by James Hanley
‘P.S. – I think you had better see them at the Shipping Office, as I understand that the allotment money ceases from the day of the accident. I’m not sure, Mother, but think it best you should see about it right away. I dare say I’ll get some compo out of this lot.’ She crushed the letter into a ball and then let it fall to the floor. She could hear Mr Fury mounting the stairs. ‘Imagine it!’ thought the woman. ‘Just imagine it.’ She picked up the crumpled letter and clutched it tightly in her hand. ‘To think that the boy met with that accident nearly three weeks ago, and I only heard about it a few days ago. I shall certainly have something to say to Mr Lake about this.’
CHAPTER VII
1
‘Here’s the evening paper,’ Mr Fury said. He sat down on the bed and pulled the newspaper from his pocket.
‘Has Brigid come back yet?’ asked Mrs Fury.
‘No. Not yet. ‘Spect she’s ferreting about somewhere,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘Here you are.’ He handed the newspaper to his wife.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Fury said. She laid the paper down and looked at her husband. Mr Fury was completely dressed for the street.
‘Are you going out, Denny?’ asked the woman.
There was something puzzling about his manner, about the expression on his face.
‘Yes,’ Mr Fury said. ‘I’m going out! That is, as soon as that lad gets back.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Gone seven now.’
Mrs Fury suddenly thought, ‘I shall be up tomorrow.’ The very expression upon her husband’s face seemed to have engendered the thought.
‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s Federation night, Fanny. I thought you knew. It’s every month.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mrs Fury, and she looked towards the window. ‘I hope that boy won’t be long, then,’ she added.
‘Aye,’ Mr Fury said. He got up from the bed and commenced to walk up and down the room. Mr Fury was worried, he was growing impatient. Why the devil didn’t Postlethwaite knock? Mrs Fury picked up the newspaper and opened it.
‘Where’s the rest of it, Denny?’ she asked, and Mr Fury came to a sudden halt in the middle of the room.
‘Isn’t it there? I must have left it downstairs. Hang it! I’ll go and get it.’ He turned towards the door, but Mrs Fury said it didn’t matter.
At that moment somebody knocked at the door. The man sighed. ‘It’s Possie,’ he said. ‘He said he’d knock for me on his way down.’ He looked anxiously at his wife, thinking furiously, ‘Where the devil has that lad got to?’
‘You’d best wait, Denny,’ Mrs Fury said. ‘Peter will be back any minute now. I wonder where Brigid is?’ The knocking was repeated. Mr Fury shouted, ‘Brigid! I suppose she’s busy collecting stuff for her family history.’ He went out. Mrs Fury heard him open the door, and Mr Postlethwaite said, ‘Hello, Fury! Ready?’
‘Aye. Just a minute!’ said Mr Fury. He went upstairs again.
‘Fancy that lad being out all this time!’
He called downstairs, ‘Can you wait a few minutes, Possie?’ Then, just when he was giving up hope, a welcome sound came to his ears.
‘Here’s Maureen!’ he said.
Mrs Fury said, ‘You’d better go, then, Denny. Don’t keep that man waiting at the door.’ Mr Fury said, ‘All right.’
Maureen was already mounting the stairs. Mr Fury met her on the landing. ‘Your mother’s not very well,’ he said. ‘Will you stay with her a while? Peter’ll be back any minute. And your Aunt Brigid won’t be long now.’ He rushed down the stairs. When he reached the lobby he turned round, filled with a sudden inspiration.
‘Has she been to see you?’ he called up the stairs. ‘Yes,’ shouted back Maureen as she opened the front room door.
‘Ah! Thought so!’ Mr Fury said under his breath. ‘Coming, Possie,’ he said. He went into the kitchen. He took the outer sheet of the evening newspaper from his pocket, rolled it into a ball, and flung it into the fire. As he did so, he looked at the figure in the chair. Mr Mangan’s long hands gripped the sides of his chair. His breast rose and fell. But for its gentle rise and fall it seemed as though the life in that figure, imperiously alone and lonely, had suddenly been stilled.
