by James Hanley
‘Very well, mam,’ replied Mr. Corkran, all attention now for whatever was to follow. He had a vague idea that Mrs. Fury would come into it, and he was right. ‘I can’t understand why she treats this woman as if she were a bloody queen. At least, I never could, but I know why she does it now. Yes. I know why. She’s mad, crazy, foolish—she’ll regret it. This departure from principle. Fool! Fool!’
‘This Fury family,’ went on Mrs. Ragner. ‘They interest me. The woman’s a strange creature.’
‘I knew you were interested in them, mam. They seem quite characters in Hatfields.’
‘I had a visit from the woman yesterday,’ she continued. ‘You see that temporary silence had its effect. She came at last to the office in town. I was out at lunch at the time, but she waited there for an hour.’
‘She would,’ said Daniel. ‘And if I may ask a question, mam, have you decided to press for payment? She’s the only client who seems to have been indifferent to our generosity. Sorry, mam, your generosity. The old man has gone.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Ragner. ‘You mean the paralytic. Gone where? I didn’t know about it.’
‘He went this evening, mam. Back to Ireland. He was taken by some relation. Another sister, I believe. According to the form she filled in she received a few shillings a week pension from him. He was her father.’
‘Yes. That reduces the income! There is a limit to everything. It’s not that the account has gone on too long, or that I begrudge any client a re-loan to help to pay off arrears and interest of a previous loan. It’s just a peculiarity of mine, I can’t explain it very well, but to be honest, Corkran, there’s something I don’t quite like about her. I don’t know what it is. Mind you, I was most considerate in giving twenty pounds at all on such scanty security, but there was something open and honest about Mrs. Kilkey which perhaps influenced me. I don’t know, but I think it was that, anyway. What I don’t like about her is that she’s different. I’ve never had clients like her before. The fact is, Corkran—and how silly it might seem to you—the fact is that she hasn’t learnt to cringe. I tell you that people are so sly, so mean, so indifferent, so ungrateful, that one wants to stamp them into the gutter. Do you know people are absolutely ruthless, Corkran, and every time I lend money they make me feel I have besmirched myself. It gives me the most horrible feelings sometimes, thinking about it. That’s all we can do, Corkran. When people come here we must make them toe the line. We must make them pay for the lies that are spread about us—we must make them pay for what they say, how they whisper about us—how they loathe us. Don’t you see, Corkran? Don’t you see why I have not moved in the matter of Mrs. Fury’s money? Don’t you see why I kept silence, and then she had to come—and she had to talk—she had to enquire about a form she signed—and what had happened. The registered letter had not arrived. She was waiting for the money. Corkran, these people eat money, they don’t value it. Mrs. Fury has received nearly fifty pounds from me in one way and another, and now pays one pound fifteen weekly. And I expect to be paid. But she’s so proud—she makes you feel she’s done you a favour by coming at all. And on top of that they’re Irish Catholics.’
‘Why not have done with them, mam? Why not demand a settlement of the account at once? If you don’t mind me saying so, mam, I have been a little worried over the account myself. It’s such a tangle of figures; indeed, I have asked myself on more than one occasion if she hasn’t had much more consideration from us than anybody else. I was looking through one of the old ledgers yesterday, mam, and really—well, it seems to me that you’ve been generous to the extreme. And in some cases you’ve lost your money, mam.’ Mr. Corkran coughed gently.
‘Perhaps I may lose it here,’ said Mrs. Ragner. ‘You can never tell. In fact, Corkran, what if this sudden going away of the old man should be the preliminary to a general flight? Now I see I may have been foolish in cancelling the Kilkey note.’
To her surprise Mr. Corkran actually started to laugh.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘At what you said, mam. Let me assure you, mam, that you won’t lose your money with the Fury family. Besides, Mrs. Fury will never leave Hatfields, mam, and I know that by a certain intuitive way I have of looking at people, mam, not at their faces—but from behind. I always judge character by a person’s back, mam, and nearly always when I do, I find a difference in front, mam.’
‘Your intelligence does you credit, Corkran,’ said Mrs. Ragner, and she smiled for the first time that evening. In fact, she was feeling very pleased with Mr. Corkran.
‘But at the same time, Corkran, I wish your intelligence kept you out of dark corners; outside the house—but not inside it, please. All business has been done openly. We must be frank with each other. And now you might think about getting supper for me, please.’
