The Secret Journey: A Novel

By James Hanley

To sustain her family, Mrs. Fury buries herself in debt

At the top of the hill on the north side of town, Mrs. Ragner rules over her kingdom. A bitter old loan shark, she has a grip on all the families in this port city, and she squeezes each one for every last cent. For seven years, Mrs. Fury has borrowed money from Mrs. Ragner to send her son Peter to seminary. He never joined the priesthood, but the debt still stands. When she is unable to pay back her loan, Mrs. Ragner is happy to extend more credit. But every time they revisit their agreement, the interest rate rises and Mrs. Ragner’s stranglehold on the Furys tightens.
 
While his mother struggles to pay back her debts, Peter tries to find his way in the secular world. He is deeply in love with his older brother’s wife, and his passion threatens to upend the family. The Furys think they have sacrificed everything for Peter, but they are not done yet.
 
The Secret Journey is the second book of James Hanley’s acclaimed Furys Saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781497699861

James Hanley

James Hanley (1897–1985) was born in Liverpool, England, to an Irish Catholic family. He spent time in the merchant navy and served with the Canadian Infantry during World War I. From 1930 to 1981 Hanley published forty-eight books, including the novels Boy, The Furys, The Ocean, Another World, and Hollow Sea. He penned plays for radio, television, and theater and published a work of nonfiction, Grey Children, on the plight of coal miners. Hanley died in London but was buried in Wales, the setting for many of his works. 

Book preview

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 attended 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, possible 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——’

‘Mrs. Fury herself applied for a re-loan at an interest rate upon which we were both agreed. But this loan was to be given in view of certain surrender rights to a compensatory document. I have not altered my decision, Corkran.’

‘Yes, mam. I see! But I thought it best to phone you. I have this document now. It refers to a sum of thirty-five pounds for compensation.’

‘That is correct,’ replied Mrs. Ragner. ‘The loan equals the value of the document so surrendered, but the interest on this renewal is higher than on the initial loan. The valuing of the furniture is a precautionary measure. Did you get the other information that I asked?’

Mr. Corkran replied, ‘Yes, mam. I got that. I have a paper here showing full ingoing income. The point is that I hold the document, but no money has been paid over.’

‘That is quite correct, Corkran. I shall see to that matter when I return in the evening. Whilst you are here you might tell me what has happened in the Joyce case.’

‘Oh yes. They distrained this morning, and I arranged with Mr. Elton to auction on Thursday. I hope that was correct, mam.’

‘Quite correct, Corkran,’ replied Mrs. Ragner, and banged down the receiver.

If she had seen the expression upon her factotum’s face at the other end of the line, Mrs. Ragner would no doubt have wondered what could have caused it. For it was a rare thing for that gentleman to show such a pained, even humiliated expression as he did now, as he stood in front of the phone in the hall at Banfield Road. A too conscientious devotion to duty could have its share of alarms as well as excursions. In fact, Mr. Corkran’s curiosity prompted him to go into the little office behind the sitting-room, and take from the cupboard set high in the wall the large black ledger. Mr. Corkran took this ledger into ‘his den’ and, seated comfortably before the large fire, opened it and turned the pages until he came to F, and then to Fury. Immediately he concentrated all his attention upon the page in front of him.

This tall thin man wore a sailor’s jersey, blue dungarees, and a pair of rope shoes. His thinning yellow hair was brushed down neatly on his head, and he wore a fringe over the forehead; his eyes were so small that for a moment an observer would take him to be eyeless, until he spoke, when he opened them wide and looked at you in the most distrusting manner. But usually he went about with half-closed eyes. He seemed to see a person clearer this way. His long arms were bared to the shoulder, for the sleeves of the jersey had been cut off. He had one leg doubled under the chair, the other leg stretched across the hearth. His attitude was studious as his fingers ran up and down the column of figures, whilst he muttered in his throat, ‘Fury. Number three Hatfields. Loan. Twenty pounds. Husband. Railway man. Income all told, one pound fourteen shillings. Surety. Joseph Kilkey, Stevedore. On furniture. Assessment, forty-five pounds six shillings. Interest on capital sum, ten pounds. Repayments weekly, twenty-two and sixpence. January 10th, payments lapsed. January 17th, payments lapsed. Charges, one pound. Payments resumed January 30th. February 5th, loan renewed. Sum due on first loan, eight pounds. Interest due, eleven pounds—deducted from the renewal of twenty pounds, eleven pounds ten. Charges, ten shillings. Total interest, twelve pounds. Total sum due, forty-three pounds. March 18th, payments lapsed. March 30th, payments resumed. Collection charges, seven and sixpence.’

