An End and a Beginning (6 page)

“Then suddenly everybody was crowding the rails. I took your mother across, and we stopped there watching the old boat draw nearer and nearer to the quay. She whispered in my ear, ‘I was born here.' The gangway came aboard, everybody was suddenly on the move. We went back to the cabin for your father, and we waited till the other's had all gone. Then we started off with your father. It seemed hours before we got him to the bottom of that gangway. People were kind though, very kind, and I think every jarvey in the place was ready to run them up the Mall. On the quay your mother suddenly stopped and stared about her, saying never a word. I had one arm through that of your father, she the other.”

Peter Fury sat motionless. He did not once glance at Kilkey, and indeed he gave the impression that he had not even been listening. So still and silent did he sit that the old man might well have been addressing himself, and now that he had finished speaking the silence of the room seemed heightened. In the house next door a child could be heard crying, a big lorry tumbled past the window, coals clattered to the hearth.

“What else?” But the other did not answer.

“What else, Mr. Kilkey?” There was something cold and ruthless in this demanding voice.

“You know,” protested the old man. “I told you. I wrote and told you.”

“I know nothing.”

“Your aunt came through her long illness,” said Kilkey, “she is now eighty-three.”

“And mother?” Peter said.

“I will tell you no more,” Kilkey said.

“You won't?”

“No.”

Peter Fury got up and stood looking down at the old man, waiting.

“It was an accident—an accident——” Kilkey said.

“Please tell me.”

“I can't—I'm an old man, I can't be bothered, I'm tired, leave me alone. I can't tell you.”

Peter Fury picked up his cap, and without another word he left the house.

2

He regretted his action the moment he heard the door close behind him. He had half a mind to go back, to knock, to apologise to the old man. He walked quickly down the street, and stood on the corner, looking towards the city. Gelton stretched out before him as wide as the ocean. Gelton was noisy, tumultuous, lost in the tumbling rounds of its own energy. He suddenly remembered the two people who had met him outside the gate. A man with an umbrella, a woman in a car. They had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Gelton had swallowed them up. As he stood there, staring aimlessly about him, he had a sudden feeling that he did not belong here any more. He felt like a ghost. He seemed hardly aware that he had begun to move, that he was following his feet, southwards.

“What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Perhaps it was too early even to think. The noise appalled. People fascinated him, and often he would stop and look after someone or other, and once or twice as he stood staring at a woman, passers-by eyed him suspiciously. He kept close to the kerb. It seemed the safest place. Here one was left alone. He walked street after street, road upon road, he was filled with unflagging energy on this aimless walk. He knew that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the city. Then he stopped dead. He thought of taking a tram, a bus, even a taxi, and looked about him. A tram stopped conveniently enough, he made to board it, but suddenly withdrew, and hurried to the kerb again. He went up to the bus stop and waited for the one that he would never take. Perhaps he would stop a passing taxi. Yes, that was the best thing to do. He would be private again, shut in, away from people. He approached the gates of a public park. He saw a taxi, but he could not make up his mind. His hand went up into the air, and quickly down again. He went into the park. This was as silent as the sea. He passed by a few old men on benches, a girl reading a book, and coming to an empty bench at the end of the path he sat down. The moment he did so he felt relieved. “I shouldn't have got mad with the old man,” he thought. “No, I shouldn't have done that. Perhaps I'll go back there later to-day.”

He sat on this bench a whole hour, motionless, staring fixedly at his feet. And then, in a moment he gave in, he could no longer hold back his tears. He cried as he sat, staring downwards, his hands pressed deep into his pockets. He felt he could not look upwards, he must wait, he must be patient. After a while it would be all over. He heard footsteps go by, heard a child laughing in the distance, a mother calling, a barking dog. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Furtively he raised his head, looked right and left. The park was once more drowned in its own silence. “I must go over there,” he told himself, “yes, I must go over to Ireland.”

