by James Hanley
‘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.’
‘Yes, mam. I see! But I thought it best to phone you. I have this document now. It refers to a sum of thirty-five pounds for compensation.’
‘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, m
am.’ 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.’
‘And the room? Is that ready? I am still surprised that after all these years you should forget to hear Spencer’s cab roll up to the door. What were you doing, Corkran?’
‘Me, mam! I was going through the ledger. I never heard the cab, though usually I can hear it turning the corner. I was looking up the Fury account, mam.’
‘You’ve surprised me more than once, Corkran,’ replied Mrs. Ragner, folding up the paper which the man had given her.
‘Surprised, mam? I hope everything is satisfactory?’
There came one of those rare moments when this man, disarmed now by the tone of Mrs. Ragner’s voice, opened those slits of eyes so widely as to convey his consternation and his fear. Mr. Corkran had emerged from his shell, and he had momentarily slipped down from his high throne.
‘Yes, surprised, Corkran. I was surprised when you allowed that woman in.’
‘Mrs. Fury, mam? But her daughter has an account here.’
‘Is that all?’ she asked.
Mr. Corkran remained dumb. He had his whims and fancies, but these were things that not even Mrs. Ragner could invade. There was a reason why he had allowed Mrs. Fury inside the Banfield house. But he could not give it voice. He could not explain. At least not to the stout lady on the bed. Mr. Corkran said quickly, ‘Was I wrong in my calculations?’
‘If she had come direct to me I think I would have refused her, Corkran. That is one of my surprises, a surprise in which you have your fair share. For I am glad you introduced her to me, Corkran, very glad.’
‘I thought she was quite a decent person, mam. The daughter is respectable.’
‘Yes, Corkran. It is hard for me to express certain feelings that I now have. There are some clients whom one really respects. Some whom one does not.’
‘Looking through the account, mam, I thought that it was becoming most involved—excuse me—I mean it’s getting rather tight.’
‘What? Sixty pounds for a loan of twenty just over a year ago. Less thirty when that compensation note is cleared. You continue to surprise me, Corkran. Involved is a word I am better able to understand than you. How long have you been here, Corkran?’
She sat up on the bed, and leaned her head against the bed-rail. She fixed him with her eye. Mr. Corkran actually squinted.
‘Why is she asking this?’ thought the man. ‘And why isn’t she going down for her tea?’
‘I’ve been here nine years and a half,’ replied Mr. Corkran.
‘Of course you have. And at any moment that you feel your freedom threatened you may go. Understand that while you are here you must do as I ask.’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘And that in future I shall myself look after the Fury account.’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘And that your advice is only wanted when I require it.’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘That everything will go on just as usual. And that you won’t phone me when I am engaged with a client at the office.’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘Then get out, Corkran. You can call me when the tea is ready. Then get that room ready.’
The woman rose from the bed, crossed to her dressing-table and applied some powder to her face. Mr. Corkran departed. As she smoothed back her hair she said to herself, ‘I believe I have allowed things to get slack these last few weeks. Now why is that?’ She puckered her brows and stood looking down at her suède slippers, the while she drummed her fingers upon her partly open mouth. ‘Corkran is really going beyond himself.’ She went downstairs carrying the Fury agreement in her hand. In the hall she paused, then called, ‘Corkran!’
The man came out of the big room where he had been arranging the benches for visitors.