Mr. Corkran paused, then looked up. A continuous drip from Mrs. Ragner’s knickers had trickled right down the left-hand page, and he had not noticed it. ‘Damn!’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the page. Then he resumed. He had raised his voice, and now said aloud in a sort of sing-song manner: ‘May 1st, application for renewal of loan, for certain sureties, under consideration. Capital sum due, forty-nine pounds five. Charges for collection, ten shillings. May 5th, capital sum due, forty-nine pounds five. Interest on capital sum, twelve pounds three. Total, sixty-one pounds. Charges, one pound.’

Mr. Corkran closed the book. ‘H’m,’ he said. ‘H’m.’ Then he got up and carried back the ledger to the cupboard. He went to the desk by the window, undid the keys that hung on the back of his trousers’ belt, and opened the desk. From this he took a hand-written document which read as follows:

‘I hereby agree, in return for loan of twenty pounds, to surrender rights in the attached documents, such rights to remain henceforth the property of the assignee. And further, in consideration of the sum of thirty pounds being deducted from the capital sum and interest now due on the original loan of twenty pounds, to be placed to my credit, when the sum named upon the attached document has been paid over as compensation by the Torsa line to me, I hereby agree to hand same to assignee less the balance of five pounds. Signed Fanny Fury. Witness, Daniel Corkran. Dated June 11th, 19 …’

Underneath this agreement, the sole effort of Mr. Daniel Corkran himself, he had written, ‘Under consideration.’ ‘H’m,’ he said, laughing, ‘H’m.’ Then he locked it in the desk again. It was now turned half-past four o’clock. Mr. Corkran decided to lay the table in the drawing-room, and immediately afterwards to get his own tea. ‘Well, I suppose she knows best,’ he said as he threw back his arm and yawned. ‘She knows best. But I wonder why she is extending so much consideration to this client—I wonder?’

Mr. Corkran moved about the house as silently as any cat, and as he laid the table in the big room he formed a picture in his mind of this woman Fanny Fury. A tall woman. The first time he had seen her she was accompanied by her daughter. She had been on many other occasions, but by herself. There was something about her that he rather liked. He didn’t know exactly what, and had he been asked direct would have been quite unable to make reply.

Having arranged everything for Mrs. Ragner’s return, he made his own tea. As soon as he had had this he would get the big room ready for the clients. It was one of his duties to open the door, and sheer length of devoted service had endowed him with the power of admittance or rejection. There were people who called to see Mrs. Ragner who never saw that lady, as also there were people whom Mrs. Ragner would never have consented to see but that Mr. Corkran, using the rights he guarded so jealously, pushed the newcomer into the long room before Mrs. Ragner herself. There were persons, too, whom Mr. Corkran felt that nobody could admit, let alone grant a loan to, and his knowledge of the world was wide, deep, and various. Mrs. Fanny Fury was a case in point. But for Mr. Corkran that lady’s admission and eventual acceptance as a client worthy of a loan could not have been made possible. ‘There are always applicants,’ Mrs. Ragner told herself, ‘and therefore Corkran can afford to discriminate.’ Mrs. Ragner’s town clients were attended to privately at the office in Heys Road. That was sacred territory on which Daniel Corkran had never set foot. Then there were the clients who did business by post. The callers at Banfield Road generally came from the district, and sometimes from outside Gelton itself. These were Mr. Corkran’s.

There came a ring at the bell, and Mr. Corkran went to the door. Anna Ragner had returned.

‘Didn’t you hear the cab draw up, Corkran?’ she asked brusquely, and without waiting for a reply went upstairs to her room. One thing was certain. Mr. Daniel Corkran would follow her, and that was what Anna Ragner liked. She liked him to follow her about like a dog. As she began taking off her things she heard him ascending the stairs—not that he made any sound, except his heavy breathing and the tap of his ringed finger on the banister.

‘Come in!’ she called out. When the man entered, Anna Ragner was lying stretched upon the bed, her head resting in her clasped hands. One foot lay over the other. The room was heavy with the scent with which her corsage was covered. Mr. Corkran always hated this smell, though for his own moustache he used a strong-smelling Hungarian pomade, with which he religiously waxed it every morning.

‘Sit down.’

‘Yes, mam.’ Mr. Corkran sat down, his hands flat upon his bent knees.