Immediately he got up and walked out of the park. He would walk towards the docks; he had a feeling that once he saw the ship he could make up his mind. It stirred a kind of resolve in him, quickened his steps, and suddenly in the distance he saw the mast of the first ship. Out in the river a tug hooted, a great siren blew. As he drew nearer the docks he felt imprisoned again. Everywhere he looked people were hurrying. They filled the pavements, they crowded the buses, they hurried to the trains. From this maze of energy he stepped quickly into a small court. Except for a single cotton-laden lorry, the place was deserted. At the bottom he beheld more masts, and now very suddenly the funnels of half a dozen ships. He noted the funnel markings, now he knew where to go. Resolve strengthened. Perhaps after a while he would feel like those hurrying people, there would be a sense of direction, he would know what he really wanted to do. He slipped quietly through a dock gate and stared up at the first ship he saw. Yes, this was the dock, the self-same dock. It had not changed in all that time. There was a small wooden hut to the left of this gate and he went up to it and glanced in through the open door. A man wearing a blue serge suit was seated at a desk. He spoke to him. The man got up and came to the door.

“Sorry, no jobs,” he said, after a swift glance at his visitor.

“When is the next sailing?”

“To where?”

“Cork.”

“Ten o'clock to-morrow night.”

“Thank you.” Peter turned on his heel and continued down the quay.

“Yes. I'll do that. I'll go over there to-morrow night.”

Sat on a bollard, he watched a ship being loaded, saw a seaman coming down the gangway, walk his way. He put out a hand and stopped him. “Excuse me,” he said. Were there any small hotels locally that he knew of and could recommend? He only wanted a bed for the night. The seaman looked down at him.

“Hotel?” His brow furrowed, his hand went to his head, he scratched it, and he looked at Peter. Perhaps he had never heard the word hotel before. “Bed for the night?” he asked.

“That's it.”

“Only place about here is a boarding shop called The Curving Light. Any use. Body name of Talon runs it. She might fix you up. Try her.”

“Thanks.”

He watched the seaman go. “I'll try that,” he thought, “it's just for the one night.”

He left the dock and walked on into the city. He stopped at the first hotel he saw. Taxis pulled up, passengers got out, luggage was carried up the steps. Too big, he thought, too crowded. No. He just wanted a small place, a quiet little room. Nothing more. He walked on. He went into the first pub he saw, called for a drink and some sandwiches. He carried it to the nearest table and sat down. The place was crowded. He was glad to find an empty corner table. Here, as he ate, he examined the entire contents of his pockets. He counted his money. Enough for the room, enough for the fare across, and still something left. Through a haze of smoke he saw the crowded counter. The long, low-ceilinged room blazed with a fire, the air itself rocked with the chatter. This smoke cloud, this torrent of talk was the shield behind which he could quietly sit, eating his sandwiches, drinking his ale, refusing to listen. Nobody had joined his table, nobody had noticed him. He sat on, unconscious of passing time, lost in his own reflections. He gave a jump when a hand touched his shoulder.

“Gone time, sir,” the voice said, and Peter looked up.

The bar was empty. It was turned three o'clock. He heard doors being slammed, bolts shot back. He finished his drink and left. More noise, more traffic, more hurrying people. He sat on a bench by the sailor's church, he watched them pass. All going somewhere, all doing something, an urgency, a meaning in their hurrying footsteps.

“I've seen thousands of faces this morning,” he thought, “and yet not a single one that I know. Hurry on morning, hurry on boat, and take me out of it.”

He began walking again, wandering again, turning into this road, that street. He heard a distant clock striking four, and now from time to time he kept meeting bands of happy, laughing children. The schools were closing. When a church came suddenly into view he stopped. Leaning against the railings he stared down the gravelled path. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. It was like meeting a friend. He recognised it at once. This was the path down which he had often walked, that door he had many times passed through. “I'm near Hatfields,” he thought. “Now which way is it from here?”

“Shall I go down that path, through that door, like I used to do, in the old days?” No. Perhaps he had better not. But he would walk towards Hatfields. “We lived there once upon a time, that was our home.”

