Free The Closed Harbour by James Hanley Page A

poor old Berthelot and his precious offices a heap of dust. These days you need only have one ship to call yourself a shipowner. I once saw that Corsican , and if that ship had anything it had the right to sink. And what was she carrying for Algiers? I ask you? And you may well ask till the last day. I doubt if anybody knew she had really sailed. In the morning there was nothing but dunnage where she had been. That was the ship your brother sailed, but then I don't think he ever in his life had the Captaincy of a decent ship. Even the Mercury stank. And nobody asked whether she returned or not, perhaps they didn't care, except the poor souls who had lost men in her. And think on that. Millions dying. Who has the right to fuss about two score of men?"
    After a momentary silence, she added,"I haven't heard him come in. Out all night again."
    Madeleine's lips seemed never to have parted, and yet she had spoken.
    "Are we staying here forever?"
    "I hope not," replied Madame Marius.
    "I know I talk like a parrot," Madeleine said, "but I ask again, what are we waiting for?"
    "I want the truth out of him, and I want justice. It would be terrible to have lived a long life and never to have seen it. And we are here because we cannot go back. We are finished there . Everything is finished. Never can I look some people in the face. Never."
    "The priest thinks you're the fool, throwing everything up for your pride."
    "Would you have stayed?" asked her mother, but Madeleine turned her head abruptly and did not answer. "Would you?"
    Madeleine got up and went out of the room. Madame Marius heard her climbing the stairs.
    "She will have her little weep," she thought.
    In this low chair, hard by the window Madame Marius looked mountainous. There was something implacable, the sleeping strength of some powerful animal. She sat erect, the heavy, fleshy hands clasped gently together in her lap. Only the eyes moved. And by her side lay the black bag with its powerful lock. This bag never left her side day or night, she dragged it with her everywhere, she lay with it under her pillow. Her life was locked inside it, her memories, her pride, the family history, the days that were gone and the days to come. Sometimes, unconsciously, her hand would stray towards it and grip it, and if she were talking she would lift it up and plant it firmly on her knee, then continue with her conversation, staring at the other in a defiant way, as though to say, "well, try and take it from me".
    She had once been handsome. Height only redeemed this shapeless body. The fine nose still remained, but one could see where other blows had struck, one after another, the swollen ankles, the outsize arms, the chin as powerful as a man's, and ready to pull down and destroy the remaining structure of the face. The eyes were almost black, but completely without lashes, the lips had dwindled, tightened, giving the mouth the appearance of a half shut purse. Everywhere the skin was coarsened, excepting the fine forehead from which the hair had been rudely drawn back. It was smooth yet carried an unhealthy shine about it.
    Moving, she was conscious only of height, of weight, and yet she bore this mass with some dignity.
    Before a mirror in the morning she would suddenly tilt back her head, stretching the fullness of the flesh, and shut tight her eyes, and this action was like a duty in the sad, brutal moments of revelation.
    She wore long plain dresses that draped, and sat carefully in every chair. Her teeth were her glory and she was forever cleaning them.
    She suddenly heard Madeleine moving in the bedroom, and thought, "well that's over, she'd had her little weep."
    She thought the regularity of this weeping had removed from it the last trace of any sadness, the whole thing was undignified. Sometimes she would exclaim, "horrible, listening to it, why can't she brace herself why does she go on and on. No miracle can happen. Nothing could bring him back now. I'll be glad when we've