by James Hanley
Here was the dock-gate. He crossed the road and went in. Men were pouring down the ship’s gangways in hundreds, it was twelve o’clock.
S.S. Tesnie. Where was she lying, exactly? He asked a passing man.
‘Tesnie? See that ship over there,’ he said, and pointing to a four-master with blue funnels, added, ‘Well, that’s her! Cross that bridge.’
‘Thank you.’ Anthony made his way over the bridge. ‘Tesnie. Hope I don’t miss him!’ And he started to run, but stopped suddenly. That was going a bit too far. Not steady enough on the old feet yet. He stood at the bottom of the gangway, anxiously searching the procession of faces. The man he was looking for was on deck, directly in front of him, doing something to a guy rope over the hatch. The procession ceased. Had he missed Joe Kilkey? He looked higher. Ah, there he was.
‘Hey there, Mr. Kilkey! Joe!’ He whistled. The man turned round, looked at him, waved a hand, and smiling came down the gangway.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ he said. ‘What brings you down here?’
‘Nothing much! The only thing that usually brings me down this way is my own ship. But, you see, this time I had to——’
‘Silly lad,’ said Joseph Kilkey. ‘Silly lad! Well, I happen to be going over for my dinner. Have you had any? You can buckle in with me if you like.’ They crossed the road and passed into the shed. Here they stopped.
‘What have you come down for, then?’ asked Joseph Kilkey. ‘I believe it’s about this business. Well, really, Anthony, it’s hard to explain. You see, I told your mother when she was round yesterday I—but wait a mo. I must slip over there and get my can filled.’
Anthony watched him go into the dining-room at the top of the shed.
‘Funny!’ he thought. ‘She said nothing to me when I said I was going round to see Maureen.’ He sat down on a case of bacon, waiting for Mr. Kilkey. In a few minutes he emerged, carrying a can of steaming tea.
‘Come over here,’ he said, ‘I have a place here. I always take my meals in the shed. It’s nice and cool, too.’
He led the way to the back of the shed. They sat down on an old cargo chute.
‘You’ll have the top of the tea, anyhow,’ said Mr. Kilkey, to which Anthony replied he didn’t mind. Mr. Kilkey filled a cracked cup.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘what’s the bother? I mean, what brings you visiting me here?’
Anthony looked at the man with not a little astonishment. Why was he so gruff? This was most unusual. This change in Joseph Kilkey dampened his spirits at once.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, and his face reddened considerably.
‘Nothing! You’ve come all the way about nothing?’ said Mr. Kilkey, his manner as gruff as before. ‘Well, some people do take the cake. Fancy you coming down all this way for nothing, and you with your bad feet. Anthony, what’s up?’
‘You’re not angry at me about anything, are you?’ asked Anthony, quite unable to conceal his surprise, and a certain uncomfortable feeling that came over him. ‘You look vexed, and you talk as though I’d hit you.’
Mr. Kilkey’s dirty face expanded into a smile.
‘I’m not angry with you, Anthony. Don’t get such silly ideas into your head. Really, I’m not. But I am angry with myself for being a fool, and a quite helpless one at that. No doubt your mother thinks I’m nothing but an indifferent brute—she almost said as much. It’s about her you’ve come, isn’t it? Well, you’ve wasted your time.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Anthony. ‘Why are you angry with yourself?’
‘Oh, I don’t know! Yesterday your mother came round asking me if I could help her. She must think I’m a bloody millionaire.’ He stopped suddenly, for a peculiar expression appeared upon the other’s face. It was the first time Anthony had heard him swear.