‘The chemist’s things,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
Corkran handed her a packet of sanitary towels and disappeared again. It was almost half-past six. She hurried into the drawing-room, the only room in the house where she took her meals, excepting an occasional light supper which she took in her bedroom. Mr. Corkran had made poached eggs on toast, and even hot buttered scones. Anna Ragner began her tea. This meal she always took leisurely, it was her hour of meditation. In retrospect she reviewed the events of the day, the clients seen and accepted—she never remembered the face of a refused person—and some remarkable-looking people had indeed interviewed her that very day. But she remembered almost every person upon her book. She knew the history of each case. She knew their families and relations, their incomes and their indebtedness. She knew when they were ill, as she knew the moment they were dead. She was linked up with their very destiny. Her house was a treasure-house of secrets, her letter-box bulged with appeals, hopes, threats and curses. Her safe, full of promissory notes, was a veritable arsenal of power. All this she contemplated upon as she sat enjoying her tea. She could unearth the past, obliterate the future. But, greatest of all, her world was a world of faces, and these she had the power to make laugh or cry. In imagination she peopled her room with all the clients she had ever had, just as at this moment her faithful factotum standing sentinel in the hall opened the door from time to time and asked rudely, ‘Name!’ People were ushered into the long room, where they sat waiting upon the benches: young women and old, working men, grand-dads, boys, mere children. And they talked to each other, in whispers, whilst Mrs. Ragner had her tea.
Mr. Corkran was disturbed. It was the first time he had ever been spoken to in such a manner. He simply could not understand this sudden change in Mrs. Ragner. Always she had left things to him. Every client passed through his hands. And now because he had been nothing other than attentive to her business she had humiliated him. There was no other word for it. As he stood there like a statue, waiting for a fresh ring at the bell, he thought to himself, ‘I will speak to her now.’ He knocked at the sitting-room door and, unusual with him, entered without being asked. Mrs. Ragner stood up.
‘What is the matter, Corkran? I don’t understand. You know I am not to be interrupted during meals.’
‘Yes, mam. But I have something to say. I am quite prepared to go if you wish it.’
Mrs. Ragner smiled. ‘Your spirit of independence, if you like to call it that, no longer counts. You have none. The position is: Two people here wish to change their minds. But only I can do that. Do you understand, Corkran? I repeat that I was rather surprised when you allowed this woman in, even though her daughter is respectable and pays regularly. But I don’t like the woman. That is why I am renewing the loan. If I have allowed you to have absolute sway here, it is only because my increasing business in town keeps me occupied not only in the daytime but at night. Even when you are in bed, Corkran! That is all. I repeat I was surprised. But I am glad she met with your approval, because now she meets with mine. You will bring me the ledger.’
‘Yes, mam.’ And Mr. Corkran hurried out for the big book.
He held the big ledger out to her.
‘You may carry on, Corkran. I give you absolute power to interview every person who calls here, and if you do not approve of them you can turn them away. All who satisfy you satisfy me. But the Fury account I shall look to myself. Is there anything else you wish to know?’
Mr. Corkran stood looking at the woman, whose books he kept, whose house he cleaned, whose clothes h
e washed, and whose money he banked; she whom he ran messages for, whose bath he filled and emptied, whose bed he made. He had done this for nearly ten years. In return he received two pounds per week and all found. He had Saturday and Sunday evenings off.
‘Am I satisfied?’ he asked himself, and already knew the answer to his question. He was satisfied. But the position was difficult. It had been made difficult by the fact that he had ventured to suggest that the Fury account was getting to a stage where further re-loans would be suicidal. For this he was told to mind his own business.
‘Well?’ asked Mrs. Ragner. ‘Well? What are you standing there for?’
The man opened his mouth to make reply. ‘I—I’m sorry, mam, but you always counted on my advice when the accounts were climbing.’
‘I did,’ said Mrs. Ragner. ‘And you can still advise me. But not about the Fury account. Is that plain?’
‘Yes, mam. But you see—I mean it’s difficult—I mean the position.’
‘The position is that you cannot move. Do you understand that? You cannot move. Where can you go if you leave here? To whom? What can you do? Now get out.’
‘Very good, mam.’ As Mr. Corkran turned to go Mrs. Ragner rushed up to him, caught his shoulder and said loudly, ‘You are not a man. Understand me. Do you think you would be here if you were?’ She gripped both shoulders with her plump hands, and put her flushed face near to the ashen-grey one of Mr. Corkran. ‘If you were that, you would not be here five minutes. I know people when I see them. It’s not only my clients who can be ungrateful. Now go.’