by James Hanley
He filled a kettle and put it on the stove outside. Then he lit the fire. Useless to lie down. Useless to sleep. His nerves were on edge. It had been a shock. He went from corner to corner and back again, aimlessly wandering. He went twice round the table. Damn it! He couldn’t get Fanny out of his mind. As for Captain Fury, the old man might never have met him, so completely had he forgotten him. Seeing his wife there, stretched out, bound down to the bed. It seemed so wrong, so terribly wrong! ‘God be with her this very night.’ Unconscious. Found outside that place. Again. Again! It was dreadful, and he had been hoping, hoping. Yes, they’d even talked about that trip to Mount Mellery and the quietness of God’s air there, waiting, waiting for her. To rest herself. To forget, and then if God spared them, then one fine day he’d be home. Finished with the sea for good. The sea could dry up, ships rust. He’d be through. It was about time. He had travelled enough. And now she was there, silent, unconscious. The thoughts rose like a wild flight of birds, circled him, swooped, clung. They fenced with each other. But he could not drive them away.
The kettle was boiling, boiling fast away, but he sat on the sofa again and did not move, the tea-pot dangling in his hand. He thought suddenly of her bag. Fanny’s black bag, that cursed black bag, that cursed devil’s tune. That bag of misery and empty words. Faded cuttings of newspapers, cheap scent, a holy picture. A bagful of nothing but bitter memories. Carrying it about with her wherever she went. Sleeping on it. He wished he could lay hold of it now and burn it. That damned black bag of hers! Nothing good in it, nothing hopeful—a bagful of madness. The devil’s madness, and all her humbled pride.
‘Poor Fanny,’ he found himself saying. ‘Poor foolish woman.’ Well, there it was. There it was. The whole family scattered and her pride gone. Everything gone. Never mind, they had each other. Poor foolish, secret, proud Fanny. She had him. He never dreamed that bringing her from Ireland meant this. All this.
He made some tea, drinking it greedily. The fire was burning up now, and he was glad he had lit it. The place looked a bit more cheerful anyway. With each cup his thirst grew. He made more tea. He had never before drank so much tea.
He took his boots off and settled himself down in the chair. He was soon asleep, but about seven he was rudely wakened by a commotion next door. The sound of shouting came to him then. It was a woman’s voice. Looking through the window he saw a cyclist going off, and was able to discover the shape of the hat he wore. A telegram boy.
‘My God,’ he said, ‘here I am mewling and moaning out of me, and that poor woman next door has had the most awful news. Her son? Her husband? Her brother?’ And here he was, alive and well, crying out his misery. And Fanny was still alive. He went back to his chair again.
‘This bloody old war,’ he muttered, and that’s what it meant. Being woke up like that by such sounds and the heart’s emptiness for some poor creature.
Hearing a tug-boat hooting, Mr. Fury got up and at once shaved and washed. Then he went upstairs to change his clothes. At eight o’clock he went out and rang up the General Hospital from the local post office. How was she? His wife. Trembling all over, he gave particulars.
‘No change,’ they said. They did not add, ‘Delirium.’
The receiver dropped from Mr. Fury’s hand, ‘No change! No change!’
He left the post office and went back home. Life was emptiness. Lonely. ‘Poor me,’ he said; ‘poor you,’ as he turned the key and let himself into the house. A moment later he was out again. For the second time the door banged. He went back to the post office. What a fool he’d been! He rang up again.
Could he come in to see his wife? ‘Yes. Fury the name. Should have asked before.’ At the other end they heard his voice stammering, blubbering, and they said: ‘Hold the line.’ He waited.
‘Unfortunately, no. The patient was in a deep sleep. Resting,’ the voice concluded.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He heaved a sigh of relief, put down the receiver and went out.
