by James Hanley
‘Ever since you gave up the sea you’ve been the same.’
Mr Fury stared at the door. In one minute she would dash out. Ah! So she had guessed. She had seen the truth for once. He became restless. What was he standing there for? Ought to be getting back to work.
‘Well, I suppose we had better meet his boat at the Stage. It comes up about half-ten, doesn’t it?’ The door was thrown open. Mrs Fury appeared.
‘Of course it does, you fool!’ The door slammed in Mr Fury’s face. He continued to stare at the door, as though it were a sort of mad dog. Then he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘The whole trouble with you is that you’re mad. Yes, you’re mad about Peter, and now you want to take it out of me. That’s solid truth and you know it. Good enough. I’ll look for a ship and clear out of it. You can have your precious family all to yourself then. Anthony seems to be the lucky devil in this family. He’s never home.’ He went out, swearing loudly.
Family. His family. Christ! It made him laugh. Bloody fool he was ever leaving the Cardine. Yes, he thought, a bunch of strangers. Their father. It made him laugh. Why, they already looked upon him as intrusion. They had grown up without him. When he retired from the sea they accepted it grudgingly. He was a sort of lodger in the house. He had tried to understand them, but their attitude, their indifference, had wounded him. He suspected his wife. She had known them more intimately, sharing all their days. He was jealous. Then Desmond had got married, and some while after Maureen had become independent too. He liked Desmond for no other reason than that his wife hated him. ‘Well she might,’ he thought. He was the only one in the family whom she had not been able to influence. That was the cause of most of the trouble. She wanted her own way in everything connected with the children. And he was seeing behind the scenes now. He went back to work and hardly spoke a word to anyone the whole afternoon. His wife was out again when he went home in the evening. He supposed she was to be found over at the Ferrises’. That was another thing Mr Fury hated. This continual going over to the Ferrises’. His meal was all ready on top of the hob. After tea he washed, shaved, and went out. Standing at the top of the street in the drizzle, he suddenly realized how miserable everything was. He couldn’t even go up to Vulcan Street now, what with Desmond’s latest activities, and the rumours he was hearing through Mr Postlethwaite. What a rotten world it seemed to be. Mr Fury hated this standing at the corner. He was always being hailed by somebody who knew him, but for the life of him he could not recollect half these acquaintances. Where else could he go? His life was divided between the house and the street corner. The house seemed to be broken up altogether since his daughter’s departure. Often he wished he could go up and have a talk with her, but when the time came he always backed out. He was conscious of his loneliness. In the midst of these meditations a hand suddenly descended on his shoulder.
‘Why, Mulcare!’ he exclaimed, drawing back a little with the shock of this sudden meeting. What a time since he had seen the fellow. He looked at him a long time without moving. A broad smile covered the other’s face. He was a young man about thirty years of age. He was dressed in a brown tweed suit, wore a sailor’s jersey and a grey slouch hat. The clothes were not of English make. Mr Fury at once guessed where the young man had bought them. He continued to stare at Mulcare, hardly able to believe his own eyes. ‘Hello!’ he said, suddenly excited, ‘and how are you getting along these times?’ The young man smiled. ‘Just back from Adelaide,’ he said. ‘Ah! I thought so,’ Mr Fury remarked. ‘I reckoned that was an Australian rig-out you got on. So you’re still on the same old ship? I’ll be damned. Well, you’re looking grand, young man,’ he concluded. Mulcare nodded his head. Yes. He was still on the same old ship. ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said. ‘Just for old time’s sake.’ The older man brightened up at once. They walked slowly up to the Star and Garter and went inside, choosing seats near the brightly blazing fire in the snug back parlour. Mr Fury was still smiling. He looked casually, almost with indifference, at the clock upon the wall. Time for a real good talk. Only seven o’clock. He took stock of Mulcare. The young fellow certainly looked fit and well. They made themselves comfortable. ‘What are you having?’ asked Mulcare. He sat back.
‘I’ll have a whisky,’ said Mr Fury, ‘but – no – a pint of Falstaff will suit me.’ On reflection he had decided upon plain beer. He wasn’t drinking much lately, he explained to Mulcare. Hardly at all. A drop of whisky might go to his head. The barman came over and served the drinks. They drank each other’s health. The glasses clinked. Mulcare pulled a packet of Turkish cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Mr Fury. The old man shook his head. ‘Never smoke those things,’ he remarked. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘I have a bit of the real stuff here, then,’ went on the young man. He pulled a plug of tobacco from his coat pocket and handed it to Mr Fury. ‘Here you are. I know you like the hard stuff better.’
