by James Hanley
Peter Fury as soon as he left Mr. Kilkey had rushed breathlessly up the hill, for he had suddenly remembered that Mrs. Ragner was a strict woman about her hours of business. It seemed there were only ten minutes left in which to reach that big, ugly, and lifeless house hard by the pickle factory. But he had managed. He slowed down after he had breasted the hill. Of Mr. Kilkey, of anything that his brother-in-law had said, Peter Fury treasured not a single thought. He had completely forgotten it. He thought only of the task in hand, and if it could be done in, say, ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, then he would still be able to catch a tram and hurry off to see if Sheila was there.
‘She might be,’ Peter was thinking. ‘She might be. Hang it all, why doesn’t she do what I ask? Run away. It’s obvious she hates Desmond. Yes. Why doesn’t she do something?’
He kept on repeating this in a sing-song manner under his breath. This repetition of phrase seemed to give it urgency, as though now, this very minute, the thought must result in actions, swift, tumultuous, and final.
‘Sheila! Why don’t you do it?’ he said savagely to himself, and then bounded up the steps of Banfield House and rang the bell.
Peter stood there after the door had opened, for this had happened so quickly that he did not realize it. In fact, Mrs. Ragner’s factotum might have actually been awaiting him, hiding behind the door.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Corkran in a low voice, drawling the word.
Peter Fury looked up at the man.
‘But twenty-five minutes ago,’ he thought, ‘that fellow was down in Purves Street loading the furniture in the van. The man must have wings, or seven-league boots.’ Mr. Corkran seemed quite at ease, calm and unruffled. Indeed he was quite unhurried. He was dressed exactly as Peter Fury had last seen him, even to the hard hat. Maybe he had just come in.
‘Yes,’ he repeated, this time a little impatiently. He moved forward and stood on the step. Not a sound. He was wearing his rope shoes.
‘Is Mrs. Ragner in?’ asked Peter. There was something about this man that always made him feel uncomfortable, unprepared, even a little afraid.
‘At this time of the evening,’ said Mr. Corkran, ‘Mrs. Ragner is always in. But she does not necessarily see every caller. Your name is Fury, isn’t it?’ The man pushed his face close to Peter’s and grinned. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Fury, an old name on the ledger.’
‘That’s right. Here’s a letter for Mrs. Ragner. Will you please give it to her?’ Peter pulled the envelope from his pocket and held it out to Mr. Corkran.
The man drew himself up and looked at the letter. He drew aside to let a client out. As soon as she had gone, his attitude changed.
‘You asked me that last time,’ said Mr. Corkran coldly. ‘And I told you, I believe I did, that I never deliver notes to Mrs. Ragner from personal callers. Do you understand, my young friend? You always seem to be in such a terrible hurry. I am certain that Mrs. Ragner won’t eat you. If you will wait there one moment I’ll make enquiries. It may be that you are too late, anyhow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It has gone nine o’clock, and Mrs. Ragner sees nobody after nine. You may stand inside.’ He said this in the most begrudging manner, and drew back into the hall. ‘Let me see the note,’ he said, and took it from the other’s hand. He looked at the writing on the envelope, and then handed it back to Peter. ‘Will you please shut the door?’ he asked. Then he went along the hall.
Peter stood waiting. One minute became two, two became five. He was standing in the hall. Mr. Corkran reappeared, but he passed Peter without even glancing at him. He went into the big room where the clients were interviewed, and where the loans were paid out and the repayments made. Peter heard him switch off the light. Then a feminine voice called from an inner room:
‘Will you show Mr. Fury into the back room, Corkran, please?’
‘Yes, mam.’ He came out silently, and said to Peter, ‘This way.’
He led him to the end of the hall, and pushing open a door, said, ‘In there.’ Then he went in himself. The place smelt musty, here and there dust covered articles of furniture and gave the impression that the room had not been in use for a very long time. Mr. Corkran pushed out an easy-chair. Peter sat down. In the same begrudging, indifferent way Mr. Corkran exclaimed in a low voice, ‘I don’t know how long Mrs. Ragner will be.’
It seemed as if Mr. Corkran’s sole business in life was to put a damp sponge upon all human hopes. His manner infuriated Peter, who said sharply, ‘I can’t wait here all night.’
