An End and a Beginning: A Novel

1

There was the high wall, the great door, and the roads leading north and south. A drizzle had been falling for over an hour and the light was begrudging. The man stood quite still. He took off his cap, and after a few seconds became aware of the dampness of his hair. Some fifty yards away a policeman watched him, without interest. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a bell ringing. The policeman, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, thought, another one. He clasped hands behind his back and rocked gently to and fro upon his heels. The tall, broad-shouldered man had not moved. Only his eye roamed, following the blurred line of the roads, the one to the city, the other deeper into the country. The road to the city was direct, challenging, magnetic, but the other was only a path to the jungle, reached after much preliminary scouting. The growths varied. A series of enormous rubbish dumps, derelict brickworks, a lane formed by outworn and rusted ship’s boilers, great mounds of ash, old tyres, papers, rags, old ropes, tins, boxes, upon all of which the drizzle continued to fall, forming a thin, shining film over the whole congealing mass. The man put on his cap, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

I could go to New York, I’ve relatives there. Yes, I could go there.

The policeman watched. And suddenly, out of the mist appeared a small Austin car. It drew up in front of the man. A passenger got out. A short, stockily built, florid-looking man. He wore a black coat, and striped trousers. Only the black bowler hat made him appear pompous and fussy, and he wore it with an air of great importance. He carried an umbrella, too tightly rolled up ever to be opened. He hardly noticed the drizzle. The driver was a woman, at whom the man with the cap began to stare. He stared very hard.

A woman, he exclaimed under his breath, it’s a woman. He then looked across at the little man, who now announced very dramatically, I’m late. The man with the cap just went on staring. He could not take his eyes off the woman behind the wheel.

My wife, said the short man, just learning to drive. You look cold. I’ve come along to meet you. Slight traffic hold up. A little late. Sorry! Come to help. We always do. Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Society. Bound to have heard of it. Will you get into the car? Where do you want to go?

The whole thing tripped off his tongue, easily, from ruthless habit. He talked as out of a dictaphone.

Run you wherever you wish to go. Cup of tea first. Hope you’ve learned your lesson. What a miserable morning?

The man remained motionless. Perhaps I could look up Maureen, he thought.

Are you all right? enquired the little man, only to receive another rude stare for his pains.

The woman leaned her head out of the window.

"Do hurry, Herbert," she said. She had a warm, comfortable look, matronly; she appeared considerate, kind.

She looked up at the man whose eyes had never left her. Are you coming or not?

An ultimatum. The little man prodded the umbrella into the mud, the puddles. He mused. "It often happens that way. You get a person totally incapable of making up his mind. I’ve seen so many of them stand in this very place, looking quite helpless, bereft. It saddens one. Sometimes it seems as though they were quite unable to breathe the very air about them. What can I do?"

And suddenly looking at the man, asked, What can I do?

Leave me alone. The man with the cap turned his back to the other.

One has to have a patience, reflected the little man. Just for a few minutes they seem quite lost.

Can’t you leave me alone, said the man with the cap, "can’t you?"

The woman spoke. We are only trying to help you. And the man thought, I’m just a pig.

The woman leaned out of the car, she was closely watching the man.

Take you anywhere you want to go, her husband said, and he lifted the umbrella clear of the ground. "Anywhere," he added, and there was a note of desperation in the voice. He cautioned himself to be patient.

Just leave me alone, the other said.

The little man had tucked the umbrella under his arm. From his overcoat pocket he withdrew two envelopes, and handed them to the man.

"Here! And this, he said, waving one of the envelopes, this, I was asked to give you. And now, good luck."

He held out his hand, the other took it, and shook it warmly.

I just wish to be left alone, he said.

And I can assure you, my good friend, replied the little man, that I quite understand—perfectly. Goodbye, and good luck.

He stamped away towards the car. The woman started up the engine. It purred for a moment or two, then suddenly roared away into the morning stillness, but not before she had again put her head out of the window, and wished him a good morning.

Nothing could have been more definite, more final, than that single utterance. Which way shall I go?

