by James Hanley
Mr. Kilkey made a magnificent sign of the Cross, then looked round at the speaker. ‘Good-evening, Miss Pettigrew,’ he said.
Having said his preliminary prayer, he sat back on the bench. They talked in the same awed whispers, whilst people came and went into the confessional box.
‘Is Father Moynihan hearing to-night?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s the grand man, now, isn’t he?’ said Miss Pettigrew. ‘But tell me! What do you think of all the things that’ve been taking place at Fanny Fury’s house? Fancy Denny going off to sea like that! It’s astonishing, Mr. Kilkey. Poor Fanny, she’ll feel quite lost without anybody to tell her troubles to.’ And the old lady’s face seemed to become enlarged by a smile that threatened to crack that parchment-like skin of hers, the while with the tip of one of her gloved fingers she rubbed her bottom lip.
‘I was surprised. Indeed I was, and only a day or two previous I found him hopelessly drunk on the floor of my shop. My word, Mr. Kilkey, Denny’s anchor was down a long while, but how quickly it shot up, clean out of the water, so to speak. Ah well, sure, I wouldn’t blame him for that. I was only surprised he was so long making up his mind. Mind you, it was disgraceful the way he went on in my shop. Oh, Mr. Kilkey, it was.’
Her head began to bob, not for the simple reason that Joseph Kilkey imagined, for Miss Pettigrew was not the kind of lady to feel suddenly inclined for forty winks at half-past seven in the evening. There were times, too, when both head and bonnet seemed in danger of becoming separated from the thin, scraggy neck that supported it. It was only Miss Pettigrew’s vitality manifesting itself in this peculiar way. As she talked, she punctuated the words with her gloved fingers, which beat a ceaseless, noiseless tattoo upon the back of the pew.
‘The things that man said to me, Joseph Kilkey. I, who was the friend of the family. For years. Why, I remember Fanny’s grandmother. I never go there now. I gave that up as soon as those children grew up and started working. I knew there’d be trouble. Well! Well! And now I must bid you good-night, Mr. Kilkey. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, Miss Pettigrew,’ replied Mr. Kilkey, kneeling down again. Miss Pettigrew, unable to genuflect by reason of her age, stood at the end of the pew and gave a slight nod as she looked steadfastly towards the altar. Joseph Kilkey, who had turned round to look, was almost certain that the old lady winked at the Presence on the altar. Then she said quickly, leaning in his direction, ‘How is the little boy?’
‘Splendid.’
‘Oh, that’s good. That’s very good, isn’t it?’ And she turned slowly away, passing soundlessly down the long aisle as though she were floating through the air; but if Miss Pettigrew made the exit with such grace and such remarkable quietness, it was due mostly to Mr. Cherrycomb’s excellent elastic-sided boots, which that gentleman made by hand specially for her.
Joseph Kilkey remained kneeling. He felt uncomfortable in his mind. If there was one thing he loathed it was having to go off to his duties in such a perturbed state. He liked to feel calm and contented, and his form of piety insisted upon a rigid application of this iron rule.
‘I don’t think I can go now,’ he said to himself. ‘I hate rows, hate rows. No, I won’t go now.’
He knelt for a few minutes longer, fervently praying before the altar. Then he got up and left the chapel. He stood outside for a few minutes, looking up and down. He passed the time of the day with some parishioner friends who came out of the chapel. Then he walked hurriedly away. He just wasn’t in the mood for talking to people. He stood outside the billiard hall. No, he couldn’t go in there either. Hang it, his night was spoiled.
‘I’d better settle it some way or other. Yes, I’ll have to. Maureen will clear off in a wink. She’s only waiting for the word.’ He felt sad, bitter. Never had he felt more lonely, more useless than he did now. He cursed his ugliness—cursed his years. ‘Perhaps I ought never to have married her. But it’s done now, and there’s nothing else for it but to hang on. Oh Lord! I feel rotten.’ He walked slowly, aimlessly up the street.
It was turned eight o’clock. Then he made a sudden decision. He went straight to number three Hatfields. ‘Perhaps I’d better see Mrs. Fury.’
