An End and a Beginning by James Hanley

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.
    â€œSorry, no jobs,” he said, after a swift glance at his visitor.
    â€œWhen is the next sailing?”
    â€œTo where?”
    â€œCork.”
    â€œTen o’clock to-morrow night.”
    â€œThank you.” Peter turned on his heel and continued down the quay.
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œHotel?” 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.
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œOnly 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.”
    â€œThanks.”
    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.
    â€œGone time, sir,” the voice said, and Peter looked up.
    The bar was empty. It was turned three o’clock. He