by James Hanley
DEAR Mr. TREARS,
I should be glad to know if you would undertake a small commission on my behalf. I had better explain who I am in the first place. I think I made your acquaintance previously in the public room at the Alpacia Hotel. You did, I believe, represent my brother at his trial, and know my mother slightly. It is about her I wish to write. Having to leave Gelton very shortly for important work in London and Plymouth, it is my intention to make my mother a small allowance of ten shillings per week, and for which purpose I hope to allocate a sum of fifty pounds, the same to be renewed as circumstances will permit. I should be glad to know therefore if you would be good enough to take over this sum of money and would pay a weekly sum of ten shillings to my mother at her address—I regret I do not know it at the moment—but if you should not have it I will find it out. In anticipation of your courtesy in this matter, I have pleasure in enclosing a cheque for twenty-five pounds. The charges can be sent to me at Lynx House, London, on your regular presentation days. [Mr. Trears juggled with this phrase for half an hour.]
Thanking you in anticipation,
I remain, Yours faithfully,
D. FURY (Captain).
Well, that was that! What a good idea. Splendid! He’d post it right away. Perhaps they had a postbox Peter here? As he put the letter in the box, Mr. Tinks arrived.
All smiles, Desmond approached, hand outstretched. For the fourth time he looked down at his boots.
‘Why, hello, Tinks,’ he exclaimed, boisterously, hardly expecting the gentleman to react as he did.
‘Hello,’ said Tinks, ‘I want to talk to you! What’s your bloody game, Dessy?’
Mr. Tinks was hot, fat, and fifty. He bounced about in front of Captain Fury. In this way, it seemed, had he made his first acquaintance with the world. He couldn’t run, he hardly seemed to walk at all. He simply bounced. Continuously he smothered the whole of his face in a voluminous old handkerchief. ‘You’re a bloody twister, Dessy!’ he said.
Captain Fury said nothing. He just stared down at the human ball, feverishly speculated. This was hardly what he had expected. Was this Tom Tinks? Better have a good look just to make sure. A grey tweed suit, expansive waist, heavy features, eyes that blinked continually, not so much from short sightedness but rather from a sense of awareness, like the blinking lights of a lightship. Mr. Tinks’s eyes stood solely as sentinels in his head. He blew his nose, grunted, cleared his throat, wiped sweat from his face. All these actions occupied a second, all were executed in one movement. Captain Fury hated the cap. He had worn a cap himself. But this cap, the peak fell down over Mr. Tinks’s purple forehead like a vizor.
‘Can’t stand here though, Dessy,’ he growled. ‘Better come to the bar. Have a drink?’
He became suddenly breathless. The handkerchief never left his hand. They went to the bar. It was empty. ‘Good!’ thought Tinks. ‘Got this swine all on his own.’ He looked Captain Fury up and down. What a bloody swell.… Suppose his wife dressed him up like that.
They sat down.
‘What’s yours?’ asked Mr. Tinks. His attitude towards the barman was no less belligerent. ‘Hurry up, dozy.’ This after the Captain, who had improved his taste of late, had asked for a brandy and soda. Mr. Tinks ordered a pint of bitter ale.
With this before them they could no longer remain silent. Captain Fury, affected only by the cap, and not by anything that Mr. Tinks would say, began to speak.
‘In the first place I thought this meeting had to do with a branch at the Grinley Sheds. I thought you were going to eat me at first. The flesh is tough. However, what d’you want? You look like myself, a busy man. What do you want of me?’
‘In the first place I think you’re a bastard,’ announced Mr. Tinks, who now took a good look at Captain Fury. ‘Quite a swank! Yes, on their bloody pennies. However——You haven’t heard the last of this. I heard you were pushing out of Gelton. Should have thought you’d have gone long ago.’
Desmond reddened at once. ‘Damn!’ he said, ‘get it off your chest.’
‘I will! At the moment I take me time. Heart’s none too good! D’you think you’re doing the right thing getting these working men to follow you into uniform? You know, I should have thought you had more sense! The crowd you’re trying to represent in your stinking old uniform won’t count tuppence after this war is over. I thought an intelligent man like you would know it. Where’ll you be? In Gelton? No! You’ll be in the bloody gutter! You belong there.’
