by James Hanley
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The Furys
A Novel
James Hanley
For Tim
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
1
As the woman approached the building she became aware of two things. First, that the wintry sun had appeared and was now shining on two great sheets of glass. Second, that an old woman was standing by the long flight of stone steps selling matches. She drew nearer. The two sheets of glass suddenly moved. The huge building opened its mouth and she passed inside. The uniformed attendant at the swing-doors stared after her. A rare visitor, he thought. At the bottom of the long marble staircase she stopped and her eyes sought the topmost stair. She sighed. She was a tall woman, between fifty and sixty years of age. Her faded straw hat seemed to sit uncomfortably upon her head, wisps of black hair peeped out. She had a long face, rather pale, with large brown eyes. There was a marked severity about her expression, the mouth seemed hard. She stood staring at the top stair. From time to time she turned her head round, furtively, as though on the watch for somebody, the while her hands kept going to her hat. No. The hat was not right. Then she sat down on the step. Some gentlemen came out of the lift, stared at her for a moment, then passed on. The attendant at the door had long ago forgotten her. She lowered her head, her eyes seemed to roam over the vast floor space. Once she coughed. It echoed through the building. She was mumbling to herself. ‘From the mast on to his heels. Dear me!’ Then she passed her hand across her face. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed after a long silence. She rose to her feet. ‘From the mast right on to his heels,’ she kept repeating. She commenced to climb the stairs. These words appeared to have a strange effect upon her. She had been murmuring them all the morning. They circled round and round her brain. At times she seemed caught up in the very whirl of these words, to pass out of herself, to float in the air, carried along as it were in the flood of the expression which never left her lips. ‘From the mast on to his heels. Dear me!’ Now she paused again.
She was dressed in a long black coat and skirt. Her black shoes were too tight for her, and her ankles were much swollen. The shoes were worn down at the heel. She raised her head suddenly. Somebody was coming down the stairs. A middle-aged man, a clerk perhaps. Seeing the woman standing in the middle of this wilderness of marble, he stopped and exclaimed: ‘You ought to use the lift. You’ll never climb that flight of stairs.’ There was a kindness in the tone of his voice. He jerked his thumb behind him, indicating the eighty-eight stairs the woman had yet to climb. She smiled. It was the first time that morning that anybody had spoken to her. She rather liked the gentleman. It touched her deeply. ‘You ought to use the lift.’ She repeated the words aloud. ‘Come this way,’ he said, and he took her arm. Slowly they made their way down the stairs again. He conducted the woman to the lift. The lift attendant looked curiously at the ill-assorted pair. Which floor did she want to go to? This was different, she thought. The tone of the man’s voice, everything was different. She looked round. The kind gentleman had already disappeared. She stared at the lift, hesitated a moment, a rather frightened expression upon her face, as though she were about to step into some sort of cage. The lift man coughed. Some girl typists came running up and entered. They stood in a group in the corner. They were giggling amongst themselves. The woman outside lowered her head. She still hesitated. This was worse. She had better rush back to the staircase and climb after all. She was really out of place amongst such an assembly. There was a pungent smell of powder about the lift. ‘Hurry up,’ the attendant said. She stepped inside. At that moment the clerk came hurrying back. The woman was sure he was a clerk. ‘What floor do you want?’ he asked.
‘The top one, please,’ she said.
‘Put this lady out at the top floor,’ the gentleman said, and went away again. He smiled. He was the Company’s solicitor. He was just going out for his morning coffee. The lift ascended. At the third floor the giggling typists got out. The lift hummed once more. Then it stopped. ‘Top floor,’ the man said, and slid the gate back. The woman replied, ‘Thank you,’ and passed outside. Another wilderness. Great corridors, many doors, each door numbered. She looked up and down. Then she approached the nearest door. ‘Engineering Secretary’. No, that wasn’t it. It was the Marine Superintendent she wanted. She began to wander up and down the long corridors, her eyes scanning the names and numbers of each. Where this office was she did not know. How stupid of her. She ought to have asked the lift attendant. She was a little angry. It was simply stupid to be borne to the very top of this great building and then left in the middle of the desert as it were. Then she espied a boy hurrying towards her. She was certain he was going to speak to her, but he only whistled shrilly and went by. She called him. He came back to her. Where was Mr Lake’s office? Did he know? Would he please show her to the door? They went off together, turned right, and at the end of a long brilliantly lighted passage they stopped. ‘In there,’ the boy said, and left her standing at the door. Yes, this was correct. ‘Mr Lake. Marine Superintendent’. She opened the door and went inside. She looked around. A shutter was suddenly shot up, and she jumped with fright. A girlish face pushed itself out and a voice said:
‘Yes. Please.’
