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  The Secret Journey

  A Novel

  James Hanley

  To

  GERALD

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  PART II

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  PART III

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Preview: Our Time Is Gone

  About the Author

  PART I

  CHAPTER I

  Mrs. Anna Ragner was a lady who had certain very definite ideas not only about the state of the world, but about the society which inhabited it. For one thing, she believed that people were divided into two classes, those who waited and those who were attended to at once. Mrs. Ragner had passed the stage where sociologists had divided the world’s inhabitants into three classes. The word class was not in that lady’s vocabulary. It belonged to the dictionary of the social sciences. Mrs. Anna Ragner spoke of persons, not classes. Necessity created her. Therefore Mrs. Ragner’s sustenance was necessity. She was of middle age and unmarried. Her form was designed by nature to fit easily into any kind of dress. All designs and all colours suited this plump lady. She looked well in everything she wore, though curiously enough she lacked that essential feminine vanity which would have set the seal upon her perfection. She had lived in Gelton for a number of years, but her history was as obscure even as her big, ugly-looking house that was situated in Banfield Road. This road lay at the top of a hill in the northern district of Gelton. Banfield House stood alone, flanked by patches of waste ground. It was old, squat, ugly. There was something solid about it, something impregnable; it suggested the bleakness of a fort on windswept rock. At the back of the house there stood a large sauce and pickle factory. All day the odours of essences and spices floated about Banfield House, but if passers-by were conscious of them, Anna Ragner who lived in their midst was not. Such smells were part of the atmosphere, like the air, the bricks, the stone steps, and heavy, dusty windows, all of which windows, with the exception of the sitting-room ones, were covered with iron bars. Anna Ragner liked these. It seemed fitting indeed that one of her calling should have bars upon her windows. Mrs. Anna Ragner’s mission in life was to supply money to needy clients. Necessity created the clients, and society created necessity. Only by the harmonious working of this trinity could she live. Mrs. Ragner always sat at the top of the long, low-ceilinged sitting-room when interviewing her clients. The windows were never opened. In cold weather she had an oil-stove by her side. The clients sat at the other end of the room. They were always orderly, patient, and even on the windiest nights never seemed to feel the cold draughts along the bare wooden floor. Huddled together they kept each other warm. Anna Ragner did not supply warmth to clients, only money. During interviews she was attended by her factotum, a Mr. Corkran. He was the only person living with Mrs. Ragner. He had a room of his own at the top of the house. They rarely saw each other except during hours of business, and that was always in the evening, as during the day Mrs. Ragner attended at her small office in the city to interview other clients. They took their meals, which Mr. Corkran himself cooked, in their own rooms. This gentleman was an ex-sailor, a man who had sailed the world over, and who now, fortified by the touchstone of experience, had settled himself permanently in the house in Banfield Road. Mr. Corkran knew his employer better than anybody, and none knew Mr. Corkran better than Mrs. Ragner. They respected each other. No more than that. Neither cherished any affection for the other. Clients had often remarked to each other that Mr. Corkran was living with the woman as his wife, that he had had complete control over everything. But this