‘But I’m not. I’m only a poor man, and like everybody else I had my few pounds saved up too. But that went bang when Dermod was born. Do you really know what’s happened, Anthony? I’ve been made a mug of. Yes, a mug. It’s common knowledge that your brother’s education simply put your mother in a strait-jacket. You can’t afford to be extravagant when you live in Hatfields, or Price Street, or anywhere else. Well—but who would have thought it cost all that much? It made me scratch my head, I tell you. And supposing he had gone through! Who would have benefited? Nobody. For a priest can’t keep himself, Anthony. You know that! Well, then, right on top of his finishing up there under a cloud, so to speak, you have your accident, and then your old man goes on strike! It wouldn’t be your mother if she didn’t have everything at once. Maybe it’s a test for her. Maybe to see how she can stick it. She did, though. She’s a brick, your mother is, Anthony, and every one of you will thank her one of these days. I mean, when you’re real men and find yourself up against tough things. Ah! But this business with the moneylender has got her down all right. Broke her spirit clean through. You can see it as soon as you look at her. Did I swear at what she said to me yesterday? NO! I have better sense than to pile it on. I couldn’t do anything, anything, and I told her so. So if you’ve come to see me about that—well, all I say is, it’s awful. Do you know Maureen cleared out? Aye! Cleared, and left Dermod with me. I have to pay each week to get somebody to look after him—and as well——’
‘Maureen! Maureen left you! Oh, God! How rotten. How cruel to the kid!’
‘Aye,’ said Mr. Kilkey. It was almost a growl. ‘Cleared! But I—I felt it. I felt it. I loved Maury. She’s only foolish—headstrong. She’ll come back. But I won’t ask her to. Won’t even look for her! What time have I to be seeking out foolish people and trying to make them see reason? But see how clever your sister is. You might as well know all, now. Maureen herself had a loan from this woman. A small one, it is true. And I had to sign for it. Don’t ask me why, because I’ll only answer you that we kind of people can’t always live on fresh air—though your brother Desmond thinks we can. Well, we cleared that. The next thing I knew was that I was going surety for your mother. Why me? You must ask your mother. If she says it was because she was afraid of any of you knowing—even your father, who couldn’t want to understand anything, anyhow—well, she’ll be giving you the only correct answer. Why did your mother want the money? To save her from disgrace in the chapel. You see, there are people in our parish who also have sons going in for the priesthood—and at the same college. She got the money. That’s all I know. But whilst it was owing I was responsible. What happened? Maureen turned on your mother after a while—called her a fool—oh, everything, and from that day my life was hell. That’s the truth! But I never altered my opinion of Maureen. Never once. Half a dozen times she wanted me to go round and see your mother. Why should I pry into her business? Her business is her own, not mine. Now d’you see what happened? It’s so clever. I’m only beginning to see it now—it’s so clever that a woman like her could walk round ten Mrs. Ragners, your mother included. She had never loved me. Understand? Hard to say—it’s the truth. But there she was, itching to clear out. Simply bursting to go. And then she made your mother the excuse. What did she do? She got money from a foreman under whom she used to work at the jute factory. How much, God alone knows—and what she’s done for it, I—oh, I hate thinking about it. She went to Mrs. Ragner, paid her this money, and whatever went on between them, it’s a mystery to me. She came back here with a surety form I had signed, cancelled. Can you believe it? We had a frightful row. It was lying amongst papers in an old box for nearly a week, and I never knew. She actually told me she’d shown it to me. Can you believe it? All well and good, I thought, that’s the end of that. But was it? No. It was only the beginning. She used it as an excuse to clear out, and I half believe it’s with the foreman she’s gone. But just think of it. She couldn’t be open. Couldn’t! She was a coward. I knew all along I had made a mistake. I’m much older than she is, it’s true, and I’m no Don Juan. But still, I think I did my best for her, and when Dermod came it was all going to be so lovely. Ah! It makes me sick, Anthony, and that’s th
e truth. I feel I could vomit my guts up this minute. Was I to go round barging into your mother? Was I to let her down after signing the note? Couldn’t do it. I’d hate myself ever afterwards. It’s pitiful, really, the things people will do. Simply pitiful.’
Joseph Kilkey drained the tea-can, got off the chute, and ran to the tap, where he rinsed the can out. Then he put the top on it, rolled up the newspaper his dinner had been in and flung it into the corner. He lit his pipe. Anthony lit a cigarette.