Corkran began to stir uneasily in his chair. ‘You see, mam—the Fury account worries me as much as anybody. And you see, mam, I believe in principle. Kind for kind, grip for grip, tear for tear. You see, I feel a bit uncomfortable that I got her to sign the form and that nothing has been done about it. Do you intend to lend her more money, mam? That’s what I should like to know.’
‘It pleases me sometimes to turn the principles of my business upside down. And so at this moment I am neither thinking of lending more money nor pressing for payment. To use your phrase, Corkran—we’ll give the lady a breather. There’s nothing like uncertainty for forcing issues. Now, Corkran, to business. My business. Why were you spying on me?’ She measured him with a glance, held him fast in the chair, and for the first time in his life Mr. Daniel Corkran felt uncomfortable. A look, a gesture, a glance, a stare meant nothing to Daniel; his pasty-looking face was like steel, steel that felt nothing. One could look at Daniel but not through him.
‘There are only two defaulters in my books, Corkran, Mrs. Fury and yourself. D’you see? I don’t understand you.’
‘I don’t see what I have to do with Mrs. Fury, I’m sure.’
‘Is it not a fact, Corkran, that when on two occasions I interviewed the son of a client you were spying on me behind the curtain? Don’t deny it, you were! You’re more despicable than I thought, for I have only to look at you to get my answer. Don’t speak a word. I’m surprised, Corkran. What is going to happen the next time this client comes?’ she asked.
‘There’s the client, mam, I do believe,’ said Mr. Corkran.
‘This is a personal matter and does not concern you. But don’t go. Nobody is knocking at the door. I hear no ring of the bell. You only imagined it. Sit quite still. I haven’t yet told you why I brought you here! I will do so now. I can put a client in the gutter if I wish to—without asking your permission. The principles of my business are at least lived up to by me—and I hope by you too, Corkran. The ethics of my business are built upon necessity. Very good! An eighth of the whole of Gelton has received help from me. Some have paid for it, some have not. We stand to lose as much as we stand to gain. Have you in all your life seen such people as come to me for help? Young and old—and the tales, the pleadings, the lies, the hints, the threats. What an ugly face necessity has! And I sit in my office all day obliging people. I sit here for hours of an evening, and I hear their tales, and I lend money. I know every move, every sign, every particle of those faces, Corkran. Sometimes one forgets that one is really human—sometimes one just wants to turn one’s back upon such filth and ugliness, such crying shame, such despicable gestures, such greed and ungraciousness. They hate me and my money, and I go on serving them. Do you understand me, Corkran? It’s not always I or you who pulls the strings.’
‘I understand you, mam. I even understand that sometimes you get tired of seeing people with their ugly, miserable gobs—I mean their faces, mam.’
‘Then there is no more to say, Corkran, excepting this. Be a man and don’t spy upon everything I do. Now go, and do as you were told.’
She got up and went upstairs. Corkran put out the light.
‘She’s a
little fool. She can’t understand. She’s not half as clever as she thinks. She only looks at people from one point, and so only sees half their faces. That young swine will end up by stealing all she’s got. And then? Oh! I don’t want to think about that. Yet she’s a good mistress. I have a complete run here. And I have my little hole all to myself. Aye! I have my stinky old mattress, and my fire, and my tobacco, and enough for a drink, and the roof always there! I’m quite content, yet I’m afraid for her. She doesn’t understand me at all. She thinks she will, but she doesn’t know everything would have been sailing along grandly but for this. That’s what comes about when you are dragged into it. Damn fool! If I was her I’d put the bloody lot into the gutter where they rightly belong. And that Mrs. Fury’s too proud. Too proud! Thinks too much of herself. As for that young cockerel—I’ll have something to say to him before very long. Why ever can’t she see that the lad’s laughing at her? Laughing at her undressing herself for him. Old fool! Who’d have thought she could be so weak? Ah! That’s what comes of being human. There’s something sticky and dirty about being human. She wants to be like me. Society is rotten, anyhow. Yes, sir! It’s rotten. That’s why I’m happy in my little hole. My little stinking hole. Nice and warm, no friends, not even a cat. Who wants a cat, anyhow, though one can trust a good cat all the same. But people—h’m!’
Daniel Corkran went along to the kitchen and began to make supper. This consisted of hot milk, bread and butter, and biscuits. Having heated the milk, he placed the tray ready on the table, and cut the bread. This done, he took the tray along to the dining-room. As he switched on the light, it became clear of a sudden, much clearer than ever before, that this big room was bleak, was lonely, and indeed too big for one person to sit in and dine all by herself. But then Mrs. Ragner would dine alone whatever came about. Even if the whole world suddenly fell into space, she’d still prefer her own company at meals. He placed the tray upon the table, went to the foot of the stairs, and shouted, ‘Supper, mam!’
