The Secret Journey Read online

  To finish her tea was quite impossible. ‘The ingratitude of people!’ she said in her mind. It was as though she had struck at the core of her power and its harsh voice had remained silent. To have kept that creature nine years, to have clothed and fed him, to have done everything conceivable for him, and, then for him to take offence, mainly because, ruled by a sudden desire, she had decided to look after a particular account. It wasn’t the account, it wasn’t the sum, nor the woman, no, it was just this, that there should have emerged from that slavish creature a spirit, the faint glow of an independent spirit. That he should even have suggested that the account was running too high. She laughed aloud. Good God! She had not trodden hard enough.

  At half-past nine, Mr. Corkran, hearing a loud ring on the bell, rushed down the hall to answer the door. A young man, he appeared to Mr. Corkran to be a person about twenty years of age, was standing on the step. In reply to that gentleman’s gruff ‘Name, please,’ the young man, after subjecting Mr. Corkran to a scrutinizing survey which began at his rope shoes and ended at the top of his head, replied:

  ‘Fury! I have a letter from my mother for Mrs. Ragner.’

  ‘I see. Will you step inside?’

  Mr. Corkran drew open the door as far as he could without moving from his position, but the young man made no move. Instead, he replied:

  ‘I’d much rather not. Would you take the note for me?’

  ‘You seem in a great hurry. How do you know I’ll take the note for you? I am not a servant. If you have any business here, you must step inside and see Mrs. Ragner.’ He leaned out over the step and said in a low voice, ‘Because Mrs. Ragner is most strict about one thing. You can go to see her, but she won’t come out to see you. This applies to all visitors here. Is the message urgent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it. I was asked to bring this note.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘My mother,’ replied the young man. He seemed to resent Mr. Corkran’s curiosity about such intimate matters. He held the letter in his hand, the other rested upon the brick-work. Looking at it, Mr. Corkran thought what a businesslike hand it really was. The fist was clenched and leaned heavily upon the wall, as though all the weight of the young man’s body lay behind it. Mr. Corkran shifted his position. The man on the step was staring at him in a most insolent fashion. This attitude was so unusual that for the first time for years Daniel Corkran raised his voice.

  ‘Who are you staring at?’ he asked.

  ‘You. Are you taking the letter or not? It doesn’t concern me, and I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘I thought you were,’ replied the astonished Daniel. ‘But wait a second, will you?’

  Mrs. Ragner’s clients having gone, all business was closed promptly at nine. She had locked up her books, and was sitting indulging in contemplation at the wooden trestle-table. Then the sound of voices came to her ears. Two men speaking. She had been expecting a visitor at nine, but a woman. This was a man. She went out and stood in the hall.

  ‘What is it, Corkran?’ she called. ‘It is gone nine o’clock. Close the door.’

  ‘This young man has come from Hatfields. He has a letter for you and he is in a hurry. I asked him to come in, but he said he preferred not. His name is Fury.’

  Anna Ragner stood motionless. Her eyes pierced through the dim light of the hall.

  ‘What do you want?’ she called out in a loud voice.

  ‘I have a letter from my mother,’ replied the young man.

  ‘Then if anybody has a letter for me they must deliver it. Corkran, I will see to this.’

  It was only when she stood at the door looking down into the young man’s face that she realized that she had broken an iron rule. She had answered the door herself. Mr. Corkran, though dismissed, still hung about in the hall, his sallow skin looking yellowish and sickly under the light. Mrs. Ragner said sharply:

  ‘Show this young man to my room.’

  Then she walked along the hall and disappeared into the big sitting-room. She sat down at her desk. Mr. Corkran, having seated the visitor in the back sitting-room, went into the big room to tidy up. Mrs. Ragner sat so quietly at her desk that he was quite unaware of her presence. The top part of the room where she sat was in shadow, but he heard her heavy breathing.

  The young man seated on the couch at once rose to his feet when the woman entered the room. She had kept him waiting fifteen minutes, during which time she had sat thinking of nothing in particular except her visitor, who seemed truculent, agitated, and certainly ill-mannered. For anybody to refuse to enter number three Banfield Road, especially when asked, was the height of bad manners. She stood looking at him now, casually, indifferently, as though he were nothing in particular, like an article of furniture, or the very carpet on which he had placed his dirty boots.

