The Fortunes of Richard Mahony

by Henry Handel Richardson

  Papa held their hands and they started quite nice; but soon he forgot about them, and walked so quick that they nearly had to run to keep up, and could look at each other across behind him. And they went round by the bay at the back, where the mussels were, and heaps of mud, and no waves at all. Luce got tired direckly. Her face hung down, very red. Somehow he’d got to make Papa go slower.

  “Tell us a story.”—He said it twice before Papa heard.

  “A story? Child, I’ve no stories left in me.”

  (“You ask him, Luce.”)

  “Tell ’bout when you was a little boy, Papa,” piped Lucie, and trotted a few steps to draw level.

  “No, tell ’bout when you first saw Mamma.” Luce, she loved to hear how Papa’s big sisters had smacked him and put him to bed without his supper; but he liked best the story of how Papa had seen nothing, only Mamma’s leg in a white stocking and a funny black boot, when he saw her first; and it was jumping out of a window. He’d jumped out, too, and chased her; but then he let her go and went away; but as soon as he got home he slapped his leg and called himself a donkey, and hired a horse and galloped ever and ever so many miles back again, to ask her if she’d like to marry him. And first she said she was too young, and then she did. He’d heard it a million times; but it was still exciting to listen to. . . .how in a hurry Papa had been.

  But to-day everything went wrong. Papa began all right; but so loud that everybody who was passing could hear. But then he got mixed, and left out the best part, and said the same thing over again. And then he couldn’t remember Aunt Tilly’s name, and didn’t listen when they told him, and got furious—with himself. He said he’d be forgetting his own name next, and that would be the end of everything. And then he jumped on to the funny bit in the arbour that Mr. Purdy had teased him about, where he’d kissed somebody called Miss Jinny instead of Mamma. . . .and this really truly was funny, because Mamma was so little and spindly and Miss Jinny was fat. But when he came to this he forgot to go on, and that he was telling them a story, and that they were there, and everything. He said: “My God! how could I have done such an idiotic thing?. . . .have made such an unspeakable fool of myself. Took her in my arms and kissed her—the wrong girl. . . .the wrong girl. I can hear them still—their ribald laughter, their jeers and guffaws. . . .their rough horseplay. And how she shrank before them. . . .my shy little Polly!. . . .my little grey dove. I to make her the butt of their vulgar mirth!” And then he made a noise as if something hurt him, and talked about pain-spots one shouldn’t ever uncover, but shut up and hide from everybody. And then some more, in a dreadful hoarse voice, about a scream, and somebody who’d soon have to scream out loud if he didn’t keep a hold on himself.

  Cuffy couldn’t bear it any longer; he pulled his hand away (Papa didn’t notice) and let Papa and Luce go on alone. He stayed behind and kicked the yellow road-flowers till all their heads fell off. But then Luce looked back; and he could see she was crying. So he had to gallop up and take her hand. And then he called out—he simply shouted: “Papa! Lucie’s tired. She wants to go home to Mamma.”

  “Tired?. . . .my poor little lamb! Such short leggykins! See. . . .Papa will carry her.” And he tried to lift her up, and first he couldn’t, she was so heavy, and when he did, he only staggered a few steps and then put her down again. Luce had to walk home with their hands, and all the way back he made haste and asked questions hard, about the yellow flowers and why they grew on the road, and why the wind always sang in the treble and never in the bass, and always the same tune; till they got to the gate. But you didn’t tell how Papa had been. . . .not a word! You were too ashamed.

  Shame and fear.

  If you were coming home from Granny’s, walking nicely, holding Luce’s hand and taking care of her, and if you met a lot of big, rough, rude boys and girls coming from the State School, what did you do? Once, you would have walked past them on the other side of the road, sticking your chin up, and not taking any notice. Now you still kept on the other side (if you didn’t run like mad as soon as you saw them), but you looked down instead of up, and your face got so red it hurt you.

