by James Hanley
‘You men in this hall! I appeal to you to come forward and enrol. Be one of the members of this great battalion. I am forming these battalions of workers, all massed together, my friends, in a just cause. Because why?’ The table shook under the impact of the powerful fist. ‘Because I am convinced this war is a just war. If you should lose it I can well see the material conditions of the people going down, making a common level with the worst of all possible material conditions—the continental level! That is what it might mean. It would mean. Enrol to-night. I appeal to you to enrol. It is my intention to form battalions all over this country, to organize them for the good of this country.’ He paused. Was that a swelling of the chest as he added quietly: ‘And the Government are behind me? Yes, the Cause is your cause,’ and the word ‘your’ was literally flung into the audience’s face.
He was carried away, he went on and on, swimming in the flood of his oratory. Behind him Sir Digby whispered into Mr. Dingley’s ear. It looked as though he, Sir Digby, wouldn’t get a word in this evening. The man must stop soon. He stopped sooner than the worried knight had anticipated, and a most astonishing thing happened.
The audience, a goodly part of them, were rising, turning their backs upon the speaker and making for the doors. It pulled up Captain Fury in his magnificent stride. The audience were not listening, not booing or cheering, not questioning. They were simply moving out of the hall. Captain Fury watched, counted twenty, then thirty people passing out through the doors! This looked like collapse. And more than that. To him, Captain Desmond Fury, the worst of all possible insults. He roared out: ‘Close the doors! Close the doors!’ Almost in the same moment that a hand touched him and a voice said softly behind him: ‘Stop! Let Sir Digby speak! He can hold them.’
Not until Sir Digby stood beside him did Captain Fury retire to his seat. In that moment he was glad of the feel of his wife’s hand, and he was a delighted child when she smiled approval at him. He found the opportunity to whisper in her ear. ‘I’m more determined than ever now to get out of Gelton.’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Of course you do, darling. What a shame they wouldn’t listen to you! But then …’
‘Then what?’ asked Captain Fury.
‘Ssh! Sir Digby is speaking,’ she said. ‘Listen to what he has to say.’
And Desmond listened, though he kept thinking of the effect he had had upon the meeting. Um. It was obvious that they hadn’t forgotten! The murder case. The case of his brother. Damn the case and damn them. He hadn’t forgotten them either. He hadn’t forgotten their attitude during the strike. They remembered—but so did he. To hell with them. He was on the move. Nothing could stop him. That was the great thing. Moving. He slapped his knee with his broad hand. Well, here was a fact none could deny. He, Desmond Fury, Captain Desmond Fury, was on that platform with the best of them, in spite of them, in spite of everybody. By God he would show them that when he began there was no end. No. No end. Just going on and on and on. He’d get to London. Organize there. Organize, organize, organize. Great battalions of workers. He’d take command. There was nothing to stop a Colonelcy coming along. He looked at his wife. Her attention was entirely devoted to the speaker. Desmond sat back and listened too. Well one of the great things to-night had been just this. They had sat and listened to him. They had had to. It pleased him very much.
The speaker who carried on his talk with a spectacular use of the hands had a low musical voice. Desmond Fury was not five minutes listening before he was troubled by an uncomfortable thought. This thought conveyed to him in no uncertain manner, in all its shattering finality, the conviction that between them a gulf was fixed. Like the gulf between Sheila and himself. Yet they were happy, ideally so, they loved each other. But that insufferable gulf remained. What was this gulf? Captain Fury, cursed with the awkwardness that one associates only with the adolescent, would have found it hard to explain. He was intensely conscious of the enormity of that gulf. He was forced to use the word enormous, simply because it had an effect upon him that was more physical than spiritual or mental. It was indeed a habit of his, more noticeable than ever since he had started his ‘climb,’ of mentally stimulating himself with the thought that he was as good as she was. As good as they were. He saw it clearly. Others saw it in his actions.
