by James Hanley
Desmond Fury did not answer, he could not answer. Instead he stared stupidly into his mother’s face—it made him remember the older times—he saw endless roads stretching, feet stamping them, tall buildings, swinging doors, inside of which sat, high up, walled in—silent, the sea’s agents. In her face he saw himself as a boy, swinging the incense in the silver censer. He saw his brother’s face, his sister’s. He saw them all stamped on this one face, whose hard bent mouth was turned now as though biting upon the impossible words. He thought at one moment she would shout, shout loud and long, shattering the silence of this room.
‘You did see him?’
‘I saw him.’
‘He’s coming here?’
‘Yes. I said so, mother.’
‘He’s alive—Denny’s alive.’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘Alive in my arms—oh, God, I can’t believe it.’
He turned his back on her, he let her continue, quietly sobbing.
‘So this is how it is,’ he thought, ‘this is what can happen to people.’
He went over to the window again, he gently moved aside the curtain and looked out. He watched a mad, swirling flight of gulls. Their very movements gave him a feeling of inertia, he came away and took his seat by his mother.
‘What do you think you’ll do now?’ he asked. He thought: ‘I have to say something, even in these awful moments, tongue-tied, a feeling of utter dumbness,’ but it was better than nothing. ‘What will you do now, mother?’ he asked, imagining her answer, ‘Why should what I do interest you, who have always been so indifferent to us?’
Then he heard her say quietly, ‘We shall leave Gelton, as soon as you father’s better, God spare him, and will never come back again.’
There was something fierce in her utterance. She got up from the chair, she went to the window and looked out, ‘Never’ she said, and into this single word she seemed to put all her hatred, all her bitter anger against what the eye saw, what the heart remembered.
‘Gelton,’ she said, ‘I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime.’
Desmond was only half listening, his mind wandered, he suddenly thought of how she had received him. He had gone off to London—he had written his mother, but nothing could force him to see her. Her reception had been what he expected.
‘Oh!’ she said, ‘so it’s you.’
He had smiled.
‘You felt you had to come, I expect.’
She had not said ‘sit down.’ She had not said ‘how is your wife?’ She had not asked him if he would like to share tea with her. This had come and gone. She had drunk a little tea by herself, but somehow it had choked her. She watched him all the while, this first son, this huge, healthy, arrogant, determined person. He had smashed his way upwards. The thrusting Union leader, the potential member of Parliament stood by the little bed, and after a few minutes he saw his mother return and sit down.
‘Desmond.’
The exclamation surprised him, he swung round.
She was seated, her hands in her lap, looking up at her son. ‘Have I been very hard?’
‘You did your best, what you thought was your best. That’s all,’ he said, which meant in effect ‘that’s enough.’ No crawling over old ground. This really is the end of something and the beginning of something. There’s to-morrow. Yesterday is dead and done with.
‘What time are they bringing him to me?’
‘He will come within the hour. The priests are seeing to that,’ and the tone of his voice made her say, ‘They’re still as bad as that then, are they?’ and he said, measuring his words, ‘They’re as bad as that. I like them no better for it. I’m sorry for you, though, mother. I’ve always been sorry for you.’
‘That was very kind of you.’
‘Do you wish me to go?’
‘I’m not asking you and again I’m not stopping you. I know you are the only one of my sons who ever feels uncomfortable in a holy place. May God look down on you kindly one day, that’s all I have to say. Their goodness makes you feel awkward, I know, it always did—it would never shame you—you haven’t that in you.’
‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘so it’s come to this, in the worst moment of her life, when she must dread the shock of seeing that smashed old man, that all she can remember, is the old time.’
‘Mother! I came down here last night. I came to see dad. I was so pleased to hear the news. Pleased for you both. You can believe that, or you can do the reverse. I told you a year ago that though we could never be happy together—for we don’t see eye to eye—I would see that you never wanted. I still mean that. I really do. I am sorry for dad and you, that, at the end of your days, you should find yourselves only where you had started. Please believe, mother, that I am sincere in that, and I am honest. I’ve said I hate the Church, and I hate it.’
He stared down at the clean scrubbed floor, at the coloured rug. When he looked up, the room was empty. She had gone. ‘She must have crept out,’ he told himself. ‘I never heard her go. Poor mother. Christ! Why should it have come down to wrangling. She’s shaken, the creature’s fair torn indeed—I saw it—it was sad.’
He rose quickly as the door opened. A Sister came in. She came up to him and as she did so, he was conscious of two things, her apple-red cheeks, the shining frankness in her eyes. She was very young, he saw that at once. But she was very grave.
‘Mr Fury, would you please go. Your mother will not return here until you have gone.’
‘Very well … Sister,’ he stuttered, ‘very well. You’ll see to her. She’s frailer to-day than I have ever known her.’
‘And you don’t understand,’ the nun said, and followed him out of the room.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, showing him out.
‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ he replied thickly, and she saw him striding down the path, kicking up gravel as he went.
‘A terribly impudent man,’ said the nun and closed the door.
‘He is gone now,’ she said, and taking the woman’s arm, led her back to the room.