Anthony Fury turned away. He looked out over the river. He seemed to see with his father’s eyes the same things in just the same way: the life of the river and the sea, the clean, clear, untrammelled life, free from all hatreds and jealousies, all meanness, pettiness, lies, dirt—and now he looked out over the waters that shimmered like molten glass beneath the noonday sun. He thought if his mother had been a man she would have looked and felt in just the same way. Yes. Perhaps she would have made a fine sailor. He looked round at Joseph Kilkey. Old, ugly—but how old, where ugly? No! This man was splendid. He put his hand on Mr. Kilkey’s, and with passionate sincerity he exclaimed, ‘Joe! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry.’ Yes, he meant it. Every single word of it. And why shouldn’t he? Just as he felt sorry in his heart for his own mother. That’s all he could do. Feel sorry. What else? He couldn’t help. He had no money—no power. He could, like all the rest of his race, respond by that single, heartfelt sincerity.
‘It was rotten! Bloody mean and rotten. I would never have believed it, Mr. Kilkey, never!’ and he squeezed the hand that was even harder than his own. Poor Joe! Never done anybody a day’s harm. Left with the child.
‘I hate her for it! Hate her for it!’
‘Well, don’t, please don’t,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘She’s only a silly little child.’
He liked this lad—good, hard-working, never complaining, going out trip after trip, turning up his money regularly. Poor Anthony! His life was certainly not very exciting. A few shillings in his pocket, a few friends, easily satisfied. ‘But he’s a cheerful, happy lad, anyhow.’
‘Everything’ll come straight, lad, you see! Everything’ll come straight for us all.’ He began rubbing his bald head, warmed to the job, and rubbed still harder, as though in imagination he were rubbing away from his mind all the frettings and hurts and discontents. Then he looked at his watch. ‘A quarter of an hour to go. I’ll walk up with you as far as the gate,’ he said, got off the chute, hid his tin can, and together they walked slowly up the shed.
‘Why, your mother! Yes, tell me about your mother, Anthony. Has anything happened? Can anything be done? Are you sure the woman will seize your mother’s goods? I doubt it.’
‘I don’t,’ replied Anthony, ‘I wouldn’t put it past her doing anything from what I’ve heard of her. I even went to see my other brother.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Mr. Kilkey. They emerged from the shed into the sunlight, and Anthony at once slackened his pace. Mr. Kilkey walked even slower. He had a sudden idea the lad’s feet were paining.
‘He said he could do nothing. Maybe he couldn’t. But I knew all along. I don’t suppose, even if he did have any money, he’d offer to help us.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kilkey, ‘I never imagined your mother would appeal to him.’ Aye! One could measure the desperateness of that woman by that sudden climb down. ‘Your mother seems to walk into these things quite naturally. Well, as I said to you, Anthony my lad, I have my own troubles, though I’m not indifferent to other people’s. But this is where I’m no use. I’ve my few sticks of furniture. What’s that? A few pounds. And a constant job. And what’s that? Bread and butter, and a pipe of tobacco and the evening papers. A new suit once a year. Boots twice a year. A charabanc trip in the summer with the Young Men’s Society. Will you listen to me complaining? Damn! I ought to kick my own backside for talking like I do. Tell your mother I’ll come and see her this evening. Tell her not to worry. God’s good. Oh, and I’ll bring the youngster round, too. He doesn’t see much of his grandma these times. Now, ta-ta, and the final word, my lad, is—easy on those pins of yours.’
He waved farewell, and went back to his work. Anthony Fury started back for home.
So that was how it was! ‘Oh, Lord! I’ve certainly come back to see a real packetful.’ When he came to the brow, he stopped. He went into the herbalist’s, ordered a packet of cigarettes, a glass of balm beer, and sat down. Yes, he had to admit it. His feet were paining. That gnawing little fear somewhere at the back of his mind was growing bigger. His feet weren’t right. NO! They weren’t right! Two doctors, three hospitals, two solicitors, hundreds of journeys, thirty-five pounds compensation—but they weren’t right.
‘I wonder what Mother did with that money? It’s simply amazing. She’s like somebody drunk. She must have flung it everywhere. Oh, I can’t be bothered thinking about it any longer.’ Suddenly he said, in a low voice, ‘Oh! The pain! The pain!’