The man held the envelopes in his fingers. Inside one of them there was something hard, and he opened it. Two half-crowns dropped into the palm of his hand.

Christ! He opened the other. It contained only a torn, half-sheet of paper. There was a pencilled message, and he read it, once, twice, then a third time, reading loudly, Contact D at Tilseys.

Tilseys? Where the hell was that? He had never heard of it.

Who is D? Never knew anybody whose name began with a D. Is Tilseys a pub? A café? A hotel? He stood quite still, the envelope dangling in his fingers.

Wonder where they all are? Mother never wrote any more. And slowly, almost unconsciously, he was tearing the envelopes into the tiniest shreds, and scattering them in the road.

Better make a move. God! It’s damp around here. Can’t get warm, and then he shouted into the empty air, can’t get warm. I wonder if I’ll ever feel warm again? Nobody came. It doesn’t matter. They’re all so old, even Kilkey. But he did write to me. I’ll remember that. I’ll go now.

He walked slowly down the road, leaving behind him the wall, the door, the silence.

"I’d better find this Tilsey place. Pub, I expect. But where? And who is D? Who in hell is D? Somebody knew I was coming out. Who is this D?" He passed by the policeman, he kept his head erect, he walked towards the city.

Good luck, mate, said the policeman as he passed.

Same to you.

Wonder if Cavanagh is still in New York? Wonder where Maureen got to? Oh, Christ, I wonder when I’ll get warm.

He stood still, shivering, he stamped his feet. "I’ll find this Tilsey place. It must be a pub."

His hand kept travelling towards his inside pocket, from which he would draw out a sheaf of papers, glance at them, then thrust them back again. If I could get somewhere for ten minutes, just to get warm. I’d go through these papers. Nobody came at all. Odd. Is it? Oh, damn it, it’s not, it’s not even funny. Too long a time, perhaps they forgot, mightn’t know. This road seems to go on and on. He kept on walking. Wonder where Anthony got off to?

The road suddenly widened, it stretched for miles. Don’t remember this road at all.

He heard footsteps behind him, and swung round. A man. He carried a small brief-case, and he appeared to be in a great hurry.

Where does this road end? The man stopped. Where was he going? Where did he want to get to? He asked this without looking at him.

Want to get into Gelton, the city end.

Easy! Walk down this road for two miles, easy as winking. At the first turning, bear left. When you come to the end of that road you will see the tram terminus. Catch one, it’ll take you all the way.

Thank you. This is a new road?

Looks new to me. Well—good morning.

The man with the cap stopped again. He watched the other’s figure grow smaller and smaller. Then it vanished. He moved on again. Expect he’s going into Gelton, too. Didn’t want to talk.

The road went endlessly on, and sometimes stretches of it were flanked by blackened trees.

Wonder who this D contact is? He turned sharply left, and saw the turning.

Be warmer in the tram.

Suddenly he was aware of a small group of people stood near the kerb. This is it. They were waiting for the incoming tram. He walked slowly towards them, but kept a clear distance between the people and himself. He was conscious of his suit, his cap, his head. It had never been warm since they cut his hair. And then he saw the man with the brief-case, a girl with red hair, an old woman wearing a shawl over her head. A youth with an enormous check cap, and a face covered with freckles, stared owlishly through steel-rimmed spectacles. A tall, middle-aged woman carried an enormous basket. Market day, he thought. He watched them very closely, and he kept fingering the two half-crowns. He thought of D. "Might have been the chap who wrote me about Anthony, can’t quite remember, yes, it might have been. Is it a him? Might be a she. Good Lord! I never thought of that. Wouldn’t be S, no, that’s ended. Must track down old Kilkey—if he’s alive. Letter every three months from him, never missed save the once. Then he suddenly stopped altogether. Wonder why? Oh, hell! Give up wondering. Your head will burst open. Get warm, and he began rubbing his hands together, all the time watching the group of people. And he still felt the wall, and the door, and the silence behind him, heard a bell, smelt a mould from his clothes, and went on rubbing his hands. Kilkey kept me alive."