‘Aye, slobberer!’ exclaimed Mr Fury, ‘you don’t know the bloody fun you’re missing.’ He waited until the bundle of paper had burnt out. Then he joined Mr Postlethwaite in the street.
‘Better catch the next car that comes along,’ exclaimed Mr Postlethwaite. They hurried down the street. Mr Fury remained silent. He knew by now how punctual Mr Postlethwaite was, how he hated to be kept waiting. They stood a moment at the bottom of the street.
‘Did you see what the paper says?’ remarked Mr Postlethwaite.
‘Aye, I did that!’ replied Mr Fury. ‘Take it from me, nothing’s going to stop those miners coming out. I don’t blame them anyhow, they’re always being shit on.’ Yes, of course he’d read it. But he wasn’t going to have Fanny reading it. He felt pleased now that he burned the sheet of newspaper. ‘The missus isn’t well,’ he went on. ‘I …’
‘See that lad of yours is home,’ interrupted Postlethwaite.
‘Yes.’ Mr Fury had been hoping all along that Peter would not be mentioned. He looked at Mr Postlethwaite now, as if to say, ‘Your sponge must be pretty dry.’
‘What are you going to do with him?’ asked Postlethwaite.
‘Oh! I don’t know.’ Mr Fury hated talking about him. Probably make him an ambassador.’
‘Here’s our car.’ said Postlethwaite. They walked to the end of the line, and stood waiting for the passengers to descend. The tram would then reverse and go towards town again. As they stood together on the kerb, watching the people descend into the road, Mr Fury’s eyes caught sight of a buxom and heavily laden figure coming down the stairs from the upper deck. ‘It can’t be!’ he was thinking. ‘It can’t be Brigid. Surely!’ He brushed the idea from his mind.
Mr Postlethwaite said, ‘It’s clear now.’ They stepped off the kerb. Mr Fury said. ‘D’you reckon if those miners come out they’ll want support?’
‘Why not?’ asked Mr Postlethwaite. ‘Why not?’
Mr Fury cursed himself for such a silly question. Then he swung round as a hand touched his shoulder.
‘Why, Denny!’ exclaimed a voice. Mr Fury did not move. He stood there as though rooted to the very earth. He knew that voice. He didn’t want to turn round. But now Mr Postlethwaite looked at him, a penetrating sort of look, and he turned round to face Aunt Brigid, newly arrived from town. She seemed hot and flustered. She carried parcels in each hand. The little finger of her right hand was tightly clasped round her bag handle. Under her left arm she clutched an umbrella.
‘Well, Denny!’ she exclaimed again. ‘This is a surprise.’ Mr Fury looked confused. Somehow the figure of his sister-in-law appeared to swell. It seemed to move towards him like a great wave. In another minute he must be smothered beneath this wave of flesh and parcels. Yes. It was a surprise. Just when he and Postlethwaite were on their way to the Union meeting. And, confound it! Aunt Brigid’s coat had blown open, so that her bright green gown shone resplendent for all the world to see. And Mr Postlethwaite hated the very sight of green, orange being his favourite colour. Mr Fury cried in his mind – ‘Damn! Damn!’ It would happen like that. Miss Mangan’s breath came short and sharp. At that moment Mr Postlethwaite, to Mr Fury’s great surprise, relieved Aunt Brigid of her parcels and placed them on the edge of the footpath. Mr Fury said, ‘Here, Brigid,’ and took the remaining parcels from her and placed them beside the others. ‘We’re just going to the Federation meeting,’ remarked Mr Fury, after what seemed a long and ominous silence. ‘Aye, we were just catching this tram.’