‘You never heard the cab, Corkran.’ She said this without looking at him. Her eyes wandered across the stained ceiling.

‘No, mam.’ The man’s tone was apologetic. He began scraping his foot upon the floor.

‘Don’t do that, Corkran. I’m always asking you not to. When will you get out of that public-house habit? I’m expecting every minute that you’ll spit.’ The man said nothing.

Mrs. Ragner, still surveying the ceiling, continued: ‘Will you bring me the document you received from the woman in Hatfields?’

Mr. Corkran jumped up and hurried out of the room. In a few seconds he had returned with this paper, which he immediately handed to the woman. Then he stood by the dressing-table.

‘Did you get me the things from the chemist, Corkran?’

‘Yes, mam. Won’t you have your tea now? It is all ready below.’

‘And the room? Is that ready? I am still surprised that after all these years you should forget to hear Spencer’s cab roll up to the door. What were you doing, Corkran?’

‘Me, mam! I was going through the ledger. I never heard the cab, though usually I can hear it turning the corner. I was looking up the Fury account, mam.’

‘You’ve surprised me more than once, Corkran,’ replied Mrs. Ragner, folding up the paper which the man had given her.

‘Surprised, mam? I hope everything is satisfactory?’

There came one of those rare moments when this man, disarmed now by the tone of Mrs. Ragner’s voice, opened those slits of eyes so widely as to convey his consternation and his fear. Mr. Corkran had emerged from his shell, and he had momentarily slipped down from his high throne.

‘Yes, surprised, Corkran. I was surprised when you allowed that woman in.’

‘Mrs. Fury, mam? But her daughter has an account here.’

‘Is that all?’ she asked.

Mr. Corkran remained dumb. He had his whims and fancies, but these were things that not even Mrs. Ragner could invade. There was a reason why he had allowed Mrs. Fury inside the Banfield house. But he could not give it voice. He could not explain. At least not to the stout lady on the bed. Mr. Corkran said quickly, ‘Was I wrong in my calculations?’

‘If she had come direct to me I think I would have refused her, Corkran. That is one of my surprises, a surprise in which you have your fair share. For I am glad you introduced her to me, Corkran, very glad.’

‘I thought she was quite a decent person, mam. The daughter is respectable.’

‘Yes, Corkran. It is hard for me to express certain feelings that I now have. There are some clients whom one really respects. Some whom one does not.’

‘Looking through the account, mam, I thought that it was becoming most involved—excuse me—I mean it’s getting rather tight.’

‘What? Sixty pounds for a loan of twenty just over a year ago. Less thirty when that compensation note is cleared. You continue to surprise me, Corkran. Involved is a word I am better able to understand than you. How long have you been here, Corkran?’

She sat up on the bed, and leaned her head against the bed-rail. She fixed him with her eye. Mr. Corkran actually squinted.

‘Why is she asking this?’ thought the man. ‘And why isn’t she going down for her tea?’

‘I’ve been here nine years and a half,’ replied Mr. Corkran.

‘Of course you have. And at any moment that you feel your freedom threatened you may go. Understand that while you are here you must do as I ask.’

‘Yes, mam.’

‘And that in future I shall myself look after the Fury account.’

‘Yes, mam.’

‘And that your advice is only wanted when I require it.’

‘Yes, mam.’

‘That everything will go on just as usual. And that you won’t phone me when I am engaged with a client at the office.’

‘Yes, mam.’

‘Then get out, Corkran. You can call me when the tea is ready. Then get that room ready.’

The woman rose from the bed, crossed to her dressing-table and applied some powder to her face. Mr. Corkran departed. As she smoothed back her hair she said to herself, ‘I believe I have allowed things to get slack these last few weeks. Now why is that?’ She puckered her brows and stood looking down at her suède slippers, the while she drummed her fingers upon her partly open mouth. ‘Corkran is really going beyond himself.’ She went downstairs carrying the Fury agreement in her hand. In the hall she paused, then called, ‘Corkran!’

The man came out of the big room where he had been arranging the benches for visitors.