Somebody said in a throaty voice, Here it is, and he heard the roar of the oncoming tram. There was a rush for it as it pulled up, and the man wondered why, it was quite empty. Pulling down his cap, he waited until the group had climbed in, and then he followed. He went upstairs and found himself a back seat. The man with the brief-case was sitting just in front of him. He watched this man, studied his neck, his back, his head, the thinning, grey hair. And then he imagined that, that wall, and door, and silence, had followed behind him, tracked him down to this very tram, until the very air breathed the years he had left behind him. It was stale, strong in his nostrils, he was there again. Damp clothes, hot iron, a reek of bad breath, a smell of ammonia, sweat congealed under shirts. And just as suddenly it vanished. He was here, in a tram, breathing in tobacco fumes. Somebody was smoking a cigarette. The whole tram was wreathed in grey and blue smoke. The man with the brief-case was puffing like a chimney. The tram shook and rattled its way downhill. It stopped, passengers alighted and boarded it, the bell clanged, and it charged on down the hill. The man with the cap stood up, and as he leaned his weight on the seat in front of him, it moved and it shrieked, and the man in front turned round and looked at him.

What the devil am I standing up for? Like this? He looked down at his threadbare suit; the cheap tweed suit that still appeared to carry in its shape and pattern the secrets of fugitive sleep. He stared back at the starer, who said quickly, It’s a nasty morning.

Yes—excuse me—— stumbling awkwardly in the passageway, have you a cigarette you could spare me?

A quick movement, a click, and the silver cigarette case was open. For a moment the big thumb and finger fumbled at the contents. He broke the first cigarette in two—So sorry. The man picked one out for him, but he dropped it on the floor. Try again, the smile seemed genuine enough.

Thanks very much. The seat back rattled again, and then the tram pulled up with a jerk. The man with the cap flung out his arms to save himself from falling.

Ha! ha! Haven’t yet got your sea legs, eh, said the one with the brief-case. Want sea legs on these quite cumbersome and antiquated relics from the dark days of transport. Light?

He had struck a match, and was holding it up for the other. Just out, he thought, poor swine, and he watched the man’s trembling mouth as he puffed the cigarette. "There we are," he said.

Thanks. The man with the cap settled himself back in his seat. He felt hot, miserable, suddenly futile. It had been an ordeal, it was like living in another level of air. Looking through the window he saw the first houses looming up. The tram stopped again, more passengers boarded. He saw people on the road, people turning corners, passing into streets, standing in little groups, talking, and gradually the traffic thickened. He had a slight sensation of sickness, a sense of a sudden pressure, as he sat watching the life beyond the window. The passenger in front got up. Morning, he said, and rushed down the stairs at the next stop.

Two dock-gate men came up. They passed the man with the cap, they talked loudly about tides, and hardly noticed the face pressed against the window. He didn’t exist. It was growing light, and the tweed suit stood out more clearly. The man kept glancing anxiously down at his trousers, their utter shapelessness confronted him like a threat. A woman came down the passageway and sat next to him. It distracted, he forgot about the suit, the cap, the slight odour, he even began to feel a little warm. Out of the corner of her eye the woman was looking at him. Been sleeping out overnight, she thought, perhaps a tramp. She was quick to note the cap pulled down over the eyes, and the one fist gripping the seat in front. She noticed the big hand. Abruptly she got up and found another seat elsewhere, went further down the deck. The man sat motionless. Strong tobacco from pipes got into his nostrils, his throat. He tried to push open the window, but his strength seemed unequal to it.

Cars tore past, and a great convoy of lorries hove into view. The roar deafened. He clutched his seat with the other hand, and the tram swayed more violently.

God! When does the damn thing stop altogether?

The bell clanged continuously.

Wonder who this D is? Where is this place called Tilseys?

Fares, please. The tram increased its speed.

"Your fare, please."

The man jumped. Oh yes—yes, fumbling in his pockets, in all his pockets, and they were all empty. Damn—damn!

Where to? asked the conductor, where for?"

Still fumbling desperately, the man said, Tilseys.

Where?

