by James Hanley
Mr Fury’s eyes took in the surrounding scene. The bandstand was set right in the middle of the playing-fields. These fields were part grass and part sand, and bordered by trees, leafless and as bleak-looking as the stretch of wilderness they surrounded. The man leaned his head to one side. His attitude was contemplative, as his eyes followed the columns of thickish blue-black smoke that rose from the bowl of his pipe. His thoughts seemed to sail up after this column of smoke. He looked around him, thinking, ‘Aye, what a difference there’d be if everybody was content! Peter working ashore and helping his mother. Brigid back in Ireland again, and “him” too. How nice it would be to see Desmond and Sheila coming round on a Sunday evening, and Maureen and Joe! A real happy gathering.’ Ah! It was difficult. Everything was upset. It was a nuisance. Of course, the trouble was that children would grow up. And these children developed minds and ideas of their own. Yes, that was the cause of the trouble, that was the cause of the ceaseless arguments. That was why Fanny had changed, why Desmond and Maureen had married, why Peter had failed and he himself had given up going to sea. That was why Mr Postlethwaite secretly hated him, why George beat the big drum in the band. People had minds of their own.
‘Aye, if only we could be a happy family.’ There Mr Fury’s thoughts stopped. It was really asking for the moon. ‘To hell with it! Sometimes I wish I could just pick up my bag and clear out, right out.’ He sighed, knocked out his pipe, and put it back in his pocket. Then he rose to his feet and began walking round the bandstand. He thought of his early years at sea. Round and round he walked, hands stuck in his pockets, as though he were chasing the very thoughts that had risen flood-like and taken possession of him. Sometimes he stopped suddenly and smiled, as though he were living again some moment of the past, catching and holding the memory of it with the frenzied passion of one who can live it no more. He thought of those sailings from the Hudson, from Maine, from Tilbury. He thought of that great hike from Baltimore to New York, of the rigging gang in Ohio and the rubber factory in Boston. ‘Ah, those times are gone,’ he thought. ‘They can never come again.’ Here he was, the same Dennis Fury as of old, but now washed up by the tide. Now there was no tide to catch, no ship to join, no tot of rum to share with mates on sailing day, no delight in fugitive excursions ashore, no yarns. There was nothing. Only that damned loco shed and the daily sight of Andrew Postlethwaite’s miserable face. He stood by the door of the stand and began staring at the wooden sand-covered floor. When the wind grew stronger he went inside and sat down. Again he pulled out his pipe, not to light, only to look at, and to think of the years he had had it, the good times he had had, and here it was, the same old pipe. He looked at it almost affectionately as he put it back in his pocket. How nice it was to be alone, to be quiet just for a short space of time!
‘Aye, in those days one could get a good show at the Lyric for tuppence.’ How times were changing indeed! He began scratching a spot of grease from his trousers, and his thoughts were of his wife. ‘Fanny got me this suit three years ago, and it’s a good un yet.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘What would I like best?’ he asked aloud. ‘A holiday in Ireland with Fanny. She hasn’t seen her home for thirty-one years, except that rush to Cork. Brigid is no good. She’s no sister to that woman.’ He pulled out his watch. Well, he had better go now. Mustn’t be late. He brushed tobacco ash from his clothes and got up. Then he left the stand and started off at a sharp pace for the gate leading to Banfield Road. What a queer, lonely place a Park could be on a Sunday morning! Not a soul to be seen. A real miserable hole indeed. He reached the gate and turned round, to stand staring at the place he had lately left. From that distance it looked even more bleak. He leaned against a post and watched the wind send the sand along in waves, the bare branches of trees shake trembling in the wind, as though they sought to free themselves from the silent sentinel to which they belonged. In the summer they would be thick with foliage, and upon those desolated fields hundreds of children would play. Mr Fury fixed his hat firmly on his head and made his way home through Banfield Road. There was something splendid about the word ‘home’, there was something to look forward to, anyhow, after that wilderness of a Park. He even smiled at the thought of the big fire and the cosy sofa on which he would stretch himself. When he got back everything would be spick and span. Sunday was Fanny’s day. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever been in that Park,’ said Mr Fury to himself as he turned into the Harbour Road, ‘and it’s the last.’
When Dennis Fury returned home it was half-past five. Peter and his mother were already taking tea. He said, ‘Hello!’ and passed through into the lobby, where he hung up his hat and coat. Then he joined them at the table.
‘You’re late,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Where on earth did you get to?’
‘Oh! I got half-way down with Possie, and I changed my mind. That man is the lousiest and most uninteresting fellow I ever met.’
‘H’m!’ Peter looked at his mother. Then he averted her sudden glance and looked at his father.
‘Aye. So I walked slowly back. I went to have a look at what’s on at the Lyric next week,’ he went on. ‘A good show. I came back through the Park. It’s a miserable-looking part of the city that, and no mistake.’