‘Splendid. How thoughtful of you, Michael. Thanks.’ He leaned back against the wall and surveyed Mulcare. ‘Hardly changed,’ he was saying to himself. ‘Hardly changed.’ He put the tobacco away.
‘How is your father these days?’ asked Mr Fury. ‘Still the same old thing with him?’ He recalled how he had first met this young man. It had been on a boat crossing over from Dublin. He had left home after some trouble with his family. He had made his first trip to sea with Mr Fury in a ship called the Ballisa. Mulcare laughed. ‘Oh, I hear from him occasionally,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing to get excited about. Just the same. Hard as nails. Still sits in his office waiting for clients. I feel desperately sorry for him at times. He’s living in the past. Can’t keep up to scratch. And anyhow, the country is ruined. Poor Dad.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mr Fury, and for some unaccountable reason he felt the young man’s remark to apply to himself too. He felt suddenly old. Mulcare lighted another cigarette. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘How am I?’ Mr Fury grinned. ‘Not so bad.’
‘Out of a ship?’
‘Yes. Gave it up two years ago. Left the Cardine. Sorry I ever did. Can’t get used to the shore life at all. It takes it out of you, believe me. But I suppose, like all the other old-timers, I’ll get used to it after a while. I’ll fall into my groove.’ He laughed loudly. Mulcare leaned across and said, ‘Looking for a ship, then?’ He watched Mr Fury’s face, and noticed the sudden change in his expression. The old man shook himself like a dog.
‘Looking for a ship!’ Of course he was. Just the thing. ‘Just the very thing I’m waiting for.’ He was going to take his chance again. At that moment a pair of large brown eyes appeared to bear down upon him. Those eyes were Mrs Fury’s. He sat up abruptly. He seemed embarrassed. He was lost for words. He dodged the other’s persistent stare.
‘No. I’m all right where I am, Michael,’ he said. ‘A chap named Postlethwaite got me a job in the loco sheds. Not a bad job. Better than nothing, anyhow.’ The young man sitting opposite him said ‘Oh!’ in such a way that he could not help but feel a sort of sting in it. Oh yes. There was a sting in it. Why didn’t he say right out, ‘Sure! Are you any hands short aboard your ship?’ But he could not say it. His mouth remained closed. He would not say a word. They sat looking at each other, each wondering what the other was going to say.
‘Come along, Fury,’ Mulcare said. ‘Drink up.’
‘Why!’ exclaimed Mr Fury, and he half rose from his seat. ‘The very thing!’ Peter! Of course. Here was an excellent chance for him. He could not sit still. Mulcare ordered more drinks. Now he was speaking, but Mr Fury did not hear. He was too busy thinking. Then he said:
‘I’ve got a son. A young lad, sixteen, in fact he’s turned sixteen. Sixteen and a half. I was wondering …’
Mulcare finished Mr Fury’s sentence. ‘I could probably get him fixed up,’ he said. ‘Quicker than I could you. You mean you want your son to go to sea?’ The older man became more excited than ever. ‘Why, yes.’ It was splendid. Things were bad. It wasn’t easy to
fall into jobs these days. He would have to talk it over with his wife first. Would he come up to the house one evening before he went away? How long was he going to be in port? Where was his ship lying? Peter. His son wasn’t like other lads, of course, went on Mr Fury. Mulcare raised his eyes until they were on a level with Mr Fury’s head. No. Peter was not like other lads. In fact, he had been in college for nearly seven years. He saw the young man smile. Mr Fury paused. Then the secret came out.
Yes. His wife had wanted this son to be a priest. He was their youngest. He had, however, failed. They had just heard about it from Ireland. It was extraordinary, he said, because Peter had passed all his other examinations with great brilliancy. Mulcare drew his hand across his mouth and looked up at the ceiling. Then his eyes returned to Mr Fury’s level again, and he asked some questions. The man became more informative. Yes. It had been a great disappointment. Quite unexpected. Neither his wife nor himself could understand. Of course, he himself had never been a direct party to the business. Not that he didn’t respect the religion. Nothing like that. But it had seemed rather fantastic to him. All right for people who could afford it. But not of any use to people like themselves. A continual drain on their resources, a ceaseless struggle and no return for it. That was his own opinion, he concluded. He picked up his glass and drank.
