by James Hanley
‘You’ve the wrong colour on you entirely,’ somebody shouted. The voice was just behind her.
Miss Mangan shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Manager! Manager! This is disgraceful! This is disgraceful!’
That gentleman could not very well refrain from laughing himself.
But at last it seemed that something must be done. Miss Mangan was really wedged tight, and only a complete clearance of the bench would free her. And then the old man managed to squeak out to the manager, ‘Come and lift her out of it, Mr. Manager. We pay to see the rotten shows you put up, for the fellow up there couldn’t make anybody laugh, and if you had a head on you at all you’d sign up this lady right away. You ought to top the bill, Missus,’ he said.
‘Please!’ said the manager, ‘please!’ And at last, seemingly having had their five minutes of sheer fun not provided for in the bill of fare, the people in the last eight seats began to move out. It was only when the bench was cleared that the real cause of Miss Mangan’s plight was seen. Her skirt had caught on a protruding iron nail from the front seat, and remained securely fastened there, and the old man being unable to move backwards or forwards had served to increase her difficult position.
It was the position of the skirt, and no less the bold shape of Aunt Brigid’s leg as far as the knee, that had caused the people to laugh.
But she, completely suffocated in her own shame and desperation, was quite unaware of the joke she trailed behind her.
‘Come, madam! I am very sorry. A little accident. You see, if you had sat through the bill this would not have occurred. A thousand pardons,’ and he took Brigid Mangan’s hand and with the other pushed back the long bench. At last she was free. She looked—and it seemed agonizing—she looked up the passage-way. Fanny Fury was no longer to be seen.
‘There’s a lady in the waiting-room,’ said the manager. ‘I presume she’s waiting for you,’ and he led her up the passage. He waved his hand, and immediately the lights went out. The curtain fell. The band struck up a lively tune, and the audience settled themselves down once again to enjoy the rest of the bill, but it is highly questionable whether the remainder of the turns would give just that thrill which Miss Mangan’s performance had given, and if the audience had but known it, they had to thank that lady for being so rash as to mention such a thing as a black box in the Lyric on a Thursday night.
Miss Mangan, having been conducted to the door of the waiting-room, thanked the manager. Then she went in. There was Fanny Fury sitting on a couch, all alone, admiring the wallpaper and the bright if somewhat questionable pictures that were painted upon the ceiling. Then she saw her sister.
‘Brigid!’ she called, ‘Brigid! Wherever did you get to at all? I thought you’d gone out. I went out twice and looked up and down the road. Well! Here you are. You’ve spoiled the evening.’
She made as if to go, but Miss Mangan said rudely, ‘Fanny! It’s disgraceful.’ Then she burst into tears.
Mrs. Fury, having reached the passage-way, had gone straight to the back of the pit and stood to listen to the comedian, where she waited for Miss Mangan.
But there was no move from her. Miss Mangan seemed determined to sit out the performance. Fanny Fury waited five minutes. Then she went into the waiting-room. She sat down, no longer thinking of Miss Mangan but of her remarks. It seemed unthinkable that after nine years her sister should remember such a thing as an old black box whose only use had been to light the kitchen fire. And now she recollected there were papers in the box, but these too had been burnt. And Peter himself had done it.
She remembered quite well now, even to her son’s shouting up the stairs, ‘There’s no wood,’ and her saying, ‘Well, that old box of your grand-dad’s has been lying on the landing for years. Break it up. I’m sure he’ll never want it.’ ‘I wonder why she mentioned it?’
Could there have been—no, it was inconceivable—there were only a few old Irish papers, newspapers that used to come from Mr. O’Toole—for Anthony Mangan never bothered to read anything but the Irish newspapers. Those and his membership card of the Foresters—oh yes, and his Third Order sash!’ I must look where that sash is,’ thought Mrs. Fury. ‘He’ll want that with him.’
Fanny Fury had certainly not changed her mind, for she now saw that it was the best thing to be done. She could no longer manage her father. It was impossible. And then—oh, but she needn’t think about that. She simply mustn’t.
‘I’ll try again, though! I’ll try again!’ She began shaking her head, and then exclaimed aloud to the empty room, ‘What am I thinking of at all? I’ve never even opened Denny’s letter. Fancy! He’s written!’