The woman went to the window. She shot a quick glance at this girl’s face. Why of course. She had been in the lift with her. If only she had opened her mouth then, it would have saved all this trouble. But she had felt so ashamed. She did not know why. She experienced it again as she looked into the bright face of this colourfully dressed girl. Above her head a clock ticked. Instinctively her eyes wandered to its face. How late it was getting. Must hurry up. Denny would be coming home to dinner today. It would just happen on a day like this of course. The girl tapped on the desk with her fingers.
‘I want to see Mr Lake, please,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Mrs Fury. It’s about my son. I had a cable from New York to say that he had met with an accident. Thank you.’ The woman drew back. The girl disappeared. The window shot down again. Mrs Fury sat down. ‘Dear me!’ she exclaimed under her breath. ‘From the top of the mast on to his heels. Good God!’ The door opened. The girl had come back. ‘This way please,’ she said, and led the woman towards an inner office. In the few moments of her crossing that highly polished floor Mrs Fury became conscious of her appearance. Her hand went to her hat again. She began to push the wisps of hair out of sight. She looked down at her dress, then lower. She felt this drabness cling to her like some sort of dirty skin. She was out of place in this office. The door ahead of her had opened now. A tall grey-haired gentleman stood facing her. The girl went away.
‘Mrs Fury?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied. She passed inside. The door closed.
‘Will you please take a chair?’ said the grey-haired gentleman. Mrs Fury sat down. So this was Mr Lake. Lord! The number of times she had heard that name. And now here was the gentleman himself in flesh and blood. Mr Lake was indeed a name that had a certain significance for her family. Even Denny had spoken about him, trip after trip. She laid her hands in her lap and looked at this man. He was wearing pince-nez. Mrs Fury thought he looked a kind, benevolent old gentleman. Now she felt his eyes upon her. She sat up.
‘It’s about my son,’ she said. Her whole body seemed to stiffen in the chair. ‘I had a cable from New York. Is it very bad? How did it happen? Has he gone into hospital? I …’ she paused. The man lowered his eyes. He had been watching this woman and noticed how gradually she was losing control of herself. Her hands seemed to cross and recross her bosom. They appeared to him to be rather finel
y shaped hands. He rose from his chair and stood over her.
‘Your son is a quartermaster on the Turcoman?’
‘Yes.’ She did not look up at him. The same aimless movements of her hands. ‘How irritating it is,’ thought the grey-haired man.
‘The fact is, I am sorry to say,’ continued the kind-looking gentleman, ‘the fact is that your son fell from the cross-trees. He is not seriously hurt. He landed, fortunately enough, on his heels. I should think that with …’ Mrs Fury’s head appeared to sag a little. ‘From the mast on to his heels,’ she said. Then she stood on her feet. ‘Oh!’ she said. The man put an arm about her shoulder. ‘Sit here, Mrs Fury.’ He drew up a chair. Then he flung up the window. He rang a bell on his desk. A young woman appeared. ‘Bring this lady a glass of water,’ he said. The woman opened her eyes and looked up at the window. The word ‘lady’ had a peculiar effect upon her. She smiled. How long ago was it, she wondered, how long ago since she was spoken to like that? She turned round in the chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. The man smiled and sat down again.