To which Mrs. Ragner replied, ‘Thank you, Corkran. Thank you.’
Hearing her leave the bedroom, Mr. Corkran went back to his kitchen. Anna Ragner appeared on the stairs. She descended slowly, paused once or twice as though some passing thought demanded her attention, then she went straight down into the dining-room, shut the door, and sat down to supper. She could hear Corkran poking up the fire.
‘Corkran is sly,’ she said half aloud, as though she were addressing the handsomely dressed gentleman whose painting hung upon the wall in front of her. ‘At any moment he will knock. And if I find that wretch does spy on me again, I’ll pitch him out. Yes, into the gutter from which I dragged him. Why have I kept him here eleven years? Because he has no feelings. He has a wooden inside, and that suits me perfectly. How I writhed before him to-night! He could see—sly devil!—he could see how weak I’ve become. But I can’t help it. And I can’t drive this feeling out. I love having that young boy here. Love it! I can’t deny it. Yes! When I think of how I’ve let myself become so weak I could rend myself. For now—and he knows it too—now he is stronger than I. Ah! There is the knock now. Don’t I know that knock! It’s like no other knock in the whole world. Yes, I’ve got him, and I’ve got his mother. And when I am tired of it, I’ll fling them both to the devil! Yes—I hate pride, hate pride; I hate decency too—-just as much as Corkran does. He does not score on me there. Oh no! Friend Corkran, I can beat you at your own game.’ The knock was repeated. It was a loud, insistent knock. In the kitchen Mr. Corkran sat listening. He too heard the knock, but only smiled and sat quite still. He heard the big dining-room door open, heard Mrs. Ragner run upstairs to her bedroom, and a minute later he heard the outside door open.
‘Well, that’s the limit,’ thought Corkran. ‘I believe she’s given him a key.’
Mrs. Ragner had come downstairs in felt slippers. She glided along the hall, opened the door, and even before she could pick out the face of the visitor in the darkness she whispered, ‘Make no noise. Go straight through, upstairs.’
She drew back the door. Peter Fury, drenched with the rain, came inside.
‘I thought you weren’t coming, at first,’ she said, and was struck by his peculiar attitude, for Peter Fury made no attempt to go upstairs.
‘Please go up,’ she said. ‘You’ll find it will pay you to do as I say, Fury.’
‘And if I don’t?’ said the visitor, fixing his big eyes upon her own. ‘If I don’t?’
‘Then you’ll find out that it won’t pay. Understand me? Go up now.’
Without a word he went upstairs, she following behind him—he could hear the swish of her skirts as she climbed.
‘In there,’ she said, when they reached the top of the stairs. He stood outside the door of a well-lighted bedroom. It was Anna Ragner’s room. She pushed him inside, followed, and closed the door.
‘You are late, Mr. Fury—but I must call you Peter now, mustn’t I?—you are late, Peter. Were you one of my clients, I would refuse to see you. Sit down. To-night you look lovely with your curly hair shining in the light and your cheeks glistening with the rain. Sit down, my dear boy.’
She sat down beside him. ‘I ought to tell you that we are being watched,’ she began. ‘We are being watched by a certain strange creature who isn’t yet a man. But, there! I have put that creature in its place. Please look at me.’
She put her fat, ringed fingers behind his neck and turned his face to hers. Her face was flushed, she smelt heavily of scent, her white teeth flashed, and her bosom was bare. She wore a dress so diaphanous that Peter Fury could see the shape of her body to the waist. She wore a green silk cape—but she had not fastened it. It was open, and the silk cord trailed upon the floor. Her black hair looked luxuriously soft and rich. Yes, she could feel him trembling, she could see the restless hands—and now she took one and squeezed it in her own so that she felt its warmth, and more, there was a note in it. She took the note and laid it on the table near the head of the bed.
‘What is it? But I don’t want to bother with notes now, Peter. You see, I’ve longed to see you again, your smile, your laugh, but I forgive you that, because you are so young—but nevertheless, I longed to see you again, dear little boy. I love looking at you, and don’t I know—don’t I know what I am looking at, who have seen so many faces in my lifetime. You are so young, so fresh, so clean, so innocent, and I can tell you have feelings. You are sensitive, you love beautiful things, you hate all things mean, don’t you? I can see that, I can read you like a book, Peter! Now kiss me. Please! Please!’