‘Yes,’ the young man said. ‘I quite understand. It’s a weakness with the Irish, isn’t it? Every family must have its priest. But the poor are as ambitious as popes. They must have two priests.’
‘Quite right,’ remarked Mr Fury. ‘Though, as I said, I’m not against it entirely. But it’s a different matter when you can’t afford it.’ Mulcare nodded his head. He tapped the bar-room table with his long fingers. ‘Quite true,’ he said. ‘But what can one do with such people?’ Mr Fury said. ‘They’re impossible. Look at Fanny. My wife. She’s driven herself half crazy in order to realize her ambitions over that lad. Now he’s failed her.’ The young man turned a deaf ear to the remark. He wasn’t interested in such things. He asked Mr Fury how long it was since he had left the Cardine. Mr Fury replied, ‘A few years ago.’ ‘What a pity!’ Mulcare leaned across the table. ‘What a pity!’
He was talking now as though leaving a ship at his age was the most preposterous thing in the world.
‘Can’t carry on for ever,’ Mr Fury said. A sadness came over him. The waters were rising. Soon he would let himself go. He could hear his wife talking now. Aye. There was Anthony and Peter now. He caught Mulcare’s eye. ‘I’m so glad to have met you,’ he said. It was almost a whisper.
‘I’m here for eight days,’ said Mulcare. ‘My ship is lying in the George V dock. We’re shipping machinery across to the West Indies for the sugar people. I’ll take a walk up to your place one evening.’ They finished their drinks, got up and went outside. They stood with their elbows leaning against the long, brightly polished brass rail outside the window. Mr Fury’s memory suddenly stirred itself. Thoughts shot up, faces appeared and vanished again. What a lot there was still to be talked about. Pity Mulcare was going off like that. He rather liked the young fellow. But the young man seemed impatient. He wanted to be off. Well, he would not deter him. He stood erect, shot out a thin horny hand and grasped that of Mulcare. He shook it warmly. Mulcare noticed the tattooed stars, one on each of Mr Fury’s wrists.
‘Well, so long, Michael. Just like old times seeing you again. Come up and see us before you go away. I’ll have a talk with Fanny meanwhile. Don’t forget now. So long.’ He waved his hand in cheery farewell.
‘Yes. I’ll slip along one evening. Good-bye, Fury.’ Mr Fury looked at the broad back of Mulcare as he vanished round the corner. He seemed rooted to the spot. He could not move. Confound it! He had been so glad to meet Mulcare again. He had even enjoyed the drink and talk. Yet he felt more miserable than ever now. It awakened the longing in him once more. Why didn’t he get out instead of putting up with that kind of life? Swallowing the anchor. At his age. He wandered up the road, aimlessly, until a car came along. He boarded it and climbed up on top. He tendered twopence to the conductor, saying, ‘Pier Head.’ He settled himself down in a seat near the window. He hadn’t seen the Pier Head for months. The blow would do him good. There was a strong breeze blowing in across the river. He thought, ‘What luck meeting that fellow! It was simply splendid.’ Then the wave of optimism broke against the breakwater of real fact. His wife would say ‘NO’ right away. Trust Fanny for that. Hang it! There must be some way of working this. When the car arrived at the Pier Head he remained on board. The conductor came up at the terminus. Mr Fury looked up. No. He wasn’t getting out. He had only jumped on for the run down. The conductor handed him another ticket, muttering incoherently to himself as he went below. Mr Fury was returning home in a very different frame of mind. He even felt cheery about things. ‘A good idea,’ he said to himself. ‘And the only obstacle is Fanny.’ A stone wall. Well, he would see. How ridiculous he must have appeared to Mulcare. Why, as true as he was sitting on that tram-car, the fellow knew that he, Denny Fury, was simply longing to get to sea again. Yet he hadn’t had the courage. He had just collapsed. He was losing hold on himself. He revolted against the whole thing. Him, a sailor, working with a lot of old women at the railway sheds. When the car eventually stopped at the bottom of Hatfields, Mr Fury’s whole demeanour changed again. He went into the house by the rear entrance. His wife was there. And there in the corner sat Maureen. He could hear quite plainly what they were talking about. He entered the kitchen. Maureen smiled.
