The Secret Journey by James Hanley Page B

filled her with ambition. It’s pitiable, for she seems to have poisoned all her children. You’re a mean, restless, dissatisfied lot. Peter’s hardly any different. You’re all incredibly selfish, and this goes to your heads. It carries you away. The only thing one can say in your mother’s favour is that she had more spunk than her children. Maureen, we’ve been married two years. I love you very much. I love our child. I’m really happy and contented. I don’t want any change—any rushing about—any ambitions—any more than what I’ve got. Call me anything you like. I don’t care. I earn good money. I have constant work. We have a nice home. Life doesn’t last that long. Why worry? That’s the kind of a person I am. Understand? And now you’re let out properly, you’re like a stubborn little child. You’ve stolen the cake and now you’re mad because you can’t get any at the party. That’s what you’re like. Peter is working now. So is your father. There’s Anthony’s money. The old man’s pension. Many a woman with that coming in would feel she was a millionaire. Listen to me. If all you children had got together you could have helped your mother; instead, all you do is look on from a distance and hate her for the way she treated you all. Maybe she was rather impossible. But she meant well, Maureen. In her heart she meant well. You see, that helps, doesn’t it? One laughs at a man who thinks he can beat the steeplejack at his own game and only a few feet up falls on his behind—but one admires him for his courage. Maureen, if you don’t try and settle down, I don’t know what will happen.’
    He sighed, then slumped into the chair by the fire. The woman watched him stroke his bald head, and there was something about this action that seemed repulsive. It made her squirm. She stood watching him. A silence stole over the kitchen. What had made her so angry? Not Mrs. Ragner’s note. That didn’t worry Maureen overmuch. After all, that was her husband’s affair. No! But that talk she had had with her brother had opened up old sores. Nothing could have suited her better. It gave her her opportunity. Oh! But she mustn’t think about that now. Quite useless. Here was a man who, to look at him, one might imagine had a heart so soft as to melt under the touch—when really behind it all lay a deep determination. Joseph Kilkey was satisfied. And Maureen knew this. It goaded her. She hated satisfied people. Her spirit rebelled against it, fortified by the bitterness of frustration. Three times she could have married, but that mother had prevented it. Now she was married— was tied at last.
    â€˜Maureen! Let’s not argue any more. You know how I loathe arguments, don’t you? Worrying makes you grow old. Try and be sensible.’
    â€˜God! Don’t I try?’ she stormed at him. ‘But do you? Sometimes I wish I were a man. Yes. A man. A working man. I’d kick from the day I was born. I’d kick against everything. That’s what men should do. Kick and keep kicking. Sometimes I think we’re fools. The way we have to live. The continued scrounging—the little humiliations—the vain hopes. Christ! One should kick against the lot. D’you know what is wrong? I’ll tell you. We’re pressed together too closely. We can’t breathe. We smother each other—get on each other’s nerves—we crucify each other. Here in this street. In every street. Yes, by God! I wish I were a man. I wouldn’t be satisfied. No! No! No!’
    She threw her head back and stamped her foot upon the floor.
    â€˜I used to hate Peter! I thought he was cowardly, sly—but he’s not satisfied. He is going to get what he wants. I don’t blame him either.’
    â€˜All that won’t get you anywhere, Maureen. It’s not always kicking that