by James Hanley
‘Oh!’ The man got up. but Mrs Fury immediately said, ‘Sit down.’
‘I want to get these bloody things off,’ growled Mr Fury, and he pulled at his greasy trousers. He sat down again.
‘About Peter!’ Mrs Fury said suddenly. Mr Fury looked at her.
‘Well, what about him? Something else up now?’
‘No. I talked to the boy this morning. I want you to look after him now,’ she went on. ‘I’m sick of it.’
‘Oh aye!’ exclaimed Mr Fury. So she had had a talk with him! And what was he to do with the lad? He said slowly, ‘And what do you want me to do with him?’
‘Get him to work, of course. Can’t you get him to sea?’ Mr Fury now looked really astonished. Here was a sudden change in the situation. Real capitulation. Get him a job.
‘Haven’t we had enough of the family at sea? There’s one away now. Is that all he sat at the desk for seven years for? To go to sea?’ Then he turned his head and looked away out of the window. He was thinking fast. Why, that fellow Mulcare. Of course, just the very thing. But … a sudden pause in the thought. He swung round again.
‘I don’t want Peter at sea,’ exclaimed Mr Fury. ‘Surely after the money that’s been spent on him he ought to put up a better show than that. Besides, if I did get him a job, I could only get him below. I don’t want that, Fanny. I’ve had thirty-odd years in the stokehold. On deck, that’s different. But listen to me, can’t we talk over this some other time? Why all this sudden haste?’ Yes, why all this hurry? This was a climb down and no mistake. In fact, he was quite unable to understand it. Anyway, he hadn’t heard a word about the reasons for the boy suddenly leaving the college. Why shouldn’t he know? He was the lad’s father. He had a right to know. He made as if to speak, then drew back. No. He couldn’t ever ask her now. He would get it out of Peter himself. He knew she had heard from the Principal and had destroyed the letter. That was one of Fanny’s failings. Keeping things to herself. She had been like that all her life. Hiding things. Now that he was working ashore he was beginning to find things out. Some were quite silly. Not even a child would conceal them. Well, it was just part and parcel of the woman. He supposed she would never alter.
‘You know why I want him out of the house,’ the woman said.
‘Want him out of the house!’ exclaimed Mr Fury.
‘Yes. Look here, Denny, just think it over. Isn’t it nearly time we had some peace? After all these years. Isn’t it time we got to understand each other? All these years at sea I’ve hardly seen anything of you. I’ve tried; I can’t do any more than that.’
‘Well,’ thought Mr Fury, ‘that’s honest, anyhow.’ He took the sweat-rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands on it. Then he leaned over the bed and embraced his wife.
‘All right, Fanny,’ he said. ‘Good enough! I know a chap who’ll get Peter fixed up in a jiffy. Now I must go and get changed.’ He crossed the room, opened the door, then suddenly stopped. ‘I see you had a letter from Anthony,’ he called across to her. ‘How is the lad?’
‘Oh, he’s getting on well now. He hurt his heels. He’ll be coming home on the next available boat, so he says. That will be one more landed on me.’
‘Is that why you want Peter out of the house?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. The man stood there waiting, but Mrs Fury remained silent. Then he went downstairs. So she had heard from Anthony! He would never have known had not Peter told him about the letter. He had had to ask her even about that. ‘Oh well! I’m glad he’s not so badly off as I thought. Aye! Fanny’s certainly surprised me. Fancy wanting Peter out of the way! The lad she has idolized. Well, well!’ The thoughts remained with him. Even during his ablutions he kept thinking over his wife’s remarks. After he had changed into his ordinary clothes he went into the kitchen. Peter had made the tea and laid the table.
‘You get your tea, Peter,’ he said. ‘I’m taking up something to your mother.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Peter said.
Mr Fury took the wooden tray from the cupboard, placed a cloth on it, then cups and saucers, a teapot, and some newly made toast. This was the first time he had ever carried up a meal to his wife. She had never been ill. It seemed strange to him that he should be carrying this tray upstairs, and that his youngest son should be eating alone at the table. A son head and shoulders over himself. He felt dwarfed, insignificant. He went upstairs, saying, ‘Close the door, Peter, and watch the fire.’
‘Yes, Dad.’ He watched his father go upstairs.
‘Well, Denny,’ said Mrs Fury, ‘this is unusual.’ He put down the tray, saying, ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ He poured out tea.
‘Here y’are, Fanny! Peter made the tea, and here’s some toast.’ He handed the cup to his wife and placed the plate of toast on the chair at her side.
‘Dad must have his tea,’ remarked Mrs Fury, as she stirred vigorously her own cup of tea.
Mr Fury nodded his head. Yes, certainly, they must not forget ‘him’. He got up and went to the door.
