The Secret Journey by James Hanley Read Free Book Online Page A

honest I had taken advantage of it too. Just because I was glad to be away from Mother—and also because I wanted to be out of the house. Even at that age the atmosphere was—no, I won’t say any more. But every one of us has broken away from her. Am I sorry? Not one little bit. I hated the very day I was born Irish—born Catholic—for my first years were a nightmare. Mother loved me, loved me to distraction, but I didn’t want that. I couldn’t understand at that time. But I do now. I was afraid of it. It was awful. Darling Sheila! Why did you marry Desmond? You don’t love him. Yet you must have married him for some reason. Why? Please tell me. Please tell me, won’t you, tell me everything. Right from the beginning. You might think me cowardly, mean, sly, but I’m not. Honest, I’m not. I never really wanted to be a priest. I never believed in it. And why Mother should pick on me, heaven knows. Those seven years were worse than jail. I couldn’t form opinions then, because I hadn’t any. What happened? When I came out Mother was horrified. Simply horrified. Dad was quite indifferent. My brothers and sisters hated me. Said I had hoodwinked Mother. But how had I? I just didn’t know at that time. And even now I ask myself very often why Mother did it. Perhaps she doesn’t even know herself. Well, the result of all this is that I am full of longing to live my own life. That’s all. At home I am still treated like a child. I am expected to hang my head in shame at the very thought of what I have done. To love Mother means absolutely surrendering oneself. You don’t know what Mother is like. Even now she has some faint hope that I’ll be her boy. Her favourite. You see, I am the youngest of the family. If I live their way, if I do everything they ask, then things sail along splendidly— they do, that is—but I remain fumbling about, distrustful, furtive, unsatisfied, even afraid. Yes. Cowardly. Because I hate to hurt Mother. That’s all. Perhaps she even knows this. If she does, then it isn’t fair. No. It isn’t fair!’
    He shouted at the top of his voice, stamped his foot upon the gravel path.
    â€˜Listen,’ she said. ‘I must go. Come along.’
    They turned to the gate. He lifted her over it. Then they scurried off through the darkness, like two people hunted, two people hurrying backwards rather than forward, as though life itself were one long retreat. Their heads were high, but somehow, looking at them from behind, one sensed this huntedness, this scurrying through dark streets, behind walls, through alleys, past warehouses, as though there shone above them some inexorable eye from which they could never escape. When they crossed the square by the Custom House, Peter pulled up, caught her hands, thrust his face to her own, and said:
    â€˜Now tell me.’
    â€˜Sometimes,’ she said slowly, as though in some way she begrudged utterance to the very words that all this time had hung upon her lips, ‘sometimes I think you’re deluding yourself. You see, I am a woman. I am nearly thirteen years older than you. And in spite of what you say, you are—at least to me—but a boy. I haven’t any right to touch what you must hold most dear. Perhaps I should never have done what I have already done. I say perhaps. I’m not so sure. That’s all. Maybe I did it simply because I pitied you. I say maybe. Again I don’t know. You say perhaps, “You are a woman and you ought to know.” I’m not sure about that. When we think we know most—we really know least. Like you, I’m afraid. Well …’ She buried his hard head upon her breast.
    â€˜Peter—dear Peter. I don’t know, don’t know. I can’t say another word except I don’t know. Now I must go.’
    â€˜God Almighty!’ he said. He shook her roughly. ‘You are only tormenting me.