Instinct told him to hold to his word—the solemn bond he had given to this distracted woman—but reason warned him of other obligations: his wife and child. Such a world and such a state of affairs seemed quite incomprehensible to a man like Joseph Kilkey. Why weren’t people satisfied, like he was? He was quite happy. Why should he be dragged from the security of his little world? Why?
‘Perhaps I ought never to have married at all. Yet I love Maureen. Love her.’ He walked on to the end of the street, turned down the next one, and so came back to where he started.
It was not Joseph Kilkey’s custom to walk round in circles, but it seemed that his thoughts now drove him round and round, without meaning or purpose.
Suddenly he thought, ‘I’ll go for a damned walk—a damned good walk. That’s what I’ll do—clear the cobwebs.’
In ten minutes he was clear of the Hatfields neighbourhood. In another ten he was out of sight altogether, lost in the maze of streets and warehouses that festered like sores upon the riverside. It was quite dark. Few people were about. At this time of the evening a death-like silence hung over the place. Its darkness offered seclusion—its silence, peace. Mr. Kilkey walked on.
CHAPTER V
‘You did not object before, why do you now?’ asked Mrs. Fury of her son. Nobody has said anything to you—nor interfered. I haven’t. Why do you object?’ She stood facing Peter. It seemed that for the first time they were really alone together.
‘It’s just that I don’t understand,’ said Peter. ‘I know I went up there last time. And I don’t mind going again—but …’
‘But what?’ asked the mother sharply. ‘But what? You don’t understand. Nobody is asking you to. Will you take this message or not? If you were not always in such a dreadful rush to be out, I might ask you to look after your grandfather once in a while. All I want you to do is take this message.’ She spread out her hands. ‘Peter!’ she said, and flung her arms round his neck. ‘Peter! How I should loathe myself if I thought that you were just like the rest of them. You see—your father is gone. That makes a difference, doesn’t it? Please do what I ask. I shan’t always ask you.’ Then she broke away from him, and exclaimed angrily, ‘Do you want me to go down on my knees to you?’
‘Give me the note and the money,’ he said brusquely.
‘Do you?’ repeated the mother. ‘Haven’t I had enough of that?’
‘Give me the note, Mother, will you?’ demanded Peter.
‘You see, you have no patience. Something gnaws at you. I think I know what it is, but’—and again she threw her arms round his neck—‘you see, I say nothing. I trust you. So long as we have a roof over our heads everything is well. Here is the note. Take it!’ She picked up the envelope from the dresser and handed it to her son. ‘I should have gone myself, but you will explain.’ She stood watching him finger the envelope. Then he shook it. There was coin inside.
‘All right,’ he said.
The next moment he was gone. As he walked quickly, sometimes breaking into a run, he kept repeating his mother’s words, ‘You see, I say nothing. I trust you.’ How he hated that. Hated it. She trusted him. He looked at the envelope in his hand.
‘I wonder what all this mystery is, anyhow?’ he asked himself. ‘All this damned secrecy. Yet I hate to ask her. No. That’s wrong. I’m really afraid to ask. Yes, I’m afraid of Mother even now.’
He had gone a good distance along the King’s Road when he saw ahead of him a familiar figure. Peter stopped and waited till he came up.
‘Hello, Joe,’ he said. ‘How are you?’ and hastily thrust the envelope into his pocket.
‘I’m all right. Are you? I’ve just come up from the docks.’
‘At this time of the night?’ said Peter. ‘What were you doing down there all dressed up in your bes
t?’ He laughed, but Joseph Kilkey’s face remained perfectly straight. This being unusual with him, Peter said quickly, ‘Anything wrong?’
‘No! Nothing much.’ He forced a smile and went on, ‘I’ve been walking round for the past hour and a quarter trying to make up my mind. I was just coming round to see your mother, as a matter of fact.’ He looked awkwardly at Peter.
‘Oh! What about?’ asked Peter.
‘A bit of business,’ replied Joe Kilkey. ‘But perhaps you’d do just as well. Are you in a hurry?’ He put his hands in his pockets and spread out his legs as though he were bent on obstructing Peter. ‘Perhaps I could talk to you. Let me see,’ he looked at his Waltham and then said, ‘It’s not very late. How far are you going?’
‘As far as the stronghold of the Billies,’ laughingly replied Peter.