  For always now what these children shouted after you was: “Who’d have a cranky doctor for a father?. . . .who’d have a cranky doctor for a father!” and they sang it like a song, over and over, till you had gone too far to hear. And you couldn’t run away; you wouldn’t have! You squeezed Luce’s hand till you nearly squeezed it off, and whispered: “Don’t cry, Luce. . . .don’t let them see you cry.” And Luce sniffed and sniffed, trying not to.

  You didn’t tell this either; nor even speak to Luce about it. You just tried to pretend to yourself you didn’t know. Like once when Miss Prestwick was new and had taken them too long a walk at Barambogie, and Luce hadn’t liked to ask, and had had an accident: he’d been ever so partic’lar then not to look at her; he’d kept his head turned right round the other way. That was “being a gentleman.” But this about Papa. . . .though you tried your hardest to be one here, too, you couldn’t help it; it was always there. Like as if you’d cut your finger and a little clock ticked inside. And being good didn’t help either; for it wasn’t your fault, you hadn’t done anything. And yet were ever so ashamed. . . .about somebody. . . .who wasn’t you. . . .yet belonged to you. Somebody people thought silly and had to laugh at. . . .for his funny walk. . . .and the way he talked—Oh, why had one’s Papa got to be like this? Other children’s Papas weren’t. They walked about. . . .properly. . . .and if they met you they said: “Hullo!” or “How do you do?”

  Something else wormed in him. Once in Barambogie he had seen a dreadful-looking boy, with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, and bulgy eyes like a fish. And when he’d asked Maria she said, oh, he was just cranky and an idjut. But Papa wasn’t like that! The thought that any one could think he was, was too awful to bear.

  “What’s it really mean, Bridget, cranky?” he asked, out of this pain, of the small servant-girl.

  And Bridget, who was little more than a child herself, first looked round to make sure that her mistress was not within hearing, then mysteriously put her mouth to his ear and whispered: “It means. . . .what your Pa is.”

  Granny, on whose knee he sat, held him from her for an instant, then snatched him close. “Why bother your little head with such things?”

  “I just want to know.”

  As usual Granny turned to Pauline for aid; and Pauline came over to them and asked: “Who’s been saying things to you, my dear? Take no notice, Cuffy. Oh, well, it just means. . . .different—yes, that’s what it means: different from other people.” But he saw her look at Granny and Granny at her; and his piece of cake was extra big that day, and had more currants in it than Luce’s.

  But a “diffrunt doctor” didn’t mean anything at all.

  But now you and Luce never stopped running all the way home, and you went a long way round, so as not to have to go down the street where the State School was. And when Papa took you for a walk, you chose the hidjus way at the back. When all the time you might have gone on the real beach, by the real sea.

  For what a lovely place this would have been, if it hadn’t been for Papa. There wasn’t any wattle here to shut your eyes and smell and smell at, and you couldn’t smell the sun either, like in Barambogie. But the beach and the sea made up for everything. You could have played on the beach till you died. The sand was hot and yellow and so soft that it felt like a silk dress running through your fingers; and there were big shells with the noise of the sea in them, and little ones with edges like teeth; and brown and green and red and pink seaweed; and pools to paddle in; and caves to explore when the tide went out. And soon lots of little boys and girls—nice ones—who you could have played with if you had been allowed, came to the seaside, too. But Mamma always said: keep to yourselves. Which meant there was only him and Luce. And then you learned to swim. The bathing-woman said you were a born f
ish; and you wished you were: then you could have stopped in the water for ever—and never have needed to go home again—or for walks with Papa.

  Fear. All sorts of fears.

  One was, when he lay in bed at night and listened to the wind, which never stopped crying. Mamma said it was because the room was at a corner of the house, and the corner caught the wind; but Bridget said it was dead people: the noise people made when they were dead. “But my little sister Lallie’s dead!” “Well, then, it’s her you hear.” (But Lallie had never cried like that.) But Bridget said it was the voice of her soul in torment, hot in hell; and though he knew this wasn’t true, because Lallie was in heaven, he couldn’t help thinking about it at night, when he was awake in the dark. Then it did sound like a voice—lots of voices—and as if they were crying and sobbing because they were being hurt. Other times it seemed as if the wind was screeching just at him, very angry, and getting angrier and angrier, till he had to sit up in bed and call out (not too loud because of Luce): “Oh! what’s the matter?” But it didn’t stop: it just went on. And even if you stuffed your fingers in both your ears, you couldn’t shut it out; it was too treble. Till you couldn’t stand it any longer, and jumped out of your own bed and went to Luce’s, and lifted the blankets and got in beside her—she was always fast asleep—and held on to her little fat back. And then you went to sleep, too.

