by James Hanley
‘Carsholt Road,’ she said as she handed the conductor her fare.
3
Mr Fury’s head hung perilously near his glass. He had fallen asleep. The barroom was empty. A big fire burned in the grate. The barman looked across at the sleeping man and smiled. The door opened. A tall, heavily built man came in and stood at the counter. He called for a drink. He turned round and looked at the man whose head was gradually drooping lower and lower. The man went across and drew the glass away. Suddenly he bent down and exclaimed, ‘Why, if it isn’t Denny Fury. Hey. Fury! What the hell! You’re falling asleep, man. Wake up there!’ The dozing man sat up with fright. He had been dreaming. As he opened his eyes he imagined the bar-room to be full of people, and that all these people were staring at him. The newcomer sat down beside him. Mr Fury stared stupidly at the froth now settling in his glass. He turned his head sharply and a flash of spit struck the open grate. The expression of bewilderment gradually wore off. He looked at his companion. Then he put out his hand, and a broad smile lighted up his face.
‘Why, Devine! How are you? Haven’t seen you for years.’ ‘I’m all right,’ replied the man. ‘What are you going to have?’ Mr Fury said he would like a large Falstaff. They began to talk. They were old friends. Mr Devine asked after the children. How was the eldest lad getting on these times? Mr Fury groaned. Another of them, he thought.
‘Desmond! Oh! He’s all right. How’s your missus?’
‘She’s none too well lately. This here rheumatism has got her again.’
‘Sorry,’ Fury said. ‘Still on the same old packet?’
‘Aye.’ The man picked up his glass. ‘Good health, Fury,’ he said. ‘Good health and good luck.’ Mr Fury touched the man’s glass with his own.
‘Same to you, Dermod,’ he said. They drank.
Dennis Fury endeavoured to look cheerful. He hadn’t got that voice out of his ears yet. They were silent for some time. Then Fury said: ‘I never see much of Desmond now. He hardly ever comes to the house, though it’s only a stone’s throw away, you might say. As a matter of fact, I heard a rumour …’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Well, Christ, one hears so many rumours. They say he’s coming out on strike with the loco-men. How true it is I don’t know. Strikes give me the pip.’
‘Coming out in sympathy with the miners?’ queried Devine. ‘Aye.’ Mr Devine had a sudden fit of coughing. Dennis Fury had sailed with this big raw-boned man from Dromod. He hadn’t changed. The same shock head of red hair, the same straggling moustache. He looked at Fury.
‘One swallows these rumours wholesale,’ he said. Mr Fury merely nodded his head. His eyes were focused upon his glass once more. He pushed his half-glass of beer away from him. The man at his side ceased to exist. Damn and blast the woman! He wouldn’t be sitting here at all but for her. Growling. Always growling. He wondered how long she would carry it on. Peter. H’m! Well, he had realized it all along. A blind plunge. Now she had been caught out. How she hated being caught out. Stubborn woman. Anybody taking a glance at Peter would know at once he wasn’t cut out for the Church. He knew, though. The ease with which people talked of the tremendous possibilities that never existed excepting in their own minds. Of course, he was sorry for Fanny in a way. He admitted that. It was a blow for her. But to carry on like that. He wouldn’t have cared so much if she hadn’t left the other lad out of it. By heavens! Now he thought of it, he should have gone down to the offices himself. What would they tell her? The usual lies. He knew those people better than she did. The lad might be dead for all they knew. He could not get Anthony out of his head. But Peter would not be shut out. He kept creeping in. Fancy her making his failure an excuse for attacking Desmond. The pity of it was the woman didn’t really know her own children. Not one of them. When would she really wake up? This continual conflict between stubbornness and common sense. Something jabbed at him. He looked up. Devine was poking him in the ribs with his long fingers. Mr Fury sat up as though struck.
‘You’re falling asleep again,’ said Mr Devine. ‘Why the hell don’t you go home and turn in?’ Fury smiled. It was a forced smile.
‘Come on,’ went on Devine. ‘Drink up your beer. You’ve had a row with the missus, haven’t you?’ He looked into the other’s wide-open eyes.