‘Peter!’ he called. ‘Peter!’ The boy came to the foot of the stairs.
‘Tell him it’s in the oven,’ said Mrs Fury.
‘Peter!’ called Mr Fury down the stairs. ‘Your mother says to give your grand-dad his tea. It’s in the oven.’ Then he banged the door.
‘That lad has grown into a fine fellow, hasn’t he, Fanny?’
Mrs Fury supped her tea. ‘Yes,’ she said, between sups, ‘he has.’
‘Has Brigid been in?’ asked Mr Fury.
‘Haven’t seen her yet.’
‘Indeed!’ Mr Fury put his cup down and took out his pipe. Immediately Mrs Fury said, ‘The window, Denny.’ ‘All right.’ He got up and opened the window.
‘Well, Brigid’s a caution,’ he began. ‘Out all day. Wonder when she’ll be back?’
Mrs Fury said she didn’t know.
‘She’s got a nose better than any fox,’ exclaimed Mr Fury.
‘I hope she won’t be held up here, Denny,’ Mrs Fury said.
Of course not. All those rumours were just silly. There was no more fear of a strike coming than there was of his dropping dead that very minute.
‘Denny!’ Mrs Fury stammered.
‘It’s right, Fanny,’ he went on. ‘It’s all a lot of talk. By the way, that young fellow I was telling you about is coming along one evening. I hope you’ll see him. Mulcare’s a nice lad. He was with me on the Ballisa. His old father’s a lawyer in Dublin.’
‘A lawyer!’
‘Aye. a lawyer. Quite a big chap, too, from what I heard about him. Seems they had a row.’
‘Indeed! Is that the young man you had in mind when I mentioned Peter?’
‘Yes, of course!’
‘I’d like to see him,’ said Mrs Fury. She put the cup and plate on the tray. ‘I’m tired,’ she said, and lay back.
‘All right. You go to sleep. You’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.’ He gathered the things on to the tray, and went downstairs. As soon as he reached the kitchen he exclaimed, ‘Why, Peter! What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Peter said. ‘It’s the way Grand-dad slobbers and messes about. It made me vomit. I had to go outside.’ The boy wiped his eyes. Mr Fury pushed Mr Mangan further into the corner.
‘Your grand-dad’s a bloody old nuisance,’ Mr Fury said. He took the handkerchief that was pinned to the side of Mr Mangan’s chair. He wiped the old man’s face.
‘How do, slobberer?’ he said. Peter laughed. Mr Fury went into the lobby and came back with the evening paper. He got out his spectacles and settled himself down to read. Peter sat watching him turn the pages. ‘Now is the time,’ he thought. He went over to his father and pulled the paper away. ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about what happened at the college. Could you get me away to sea?’
‘College! Sea! What are you talking about? Why, I don’t even know why you left the college,’ said Mr Fury. He gripped his son’s hand and pulled him down on to the sofa beside him. ‘I don’t
know a single thing,’ he said once more.
‘Mother knows.’
‘But what’s that got to do with it? Your mother never tells me anything.’ Yes, why shouldn’t he know? ‘Well, haven’t you got anything to say? Look how upset your mother is. I don’t give a hang myself …’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Peter said.
Mr Fury said, ‘Oh!’ he kicked the paper into the middle of the kitchen. And that was the result of Fanny’s control! Couldn’t get a word out of the lad. His face went suddenly red.
‘Did your mother tell you not to say anything to me?’
‘No, Dad!’ Peter could not look into his father’s face. There was a pained expression upon it. That shame stole upon him once again.
‘Look here, Peter! I’m just a rough-and-ready man. I don’t put on any airs. I don’t ask questions. Not one of you children can say I ever had anything against you. Can you, now?’ Peter looked him full in the face. ‘No, Dad,’ he said. There was something so earnest, so frank about the way in which he spoke, that Mr Fury got up and pulled Peter with him. They stood facing each other. Peter wanted to smile, but he controlled himself. What was his father going to say to him?
‘Listen!’ began Mr Fury. ‘Your mother wants me to get you a job going to sea. But I have had enough experience of it to know that it’s no good. It’s no life at all. When I was the same age as you I made a mistake, just as you will be doing now if it’s the sea you mean to follow. I tell you straight to your face that I don’t want you to go to sea.’ Suddenly, for some unexplainable reason, the man turned away and stared at Mr Mangan. Yes, he had made a mistake, and he had never forgotten it. It had followed him down all the years of his life. Fanny had never ceased to remind him of it. He turned to Peter again.