‘Hello, Dad,’ said Maureen. She thought she saw a frown on his face. But Mr Fury was not frowning. He was looking at Maureen with a peculiar expression upon his face. A sort of utter hopelessness had stamped itself there. He was looking at his daughter as one looks at a precious possession, which one has held all one’s life, has touched, yet knows he can hold no more. Maureen. Mrs Fury was murmuring her name. He went into the back kitchen. How long had they been there? Talking all the evening, he supposed. She must have gone down to tell Maureen about Peter. The Ferrises’ was a bad guess this time. Mrs Fury called. He went in, blowing his nose vigorously into his spotted handkerchief. ‘Have you had your tea, Denny?’ she asked. ‘I was out. Maureen came up with me. Joe says there’s rumour of a coming strike where he is. He’ll strike, of course.’ Mr Fury sat down. What a way she had of talking. She might as well have said, ‘Joe is going out to commit suicide.’ So he was going to strike! Oh! A stevedore at the docks. The thing was spreading, then? He looked across at his daughter. ‘Who said they’re coming out?’ The young woman rose to her feet. ‘Everybody’s coming out,’ she said, ‘and so are you. If you don’t, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Good God!’ thought Mr Fury. Was this Maureen?
2
Mr Fury repeated his question. ‘Who said the men were coming out? Forget it,’ as though a strike were the most surprising thing in the world. Maureen was seated in the corner, her hands clutching the back of the cane chair.
‘But everybody’s coming out, Dad,’ she said. ‘Everybody.’ Mr Fury laughed. ‘Well, I’m not interested. Neither is your mother.’ He got up and crossed the kitchen. He placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. He smiled at her. ‘It’s Lyric night, Fanny,’ he said. ‘You best get ready.’ ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mrs Fury, ‘I’m not going.’ Mr Fury took no notice of the remark. He turned to his daughter. ‘Your mother and I are going to the Lyric,’ he said. Then he faced Mrs Fury again. A smile came at last. She got up. ‘All right,’ she said. They went upstairs together. Maureen called after them that she was going.
‘I’ll slip round tomorrow, Mother,’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘I’ll come before you go down to meet him.’
Then she left the house.
Mr and Mrs Fury were busy changing into their Sunday best. Mr Fury felt that he must not speak. He must not breathe a word. Fanny was such a contrary woman. One word and she would change her mind. He had an idea that she had had fresh news abou
t Anthony from the shipping office, but he controlled himself. This was Lyric night, and everything else could go by the board. Even whilst he was at sea, they had always managed to see a show at the Lyric whenever he came home. The preparations on Lyric night had assumed almost ceremonial proportions. Mr Fury always put his blue suit on, and also his shiny hard hat came out of the box. Again, he wore a collar and tie. Mrs Fury always wore her grey skirt and a white silk blouse. Over this she drew on her long blue serge coat. Mr Fury had already changed. Mrs Fury was in the act of running the hatpin through her hat when Mr Fury lost control of himself.
‘Fanny,’ he said, ‘if you’ll come to Hobhouse’s with me I’ll buy you a hat. That one’s a real veteran and it’s nearly time you buried it.’ Mrs Fury, quite indifferent, sent the pin through the black straw hat, and then drew back a pace, the more thoroughly to survey her figure. Mr Fury drove his hands into his pockets and stared at her. The way she clung to that hat. He couldn’t make it out. As tenacious as an octopus. ‘I’m not joking, Fanny,’ he said, as he looked at her from head to heel. ‘I’m not joking. If you’ll get off the tram at Hobhouse’s I’ll get you a hat. A good hat. A real hat.’ The woman laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Denny,’ she said. She turned round and faced him. Then her quick eye caught sight of his collar. She went up to him and rearranged his tie.
‘You’re a sloven, Denny.’ She poked him in the ribs. Mr Fury caught her hands in his own and squeezed them. Somehow, as he looked her up and down his pride returned.
‘Well, Fanny, I’ll say this. That when you do dress, you look a real lady. No doubt about it.’ He was filled with an admiration he could no longer conceal. He went over to the window again and looked out. He heard his wife sit down suddenly on the creaky bed. Mrs Fury was changing her shoes. The man fell into a contemplative attitude, resting his head against the window-pane. Well, they had been together a long long time, and in all those years he could not remember a single Lyric night that had been a failure. Yes, when he came to think it over, Fanny was a good ’un. A real good woman, Yes. He understood. He knew what it was like. Getting two disappointments on the same day. He turned round. Mrs Fury rose from the bed. She must see Dad was fixed up before she went. The man nodded his head. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course.’ The woman left the room. Mr Fury walked across and surveyed himself in the mirror. ‘I don’t look so bad,’ he said under his breath. He sat down on the bed. At length Mrs Fury called, ‘Denny! Denny!’ He went below.