The day was breaking into pieces, dusk descending. Rays of coloured light fell across his path, and he immediately thought of a rainbow. This gave the long, narrow street the appearance of a tunnel. He half turned his head and there was the light, the wide window, and over the door in shining brass he read the name of a chemist. He went into this shop and asked for the directions to Hatfields. He was given this, quickly, curtly, and he forgot to thank the chemist for his service. He hurried away.

“Is it worth it? What the hell's the use?” Yet he longed to see this road again, to see and count every house. He wanted to come closer to old places. It was quite dark when he entered it. There was the great wall flanking the railway, there the familiar post office, the same ugly Methodist chapel, the newsagents, they were all here. Nothing had changed. He might never have left it. He walked slowly down one side, and came up on the other. He called out to himself the numbers of these houses, all of whose curtains were now drawn, with here and there a reflection of fires in darkened front rooms. Hidden by the shadow of the wall he stood looking at what had once been his home. Touching this brick, staring at this door, watching the window, feeling back to every living moment he could remember, he at once knew that compulsion had come to a halt. This had been the direction all along, from the opening of a gate, when he stepped clear of the high wall, and he had heard the key and the bolt shot behind him. This was where he had been walking to from the moment of freedom. Here it was, and it was over, done with, finished. He stepped clear of the wall and retraced his steps down the street. Behind him there was a noise like thunder, and he stopped to listen. An old sound, he had heard it before. The street was suddenly full of hurrying men, from the docks, the shipyards, the repairing shops, from the tugs, the dredgers, the dockgates, and from every shed. This was their road home. He had often walked behind them as a child. “Now I must find The Curving Light,” he thought, and stepped up his pace towards the docks. Everywhere lights came up like eyes, the whole world seemed on the move as he turned into one street after another. And there at last was The Curving Light, and he was standing alone in the longest street in a sailor's town.

He saw the light. It threw down a beam like a scimitar. He remembered this place. He had passed it many times before. A man passing beneath this light had his shadow cut in two. He drew nearer. Always, day or night, there was somebody stood beneath this light that never went out. Narrow enough to shut off the sky, long enough to make a great funnel to the sea. And as he drew nearer he saw the shadows. He saw two men, one short, one very tall. Their shoulders were bent, their close together heads almost touched each other. He could see their lips moving, but no sounds came out. He drew nearer still. The men were whispering to each other. Words do not travel far from conspiratorial tongues. If he got close enough to them he would hear what they were saying. The gently swinging light played havoc with their shadows. Within a few feet of them he suddenly stopped, drew in to the wall. The very look of these men aroused his curiosity. The tall one stood listening to the other, seemed almost bent in two. They might have been a couple of goblins from the inferno. What made him stand there, what made him listen? Peter did not know. He just stood there, and he listened.

“Has he gone?”

“Yus.”

“Good! Good!”

“Bit of trouble with him though.”

“How much?”

“Well, the silly bastard told his missus he was sailin' in her at midnight, and at once she got a-feared 'count of that ship's rottenness, but he said he didn't care since he had got this damned boat at last, what's hard to get these days, he told her, and anyhow he said to her he was sick and rare sick of her growlin' at him day after day, and night after night about having no ship. At him all the time she was about something he could never mend without a miracle, and her cried the night he was goin' in her. But he cared no damn, he didn't, why should he, cos if he lost that ship he might never get another one for God knows how bloody long, he said, and she was still cryin' at him about goin' in her what would sink anyhow, she's certain, and her hung on to him at the front door near midnight and begged him not to go, saying, ‘Don't go in her, Andrew, don't go, she'll sink, I know it, I feel it,' and he got right mad at her then, him hearing that boat blowing, and he beat her senseless then cos he was a-feared, and left her there by the front door and run off, and took with him only one silk handkerchief what was all the clobber he had by him then. And the man next door said it was sad him knockin' her up like that cos her was a good woman any time.”