by James Hanley
Once a week the old man went out. Each Friday the woman helped him down to the little Post Office at the bottom of the street. There he drew his old age pension, his daughter holding his trembling hand whilst he made the all-important X on the form. After pocketing this money she helped him back to the house. Then he would collapse into the chair. Going for his pension was indeed a great adventure for old Mr Mangan. But the chair was his prison. If his daughter maintained a sort of stubborn silence with him, her husband Dennis made it complete. Dennis Fury never spoke to his father-in-law. To him the old man had long since passed that stage. He was out of the world altogether. He was just something stuck in the corner, as much a part of the house as the chimney-corner in which he sat. Anthony Mangan was really dead. There was only this aged figure known as ‘him’. This figure that sat in the corner through winter and summer, against the blazing fire which hardly ever went out. They carried him to bed and carried him down again. His daughter fed him. Sometimes as she held the slop to his mouth she would wonder if it was really her own father. The years seemed to have done something far more than their journey-work. One time it had been Anthony here and Anthony there with Mr Fury, whilst his wife invariably addressed him as ‘Dad’, but that was so long ago. After a time speech stopped. He was a fixture. The chair held him. The great black high-backed chair whose stout legs gripped the red-tiled floor so securely. Mrs Fury still kept her eyes upon her father’s face. Perhaps she should not have called him by name. She ought to have shouted, ‘Hey! Peter’s coming home.’ She began arranging her hair and smoothing down her blouse as she stared at him. ‘Peter’s coming home,’ she screamed, jumped to her feet and ran upstairs. She sat down on the bed and burst into tears. Imagine. To have stood there like that, staring at him, that old mysterious man, her own father, that helpless figure, and to have said that. ‘Peter’s coming home.’ Good God! As she sat there sobbing she heard the old man begin to cough. She ran downstairs. Yes. He was coughing and choking. She rushed to the chair and put her strong arms about him, and sat him up. He hung a dead weight in her arms. His eyes were partly closed. The woman held his head back. He had had these bouts before. He would soon get over it. How heavy he was. She bent her head and whispered into his ear, ‘Peter’s coming home.’ But there was no response. She pulled the big handkerchief from her pocket once more. The man’s nose was running water again. There were times when she wished this old man out of sight and mind, but always her feeling ran counter to her economic position. This figure in the chair was helpless, he was a nuisance, but whilst he sat there he remained for her a sort of gilt-edged security, and a security that could not go overboard at the behest of her feelings. The old man jerked suddenly and she sat him down again. That bout was over, thank heavens. But it was useless to stand there any longer, telling him that his grandson was coming home. She made him comfortable and went away into the back kitchen. It was nearly seven years now since she had seen Peter. Her father would never know him, nor Peter his grand-dad. Seven years, she said to herself. It seemed more like seventy. She put her head through the open door. Lord! Denny was late. Five past one. She became obsessed with the time, with the helplessness of her father, by the thoughts of her son in New York, by the shock of the telegram from her sister in Cork. Her whole face seemed suddenly illuminated by this agitation. She could not conceal it any longer. Why hadn’t she cried out? Why hadn’t she fainted? No. She had remained calm in face of the news. She had even overcome that physical disgust she experienced whenever occasion demanded attendance upon the old man. At that moment a key was heard being turned in the lock. ‘Denny!’ she exclaimed, and hurried to open the door for him. But the man was already in the hall. ‘Oh, Denny,’ she said. ‘Peter’s failed.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ replied the man and pushed past her. He went upstairs to his room. Mrs Fury watched his figure slowly mount the stairs. Then she went into the kitchen. Her father was coughing again. ‘Heavens!’ she cried and ran to him.