Tilseys. He breathed heavily. Got it, he said, there, and the half-crown appeared in the first pocket he put his hand in. There! Tilseys.

Where the hell would that be? asked the conductor. What is it? A road? A street?

Almost shyly, the others said, I don’t know. It might be a pub.

And so it bloody-well might, the conductor snapped back. Better have a ticket all the way and take your chance at the end of the trip. Twopence.

He punched a ticket, pushed it into the man’s hand, counted the change. Never heard of the place, he said.

Boozin’, he thought, that’s what’s wrong with him. Been sleeping out with the bloody cats, ’spect.

He came rushing back down the passage, and barked, Call you.

What’s that? But the conductor and his indigestion had already clattered down to the lower deck.

At that moment a tall, heavily built woman came up and took the first available seat in sight, next to the man. The tram was now full, and it ignored the next stopping place. The air was one great cloud of smoke, and people talked loudly against the continuous rattling of the vehicle. The man drew away from the woman, he pressed to the window again, and looked out. He crouched, as though from some hidden fear. His expression was a mixture of helplessness and bewilderment. He glanced sideways at her. She sat very erect, staring straight ahead, and her bright red face smelt strongly of rude soap, contrasting strongly with the pallor of the man. Her face was as polished as an apple, it shone from under the shawl she wore. It beamed out upon the world. From time to time he glanced shyly towards her. The face attracted him, the ample bosom, and suddenly he realized he had seen that kind of woman before. She was a woman from the markets.

When he was a child he had often stared after them, marveiling at their strength, their beautiful sense of balance. This woman was on her way to work.

Nasty morning, she exclaimed suddenly, without moving her head.

Yes, it is, the man said, and moved a little further away. He had a horror of being drawn into conversation, and she talked so loudly.

My man said it was going to be a lovely fine day, and now look at it, the man’s a bloody fool, announced the woman, then burst into a violent fit of laughter. The other cringed in his seat.

People turned to look, some smiled. They saw the healthy, boisterous, laughing woman, the man beside her.

"If that’s your husband, missus, then no bloody wonder it rained," and every eye was focused on the man against the window.

"I must get off, I must get away from this, I must get off now," struggling to his feet, jerking the cap down on his head.

Excuse, he said, and began to move.

Oh Lord, the fat woman said, and stood up to let him pass.

The whole tram watched the man leave his seat.

Thank you, forcing his way down the passage. His face burned, he kept his head lowered, he found the stairway, he put a foot on the first step and held on. The conductor saw him.

This isn’t the terminus.

There was something about this morose-looking passenger that he began to hate, though he did not quite know why.

I know it isn’t.

Well?

Stop this tram.

The conductor rang the bell. The tram drew up, the man jumped off, and ran across to the sidewalk. The passengers stared down at him.

Where the hell am I? The tram had gone, he knew that he was lost.

"Should have gone with the man in the car. He would have known Tilseys. I’m a fool. Might have known who D was. Should have asked him, but I couldn’t, I hated him then, silly, I suppose, but I did, I hated him. Who is this D? I’ll ask. Somebody’ll know."

The pavements were crowded, this was the city centre. He stood waiting, watching, hand to the stubble of his chin; he felt dirty, hot, terribly confused. The smell of damp clothes never left him. The razor was no good, the razor was rotten.

I say, he said, almost walking into the oncoming postman, do you know where I can find a place called Tilseys?

Never heard of it, the postman said, and looked sharply at the man, noticing a difference at once. Couldn’t say. This enquiry seemed like an affront. Sorry, he said, and walked on.

Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find Tilseys? The accosted man noticed two things; the stubble on the chin, and a slight odour.

Sorry, he said, but there’s a policeman over there, he’ll know.

A policeman? Where the hell am I? I don’t know this place any more.

Excuse me—yes—it might be a pub—Tilseys, maybe a café—do you—no—it must be a pub—perhaps a——

The railwayman was kind. Never heard of it, he said, but I’ll tell you what. They’re bound to have a telephone. Go into the nearest box and look in the directory, bound to find it. Going that way myself.

