An End and a Beginning (9 page)

“How did you discover this place?”

“There are ways of finding out. No,” he repeated, “we've nothing in common, we never had. Perhaps I should never have come.”

The words rose up in front of him. Behind them he could hide. He saw his brother leaning against the wide open door, waiting. Without a word he walked away, and down the stairs. Half way down he stopped to look back, then went down the rest of them in one blind rush. Peter closed the door.

“That's finished,” he said. “I doubt if well ever see each other again.” He hadn't forgotten the suit, the shirt, the hat, the tie, the gloves. “I wonder what the mugs are thinking about it.”

He lit a cigarette and lay down on the bed again.

In an office not far away a man was still waiting for him to appear. Draped over the near-by chair lay his Ulster and his woollen scarf. It would soon be time for lunch. A legal appointment. Nothing out of the ordinary in this. He got up and crossed to the leather-covered armchair by the fire and sat down. He hoped Mr. Fury would not keep him waiting much longer. He felt sure he'd come, he had made a promise. At that moment a gust of smoke shot down the chimney, almost enveloping him. He glanced at his document-strewn desk, and he thought he must remind the landlord about cleaning that chimney. He recognised the knock when it came. “Come in, Miss Francis.”

“There's the court case at half-past two, Mr. Delaney, the Gowan people. You remember there was an adjournment.”

“I remember. No sign of that young man yet?”

“No sir.”

“A nuisance. I can't wait much longer.”

“I know, Mr. Delaney. It's getting late.”

She couldn't help looking at the vacated desk, regretting that such a good man should have such untidy habits. She stood quietly by the door, as though expecting it to open. She suddenly saw the safe. It was open.

“The safe, sir. You haven't locked the safe,” she said.

“Of course. Fancy my forgetting. Fortunately there's more history than money in it.”

He got up and locked it. The clock ticked on. He must surely go. And then came the knock.

“This is him. Show him in, Miss Francis. Then get off for your own lunch like a good girl. Court at half-two.”

“Yes, Mr. Delaney.”

She opened the door and Peter Fury came in.

“There you are at last. Sit down, Fury. You may go, Miss Francis.”

He waited until the door had closed behind her. “Come to the fire, young man. Sit here. In that chair, opposite me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peter sat down.

“Well? Have you made up your mind what you wish to do? Did you see your uncle Kilkey?”

“I saw him.”

“Glad you called there, very glad. Hard work has saved that man, nothing but hard work, sheer concentrated, sweating labour. It's kept him upright. Anything else?”

“I've made up my mind to leave Gelton for good.”

“Not a bad thing. Where are you going?”

“I don't know, not yet. But I'm crossing to Ireland this evening. There are things I must do there.”

“Kilkey told you all about
that?
”

“Yes sir, he did.”

Mr. Delaney got up and crossed over to him. He put his two hands on Peter's shoulders. “I understand,” he said, “I understand.”

He crossed to a cupboard and from it brought out a bottle and two wine glasses.

“You must have a glass of Madeira with me, Mr. Fury.” He poured out the wine. He raised his own glass.

“To your good fortune,” he said, smiled, but only for a moment. He was suddenly cautious, confiding, advising.

“Don't stay too long there, young man. There is little to stay for now. An empty wilderness. You must plan to go farther than that. I do wish we could track down your sister. By the way, did you see your brother?”

“I saw him.”

“Doing very well for himself. I should think he'll be putting Gelton behind him very soon. I hear much talk in the Club. London they say. He certainly believes in giant strokes. How did he seem?”

“No different to me. He didn't stay long, and it didn't matter. We never made a go of it.”

“Now you must excuse me, I really have to be going. And keep in touch with me, young man. We always like to follow up our cases. Don't forget. And remember what I told you. Forget yesterday, and everything that happened yesterday. Start a new day altogether. I'm sure when you've had time to get over these great shocks you'll do well for yourself. And I would like your address.”

“I haven't one at the moment. I'll be on the move in Ireland. I don't know how long I'll stay. May I send it to you?”

“Yes, send it to me. Oh, by the way, there's a letter for you. Left here yesterday. Don't know by whom. My secretary took it. Now where did I put it.”

