The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  ‘My God!’ said Brigid. ‘Fanny! That brute will simply kill us.’ She tried to turn her head to look out. Mr. Delaney, fearing now that at any moment the whole affair might turn over, leaned as far away as possible from the now bad-tempered Mr. Deery, who began to inflict his anger upon the struggling beast through the agency of his long whip, made of leather, both lashes platted together, and having at its end the tiniest piece of copper wire. The whip rose and fell.

  ‘Damn you! Damn you!’ cursed Mr. Deery. His face was of a deep beetroot colour.

  ‘Damn everything!’ said Mr. Delaney. ‘I’m used to ambulances and stretchers and awkward situations, but riding in a chariot, no! Definitely no.’ And Mr. Deery unwittingly turned his head to meet the thin gentleman’s scowling features.

  ‘We’ll soon be at the Ferry, my lad, we’ve passed the Mile Hill.’

  It was only when the cab reached the bottom of Mile Hill, and took the long main road that led to the town, that normality returned and the vehicle regained its equilibrium.

  Mr. Mangan was going home to his own land. Away from that stuffy, cramped life of Hatfields. He was leaving the city with its frenzied, hectic life, he was going home. And Fanny was happy. Supremely happy. She saw now how unfair it was to begrudge her father the last little consolation. A drudge, a nuisance, yes—but now he was something real. Something old and ugly and helpless, yet spiritually beautiful, was going out of her life. At least he had known her, understood her. They had shared the good and bad times. To whom had she gone when she felt miserable, sick in heart? To her father! She stroked his face with her red and roughened hands. She loved him.

  ‘Why, Fanny, I believe you’re crying,’ said Aunt Brigid, who feigned a most pained expression herself. ‘My dear Fanny! Ah! But I understand! He was much to you! Dear, kind Father! I only hope he’ll be able to realize what I am doing for him.’

  Brigid could hear her sister silently sobbing. Then the rattle of the cab wheels upon rough gravel drowned it out. Mrs. Fury lowered her head. She was hidden behind the chair, and the stout lady could see nothing of her except the top of her hat.

  ‘I used to think—I used to dream about going back to that lovely land! I used to think, We’ll all go one day. Denny and I and the children. And Father would always be with us. But there! What’s the use of crying over things like this? It only makes it worse. But he was something in my life, was something to me, he had something the others haven’t got. Yes. Thank God, he had his faith—and a simple mind. He had a pure heart. How did I ever imagine I could keep him for years in all that squalor? Perhaps she is right. Perhaps it was most unfair of me. She says I cling to everything. Everything. My home—my children—old Father. Yes, perhaps I do. I hold on to everything, and I have nothing. Well, it won’t be long now.’ Fanny drew a corner of the blanket from the chair and wiped her face. The cab began to jerk again.

  It had turned another corner. In addition to the rough road there was another steep gradient. The horse, which had never before carried such a curious company as this, suddenly slid, pulled up again, then once more slid. Mr. Deery swore louder than ever, but nothing could move Mr. Delaney, who sat tight, looking very grim, his eyes busy searching for the truck tops of the ship, a sign that the extraordinary journey was near its end. Mr. Deery’s loud swears were directed not only against the steep gradient he had now to descend, but they were a sort of protest against the mummified silence of the gentleman beside him. He gave another indignant glance at Mr. Delaney, who at once folded his arms and looked grimmer than ever, as if this were a mute protest against Mr. Deery’s vulgar oaths, and not only vulgar but thoroughly dangerous to a good-living Catholic gentleman. With a violent jerk of the reins the cabby endeavoured to induce the horse to take a less erratic course down the hill, but the underfed beast, unused to such fare as this, refused to be influenced by the pull upon his reins and the swish of the whip across his flanks. Hill or no hill, the sound of the creaking cab that hovered over him like some great black shadow was enough to upset the nerves of the most docile of horses. The cab now rolled from side to side, regained equilibrium with a wrench and groan, shook, swayed and rocked, the while beneath the floor itself the most ominous noises began to be heard; at least the two ladies in the cab could hear them even if the two gentlemen outside could not. There were times when it appeared as if the floor itself must give way, the wheels, freed from their burden, roll off down the hill, leaving the occupants of the cab piled in a confused heap upon the road. But at last the bottom of the hill was reached. This dramatic arrival on terra firma brought forth an exclamation from Brigid Mangan.