‘Have you heard about Mr Postlethwaite?’ exclaimed Peter excitedly, unable to keep back the startling news any longer. Mr Fury, still thinking of the dreary appearance of the Avon Park, replied, ‘What …? You what? Possie?’
‘He’s in hospital,’ remarked Mrs Fury. ‘And a good job it is you didn’t go with him to that meeting …’ Peter interrupted with ‘Yes. He got his head bashed in by the police.’ ‘Aye!’ Mr Fury sat back. Sunday could be a most exciting day. There was no longer any doubt of that.
‘How’d it happen?’ he asked.
‘You can well imagine,’ remarked Mrs Fury. Now she repeated her question, revealing that her curiosity had not been satisfied.
‘But what a place to go! All the old rips of the day are to be found there,’ she said. She pushed away her cup and saucer and got up. ‘Avon Park’s got quite a bad name. On Sunday nights it’s just disgraceful.’
Mr Fury was no longer interested.
‘Suppose it’s no better or worse than any other Park,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, it’s the first time I ever went to it. Who told you about Possie?’
‘Everybody knows,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘I believe the city is like a madhouse. The police used their batons on the crowd.’
‘Oh aye.’ Pause. ‘H’m! Wouldn’t be them if they didn’t,’ said Mr Fury. ‘Did Possie get a blow, then?’
‘Yes. He’s in the Manton Hospital now, with a terrible gash in his head.’
‘Oh dear! That is bad. I suppose Mrs Postlethwaite has gone down there?’ Mr Fury got up from the table. Then he said laughingly, ‘No wonder! No bloody wonder! That damned suit he’s wearing is enough to get anybody’s goat.’
Mrs Fury began clearing the table. As she passed to and from the kitchen she kept up a running commentary. Peter went into the yard. ‘It’s most dangerous to go near the town,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll stay clear of it. They are just a lot of roughs, that’s all, just out for mischief. And the time that’s wasted! They ought to be working.’
‘Aw – forget it, for the Lord’s sake,’ said Mr Fury. ‘You don’t understand anything about the strike.’
The woman laughed. Indeed, she was quite sure she did. She had seen strikes before – not with Denny out, of course – but the children. Desmond and Maureen and John.
‘I’ve just been telling Peter,’ she said, ‘that he must keep away from town.’
‘Yes! Of course!’ thought Mr Fury. ‘Easier said than done.’ He would like to know the name of the lad who could be kept from going into the city.
He sat down on the cane chair by the window. ‘Him’ was fast asleep in his chair, head thrown back in the attitude of the utmost abandon, whilst round his open mouth a lone fly circled flirtatiously. For a long time Dennis Fury watched the fly, m
omentarily expecting it to fall into Mr Mangan’s mouth.
‘You can’t keep the lad tied up like a house dog,’ Mr Fury said. The table had now been cleared. Mrs Fury sat down, spread her arms crosswise upon the cheap American table-cloth, and looked across at her husband. Mr Fury knew this attitude well. It was inquisitional. His mind seemed to prepare itself, the whole mental arsenal to become alert. He thought … ‘Well?’
‘Have you seen Brigid today?’ asked the woman. Peter came in. He stood leaning on the dresser looking at his father.
‘No, I didn’t see Brigid,’ said Mr Fury. He leaned forward and spat into the grate.
‘I saw her,’ remarked Peter. ‘Just after eight o’clock.’
‘Oh! Was she alone?’
‘Yes. Miss Pettigrew can’t go out now,’ went on Peter. ‘The doctor won’t allow her.’ He began drumming upon the dresser with his fingers.
‘Oh!’ She hadn’t heard about that. ‘Stop that row when I’m talking.’ The drumming noise ceased. ‘Go outside,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘I want to talk to your father.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Peter went into the parlour.
‘About tomorrow,’ began Mrs Fury. She paused, as though to give weight to her words, to allow them to sink into her husband’s mind.
‘Well? What about tomorrow?’ Mr Fury rose to his feet and approached the table. He leaned on it with his hands, and repeated, ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘There will only be your strike-pay next week, and Anthony’s money,’ said Mrs Fury.
‘Of course,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘I know about that already. But you’ve got his pension,’ he added, and pointed to Mr Mangan, still snoring contentedly in his chair.
‘Father’s money only keeps himself,’ said the woman. ‘Do you think the strike is a joke? Seems you do.’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ he said. ‘Last thing I ever thought of, that it’s a joke. It isn’t a joke, Fanny. I know it isn’t.’
‘Then try and be a little more interested,’ said the woman. ‘I have a lot to do.’
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to go and see Mr Lake about Anthony’s money. Can’t you draw your strike-pay at the same time?’ She drew her arms in from the table and settled them in her lap. As Mr Fury looked at his wife, he thought, ‘Aye, you seem to have aged suddenly.’ A tenderness woke in him. He leaned over the table and placed one arm round her neck.
