by James Hanley
‘All right,’ Mr Fury said. ‘You go ahead and make some tea, then. I’ll go out and have a wash and shave. But I’ll take my solemn oath that woman upstairs will make something extraordinary out of this, don’t you forget. She’s got such a mind.’ But Brigid Mangan made no reply. She was conscious that she was in the midst of something exciting. She might even hear something, if she was patient. So far he hadn’t said a word about Peter. ‘I’ll sound him,’ she thought. As they sat down at the table, Mr Fury with his toast in front of him, and Miss Mangan with her cup raised in the act of drinking, the silence was broken by the harsh voice of Mrs Fury.
‘There! I told you.’ exclaimed Mr Fury. He went out into the hall and listened. Miss Mangan put her cup down and waited. ‘She’s having a nightmare,’ he said, as he came into the kitchen again. ‘And no wonder. A woman like that could never be free from them.’ Miss Mangan said, ‘I heard Peter going downstairs about an hour ago. I wonder what he was doing?’ She caught his eye, and knew at once that the boy had been out with his father. Well, well! There seemed to be no end of mysteries in number three Hatfields. Mr Fury went out to clean his boots. When he came into the kitchen Brigid Mangan had gone. He sat down on the sofa and exclaimed, ‘Confound the woman! She came down here to spy. Aye. And she’s caught the fellow upstairs too.’ Yes. That son of his who had discovered him leaning against the wall behind the house. Even now she was telling his wife all about it. He went into the hall and put on his cap. Then he stood listening at the bottom of the stairs. Not a sound. He went out and banged the door loudly behind him. A minute or two later the alarm rang. Mrs Fury woke up. ‘Why, Brigid!’ she exclaimed, and sat up. Miss Mangan was standing by the window, staring down into the yard.
CHAPTER V
1
The bone factory, situated at the rear of Hatfields, was divided from the houses themselves by a huge wall. The inhabitants saw nothing beyond this great wall unless they happened to be in the attic part of the house, when they were able to see the yard, in the corners of which were deposited great heaps of bones. The yard itself was approached by a wooden gate. This gate, for some strange reason or other, was never locked. Another gate stood within the yard, and this in turn led to the shed where the bones passed through for crushing. If the occupants of the thirty houses called Hatfields had taken a certain pride in the knowledge that the street was indestructible, they were losing it now. The sense of security, of permanency, was wavering. The bone factory had been standing there five years. At first there were protests from property owners. The concern taking over the land offered to compensate to the landlord, but the people themselves, though conscious of the obnoxious approach being made upon their contentment, were the chief obstacles to the proposal. They preferred the smell to the trouble of finding alternative accommodation. In time the smell itself became a part of the place. It assumed the same permanency as the brickwork that had stood secure for so many years. But rumours were ever abroad that the houses would and must soon go. The factory people wished to extend, the health authorities decided that the matter was serious. When Mrs Fury heard about this she only laughed. But other people in the street had already realized that the collapse of Hatfields was inevitable.
When Mr Fury left the house, he walked slowly down the street. A walk in the night air would do him good. But he could not tell why his steps took him in the direction of this yard. Perhaps he did not want to be seen walking abroad at that late hour. The policeman who controlled the area round Hatfields might think it a poor excuse, that a man like Mr Fury should not be able to sleep. At the bottom of the street he turned sharp right, then stopped. He was practically facing the gateway. It had always seemed strange to him that this big gate on the road should be left open. The proprietor of the factory, however, felt that not even a tramp would care to take advantage of any sanctuary it might offer, for the most pungent and disgusting smell hung in the atmosphere. Mr Fury stood contemplating this gate. He had never been in the yard. At that moment he felt a tap on his shoulder, and a breathless voice exclaimed ‘Dad!’ Mr Fury jumped with fright. He turned round. Peter was standing in front of him. The boy had an overcoat over his underclothing, and was wearing slippers. ‘Why! What the devil! What do you want?’ asked the astonished man, staring fixedly at his son. Peter increased his astonishment by smiling and replying, ‘What’s the matter. Dad?’ Mr Fury caught him roughly by the arm, saying, ‘What’s the matter? The matter is that if your mother finds you have come out here there’ll be a holy row. Get back to bed at once, and don’t come following me,’ But the son did not move. His eyes roamed about the figure of his father. From the light of a single bulb that now swung aimlessly in the wind Peter was able to see his father’s face. How ghastly and yellow it looked in that light! He moved a step. His father followed. ‘Ah,’ thought Peter, ‘that’s better.’ The light no longer fell upon Mr Fury’s face. ‘Come along,’ said his father, ‘you get home. Do you hear me?’