The two men went down the narrow street. The man stopped, turned round, looked back.

Much obliged to you, he said, and then he saw the policeman begin to move, he was coming his way. The policeman watched, his eye was good, even on a dreary February morning. He had seen the man alight from the tram, seen him accosting people. He hadn’t stopped any women, girls.

Begging, he muttered, that’s it. I don’t like the look of him. He kept the two men in sight, and saw them stop outside the telephone kiosk. He watched the man go in, the railwayman holding the door. He heard the man speaking.

Much obliged.

The man shut himself in, the railwayman went off down the street. The policeman was outside the box in an instant, waiting. He saw the man inside do two things: he stared through each of the three windows, then he turned his back and picked up the large directory. This he slowly paged, his finger moving up and down. Tilseys, that’s T, the man said, he turned to the T’s again. Must be here—no, might not have a telephone—damn and blast it. Where is this place? I know. D stands for damn, that’s what it is. Damn! he cried into the box, and then a sudden noise made him turn round. The door was open, the policeman’s hand on the handle. His own trembled, and the directory crashed to the floor, and as he stooped to pick it up, he banged his head against the steel coin-box. He dropped it twice again before putting it back on the shelf.

I was looking for the letter T, he blurted out.

He left the box, stood to his full height. His cap fell off, the policeman noticed the head and said brusquely, When?

This morning.

How long in?

Fifteen years and four days.

Oh! Come on out of that box and let’s have a look at you.

The man, who had suddenly backed into the doorway again, now came right forward. Two passers-by stopped, they were interested.

Get along, said the policeman. None of your business. Be off.

They went on, but continued to turn round. They wanted drama. They wanted to see the handcuffs put on. He had just come out, now he was going in again. Higher up the street they stopped. On a miserable winter morning a little drama could be exciting.

Turn out your pockets. If I think everything’s O.K., I’ll let you go, if not, then I won’t. See? I’m no bloodhound, mister, never was. Fair’s fair.

He watched the man draw the papers from his pocket, half of which clouded to the ground.

H’m! I see, said the policeman, stooping to pick them up. Hands not too steady, eh?

I was standing outside when the car came up. I was just—trying to plan things, trying to—Prisoner’s Aid—run you where you want to go.

He did, did he?

"I said,’ Leave me alone.’ He gave me these two envelopes. These. One had five shillings in it."

It did, did it?

The other held this slip of paper. I’m looking for Tilseys. I was searching in the directory just now as you came up.

It came out in a frenzied, frightened flood. I was just looking under the T’s, Tilseys, pub or café, I expect——

You were, were you?

The policeman had gone mercilessly through the papers, then he made them into a tidy heap and returned them to the man.

Thought you was begging, thought you might rifle the box. His sudden loud chuckle surprised the man. "All right. I know. I understand. Tilseys. I know where Tilseys is. Write down the address for you."

He tore a sheet from his notebook. Now then, he said, directing as he wrote. Take a 19a at the top of this street, tell the conductor to drop you at the corner of Richmond Street, just walk up on your left, and there it is. Simple, isn’t it? It’s a tearooms for old women, run by old women, never seen a man in the place yet, a lot of old spinsters go there, got religion bad they say, I wouldn’t know. But everything’s as sweet as sweet. There, watching the hand tremble, I’m no bloodhound, never was. He drew clear of the box and the man came away from it.

Good luck, mate, he said, and walked off down the street, then turned quickly and called, and keep out of mischief, and you’ll be all right.

At last. Tilseys. I’ve found it.

When one’s just out then another’s just in, reflected the policeman.

The window was covered with steam. Through it he had a blurred vision, the outlines of chairs and tables, a sickly-looking yellow light. He pushed open the door. The loud clang of the bell made him jump. He saw a line of hats and heads, and the air was alive with the brightest kind of chatter. There was a strong smell of toast and scones, and clouds of steam when teapot lids were raised. He saw feminine fingers stirring vigorously at the contents. A girl came up to him.

Is this Tilseys? he asked, keeping the door open with his foot; he looked everywhere but at the girl.

