by James Hanley
The woman was standing at the front door, her hand on the knob. ‘Ssh!’ she said, ‘Ssh!’ ‘This way,’ Mr Fury said, and without another word led the way through the lobby. He wasn’t going out through that front door. Not for any money. They passed out into the yard.
‘What about the back door, Denny?’ asked Mrs Fury. ‘That’s all right, Fanny,’ he replied. ‘You go ahead. I’ll bolt the door after you, then come over the wall.’
A few minutes later he joined her at the bottom of the entry. They passed out into the neighbouring street. A mist was descending. The lamps shone dully through the haze. They arrived at the top of Dolan Street, and stood waiting for a tram. The light from a corner shop shone down on them. Once a man, passing by, called out, ‘Night, Denny,’ and Mr Fury, without turning round, replied, ‘Night, Frisco.’ He had recognized the voice. One of the things he most hated was waiting for a tram on the main road. People were always bumping into him. When an acquaintance bumped into Dennis Fury it inevitably meant two drinks at the Hangman’s or the Pitch-pine. Mr Fury took drastic measures in view of his depleted pocket-money. He was rarely seen on the main road now. All right whilst he was at sea. But railway wages didn’t allow of him indulging his generous spirit. At last a tram came along. Mr Fury helped his wife to the platform. Slowly they pushed their way through and found a seat. They had not been seated a full minute before Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘If we had caught a Great Comus Street tram we could have sat on top.’ Mrs Fury said drily, ‘Oh heavens, man! You won’t die without your pipe for a few minutes.’ But he could not catch her words. The tram had put on speed, and in addition its driver began stamping angrily on his foot-bell in a vain endeavour to clear the line of a pony and trap bowling along with a steady rhythm, its two wheels meeting the iron rails. Once or twice its driver, a red-faced youth, had turned round and shouted at the exasperated driver, ‘Keep your shirt on, Dad! Keep your shirt on!’
This remark was not lost upon the passengers sitting at the front end of the tram, and there were occasional laughs and titters. But Mrs Fury seemed immune. She refused to be interested. She said under her breath, ‘The lads nowadays are just devils. That fool will be killed one of these days.’ Mr Fury said, ‘Yes, yes.’ His mind was occupied with something other than the tram and its angry driver. Suddenly the wheels of the trap skidded, with a loud grating noise. The tram had the road clear at last. When it pulled up at the top of Valley Street, nearly everybody descended, and Mrs Fury exclaimed, ‘It must be a gala night, Denny.’ ‘Aye, perhaps so.’ Mr Fury climbed down, then assisted his wife. The garish lights of the theatre shone down the full length of Valley Street. Outside the theatre itself stood a long queue of people. ‘What a crowd, Denny!’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Best go into the pit,’ remarked Mr Fury. They joined the tail-end of the queue. Everybody’s attention seemed focused upon the huge man shouting, ‘Gallery sixpence. Pit one and three.’ He was dressed in a bright blue uniform, splendidly set off with brass epaulettes. Mrs Fury fidgeted. ‘I hope we don’t have to wait long,’ she exclaimed.
Mr Fury was so absorbed in the antics of a tall lean individual who performed an amazing series of acrobatic feats in the street, that he did not hear Mrs Fury’s remark. His eyes were fastened upon the acrobat. This gentleman’s completely bald head looked like a great ivory ball. As he tossed and tumbled, he beat a most ecstatic accompaniment upon two large tablespoons. Mrs Fury leaned heavily upon her husband’s arm. Her feet were paining her. She was now telling herself that she ought never to have put on those black shoes. They were too small. It was too late to change them now. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr Fury at last, turning round all of a sudden. The street acrobat had now finished his performance, and hat in hand was slowly making his way up the queue of people, most of whom regarded him with a curiosity giving rise almost to embarrassment on the acrobat’s part. They could see the man was old, and that he hadn’t a tooth in his head. Then the head of the queue began to move. ‘Oh! At last!’ said Mrs Fury.
