by James Hanley
And then Mr. Slye decided to destroy his stock. It was hard. But there it was, and he lifted up armful upon armful of books, folios, pictures, etc., and dumped them on the floor. In matters of pure business women were hopeless. So full of moods.
‘I’ll burn the lot, and I’ll make good the loss later.’
He had been too confident. Too greedy. He had lost his fine betting commissions. He should never have had that Sloane woman in. And here was this silly bitch crying because she thought he didn’t love her. When had he never loved a woman?
At half-past two Mr. Doogle called ‘quite by accident.’ He thought he’d look in. He had read the case in the papers. Yes. He, Slye’s name had been mentioned. If he were wise he would get clear now. He, Doogle would look after the stuff. Mr. Slye stared.
‘I’ve a cart outside! I’ll take the lot. Where are you making for?’
‘Blacksea! At least Maury’s going there. I’d arranged to go to-morrow,’ he said.
‘Can’t do that! Too late. If I know anything the police are on their way here. I’ll charge you for this, Slye, but I’ll look after it. Send the stuff on after you carriage forward. Now give me a hand,’ and Mr. Doogle removed hat and coat.
Maureen came in with tea. The effects of the morning’s tears were not absent. Mr. Doogle said: ‘Afternoon, lovely,’ and watched her bend down over the table.
‘Tea for three,’ Mr. Slye said. Then he turned to Maury. ‘Come on. You too. Give us a bloody lift with this stuff. Chance of saving it.’
All three carried out the bundles, well wrapped in sacking and newspapers and finally put into wooden boxes. The man holding the cart shafts looked woodenly at everybody. Mr. Slye rushed in and out, he sweated, and Mr. Doogle did likewise. But Maureen carried her loads as though they were the coffined remains of something very dear to her! She was rather bewildered by the suddenness of events. Mr. Slye had said nothing yet.
Mr. Doogle stopped suddenly, half a dozen copies of ‘Inside the Nurse’s Bedroom,’ under his arm.
‘By the way, Slye Esquire, I found out about Trears too. Remember you saying you’d heard the name before? Well, you were right. He was defending solicitor in that murder case, you know. The Ragner case.’
Mr. Slye dropped his bundle on the floor. Then he laughed. Maureen came in. ‘Why of course! Trears. The Ragner case. Your ma was in that, wasn’t she, chicks?’
Mr. Doogle went off with his bundle, now carefully wrapped up.
‘He’s just been telling me, Maury, that the feller who’s brought this case on is the same one as represented your ma! You know! That murder case. Your brother did her in. You know.’ His voice appealed, it was sweet like honey. ‘You know,’ he went on. ‘He did a job there! She was a bitch, that one was. Takes something to beat a bitch when she is nasty, eh, Maury?’
Then he rushed past her, carrying two portfolios of ‘alluring postures.’
They tramped to and fro for the best part of twenty minutes. At last it was done. Then Maureen poured out the tea. They both watched her do this; they watched her intently. She was a fine-looking girl, and, thought Mr. Slye, an excellent asset in the business. Why couldn’t Mr. Doogle come in? The idea intrigued him. Doogle was a good man on that job. The three of them together would be excellent, and suddenly he looked at Doogle, who gulped tea with loud sucking sounds. He noticed how his hands trembled. But that was a habit.
‘I’ve been thinking lately, Doogle, I been thinking why we can’t get together. How’d you like to come in with me, and Maury here doing the stuff?’
‘Doing the stuff,’ thought Mr. Doogle, and then he showed a broad grin. What did he mean by that exactly? Not sharing Long-legs between them, surely. Mr. Doogle whispered, Mr. Slye smiled. They looked up at Maureen again.
‘That apart, Doogle, I think Blacksea is good ground. What would you say to this? D’you know there’s more ornamental masons there than any other place in the whole country,’ but Mr. Doogle hearing a shout suddenly rushed from the cellar. The man with the handcart said: ‘Where to? You never said where to?’
‘I did. I said Angles’ Building, bottom floor. Go on! Get off with the stuff.’