‘Well, old girl, we’ve come through worse times than this, haven’t we? I know I skitted about this strike all along. But blame Possie for that. I tell you I heard nothing from that big … I mean, day after day it was nothing but “By God, Fury, it’s looking bad. These miners coming out an’ all! We’ll be in it.” I had that sort of thing shoved down my neck for six solid weeks. So I turned round and just sat on the fellow. It just got my goat.’
‘Now he’s flat on his back,’ remarked Mrs Fury.
‘Serve him right! Serve him right! He wouldn’t think twice of putting one of us flat on our backs on the twelfth of July. Sometimes I think I was the biggest man in the world to go in with him. Anyhow, no use talking about that …’
‘No. Not at all. We have something else to think about.’
‘Of course.’
‘Plans to make.’
‘Yes. Brigid’s not in any of them, is she?’ asked Mr Fury.
‘Don’t you get worrying about Brigid, for you can be sure she isn’t worrying over us. She’ll be quite set up with Miss Pettigrew. And I’m glad. Yes, I’m glad.’
‘Aye. We’re all glad.’ Mr Fury turned, looked at Mr Mangan, and said to himself, ‘Even Slobberer’s glad. First time I’ve seen him sleep in the daytime.’
Mrs Fury got up and said, ‘Put some coal on the fire.’ Then she went into the parlour. Peter was sitting in the arm-chair reading a book. The woman did not even glance at him. She took a seat by the window. Like the other inhabitants of Hatfields, Mrs Fury took up duty at the observation post – excepting that she confined her duty to the evening. As she looked out of the window a man and woman had come to a halt outside Mrs Postlethwaite’s door. ‘Oh,’ thought Mrs Fury, ‘it’s George and his wife. How fat Anne is getting!’ Mr Postlethwaite junior had a small terrier on a leash, which now frisked about the young woman’s skirts. ‘George always has an animal of some kind with him,’ she was thinking. She heard the front door open. Mr and Mrs Postlethwaite passed into the house. She could hear the loud-voiced woman talking in the lobby. Mrs Fury felt that she ought really to have knocked at the back door and sympathized with Mrs Postlethwaite. but pride and a stern sense of duty kept her back. Her relations with the woman were distant, almost frigid. The stumbling-block was colour. Mrs Fury’s was green – Mrs Postlethwaite’s orange. When she had first come in live in Hatfields there were a great many Irish people living there. Now things had changed. Half of Hatfields were Billies, and their allegiance to Prince William was strikingly manifested in the colour of their curtains. Even the children going to school were affected. They wore bright orange ribbons in their hair. On the twelfth of July orange ran riot. Mr Fury came into the parlour.
‘George and his wife have just gone in next door,’ said Mrs Fury.
‘Oh yes.’ Mr Fury stood looking out of the window. From the kitchen there came a fit of coughing, followed by a strange choking sound.
‘Peter!’ called Mrs Fury, without taking her eyes from the window. ‘Peter! Run to your grand-dad.’
The boy put down his book and went to attend to Mr Mangan.
‘By the way,’ began Mr Fury, sitting down in the chair just vacated by his son, and flinging aside the book he had been reading, ‘by the way, it looks as though that chap Mulcare won’t come now. It’s a pity, really. He could have got Peter a job as easy as winking.’
‘It’s quite unnecessary now,’ remarked Mrs Fury. ‘Peter has got a job.’
‘He’s got a job! When? Who with? Aye, you’re a peculiar woman. You never said a word about this to me,’ he concluded.
‘All that doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘I got the boy work. I saw Father Moynihan myself.’
‘And what’s the job?’ asked Mr Fury.
‘I don’t really know yet. He’s going to work for Mr Sweeney. He’s starting on Monday. The pay is small, but it’ll help to keep him in clothes.’
‘Oh! Well, I’m glad. Right glad. It doesn’t do for young lads to be hanging round like he is.’
‘No. I told him that.’
‘There’s George now! And his wife. Oh! I think they must be going to the hospital to see him. Poor Mr Postlethwaite!’ Then, to her husband’s complete surprise, she dashed out of the parlour into the lobby and opened the door just as Mrs Postlethwaite, accompanied by her son and daughter-in-law, made to move off down the street.
‘Oh! I say, Mrs Postlethwaite!’ she called out. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Mr Postlethwaite. I hope he isn’t badly injured. It’s disgraceful. It is really.’
The barrel-like Mrs Postlethwaite looked at her son, then at her daughter-in-law, as though to say, ‘This, for the first time in eighteen years, is surely phenomenal.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Postlethwaite said. ‘Poor Andrew! They tell me he’s got a fractured skull.’ She put a handkerchief to her face.
‘Da’s always in trouble,’ remarked George in a voice loud enough for the whole of Hatfields to hear. ‘I told him many a time, “Keep out of it. You’ll get one on the napper one of these days.” Come along, Ma,’ he said, putting a hand through his mother’s arm. Anne put her arm through the other.