If this difference between Sheila and himself, between Sir Digby even, was something one could tread on and crush he would have crushed it long ago, or something one could whisk away, then he would have swept it away. But it only remained a murdering thought. Yes. She was different. So was Sir Digby. There was something about even an old fool like Sir Digby that Desmond was jealous of. He couldn’t say what it was exactly. Perhaps it was the difference of awkward adolescence and the lucidity of the mature. It worried him! He was even jealous at times. He lost himself in his thoughts, unmindful of the fact that Sir Digby had indeed ‘stopped the rot.’ No audience, at least what remained of it, could have been more peaceful and contented.
Mrs. Fury leaned towards Desmond. ‘You’re tired,’ she said, and he felt her gloved hand in his own.
‘Tired!’ He smiled. ‘Hungry, you mean, darling. I could eat a horse.’
Captain Fury thought of the Alpacia restaurant towards which the dignitaries would adjourn, to enjoy a dinner at the expense of the mellow, and thoroughly good-humoured Sir Digby Dick. That of course would be the high-light of the occasion. Captain Fury was not only elated, he was proud. His sharp eye took in Mr. Dingley’s admiring glances, the worshipful Mayor’s sly looks, the Lady Digby’s tilted chin and the pale blue eyes that looked at Sheila and then at him, full of curiosity. It pleased him immensely. And on the strength of this sudden elation he squeezed his wife’s hand, saying:
‘Darling, will I be sorry when we can get out of this? I mean out of Gelton altogether? I don’t feel I’ll ever change until I do. I want a whole new break with living.’
She smiled lovingly at him. This desire to leave Gelton had two meanings. She wished indeed that her Desmond would always be honest. Why didn’t he say now that because he loved her, he was a little afraid for her, of her?
But Desmond gave no sign.
Sir Digby had had a most miraculous effect upon his audience. And half an hour later, when the party on the platform had adjourned and made themselves comfortable at the Alpacia, it became the subject of much conversation. Sir Digby was complimented left and right.
Captain Fury listened to it with one ear, whilst with the other he listened to the periodic comments upon the assembly that his wife was pleased to make. He felt very proud of her. She was so assured where he himself was inclined to be awkwardly shy, so quiet and dignified where he was only blustering and suspicious. Yes. There was a difference in their natures. There it was. It couldn’t be helped. He must live up to her. Not she down to him. He would be glad to shake the Gelton dust from his feet. He was worth it. He had worked. It had been a long, hard, bitter struggle. But he had got out of it, and now he was staying out.
‘Pay attention,’ Sheila was saying, ‘people are looking at you,’ at which remark Captain Fury blushed like a schoolboy just found pilfering in the larder. And at that moment he wanted to get up and go out. He felt if he could be alone for just five minutes he’d be all right. He was hot and flustered. He watched the others, finally he excused himself at a most opportune moment. As he rose, a tall dark-haired man left the table and went to the toilet. In his wake followed Captain Fury. He little knew how opportune it was for the gentleman. They could not help but meet. Their attitude was cordial, at least the thin gentleman’s was, and Captain Fury a little taken aback by the easy familiarity, did his best to be accommodating. He hadn’t wanted to speak to the fellow at all. He knew the name, but only slightly. Lawrence Trears. A solicitor or something.
The two men looked at each other over the white marble slab. ‘Cigarette?’ said Mr. Trears, offering a gold case to Desmond.
‘Oh, yes, thanks,�
�� replied Captain Fury, and the solicitor had a good look at the finger and thumb that gripped the cigarette from his case. Quite unmistakable, you could tell them anywhere! They never paused—considered. A tendency to respond more than willingly, a tendency to grab indeed. And then he looked Captain Fury straight in the face.
‘Captain Fury?’ he said, smiling, revealing beautiful teeth that amazed Desmond, for they were really Mr. Trears’s own.
‘Yes, that’s me! Captain Fury! Desmond Fury.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I liked the few words you spoke to-night. I confess to being intrigued by the name. Nothing extraordinary, of course. Purely a professional curiosity. You wouldn’t be the …’ and then he saw Captain Fury blush. He stopped suddenly. Should he have said that? And then the complete, the outright honesty of the Captain, disarmed him. Put him at his ease.
‘Yes,’ said Captain Fury. ‘I belong—or belonged—to that filthy business.’
‘Filthy,’ thought the lawyer, looking away from the Captain. He lit a cigar. ‘Curious,’ he said, ‘it’s only a week ago that I had a visit from Mrs. Fury.’