‘I must talk to your mother about it. I’m not going to ask you any questions. I’m not even going to ask, as I have a right to do, why you left that college. If your mother had mentioned it to me, I would have put my foot down at once. It’s absurd. Waste! That’s what I say. Waste of time and money.’ Mr Fury felt he had said enough. He sat down on the sofa and took up the evening paper. Peter still remained standing in the middle of the kitchen. Would he ever escape this sense of shame?
After a while, Mr Fury folded the newspaper up and threw it into the corner. ‘Don’t stand there like that!’ he shouted, and Peter jumped as though with sudden fright. He went upstairs to his room. He called in to his mother:
‘I’m going now!’
‘Where?’
‘To the chapel, Mother.’
‘Very well. Don’t you be late.’
‘No, Mother! I’ll be right back.’ Mrs Fury put down the letter she was reading. She could hear her son moving about the room. What was he doing?
‘Is your father downstairs?’
‘Yes, Mother. He’s reading the evening paper,’ Peter called back.
‘Come here.’ He went to his mother’s room. He saw the letter lying on the bed.
‘When you go down, tell Father Moynihan that I’m coming to see him tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ The boy stood hesitating.
‘All right!’ exclaimed the mother. ‘You’d better go now. Have you got your Prayer Book?’ Peter replied that he had.
‘Tell your father to come up.’ The woman lay down again and picked up the letter. She heard the street door close. Peter had gone out. She held the letter in her hand. She had read it three times. Now she began to read it again. It was a long letter from her son Anthony.
‘Dear Mother, – Well, at last I’m out of hospital. But I’m on crutches. Can you imagine Anthony on crutches? If ever anybody had forecast this humiliating position for me I would have trounced them roundly. How are you, Mother? Well, I hope. I feel much better myself, though I can put neither foot to the floor, and the doctor says they’ll take a pretty time healing. But I’m more than glad to be out again. I’ll be coming home on the Aurelia. We should dock about the twenty-third of the month, providing the Atlantic is kind to her. She’s an old boat. It seems funny; I’ll actually be a passenger on this ship. Something new for me. I got your letter while I was in hospital. They sent it on from the ship. How is Dad? And Maureen? I often think Maureen was silly to go and marry that fellow Kilkey. He’s …’ the remainder of the sentence had been scratched out. ‘Mike Nolan wrote telling me that Desmond has been made a foreman ganger. You never said anything about it in your letter. I suppose you still keep him out of the house. Honestly, Mother, I can’t understand why you do this. In the end it will only recoil on you. However, I’m not going to start probing into the family history. Might do Aunt Brigid out of a job …’ Mrs Fury laughed again. There was another long scrawly line after this which she could not make out. The writing was too illegible. She turned up the wick of the lamp, her curiosity aroused. What could it be? She put the page against the lamp globe. After a close examination she discovered it to be – ‘Friday. Half-past ten p.m. I couldn’t finish this letter last night. My feet began to pain badly. I won’t be sorry when I am up and doing again, I can tell you. I just hate this going about on crutches. I used to laugh at Grand-dad when he had his four years ago, but I never thought I should be on them myself. By the way, how is Kilkey getting along? Is he still with the Porter company? How is old Possie from next door? Still wearing his Orange tie, I suppose. A funny family, aren’t they?’ Another scrawl. This was the beginning of a sentence scratched out, blotting the page. ‘I’ve just come on board the Aurelia, straight from the hospital. I came on a stretcher. I was disappointed. I was hoping to see something of New York on the way down, but they wouldn’t even let me sit up for a minute. This ship is sailing on Wednesday morning at half-past nine. As it takes an old tub like this about ten days to do the run from New York to Gelton, I reckon I should be docking at the Branston on Friday week. I won’t be sorry. Oh! I never told you how it happened. It was rather funny, in a way.
‘When we reached New York on the outward trip we had come through a three-day blizzard, and there wasn’t a single man who wasn’t glad to get the shelter of that harbour for a few days. But the cold only seemed to increase. They say it is the worst winter they’ve ever experienced in these parts. It was something below zero, I can’t remember how much. But working on that deck was foul, I can tell you. Even the longshoremen, hardened to it as they are, even they began to feel it pinching after two days’ work on the cargo. When sailing day came, the whole of the deck was coated with a thin film of ice. The ship really looked beautiful, but it wasn’t beautiful to work on that deck. When the sun came out, it made things worse. We had to wash down fore and aft right away. We were supposed to be sailing at half-past five that evening for Baltimore.’… Mrs Fury paused and looked up. ‘What a bad writer Anthony is!’ she was saying to herself. ‘He must be the worst writer in the family.’ She read on: ‘I was sitting in my room when the bosun came along and called for two hands to work for’ard on the wireless. The men didn’t respond. In fact, one of them said that he would only go up if he got a tot of rum. The bosun said he would arrange about that, but this man was stubborn and refused to budge from the fo’c’sle unless the rum was brought right away. “Think any man is going to go up that bloody mast in this weather?” The bosun was angry. He said, “Somebody’s got to go up, we can’t sail unless that wireless is rigged up, and that’s all about it.” Nobody said a word. Then from the corner bunk a man named Cash came. He said if another man volunteered he would go up. “All right,” the bosun said, “there are already two men aft, they’re waiting. They can’t do anything until somebody moves out of here.” Then he looked at me. “I’ll go up, bosun,” I said to him. He smiled. “Good, Fury,” he said. “Good man.” The three of us went out.’