‘It’s always the same. I wish he had never come. We upset each other,’ she said.
‘You mustn’t speak of him like that, my dear. Besides, you must think of the other. You must get yourself ready. You said yourself that you wanted to look nice to see your husband, lost for so long, and now coming home to you.’
‘I’m frightened,’ Mrs Fury said, ‘I don’t know why. I am frightened.’
She stood in the centre of the room, undecided, and the young nun said, ‘Sit down.’ They sat down together.
‘In half an hour he will be here. Think of that and nothing else.’
‘I’ve been so foolish.’
‘How so?’
‘I have, that’s all. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have been so hasty. I’ll have to tell him everything. But he’ll never know how sick I was of it all. All them things happening and all them nights after, I could hear that old sea washing about in my head. What’ll I say to him now, except there’s nothing.’
The Sister sat up. ‘Now you’re beginning to feel sorry for yourself and that is bad. Thank God this very hour he is restored to you, alive. Given back to you by the sea that’s taken many a man down.’
‘Oh! I’m ashamed of myself.’
‘Come now, we’ll look for that nice blue dress you wear. You must look nice when he comes. And think how much he must be longing to see you.’
She put her two hands on the woman’s face, ‘Smile mother,’ she said, ‘smile now.’
And the woman smiled.
‘I couldn’t settle this whole day. The Mother Superior stayed with me last night. I couldn’t sleep at all. She says too many of them pills is bad for my heart.’
‘Here is the dress,’ the Sister said, ‘shall we put it on?’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied, and allowed the nun to dress her.
‘This suits you very well.’
‘Denny always liked me to look nice,’ she sai
d and, walking across the room, she stood looking at herself in the mirror. She put her hands to her hair.
‘I’m listening all the time for them wheels,’ she said, ‘all the time. He’ll be here soon.’
‘Here is Mother now,’ the Sister said. ‘I shall leave you. May you have much joy in each other.’
The Mother Superior was standing behind Mrs Fury. The woman saw her reflection in the mirror. She turned away, flushed deeply, ‘I was just trying to look me best for his coming,’ she said.
‘Come and sit down, dear,’ the Mother Superior led her to the cane chair. ‘You’re not frightened any more?’
‘No,’ tremblingly.
‘That’s right. I want you to take this brandy,’ said the Mother Superior, ‘they will soon be here.’
The woman took the glass, sipped, she choked a little. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You’ve been very good to me all this time, and I thank you for it. And my husband will thank you for it. For now I know he’ll take me away with him, and that’s what I’m living for every moment since I heard. Away out of this.’
‘You could never have lived alone in that house, in the state you were in.’
‘There was that awful day I remember when I knocked at the door of this house and I asked you to let me in, and you let me in, and I said, “I don’t want to go out anywhere any more.” D’you remember that, Mother?’
‘I do.’
‘And now I’m going away. I know I’m going, and I’m happy, and I’m sad, too—it has been so peaceful here—and powerful good to me.’
‘There! I think I hear something coming now.’
‘My son came here. He saw him—he said …’
‘What did he say, dear?’
She could not speak, her ears were full of the sound of wheels. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she cried.
‘I’m not leaving you. To-day there are friends everywhere. Father Moynihan is come with your husband—and to-morrow Mr Kilkey is coming to see you, too.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’
She gripped the Mother Superior’s hand. ‘I can hear them. Are they carrying him then? Is he so ill?’
‘Just very tired, dear. Now you must pull yourself together. We are all doing our best for you. Your husband can stay here until he is better, which we hope will be very soon.’
‘Thank you, Mother. I hope it won’t be long, for there’s one thing I must do and that is to go north and take him with me, for I long to see my son.’
‘There is plenty of time for that. The last journey was too much for you. It will be very upsetting. Before I hear of any such thing, you must get well, and your husband too—you understand?’
‘I do. But I’m afraid—I’m afraid—God forgive me, I should be laughing.’
‘Sit quiet, dear, and think of nothing but him, coming now into this very house.’
She looked at the woman. ‘How you tremble. Cry dear, cry if you wish to. It will do you good. It will help you. I have never seen you cry. All this long year. You were brave then.’
The door had slowly opened and Father Moynihan was peeping in, frantically endeavouring to catch the Mother’s eye. She got up and went to him. They spoke in whispers.
‘He is here?’
‘Yes. He is outside in the corridor. Where must he go?’
‘He must come in here. We are making arrangements for another bed. Bring him in now. How is he?’
‘Better than I’ve seen him yet. He is dressed, he is sitting on a stool with Twomey.’
‘I’ll go out and bring him in myself,’ she said.
She turned to the woman, ‘I shall be back in one moment, dear. Be quiet, it is quite all right.’
The woman stared back at the Mother Superior stupidly, uncomprehending. The nun went out. To the priest she said, ‘Use my sitting-rooom, and do not come in here unless I ring, This is going to be a difficult moment for us all—but not least for the old woman in there.’
She saw seated between the car driver and Father Twomey a little old man, thin, pale. She walked up to him. She looked down, she said softly, ‘You are home at last. Come.’