‘My mother.’
‘Yes. That’s right, of course! I assure you, Captain Fury, that I did my very best for your brother. I am very sorry. I am glad to have met you.’
‘Thank you.’
It surprised by its coldness. But the lawyer had learned how to be courageous. He had begun. He would finish. There was something about this tall, powerful man that he liked. So this was the son. He had not put in any appearance at the trial. Not that it mattered or would have made much difference. He had heard of Desmond Fury before, but under less distressing circumstances. But fancy bumping into him now.
‘Your wife is charming,’ he said, and again there burst from those thick lips the cold, staccato:
‘Thank you.’
‘I won’t talk, Captain. Perhaps we’d better get back to our table.’
Captain Fury put a restraining hand upon Mr. Trears’s arm as he made to open the door.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said; ‘you say my mother called.’
‘Yes. It is the eighteenth time in only thirteen months. I had to send her away as I had done on all the other occasions. I was very sorry for her.’
‘What did she want?’
‘She wanted me to do the impossible, Captain Fury. I shall tell you something. There is something really beautiful about your mother. I mean she has an innocence in her, a——’
‘What exactly did she want?’ asked Captain Fury. ‘I’d like to know very much.’
‘She wants me to approach the Home Secretary! Even the King. It’s quite useless. Only a masterful defence saved your brother from the rope. Of course, I pointed out to your mother that later I would try. But not now! I presume you see little of her, Captain. Well—I think I’d better be getting back.’
‘Same here,’ said Desmond, which really meant: ‘Not interested.’ He followed behind the other. Sheila looked at them as they approached.
Seated at table again they began their dinner, joined in the conversation, listened to each other’s arguments and each hoped he was admired for his cleverness, whilst the ladies were content entirely with their looks. Sir Digby’s wife and Sheila found enough to be interested in without dragging upon the things that had been the subject of the entire meeting. War! War! War! Every kind of war was discussed at the dinner-table. Only Captain Fury amongst the male assembly looked on in silence. He wanted to go. Take Sheila home. Get up and apologize. He wanted indeed to get out of Gelton! Mr. Trears’s was only the first; there would be others!
So his mother had called. And Mr. Trears had told her how impossible it was. Captain Fury’s state of mind was one that could allow itself, even in spite of his own worries, suddenly to think of his brother. Poor Peter! But he had simply asked for it. Walked right into the thing, so to speak. One had to think of Peter whole, and Peter whole meant much more than the murder of a moneylender! When he, Captain Fury, came to think about it he thought he had been, if not quite decent, then calm and controlled. And after all it was Peter who had been playing with Sheila behind his back. A bit of a kid. He, Desmond, hadn’t murdered anybody, though he certainly had the greatest right to. But what was the use of going over all that again. Yes, what was the use? And at this point thinking ceased. Captain Fury’s mind simply shut down its door.
He looked at Sheila! It was wonderful. If those people only knew how much he enjoyed their glances, admiring and covetous, questioning and curious. She was a beautiful woman. People simply had to take notice of that fact; she was young, beautiful, intelligent, and he was her husband. Captain Fury basked in their looks. That Trears fellow! A year ago he meant nothing to Trears. Small fry then. But to-night he told him how charming his wife was. But more than that. Really wonderful. He felt that the lawyer had been too reserved.
‘Captain Fury?’
Desmond looked up. Sir Digby met his look, smiled, said slowly, very seriously, and with much drumming of fingers upon the table. ‘Captain Fury. How long do you suppose it would take you to raise say two battalions of workers? I mean in the transport section. I thought your Gelton work very fine. Very fine indeed. The idea was so good, so new. So …’
Captain Fury beamed. ‘Oh,’ he said, drawling, ‘just three months. No more.’
He sat back in his chair, a big hand round his wine-glass. A slight pressure and it seemed the glass would shatter to fragments. The hand seemed to interest Sir Digby very much. Lawyer Trears looked at Sheila, but she was engaged in deep conversation with Lady Digby. Smoke, and of a most fragrant tobacco, curled up towards the ceiling of the Alpacia, and a yard away a somewhat bored waiter followed its movement across the room. There was a leisurely contented air about the place. One could not imagine the real cause of this dinner to be one of celebrating the quickest and easiest way to prosecute a war. Blood seemed so far away. It might have been a vicar’s party. It was jolly.