Maureen was sitting on Mr. Slye’s knee when he returned. But Mr. Doogle didn’t mind. He rather liked it in fact though once or twice he took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes; they watered like those of a very old man. ‘See me at Mac’s after half seven,’ said he. ‘I’m going. Got a job to attend to. And take my advice and cut off out of it now. Soon’s you like.’ Then he went out, banging the door behind him. They heard his heavy tread on the stairs.
Mr. Slye ran a finger through the woman’s hair. ‘Lovely hair you’ve got, me chicks. Lovely hair. Isn’t Doogle funny? Funny old cod. He’s got ideas, that feller has. It would be worth while his coming in with us. Don’t you think so, Maury?’
Maury didn’t know what to think. Maury couldn’t think of anything. She was too worried. She didn’t mind being stroked, even mauled, but she did object to being left in the lurch. She had given up a home to go to Dick. She began to tell him this. He cooled down a little, his amorousness froze.
‘I hate you always growling, me chick,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake chuck it! You’re coming with me to Blacksea. And you can even bring the kid, see. But soon as ours is here you got to shift your other one. What’s his name? Blast it! I never can think of it. Desmal or Dermod. That’s it. What made you give him a name like that? Tell me, Maury, are you still happy? Still glad you came away from your old cobbler—or whatever he is? I haven’t treated you bad. Have I now? Have I?’
This change of front heightened her bewilderment. What did he mean? She put a finger on each corner of his mouth and pressed.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. Her tone of voice was no longer wheedling.
‘Take you away with me, duck. What d’you think? D’you suppose I could ever think of you with somebody else? Now let’s be sensible. Let’s begin to pack.’
At a quarter past four they left, carrying two bags. The child, just turned three, was in the woman’s arms. They headed for the Central Station. The train would leave at five. To the woman this was adventure, living. This moving about all the time. The other had been like prison. The child chatted and prattled, pulled at her hair, jabbed at her mouth. Near Corniston Street, she stopped and asked him to put the bags down. Mr. Slye put them down, and the next moment found the child in his own arms.
‘I won’t be two minutes. I’m going to ring the hospital.’
‘Don’t be more than two then,’ he said. ‘We can’t miss the train.’
She was gone. She rang up the General. Gave the name. How was her mother? She waited, heart thumping. She was conscious of a deadness, a numbness in her. She wanted to go. She hated to go. She loved her mother! Her mother had spoiled her life. She loved Desmond, and Anthony and Peter. Poor dad! She loved them all. But here she was standing in this telephone box and on the brink of an adventure the end of which she could not foresee. She didn’t want to foresee anything. For her mind, now made up, was everything. The reply came: ‘Your mother was very poorly this afternoon. A Father Moynihan called.’
This in answer to her question about callers. It did seem strange that Joe of all people had not been to see her mother. All through he had been a staunch friend. The tears that came too easily, came again. She felt suddenly wretched. Was she really happy? Was this man Slye everything? The questions came, shot into her mind. She couldn’t answer them. She hoped her mother would get better. It would kill dad if anything happened. Perhaps she had been mean and indifferent. Perhaps she——But she had better not think about that. Mr. Slye, Dick, would be waiting. He wouldn’t love the child any better for having to nurse it in the public street. She hurried back to him.
He leaned over her, and said angrily, ‘Tears again! You best chuck it or I’m going by myself. That’s all. Here, take the kid,’ he said.
‘I’m worried to death!’ she exclaimed as the
y entered the station.
‘You’re not the only one, me chick, not by a long chalk,’ he answered drily.
They had a quarter of an hour to wait for the train. They went and sat on an empty truck. It was quite dark. They sat silent, waiting. Gusts of wind blew down the platform, bits of paper blew all over the station, a stationary engine hissed steam. Maureen looked up. The station appalled by its height: there was something ghostly about the roofing. People went by talking, laughing, gesticulating. Mr. Slye sat composed, feeling safe, feeling lucky but not quite certain yet as to whether he was a fool or not. He was safe, anyhow. That was the main thing.
Only half an hour after they had left Adolphus Terrace the police had arrived and removed some parcels. But these were nothing more than a massive collection of cigarette cards of all the railway engines of the world, and for a special client, a widow of eighty, who sat on railway platforms to watch the trains simply because she loved them. It was a hard cash loss of three pounds. Curiously enough Mr. Slye had quite forgotten about it. Beyond that they found nothing. The gilt-edged stuff was now safe in Mr. Doogle’s single room at Angles’ Building.