Dennis Fury had never credited his companion with any great powers of deduction. Now he had hit the mark. Suddenly he laughed. Having a row with Fanny was just like eating and sleeping and waking. It was part of the texture of their lives. Mr Fury drained his glass and got up. ‘Well, see you again some time,’ he said in an abrupt manner. ‘So-long, Devine.’ Then he sauntered out. The other stared after him, a surprised look upon his face. Going off like that! As Dennis Fury turned the corner, he suddenly remembered the newspaper. He pulled it from his pocket. Why, there was nothing in it. An idea had suddenly occurred to him. Why shouldn’t he take a walk along and see Desmond? He hadn’t seen him for quite a while. In fact, he had only seen him twice since his marriage. Better go. It was so easy to lose touch with one’s own, thought Mr Fury. Fanny had felt that too. He himself did. He missed Desmond from the house. Yet he could not say anything against it. He could not blame the lad. When he reached the top of the road near the car terminus he stopped. He sat down on one of the wooden benches outside the tramwaymen’s shelter. He pulled his cap off and began scratching his head. He was undecided. Should he go or not? Better think it over. One never knew. Fanny might hear about it. Then there would be another row. How she hated Desmond. A sort of poisonous weed. He could not understand the woman. He had tried, endeavoured to be helpful, and failed hopelessly. It was a mystery. She had never liked the eldest son. He had been a good son. Why shouldn’t he go off and marry if he wanted to? Thinking of him brought the other children trailing in his wake. Maureen, Anthony, John. Aye. John had been a splendid lad. Mr Fury sighed. ‘Better dead, perhaps,’ were the words that slowly formed in his mind. And Peter. He jumped up from the bench. Damn Peter! He would walk a little further. He couldn’t be very far from his son’s house now. It was turned half-past seven by the tramway clock. He was certain to be in. He passed into Vulcan Street. When he came to the house he heard voices, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Mr Fury stopped outside the window. The front room was full of people, the gas was lighted. They had not even drawn the curtains. People seemed to be holding animated conversations with his son. Desmond was still dressed in his workaday clothes. Just come home, thought his father. Hands were suddenly raised. Violent gestures were made. Above the noise he heard the word ‘strike’. The father turned away from the window. That’s how it was, then.
They were talking about the coming strike. Well, he had better go home now. How could a father talk to his son in the midst of such a crowd of agitated people? He hadn’t seen Sheila either. He would have liked to have seen her. He rather liked her. By God! Desmond knew what was what. Mr Fury slowly retraced his steps home. A door a few yards from the house suddenly opened, and a woman came out and stood on the step. She cast a suspicious glance at Mr Fury and went in again. The door slammed. ‘What a bloody street!’ exclaimed the man under his breath. ‘One can’t move an inch without being watched.’ He suddenly changed his direction and went back up the street. He would go home the back way. He would get there quick enough. She would still be there, of course. Probably sitting by the fire opposite her old father. What a pair. He went in by the back entrance. Mrs Fury was not there. He called up the stairs. No reply. ‘Must have gone out, after all,’ he said, and returned to the kitchen again. He sat down on the sofa and looked at Mr Mangan’s chair. ‘H’m!’ She’d put ‘him’ to bed. Just like his wife to take offence. Like a spoilt child. It was simply amusing. Nearly eight o’clock. Looking up at the mantelshelf he espied a note pinned to the mantel-border. ‘Gone across to Ferris’s,’ Mr Fury read. What good handwriting it was. Fanny was a good writer. He pulled the pin from the note and threw both into the fire. He sat staring at the empty chair. What a job Fanny had looking after tha
t tailor’s dummy. ‘Now she’s gone across there to cry her heart out as usual,’ thought Mr Fury. It was always the same. Whenever they had a row she always went over to Mrs Ferris’s. He sighed. Well! The woman would at least be consoling. Fanny and she were very good friends. Once he asked Mrs Fury her reasons for these periodical flights to the Ferrises’ house. She replied: ‘Because she understands me. That is something you can never do.’ Now she had gone off again. For sympathy, he supposed. All over a failure. All over Peter. What a waste of money. All for nothing. The continual struggle. Sometimes to the extent of going without themselves. Now he was coming home again. They would hear everything then. Seven years. Seven long years. Mr Fury stretched himself and yawned. He went upstairs to his room. It was pitch-dark. He went and stood by the window, pressing his face against the glass. There was nothing he could see. He felt a sort of security standing in that corner, in the black darkness. There was a noise in the kitchen. She must have returned. He went down there again.
Mrs Fury was standing in the middle of the kitchen removing her coat and hat. Mr Fury said, ‘So you got back, then?’
The woman muttered ‘Aye,’ and went into the hall to hang up her things. She came back and sat down on the black horse-hair sofa. After a long silence she exclaimed, ‘I suppose you’ve had your supper, Denny?’ No, he hadn’t had his supper. He didn’t want any. He felt like going to bed right away, he said. The woman sniggered.
‘Why don’t you go, then?’ she demanded. Without replying, Mr Fury left the kitchen and went upstairs. Mrs Fury called out after him, ‘And don’t make a noise. Dad’s in bed.’ He lighted a candle and stood it on the table near the bed. He heard Mr Mangan snoring. ‘Snores like a pig,’ he said to himself. Below, Mrs Fury cleared the table of crumbs, and swept the kitchen. Then she backed up the fire with wet ash. This fire was never allowed to die out. It was continuously refuelled. Mr Fury undressed and climbed into bed. He lay there staring up at the ceiling for what seemed to him to be an eternity itself. What a long time she was coming up. Brooding over this boy again. He could not settle down. He got out of bed and went below in his drawers. His wife was seated with her back to him in the big chair just vacated by her father. There was something about her attitude that the man did not like. Was it indifference? Was it mere contempt? He went up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. The woman did not move.