  Without a word she took the letter from his hand, opened it and began to read.

  The young man wore a brown suit, a sailor’s blue jersey, and black shoes. His head was bare. He was about five foot ten in height, well built, had a lively, intelligent face, a restless look, and gave the appearance of being a little shortsighted by the way he stared at people at first acquaintance. He now stared at Mrs. Ragner. He noticed her black velvet dress, her black suède shoes, her well-kept hair, the single ornament she wore round her neck. He noticed the contours of her body set clear by the tightness of the black dress, and he noticed her hands. More than any other part of her person the hands stood out, at least for him, as the living manifestation of her character, of what she was. A moneylender. Whilst his eyes remained fastened upon her hands, she in turn was studying him. But so concentrated was his gaze that he was quite unconscious of the eyes that now roamed over his own person. Eyes that looked out over the edges of the notepaper she still held in her hand. She had read the letter long ago. It now became a sort of screen from behind which she could get a clear view of her visitor. To Mrs. Ragner it was almost as though that tall proud woman were now seated in front of her. But the expression was different. Mrs. Fury looked at her in one way—this young man had looked at her in quite another. Was he staring at the rings upon her fingers? And when he raised his eyes was he not staring at her neck, at that cavity between her breasts which took the weight of the necklace? Suddenly she dropped the letter and caught him unawares.

  ‘To think that he has been studying my figure!’ she thought as she saw the embarrassed look he shot at her. Somehow she felt pleased with herself at this moment.

  ‘Are you the Peter Fury who was at college?’ she asked, as she stretched her legs upon the black carpet.

  The young man leaned forward and said, ‘Yes.’ He had begun to fidget, and for the second time he looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be late,’ he thought. ‘I was at college in Cork,’ he stammered out, and half rose from the chair.

  ‘What can he be in such a hurry about?’ Mrs. Ragner was asking herself. ‘You go to sea now,’ she continued. ‘Is your father still working? and your other brother, the one who had the accident?’

  Peter Fury replied ‘Yes.’ He rather resented this enquiry into what he considered purely private family affairs. In any case he wouldn’t sit in the house a minute longer. He had something far more important to do than sit looking at this fat greasy Jewess, who seemed to take an especial pleasure in asking him somewhat embarrassing questions. He brushed his trousers with his hand, got up and said, ‘I must go now. I have an appointment. I’ll be late.’ As he said this he flushed deeply as though he now resented what he had said. It was none of this woman’s business, anyhow. Of one thing he was quite certain. He wouldn’t come here again. His mother could do that. It wasn’t anything to do with him.

  Anna Ragner also got up and walked with him to the door. She smiled at him, saying, ‘About this note. Will you tell your mother that I have not yet made up my mind, and that on Friday I shall expect the usual payment?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Peter Fury was getting quite agitated now. She opened the door for h
im.

  ‘Mr. Corkran will show you out.’ Suddenly, before he realized it, she was standing in front of him. ‘You will be here on Friday, then,’ she said, with all the assurance of a person who is quite certain that he will be.

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell her that,’ replied the young man, looking down into Mrs. Ragner’s face as though what she was saying—in fact, as though the whole scene was but the fragment of some dream. He could not take his eyes from Mrs. Ragner’s hands. There was something fascinating about them, with their glittering rings, the crooked fingers, the powerful wrists. Then he hurried from the room. Halfway down the hall he gave a quick glance back as though he imagined she were following him, and then out of the shadows stepped the factotum, walking silently in his rope shoes, who said quickly, ‘Have you forgotten something?’