‘Mrs. Ragner herself waits here all night, attending to clients who seem to have very little appreciation of what she does.’ Mr. Corkran put a hand on either side of the chair in which Peter sat, and lowering his head, went on, ‘Here one must have patience, young man. Your note is still there. Nobody wishes to detain you. You may go. Mrs. Ragner can deal with her customers outside as well as inside. Here!’ He thrust the envelope into Peter’s hands. ‘It is easy to see that you are not familiar with the rules. Understand that Mrs. Ragner is always treated with the greatest respect. When a client comes in here he must leave his importance, his dignity, and his feelings outside. We do not deal in those things. One comes to borrow or one comes to pay. Beyond that Mrs. Ragner is not interested. Your mother is on our books here. She is like all our other clients. Understand. She will receive the same consideration as the others. No more. And no less. I am not here to carry letters. I suppose it is one of those long, long letters we usually get—on behalf of people like you who have not the patience to wait like anybody else. Do you wish to wait or not? It is half-past nine. This is the second occasion you have been here, and if I remember rightly, your mother promised Mrs. Ragner that she would come herself. How is it she hasn’t turned up?’
‘I don’t know. How should I? I know nothing about Mother’s business.’
‘If you knew as much as she does, you would learn to be a little more humble.’
Peter Fury got up. ‘Then don’t take the note,’ he said angrily. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ He stood looking at the envelope, now much thumbed, dirty and almost yeasty with the sweat of his own hand. It might be that such a fastidious gentleman as Mr. Corkran might even refuse to handle it at all. But the factotum had vanished. He seemed to have been spirited away. Peter Fury looked round the room. What an amazing place! What a curious man! And what an atmosphere! The wall behind him was partly concealed by a curtain, behind which was a small window that looked into a larger room, in which Mrs. Fury and Maureen had had their first interview with Anna Ragner.
The curtain had been swung back, for the little window was open and Anna Ragner herself was looking into the room where Peter was standing. She saw him turn round quickly, as though conscious of her sudden movement. But he had not seen her. He was studying the water-colours hanging on the wall, the heavy Victorian furniture, the deep pile carpet, the heavy chandelier with its rusty chain that hung over his head.
Mrs. Ragner smiled, for she could see him quite plainly, whilst he was quite unaware of how near she really was. Maybe she enjoyed that look of bewilderment, coupled with a certain agitation, that gave his features a fretted and impatient look.
‘Good-evening,’ she said, and Peter Fury swung round. His astonishment increased, for he looked everywhere but at that part in the curtains.
Mr. Corkran threw open the door and said gruffly, ‘Come this way, will you?’
Without a word Peter followed him out. ‘There you are.’ Mr. Corkran gave the visitor a gentle push. The door closed. Anna rose to her feet and said, ‘Good-evening. Please sit here.’ She put a chair on the carpet near the fire. She sat opposite him. The black velvet dress had gone. In its place she wore a grey pleated skirt and a white blouse. Her arms were bare to the shoulders. In her head of thick black hair she wore a large comb, whose brilliants flashed under the light.
‘You are very late,’ she began, her eyes focussed upon the dirty envelope in Peter’s hand. ‘I can only see people up to nine o’clock. Gi
ve me the note, please?’
Peter handed it to her. ‘How neatly, how deftly she opens letters,’ Peter was saying to himself. Some coins fell out, and he picked them up and placed them lightly on Mrs. Ragner’s knee. The woman did not look up. She was reading the letter a second time.
‘Corkran!’ she called. ‘Corkran!’ And that faithful, indefatigable gentleman appeared as if by magic.
‘Sit down, Corkran,’ she said. She paid not the slightest attention to the youth in the chair before her. She crushed Mrs. Fury’s letter into a ball and flung it into the grate as she said to Mr. Corkran, ‘Was it Monday you went to the Loco Sheds?’
‘Yes, mam,’ said Mr. Corkran. He began smoothing out his moustache, thoroughly soaked in pomade.
‘Don’t do that, Corkran. Haven’t I told you I loathe the habit? Did you see the man or did you not?’ she went on. ‘Perhaps you had better bring me in the ledger.’
‘Very well, mam.’
She followed him to the door with her eyes, and kept them focussed there until he returned. Peter Fury, so far as Mrs. Anna Ragner was concerned, no longer existed. Mr. Corkran returned with the ledger.