was wrong. Anna Ragner would have thought any such associations repulsive. One thing, however, seemed certain—that the one could not exist without the other. Mr. Corkran not only looked after the domestic side of the business, but he also acted as counsellor on money matters. Also when necessity arose he could deal effectively with stubborn or bullying clients. Mrs. Ragner would never have thought of having a woman about the house, for in her opinion this ex-sailor was worth a hundred of them. She made him an allowance. He paid the rent, bought the food and cooked it. He cleaned the house, and washed the clothes, even Anna Ragner’s. He saw to everything. Mr. Corkran’s imagination never shaped or fashioned a future. Working with Mrs. Ragner was in no sense a means to an end. He neither thought of marrying her nor of inheriting her money. He was perfectly content. He was happy, and even told the lady so. He called the house ‘his haven.’ He had no friends. If he had relations Mrs. Ragner had never seen them. He was entirely alone, Banfield Road was his world and he was wholly absorbed in the life there. He had become one with the rhythm of that life, and nothing could disturb it. After seeing her clients in the evening Mrs. Ragner generally went out, but when she did not, she passed her time alone in her own room. Her favourite pastime was going through the letters of clients. Her psychological bent expressed itself in this way. She would look at a letter, speak the name aloud, and then try to conjure up in her mind a picture of its writer. If a person whom she had already met, the picture stood out crystal-clear at once. She liked faces, the faces of people who knew how to keep their mouths closed and listen to what she said, suggested, or commanded. She liked the faces of proud people when they called about a little matter of a loan. The map of a human face as it looked down at her seated at her desk was the only geography in which this woman was interested. As for Mr. Corkran, after his services were dispensed with, he retired to his own room to read. Daniel Corkran’s speciality was murder, but murder with an atmosphere. He liked murders in March, bodies found in entries or alleys, outside conveniences, and in bleak back-yards of public-houses. About midnight he would get up and, leaving the room, walk along the landing in his home-made rope shoes about which he was very proud, and stand silently outside the door of Mrs. Ragner’s room. He would say, ‘Goodnight, mam.’ He never waited for an answer, but went straight back to his room. Mrs. Ragner, hearing that voice, would call back, ‘Good-night, Corkran. See everything is locked up.’ To this request there was never any reply. To ask that gentleman if he had locked up was really an insult to his intelligence. On only one occasion had Mr. Corkran entered Mrs. Ragner’s room at the late hour of eleven or half-past. This was when by some peculiar oversight he had forgotten to empty a certain vessel. It was the only occasion on which he had seen his employer undressed. Instinct rather than mere curiosity caused him to open wide those strange eyes he had, as he beheld Mrs. Ragner’s legs, and not only her legs but her expansive bosom with its heavy breasts. ‘Why haven’t you removed this?’ Mrs. Ragner had demanded, and fixed him with a penetrating glance that seemed more suited to her necessitous clients than to a faithful and devoted servant. Mr. Corkran, whose eyes, satisfied with that glimpse of the white and heavy flesh, had said ‘Sorry, mam,’ had picked up the vessel and had taken it out and emptied it. Neither had suffered embarrassment, and Mr. Corkran had completely forgotten the matter. The next morning when he served her breakfast she said sharply, glancing at that weather-beaten face with its so knowledgeable air, ‘Understand, Corkran, that when I call, I must be attende
d to at once.’