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Fury, I’m very sorry about this accident to your son. Unfortunately we have not full details from Captain Thomas. But the Turcoman is leaving New York for Gelton tonight. Your son is in hospital, and will eventually be sent home on another boat.’ He began to tear some notes up and put them in the waste-paper basket. The woman got up from her chair, walked across to his desk, and leaning over said, ‘Is that all? Or perhaps you could tell me how it happened?’ Again he smiled. He did not know. As he had already told her, no details were available as yet, but as soon as he had them he would inform her. Meanwhile she was not to worry. Her son was having the best attention, and in a few weeks he would be on his feet again. Meanwhile she could continue to draw his allotment money from the ground-floor office. Mrs Fury realized at once that there was nothing more to be done. She turned towards the door. The man followed her.
‘Could you please tell me which hospital my son is in?’ she asked. The man hurried back to his desk and wrote the address on a sheet of paper. ‘Anthony Fury, Riverside Hospital, West St., New York.’ ‘Thank you,’ the woman said and passed out. She did not hear the door close, but when she half turned her head she discovered to her surprise that it was closed. The girl led her through the inquiry office. Another door. ‘Thank you.’ At last. She was in the corridor again. She stood there for some time, as though she were rooted to the very spot. Anthony fell from the mast. Good God! And she knew nothing. It was always the same. They never told you anything. Why, they hadn’t even written to her from the office. She walked slowly down the corridor. At the end of it she stopped, and leaned against the wall. A weariness came over her. It had been so sudden. How strange it was too. She had only just looked up the movement of his ship in the Journal of Commerce that morning. And then the cable arrived. She now stood at the top of the stairs. Her eyes followed each stair until eventually they were focused upon the uniformed attendant at the bottom. What a frightful height she was. She drew back suddenly from where she stood. The man below appeared as a sort of insect to her. She turned round and half ran along the corridor. Where was the lift? She must go down that way. She simply could not face those stairs again. She was worried. The time was getting on. Before she knew where she was, Denny would be home. Yes, she could not waste time. A man and a girl came walking behind her. She moved aside to let them pass. Then she followed in their wake. They were going to the lift. Ah! There it was. One lost oneself entirely in buildings like this. She stepped into the lift. The attendant did not seem to notice her. She saw that he had one arm. The lift descended noiselessly. At the bottom she felt sick again. When she stepped out she looked up at the height from which she had come. It almost made her dizzy. At that moment doors opened and a stream of people came into the corridors. They hurried along towards the swing-doors. She tried to edge away from them, but they swept her on. Near the door itself she was carried away with this tide of hurrying bodies. After much confusion she found herself in the street again. She straightened her hat once more, brushed down her coat with a sweep of the hand, looked from right to left, then made to cross the road. She heard the clock of the near-by chapel strike. It was late.
She almost ran across the road and boarded a car. It started off with a jerk. She lay back in her seat. What a journey. What a place to have to go to. She turned her head round and looked out of the tram window. So that was the Shipping Company’s office. That towering building on the waterfront. And her son worked for that company, as once her husband had done. As once, indeed, that other son had done too. She made the sign of the Cross on her forehead. Poor John! He had never gone to sea, but had worked with the shore gang. That tall white building. Somebody on the seat in front of her opened the window. The wind came sailing in. Mrs Fury held on to her hat, inwardly cursing the woman for opening the window. Now the tram had cleared the water-front. It was on the long Harbour Road. Not far to go now. The road in front was almost bare of traffic. The tram careered madly along. Mrs Fury’s head lay up against the window, but she saw nothing. Her mind was closed. It had shut out the sights and sounds outside, the shops, the many people passing to and fro, the tram itself, it carried her body only for her spirit like her thoughts had suddenly taken flight and now hovered above the hospital where her son lay. She saw him lying in the bed, saw the changing expressions upon his face. The conductor called out ‘Terminus’, but she did not hear. Her thoughts were three thousand miles away. Now she shook herself suddenly, exclaiming under her breath, ‘Good heavens, how late it is. The children are home from school.’ She turned out of her seat and made a sudden dash on to the platform. ‘Stop,’ she said. The tram pulled up with a screeching sound. She got off and crossed the road. Twenty minutes to get her husband’s dinner ready. She hurried along. When she reached the house a telegraph boy was standing at the door. The next door neighbour popped her head out. But Mrs Fury did not see the woman. She took the wire from the boy, tore it open and began to read. ‘No answer,’ she said to the boy, and went into the house.