‘But why are you out here? Won’t you tell me what the trouble is, Dad?’ He had moved so close to his father that Mr Fury could feel the boy’s breath upon his face. He could not longer conceal his surprise at this sudden development. How had the boy known where he was? ‘Surely,’ he thought, ‘he isn’t spying on me!’ He would credit Fanny with even that. Peter took his father’s arm. ‘Come on home, Dad.’
‘I can’t sleep,’ Mr Fury said. ‘And I had a rotten day today.’ Then he embraced his son, saying, ‘Well, by God! I’m glad to see you home again.’ There was something about Peter standing there like that, holding on to his arm that filled Mr Fury with admiration. Was this the little boy who went away seven years ago? He stroked his forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Peter. He drew back a little. ‘Oh, nothing,’ Mr Fury replied. ‘Nothing.’ Ought he to say something? Ask that question? No. It might be dangerous. Fanny would hear all about it. He couldn’t do that. He had been caught out once before over Anthony. Was he afraid? No, it wasn’t that. But he was so weary, he just wanted to be quiet. The excitement of the last twenty-four hours had been enough. He didn’t want any more. The incident with Anthony stood out clearly in his mind now. But this wasn’t Anthony. This was the youngest of the large family, and he was different altogether. Perhaps the lad would say something. Christ! It was silly, standing there like that. They were like two shy children, looking at each other, saying nothing. How she had idolized Peter! He looked away towards the house. Peter said, ‘It’s cold. Dad. Come on home.’ His father’s hand fell suddenly on his arm. He began to push him slowly inside the gateway. Peter laughed, but his father said angrily:
‘H’m, what’s the matter with me? That’s not the question, Peter. The question is, “What’s the matter with you?” I told you to go home to bed. You have no right to be out this time in the morning. I’m your father. You had a right to go when I told you. But you didn’t go.’
‘Well. Dad …’
‘The question is, “What’s wrong with you?” Yes, answer that. Stuck away for seven years, and now you just drop on us like a jack-in-the-box, and you haven’t anything to say.’ Mr Fury paused. What was this he was saying? Confound it! He meant to go home. What was he doing in this stinking yard? They were against the wall now, shielded from the light of the bulb swinging above their heads. Then Peter said:
‘I’m sorry. Dad. I didn’t ever want to go. I only went to please Mother.’ The man fell back against the wall as though he had been struck a blow. He put his hands on the wall, he was like a drunken man. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. Then he spat on the ground. So the truth was out. Desmond had been right. He had been right. Everybody had been right. Excepting that stubborn woman. Yes. That stubborn woman. He looked at Peter.
‘Your mother’s sorely disappointed in you,’ he said. Then he broke down. He could not help it. Peter went up to him.
‘Dad!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I …’
‘Go away,’ said his father. ‘Go on. Go home at once. Don’t stand there.’ Then he yelle
d like a madman. ‘Don’t stay there, I tell you. D’you hear me?’ He stamped his foot angrily. Peter walked away. Mr Fury turned his face to the wall. Whose fault? The boy’s? Fanny’s? He had never wanted to go away at all. Seven years. Thinking that over in his mind for seven years. God! He hated the lad now. He hated him. He was the cause of all the trouble. He had turned his own wife into a stubborn, powerful, indefatigable woman. He hated him for his silence. The word ‘ruined’ seemed to burst into flame in front of him. Peter looked well. ‘And by heavens he ought to!’ he cried in his mind. ‘He ought to. The best of everything for seven years.’ He shook himself like a dog and walked out of the yard.