He felt utterly lost. He went off slowly down the road, the steps of an aimless and still bewildered man. This medium-sized person dressed in his blue serge suit, black muffler and grey cap attracted no attention. He was a standard type—Hey’s Alley as well as Hatfields knew it well. The stooped shoulders, the shallow features, the old bruises, the blackness under the eyes. They knew all this. It was their world. The man dragged along, occasionally looking gutterwards. People passed him by. He looked into shop windows, glanced at passing trams, heard in his ears all the cries and sounds of the new day. He looked ill, felt lonely. He longed for Fanny home again. Nobody noticed. He was one. There were many others. Eyes looked, mouths opened and closed. Women watched Mr. Fury. A Mr. Dennis Fury. Wife in hospital. Unconscious. What was that? Nothing. The world about Hey’s Alley moved. He had reared a family, loved them all. What about it? He had seen them scatter. He was old, worn. Nearing finish. What matter? Hey’s Alley lived, moved, breathed. And somewhere the war was on, and ignorance and innocence joined hands like brothers in affection. Hey’s Alley became a large cat that watched, an eye that waited. A large ear that listened. One came riding furiously and a knocker banged and then one heard. The war was on, still on, and ignorance and innocence paid. Who was Mr. Fury? Nobody. Who was Fanny? Never heard of her. The little man walked on and Hey’s Alley swamped him.
As he neared a large bootshop Dennis Fury moved out a little towards the kerb. The world rolled by and he watched it roll, and somehow Fanny was watching it too. Stood beside him, arm through his. They were together. The traffic was rushing past. They were simply waiting in order to cross the road.
One much older than Mr. Fury, scenting a reason for his being isolated on the kerbside, went up and spoke to him. Mr. Fury at once knew he was an old sailor. He could tell a sailor anywhere. The old man came close up to him.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Looks like being one of them miserable days, sir.’
Mr. Fury scraped a foot on the stone. ‘You said it,’ he replied quickly, his voice thick.
‘Aye! Looks like more rain, and gosh, this nor’-easter. Why, it gets right through to me bones. Waiting on a ship are you, mate? May I ask?’ Then he blew his nose. The handkerchief was voluminous, it billowed and blew. They both laughed.
‘No! I’m already in a ship,’ replied Mr. Fury. ‘Sailing in ten days, so I am.’
‘Are you indeed? Well! Well! Indeed! H’m! Good. Lucky man. That’s what you are.’
‘Aye! Suppose so. Trooping,’ Mr. Fury said, and looked away from the busy street.
‘A dashed lucky man, sir,’ said the other.
Mr. Fury never knew why, but he smiled suddenly at the old man.
‘Aye! You’re not the only one who could tell me that, man. Not by a long chalk Mr.—er——’
‘Bowles, mate! That’s me! Sam Bowles. Did my last trip in the old Caliope, sir. King’s Navy, you know! Finest ship ever sailed the seas.’
Dennis Fury felt a warmth he had not experienced for a long time. He turned round now and looked into the old man’s purplish red face.
‘Aye! I could tell you were a Navy man,’ he said. ‘Like a chew of baccy?’ His hand dived into his pocket at once.
The other waved it away. ‘No, sir! Thank you. I’ve enough. But thanks, old timer. Sailing ten days, eh? Wish I was meself. When you think of the times—ah—and the Caliope——’
Mr. Fury smiled again. A nice man this. He was certain Fanny would like him. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said, ‘a chap can’t always be at sea. Now can he? Look at me! I’ve had just forty-six solid years of it, and I’m good yet.’
‘Just one less than meself,’ put in the other. ‘Only one less than meself.’
‘Forty-six years, and now all I want is the pension and a quiet life.’
‘Then I hope it comes to you, mate,’ said the ex-member of the Caliope. ‘All the same I do consider you’re a lucky man. Yes, a dashed lucky man. These times, you know. Well—it’s hard on the women
. The devil’s hardness, and a man hates looking at that sort of thing, mate. I do, anyhow. Still, we’ll beat those bloody Germans.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps we will. Well. I must be getting along,’ said Mr. Fury,
‘Good day, sir, and the best of luck to you, if I may say so.’
He watched Mr. Fury go. Then he looked right and left and crossed the road.