2
As she passed upstairs, she glanced hurriedly at the silent figure of her father, sitting huddled in his chair. This high-backed chair stood on the right-hand side of the kitchen grate. Wound twice round the chair was a leather belt. Mrs Fury never left the house without strapping her father in his chair. It was ‘father’s’ chair, and he himself had made it with his own hands. It had come over from Ireland with him eight years previously. The woman stood at the bedroom door, listening. The low murmurous noises that reached her ears came from beneath the kitchen grate. She must hurry down and take away the tin blower from the fire. She looked at herself in the glass, then suddenly turned away and began to change into her house clothes, a blue blouse and black skirt. As she drew off her long dress the telegram fell out from her dress-body. She had forgotten all about it. She sat down on the bed and looked at the message. When she read it her face grew pale. She put her blue blouse on and once more stuffed the telegram into it. The envelope she tore into shreds, stamping upon it. Her demeanour changed. She walked up and down the room, there was a sort of aimlessness in these agitated circlings of the bedroom. At that moment the clock downstairs struck. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, and hurried below to the back kitchen. As she went down the stairs she arranged her hair more tidily. She passed a hand across her face as she entered the kitchen. She put the kettle on the gas-stove, then busied herself with various pots and pans. She laid the kitchen table. She looked at the clock. A quarter to one. From kitchen to back kitchen she hurried, never once glancing at the silent figure cooped in his chair. Suddenly she stopped, gripping the table top with her two hands. Her expression changed. She felt a peculiar sickness at the pit of her stomach. She sat down on the sofa and lay back. The figure in the chair opposite did not move. Slowly Mrs Fury raised her head until her eyes were on a level with her father’s shoulders. Then she leaned forward and exclaimed – ‘Father!’ Not a muscle of M
r Mangan’s face moved. It seemed the word had not penetrated to his brain as yet. It was such a long time since he had heard the word ‘Father’. Mrs Fury rose from the sofa and crossed over to him. She put a hand under the man’s chin, and raised his face. There seemed no light of recognition in those features, the face was expressionless. Once more she said – ‘Father.’ How useless he seemed. How old. Her two hands now rested on the belt. After a while she unbuckled it and took it away, folding it up and flinging it into the lower kitchen cupboard. As she knelt down in front of him her hair unloosened itself again, falling across her shoulders. Suddenly she rose to her feet and began to walk up and down the kitchen, her pacings, as in the room above, wild and aimless. Once more she looked at the clock. Almost one. He would be in any moment now. She walked round and round, her head held high in the air, one hand clutching at her blouse. These restless pacings drove her to the window. She drew the curtains aside and stared into the street. The clock struck. Strange! How late her husband was today. It was raining heavily. She went to the sofa and sat down again. Mr Mangan’s head had lowered itself, the chin resting upon the waistcoat, covered with grease spots. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. She called again, ‘Father, Father.’ The same silence as before. She sprang from the sofa, rushed across the kitchen.
‘Peter’s coming home,’ she cried, and struck Mr Mangan on the knee with her clenched fist. ‘Peter’s coming home.’ She went back to the sofa again, and commenced drumming with her fingers on its mahogany back. ‘Yes, he’s coming home.’ The old man in the chair gave a sort of grunt, but did not move. Mrs Fury knelt in front of him once more, staring into the blue eyes. Yes, this was her father. And he had been sitting in that chair for years. They had hardly spoken to each other. He was now eighty-two years of age. The head moved slightly so that the whole face was thrown into the light. She could study every line and wrinkle of that wizened face. It was like a mask. She took a large red handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the old man’s nose, turning away her head as she did so. She leaned over and whispered into his ear. ‘Father.’ What a time he had sat in that high chair. Ages, it seemed to her. Mr Mangan was dumb. The chair appeared to have acted upon him as a sort of drug. She smiled now. Calling him father, after that long silence. Again she thought, ‘How old and useless he is.’ That corner was his world. He had never strayed from it, excepting when in imagination he caught the Belfast boat. One time the Belfast boat had occupied a significant place in his life. Now, like other things, it had faded out as the years spun out their journey-work.