She sat quite still, her face held out a little, her hands resting on her knees. Peter Fury leaned over and kissed the woman.
‘Oh, you beauty!’ she said. ‘You darling!’ and smothered him in an embrace, a furious, desperate embrace, as though this were the first and last she would have in all mortal life.
‘You dear boy. But look now. Look now.’ She threw off the cape and loosed her dress. ‘Look now!’ And she pressed his head upon her breast. He could feel the soft warm flesh, his hands traced out with feverish movements the shape of her neck, her shoulders, her large heavy breasts.
He tore the dress down and beheld her. Golden! soft brown flesh. Fat, greasy flesh. Suddenly he grabbed the gown and hurriedly drew it about her shoulders.
He drew back, a look of perfect horror upon his face, and exclaimed, ‘Ugh! I am ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself.’
The woman remained motionless, but upon her face was an expression of the utmost disgust, and she could still feel the quick, hot, nervous touch of his hands as with quick movements he had covered her nakedness. And a strange feeling came over her. She felt as though he were wrapping about her warm soft flesh some dirty skin, some skin whose purpose was degrading, whose touch loathsome. She felt he had humiliated her. He had covered her up.
‘You see! God! you see, you are like the rest. You loathe me, I know it! Maybe that wooden puppet I have has more understanding. Peter! Dear Peter! W
hen I gave you money on two occasions—or didn’t I——? Oh, please! please!’ She watched him move farther away—she wanted to hate him, but she could not. She could only sit there staring at him. Why had he changed? At first—why, he had rather enjoyed it all—and now he was ashamed.
‘Why are you ashamed?’ she asked. ‘Or is it you are sorry for yourself? You are disgusted with yourself. Now you have that kind of a face which I know so well. Dear me! Dear me!’
‘Mrs. Ragner,’ said Peter Fury—and he stammered. ‘Mrs. Ragner.’ Somehow he could see nothing of her but those large, heavy, brown-coloured breasts, with the oily shininess of her skin. ‘Please! Forgive me, I’m sorry! I never meant to hurt you. But I’m a fool. I let myself get carried away. And I have your money here! Here it is.’ He took out some coins and laid them on the bed. ‘Why do you act like this? Is it that you can’t help it? How can you be like this and act like a brute towards my mother? You see, that’s why I came to-night. I came to ask you to be fair, to be decent. You see, if you knew what other people think and feel, you would understand why even I loathe you.’ He edged his way along the bed. ‘And now I understand that too. And I knew I could be an even bigger fool if I let myself go. But I won’t. Have you no feelings for anybody but yourself, or has that devil down below sucked them out of you? Mrs. Ragner! I am not coming here again.’ He got up from the bed. The corner caught his coat, pulled him down with a jerk, so that he fell against her. She forced his head upon her knees, pressed her mouth against his mouth.
‘I am no wretch!’ she said. ‘I have feelings too. But when I have feelings I understand them. I know them, and you don’t! That’s the difference between us. If you had lived my life of sheer loneliness you would understand. But your intelligence is blunted—it’s even horribly dull this evening. I forgive you, dear little boy. I understand. I know more than you think! I’m not greedy of affection! Please! please!’ She paused for breath. ‘Don’t look at me in that way. I am no beast. Just human as you are. Besides, what right have you to look offended—to be ashamed—in fact, what right have you to be anything but what you were born to be? And what of your mother? Is she different from anybody else? Not the least bit. She is just like any other of the clients who come here, and who are glad to get money from me—but too proud to come and thank me afterwards. No! Like a lot of rats they scurry back to the holes where they came from, and they curse me ever afterwards. Do they know what they are cursing about? I wonder? Did I put them in their holes? Did I make the holes? You have a brother, I believe, who intends to turn the world upside down. Ask him. He understands such things. I treat your mother brutally! I? What nonsense! I have lent and lent money to your mother, partly to help her pay for you, and partly to help her pay her way at home. I helped her when your father was on strike. I helped her when your grandfather was very ill. Now I see he’s gone to Ireland. And I’ve been asking myself, just lately, why I shouldn’t call for a settlement from your mother. There is nothing to stop the whole lot of you flying away and leaving me the loser in the end. I have been most kind and considerate to your mother! And all the thanks I get is complete indifference. Your mother never comes here to talk with me. I am not worth that. I am only useful for my money. That’s what I hate about people. Their damned pride. It crucifies them. The fools! The fools! Yes, like Shylock I want my bond, when I loaned honourably. Are you developing a social conscience, young man? At your age. How shameful! How very disgusting!’