Suddenly Desmond Fury caught Tinks’s arm in a powerful grip. At this moment he was of two minds whether to strangle Tinks or just break him in two.
‘You can’t come here insulting me like this, you know. I’m not your kidney. And if I put workers into uniforms, what about it? Give them some handy experience for the militant revolution.’ He paused suddenly, struck by the expression upon Mr. Tinks’s face, and for one wild moment he thought that the man really believed what he said. He rushed ahead then at great speed.
‘You people didn’t put me where I am to-day. You and your bloody pennies. I put myself where I am! I’d have to wait a hell of a time to be pushed into position by the workers: I worked hard for them for years. But I learned my lesson in the last strike. Mr. Tinks. Workers! You make me want to vomit! They smashed the strike, arguing and fighting like a lot of old women. Oh, I gave that up long since. Now I carve a path of my own. Even my own father is a mug. I learned from him too. Is this all you came to see me about? To tell me I’m a bastard? For two pins I’d break your bloody neck. Now get out. No, wait! You stood me a drink. I’ll stand you one. We part equal. So they don’t like being in uniform? What do they want? Angels’ draperies! They’re a lot of lousy bastards. That’s all I’ve ever made of them. Don’t even thank you for helping them. Let a live Lord smile at them, and five years of my spade work, bloody hard work, is gone down the drain. Here he is with your drink. Gulp it down and then clear.’
‘How’s your ma? I hear she’s in hospital, Dessy,’ said Mr. Tinks.
This sudden announcement completely flabbergasted Captain Fury. Such a complete turn-round. How was his mother? He liked that! Was this fellow playing jokes?
‘I didn’t know you were interested. She’s not very well.’ He could have laughed after saying this. He still couldn’t believe that this wasn’t an enormous joke at his expense. He’d come here fuming and now asked after his mother.
‘Sorry about your ma. I knew her, you know. Nice old lady,’ said Mr. Tinks.
‘What exactly do you want?’
‘Nothing from you.’
‘Drink up and go. I’m busy.’
‘Are you? What have I to tell the hands at Grinley Sheds, what’ve struck out all along against you and the bloody Government ideas? They’re the only branch in the bunch that’s stood out against this regimentation, and now they know they’ll be roped in. But as you once worked with them on their own level, they want to know. They’re up against it. Nobody trusts you in Gelton now, Fury, you know.’
‘Tell the Grinley branch to go to hell!’ said Desmond, and he got up and left Mr. Tinks to finish his drink alone. So that was all the fellow wanted to see him about. To dress him down. Might as well try that on a bloody rhino!
When he left the hotel he regretted not having asked Sheila to meet him—wonderful how at certain moments in his flying career he could reflect upon the help she could give, and she had helped. He had been in situations like this before. Without her at his side he would have felt humbled to the ground. Mr. Tinks was still a good honest working man. It made him laugh.
Why, if he had said to Tinks: ‘Look here, man! What about being my secretary? There’s money in it. Don’t be a bloody mug any longer——’ why the fellow would have melted in his arms.
He walked down one street, up another, embarrassed at times by the number of soldiers who brought hands to foreheads smartly. ‘I think I’ll go back home,’ he said to himself. At the moment there was nothing for him to do, nobody to see. He ha
d written Trears, seen that ‘fool of a man ‘; it made him laugh to think of it, he had thought it so important. Yes. That was an idea. He could ring the hospital. This he did, to learn that his mother was still unconscious. ‘As bad as that! Poor mother.’ Then he jumped on a tram for home.
He thought of London, the departure from Gelton. How he loathed the place! But he was full of misgiving on the way home. Ought he to have gone to see his father? No! Yes! No! Hang it! He had never thought to ask where they lived. They just wouldn’t stay in that house after all this bother, and what a bother! An unlucky house, indeed. She had had to leave it in the end. Just fancy that.…
Perhaps he had better see the old people before he went away. There were always accidents. You never knew. He slapped his knee and a woman looked up at him. He must find out. But how! Couldn’t go about Hatfields skirmishing. Then the whole thing seemed futile and he washed it out of his mind. He hardly glanced out of the window. He was carried a quarter of a mile beyond his stopping place. He got off. The news about his mother had upset him. He must see his father. When he eventually got back home he found Sheila rooting the drawers.
