Free An End and a Beginning by James Hanley Page B

funeral?”
    â€œI did.”
    He was glad to be able to say it, he felt warmer already, as though the sun had shone through the dirty window, melted the room’s frozen look.
    â€œYou don’t mind these questions?”
    â€œMind? Good Lord. No, Peter, why should you think that?”
    â€œDo you ever see Kilkey?”
    â€œSometimes——” Desmond looked away to the door.
    â€œThis is a grown man,” he told himself, “I am talking to a stranger.”
    â€œEver hear anything of Maureen?”
    â€œNo. Afraid not, I’m sorry to say. Pity about her. A great pity.”
    Desmond leaned across the bed, and he rested a hand on either side of Peter’s head. “You know I’m sorry the way things went.” Only now was he aware that the man was sleeping in his clothes.
    â€œI want to help you in any way I can,” Desmond said. “As you know there was a suggestion that you might go to America. We can get you the passage across all right.” He paused. He wanted to cry out, “Stop staring at the bloody ceiling,” but he couldn’t say it, and he wasn’t quite certain, even now, about anything . Fifteen years. It was a hell of a long time. He wanted to say, “When I last saw you, you were a fine healthy lad,” instead of which he remained tongue-tied, staring stupidly at the foot of the bed. “He has changed, terribly, I can’t believe it. I knew this would be awkward, and by God, it is.”
    â€œI can’t say any more than that, Peter. I’m sorry about the way things went, always have been. I know you’ve had a lousy time. But take my advice, get out of Gelton. There’s nothing in it, it’s finished. And I myself won’t be here much longer. London is my next move.”
    â€œYou haven’t changed,” Peter said.
    â€œNot much.”
    A silence fell between them. Peter noted the carefully brushed black hair, the grey suit and the white collar, the tie, the gloves, the overcoat, the hat. The heavy, fleshy face, the same Desmond. No change.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œWhat d’you think I’ll do?” asked Peter.
    â€œI don’t know.” A pause, and then a silence.
    Desmond lost control and shouted into the stale air, “Can’t you say something. God! I know it’s been a lousy deal, I know it, but can’t you say something? Instead of lying there staring at nothing.”
    â€œI’m glad you went across to Ireland that time,” Peter said. “It makes you believe in something. Yesterday morning, at eight o’clock, I came out and was met by a little man with an umbrella. He gave me five shillings and his hand, and he wished me well. All I wanted to do was to get warm. I still want to get warm, because I haven’t felt that way for a long time. I moved off. But all the time I felt I was being followed, somebody peeping over my shoulder, a door banging, keys turning in locks, walls moving up at you. I met an old man named Delaney. I liked him. Should have seen him this morning, at nine o’clock. I wouldn’t go. Should have seen you, didn’t turn up. I asked myself why I should turn up anywhere. Knew you’d be there, waiting, your wife, that solicitor. Didn’t turn up. I went to Kilkey. His kindness frightened me, He asked me to stay with him, he’s lonely now, his son at sea. When I heard that it didn’t make me feel any younger. He begged me to stay, the old chap cried. But I said no, and I came away. Can’t believe his son’s twenty now. Dermod when I last saw him was around four or five years old, a kid. Funny. I can’t believe anything much, dreaming all the time, drowsy, falling asleep, frightened when I hear a door close, can’t get my breath, feel I’m choking, dreaming here all night, thinking about it this morning. Is it real? Dream about Mother, Dad, wake up, wonder what