Half-way up the street he saw Peter. When he went up to him he was crying. ‘All right,’ his father said, ‘you get to bed. We’ll talk about all this tomorrow.’ They went to the door. Mr Fury pulled a key from his pocket. When they went into the lobby, the man caught his son by the arm, saying:
‘Ssh! There’s somebody moving about. You get up to bed at once.’ He pushed his son forward. He was angry and confused. Then he went into the kitchen. A strange feeling overcame him. He sat down on the sofa. He felt old now. Really old. Peter was a failure. The rows they had had over him! Well, he knew what to do now. He had been silent for too long, he had never shown his hand. He got up from the sofa and began walking up and down the kitchen. He noticed that the clock was not in its accustomed place on the mantelshelf. ‘Yes,’ he was muttering, ‘yes, I’ll show them now. I’ll have that fellow before the mast before he has time to say “Bah”.’ At that moment Miss Mangan came into the kitchen. He realized at once that she knew. She must have heard him going out. Had she seen Peter too? Must have done. His sister-in-law stood there holding out the clock. He saw how late it was. Not much use turning in now. Then he heard a rustling sound, and at the same time Miss Mangan caught his eye. Yes, she knew all along. They were indeed a pair. They must have been watching them all along. But this woman was no different to his wife. She never said a word. Her expression told its own tale. His anger grew. He said, ‘Go to bed, Brigid.’ But the woman stood there as though she were waiting for an earthquake to happen.
2
Peter had gone up to his room. He lay down on the bed. What had made him suddenly go to the window? He asked himself that question many times. It wasn’t the smell that came to him. Of course he had pulled up the window when he heard the door opened. Here he was back again, and the secret was out. His father knew. He never wanted to go. Rain suddenly drove in through the half-open window, making a pattering noise on the bare wooden floor. The house was wrapped in silence. Had Aunt Brigid seen him? He could not drive out the sudden fit of restlessness that had seized him. He got up from the bed, already half-covered with books which he had flung out haphazard from his travelling-bag. He went over and stared into the dressing-mirror. The lamp, standing near, dimmed. He turned up the wick. He studied his expression in the mirror for a long time, allowing his long fingers to trace themselves over his eyes and mouth and nose. He stroked the film of down now growing on his chin. How old his father had looked when, unable to control his feelings, he had cried like a child. A little old man. His mother hardly looked a day older. The scene at the landing-stage lived again in his mind. He was like a stranger. He didn’t know them. And his grandfather. How miserable, almost filthy, he looked now. What was Maureen like? And Desmond? He would see them soon. They were married now. He laughed. He was glad Maureen was gone. He had never liked her. She reminded him so much of his Aunt Brigid. Miss Mangan was the living image of his mother, though she lacked his mother’s dignity and natural grace, he thought. Fancy Anthony having gone to sea tool He tried to imagine what he looked like. A quartermaster. What changes there had been! He picked up the lamp and looked more closely at the reflection of the figure staring into it. He had tried hard to remember. It was so difficult. Only seven years ago. It had seemed to him like twenty. No. He could not remember the little boy with the badge in the lapel of his serge coat. That was so, so long ago. A new person. A new Peter. He was seized with a sudden desire to look for old photographs of himself. He put the lamp down. Surely there must be some about the room. He had slept in this very room. His room. The bottom drawer of the dressing-table. Yes. Everybody had at one time or other used the same drawer. What a mine of information, what history lying there now! He went on his knees and pulled open the drawer.