  ‘Yes, mam,’ he had replied. Mrs. Ragner ever after retained a picture in her mind of that little scene. Her nakedness revealed for the first time to any man. It remained imprinted very clearly upon her mind. It was as though for the first time she had seen as in a mirror the deficiency in her make-up. She had realized that inner being, dead, voiceless. The fruit and essence of feeling lay buried beneath it. The more urgent and strident voice of the world of Banfield Road held her firmly within its mesh. An isolated incident, a momentary invasion of the rhythm of daily life. Mr. Corkran and Mrs. Ragner respected each other too much. For either to have succumbed in that delicate moment would have put an end to that respect, which transcended everything.

  This morning—the hall clock had just chimed nine—Anna Ragner was dressing in front of her mirror. She had put on a black velvet dress, its sole decoration a pearl necklace that hung round her neck and lay gracefully on her bosom. Her jet-black hair was brushed straight back from the forehead. As she smoothed out her dress she called out, ‘Corkran!’

  Mr. Corkran, appearing as though by magic, stood outside waiting. ‘Yes, mam,’ he said.

  ‘You will get my things ready, Corkran, I have to be at the court at half-past ten.’

  ‘Yes, mam.’ Mr. Corkran moved away as silently as a cat. Mrs. Ragner closed the drawer of her dressing-table, picked up a bunch of keys, and crossing the room opened a small safe in the wall. From it she took her moneylender’s expired licence, three testimonials, and a recent letter from her solicitor. These she put into her black bag, a Gladstone that had seen much service, and whose life only held together, it seemed, by the application of Mr. Corkran’s special polish. She locked the bag, surveyed herself in the mirror and patted her cheek, a habit she had whenever she was going off to the court. The significance of this habit was something that only that plump lady knew. To Mr. Corkran it was just a habit. She went downstairs, where she heard the man pottering away in the kitchen, and a few minutes later he appeared in the drawing-room with a tray. Mrs. Ragner began breakfast. ‘Her things,’ consisting of hat, coat, scarf and umbrella, were already lying on the hall box. To her left lay the mail. She picked up the neatly piled heap of letters and with the same hand spread them out in a long row, and her experienced eye surveyed them. Here were badly addressed envelopes, dirty envelopes, important-looking envelopes, and envelopes that simply cried out to be opened and attended to. ‘Corkran!’ she called. When that gentleman came in, Mrs. Ragner took three letters from her pile of forty and said casually, ‘You might attend to those, Corkran.’ Then she went on eating. The man picked up the letters and left the room. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed under her breath. Then she opened her three letters and began to read.

  Meanwhile Mr. Corkran had returned to the kitchen. This was his den. It contained two chairs, a white scrubbed table, a chest of drawers, whilst on the walls hung some cheap oleographs. An almanac hung on one side of the grate. Mr. Corkran began looking at the letters. This was one of his great moments, the first survey of the mail, the mail of the clients who must wait. Above his head was a clothes-line upon which hung drying clothes, a shirt and some handkerchiefs. At the other end of the line hung Mrs. Ragner’s night-dress, silk knickers, and stockings. All these were washed by Mr. Corkran. There could be no question of any outside laundering, for Mr. Corkran would not hear of it. The fact that a man should do this kind of work, and like it, seemed to Mrs. Ragner merely a manifestation of his complete contentment, his willingness and his devotion. Briefly there was nothing that Mr. Corkran could not or did not do. As he sat looking at the various envelopes he heard the chair creak in the drawing-room. At once he put down his knife and fork and went off to the hall. Mrs. Ragner was already putting on her hat, and with the man beside her continued to fidget with this, all the while looking into the mirror, until she had it in the exact position in which she wanted it.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said—and smiled. Mr. Corkran nodded and that was all.

  Then he said, ‘Will you be back at the usual time, mam?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, then after a pause asked, ‘Why?’ It was a rare occasion when Anna Ragner forgot an important matter connected with her business. But she had, for Mr. Corkran at once replied, ‘I understand you wanted to go over that Fury contract again, mam.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course! That is quite right. About the renewal of the loan.’ Again Corkran nodded his head.

  ‘I went there twice to assess, but each time there was nobody in.’ He began scraping his foot along the bottom of the hall-stand.

  ‘Yes, I think that matter had better be seen to. How I came to forget I really don’t know. But I have been much occupied in my mind lately with another matter.’ She looked at the man directly, questioningly, penetratingly, as though the indefatigable Mr. Corkran might be able at this very moment to reassure her upon a matter of which he knew exactly nothing. He, not being possessed of any psychic qualities, said, ‘Yes, mam, I understand, you have looked not a little worried lately. I hope you are not unwell.’ He returned her glance, but she saw nothing beyond two slits that seemed to shine like glass, cupped by thick brows.

  ‘People are so ungrateful,’ said Mrs. Ragner. She picked up her bag, and Mr. Corkran opened the door for her. ‘Here is Spencer now,’ she said, and descended the steps.

  ‘I shall go over those Fury papers, mam, and will go once more to Hatfields. I shall be back about four-thirty. Everything will be ready as usual.’

  ‘Very well. Good-morning, Corkran.’ Mr. Corkran watched the important figure climb into the cab, whilst Spencer, an old and bilious-looking cabby, relieved his horse of the nosebag, climbed into his seat, and picked up the reins. Number three Banfield Road closed its doors, and the cab moved off.

  Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Ragner were almost old friends, for the cabby had a regular contract to drive the lady to her office in Heys Road, and on the mornings of court appearances he arrived at the house half an hour earlier. He put this down to Mrs. Ragner’s respect for punctuality, but this was not so. Punctuality was not in the vocabulary of any person for whom people were merely persons who waited and persons who were attended to at once. The earlier arrival of the cab made a leisurely drive possible, and naturally there were occasions when Mrs. Ragner, to use her own words, liked to ‘survey her lands.’ For this reason Mr. Spencer’s cab followed no set course. Indeed, no cab ever made such twistings and turnings as Mr. Spencer’s did on what he called ‘Court days.’ Mrs. Ragner’s net was wide. There were concealed turnings, twisting round corners into narrow streets, sudden backings when a short alley ended in a cul-de-sac. Passing through this maze of streets and roads and alleys, it was not unnatural that occasionally a client looked at the cab and remarked to her neighbour, ‘There’s Mrs. Ragner.’ These remarks were always audible, a clue indeed to the degree of astonishment which followed that lady’s sudden appearance upon ‘her lands.’ She liked to see the houses where clients lived. But at the same time she never recognized a client. That was not her business. It was she only who was to be recognized. Here a young woman suckling her child upon a step, there a woman with sleeves rolled up cleaning her parlour windows, there a man painting his house door. These were her clients. She surveyed and passed on. When the cab reached Mile Hill it stopped. Mr. Spencer descended from his seat and repaired to ‘The Robber’s Nest.’ Mrs. Ragner looked out of the windows of her cab. She never smiled. People passed by, looked in through the window at the stout lady in the fur coat, and passed on. For all these people Mrs. Ragner had a special look: the bent man, the raucous-voiced young girl, the babe in arms, the old men and women. Towards all of them she turned a calm, dignified countenance, the while she sat back in imperious attitude upon her seat. Whilst such people drew breath she could live. She was one with them, they lived for one another, depended upon one another. Mr. Spencer returned from ‘The Robber’s Nest’ wiping his lips with evident satisfaction, filled as he was by a new pride and a new voice, possibl
e only through the kindness of that good lady sitting so contentedly inside his vehicle. The cab moved on. It began to rain. It poured. Mrs. Ragner buttoned her coat about her neck, put her hands through her muff, and crouched into the corner.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the cabby. ‘Court Place.’ The cab pulled up outside the gate. A motley crowd was collected. Policemen moved about amongst beshawled women; two old men leaning against a shop window displaying pornographic literature looked out of watery eyes at the stout lady now descending from the cab, whilst through the assembly like an undercurrent passed the word ‘Moneylender.’ For a moment the lady stood looking over the heads of the crowd. Then she told Mr. Spencer to be back at noon, and passed up the yard towards the court. For the first time that morning she smiled, for right in front of her were some other followers of her own profession, all women. They were talking animatedly in whispers about a case that was at that moment about to be heard. Mrs. Ragner bid them ‘Good-morning’ and passed on. Exactly at five minutes past twelve Anna Ragner, Moneylender, 3 Banfield Road, Gelton, climbed once more into Mr. Spencer’s cab and was driven to Heys Road. She entered her small office and began business for the day.

  At two-forty-five Mr. Corkran returned from Hatfields. He rang up the office at Heys Road. Mrs. Ragner was engaged at the time with a rather impecunious merchant, whose optimisms about the future had so far failed to have any effect upon the lady who could lend five pounds to five thousand pounds on note of hand alone. Hearing the bell ring, Mrs. Ragner said, ‘Excuse me one moment,’ and picking up the receiver recognized her factotum’s voice at once. To get a ring from Mr. Corkran was the most unnatural thing in the world. ‘What is it, Corkran?’ she asked, fingering her necklace with her hand, the while her bosom rose and fell to the uneven rhythm of her breathing.

  ‘It’s this Fury business, mam,’ said Mr. Corkran from the other end of the phone. ‘I called at Hatfields to-day and saw the woman. I thought I would ring you in case you might wish to alter your decision, mam. I assessed the furniture at seventeen pounds, but even allowing for regular payments, that assessment would hardly cover the interest on the first loan. I thought it curious, if you will excuse me for saying so, mam, I thought it curious you wished to renew on the original loan of twenty in view of the fact that the interest on the first and second loans is now twenty-two pounds, and of the original loan of twenty itself only twelve has been cleared. I pointed out that a renewal was of course entirely a matter for your own discretion. I——’