And she became all excited. The very fact that she had completely forgotten the letter only whetted her appetite the more.
‘He hasn’t forgotten—foolish man—but he ought to hang his head and be thoroughly ashamed of himself. Well, he’s gone—he’s got his way at last, and I’ve got my two children. God! I wish I could get out of this infernal tangle. To think I should have sunk so low.’ And as though the eyes in the picture upon the opposite wall had come to life, she bowed her head. They seemed to have penetrated right into her mind—to know all her thoughts.
‘Perhaps I ought to have let him go long ago. It might have been better for both of us. Oh God! all I want is peace. Peace. If only I could get clear. If!’ The word, like some huge question mark of steel, stood before her in that empty room, and she could see it quite clearly beneath the bright lights. Well, she had begun this secret journey, and now she must go to the end of it. She must see it through.
‘Peace! That’s all! And my home!’ And as she said this her face seemed to become fused, as though with the glow of some dawning hope; her features became transfigured under the thought—a thought that came not from her mind but rather from the depths of her heart. ‘If only Peter will be straight with me!’
In the midst of these thoughts two people came in and sat down. They were a young couple, and they did not even glance at the woman who was seated on the red leather couch. But their coming had disturbed Mrs. Fury. She got up again and went back into the theatre, again standing at the back of the pit. She heard a song about watching the trains come in and go out, but never a sign of her sister. It would not have surprised her if Brigid Mangan had decided to sit right through the performance. She would do a thing like that. Then she went out into the street, looked up and down, and returned once more to the waiting-room. The young couple had gone. Once again she was alone. But now the manager came to her. Was she waiting for a stout lady dressed in brown?
‘Yes, I am,’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘Is she still in the theatre?’
‘She’s been looking for you too,’ said the manager, and he began to laugh. Then he went away to rescue Aunt Brigid from her awkward situation.
Mrs. Fury looked at Brigid now. Her face was tear-stained. She looked miserable, though her blue eyes seemed to blaze up every time that Fanny looked her way.
‘How disgraceful! How disgusting!’
‘Yes, I know. But surely you can understand that in Gelton things are quite different. People laugh at anything.’ Mrs. Fury took her arm.
‘Come along, Brigid. We’ll go home. There is much to be done.’
‘And much to be said,’ said Miss Mangan sharply. ‘Your conduct, Fanny, is quite inexcusable.’ And she wiped her eyes, and still blushing deeply, went out with her sister.
Oh how thankful she was! To be outside—away from that wretched theatre, those terrible people.
‘Fanny—I was ashamed—if you’d been there! It was simply disgraceful. No more Lyric for me. The place is abominable—and low. Dear Christ, keep me away from such places. Oh, Lord, Lord!’ and she was on the point of crying again, but Mrs. Fury simply said:
‘Oh goodness, woman, your sensitive nature will crucify you one of these days. We must hurry to catch a tram home.’
They caught the tram, and were lucky to find seats at all. There was one seat on top and one inside.
‘You go inside,’ said Fanny, and she went up the stairs and took the vacant seat right in the front of the tram. The tram started off. Had these two sisters been able to see each other, they would have laughed. Mrs. Fury, indeed, was laughing every now and then, but if she had seen the expression upon Miss Mangan’s face she would have laughed even more.
Miss Mangan sat on an outside seat. When the car stopped, somebody got up to pass, but the stout lady made never a move, she sat like solid rock. The person crushed past, muttering about people being too lazy to shift their fat backsides, but Miss Mangan was deaf to such remarks. She was, in fact, immune from all the storm and stress of the world, for the very spirit of the house in the Mall seemed to have floated down upon her, and covered her in tranquillity and peace.
‘In two days I’ll be home,’ she kept telling herself. ‘Two days. Thank God.’
‘Brigid! We get off here,’ Mrs. Fury was calling up the tram.
‘Yes, yes. Coming,’ said Miss Mangan.
They alighted in the King’s Road.
‘Fanny, my dear woman. How on earth do you stand it? I couldn’t.’
‘Oh, you’re always saying that. Don’t make me laugh. Don’t, Brigid. I can’t really tell you how glad I’ll be to see Father’s back.’