‘The chemist’s things,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

Corkran handed her a packet of sanitary towels and disappeared again. It was almost half-past six. She hurried into the drawing-room, the only room in the house where she took her meals, excepting an occasional light supper which she took in her bedroom. Mr. Corkran had made poached eggs on toast, and even hot buttered scones. Anna Ragner began her tea. This meal she always took leisurely, it was her hour of meditation. In retrospect she reviewed the events of the day, the clients seen and accepted—she never remembered the face of a refused person—and some remarkable-looking people had indeed interviewed her that very day. But she remembered almost every person upon her book. She knew the history of each case. She knew their families and relations, their incomes and their indebtedness. She knew when they were ill, as she knew the moment they were dead. She was linked up with their very destiny. Her house was a treasure-house of secrets, her letter-box bulged with appeals, hopes, threats and curses. Her safe, full of promissory notes, was a veritable arsenal of power. All this she contemplated upon as she sat enjoying her tea. She could unearth the past, obliterate the future. But, greatest of all, her world was a world of faces, and these she had the power to make laugh or cry. In imagination she peopled her room with all the clients she had ever had, just as at this moment her faithful factotum standing sentinel in the hall opened the door from time to time and asked rudely, ‘Name!’ People were ushered into the long room, where they sat waiting upon the benches: young women and old, working men, grand-dads, boys, mere children. And they talked to each other, in whispers, whilst Mrs. Ragner had her tea.

Mr. Corkran was disturbed. It was the first time he had ever been spoken to in such a manner. He simply could not understand this sudden change in Mrs. Ragner. Always she had left things to him. Every client passed through his hands. And now because he had been nothing other than attentive to her business she had humiliated him. There was no other word for it. As he stood there like a statue, waiting for a fresh ring at the bell, he thought to himself, ‘I will speak to her now.’ He knocked at the sitting-room door and, unusual with him, entered without being asked. Mrs. Ragner stood up.

‘What is the matter, Corkran? I don’t understand. You know I am not to be interrupted during meals.’

‘Yes, mam. But I have something to say. I am quite prepared to go if you wish it.’

Mrs. Ragner smiled. ‘Your spirit of independence, if you like to call it that, no longer counts. You have none. The position is: Two people here wish to change their minds. But only I can do that. Do you understand, Corkran? I repeat that I was rather surprised when you allowed this woman in, even though her daughter is respectable and pays regularly. But I don’t like the woman. That is why I am renewing the loan. If I have allowed you to have absolute sway here, it is only because my increasing business in town keeps me occupied not only in the daytime but at night. Even when you are in bed, Corkran! That is all. I repeat I was surprised. But I am glad she met with your approval, because now she meets with mine. You will bring me the ledger.’

‘Yes, mam.’ And Mr. Corkran hurried out for the big book.

He held the big ledger out to her.

‘You may carry on, Corkran. I give you absolute power to interview every person who calls here, and if you do not approve of them you can turn them away. All who satisfy you satisfy me. But the Fury account I shall look to myself. Is there anything else you wish to know?’

Mr. Corkran stood looking at the woman, whose books he kept, whose house he cleaned, whose clothes he washed, and whose money he banked; she whom he ran messages for, whose bath he filled and emptied, whose bed he made. He had done this for nearly ten years. In return he received two pounds per week and all found. He had Saturday and Sunday evenings off.

‘Am I satisfied?’ he asked himself, and already knew the answer to his question. He was satisfied. But the position was difficult. It had been made difficult by the fact that he had ventured to suggest that the Fury account was getting to a stage where further re-loans would be suicidal. For this he was told to mind his own business.

‘Well?’ asked Mrs. Ragner. ‘Well? What are you standing there for?’

The man opened his mouth to make reply. ‘I—I’m sorry, mam, but you always counted on my advice when the accounts were climbing.’

‘I did,’ said Mrs. Ragner. ‘And you can still advise me. But not about the Fury account. Is that plain?’

‘Yes, mam. But you see—I mean it’s difficult—I mean the position.’

‘The position is that you cannot move. Do you understand that? You cannot move. Where can you go if you leave here? To whom? What can you do? Now get out.’

‘Very good, mam.’ As Mr. Corkran turned to go Mrs. Ragner rushed up to him, caught his shoulder and said loudly, ‘You are not a man. Understand me. Do you think you would be here if you were?’ She gripped both shoulders with her plump hands, and put her flushed face near to the ashen-grey one of Mr. Corkran. ‘If you were that, you would not be here five minutes. I know people when I see them. It’s not only my clients who can be ungrateful. Now go.’

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 him.

‘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

Reviews for The Secret Journey

[michaelbartley · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I know almost nothing about Andy Warhol, only that he was a major artist of the 60's and later. I wanted to learn more, unfortunely this bio didn't really tell me much more. It is more of an outline of his life and work. I still want to know more.