This is Tilseys, she replied, and was quite astonished when he turned his back on her, and went out again. He banged the door after him, and made off for the narrow alley that was flanked by high buildings.

Keel Row, he thought. No, don’t remember Keel Row. Slowly he retraced his steps. He passed a moneylender’s office, with heavy lettering on the bright, frosted glass. He passed a ship’s chandler, a saddler’s, a pawnshop, a draper. He opened the door again, and went inside. The air still hummed with conversation. The same girl came up again. He noticed her russet-coloured hair, her spotless linen apron.

He was nervous, afraid to look at her. He spoke quickly. An appointment, gentleman waiting to see me. Don’t know him. Begins with D.

He stared at her so intently that she backed away.

Yes?

He had to bend down to speak. He whispered, The name is Fury.

Oh! I see. She paused, then said hurriedly, Yes, I know. This way, sir.

She piloted him along between the tables and chairs. People kept looking up, the tongues had ceased to wag, the atmosphere became conspiratorial. The man smelt the freshly-ground coffee.

Now I’ll know who D is. Wonder who? Hiding, he thought. You could hide here, and under his breath he exclaimed, Safe.

This way, please. They went upstairs, soundlessly, the carpet was inches thick, a bright red. They stopped at a door, a dark corridor, but the smell of toast and scones was everywhere. The girl looked back at him.

It’s Mr. Delaney you want, she said. He’s in there. I’ll knock.

Her smile dazzled him. Thank you.

A Mr. Fury to see Mr. Delaney, she said.

There was a croak from within. Come in.

They looked into the room. It was dark, stuffy, they saw nothing. Mr. Delaney sees everybody here, she whispered to the man.

Delaney, Delaney, what does a man named Delaney want with me?

Go in now, she said, and gave him a slight push.

The door closed behind him, he stepped into the darkness. The moment it closed on him he was seized with a frantic desire to get out, and he rushed back and began rattling at the knob. If only she had stayed. She had been so warm, friendly, smiling at him, piloting him so carefully past all those women in the café.

Won’t you sit down. I’ll put on the light. I often sit in the dark, sometimes for half an hour at a time. Find it helps my eyes. The light came on.

The visitor looked about him. He saw in a far corner, seated in a black, high-backed chair, behind an enormous mahogany desk, an old man. He croaked again. Draw up your chair, sir. The man picked up the chair and went forward.

Sit down.

The old man rose to his feet. Now he appeared taller than his tall visitor. He wore a huge Ulster, somewhat frayed, and worn away at cuff and elbow. The large head was covered with iron-grey hair. The small mouth seemed out of place in the long face. I am glad you came.

The mouth shut tight, and two bright, intelligent-looking eyes sized up the visitor. The man had seated himself, his hands resting idly on his knees. The pool of weak light now fully encircled the two men, the rest of the room was drowned in shadow. Somewhere in this room a clock struck loudly. The heavy curtains were drawn across the big bay windows.

You may not have heard of me, but I have heard of you. Mr. Delaney sat forward, hands on the desk, the contents of which were now being minutely noted by his visitor.

There were ledgers of various sizes, open and shut, printed pamphlets by the score, small white cardboard boxes, three prayer books, a rosary, a litter of unopened envelopes, all addressed to Mr. Cornelius Delaney. The handwriting was clear, unclear, blurred, tortured. Some were addressed in thick lead pencil, but those in ink seemed to have a character of their own, whirls and flourishes and ornamentations that reflected the vanity of the writers. Some letters were barely legible, but Mr. Delaney was used to a rich and varied correspondence. It was his temperature chart of humanity. On the fringe of this mass of correspondence there stood a single cup and saucer, half full of cold tea; a completely abandoned cup and saucer. There was a wild assortment of pens, most of their nibs rusty—he now used a fountain pen—an old-fashioned typewriter that suggested a miniature shipyard, a letter file containing nothing, a piece of ink-stained india-rubber, a large sheet of quite filthy-looking blotting paper. On this Mr. Delaney’s clasped hands were now resting.

The visitor noticed a large