The train came in. There was a rush of people. The carriages had a chill in them, as well as the staleness of the last occupants. They got on. Maureen felt hungry. This was unfortunate because Mr. Slye didn’t. He only felt safe, and rested comfortably. Maureen laid Dermod down. He had fallen asleep in her arms. Looking at him now she wondered if that Mrs. Bolyer had been the best woman to look after him. Never mind! She would look after him herself now. He was growing more and more like his father. Suddenly she looked across at Slye, and out of a lazy eye he looked back at her, stretched himself and smiled.
‘Maury, duck,’ he said.
‘Dick! I’m hungry. Couldn’t we get something to eat? It’s a long way.’
He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Here, get me a meat pie out of it.’
But just as he handed her the shilling, the whistle blew and the train started. It was too late. They would travel hungry to Blacksea, which was the first stop, for this was an express train. Mr. Slye fell asleep and later he filled the compartment with his snores. Maureen examined him minutely. Occasionally she looked down at the child. The train rattled on.
They were off, they were moving, going somewhere. And Dick was there. She loved Dick. But now something happened inside her, a feeling rose up, smothered her. She had been cruel to her mother. To Joe. She couldn’t stand it any longer. That was what had made her sad the whole day. She felt isolated, cut off from them all. When she thought of Peter in prison she couldn’t hold back any longer. She got up and left the carriage. Somehow it seemed wrong to cry in front of Slye Esquire, in front of Dick who snored, and on whose face there had now settled an expression of supreme contentment. No! She must hide. She shut the door behind her, quite forgetting she had left the sleeping child on the seat. Then she locked the lavatory door. She sat down and wept.
II
The man emerged from a small and narrow street, bricks festering space, and he left behind him the sour, acrid smell of stables. He was in the road. Its face shone. It was an endless road. Pavements and roadway carried a grease-film, water-puddles, the burden of debris from the life of that day. To right and left towering warehouses and sheds shrugged stone shoulders, and the dim lights below only increased their toppling height. He walked along at a steady pace, his hands clasped behind his back. His footsteps rang out on the deserted pavement. Goods-yard gates lay open, the yards gaped. In dark corners resting loco engines hissed, and distantly a light engine chugged over points. He passed through patches of dim light, then darkness. The road grew longer as he walked. Sometimes it was shaped for him when the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud. Sometimes it was shapeless.
He looked neither to right nor left, but pushed ahead, his destination known, seeing in the dim distance the tiny red light that hung over the ship’s gangway. He crossed the road. He passed gate after gate outside of which a caped figure stood, or paced to and fro beside his wooden hut. The man passed a ‘good night’ to one of these policemen, and at the same time he saw from the clock tower that it was getting on for nine o’clock. He increased his pace. ‘Didn’t know it was so late as that,’ he said aloud into the deserted road.
He was a man of medium height, well built, with powerful shoulders. He wore a reefer jacket and a jersey, a big peaked cap, and a pair of black serge trousers. The next dock-gate he passed told him that he would reach his ship on time. At the same time a figure emerged into the road, stepped close to him. They recognized each other and the newcomer called out, ‘’Night, Kilkey. What ship?’
Mr. Kilkey swung round as he passed. ‘Fortunia,’ he called out. ‘’Night, Jack.’
They went on, one going towards the city, the other away from it.
‘A few minutes in hand,’ reflected Mr. Kilkey, and his pace became leisurely. To any casual observer it might seem that the man was indulging in one of those nightly prowls, not uncommon on the dock roads of Gelton. But Mr. Kilkey was not interested in such phenomena. He wasn’t interested in the road, the buildings, the noises, the shadows and shapes. They appeared before, and filled eyes already exhausted by them. The road, the look of the road, and the feel of it, the very aura that hung over it was nothing more than history. He wasn’t curious about it. The night face of Gelton was just something to be walked over. The eyes that looked straight ahead now saw the red light grow less dim. He was going to his work, but he did not think of his work. He passed through a drab world made fantastic in the moonlight. But it meant nothing. His mind was on other things. The home he had just left. He thought of his wife who had left him, and of the child but lately gone. ‘Sometimes I get tired of all this,’ he reflected. Not the world, not his work, not even the war that raged. These things neither concerned nor shaped his existence. It was ‘the accident.’ He always called it the accident. Mr. Kilkey liked his home, but not at present. Something had invaded it, something like the cold blast of winter. She had gone, and now the child was gone too. The temperature of living had gone down. Work was different, living was different.