  But Mamma was cross in the morning when she came in and found you: she said it wasn’t nice to sleep two in one bed.

  “But you and Papa do!”

  “That’s quite different. A big double bed.”

  “Couldn’t Luce and me have a double bed, too?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mamma; and was ashamed of him for being afraid of the dark. Which he wasn’t.

  Worse still were those nights when he had to lie and think about what was going to happen to them when all their money was done. Mamma didn’t know; she often said: “What is to become of us?” And it was Papa’s fault. They never ought to have come to live here; they ought to have gone to a place called Narrong, where there was plenty of money; but Papa wouldn’t; so now they hadn’t enough, and quite soon mightn’t have any at all. Perhaps not anything to eat either. His mind threw up a picture of Luce crying for bread, which so moved him that he had to hurry on. Maria’s mother had taken in washing. But you couldn’t think of Mamma doing that: standing at the tubs and mangling and ironing, and getting scolded if the buttons came off. No, he wouldn’t ever let her! He’d hold her hands, so that she couldn’t use the soap. Or else he’d pour the water out of the tubs.

  But quite the most frightening thing was, when no more money was left, Mamma and Papa might have to go to prison. Once, when he was little, he’d heard them talking about somebody who couldn’t pay his debts, and so had cheated people and been put in gaol. And this dim memory returning now to torture him, he rolled and writhed, in one of childhood’s hellish agonies. What would he and Luce do? How could they get up in the morning and have breakfast, and know what to put on, or what they were to practise, without Mamma and—no! just without Mamma. And though he might talk big and say he wouldn’t let her be a washerwoman, yet inside him he knew quite well he was only a little boy, and not a bit of use, really. If the sergeant came and said she had to go to prison, nothing he could do would stop her. Oh, Mamma. . . .Mamma! She alone, her dear, substantial presence, stood guard between him and his shadowy throng of fears. And now, when he and Lucie raced home hand in hand of an afternoon, their first joint impulse was to make sure of Mamma: to see that she was still there. . . .hadn’t gone out, or. . . .been taken away. Only close up to where she stood, radiating love and safety, a very pillar of strength, was it possible for their fragile minds to sustain, uninjured, the grim tragedy that overhung their home, darkening the air, blotting out the sun, shattering to ruin all accustomed things; in a fashion at once monstrous and incredible.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As if struck by a beneficent blindness, Mary, alone unseeing, alone unsuspecting, held to her way. And, in excuse of her wilful ignoring of many a half-thought and passing impression, her care to keep these from coming to consciousness, there was this to be said: she knew Richard so well. Who but she had endured, for the better part of a lifetime, his whimsies, his crotchets? When had she ever thought of him, or spoken of him, but as queer, freakish, eccentric? Hence, was it now to be wondered at that, as age crept on and added its quota, his peculiarities should wax rather than wane? The older, the odder seemed but natural to her, who had never looked for anything else.

  Meanwhile October passed into November, November into December; and one day—overnight, as it seemed—the season was upon them. The houses on either side were full of new faces; there was hardly a spare seat in church on Sunday; you had to wait your turn for a cabin at the baths. And the deck of the little steamer, which came daily, was crowded with lively, white-clad people. Now was the time. . . .if ever. . . .for Richard’s fortunes to turn.