It was tightly packed. He pulled the drawer out, and tossed its contents in a heap upon the bed. He buried his hands in them. Then he put the drawer on the floor. He put the lamp back on the table by the bed. He sat down, his eyes held by that great heap of papers with all the memories attaching to them. He rummaged with his hands amongst this pile of old letters, greeting cards, bills, certificates of birth and death, his mother’s marriage lines, his father’s old sea-book with its salt-stained and faded blue cover, John’s Union cards. He held these cards in his hands for some time. Tears came into his eyes. Poor John! He had hardly known him, and now he was dead. Crushed to death at twenty years of age. It was terrible. He remembered the letter his mother had sent him on the day of his brother’s tragic accident. He put the Union cards into an envelope. He could not bear to look at them any more. His hands dropped on a long envelope. There was something hard inside. A photograph. He pulled it out. Desmond and his wife. ‘By heck!’ he exclaimed under his breath. ‘That’s a beautiful face.’ He drew nearer to the lamp. Desmond’s wife. It was something of a shock at first. The most beautiful face he had ever seen. Beside it his brother looked quite ordinary. There was something fascinating about this face. He could not take his eyes from it. ‘Fancy! Just fancy!’ he was saying. His hand was shaking. Then, as though seized with a sudden inexplicable loathing, he flung the photograph down upon the bed. Where were those early photographs of his? He so much desired to see them now. Where could they be? Probably burned, perhaps thrown out with the rubbish long ago. At last! He found them between the covers of his father’s sea-book. His father must have carried them about with him. He wanted to laugh. He held one of the photos near to the lamp. Himself at six years of age. Good Lord! It seemed outrageous. He spat at it, saying, ‘Little fool!’ But the face continued to stare at him from the hard glossy surface of the card. Peter at six. With those enormous eyes? Then he picked up another. It was a photograph of himself at two years of age, sitting on his mother’s knee. He held it over the lamp until it caught fire. He flung the burning card into the grate. ‘What a museum!’ he said. ‘What a museum!’ He began to bundle the scattered papers together again. He put the drawer on the bed and emptied the papers and cards into it. As he was putting it back he heard the alarm go off below-stairs. He nearly let the drawer fall with fright, and he cursed the clock. Only a minute or two before it struck, his father had gone out and banged the door so loudly that his mother woke up, but Peter was so absorbed in going through the papers and photographs that he had not heard it.
‘Dad’s gone off to work,’ he said to himself. He heard somebody climb the stairs. Then the climber coughed. His Aunt Brigid. He knew that cough so well. So she had been talking to his father. He got into bed and blew out the lamp. He could not rid himself of the feeling of shame. It clung to him. He shuddered when he remembered how he had left the college in Ireland. Like a thief, hardly lifting his head. He remembered the Brother at the college gate saying, ‘Good-bye. Fury. Good luck.’ He remembered the long walk to his aunt’s house. Her questions. His own stubborn refusal to say a word. The journey to the boat. The Arklow murderer. The arrival at the Stage. The welcome his mother had given him. It had only heightened his sense of shame. But he couldn’t help it. He had seen the thing coming. He put his head under the clothes and exclaimed passionately, ‘No. It couldn’t be helped.’ Here he was back again. More of a stranger than ever. Tomorrow his mother would ask him everything. Tomorrow. Why, it was six o’clock now. The paper in the grate still smouldered. The faces – there were three of them – still hovered about in the air above
him. Once Peter, aged two, stuck out a tongue and grimaced. Then the beautiful woman standing beside his brother suddenly smiled, and he saw that she looked even more beautiful than the photograph. He closed his eyes. The figure of his grandfather appeared. Peter grimaced at the sallow leathery skin. How he hated that face! And his eyes were like little wax beads. He sat up in the bed. Why, his grandfather had never spoken a word. Not a word to anybody. And they had to carry him about everywhere. He could see his father now, as he half knelt, holding on to his grandfather, calling out frantically to his mother, ‘Fanny! Fanny!’ How funny it had all seemed. But now those figures vanished, and in their place came the little old man from the bone yard. This little man with the thin grey hair was his father. He would not believe it. Whom did he love the more, his father or his mother? He did not know.
He knew his mother more intimately than he did his father. He had hardly seen him. A lump came into his throat. He hated to go to sleep. Sleeping involved waking, waking meant morning and questions. Why had his mother liked him better than the rest of the family? The way she had clung to him at the landing-stage. Absence seemed to have intensified the bond, a sort of spiritual harmony that had held them together for years. Peter stretched himself in the bed. After a while he dozed off. Then a sharp knock came to the door. He shivered. Must have fallen asleep. How long had he been asleep? He looked up. His mother was standing in the middle of the room. The light from the gas below-stairs threw shadows upon the landing wall. Mrs Fury was fully dressed. She had even washed and combed her hair. ‘Time to get up, Peter,’ she said. ‘It’s a quarter past seven.’