Mr Postlethwaite looked from Aunt Brigid to Mr Fury. ‘A nice how-d’you-do,’ Mr Fury was thinking. Aunt Brigid! Anywhere but there, on that kerb, her coat wide open. He felt sure the sight of the green gown must have been almost harrowing to a man like Mr Postlethwaite. ‘Button your coat, Brigid,’ he
said. ‘It’s a dirty night.’ Aunt Brigid looked over her brother-in-law’s head towards the garish lights of the Star and Garter. On such a night as this those lights seemed to have an almost magnetic power. They beckoned to her. She buttoned up her coat and asked:
‘Denny! Will you have something warm before you go?’ Her eyes wandered to Mr Postlethwaite. They remained focused upon this little man, dressed in his loud brown suit, yellow shoes, and bright blue collar and white tie. ‘What a funny little man,’ thought Aunt Brigid. As though unconsciously obliging, Mr Postlethwaite at that very moment removed his shining hard hat, revealing to the now astonished Miss Mangan his completely egg-shaped bald head, as if to say, ‘Why not complete the circuit?’
‘Thanks all the same, Brigid.’ said Mr Fury. He was angry now. He could not conceal his vexation, the more so since the man from next door exclaimed with perfect aplomb, ‘Go ahead, Fury. I’ll wait.’ It was positively humiliating. ‘No!’ It was almost a growl. ‘We have to go to this Union meeting, Brigid. We’re late already. Another time. Sorry. But you see …’ Mr Postlethwaite looked at his watch. ‘Go ahead, Fury,’ he said again. ‘No!’ This was too much. Caught between two extremes. Seemed to Mr Fury as though they had specially designed this meeting. Making a fool of him! He looked almost savage now. ‘Won’t you have one, then?’ he asked. He looked at Mr Postlethwaite, his tone was almost pleading.
‘No. Thanks all the same. You go ahead. I’ll wait,’ he said.
‘All right, then.’ Mr Fury picked up the parcels and said, ‘Come along, Brigid!’ Mr Postlethwaite said, ‘I’ll be waiting here.’ Dennis Fury could make no reply. He was full, really full. They crossed the road. Mr Fury pushed against the swinging doors, and almost fell into the public bar-room! ‘Phew!’ he said. The place was crowded. Aunt Brigid, immediately behind, had now recovered her somewhat scattered self. As she sailed through at Mr Fury’s heels she assumed a carriage almost regal.
‘Right through to the snug, Denny,’ she exclaimed. The man growled back a reply quite unintelligible to Miss Mangan.
Miss Mangan sat down and leaned back in her seat. She surveyed the room. Mr Fury, having put down the parcels, took a chair and sat opposite Aunt Brigid. She could see at once that he was ill at ease. She smiled at him now. It was indeed her hour of triumph. Her foresight, she felt, had been almost prophetic. Here was her brother-in-law, however uncomfortable he might be, here he was sitting right in front of her. And this man had once vowed, she remembered the incident quite clearly, he had taken a vow that he would never sit in a public with her. She almost beamed – her triumph was mirrored there for him to see. She put out a gloved hand, and raising her finger pressed the bell. Then she drew off her gloves, laid them on the table, and opened her coat. Mr Fury looked at her expansive bosom. Where in heaven’s name had she got such a gown? A brighter, more tantalizing, more provocative green he had never seen. And to come to Hatfields like that! Hatfields was full of ‘Billies’. Mr Fury thought, ‘The Postlethwaites will talk about this for a week.’ He felt sure that if Aunt Brigid lived in Hatfields for one month she would agree with him. Miss Mangan roused him from his momentary meditation. ‘What are you having, Denny?’ she asked. Mr Fury paused. The moment for complete capitulation had arrived. But for Postlethwaite he would never have been in this humiliating position. He now evaded her glance, and replied, looking absently at the big mirror over her head:
‘I’ll have a glass of bitter, Brigid.’
There. It was done now. He had broken his vow.
Aunt Brigid looked at him, little short of astonished at his reply. ‘A glass of bitter! Good heavens, man! A dirty night like this!’ ‘And on such an occasion as this,’ she added to herself.
‘Oh no! Have something really warm. A tonic, Denny?’
‘No, Brigid. I never take that stuff now,’ replied Mr Fury. If ever he hated his sister-in-law he hated her now. He was almost certain this business had been deliberately planned.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ exclaimed Aunt Brigid. ‘You want something warm on a night like this. And you look as though you wanted it.’ If that wasn’t a sharp thrust, nothing was. The barman came in.