Mrs Fury sighed. ‘My heavens!’ she exclaimed aloud. Of course he would. Just like his father! What a mad harum-scarum lot the Furys really are! And what’s he got for it? A pair of smashed heels. ‘It was just growing dusk. I started to shinny up the rigging, Cash followin
g behind me. Suddenly I remembered that I had left one of my gloves in the fo’c’sle, but I couldn’t go back, and I shouted to the bosun, “My glove! I’ve left it in my bunk.”
‘“Can’t do that job with a glove, Fury,” he said. “Impossible. It won’t take you but a brace of shakes to shinny up there and get that job done.” Then I climbed higher. It was bitterly cold. I remember I stopped to get my breath, as there was a wind bearing down on us, one of those icy east winds. I could hear Cash breathing under me. “Climb, man!” he was shouting, “climb! Can’t stand here all the bloody day!” I went on. When I reached the cross-trees Cash shouted, “Hang on for a spell.” I was glad to. I hung on like grim death, now feeling sorry I had gone up at all, as there were older and more experienced men sitting by that bogie in the fo’c’sle warming their own backsides. But the bosun is such a fine man, I hated to back out. By God! it was cold up on those cross-trees. I knew we would have to put a move on, for the light was going fast, and when I looked down I could only see the dim outlines of her deck, whilst the derricks seemed to have altered their shapes entirely. But I never looked down again.
‘It was the first time I had ever been aloft in the Turcoman. You couldn’t imagine what a ship looks like from her cross-trees, let alone her truck top, which was where I had to shinny, and quick too. I could hear the bosun shouting below, and a sort of ghostly voice aft. It must have been the man up the mainmast. Suddenly I screamed. I had reached the nest, and had gripped the iron ring at the back of the mast. I don’t know why I screamed, I can’t remember it clearly enough. But I did know that I could not move an inch higher, that Cash was bellowing just beneath me, that my right hand was kind of glued to this iron ring. I couldn’t let go. I shouted them, “My hand’s stuck. I can’t move.” Cash shouted up, “Christ, man!” That’s all I know. Then I fell. I remember hitting Cash, one foot touching a derrick and glancing off it quickly like a bullet. But that’s all. It was awful. I hit the deck, and I felt as though somebody had pushed red-hot spikes into my heels and right up into my whole body. I woke up in hospital. Later the doctor told me all about it. My hand had become frost-bitten, and he said another five minutes and I would have lost it. Honestly, Mother, it’s impossible to imagine how cold it was that evening. It all happened in fifteen minutes. The bosun wrote to me before the ship sailed. He was awfully cut up about it. The doctor said if Cash had not been right underneath me I would have been killed outright, though how Cash broke my fall I don’t know. Anyhow it’s all over now.’ … The letter dropped to the floor. She sighed. ‘Yes. Thank God, it’s all over! Thank the great God!’ She leaned out of the bed and retrieved the letter from the floor. She put it inside her nightgown, but a second later took it out again, holding it to her mouth, murmuring, ‘Anthony! Off that mast! Oh! …’ She held the letter to her mouth, kissing it. This was the nearest thing to flesh and blood. The face of her son seemed to gaze upon her from its now crinkled pages. She could see his blue eyes, his laughing mouth, his weatherbeaten face. ‘Anthony! Anthony!’ she kept repeating under her breath. She lay back, picturing the accident in her mind. What a frightful fall! A mere lad, too! Now he was coming home. Another mouth to feed. She lay back again. Again she opened the letter, her eyes wandering over its pages. ‘Why, there’s something else!’ she exclaimed, and sat upright. She hadn’t read it properly. ‘I only hope that I’m not going to be stuck on these crutches for life. I should simply hate that, Mother.’ Mrs Fury’s heart seemed to miss a beat – ‘for life!’ ‘That’s the only thing that worries me, Mother. By the way, I am bringing you some Indian embroidery work for your birthday. I am sure you’ll like it. I bought it off a bum in Galveston. Now I think I’ve said all there is to say, so I close with love to all at home, and beg to remain, Your affectionate son, Anthony.