The man behind the counter looked up from the newspaper he was reading. Anthony sipped his beer, then lit a cigarette and sat back in evident contentment. So that was how it was! Maureen had done the dirty on her husband. Well, there was one thing, anyhow. Mother couldn’t be blamed for that. But how rotten! How beastly and mean to leave the man alone with the child! She ought to be punched for it. ‘That’s what I’d do if I was him. Aye! And perhaps that’s the kind of thing that does happen to people when they’re soft, and he is soft, no doubt about it. But, no—that’s wrong. I mean, he’s too kind to her. That’s what it is. Too damn bloody kind. Well, I for one won’t fall for a Judy. No marriage for me. No, sirree. From what I’ve seen of it it’s just a mug’s game. Oh! The pain,’ he said.
‘Are you all right there, young man?’ And again the herbalist looked anxiously at the customer.
Anthony, smiling, said, ‘It’s my feet! They hurt a bit.’
‘Oh dear! That’s bad! Perhaps you walked too far. Have you rheumatics?’
Laughingly, Anthony said ‘No!’ Anyhow, he couldn’t sit here any longer. He had had his bit of rest. Now he’d better get back home. ‘I wonder if anything’s happened? I just wonder. All right for Peter! Out at work all day. God! Wouldn’t it be a disgrace if that woman did send bailiffs down? I wonder what’s she like? I’ve never seen her, and there’s a funny-looking man who works for her—so Joe Kilkey says—and who does all the pitching out.’
His imagination became highly coloured; in a few seconds he had visioned every conceivable kind of catastrophe. The walk up Bank Hill was long, slow and tortuous. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed at home after all. And yet. No, the trouble is that they’ve only half mended my feet. Damn them! That was my fault. Saying yes when I should have said no. Got up too early—threw those crutches away far too soon.’
He addressed a question to himself. ‘Aye, but damn me—you were glad to get rid of them, weren’t you, glad to see the last of trams, offices, hospitals and doctors, of course?’ Yes, he was. He had been glad when it ended. Happier at sea. Far, far happier. ‘I’ll never leave the sea! Never! Even when I’ve done round thirty-odd years of it, like dad—I’ll still hang on. Living ashore, working ashore—ah, it’s a bum’s life. A bum’s. Here we are! At the top of this bloody awful hill at last. Why don’t they have trams running up Bank Hill? Nearly home now, thank the Lord! And not a thing done. Not a single thing.’ Help! He might as well have asked the brick wall against which he now leaned to rest.
‘Poor old Joe!’ he said. ‘Poor old Joe!’
Here was Dacre Road. At last! Another few streets and then he’d be home. He kept thinking of his mother. What would she be doing? Getting dinner ready, no doubt. Oh, but it was after one. Would she still have her hat and coat on? He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He had to. She looked so funny in that black straw hat. And he had never noticed things like that before. He turned out of Dacre Road, went along the King’s Road, and this time, temptation overcoming him, he stopped outside Mr. Quickle’s shop. What a simply marvellous instrument t
hat was! Suddenly he was prompted to go into the shop and ask to look at it. Mr. Quickle, the best sitter in the neighbourhood, smiled, rubbed his hands, and called to his son. The accordion was taken out of the window and laid upon the counter. Anthony Fury’s eyes seemed to grow bigger and bigger. He picked up the instrument and held it in his hand. Wonderful! Wonderful! In his hands. He looked at Mr. Quickle.
‘Can I try it?’ he asked, his fingers, already bewitched, having passed through the leather handles and settled themselves upon the keys. He smiled broadly.
‘Certainly, sir! Certainly,’ said Mr. Abraham Quickle, and settled himself more comfortably to listen. He had never heard an Irish jig before, but he listened to one now. It was called ‘The Donkey and the Devil.’ Anthony, carried away now, drew farther away from the counter and began to swing his arms higher and higher, until at last the instrument seemed to throb to this whirling, impassioned movement of his body.
‘You play well, young man,’ said Mr. Quickle. ‘D’you know, that instrument has been in my window over a year? Times are pretty bad now, sir, but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll knock it down to you for twenty pounds.’ Judging by the expression on his face, it seemed that Mr. Quickle was hopeful of a sale. ‘How’s that, sir?’ he added.
The music stopped. Anthony put down the accordion and his face was sad. ‘It’s a lovely instrument, Mr. Quickle,’ he said, ‘but far too dear for me!’