  ‘Thank God!’ she said. ‘Thank His Blessed Mother for that.’

  Here the traffic became thicker, and the cabby slowed down the horse to a leisurely walk. He was bound for Gelton Pier, where the Green Emerald was already lying waiting to embark her passengers for the eighteen-hour trip to Cork. Mrs. Fury, her eyes red and tired-looking, hung on to her father’s chair, and so, too, did Miss Mangan, for it was at this point in the journey that the most ominous groan came from beneath the cab. It came up through the floor like a despairing cry. The thundering sound, which seemed both a protest and ultimatum, came not only from the dead wood and the worn wheels, but from the overworked beast itself. It began to neigh.

  ‘We are nearly there now, thank heaven,’ remarked Fanny to her sister.

  ‘Your observation does you credit, woman. You’ve sat there the whole of the journey down and hardly spoken a single word. Your own son wasn’t even decent enough to remain behind and say good-bye to his grandfather. He ought to. Father helped him through, though it was all for nothing.’

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about that now,’ replied Mrs. Fury. ‘I’m just about sick of it.’

  ‘How relieved I’ll be to get away,’ Brigid said. ‘And most of all to get out of this preposterous cab. And I don’t care how many priests it’s carried, either. I’ve never gone through such an hour. And that man’s language is horrifying. I’m sure he’s no Catholic like the quiet gentleman beside him.’

  The cab was lurching again as it passed through into Salter Road. The continuous rocking, the tattoo of the animal’s hoofs, the groans and squeaks from below, the swearing of Mr. Deery, these were so many irritants continuously bursting upon Miss Mangan’s lively thoughts about the future. The cab gave a shriek and came to a halt. It seemed that only now with the sudden cessation of shrieks, groans, clatter and swears, the sudden silence following the concourse of sounds, was Miss Mangan aware, and very fully aware at that, of the phenomenon in the cab beside her. Her sister’s silence galled her. How on earth could that woman sit there in this most appalling situation and remain silent? How could she hold on to the chair and yet never utter a single word about the tragedy of its occupant? Yes. How could she? Such coldness. Such indifference. She could understand it in anybody else, but not in Fanny. From time to time she buoyed herself up with the hope that that tightly closed mouth would open. But by no effort could Aunt Brigid break that core of determination, for it seemed that Mrs. Fury had said her last word. She had become like Mr. Mangan himself. Quite dumb. Any casual onlooker who might have put his head through the window would most likely have been reduced to laughter by the sight that met his gaze, for the two women, never relinquishing their hold upon the chair, looked straight ahead with fixed expressions, though they never even glanced at one another. Mr. Mangan’s head was in the same position as before and hung low upon his breast, his lips moving in a sort of long low grunt. His hands lay flat upon his knees. The cab moved on, turned another corner and stopped.

  ‘This is the end,’ thought Brigid, and so, too, did Mrs. Fury, as Mr. Deery climbed down from his seat and came and looked in through the window. Through the other one Miss Mangan could now discern the truck tops of ships. A tug on the river gave three short blasts.

  ‘Why, we’re here at last! I thought your cab had broken down,’ she exclaimed to Mr. Deery, ‘and thank heaven for that, I say
.’

  ‘That’s right, mam,’ replied the cabby. ‘If you’ll just wait a minute or two. You see, I always call in to “The Chicken and Ham” when I come down here. You’ve lots of time, you see.’

  ‘But this is outrageous,’ said Miss Mangan. ‘Where is Mr. Delaney?’

  ‘On the top, mam, and if you don’t mind my saying so, he’s about the sulkiest man I ever met. He hasn’t spoken a single word all the way down, except “Damn.”’

  ‘How could he?’ broke in Mrs. Fury. ‘It seems to have taken us all our time to keep our seats.’ She was lying back now, glad to have the opportunity to rest her arms, which all through the journey had held the black chair in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Call Mr. Delaney down at once! Where are we, anyway? Excuse me,’ and Brigid Mangan leaned still farther forward and put her head through the window.

  ‘Why, this is only Salter Road. Drive on at once, Mr. Deery. Why we——’ But her words fell upon empty air, for by some means or other Mr. Deery had disappeared into ‘The Chicken and Ham.’

  ‘Mr. Delaney! Mr. Delaney!’ she shouted through the window. ‘Mr. Delaney!’