‘Right. I’ll walk with you as far as the car terminus. We can have a little chat. You’re a queer chap, Peter. Home four days now and only seen you once. What do you do with yourself?’ They walked on down the King’s Road.
‘Oh, lots of things. But it was a funny home-coming just the same. Dad never even shook hands. He did eventually, of course. But he seemed quite indifferent. Said he was surprised I had come home at all. And as for——’
‘Yes. Just how do things stand between your mother and you? I hope you don’t mind my being curious like this. Just a sort of fatherly feeling I have.’
‘That’s hard to say,’ replied Peter. ‘You know, one time I used to hate the rows in the house. Now it’s just the other way round. Absolute silence. I help Mother with Granddad in the mornings, and in the afternoons I go to the matinee, or to the park to watch a match. I wanted Mother and Dad to come to the play with me on Tuesday night—but it all ended up in smoke. Mother’s quite changed now. I feel really sorry for her.’
‘Do you?’ asked Joseph Kilkey. ‘You do. Good. I’m glad to know that. Now I feel we can talk—we can get together like a couple of pals and talk this out.’
‘Talk what out?’ asked Peter with astonishment. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Joe, this is a most unusual rôle with you. Besides, what are you doing walking the streets to-night? Have you changed your habits entirely?’
‘I did a funny thing to-night. I got all dressed up for my usual night out, and I always go to Confession on this night, but for the first time in my life I didn’t go. Don’t know why. Maybe I was a little worried. I’m such an easy-going chap as a rule. I just knelt there talking to Miss Pettigrew, and that’s all I did.’
‘You haven’t had a row at home, I hope,’ said Peter. He felt uncomfortable. It was such a surprise for him to see Mr. Kilkey in this state of mind.
‘Oh no—nothing like that,’ replied Mr. Kilkey.
They reached the end of the King’s Road.
‘Look here,’ said Peter. ‘Let’s go into this herb shop and have a drink. We can talk there.’
Mr. Kilkey having nodded a silent approval, the two men went into the shop. Peter called the lady.
‘Two sarsaparillas, please.’
‘Now, Joe,’ began Peter as they were seated on the settle, ‘what’s on your mind? I don’t like seeing you like this, honestly. It’s not like you at all. Tell me, what did you want to see Mother for?’ He spread his arms on the marble-topped table.
‘You see—it’s rather awkward. Perhaps I ought really to see your mother. Maybe she won’t like my talking to you.’ Mr. Kilkey made circles with his fingers round the tip of the glass. He was endeavouring to make up his mind. ‘You see, the trouble is this. Some time ago, your mother did a little bit of business and I came into it and so did Maureen. It’s concerning money.’
‘Money. Oh yes, of course. It’s always money, isn’t it?’
‘All right, sonny, don’t get all excited. No! I won’t bother talking about it. I used to think you took after your mother, Peter, but now I think you take after your dad. You don’t want to listen, do you? Let me tell you, you have a perfect right to listen, for it not only concerns us but you as well. D’you see? The whole family are involved, even that crippled old man might be dragged in!’ Joseph Kilkey paused. He wanted this little bit of information to sink in. He wanted to see what effect it would have upon Peter.
‘I still don’t understand what you’re getting at, Mr. Kilkey,’ said Peter, quite unable to prevent his tone from being surly and rude.
‘Joe to me, please.’
‘Joe! Out with this bag of tricks. Open wide the door of this dark cupboard. What is this business? God! I hate that word. I’ve been hearing it since ever I can remember. “A little bit of business.” “Oh, it’s just some business.” And all these petty transactions that are carried on in dark corners so to speak, behind doors, under the breath. Oh, I hate it all.’
Mr. Joseph Kilkey’s attitude changed at once.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. We know that. We know it only too well. Let me tell you something, Peter Fury, and this without the slightest reflection upon your character, for I have nothing against you except that I don’t like your attitude. Let me tell you that all this business is centred in one thing. Trying to live. Do you understand? Do you think that one draws money out of the air? Do you think your mother is worrying one little bit about what you did last year? Do you? Do you think she’s even interested in your nightly excursions? Please forgive my saying this, but on this matter one has to be straight. How are we ever going to understand one another if we’re not? Your mother is only concerned with keeping alive. There! You’ve dragged it out. That’s all we people can ever think about. Living. When we were young we were lazy like you. But the world pulls you straight, brings you to your senses. Peter, unless I have your confidence I don’t want to go any further. I’m not like some rooting pig trying to push my nose into anybody’s secrets or business. But I’m trying to find a way to help us all.’