‘See Mr. Tinks? Had anything to eat?’ she asked, still immersed in her rooting.
‘Yes. Saw everybody. Had lunch. I’m going out again after tea. I must see my father before I go. I rang up to see how my mother was. It looks bad.’
‘I’m sorry, Des,’ she said, and continued rooting amongst the papers.
‘Then look sorry, will you!’
He flared up at once, bent down, swept papers, letters, cards into one big heap and flung them into a corner.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It looks like it. How long d’you suppose I’m going to go on living with a bear?’
‘I’m no bear.’
‘You are a bear! Sometimes I loathe the sight of you, you make me ill.’
‘Sheila!’
‘I said it. You make me ill. Go off and see your father! But don’t roar at me. I can’t help your mother being ill. That’s something for you to think about.’
‘Sheila! I’m sorry. I am, really. I’m hasty. Too bloody hasty. Sometimes I’m not sure of you, Sheila! You do love me?’ he walked over to her, holding out his hands.
‘You must learn to control yourself. I don’t like you any other way. Things go to your head. That can’t be helped when one is not used to them. Even Alice smiles,’ and she could clearly see the servant girl’s sly smile. ‘You say you love me, and the next minute you say you aren’t sure of me! You want an angel.’
‘You know what I mean. I try hard to forget the other matter.’
‘What other matter?’ Her coolness unnerved him. He could never keep his balance.
‘You know, or ought to. D’you think I’m a fool?’
‘Perhaps you are,’ she said, and saw the blood rush to his face. ‘Restrain yourself. But even if you are, there’s no need to be a wild bear as well, Desmond.’
‘Sheila! Forgive me. I didn’t mean this. Really, I’m afraid. I’m worried. I wish I had stayed in bed this morning.’
He began pacing up and down the room, looking at her, looking at his boots; this had become a habit. Then he stopped again in front of her. She was in a rage herself. But how lovely she looked when in a rage.
‘I understood we weren’t going to discuss that matter,’ she said at length.
‘I know. I know. I know,’ he said quickly, exasperated. ‘I’m not discussing it. Let’s forget it, Sheila! I’ve been rotten to you lately. This is all my fault. I keep thinking of them—perhaps I shouldn’t. Sometimes everybody seems lousy, really.’
‘Even Mr. Tinks?’ she said, assuming his mood had generated somewhere in the vicinity of the gentleman of that name. ‘Didn’t you like what he had to say?’
To Desmond this seemed almost as though she had stood behind them in that bar-room, listening. What an uncanny woman she was! Yes. That was the very devil of it. He didn’t understand her. Sometimes he wondered if after all this wasn’t just an adventure for her. H’m! No bloody adventure for him! One long struggle. He had more than an idea as to her origin. But he kept silent. He kept his word—his oath. He said he would never question. She respected him for that.
There was something fundamentally decent in this man, with his rough insensitive face, his smattering of intelligence, his foresight and arrogance—his superb belief in himself. She fostered these things in him. By these things he flourished and grew. She knew him like a book, like every word in a book. She looked at him now out of clear brown eyes, and not only knew that he had had a bad morning, but she could measure up to an inch his reactions to it, for the next few days. He would sulk, then be sentimental and silly—if he wasn’t she wouldn’t like him so much, then he’d become arrogant again. The ebb and flow of Desmond passed under her experienced fingers. He was like an instrument upon which she played.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Love me.’
That was enough. Two words and they changed everything. Even Mr. Tinks could take on a sort of charming, benevolent glow. She lay in his arms in the chair. Now she teased him. Must he go! Must he see his father! Now! This evening!
‘Yes, Sheila! I must see him. If I don’t—I’ve made up my mind—and if I don’t I won’t see him at all. After all he is my father—and mother is mother. Yes. I’m going to see them both this evening—dad anyhow! I’ll feel more comfortable when I’ve done that. But don’t go out, Sheila! I’ll be back early.’