3
Mr Fury was standing by the window in the bedroom. He was a man of medium height, a little stooped about the shoulders. His hair was closely cropped, iron-grey in colour, that somehow contrasted strongly with his ashen-like face, the result of thirty years spent below the decks of ships. His face was covered with oil smears. His dungaree overalls were similarly splashed with grease. He was looking out of the window. The high wall opposite obstructed one’s vision, but the man appeared to be gazing at something beyond this wall. There were a number of children playing in the yard below. He could hear a barrel-organ grinding out its raucous tune. Somewhere a dog barked ceaselessly. His head leaned a little to one side as though he were meditating about something. There was a tiredness in the blue eyes that seemed only to stare into the empty air. He scratched his head. Funny. He had walked up the street and put his key in the lock and opened the door. Then the voice in the hall had cried out, ‘Peter’s failed.’ It was a harsh rasping voice. He could still hear that voice. The words rang in his ears. ‘He’s failed, Denny. He’s failed.’ Suddenly he laughed and aimed a kick at the leg of the table. He could hear his wife moving about in the back kitchen. He yawned, stretched his arms in the air, then let them fall heavily to his side. He was tired. He didn’t want to go downstairs at all. A voice saying, ‘He’s failed,’ appeared to have acted upon him with all the potency of some powerful drug. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He noticed that the bed-clothes were ruffled. ‘She must have been up here just before I came in,’ he was saying to himself. Outside the barrel-organ suddenly changed its tune. The wild cries of the children continued, but the dog had ceased to bark. Then a voice called up the stairs:
‘Dinner’s ready, Denny.’
The man jumped with fright. How long had he been sitting on the bed? He must have dozed off to sleep. Confound it! Had to be back at the sheds again at two o’clock sharp. He pulled out the metal watch from his vest pocket. ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, and put it back in his pocket. Dinner was ready. He gave an involuntary shudder and rose to his feet. Slowly he made his way down the rickety stairs. His eyes met those of his wife as he entered the kitchen. He was seized by a sudden furious hatred, became awkward and knocked over the chair on which he was trying to sit. She always stared like that. But why? Mysterious woman. He sat down, grumbling under his breath. The woman shot a questioning glance at him, then lowered her eyes until they rested on his plate. He was really tired. He didn’t want any dinner. He had had a gruelling morning. He just wanted to sit quietly at the table, his head on his hands, thinking. But how could he do that with his wife staring at him across the table? His eyes wandered round until they came to rest upon the silent figure in the corner. Then he looked his wife closely in the face. It was indeed a question. Instinctively the woman nodded her head. Yes. Again this morning. He ought to have been in and seen what it was like. Mr Fury picked up his knife and fork, stared stupidly at his plate and commenced to eat. So the old man had had another bout. H’m! How long was this going to go on? Suddenly the silent figure stirred itself, and the exclamation ‘Ah!’ burst forth from the old man’s lips. Husband and wife looked across in astonishment. At last, thought the woman. And after all that time. They watched him, waiting. But the figure lapsed back into its original state. Mrs Fury leaned across the table.
‘He is getting very trying, Denny,’ she said. The man nodded his head and went on with his meal.
They maintained a silence until the meal was over. Mr Fury followed his wife out into the back kitchen.
‘I wish he’d go away,’ he said. The woman frowned. Her husband went up to her and said again:
‘Yes. I wish he’d go. Damn it all, it gets on a fellow’s nerves. Why doesn’t he go to his sister in Belfast? He used always to be talking about her.’ He turned on the tap and let the water run into the wash-bowl. He rolled up his sleeves and started to wash.
‘It’s quite impossible,’ replied Mrs Fury. ‘One must put up with the inconvenience. Even the inconvenience
of an old man like that. He’s my father. And after all …’ She stopped. Her husband had not heard her. He was swilling his face under the water. She waited until he had dried himself. He seemed to have anticipated his wife’s remark, for he suddenly asked: ‘How is Anthony? What did they say at the office?’ He began pulling at the roller towel.
‘He’s all right,’ she said. ‘He’s in hospital. I saw Mr Lake this morning.
‘That swine?’
‘Yes.’ The woman was angry now. Why was he skirting round the other matter? ‘Yes,’ she repeated, ‘that swine.’ Then she pulled the telegram from her blouse and said, ‘Look at that.’ Mr Fury did not take it from her. His eyes ran along the form, then raised themselves slowly until they were on a level with Mrs Fury’s face. ‘Well?’