  ‘Oh no. Thank you.’ Then the door opened and he shot out into the street. The door closed loudly behind him. He walked quickly down the gravel path, and when he came to the gate he stopped, turned round, and, leaning across it, stared back at the big gloomy house, in complete darkness now save for the faint light burning in the hall. He thought of the peculiar creature who had opened the door to him, as he thought too of that woman dressed in black velvet whose hands had so fascinated him and who seemed so calm, so businesslike, and so indifferent to everybody but herself. She had seemed quite indifferent to his haste, his agitation. ‘So that’s how it is,’ he thought, as he hurried down the road. ‘That’s the position. Well!…’ When he reached the bottom, he saw a tram racing along. Without waiting for it to stop he ran and boarded it, swinging dangerously by one hand to the brass pole. The car rocked crazily as it took the descent of the hill. There was only one passenger in it, a man going to work. He was trying to read the late issue of The Gelton Times, but the fantastic movements of the tram made this most difficult. By his side was a parcel. Obviously his food. ‘Must be a night worker,’ thought Peter as he passed him to take a seat right in front of the car. The life of the streets had dimmed, here and there lamps had been put out by the wind, and as he passed the local theatre he saw crowds streaming out, the air was filled with conversation, laughter, titters and curses. ‘I’m late,’ he thought. ‘Of course, Mother would just do that. Just like her. First night home from sea into the bargain.’ Well, he had made his position pretty plain. They needn’t expect him back before midnight. And no more questions, no more apologies, no more resurrecting old ghosts and playing upon his feelings. All past. A new page had come into being, the brightest page he had ever turned. In this rushing tram making towards the town at a speed that might have actually been fashioned to his very purpose, he was really floating upon the crest of the most delicious and delirious wave of anticipation. He was going towards happiness. ‘Sheila!’ he kept muttering under his breath. ‘Dear Sheila!’ Oh! Why had she married that thick brother of his? Why? Why? It all seemed so preposterous. Married nearly two years, and yet they meant nothing to each other. At least Desmond meant nothing to her. ‘If,’ he thought,’ ‘if’—but suddenly the tram pulled up with a jerk, and it seemed to snap off his train of thought as quickly as it had pitched him forward in his seat. He shook himself like a dog, dashed down the car, swung down the stair-rail, and landed in the road just as the car with a loud screech set off on its journey again. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  Prees Street contained only four houses. The rest of it consisted of offices. It faced the back of the Custom House on one side, the square known as Ranes Square on the other. At the end of this street, standing under the lamp, the one illumination supplied for the benefit of the inhabitants, was a woman dressed in a long blue coat. The collar was buttoned high around her neck. On her head she was wearing a blue tam-o’-shanter on which a black feather was pinned by a silver brooch. She kept looking up and down the street, her attitude furtive, impatient, as every now and again she made a quick disappearance round the corner. Suddenly a form loomed up out of the darkness and two arms were thrown round her, her head forced back to meet the smiling face of the young man who a few minutes ago had jumped from the tram. ‘Sheila!’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Dear Sheila!’ He continued to press back her head until his lips touched her own. He pressed them against her own, at the same time increasing his grip upon her body. The woman could hear the pounding of his heart, the quiet breathing, and feel those burning lips pressed so tight against her own. For nearly a minute they remained like this, cleaved together by sheer ecstasy. Then he let her go. ‘Peter!’ she said. ‘Oh, Peter! I thought you would never come.’ She seemed to devour him with her eyes, the while her hands stroked his hair, his face, his neck, and slid up and down his arms. No more was said. She seemed content. Here he was standing in front of her, alive, smiling. Peter—her Peter.

  ‘When did you come, darling? Tell me quickly. When did you arrive home?’

  ‘On this afternoon’s tide. I got your letter. All your letters. But let’s walk on. I don’t like hanging round here. In fact I hate it. Let’s move on,’ and he caught her hand, a hand hot and moist, and pulled her from under the lamp. Then he said ‘Stop,’ and held her by the shoulders for a moment, looking down into her passionate face, almost parchment-like in colour beneath the yellowish lamplight. They walked away, crossed the square, turned down Mercedes Street, and so on to the main road, almost deserted now. Once or twice they stopped to look back.

  ‘If only we were walking away together for always. Far away, Sheila,’ Peter said. They turned off the main road, and plunged into a long street under some railway arches. ‘It is too late now to go further,’ he said. They sought the shelter of one of the arches, and in the security of the darkness embraced each other again, in absolute silence, as though each were numbed by the wave of feeling that flooded them both. After a while she pushed him away. His face seemed a mere white splash upon the darkness. It was so dark that but for this, and the sounds of his heavy breathing, she would hardly have realised he was there at all. ‘Oh, Peter darling,’ she exclaimed, ‘you’ve come.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come, and here I am, dear Sheila.’ He stood there, palpitating, his hands hot and trembling, bathed in the very aura of her presence. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am. I have longed for this. Longed, longed for it. Think of it. A whole year almost.’ The whole weight of her body lay against his own. ‘We must go somewhere else. At once,’ he said, and putting one arm round her, drew her out from the arch.