‘Just two years now. I wonder what’ll become of Maureen, anyhow?’ He did wonder. Young and foolish. Didn’t know when she had a good home. Suddenly he stopped dead and drew back, as a huge lorry came out of a gateway. It was packed high with bales of wool, the wheels struck sparks, the horses’ hooves struck sparks, and he heard the whip crack over their flanks as they made a super-effort and finally reached the level of the roadway. Mr. Kilkey went on. One or two men passed him by, passed unseeing, and he cried: ‘’Night, mate,’ to which they replied, ‘’Night.’
Through the next dock-gate Joseph Kilkey disappeared. Great steel sheds, their open doors like mouths, loomed up as he went on. At the end of the line of sheds he turned to the left and came to the quay. Now he could see his ship, an enormous shape, masts spearing skywards, hull lost to view, and the red light over the gangway revealed a group of three men leaning over the bulwarks, in conversation. He stepped over the hawsers of stout rope, could now see the derricks rising like appealing arms, and the great blocks reeved. From the funnel wisps of steam spouted and were swallowed up in the night air. He reached the gangway and ascended. When he reached the top a chorus of voices greeted him. He still had a few minutes to spare.
‘Hello, Joe!’ cried one. ‘Thought you’d gone to France.’
‘Aye,’ exclaimed another, ‘somebody told me you’d joined the Lancers.’
‘Did they? How funny!’ said Mr. Kilkey, and he stood looking at the men. ‘Where’s Malone?’ he asked, and looked round the deck.
‘In the saloon. Asleep as usual, I think.’
‘Oh! I see,’ replied Mr. Kilkey, and he went along the alleyway to the saloon. ‘Hey there, Malone,’ he called in, ‘better stand by your winch.’
‘All right. The ship won’t sink. Coming,’ the man replied from within.
Mr. Kilkey then returned to
the three men. They talked about the war. It was something you lived with, you couldn’t ignore, everybody talked about it.
‘Just lately,’ said Mr. Kilkey, leaning back against the bulkhead, ‘I’ve noticed one or two chaps have taken quite a liking to my job. And that makes me think they’d like to have it. Wouldn’t you like to have it, Crilly?’ he asked, turning and buttonholing his nearest man. ‘It’s a good job, a responsible job. Say I was taken for the army to-morrow?’
‘But you never would, Kilkey. You wouldn’t make a Lancer.’
‘Not talking about Lancers,’ replied Mr. Kilkey.
‘And we can’t now,’ said Crilly, ‘there’s the whistle.’
It blew and the men scattered. Mr. Kilkey went to number three hatch. He found the men already opening it up. ‘How do,’ he said, and then helped them to remove the covers which they piled neatly on the starboard side of the ship. Malone was already at the winch. Suddenly its loud rattle broke the silence.
‘All right there, Malone?’ called Kilkey.
‘All set here.’
Mr. Kilkey got on to the platform, looked down into the’tween-decks. A cluster shone revealing men working below. They looked like insects in the cavernous depths of the ship. ‘All set below there,’ he cried down, and they cried back, ‘All set here. Send down your slings.’
‘Right, Malone,’ cried Kilkey, and the winch began to sing.
‘Stand by your falls there.’
‘Guide-rope man, over there.’
And at the same moment there was a low murmur from the shore crane. The first sling was loaded now, and Mr. Kilkey called out: ‘My gloves there.’ The guide-rope man handed him a pair of stout leather gloves, jammed in the combings.
‘Coming up,’ he said.
Mr. Kilkey put on the gloves, protectors against anthrax. He got a firm grip of the wood beneath his feet, bent forward a little, raised his right hand, crooked his forefinger. Work had begun. The sling rose. He made little circles in the air with his finger. ‘Heave! Steady, hold a bit. Steady there.’