‘Well!’ she screamed out, ‘is that all you have to say?’ She was on the verge of tears now. The man rushed into the kitchen for his coat and cap.
‘Talk about it tonight,’ he growled. ‘There’s always something wrong in this confounded house. You never even opened your mouth about Anthony. No. It’s this other pig in Cork you worry about. Look at the clock.’ Mrs Fury did not look at the clock. Her eyes were on the floor. She saw nothing. A dizziness came over her. She heard the door bang. So he had gone. Tonight. When he came home. Suddenly she laughed. Imagine it. Fussing about her own father whilst that telegram lay in her blouse. And Anthony. ‘God!’ she cried in her mind. ‘I ought to have stuck it in his face. Yes. I ought to have stuck it in his face.’ Then she began to recite at the top of her voice: ‘Peter’s failed. Peter’s failed.’ Suddenly Peter disappeared and Anthony took his place. She could see the heavy swathes of bandages about her son’s feet. ‘From the mast on to his heels.’ She went into the kitchen. That figure in the chair irritated her. ‘You dumb fool,’ she cried. ‘You old fool. Your precious grandson is coming home.’ She gave a high-pitched hysterical sort of laugh and ran upstairs to her room. She locked the door. She went across to the dressing-table and stared into the mirror. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Why, who was this woman staring into the mirror? Herself? Fanny Fury? Impossible. Only this morning she had dressed in front of it. What had happened? She burst into tears. She could no longer hold them back. Well, there was much to think about now. The old fear returned. The word ‘Future’ was imprinted upon her mind in letters of fire. Future. The future. She began walking up and down the room. The fear that had lain hidden so long suddenly took possession of her. She deluged the room with her violent movements. The indifference of her husband. The stupidity of the old man by the fire. She could talk about that tonight. Insulting enough. But what when the others heard about it too? She closed her eyes. It made her feel sick again just thinking about Peter. Her youngest son. She had idolized him. Denny had made so light of the matter. It was Anthony he worried about. She was angry with him about his remarks concerning her father. He had lived with them so long now. He was one of the family. And her husband all of a sudden wanted him out of the house. Where would he go? There was no place for him. His sister in Belfast? Poor Father. He imagined things. His brain was going. Eighty-two years of age and he wanted to go home to Belfast. That was a place she had never seen. No. It was impossible. He would just sit rooted in that chair until he finally passed out. It almost numbed her to think of Peter. The questions tonight. Why had he failed? As if she knew anything about it. And Anthony. Those two hours spent groping about the big shipping office, the meeting with the benevolent-looking gentleman, the climb up the stairs, the lift. She could not easily forget it.
She went downstairs again and began to clear away the dinner things. Her own meal lay uneaten on the table. How could she eat, worried as she was about her sons? God! Her husband knew nothing at all. Nothing at all. She could not help glancing across at her father. There was something peculiar about him, and she noticed it now. It was his huge head, completely bald. It seemed so out of place on those small shoulders. Anthony Mangan was five foot seven in height. His large hands, the skin of which was dry and yellow, lay idly in his lap. Mrs Fury said to herself, ‘He’s awake at last. He’s really awake.’ The old man had slowly stirred to life again. His pale watery eyes harboured a sort of suspicious dread. The expression upon his face changed. He could see this tall woman now. His daughter. Why was she staring at him like that? But now a faint smile crossed her face. ‘Are you awake, Father?’ she asked, and drew nearer to him. The man grunted like a pig. She knelt down in front of him. It seemed that with each movement he aggravated his daughter. She must now wipe his eyes. Again the large handkerchief appeared from Mrs Fury’s capacious pocket. She wiped his eyes gently. She began to settle his coat and vest more comfortably. It was all crumpled, and stained with slobber and the remains of meals. His tie – it was a piece of string – was almost hidden behind his shirt. ‘Straighten up now,’ she was saying; ‘your grandson’s coming home soon.’ At last he smiled. Mrs Fury said, ‘Yes, he’s coming home.’ She drew back in fright as the old man suddenly opened his mouth, revealing the toothless cavern. Surely he was going to speak. She ran into the hall and stood there. What was her father going to say? The figure in the chair leaned forward, an idiotic smile upon the upturned face. Was he going to ask why? She tore the telegram from her blouse again. Yes. It was only too true. She laughed. That Denny should treat the matter so lightly, that ‘he’ should question. It was too ridiculous.