The little conversation had quite cheered Mr. Fury. If he hadn’t stood on the kerb for a minute or two, he might never have spoken to a soul. His gait was still slow, still aimless. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Perhaps he had better go and see a priest. Should he go for Maureen? Maureen! Ah, where the hell was he going to find Maureen Kilkey? No. He stopped dead there. It was silly not to, but—but. No! It was too awkward, too——No! He’d go and see a priest. Right away. But supposing the hospital had done that already? They generally did when a patient was——He cut the thought off. It only made him feel more hopeless. He thought of Desmond. No! To the devil with everybody.
Fanny had him! ‘That’s enough!’ Just him. They had all cleared out. Let them. When he reached the road’s end his mind was full of the priest again. Yes, he’d better see one. Who should he see? Names passed through his mind. He knew several. But they were all at the other end of the town. Perhaps he’d better go to the local chapel. He was a total stranger there, as he was to Hey’s Alley. What a move! But what on earth had made Fanny come to such a place? He wished he knew! Why, to hide of course. That was it.
Poor woman! If only he had been home at the time. He could have done things different. Hide! Well she was hidden now, well hidden. No! He couldn’t blame her for coming here, but it was a hole—a rotten hole. Hatfields was a palace compared with it. Suddenly he stopped and leaned against a hoarding, his hands behind his back. ‘Poor little Peter,’ he said. ‘Poor simple lad.’
By heavens, Fanny was a strong woman to come through all that! The very thought inspired the man with hope. By heavens, she would come through … Yes. He was sure she would. ‘Good Lord,’ he reflected, ‘how we fought and argued, and fell out, and smothered things over. What an ass I was then! Ah, but we’re still together. Let the world go hang.’ Fanny was a trump. He wouldn’t hear a word said against her. His mood softened.
It was getting late now. But he didn’t feel hungry. Suddenly he decided to ring the hospital again. It was no use walking about like this, and he hated everybody looking at him as they passed by. Perhaps she had woke up. Good God! He must’phone now.
Between eight and twelve he rang four times. The answer was as before. There was no change. He could ring any time. Yes. Call any time. But she was deeply unconscious. The poor woman. ‘I must go at once for the priest,’ he said.
Hey’s Alley was one of a series. Such names as Horse Alley, Fox Alley, Pickles’ Alley were neighbours. Looking at them from the river they appeared as a series of funnels. They were dark, stuffy, smelly. Geltonians who never ventured beyond the tall grey warehouses that flanked them, were blissfully ignorant of their existence. A sort of mole-like existence was in being here. Each alley contained twenty houses in all. They were not uniform in style, but they all served the same purpose. They justified investment. There was one lavatory for each alley. There were many children. Queues at the lavatory and wash-house—they were in fact public, quite common. Most of the occupants followed the sea as a calling. This could be seen from the windows of the end houses.
A man was said to ‘fall into his ship.’ It was true too that these people could go backwards and forwards to the sea, and live their lives unseen. They were well hidden away. In No. 17 Hey’s Alley, which lay between Horse and Pickles’, lived the Fury family. They had moved from Hatfields, situated in the north end of the city. At least the woman herself had moved and the man, home from sea rather sooner than expected, got something of a shock, but after the initial disappointment and surprise had passed, he had eventually, after a sort of bat-like exploration from north to south, discovered the area of alleys, and finally his home and his wife. That home-coming had pained him.
One son was at sea and had been away since the commencement of the war. He had been advised of the change. He was just as surprised. The former house had been their home for so long that it seemed impossible they could ever leave it. Another son now married was quite unaware of the change of address. The youngest son, the prime mover in the change of home was at present behind bars. The daughter who had married and eventually left her husband was considered lost. Nobody knew where she had gone: though they knew why. Her husband, however, still lived in the same street adjacent to Hatfields. Mr. Fury, on first catching sight of the alley, swore that he would never get used to it. He loathed it. To him it was a kind of defeat. But he kept back his opinions. His wife had done it, and she had done it for a good reason.