  ‘Brigid, have patience. We’ve plenty of time. After all, the man has arrived. He won’t be a second. He’s gone to get a drink. Why should we begrudge him a drink?’ She put her hands on her sister’s shoulders as Miss Mangan shouted through the window:

  ‘Mr. Delaney, this is disgraceful! Do you pick up those reins and drive the cab to the shed! I swear to God I’ll miss the boat. Just fancy! Well, I was going to give Mr. Deery a drink myself, but I shan’t now. The very idea! Leaving us outside like this as though we were so much baggage.’

  ‘Oh, Brigid, you are a fuss,’ and Mrs. Fury burst out laughing. ‘Why, there’s Mr. Deery now,’ she added, as she saw the cabby emerge from the pub. Without a word the man climbed up on to his seat, picked up the reins, and the cab moved off down the parade. It seemed to sway as it dodged now this and now that obstacle, but by a certain system of strategic movements Mr. Deery at last drew up about twenty-five yards from the gangway. The cab was immediately surrounded by porters. Mr. Delaney got down, followed by the cabby, who coughed and puffed and blowed, to the general consternation of the anxious porters.

  ‘This old man and chair have to be taken aboard the ship,’ said Brigid.

  ‘Yes, mam! But we have a stretcher here all ready by orders of a Father Geraghty. Now, ladies, if youse will just get out of the cab, we’ll have the old gentleman aboard in two ticks.’

  ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ said Miss Mangan. And now they were out of the cab.

  ‘I think Dad’s been splendid,’ she remarked to Mrs. Fury.

  ‘I think so, too!’ replied Mrs. Fury. ‘Have you your tickets?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s go now. Oh! They’re carrying Father on board now. I must see he gets some brandy and a sleeping-draught. I do hope it won’t be rough.’

  The two women followed the procession down the gangway. They passed along the main deck, through the alleyway, and ascended the short companion-ladder to the saloon.

  ‘Number seven, mam,’ said the steward to Miss Mangan.

  At the door they stopped. Mr. Mangan was already comfortably settled in his bunk, and the chief steward himself sent a stewardess to see if anything was required.

  ‘Well, now.’ Mrs. Fury went inside, bent down and said, ‘Good-bye, Dad! Good-bye! God bless you—keep you safe, dear.’ Then she got up, looked at Brigid, and said, ‘And good-bye to you.’

  ‘Good-bye, Fanny! Good-bye. You have been so good—so helpful. Here!’ and Brigid Mangan was pressing a coin into the woman’s hand.

  Fanny shut her hand against the coin and said, ‘Oh no! You’ll need that yourself. Well, good-bye. I don’t want to see you ever again.’ And stepping out of the cabin she shut the door on her sister and father, and in a few minutes had disappeared amongst the people now crowding the deck. Anthony Mangan had passed out of her life.

  Half-past nine at Banfield House, Mr. Corkran has just seen the last client away. The big room where Mrs. Ragner transacts her business is in darkness. The ledger has been carried away and locked up. Moneylending is at an end. Daniel Corkran is pushing back the bolt. He is aware of two things. Firstly, that Mrs. Ragner is watching him—he knows this, for he has himself been keeping an eye upon her; secondly, that by thus shooting the bolt home he will make Anna Ragner come out from behind the green curtain half-way down the hall.

  ‘Is that you, Corkran?’

  ‘Yes, mam,’ he replied, without turning round, and his hand still on the bolt.

  ‘Is it customary to bolt the door at half-past nine? Please draw it back again.’ The woman is now standing in the hall. The red light shines on her black hair.

  ‘I understood there were no more callers to-night, mam,’ remarked Daniel, and he turned round to smile at the woman. ‘At least, I presumed so,’ he added.

  ‘I want you to come into my room as soon as you are ready,’ said Mrs. Ragner.

  ‘Yes, mam!’ and he immediately followed the woman into the back sitting-room.

  ‘Why do you look at me like that, Corkran?’ she asked, as soon as he came into the room. She stood leaning against the mantelshelf, one hand smoothing back her hair. Daniel Corkran thought that her eyes looked a little too brilliant. He stood erect, hands clasped behind his back, and looked at the woman. He wore his usual clothes, sailor’s armless jersey, dirty dungaree trousers, rope shoes, and one could see that he wore no stockings. His hair was plastered with brilliantine, his moustache neatly trimmed.