  But the days dragged by in the old monotony; not a single new patient knocked at the door. Instead, by the end of the week Mary had definite information that old Barker was being called out again. Yes, people were actually preferring this antediluvian old man to Richard. And could one altogether blame them? Who would want to consult a doctor who went about talking to himself, and without a hat?. . . .who omitted to brush his hair or brush the fluff off his coat-collar, and thought nothing of appearing in public with a two-days’ growth on his chin? She could imagine landladies and hotel-keepers advising their guests:, “Oh, I shouldn’t have him, if I were you. Extremely queer! Goes nowhere.”

  Boarders. It was boarders or nothing now. . . .and not a moment to lose either, with a season that lasted for a bare three months. Like the majority of people in Shortlands, she would have to seize the chance and make money while she could, by throwing open her house to strangers. Grimly she tied on her bonnet and went down into the township, to hang out her name and her terms as a boarding-house-keeper; to face the curious looks, the whispers and raised eyebrows: what?. . . .the grand Mrs. Mahony?. . . .reduced to taking in lodgers? Not till she got home again did she know how high she had carried her head, how rigidly set her jaw, over the taking of this step which would once have seemed like the end of the world to her. But, true to herself, she refused to allow her strength to be sapped by vain regrets. Instead, she turned with stubborn energy to the rearrangement of her house. If Richard and she moved into the children’s bedroom, and the children slept in a small inner room lit by a skylight, she would have two good-sized bedrooms to let, in which she could put up as many as four to five people. At two guineas a head this would bring in ten a week. Ten guineas a week for three months!. . . .of which not a penny should pass out of her own hands.

  On the day this happened—and in the swiftness and secrecy of her final decision there was something that resembled a dash of revenge—on this day, Richard was out as usual all the morning, strolling about on cliffs or beach. And though he came home to dinner, he was in one of his most vacant moods, when he just sat and ate—ravenously—noticing nothing of what went on around him.—But anyhow she would not at this eleventh hour have started to thresh the matter out with him. Better, first to get everything irrevocably fixed and settled.

  Perhaps, though, she had a dim foreboding of what awaited her. For the next time he came back he was wider awake, and took in the situation at a glance. And then there was a scene the like of which she had never known. He behaved like a madman, stamping and shouting about the house, abusing her, and frightening the poor children out of their wits. In vain she followed him, reasoning, arguing, throwing his own words in his teeth: had the idea not been his, originally? Besides, what else was left for her to do, with no patients, no money coming in, and old Barker resuming practice? He would not listen. Frenzy seized him at the thought of his threatened privacy: strangers to occupy his bedroom, hang their hats in the passage, go in and out of hi
s front door. Not as long as he lived! “My mother. . . .my sisters. . . .the old home in Dublin—they would sooner have starved!” And as he spoke he sent hat and stick flying across the hall table, and the brass card-tray clattering to the floor. He kicked it to one side, and with an equally rough push past Mary, who had stooped to recover it, banged into the surgery and locked the door. And there he remained. She could neither get at him nor get a word out of him.

  Late that night the children, their parents’ neighbours now, sat miserably huddled up together. Lucie had been fast asleep; but Cuffy had so far only managed to doze uneasily, in this funny room where the window was in the roof instead of the wall: he was quite sure something would look in at him through it, or else fall down on his head. Now they sat and clung to each other, listening. . . .listening. . . .their little hearts pounding in their chests. “Oh, don’t, Papa! Oh, what’s he doing to her?” To which Cuffy gave back sturdily: “I don’t hear anything, Luce, truly I don’t!” “Oh, yes, you do! And now I’ll know she go away. . . .Mamma will. . . .and leave us.” “No, she won’t. She told me so yesterday—promised she wouldn’t ever!” Though his teeth were chattering with fear.

  For Mary had at last reached what seemed the limits of human endurance. After pleading and imploring; after reasoning, as with a little child: after stabbing him with bitter words, and achieving nothing but to tear and wound her own heart, she gave it up, and, turning bodily from him, as she had already turned in mind and deed, she crushed her face into the pillow and gave way, weeping till she could weep no more; as she had not wept since the death of her child. But on this night no loving arms reached out to her, to soothe and console. Richard might have been made of stone: he lay stockstill, unmoved, staring with glassy eyes into the moonlight.