He accepted the situation, though time and time again he reflected with bitterness upon the forty-six years’ struggle he had made, and now it had brought them to this. He hated the place and he hated the people. At the same time he was worried by certain other changes that were taking place. His wife’s behaviour attracted attention. He understood the reason for it. But what he could never understand and never would understand was her reason for turning away from her door the best, the truest friend she had ever had. It made him sad. He tried to be as cheerful as he could. He kept his temper because he had to, for here was a woman more capable of losing it than he. At times he was afraid for her. She seemed so odd. There were occasions when they seemed like strangers to each other. But when early one morning he woke up to find her gone and then to discover she had been wandering about the streets, he realized something was wrong. What had happened this very morning was its culmination. When she went off like that there was always a crowd of curious people around the door to see her brought back.
Mr. Fury longed to fly from it. It didn’t seem fair. All those years, all that toil, and just ended in this. It seemed cruel, and now there was not one child to whom he could turn. They had well scattered. He made a solemn vow that they would not remain in Hey’s Alley for long. What exactly had made her come here of all places?
The more he asked himself why, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He felt fooled, frustrated. He wasn’t exactly crying about it. Not he. But no man with a bit of decency in him could look twice at the place without asking himself what forty-six years of hard work meant.
He was a happy-go-lucky sort of man, who could be, and had been called a fool for every day of his sea life, but had swallowed it all good humouredly. He always said: ‘Fanny will grow out of that,’ but his reckoning seemed quite disastrous, for she went on calling him a fool, to which he parried by saying that her silly ambition would get her nowhere. Their life was as full of wrangles, as it was of regrets. Why didn’t he look to his family more? How could he? He never saw them. He was always at sea! Then why didn’t he think of her more? He did! He loved her. The best woman in the world for him. Then lighter moments came. They went off to the country for an occasional walk. They went to the music hall. And then the man sailed away again. These diversions weren’t quite enough, however. The woman complained by letter. He never answered them.
The children were growing up. He hardly knew them, nor they him. The woman ruled the house. Living was a struggle. She kept on saying this with monotonous regularity. But what could he do? Nothing more than he was doing already. Working hard and earning money. Yes. But look at the lost opportunities. Look at the chances he had lost through not staying in America. After all it was a wonderful country, and the foster home of the Irish. Familiarity bred contempt. Mr. Fury shut his mouth and kept it shut. He sailed away and came home again. The children went on growing. What a father? Well, if he couldn’t show ambition she would. She would make a priest of one. She knew who. He said: ‘Fantastic, can’t afford it.’ She laughed, she went on, quite determined. The other children hated her for showing favouritism, for offering things they had been denied themselves
. They decided to get out of the place. The eldest married and never returned to see them. The daughter flung herself into a marriage which she had broken asunder only a year after it had taken place. The treasured favourite failed. It was the end. Now she didn’t care very much; she had been fooled all along the line; she had kept her father for years, for nothing, and had received little thanks. What bit of money he had saved went elsewhere. Not to his daughter, who had endeavoured to make the last years of his affliction as easy as possible for him. She had piled debt upon debt about herself in order to satisfy her pride. It had been struggle all along the line. It had ended in murder. Only a masterly defence had saved her treasured son from the rope. This was a cup she had to drink, overflowing with gall.
Here in Hey’s Alley she knew nobody and spoke to nobody. The spaciousness and greater freedom of the Hatfields district did not exist here. Here it was much darker, though there was at least no odour thrown up by bone-yards. Here the air smelt of rope and of the sea, and the people who lived in it.
‘Fanny, woman,’ Mr. Fury had said, ‘surely, surely there were hundreds and hundreds of places to come to besides this? Surely?’
Well! she preferred this. It suited her. She wanted to hear no more about it.
Then Anthony. He wouldn’t like it, a young man like him——Well!
That couldn’t be helped either! She was satisfied here. It was a step down. All the better! She could hide. Besides, in this place people weren’t so curious.
Mr. Fury made no more comment. But he thought a lot. He thought it was sad to see this hard-working, good-living woman stuck in a hole like this. No doubt he would be blamed for that too. His own foolishness again. Let her talk. There was nothing more to be said, need be said. Down and not up. Into a hole to hide. Well! Well! So it had come to that.