He began a furious search under masses of papers. “Here it is.”

“Thank you, Mr. Delaney, and thank you for your kindness, and for your good wishes. I will keep in touch with you.”

He held out his hand to the old man. “Good luck.”

The old man waved him out.

Peter looked at the letter the moment he got outside. The handwriting he could not recognise. It had been delivered by hand, there was no stamp. As he came to the glass door of the Tilsey Café he couldn't help stopping to look in. The girl came into his mind, he searched frantically amongst the crowded tables. But she was not there. Should he go in and have some tea? He was on the point of opening the door when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning he saw Mr. Delaney coming downstairs. He hurried out into the street. He took the letter from his pocket, carefully examined the handwriting. Who on earth could it be? He opened it, and inside found a short pencilled note. It read simply:

“I understand you are going over to Cork. Suggest you go on to Ram's Gate for a while and get a thorough rest. Have wired Miss Fetch to get ready a room for you. Sheila.”

3

Until the very last moment Mrs. Talon clung to a client. She hated to see them go, and when she heard the footsteps on the stairs she came out of her pokey little office, blinking in the harsh light of the passage. She crawled after the man who now stood in the doorway. She repeated the formula.

“And at any time—if you or your friends want a room,
gaoley
”—the voice climbed up his back, droned in his ears—“just mention me, Talon's the name. Sarah Talon. Just mention The Curving Light. Don't mind gaoleys, don't mind nobody much, so long's they pay.”

But the man was already descending the three stone steps, and moving quickly in the direction of the Tanner Dock.

There, the
Green Star
had just finished her loading, and the quay was alive with people. There were many shouts, commands. Peter walked straight to the gangway, and looked up. There he stopped, and began plunging into every pocket for his ticket. The man watched him search. Peter's manner was apprehensive, furtive, he hardly heard the man addressing him. He gave him his ticket. “Your name Fury, by the way?”

For a moment the other was afraid to look up.

“Been watching for a tall, dark chap this last hour. Been asking everybody what's come aboard.”

Peter stared down at the man's brown shoes. “Who are you?”

“Clark's the name, sir, and I have a message for you that a gent brought from an office in the city.”

Peter looked up, and then he saw the man was holding a note in his hand. “You aren't by that name then?”

“My name is Fury. Peter Fury.”

“Well, that's a relief, sir. Now I can hand you this note what come.” He held out the envelope, and Peter put out his hand, then hesitated.

“The gent says it was left at their office with strict orders it had to be given to you personally, by me. Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Nice trip,” the man said.

Peter felt in his pocket for a coin, then hurried up the gangway, having stuffed the note in his pocket.

“Dear Peter,

You think there is a beginning. And I think there's an end. Good luck. Desmond.”

The words danced on the paper. He rolled it into a tiny ball, then walked to the rail. Staring down at the greenish-black water, he dropped it in. A voice behind him shouted, “Stand by aft.” Sailors rushed past him, climbed to the poop. He watched the note borne away. It was like watching his brother's body float away on the slack water.

The gangway rolled clear of the ship. The
Green Star
was already under way. For a moment Peter turned to look at the quay, and the moving gangway now being run into the shed. Then he hurried into the alleyway and stood leaning against the bulwark, near the engine-room. The engine's slow, heavy throb drew him nearer to the steel door, and the warm gusts of air that came up pleased him.

“At last,” he thought, as people passed to and fro, though they had not noticed the man in the shadow. “I can't believe I'm going.”

He crossed the alleyway and, leaning over the rail, saw the port recede farther and farther away, the familiar landmarks, the tall buildings, the tiny tugs, the barges, the towering cranes, trying to remember, remembering, “I've gone. I'm out. I'm free. I'm watching it go, all of it.”