Mr Fury pressed inside. As they reached the corridor they could see through the open door that the first twenty rows of the pit were already filled. They glimpsed the orchestra tuning up. They passed through the door. After much pushing and struggling they found a seat. Mrs Fury had no sooner sat down than Mr Fury removed his hard hat and placed it on the seat beside his wife. ‘Don’t move, Fanny! and watch my place.’ ‘What’s the matter with you, Denny? You always do this. Don’t be so absurd.’ She noticed the sudden change in her husband. His demeanour bespoke an urgency, a sudden restlessness. Whatever was wrong with him? At that very moment the orchestra struck up, to the accompaniment of loud chatter, swishing dresses, tearing paper, whilst the strong smell of tobacco and newly peeled oranges rose in the air. ‘I’ll be back in a tick, Fanny,’ exclaimed Mr Fury. He was almost desperate. Mrs Fury clutched the tail of his coat. Her colour rose. ‘You old fool!’ she exclaimed under her breath. ‘Are you ashamed to stand like everybody else …?’ The remainder of her sentence was caught and overwhelmed in the first bars of the National Anthem. Mr Fury fled. He rushed straight to the lavatory. There he stood listening, and when the final note sounded he returned to his seat. Everybody stared at him. But now, to the sound of thunderous claps, the curtain rose. Mr Fury sat tight in his seat, staring at Fanny, but she looked straight ahead at the rising curtain. She couldn’t understand such idiocy. Why Denny hated to stand for the Anthem she simply could not understand. A comedian came out from the wings. The theatre became silent, and the audience settled itself down for the evening.
Of course it simply meant that Anthony would come home on the first available boat. On crutches, she supposed. That meant she would have Peter and Anthony on her hands. A house full. Well, thank God it wasn’t anything worse than an accident, and then Denny at least was working. That was a wonderful thing. Maureen’s pound a week had been a great help. And Desmond’s two pounds. Well – she’d see. Perhaps Anthony would write and say when he was coming. No! She wouldn’t breathe a word to Maureen. Let her find out. Fool she was ever to have told her about Peter. The girl was utterly selfish. What a change in her since she married that fellow Kilkey. She laughed. Mr Fury said, ‘That was a good joke, Fanny,’ but Mrs Fury heard nothing. Indeed she had seen nothing. She had fallen into a reverie, almost unconsciously. She had been prepared to sit and enjoy the show with everybody else, but she could not pin her mind down to it. This meditative mood stole over like a cloud, completely overwhelming her. She became lost in it, whilst her husband gave vent to periodic bursts of laughter. Twice she looked at him, and each time thought, ‘H’m! It is easy to see Denny has nothing on his mind.’ The cool and collected way in which he had sat and listened to her recital of the visit to Mr Lake had not surprised Mrs Fury. To Dennis Fury the mere falling from a mast was nothing. Part of the day’s work, so to speak. At one time this callousness had shocked the woman, now she had become used to his laconical ‘Oh! Dear me! Bad, isn’t it?’ But what was going to happen when Peter arrived home? The lights went up. Everybody looked about. The curtain descended. Mr Fury looked at his wife. He knew then by the very expression upon her face that she had paid no attention to the show. ‘Thinking again,’ he thought. ‘Thinking of those young beggars, I expect, and I don’t suppose they care a toss.’ He put his hand over her own, now lying idly in her lap. ‘Come on, old girl! Let’s have a wet.’
‘No, Denny, you go,’ Mrs Fury said. Mr Fury repeated, ‘Come on! Come on!’ People were pushing their way along the benches. Three times the Furys rose to their feet, and three times sat down again. Mr Fury was adamant. ‘Come on, for heaven’s sake, Fanny! Leave those lads out of your mind for a while, anyhow.’ He paused suddenly. How awkward he was! At last the woman rose to her feet. He rose with her. She pushed against him. ‘All right. Go on,’ she said, and possessed by a furious burst of energy, pushed her husband all the way along the bench. They walked slowly up the foyer of the theatre. They found the bar-room crowded. ‘Wait here, Fanny,�
� he said, and pushed and thrust until he reached the counter. Then he shouted, ‘What are you having, Fanny?’ He had forgotten to ask her. Mrs Fury lowered her head. That damned fool, she was thinking. Everybody in the bar-room stared in her direction as though waiting for the words to fall from her mouth. The barman looked impatiently at Mr Fury. Glasses were continually being banged on the counter, with urgent orders for refills. The barman said, ‘Come on, old man. What is it?’ He looked daggers at Mr Fury now. The man managed to stammer, ‘Oh, a dash and a Bass.’ He made his way back to where his wife stood. Nobody had moved, nobody had offered her a seat. She leaned against the wall. As Mr Fury handed her the glass and raised his own, saying, ‘Here you are, Fanny,’ the woman did not appear to see him, though her hand went out automatically for the glass. She saw, not her husband, but the gentleman at the shipping office. And the gentleman said. ‘Put this lady out at the top floor.’ Her eyes now took in the scene around her. She looked at the faces, thin and fat, red, blotched, coarse-looking faces, refined faces. The rows of faces seemed to swim about her. She drank, hearing Denny say, ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed the show, Fanny.’ Mr Fury was smiling. One could see at once with what pleasure the man was looking forward to the second half of the show. But suddenly Mrs Fury damped his enthusiasm. She wanted to go home. She looked almost pathetic now as she handed him back the glass. She had only drunk half her lemon dash. Mr Fury’s face fell. The woman forced a smile.