‘Come on, Fanny,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit mopsing there. Best get a wire off tomorrow to your sister and ask her to see the lad on the boat. He’d best get back and get started on something as soon as he can. He’ll be at a bit of a loose end now. Bound to feel it pretty badly himself.’ (Mr Fury was saying to himself ‘though I doubt it very much’.) ‘Maybe I could get him into the loco sheds.’
‘Loco sheds! Oh, good heavens!’
She put a hand in her blouse and pulled out Anthony’s letter. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this came by the last post.’ The man took the letter from her and sat down. ‘Where’s my glasses?’ he asked.
‘Use these.’ She pushed a pair of spectacles into his hand. Then she got up from the chair, pushed it back against the wall, and exclaimed:
‘I’m going to bed.’ Mr Fury did not reply. He was too occupied with the letter from Anthony. Not until he had finished reading it and had put it back in the envelope did he realize that he was alone in the kitchen. He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be hanged,’ he muttered. ‘Fanny’s a caution, sticks this in my hand and clears off.’ He pulled out the jockey-bar and fender, saw to the locking of the doors, then went upstairs. He came down immediately, swearing loudly. He had forgotten the gas. He turned it out, then went upstairs again. His wife was already in bed. He climbed into bed and put out the light. There was something ominous about the silence that followed this action. Mr Fury lay waiting. It was inevitable. What use him trying to sleep? At that moment he struck a match to see if the alarm-clock was set for half-past four. He drew it nearer to the bed. Then he lay back again. He must say something. Get it over. Must have some sleep. Had to be out at half-five. He was conscious of Mrs Fury’s violent movements in the bed. Nerves, he thought. The woman suddenly turned her face to the wall.
‘I’m so glad to hear Anthony’s all right.’ he began. ‘I was rather worried about him.’ Mrs Fury made no reply. Another long silence. Mr Fury turned on his side and stretched out an arm.
‘Look here, Fanny,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to show a better face than that. I know it’s a disappointment. I’m sorry about what happened today. It’s hard, I know. It’s rotten, disappointing, but best to forget about it. As things are, I should think he’ll be better off working and living at home than sitting in a college half his life.’ He paused, for Mrs Fury had turned round in the bed. Now he could see the large brown eyes. The blinds had not been let down, and the moonlight came streaming into the room. She turned again and lay on her back. He marvelled at her wealth of hair. Jet black yet, and she nearly sixty years of age. The outline of her features fascinated him, he could not take his eyes from her face.
‘There you are,’ she said suddenly. ‘What a mean, begrudging spirit you have. Desmond was just the same. Maureen was not much better. Fine children! Wonderful!’ She placed her hands behind her head. Mr Fury protested. He couldn’t see anything wrong with them. After all, they were working for their living. They were at least independent. That itself was a great thing. She ought to realize it. The woman said, ‘Good Lord!’
‘Yes,’ Mr Fury went on, raising his voice. ‘You were talking about Desmond tonight. Damn it all. There’s nothing wrong with that fellow. He is honest and upright. A good son. His only fault in your eyes was that he married too soon.’ He saw her smile. ‘His nightly glass,’ she thought to herself. ‘He’ll get quite expansive just now.’ She looked at him, and a kind of inward glow suffused her. Ah! All the things he didn’t know! All the hidden things. She could feel them welling up in her, bursting to be free. But she held fast. One day she would have her say. Then she would reveal everything. What a story it would be. He wouldn’t know where he was standing. He’d simply be swept off his feet. ‘Poor Denny. Poor Denny,’ she kept saying to herself. He knows nothing. A pity. But there you are. Peter was a history in himself. And what did her husband know of the boy, or of any of his children? Nothing. What had he known of John? Nothing. How could he know them, she asked herself, when half his lifetime was spent at sea? Only in the last two years had he seemed to realize that he was the father of a grown-up family. Too late, she thought. They were strangers to him. A man nearly sixty years of age, she wouldn’t say old. No. Denny was far from being old. He was just well on in years. She would let him talk on. He would close up after a while. One day her turn would come too. She lowered her head.
‘That’s all,’ Mr Fury broke in. ‘Desmond married too soon for you. What about the others? I’ve nothing against them.’ The woman sat up.
‘What?’ Why, he didn’t even know them. He was talking through his hat. ‘You don’t know them like I do, Denny. I doubt if you ever will.’
‘Ah! You make me sick.’ He turned away from her. ‘Did you lock up downstairs?’ she asked, after a while. Of course. Did she take him for an absolute dullard? The woman laughed. ‘Well, you are dull, and you know it. If you hadn’t been so dull all your life we might never have been in this hole.’