‘Fanny!’
‘It’s true! I’ll be glad! Delighted! I’ll be free at last,’ and she laughed her way into Hatfields.
‘Really, Fanny, anybody would think you were drunk. Don’t do it. You’re not an irresponsible child. Here’s the door. Have you the key?’
Mrs. Fury opened the door. Then they passed inside. The door banged. Hatfields was as quiet as the grave, and Brigid Mangan’s first adventure was over.
CHAPTER XII
‘And that, sir,’ said Mr. Quickle, ‘will be just three-and-ninepence. It’s a nice piece of work, as nice a piece of work as you’ll get in Gelton,’ and he laid the brooch on the glass counter. The air of the jeweller’s shop in the Devon Road was stuffy, and the light fell upon the seated figure behind the counter. Mr. Quickle might have been likened to some fat Buddha, though one with a keen sense of humour, for under this light the round fat face was the colour of a walnut, and it was wreathed in a smile. Mr. Quickle always sat behind his glass counter, and moreover, he sat there thoroughly comfortable, with that broad satisfaction of a person who really knows how to sit comfortably. It might be said indeed that Mr. Abraham Quickle had made sitting historic, for the whole of the Devon Road looked upon the old man as a master, and nothing short of a miracle would have allowed Mr. Quickle to be discovered standing up. He was very fat, very jolly, and he had a merry laugh, a sort of deep, round, velvety laugh, that seemed to come from the depths of his fat to rise in rich cascades and ripple into the dark, stuffy atmosphere of the shop at 59 Devon Road. Nobody ever expected to see him laugh in any other position than this one of rich content, his fatness seeming to ooze over the sides of the chair which was almost as historic as himself. This evening he was very pleased, for he had done little business of late, but now here was a real customer, a customer of taste, of good judgment, a very sensible young man. He looked across at Peter Fury, whose hand was already fumbling in his pocket for the money.
‘It’s a beautiful evening, sir,’ remarked Mr. Quickle.
‘Lovely,’ replied Peter, for indeed this was no damp, stuffy shop in which he stood, but an Aladdin’s cave, and there was the fat, smiling mandarin at his service. ‘It’s a lovely brooch, Mr. Quickle,’ he said, taking the coins from his pocket. ‘Did you say three-and-ninepence?’ He smiled.
‘Three-and-ninepence to you, sir,’ replied the old man, and he gave his knee a resounding slap with the flat of his hand. This was not meant as any sign that the purchase had been completed, but rather a signal to the pale-faced and bespectacled young man who all these five minutes had had his eye upon Peter Fury, an eye that seemed to bore through the glass door behind which he now stood. That slap on the knee really meant that Mr. Quickle, for all his smiles and evident good-humour, was slightly doubtful about this young man at the other side of the counter who had now picked up the brooch and carried it towards the light, the closer to inspect it. Mr. Quickle held him with his eye.
‘Don’t you think it’s a very nice brooch, sir?’ said Mr. Quickle, whose great body began to move from side to side. Peter Fury went back to the counter.
‘Yes. I do like it, Mr. Quickle. Have you a nice little box to put it in?’ he asked.
‘Why, certainly, sir. Certainly. We always have nice little boxes for these sort of things. I should compliment your young lady, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. Thank you,’ and he picked up the brooch and placed it in the box with the nicest and most delicate movement, shut the box, wrapped it up, and then placed it on the counter.
‘Shall I tie it, sir?’
‘Oh no, thanks! Thanks very much.’ And Peter Fury, counting the money upon the counter, now pushed it towards the old man, whereon Mr. Quickle pushed forward the box and the deal was completed. The tall grandfather clock by the door chimed eight o’clock, and Mr. Quickle called out, ‘Dick! Where are you?’ in reply to which call the glass door opened, and the young man without a word passed into the well of the shop and began to carry out the iron railings with which to bar the windows.
