The Secret Journey by James Hanley

kitchen—saw his crippled grandfather belted in his chair. He had escaped that, and now he was returning to it. He saw a crowd streaming out of a theatre in the King’s Road. Saw men singing as they made their way home, arm-in-arm. And out of these crowded pictures that rushed down upon him there emerged suddenly the figure of Mrs. Anna Ragner. ‘Good God!’ he thought. ‘What did she do that for? Why has Mother tied herself up with that woman? I’ll bet any money that Dad knows nothing about it. But I know. I am the only one she has told.’ He felt suddenly bitter. Yes. His mother would get some satisfaction from letting him know. Why was he rushing back towards Hatfields? Because he liked it? Because he was happy—because he loved his mother and father? He did not really know. A dumb, blind obeisance. No effort of the will had set his feet upon this tram. He was a quite will-less person. No! He did not know why at all. The car pulled up. He got off and walked slowly home. When he reached the house it was in black darkness. Strange indeed, but his mother had given him the key. He let himself in, lit the gas, cut a piece of bread, ate it, swilled down a cup of cold tea, and then, extinguishing the light, went up to bed. He heard voices in his mother’s room. That was to be expected. To have passed that room without hearing sounds would have been impossible at that hour of the night; it seemed that his father and mother as though by some quick, unconscious prearrangement had decided to release the flood walled up throughout the day. They talked for hours. It had always been like that. And always would be. In other houses there was silence. People slept soundly at this late hour, but not his father and mother. ‘A funny pair,’ he said to himself as he undressed and climbed into bed. There would hardly be any need to ask them what the subject of the conversation was. He knew already. It was one of those imperishable subjects, inexhaustible—never-ending.
    He lay down, leaning on his elbow. ‘Perhaps Dad is right. Maybe Mother is a little crazy. She does seem to be changing lately.’ But there was one picture he always retained in his mind, indeed it refused to go away at all. That was her face lit up with a passionate, desperate frenzy on the morning he had gone off to sea. Each time he thought of it he went cold all over. More, he could feel the blows she had rained upon him in the shed. Mother would never forget that. Never. Her attitude when he arrived home had been peculiar too. No embrace. A mere handshake. A different person—a different expression—a different meaning. It had only made him feel that old shame again. Some enquiries as to how he had fared; and as to Mr. Mulcare’s health. Mention of Anthony’s accident, the compensation that they had fought for, his going away again. No more. A mere silhouette of his brother. Not that he, Peter, wanted any fuller picture. At this particular time there were things more important, and more interesting, than the news of Anthony. A request to him to take a message, an urgent one—Mother’s messages were always urgent—and his saying he would be seeing a shipmate and might be late. No questions asked. No interest shown. Briefly, rank indifference. Was this change real, or was it only fake? Was she watching him—his mother could spy as well as anybody—or was it a certain helplessness? As these thoughts went racing through his mind, he saw her face again as he had seen it just five hours ago. The sudden confrontation after a year’s absence—the complete absence of surprise—he might have only left the house that morning. In fact he, Peter, was disappointed. It was a shock. He was like a stranger to her. Not that he hoped for the return of that passionate love with which she had smothered him since he was a child. Oh no! He had had enough of that. But shocked only because this