‘Two small Irish,’ she said. ‘No water in one.’
The barman went out. Aunt Brigid, beginning now to feel painfully sensitive to Mr Fury’s embarrassment, allowed her eyes to wander aimlessly around the room. The shelf full of bottles was one splash of colour. In the grate the fire blazed merrily, its murmurous noises almost seemed like a song, inviting one and all to partake of its warmth and welcome. The barman returned with the glasses and put them down on the table. He stood waiting. He looked boldly at Mr Fury. He knew Mr Fury, but his glance at the buxom woman was almost furtive. It expressed the momentary bewilderment of a man who has bumped into something new in the human species. He had never seen anything like Aunt Brigid before. Hence his bewilderment. Miss Mangan withdrew some coins from her bag and paid for the drinks. ‘Thank you,’ she said. The barman went out.
‘Well, Denny,’ she exclaimed, as she pushed over his glass. ‘Well, here’s all the best to you!’ As though the spirit in his glass did not contain sting enough, she added, almost indifferently, ‘It will do you good. You need it.’ A direct affront to her sister.
Mr Fury, hesitating at first, now picked up his glass. His mind was torn between two alternatives. Here was this woman whom he had never liked, and outside, just across the way, Mr Postlethwaite was patiently waiting. So he thought. But Mr Postlethwaite had already gone. He didn’t know whether to drink or not. Then Miss Mangan hesitated, the glass almost at her lips.
‘For God’s sake, Denny, drink it, man! It won’t poison you.’ Mr Fury drained his glass at one gulp, and then banged it down on the table. He looked the woman full in the face. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Brigid,’ he said.
The woman put down her half-empty glass. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘That Joe Kilkey is the ugliest-looking man that ever set foot out of Country Clare?’
Mr Fury sat back. He had certainly not expected this. It was a complete surprise. For a moment he could say nothing. Then he managed to gasp out:
‘So you saw Maureen, then?’ He wondered if she had already been up to Vulcan Street.
‘Oh yes,’ said Aunt Brigid, ‘I saw her this morning. Poor girl!’ The man jumped to his feet. This was surely going too far.
‘And what the hell’s wrong with Kilkey?’ he asked rudely. ‘To hear you talk, you’d think the girl was a martyr or something.’
Aunt Brigid smiled. ‘What an excitable man he is!’ A Fury all over.
‘Now, Denny,’ she said, ‘Don’t be so silly.’ Unseen, she rang the bell again. ‘Why get excited over nothing? I say quite truly that I think Mr Kilkey an ugly man – a repulsive-looking fellow. He must be years older than Maureen. How in the name of heaven did the child come to marry him? Why, the man’s nearly bald!’ Before Mr Fury could make a reply the barman returned.
‘Same again!’ said Miss Mangan, and pushed the glasses forward, without looking at the barman. Her eyes seemed to pin Mr Fury to his seat, to set a seal upon his mouth. Not until the barman had gone did Mr Fury find his tongue. ‘Ah! a lot of blather,’ he said. ‘Kilkey’s all right. A good, honest chap. He mightn’t have brains, of course. He’s straight, just the same. A good worker. Well respected. He treats Maureen all right. She’s lucky.’ He now lowered his head so that his eyes took in the bright green and white of the linoleum on the floor. It was a kind of preparatory manoeuvre, for Mr Fury was now expecting a real tidal flow to emanate from that large lady opposite him.
‘What made her go?’ asked Aunt Brigid. ‘I never saw such a change in a girl. She’s really coarsened. Looks older. What did Fanny say?’
Mr Fury slowly raised his head.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. She watched him fumble for nearly a half-minute at his vest pocket, in an endeavour to extract from it his gun-metal watch, which was attached to a long bootlace wov
en into a form of chain. But somehow the watch refused to be brought out. At last he gave it up. Miss Mangan did not realize it, but the glass of neat whisky had gone to Mr Fury’s head. It was such a time since he had tasted anything as strong.