‘And have you found it?’ asked Peter.
‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘I have. But we must be frank with one another. Understand?’
Joseph Kilkey subjected his companion to a deep and prolonged scrutiny, as though he were seeing this youth for the first time, as though that figure he had carried about in his mind for so long had at last become flesh.
‘You won’t be much help, my lad,’ he went on, ‘for all you have in the bank is your youth, and you can’t help thinking about anything else, can you? Peter, I sometimes believe you think of nobody else but yourself. And I must say your dad did a rare mean trick clearing out like that.’
‘Look here, Mr. Kilkey—I mean, Joe—what are you trying to get at? Are you the only person who can see the right thing? Besides, what business is it of yours?’
Mr. Kilkey laughed.
‘I’m one of the family, I suppose,’ he commented drily.
‘What does Mother want me to do? I’m working now, I turn up my money. What more can I do?’ He got up to go, saying surlily, ‘Well, I have no time now. And I’ve listened to all the sermons I ever want to. You must see Mother.’
Mr. Kilkey got up too. Peter paid for the sarsaparillas, and they went out. They stood talking on the kerb.
‘If I were your mother, I’d clear you all out and go home to Ireland.’
‘Why doesn’t she?’ asked Peter
‘Ah! Yes! Why doesn’t she?’ chanted Mr. Kilkey in a sing-song manner. ‘Your mother’s like a lot of other people I know. She’s only happy when she’s dreaming about it. I’ll bet if she was offered the chance to go to-morrow, she’d refuse.’
‘Listen,’ said Peter. ‘I’m off. I can’t stand here all night talking, and you haven’t said a word about this business of Mother’s. Naturally I want to know everything.’
‘Do you?’ growled Mr. Kilkey. ‘Then you must ask her all about it. What’s the use of my trying to explain anything to you when you’re kicking your heels to be off? Peter, your mother doesn’t say a word. Yet she knows—she knows all about these little excursions of yours. You ought to be ashamed of yoursel
f. That’s what I say.’
‘It’s the only happiness I’ve got. Anyhow, you’re too simple to understand.’
‘Thank you,’ said Joe Kilkey. ‘Good-night.’ And he walked away without another word.
‘Joe,’ called Peter. ‘Joe,’ and went after him—but Mr. Joseph Kilkey did not turn his head. Peter Fury hung on to his arm. ‘Joe,’he said. ‘What’s the matter? I’m sorry for this. Really. I’ll do anything to help you. What really is wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘Now you go on wherever you’re going. Go ahead. Everything’s O.K.’ Yet he felt utterly miserable. ‘I was a fool,’ he said to himself, ‘a damned fool to think that that fellow would show the slightest interest.’
‘Peter Fury. Answer me this. Why are you always running away from this place? You’re not like an ordinary boy at all. Maureen tells me that you have one face for the house and another for outside. You sulk, and you smile—you——’
‘I hate it! I hate all this,’ replied Peter, ‘and we’ll never get out of it. Never. Same old things day after day. Same faces—same everything. You’re happy sitting reading your paper, but I couldn’t do that. I want to be as far away from all this as I possibly can.’
‘Other people have to live here. They don’t complain,’ said Joseph Kilkey.
‘Then they’re fools. If they’re contented, they’re simply kidding themselves.’
‘You’re too clever altogether,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘The college has turned your head. You’re not a bit different from anybody else. You’re just an ordinary person like the rest of us. That’s all. But if I were to tell you that your mother was nicely tied up with a moneylender, and that my house is tied up too, it would be rather different, wouldn’t it? And that’s what’s happened. Your mother may have let you all go one way or another, but she’s tied everybody up again in quite a different knot. I’m not being cruel. I like your mother. The woman can’t help herself now. It’s got past that now, d’you see? If somebody doesn’t do something soon, we’ll all be in the jam when the time comes.’