that question, not now, in this moment. He just stared, and went on staring.
“I meant to meet you the morning you came out, but I couldn’t manage it. I’m sorry.”
“I was met,” he said, woodenly.
He moved, and she moved, the door closed behind them. Slowly she drew him towards the window, and he let himself be drawn. There were many changes. The light from the window fell upon him. He would soon be quite grey. It seemed wrong at his age. And the features were considerably sharpened, and against the pallor of his skin the eyes appeared to be a little too bright. She noticed a stoop, a hunched right shoulder. He had gained much weight. The fingers of his left hand clutched at his lapel, and seemed never to be still. She sensed an extreme nervousness in him, she thought he looked much older than his years. Suddenly she ran her fingers through his hair. Slowly, finger by finger she covered his face, like a blind person who builds as he traces, feels as he builds. He was aware of her lightness of touch. He partly turned his head, as though he were afraid to look, letting his eye fix itself upon the belt of oaks, and he found himself counting them, and they were the same number as they were before. She turned his head, looked at him.
“Grey,” he thought, “she’s grey.”
“We’ve both changed,” she said.
“We have indeed.”
“Yes?” she asked, hearing the knock.
“Everything’s ready now, ma’m,” Miss Fetch said.
“Thank you. We’ll be down directly.”
They listened to her quick descent, the creaking stairs.
“You got my letters?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And Mr. Kilkey’s?”
“Yes. I got them.”
Miss Fetch was calling again; Miss Fetch was merciless.
“I’d better go down now,” Sheila said.
“Yes, of course,” seating himself on the bed again, watching her go, hearing the door shut.
“Extraordinary,” he exclaimed, “she’s not altered much. Not very much.”
“There’s the luggage in the hall, sir,” Miss Fetch said. “Perhaps you’d remove it.”
“Directly,” he said.
“I had better go down.”
Descending the stairs he heard the crackling sounds of burning wood. The cold, unoccupied years of another room were going up in smoke. Standing in the hall, noticing the amount of luggage, he thought, “I wonder why she came?” He heard voices. They were discussing him. Was Miss Fetch looking after him properly? Was his room comfortable? Had he enough bedclothes? Was there anything he specially wanted? He picked up the luggage and carried it to the top of the stairs.
“Your breakfast is out, and getting cold.”
“I’m coming.”
With difficulty he found the room; there were so many, and it was so easy to get lost. As he reached the door he heard Sheila talking to the housekeeper.
“Is Father Breen still here?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’m. Indeed no. He’s gone this five years ago.”
“And the village?” she asked.
“It’s no different at all, not a bit, ma’m.”
“The last time I was in this room,” Sheila said, “oh, that’s a long time ago, isn’t it? But now, Winifred, it’s exactly as it was then.”
Listening outside the door he thought it sounded like the hurrah of some gratified child. He entered the room, and immediately Miss Fetch went out.
“I left the luggage at the top of the stairs, Miss Fetch. I didn’t know to which room it should go,” Peter said.
“Thank you,” and the housekeeper left them.
He noticed she had drawn both curtains across the window, saw the two candles burning at either end of the table. His place had been laid, he had only to sit down. But he remained standing, staring about.
“Not a nice morning at all,” she said. “I shut out the clouds. Not a very nice journey either, but here I am.”
And there she was. They looked at each other as he sat down. No word was spoken. In the momentary silence, under the light of candles, they might have been reflecting upon the annihilation of time.
“Do eat.”
He began his breakfast. “A very small room,” he thought. Lacking the light, the furniture, it might have been another cell.
“It used to be Father’s study,” she said.
“Was it?”
He pecked at the food, his hand trembled when he picked up the cup, he was watching her hands, her fingers, her nails. They fascinated him. He refused to look upwards.
“Don’t say anything if you don’t wish to,” she said, but he hadn’t heard, wasn’t listening, just staring at the hands, the fingers. He remembered the hands, he had never forgotten them. Light flashed from a ring upon her third finger.
“More tea?”
He shook his head. “No thank you, Sheila.”
Only the hair was visible, the wide forehead. She watched him fumbling in his pockets. He took out a packet of cigarettes.
“Cigarette,” he said.
“I n
ever smoke, Peter,” she said.
“Sorry. I quite forgot,” he replied, as hundreds of fingers tore at the packet, as one and then another cigarette fell to the floor, and he bent down and picked them up.
She stared at this new man, this stranger, this deep, lockedin, locked-up creature who had crossed the seas on a winter night. She sat there, and waited, and wondered.
“Stiff,” she thought, “nervous, afraid to talk.”
She leaned across the table and took his hand. “I’m glad it’s all over, I’m happy about it,” she said.
“Perhaps I should never have come here,” he said.
“But why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Smoke clouded up, and in a moment he seemed to have risen with it, he wasn’t there, and she knew this, as she pressed upon his hand. She lowered her eyes, watched his fingers, the cigarette. He was far away. It was night, and he was standing on the deserted deck of a ship, and he was watching Gelton go. He watched the gradually disappearing lights of the city. He had always hated it, loathed it, for what it had been, for what it could do to people, yet at the final moment, when the lights dimmed and went out, he knew it was his home, his root, his life lay there. And in the corner by the poop he suddenly spoke aloud the names of those he had known there. And as he pronounced into the night air an officer had come by and asked him what he was doing there, a forbidden part of the ship. But he gave no answer, and walked away, and went below to his cabin. He sat there for a long time, and he thought of his home, his parents, his brothers, his sister. And he knew that had he gone ashore at that very moment, there was not one of them whom he would find. After a while he had gone out, returned to the secret corner of the poop. When he looked back Gelton had vanished altogether. He had felt sorry, felt glad. There had been nothing but the sea, and nothing but its sound. And he had walked round and round the deck, staring at this ocean of water.
“I felt so bloody desperate,” he said at last.