The purchaser had already gone. He was standing on the kerb outside Mr. Quickle’s shop, looking up and down, one hand in his pocket clutching the box containing the brooch. He seemed to hesitate, determining which way to go. Mr. Quickle looked through the window just as the young man dashed across the road, gave another quick look round, and turned down Abbey Street. Clear of the main road, he walked at a leisurely pace until he reached Prees Street, where he came to a halt. Dusk was falling. The first house in this street was empty. Peter Fury stood in the doorway and waited. He was entirely hidden from view. He stood there till nearly a quarter to nine. There was not a sound in the street. Every door was shut and every curtain was now drawn. The street was in complete darkness. ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘How long is that fellow going to be? One would almost believe he knew I was here—crouched in the doorway.’ Suddenly at number seven a door opened, and a tall man came out. He was wearing a raincoat and a Trilby hat, and he was carrying a Gladstone bag. Through the open door there came a jagged spear of light that stretched across the roadway. Peter Fury thought, ‘Hell! At last! He is going, then.’ He looked out from his hiding-place. ‘Yes. One has only to look at Desmond’s back to know what he looks like in front.’ Then the door slammed and the figure went off down the street. The footsteps died away. The man with the Gladstone had turned the corner. The figure in the doorway came out. Peter Fury as usual was hatless, and his hair was all ruffled. He was dressed in a grey suit, a linen collar and tie. He had no gloves, this article not being in fashion in Hatfields. One could divine from the expression upon his face, the sort of dancing light in his eyes, the pleasurable anticipation that was now filling his heart. His whole body seemed to twitch as he stood at the door of number seven. His hand trembled as he gave a long, low series of raps upon the door. When it opened he flung himself into the darkened lobby.
‘Shut the door. Quickly!’ Peter then slammed it to with his own foot. He seemed agitated, breathless. Then he flung his arms round the woman. ‘Sheila! You see! I’m here! At last! Oh! Phew! I had to run for it. But I don’t care! I’m here! And I’ve got something for you too. Oh, Sheila, Sheila!’ And he covered her face with kisses. He took her face in his hands, raised it up so that the light from the kitchen gas fell upon it, and he said gently, ‘Is anything the matter, Sheila?’ and kept his eyes fixed upon her own, and it was the eyes that had answered the question. For to-night they seemed so different, so strange, as though they were new eyes, the eyes of a stranger. That lovely face. A strange feeling came over him as he looked into them, as he saw their hard, lightless look. ‘Dear Sheila! Are you angry or something?’
‘Why, no, Peter! How funny you are! What mak
es you say that? And how hot you are—your hands are almost wet, and how you tremble. Dear, dear boy,’ and she drew his head down upon her shoulders. ‘Darling Peter,’ she said.
‘Why, you’ve changed, Sheila!’ he said. ‘You’ve changed again. Oh, love! Love!’
Yes. That hard, indifferent look had gone. The face became animated. Her mouth was half-open—he saw the glint of teeth—and even her delicate nostrils began gently to quiver like those of a horse, and in her eyes shone warmth, he could feel it already. He was here at last. He was here, covered, hidden, secure, in the very aura of her presence. It was like a cloud that came down over him. Everything vanished. They were alone. Completely alone. The world had vanished. His agitation vanished, his hands no longer trembled, they caught her own, holding them tight. She could feel their hardness, even as she could feel the hardness of his body against her own.
‘Oh, Peter! I am glad you came! So glad! So glad! And you’ve brought something for me? What a dear kind person you are! But let’s go upstairs. I want to dress and then we’ll go out. I’m stifled.’ He followed her upstairs, and sat down on the bed whilst she dressed, and as he watched her movements, it seemed that the whole room became full of her presence: the air, the walls, the bed, the table, the pictures, all seemed endowed with this something terrifying. They seemed to emanate her femininity, and it was this terrifying meaning of femininity that now held Peter to the bed as though he were rooted there. The whole room seemed to breathe it in as it flowed from her body in waves, breathe it in and become the slave of it. His own thoughts and his own body became entangled and helpless in every movement that the young woman made during this act of dressing. There seemed nothing more beautiful than the swing of her arm, the sway of her hips as she bent down to pick up a garment, the lovely movement of her head as once she turned to smile at him, as if to say:
‘You see, dear boy, that when I stand like this—when I unclothe and move, and look in the mirror, I forget you, forget everything, for I am myself. I am alone, free, sunk in my own woman’s deep and living soul. I am deep down where no man can find me. My intuition walls round the sacred place that no man’s hand can reach.’