‘Put it down there,’ she said, pointing with her finger at the mahogany table.
‘How many nights did you attend there?’ she continued, looking hard at Mr. Corkran.
‘Three! On the first occasion I was quite unsuccessful. But last night I met a foreman there. I was told that the father had left there. Naturally I tried to find out as much as I could. I asked why. He said he didn’t know, but I assumed then that he knew where I had come from. He wouldn’t say another word. But it is quite definite that he has gone.’
‘Your fame is increasing, Corkran,’ remarked Anna Ragner.
The factotum’s glance had suddenly shifted from the buxom lady to the youth. Peter Fury was quietly contemplating his finger-nails, his hands stretched out before him.
‘Will that be all, mam?’ asked the factotum.
‘Yes. Just look up F in the register, then you may go.’ She turned to Peter.
His degree of absorption had increased, for he held his right hand in the air against the light. But this upraised hand was in that position for no other purpose than to peer at Mrs. Ragner through the slits of his fingers. Whether this method gave him any greater satisfaction than a naked contemplation of her person was a matter that now occupied Anna Ragner’s mind. Mr. Corkran had departed to his own corner of the house. Anna Ragner said quickly, ‘Why do you stare at me through your fingers, young man?’ whereon Peter sat up, blushed, looked sheepishly about the room and then replied:
‘Pardon me! I wasn’t staring at you but studying the shape of my hand against the light.’
‘How extraordinary! How is it that your father has left his work on the railway and I have not been informed of the matter? Mr. Corkran has been to the sheds twice, and only learned yesterday that your father gave up work there some days ago. Is this true?’
‘My father has gone to sea,’ said Peter. The more he studied this woman, the more he thought of his mother’s relation with her, the more he realized that a personal note was but one of the concessions allowed in return for a loan. More, the most intimate and sacred things were dragged into the light. A sudden revulsion seized him and he said loudly:
‘Excuse me, Mrs. Ragner, but I take it that my father can leave or go to a job without having to inform you of the matter first.’
‘First, yes,’ said Mrs. Ragner. ‘It is part of our agreement, and one which is obligatory upon all borrowers, that we know the whereabouts of the head of the household. You see, it is upon him that we eventually place the responsibility. It seems to me, however, that your mother is acting most unwisely in this matter. I presume your father knows nothing whatever about it?’ went on Mrs. Ragner. ‘We do not, of course, lend out money without taking certain precautions for our business. This is not a philanthropist’s office. Your mother has twice been asked to call here upon a matter which it would be wise for her to attend to at once. But she ignores my notes and sends you.’
She took up the ledger and opened it. Then she became absorbed in the maze of figures in front of her. She looked up from the book.
‘I can’t understand why your mother omitted to inform me about your father leaving his work. What wage does your father earn?’
‘That I don’t know,’ replied Peter. He could scarcely conceal his impatience and annoyance. To have come here at ten minutes to nine with a note, and to have been kept there until nearly ten o’clock, answering questions, giving facts and figures—in brief, opening the door upon all that was intimate and sacred in his mother’s life, and not only her life, but his father’s, his own, his grandfather’s, Maureen’s.
The woman was inexhaustible, a huge sponge sucking up facts, figures, and histories.
‘You don’t know,’ responded Anna Ragner gruffly, ‘and you go to sea. You seem ignorant when I thought you were most intelligent. Come now. Don’t be shy. We don’t want shyness here. What does your father earn?’
‘I tell you I don’t know,’ replied Peter. ‘Ship’s firemen earn four pounds a month if that is any help.’
He was filled with a desire to leap from the chair, to strangle this creature who went on in the same cold and efficient manner.
‘Does she receive an advance note, or monthly money?’
‘I don’t know. Why do you ask me all these questions? I know nothing of my mother’s business, of what goes on in the house.’
‘How foolish your mother is!’ remarked Mrs. Ragner. ‘The amount is well in arrears, and it seems the time has come to talk plainly. Is this Mr. Kilkey, who went surety for your mother, is he always in constant work?’
‘So far as I know.’