  ‘Yes, mam,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you looking like that at me, Corkran? I noticed it this evening. I am not used to being stared at in that manner. What is wrong with you?’

  ‘It’s only my usual way of looking at people,’ said Daniel in an almost apologetic tone. ‘I’m sorry, mam. I didn’t know I was looking other than natural.’

  ‘Then I don’t like your way of looking. And these last few days your conduct has been open to question. I pay you, while you are here, to attend to my house and help in my business. I don’t pay you to spy on me! A certain consideration for your position is the only reason for my not asking you to put on your coat and go. The fact is, I have let you have too much of your own way here. You have been spying on me just like some mean filthy thief. Have you no spark of manhood in you at all?’ she asked.

  ‘Excuse me, mam, I regret you should say such a thing to me, considering what I have done for you all these years. Your dirty work, for instance.’ Mr. Corkran smiled. It was like a gust of wind. It came and went again in a flash. ‘She knows I was watching all along, and now she’s trying to work round me,’ he thought, as he followed her with his eyes. She had crossed the room and sat down at the little green baize table. When she looked at him, he turned his head a little, and assumed that sphinx-like attitude of countenance she knew so well. Indeed, Mr. Corkran looked with a certain satisfaction at a picture that hung directly over Anna Ragner’s head.

  ‘The fact that you have served here so long does not give you the right to spy upon me, to go into my room in my absence, to turn papers upside down in my desk. If it happens again, Corkran, you go. Understand! And not a penny! Understand me! I am master here! You obey orders! You are not a man. Please note what I say. You are less than a man, though that must not prevent you from endeavouring to try and become one. In short, you are only a puppet, a parasite, and you’ve clung to me for years. You have worked well. But when you say you have done my dirty work you are insulting me. Now I want you to apologize. Do you hear me, Corkran? You must apologize at once.’

  Mr. Daniel Corkran covered his head, and seemed to squint at Mrs. Ragner’s ringed fingers as he said, ‘I am very sorry, mam. It shall not occur again.’

  ‘And now to business,’ exclaimed Anna Ragner. ‘Sit down opposite to me.’

  Mr. Corkran sat down, and he too put his hands upon the table. ‘Yes, mam,’ and Daniel Corkran looked directly into Anna Rag
ner’s eyes.

  ‘Now, why didn’t you tell me that this man Kilkey called here yesterday?’

  ‘I forgot, mam.’

  ‘You forgot. You who never forgot anything. What did he want?’ She leaned closer.

  ‘He wanted to know the state of the Fury account, and I said that I could not oblige him in the matter. He also said that you cancelled some note or other. Some note he had signed.’ Mr. Corkran decided for some reason or other to lean well back in his chair. He now folded his arms.

  ‘In case he calls again you had better be acquainted with the facts. When I first loaned that woman money, I did it with reluctance. But I won’t go into that point. Mr. Kilkey went security for that because he is a man who is in constant work. The position is that I decided on consideration to cancel that note on payment of a certain sum of money. That is to say, ten pounds. Do you follow me, Corkran?’

  ‘Yes, mam.’

  ‘Very well! It was an unusual thing to do. I know you are now asking yourself why I did this,’ and she looked questioningly at her servant, who moved not a muscle.

  ‘I think I know why,’ said Daniel Corkran to himself. ‘The woman’s a fool.’

  ‘When I loan money I either get it back with interest or, failing that, seize goods. In this case, for a sum of money I released the Kilkeys from any further obligations.’

  ‘You knew, of course, mam, that they were not compelled to pay?’

  ‘What I know and what they know are two quite different things. If we are to shorten the gap between knowledge and ignorance, Corkran, then there is an end of necessity. And where will I be? And where will you be? Tell me that!’

  ‘I do not say that this Joseph Kilkey wasn’t very glad to discover this good news. It’s another thing, mam, he came about. It seems he and his wife are having differences, and he wanted to know if I could inform him where she got the money to pay.’

  ‘That is not a matter for us, Corkran! I just want you to understand that the Kilkey side of this business is now closed. What differences they have between them doesn’t come into it at all. Oh, by the way, before I go any further, Corkran, there’s a client whom you might see at my office to-morrow. For that reason no business will be done here before half-past seven to-morrow evening.’