He crossed to the port side of the ship. Standing a little apart from a waving group of people, he spread his arms along the rail. He watched the city vanish. “I'm out. To-night, early in the morning, I could be there.” From time to time, out of pure habit, he turned his head, glanced over his shoulder. But there was nobody there, and suddenly the clocks had ceased to tick. He now crossed to the weather side, and the wind beat into his face. He saw the long, wide, turbulent river. He felt as if he were being carried across the world. He crossed, and re-crossed the now deserted deck. When the wind stiffened he went into the saloon. A low rumble of conversation was in the air, people lounged, chatted in groups. He sat beside a family group, mother, father, a boy of ten. The pencilled note was warm in his mind. Somebody had remembered him. He put heart and hand to the thought, and it warmed. He cradled the thought, “She didn't forget.”

The ship's bell struck twice, a hand fastened a deadlight over the porthole against now climbing spray. Somebody laughed at a joke, a girl hummed a tune.

“I could never have gone to that office.
He
would have been there—he would have hated it.”

“Never wrote to me once in all those years.”

“Hardly looked in on old Kilkey.”

“Never thought of Maureen.”

“Only went to Cork because he
had
to.”

“Well, it's finished. He's right, he never was one of us.”

Doors in his mind opened, old days streamed in. Desmond working on the mugs, his father at sea, Father Moynihan calling on Sundays, his grandfather fastened to a chair, slobbering away his days. The christening party at his sister's house when Dermod was born. A woman with rings on every finger, a man with scented, plastered-down hair, furtive feet moving about in rope slippers, a smell of pickles, of bones.

“Lunch is being served, sir,” a steward said. The white coat flashed past the seated man, like a cloud, like the sail of a ship.

Aunt Brigid laughing, kissing him with her big, kind mouth, laughing again, like tumbling hills, a great roaring fire, giant pots of tea, a smell of oranges. The cloud returning, “Lunch is served now, sir.”

Peter looked up, confused, and he said automatically, “Yes, thanks—which way?” Yet he wanted to stay, to be quiet, lost in the newfound warmth. Seeing others rise and leave, he forced himself at last.

“This way, sir,” the steward said. He followed the man, and the memories rose and fell about him like waves. It was an onslaught, he seemed to stagger his way through the saloon, blindly following the man in the white coat.

“Where?”

“Step this way, sir.”

Moving closely behind him, Peter was suddenly assailed by smells. “Here, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, somewhat gruffly—still confused, still remembering, a name dancing in his head, warmth melting away the chill of his misery.

He sat bolt upright, watched the steward serve him, studying his clean, white hands, watching the next table, hearing a passenger remark, “The wind may hold us up. Strong head wind.”

Nervously, he began to eat, stopped, began again, and always watching. It was like a dream. “I won't believe it until I've seen it, and then I'll know it's true, and it won't matter very much—I wish to God it had never happened. But it has, it
has
. You can't do anything about it.”

The thousand strands of chaos pulled suddenly at his rocking thoughts.

“What can you do?”

“What are you, really?”

“What do you know?”

“What do you want?”

“Where are you going?”

“Why?”

The questions struck like knives.

“Coffee, sir?”

“No, thanks—yes,” calling after the silently retreating steward, “black, please.”

“Our family's finished. For good.”

He bought cigarettes, and smoked them furiously, asked for more coffee. He sat on, the dining-room gradually emptied, he was still there, thinking, watching, wondering. Crockery and cutlery rattled, the stewards were clearing up. And the
Green Star
rode on against a mounting head wind.

The scent of the sea rushed in as the door was opened, and the smell of engines was heavy in the air. He looked up at last. A steward was folding a tablecloth. “What time do we get in?”

“About nine, at least I hope so, but afraid well be late. Maybe midnight, may even be morning, very bad crossing.…”

“I see,” Peter said, not seeing. His mind was miles away. Then after a silence, he said, “Thanks,” and paid his bill, tipped the steward, rose and left the saloon.

He had sat on in the dining saloon long after the others had left, and only departed when the stewards began to lay tables for tea. He was restless everywhere. In the alleyways, at the rails, on the poop, on the fo'c'sle head. Eventually he returned to the saloon and sat down. He sat staring at people absorbed in newspapers, magazines, books. Then of a sudden he was smiling, and it came out of the very warmth that seemed to have grown about him in this dark corner of the saloon. It was still there, it had not deserted him. He shut his eyes. “She remembered. She never forgot.”