  ‘Where? Where shall we go?’ she said, her head heavy on his shoulder.

  ‘Anywhere. I don’t care where.’ He seemed to half carry, half drag the woman along the road, keeping close to the wall. ‘I hate all this,’ he said savagely. ‘Hate it. Sheila—Sheila—I’m so happy. So happy.’

  ‘In here,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘In here.’ They sat down on the wooden floor beneath a hoist door.

  ‘God!’ he said. ‘Suppose you hadn’t come. But you have. You have. You are here.’ He laughed and buried his face on her breast. He felt her hands upon his neck, the while his own, charged as though by some powerful current, sought desperately at her clothing. ‘Sheila! Sheila!’

  Before she realised it, he was looking down into her face, her head resting on his hands, holding it from contact with the floor itself.

  ‘Dear, dear boy,’ she said. ‘I am so happy because you are. So happy because you are.’ But he heard nothing, saw nothing but this white face below him, felt nothing save this powerful wave of feeling that flooded his whole being. She caught his hands that trembled so violently and smothered them with kisses.

  ‘Dear Peter,’ she said. ‘Dear Peter.’

  So they lay, bound body and soul, his breathing sounding almost thunderous in her ears, immersed at last in the flood. Far off across the river sounded the roar of a ship’s cable going home, and from an adjacent hut the sudden barking of a dog, which struck upon the silence like the crack of a whip; and all that they felt and hoped and imagined was alive, flowering yet hidden, triumphant yet furtive, the fruit
and essence of their love cowering in this darkness, shielded from the world, from the harsh seamy face of all actuality, by the very aura it threw out and flung around them like some protecting cloak. They lay in dream, frightened yet exultant, throbbing with joy, and only the dim voice of fear struck upon their hearts: fear, flashed from the hidden fastness of their ecstasy, sounding its voice. All around them the mesh of reality, yet they were secure against it.

  It was the sudden tread of feet that roused them. Quietly they sat, confronting each other with expressions of bewilderment, of almost childlike wonder, as though they were questioning this sudden invasion of their dream.

  ‘Quick. Let’s go.’

  She could feel his whole body shivering. He lifted her to her feet. ‘Oh, Sheila,’ he said, and once more held her to him. When the steps passed, they drew back into the darkness. ‘It’s this I hate,’ he exclaimed savagely. ‘It’s this I hate. What has happened?’

  ‘Let’s go from here,’ she said. They smoothed down their clothes, and then ran from the shelter. As they passed under the light of the lamp, they seemed like wraiths fleeing through the darkness.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Peter. ‘I wonder? I’ve forgotten everything.’ He looked at a nickel-plated watch he carried. A quarter past ten. ‘But that doesn’t matter,’ he thought on reflection. ‘We must talk, Sheila. You must tell me everything that has happened. Then I’ll tell you all that’s happened to me.’

  Her arm was through his, and continually she turned her head and looked up into his face, as though she were endeavouring to discover every moment this thing, the illusive thing for which she searched. He had grown. He had changed considerably. No longer a boy—at least that shy, rough, awkward, and embarrassed boy she had seen just twelve months ago. Yet when she looked into his eyes she realized he had not changed. He was just the same, boyish, urgent, impatient, the same Peter who had been with her in Vulcan Street. Suddenly they came to a stop; a church stood in front of them. Peter tried its wooden gate. It was locked. He could see the shadows of rough wooden seats hard by the church wall. ‘In here,’ he said, lifting the woman in his arms, and depositing her somewhat clumsily on the other side of the gate. Then he swung his legs over and landed beside her. ‘If we are found here, there will be trouble.’ He pulled her towards the shadow of the wall. There they sat down. They clasped hands. ‘Well, Sheila,’ said Peter. ‘Here we can talk. Tell me, has anything happened?’