She took his arm, ‘Can you walk, dear?’
‘I can walk. Where is my wife?’
‘Come,’ she said, and put her arm through his. ‘I am glad to take you to her, who has been waiting for you and praying for you so long.’
She looked at the two priests, pointed in the direction of the sitting-room. Then she opened the door and slowly walked the old man into the room. Mrs Fury had risen, had come forward, then suddenly stood there, as though rooted to the ground. She saw this man, yet did not seem to know him—and did not move. The old man came on to her.
‘Oh Fanny,’ he said.
She stared at the wizened figure. She did not call him by his name, she put her hands on his shoulders, she stared, she went on staring. She walked right round him. She put her hand on his head, she ran her finger down the scar on his neck.
‘Your poor old head,’ she said, and seemed to fall forward, all her weight upon him. She cried bitterly, her mouth pressed against the blue serge of the coat, her fingers tracing the structure of his face, feeling his face, his eyes, his nose, his chin, her hand clasped round his neck.
‘Fanny,’ he said.
‘You mustn’t stand like this. You must sit down.’
They all three sat down on the bed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right if I leave you for a moment?’
‘I’m all right now,’ the woman said.
‘Your husband must go to bed again very soon. Please ring this bell when you are ready.’
‘I will.’
She watched the nun go out, the door close. She flung her arms around her husband.
‘We’re so old,’ she said.
‘Why, you’re crying yourself,’ she said, and gave a curious little laugh; her face was pressed against his own. ‘God help you, it’s a crucial moment, Denny. We are here in this little room and that is all. This is my home.’
She felt his hard hand on her cheek. ‘It’s you,’ he said and saw her first smile.
‘It’s me.’
‘You’re my home,’ he said, ‘but the poor little boy has none.’
‘What little boy?’
‘Him as went down fast.’
‘Who?’
‘His name was Lenahan. And all them tons and tons of water over his bright eyes.’
They held each other, they seemed to devour each other with their frenzied looks, they could not speak. Outside the bell did not ring and they were waiting.
‘I think you had better go in, Mother,’ Father Twomey said, ‘surely that shock is over.’
‘I’ll go in.’
Looking at them she thought of two trees, heavy against each other, snuggling in, huddled as though under some winter blast. She went to her sitting-room and told them.
‘I’ve seen nothing so touching,’ the Mother Superior said.
Later they went in, they helped to make up the extra bed. They put the old man in one, the old woman in the other. They gave each a glass of warm milk containing brandy. In each they placed sleeping tablets.
‘I shall have Sister Angelica stay here with them,’ she said.
Father Twomey said goodbye and returned to his office. Father Moynihan left half an hour later. The Mother Superior did not leave the room until both were sleeping.
Desmond walked straight out of the house and down the long road that fronted the sea. He felt frustrated, sad. He walked miles, then caught a tram back to the centre of the city. The people, the buildings, the ships and docks, all seemed strange to him—he was a stranger in Gelton.
‘I would have liked to talk with my father a little longer, and now it’s too late. The old barrier is back again,’ he could vision his mother standing in front of his father, dominating, protecting, shutting him off, as she had shut them all off.
‘I hardly know my father.’
He thought of the l
ong absences, the quick-flying fugitive days at home, and his father bound and held fast to his mother.
‘Poor mother. There’s only ever been one right for her. I could have brought Sheila down. I know she would have come—always she wanted to know mother, but no, the shadow was always there. This iron resolve of hers, this stern spiritual pride. That’s what it always was. Pride. And, my God, it was ever married to stupidity and ignorance. Here I am, her eldest son, made my way out of the rut by sheer determination, ready to help them who could never do it before, and now she looks at me with a bitter smile: “You felt you had to come. That was very kind of you.” I’m sure she hated me then. But I know she hates me because now she sees I was right and she was wrong. Her old dream house with the priest sitting inside it was only made of straw, and the first gust of wind blew it to pieces. That poor kid is shut away to-day just because of one simply crazy idea. Ah well, there it is. We are back where we started.’
He walked the roads and streets, tired himself out. Finally, he walked back to the Anchor Hotel where he had booked a room.
‘You did not come last night, sir,’ the manager said, ‘and we were expecting you.’
‘I’m sorry—things held me up. Can I have a drink?’
‘Of course. And there’s a telegram for you, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
He sat down, opened the telegram. It didn’t surprise him, he always got one. It was from his wife. ‘I knew this would come,’ he thought as he read it.
‘Meet you at half-past two at Paddington, love, Sheila.’
And he would go trotting back like a little dog. This did not surprise either. He always trotted back to her. He was always on the leash.
‘You had better go, dear,’ she had said, in her new flat, on her new arty divan, smiling at him. She had only to look out of her window and there it was, Big Ben, the great House, how near he was to it now.
‘I could come with you, but you know there will never be anything between your mother and me. It’s silly, I’ve always thought it silly, she loves being a Catholic far too much.’
‘There you have hit the nail on the head.’
‘Do you ever think that mothers can be jealous of their children?’ she had said.