‘I won’t go out, darling! Love me! Love me!’ she said, nestling into his arms.
His sheer animation invigorated her. He could emit a series of waves that swept up and engulfed her. There was something dynamic—vital in this man. He had no restraint. He had no polish. If there existed a code of polite rules for love-making then he had never heard of them. He never kissed her, that was polite. He seemed to suck at her lips, to absorb, smother them in his own.
‘D’you really feel happy, Sheila?’ he asked, one big hand under her breast. ‘Really?’
She answered him by nestling even closer in his arms. Here was a world, a new world of experience—in this man’s arms. Could she have done other than run away with him and marry him? Could she have done other than recognize that standing on that river-bank, this man revealed something to her, something more real than she had ever known? She spoke of this.
Did he remember the day? She did! She had just escaped out of the house and had gone to sit on the river-bank, not because she wanted to sit in its peace and beauty, not because she was tired, not because she hated the place from which she had just run. No. But because looking up suddenly she had seen him standing there, fishing. He mustn’t laugh. And when she had seen him she realized it was the first time she had ever seen any human being who was different.
He listened, a broad smile on his face. What did she mean by that?
Laughing, she said. ‘I don’t know, darling, but it’s strange, isn’t it? One can tramp a continent, and climb a high mountain, see someone whom one has never dreamed of—an entire stranger—and yet you know deep down he or she is all that can matter. Well, darling, that was how I looked at you, why I ran off with you, married you. Des darling, I wish—oh, I wish!’… She lay limp then.
‘What, Sheila?’ he said. ‘What?’ and the soft beat of her heart was under his hand.
‘Nothing! Nothing! I’m just talking. You do love me, Des? You do love me?’
He answered her with passionate embraces. Did he love her! Good God! Why yes.
‘D’you still have to see your father?’ she asked, and he sat up in the chair.
‘But I have to, Sheila!’
One arm was flung high into the air. She liked such demonstrativeness. It was Desmond. All that lifting of hands, curling of lips, blustering, and swearing, and frowning and suspecting and worrying—all her Desmond. This was life—fullness. What more could one want? Again she tormented.
‘But do
you really have to go, Des? To-night? Honestly! You’ve been so busy lately. Rushing here and there. And maybe when we reach London, darling, you’ll be far too busy to see much of me. But you will climb, won’t you, darling?’
She admired him when he said pointedly: ‘I’m going out. And I’ll be back early.’
With that he got out of the chair, lifting her with him. He held her in front of him, back against his chest, he saw her face in the mirror opposite, and she looked at him out of this mirror, and suddenly he had forced her backwards and downwards.
‘Sheila, why can’t we have a child?’ His words poured into her ear. Hot liquid words.
‘We will, Des, soon,’ she said. ‘Now run away. I’m going upstairs because I’ve got things to do, and Alice is going to make the tea. There,’ and planting a swift kiss on his cheek she ran off out of the room.
He went back to his chair. How happy he really was. Life really meant something. It had meaning, purpose. There were so many things to do. His whole being thrilled to the thought——
Hearing the noise of the letter-box lid he got up. The afternoon post had come. There was one letter. When he saw the printed name of the sender on the back of the envelope he gave a little whistle, exclaimed: ‘Phew! That was quick.’
It was. An instantaneous decision. Final and definite. He knew this as soon as he saw the letter. It made him lose that glow—it was a … ‘it’s a bastard,’ he said, ‘a bastard!’ Tearing up the letter he flung it into the fire.
If Desmond Fury thought it was ‘a bastard,’ Mr. Trears thought otherwise. In fact he thought it the height of impudence. The letter which had been delivered only an hour after having being pushed through the hotel letter-box, had come to his desk immediately after he returned from lunch, and he always lunched early, getting back to the office about two. He wasn’t surprised by this letter. Mr. Laurence Trears was a man who couldn’t be surprised about anything. It rather amused him, reading the letter. It was almost childlike—though nevertheless earnest. Yes, of course he knew the name Fury. Had good reason to do so. That case had really made his name. Why should he ever forget Fury? The name had such a fine sound too. He read the letter through twice. Then he sat back in his chair and smiled.