But the old man merely wanted a drink of water. The word ‘Peter’ had not crossed his mind. Mr Mangan was only thirsty. He tried to rise again, but fell back, gasping for breath. Where had she gone to? His eyes rested upon the door, waiting, watching. But Mrs Fury could not move. The blow had struck at last. Her head fell forward upon her breast, her two hands were entwined. She stared down at the much-faded carpet. First Anthony and then Peter. A sort of low screeching sound issued from the old man’s mouth and she ran in to him. Ah! Of course. She ran to the tap and came back with a tumbler of water, which she held to his trembling lips. What a fright! And he had merely wanted a drink of water. How he slobbered. The old agitation returned, she lost patience with him. Why couldn’t he hurry up, instead of spilling the water down his front? The telegram inside her blouse exasperated her. ‘There now,’ she said. In the back kitchen she took out the telegram and hid it behind the jars on the shelf. She went to her father and pushed him back roughly into the chair. ‘Sit still.’ Past two o’clock. She began to wash at the sink. She wrung out the clothes and flung them on top of the boiler. Then she rinsed them out under the clear running water. But her mind was not upon her task. Her mind floated elsewhere, her eyes saw nothing now save that helpless figure in the kitchen. She stopped and listened. There was no sound save the metallic tick of the alarm-clock. The time must be getting on. How it tied one down. Life was one continuous round of meal-getting. Then the neighbouring school bell rang. Four o’clock. Impossible. But when she looked out of the window she saw the children already on their way home from school. Another meal to get ready. She placed the last of the wrung clothes into the sink and set about getting the tea ready. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Darkness was setting in. She went into the kitchen and lighted the gas. Mr Mangan’s head had fallen forward upon his breast again. He was completely hidden once more. He was breathing heavily. She did not even look at him, but commenced to lay the table. It seemed but a few minutes ago that she had been laying it for the midday meal. She crossed to the chimney-piece to get the tea-caddy. As she did so her eyes came to rest on the top of her father’s bald head. Why was it, she suddenly asked herself, why was it that she had been so full of feeling for him today? She did not know. She wanted to tell him again, to surprise him with the news. His grandson whom he had not seen for nearly seven years, he was really coming home. The future became suddenly black. She was filled with apprehension. Everything had seemed so perfect, easy running; she had had rough times, but she had overcome them. Now she was to sink into the mire again. Oh God! Why did these thin
gs happen? She closed her eyes, the tea-caddy still in her hand, whilst the heavy breathing of her father rose almost mournfully to her ears.
Mr Fury came into the kitchen. The woman swung round. Lord! Denny home. She rushed about the place, laying plates and cups, then she dashed outside to make the tea. Mr Fury took off his coat and cap and flung them over the back of the sofa. He sat down. He was black from head to foot. He heard the wash-bowl being filled outside, but did not move. His wife drew his chair to the table. She herself sat down. When he looked at her he noticed a strange expression upon her face. He had never seen it there before. He was filled with dread. He sat down opposite her. Probably waiting for him to say something, he was thinking. The clock ticked loudly. Promptly at half-past five the alarm rang.
‘Confound it!’ Mr Fury said, darting a vicious glance at his wife, ‘confound it!’ He got up and shut the alarm off. The woman smiled, a faint attempt at indifference. The man sat down again. How he hated the same old thing day after day. Going to work. Coming home again. Sitting in the kitchen. Her opposite to him. Mrs Fury put down her knife and fork. ‘What a day I’ve had,’ she exclaimed. The man did not reply. ‘First it was Anthony. Falling from the mast. My Christ! And now it’s Peter.’ She watched her husband’s face, but it conveyed nothing to her. It was impenetrable. A mask. She saw him digging furiously at the meat with his fork. He was going to say something. She could tell by his very attitude. She could read Denny like a book.