‘What kind of a man is he? I know very little about him, having only met him the once. Does he drink? Does he look well after his home? You see, you are here and your mother is not. I hate to presume upon an opinion that I hold—but it does seem rather strange that your mother so consistently ignores my letters to her. And the amount is rising. Did she say why she could not come? She makes no mention of it in this letter, whilst the payment itself is short by three shillings and sixpence.’ She went on talking, having quite forgotten her enquiry concerning Mr. Joseph Kilkey.
‘I know nothing whatever about it,’ said Peter. ‘Are there any more questions? You see, it is ten o’clock. I have to go now.’
He looked desperately towards the door. What on earth was holding him like this? Why did he remain, seated there, when every instinct, every feeling bade him rise and go? Mrs. Ragner leaned across the table, and struck a bell. Almost immediately Mr. Corkran entered.
‘Sit down, Corkran,’ she said and motioned him to a chair. ‘Tell me, Corkran—have you attended the court concerning that Owens affair yet?’
‘Not yet, mam,’ replied the factotum. ‘It is on Friday at ten in the forenoon.’
‘That is good! Will you make a note of this for to-morrow, then?’ She snapped the book shut and placed it on her knees.
There was something so extraordinary in the way this man and woman sat, in their attitude and expression of feature, that all desire to go had now left Peter Fury. He sat fascinated watching Mr. Corkran make notes in a little black book. He had come into the room without even glancing at the youth in the chair. He sat facing Anna Ragner, but he did not look at her, for Mr. Corkran was never a man to indulge in anything so human as direct glances. Those half-closed eyes, that now looked like slits of glass in the ashen face, looked over Mrs. Ragner’s head, not at anything in particular, excepting the clock, the hands of which were showing at ten minutes past ten. It seemed rather strange to him that the woman should keep this youth talking for over an hour. What could she have in mind? It worried Mr. Corkran, for it seemed a departure from all rule and principle. There must be something in it. But what? He scrawled imaginary lines across the page of his book. Now Mrs. Ragner was speaking again. Peter Fury remained rigid in
the chair. Such an extraordinary man and woman he had never seen before.
‘I want you to call at number thirty-five Price Street,’ she was saying, ‘as a note was sent there six days ago, I believe, to which there has been no reply.’
She looked across at Peter, but he immediately evaded her glance.
‘I simply cannot understand how it is that people have so little sense of their obligations. They come, and I loan them money, and they thank you, but as soon as they have gone away they proceed to forget the very principle of the transaction. And I think you had better call and see this boy’s mother. It seems that nothing but a personal call will achieve satisfaction, and the amount is rising.’ She looked straight at Peter, and concluded. ‘You may go now, Corkran,’ and Mr. Corkran promptly went out.
They were alone once more. All this time the coins she had taken from the envelope remained on her knee. She now swept them up and placed them on the table. She drew her chair closer to Peter Fury, thrust out her hands, and said, ‘Why are you so afraid of me? You are afraid, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I’m not,’ said Peter, and he smiled at Anna Ragner. ‘Why should I be afraid?’
‘But you are,’ she went on, putting her hands to her hair, and smoothing it back from her forehead. ‘You are afraid, as you are also ashamed. But why is that? I cannot understand it at all. Your mother was the same. Mr. Corkran has informed me on more than one occasion that you have been not a little rude to him. No one,’ she went on with emphasis, ‘no one calls here except for two purposes. Either to borrow my money or to repay it. Briefly, all callers here are under obligations. Is that not so? It is one of the principles on which I conduct my business. Do you understand? I don’t want callers here, especially when they are on my books, to be rude to Mr. Corkran. In fact, I won’t allow it. They must be civil, and they must be patient, certainly not rude, and certainly not afraid to see me personally. As a matter of fact, Mr. Corkran told me that not only were you very rude to him, but by your attitude he sensed that you were afraid. Afraid to stand on my doorstep. Nonsense. When people have had my money they have lost any rights to be rude—or afraid, or ashamed, or anything else. I am not an ogre. You refused to see me, and wanted him to take the note. Such things are not done here, young man. I see all callers. You were in a hurry. But that is not any of my business.’ She put out her hand, picked up the money from the table and dropped it into the black Gladstone bag at her side. She slipped the lock on this, and put the bag under the chair. Peter Fury watched her every movement. He was fascinated. He had hardly spoken a word—offered no comments—merely answered her questions. For the rest he was content to listen, to sit watching her, with a gradually increasing wonderment and curiosity.