‘I’m sorry. Denny,’ she said. ‘It’s my feet. I’ll go. You stay on. It’s all right. I don’t want to spoil your night.’
Mr Fury merely said, ‘Come!’ They went out. His heart was full of tenderness for her. They passed out into the street.
They were silent for a good part of the journey from town. Mr Fury stared through the window at the brightly dressed windows, a long ribbon of light tapering up the long King’s Road. He seemed to be fully absorbed. An idea had come into his head. When that tram reached Hobhouse’s block he was getting off, and Fanny was going with him too. ‘It’s these shoes, Denny,’ said the woman, breaking the silence at last. ‘What’s the matter with them?’ he asked, still keeping his eyes on the passing shops. ‘I think they’re too small.’ Dennis Fury looked round them. He did not look at his wife’s shoes, rather did his eyes begin a minute survey of the black straw hat upon her head. He studied its lines and its angle, its brim and its crown. Then he said hurriedly, ‘Getting off here.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked the woman. Didn’t he know her feet were aching? Mr Fury stood up. The woman sat still in her seat. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘but we’re getting off here.’
There was something so domineering in the tone of her husband’s voice that out of sheer astonishment she rose to her feet and followed him down the iron stairs.
‘Here we are!’ said Mr Fury. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy that show, Fanny. Look! There’s Hobhouse’s. We’re going right in.’ Mr Fury escorted his wife to the kerb. In absolute silence they entered the hat-shop. A smile broke out on the man’s face, and he said to the assistant who came hurrying forward, ‘My wife wants to buy a hat. And don’t let her out of the shop without one.’ He looked at his wife – ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he said, and walked quickly to the door.
‘This way, madam!’ said the assistant, and Mrs Fury followed the girl into an adjoining room.
Five minutes later she joined her husband in the street.
‘Well, Denny, you’re a caution!’ she exclaimed. ‘A real caution.’ ‘That’s all right,’ said Mr Fury, ‘but for heaven’s sake, when you get home, burn that confounded hat.’
They boarded the next inward-bound tram for home.
3
Promptly at half-past five the next evening Maureen went round to Hatfields. Mr Fury had just finished his tea, and was sitting on the sofa reading the evening paper when his daughter came in.