Everybody smiled, enjoyed the food, and only the most vulgar asked himself why this Sir Digby should have so much money. Mrs. Fury listened to two people at once. To her husband’s garrulous talk through a trained ear and to the curious self-conscious chit-chat of Lady Digby. Mr. Dingley and my Lord Mayor had drawn their chairs closer together, and seemed islanded all by themselves as they talked about whether Geltonians should have music in the park on Sundays. The more serious business in helping on the prosecution of a war was one for people like Captain Fury, and Mr. Dingley was secretly pleased that the Colonel and Adjutant of the Geltonian Regiment had not elected to join in.
‘I think,’ said Sir Digby, as he endeavoured to strike a tune from the rim of his wine-glass, ‘I think it was a splendid idea organizing them on purely military lines. It does mitigate the possibilities of strikes, of unrest, and of course the power vested in the Government would hold them down to a plan, a set plan of campaign. For instance …’
Here Sir Digby had to stop, in fact everybody stopped talking at once and looked up as a waiter approached the table. He looked directly at Desmond Fury.
‘Captain Fury, sir?’
‘That’s me,’ said Desmond, and began adjusting his belt, and arranging his tie.
‘You’re wanted on the’phone, sir. At once! It’s very urgent.’
‘Yes. Right!’ and the Captain got up, saying almost shamefacedly: ‘Excuse me.’
Sheila watched him go out. Sir Digby watched Sheila, waiting for a chance to speak.
He had been waiting for a long time. It amused him to think that he was intrigued by her. Suddenly the waiter came to the table, bent over Sheila, and whispered: ‘Madam, Captain Fury has been called away on a matter of great urgency, and he asks me to say that he thinks you should go on home.’
The woman went suddenly pale, looked at everybody, half rose, then said quietly: ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen—I——’ and she was on her feet at once.
The waiter approached to get her coat and gloves. But Mr. Trears had got
them already. He came round the table. ‘Allow me, Mrs. Fury! So sorry you have to rush away like this. I do hope it’s nothing serious. So pleased to have met your husband.’ His eyes were right on her now, the fingers of his right hand whisked away imaginary dust from the sleeve of her coat. ‘By the way, if you wish, I could run you home. I’ve the car here and it’s no trouble, no trouble at all.’
She was already moving away, and Mr. Trears was following behind her. The remainder of the party began to pull themselves together. Departure en masse seemed inevitable. And in the smoke-room just beyond the dining-room Mrs. Fury was questioning the waiter. He replied to her question with the correct amount of deference. One so well trained as he could see at once that this was a real lady. He ‘Yes madamed’ and ‘No madamed’ whilst Mr. Trears respectfully stood away. Where was the call from? Who was it? The War Office or the Transport Union, or what? How long would he be? Had he left no other message beyond advising her to go home?
‘The call was from a hospital, madam. I understood it was urgent. But I don’t know what hospital exactly. He seemed worried, madam. He said you were to go straight home, madam. He didn’t know how long he would be, but he would get back as soon as possible, and that was all he could tell me, madam.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked across at Mr. Trears smilingly and exclaimed: ‘If you don’t mind, Mr. Trears. I’d be grateful. It’s a long way from here, and I’ve a bad headache.’
She slipped something into the waiter’s hand. ‘Thank you, madam.’
‘Certainly, certainly, Mrs. Fury. Only too happy to oblige. Repton Court Road. I know it. Actually I pass it. I am sorry about your headache. I hope nothing is wrong,’ and Mr. Trears led the woman out of the hotel at a leisurely pace, and anybody seeing this pair emerge from the front door of the Alpacia could not help but think that the world was rather a nice place to live in. A moment later the gentle purr of a car grew into a sort of muffled roar and Mr. Trears and Mrs. Fury had vanished. A light rain like dust made a film on the windows. The wind was beginning to drive in from the east. The night was cold and a pale moon made fantastic what in the light of day was drab. The clutter of deserted streets.