‘Hello!’ she announced, with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and sat herself down at her father’s side. Mrs Fury was busy attending to her father. Mr Fury half turned his head and looked at his daughter. She was a rare visitor now. Since she had married Joseph Kilkey, he supposed she had been home twice in that twelve months. Mr Fury realized that there was something in Maureen he had lost sight of. It was the same with the other children. He had seen so little of them whilst at sea. Now they had grown up. Somehow they seemed beyond him. There was something about Maureen that he greatly admired, and he could not conceal it. Maureen Fury, like her mother, was tall and slim, and of graceful bearing. Their characteristics were almost identical. There was something imperious about her carriage, and even thirty years of married life had not wrested it from Mrs Fury. Maureen had a head of copper-coloured hair, whilst her eyes were deep grey in colour. Her face was long, the mouth was thin, like the mother’s, and tended to give her a certain severity of expression, which her very nature at once belied. Mr Fury looked at her hands, and from her hands his eyes wandered to her face. His wife all over. Now at this very moment Mr Fury was puzzled. He had not forgotten his daughter’s attitude when the question of sending Peter to Cork had first come up. Why this sudden change? He felt he wanted to talk to Maureen – but not there – not in the house. Perhaps he would go over to Kilkey’s place and have a talk with her. Some night when Joe was working late. He had a faint suspicion that Maureen had changed her opinions, and was now taking her mother’s part where Peter was concerned. The curious thing was that his wife had not breathed a word to Maureen about Anthony’s accident. Mr Fury found a special place in his affections for Anthony. Anthony was looked upon as the simpleton of the family. He could not take his eyes from his daughter, even when his wife pushed Mr Mangan and his chair further back into the corner, and now turned round and faced them. He studied Maureen from the rear, frontally, and in profile. What was this something about his daughter that he specially admired? Was it her very youth, her freshness and enthusiasm? It certainly wasn’t her interest in polemics. Mr Fury never associated women with polemics. Indeed, his daughter’s sudden interest could only have arisen after contact with Mr Kilkey. Suddenly he patted Maureen on the back, and shouted, ‘Well, Maureen, any fresh news?’ Then he winked at his wife. Mrs Fury had drawn up the cane chair, and was seated in it, looking at the fast-burning slack. Maureen assumed a quite serious expression, and facing her father, remarked, ‘Yes, the tramwaymen are coming out too. They’re going to support the miners.’
‘Oh!’ Mr Fury scratched his head with great vigour. Of course. He had heard something about it in the sheds. But he never wholly believed it. A mere rumour. And now they were talking about the police coming out as well. H’m! Next thing he’d probably hear about would be a war. A real War. What next! He looked up suddenly as Mrs Fury exclaimed:
‘About Peter!’
About Peter? Mr Fury looked across at the bent figure of Mr Mangan.
‘What’s wrong now?’ he asked.
‘Wrong!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘Why, the lad will be stranded. That’s what’s wrong.’
Mr Fury burst out laughing. ‘Get away! get away! To hear you people talking you’d imagine the whole world was coming out on strike this very minute.’
‘There won’t be any boats running,’ continued Mrs Fury; ‘you don’t suppose the authorities at the college are going to keep him there for ever …’
‘Why?’ interrupted Mr Fury. ‘Have you heard, then?’
‘I’ve heard nothing,’ said Mrs Fury, ‘Nothing. All I know is, that his last fees were paid eleven weeks ago.’ The word ‘fees’ remained in Mr Fury’s mind for a long time. Maureen caught his eye.
‘It’s rather rotten about Peter,’ she said.
Mr Fury made no reply. He took the plug of tobacco from his pocket, and began to cut at it with a large jack-knife. Then he said, ‘Aye,’ and began to rub up the tobacco in the palm of his hand. ‘Aye,’ he said again.
‘Met somebody?’ asked Mrs Fury.
It was a long time since Mrs Fury had smelt tobacco so stro
ng. Not since her husband had left the ships. Mr Fury filled his pipe.
‘Met a fellow name of Mulcare,’ he said. ‘A fine young chap. His father’s in rather a big way in Dublin. But they don’t get on very well together.’ He saw his wife smile.
‘How ridiculous!’ she said, and changed the conversation back to Peter. Mr Fury was on the point of protesting. Very soon, he felt, they would be canonizing this young fellow. At that moment a wire came. It saved the situation. Peter was on his way, with Aunt Brigid. Mr Fury’s face fell. So she was coming after all. Two of them now. Peter had left by an earlier boat. All eyes went to the clock. The woman jumped to her feet. ‘Why!’ she exclaimed, ‘we’ve only got three-quarters of an hour to meet the boat. Get your coat on, Denny.’ She half pushed her husband out of the chair. She rushed into the hall. A minute later she appeared, fully dressed, in the kitchen. She was wearing her new hat. Mr Fury beamed. ‘You look a real toff, Fanny,’ he said.
‘Hurry up, Denny. You’re so slow. And always behind time. Come along now. I half believe you don’t want to meet the lad.’ Her tone of voice suddenly changed. Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘All right! All right!’ It was a nuisance, but he did not want any scenes on the tramcar. Maureen got up and said she must be going too. Mrs Fury stopped her.
