by James Hanley
‘It’s terrible having to go all that way to hospital,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Why not try Mr Hobhouse? He might get you a cab.’ Mr Fury had followed his wife into the lobby, but the Postlethwaite family had not seen him. He was hidden behind his wife.
‘But we couldn’t get a cab through, Mrs – what’s this,’ said George, the name Fury having momentarily escaped his memory. ‘Quite impossible to get a cab through those crowds.’
‘Oh dear me! It’s really awful,’ Mrs Fury wound up. Anne smiled at Mrs Fury, saying, ‘Thank you – thank you.’
Then the procession moved slowly down Hatfields. The whole street now knew that Mr Andrew Postlethwaite lay hovering between life and death as the result of a baton blow on his head.
The Furys returned to the parlour. Peter, having attended to his grandfather, came in again. He was going out, he said. The mother sat up. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Peter. He looked almost appealingly at his father.
‘You keep away from the town, my lad, or you’ll be finding yourself alongside Mr Postlethwaite.’
‘You must know where you’re going,’ said Mrs Fury.
Peter said he was going for a walk on the road. The mother looked at her husband.
‘Why don’t you go too?’ she said.
‘But I’ve been out all day. The lad is old enough to look after himself.’
Peter stood there waiting.
‘Oh, run off, for Christ’s sake,’ growled Mr Fury. ‘You’re not a convict.’
As soon as the boy went out, the woman turned upon her husband.
‘You know right well why I wanted you to go out,’ she began. ‘I can’t trust that boy, and never will again.’
‘Oh, I know what you’re frightened of,’ said Mr Fury, ‘but that doesn’t matter. If Peter wants to see his brother, nothing will stop him.’
The woman leaned her head on her hands. Of course. It was true. She couldn’t stop him. And Desmond, that reprobate, would simply poison his mind. Yes, she was afraid. She looked up at her husband.
‘I asked him on his honour not to go.’
‘Well, then, he won’t go. Peter won’t go. He’s a lad like that. He’ll keep his word. But sooner or later he’ll see him, somewhere, some time, sooner the better maybe. Postlethwaite was telling me the other day that they’re out a lot lately …’
‘I’m not interested. I have something else to think about.’
Dennis Fury began to pace the room. Quite right, she had something to think about. So had he. The home. Yes, the home. Well … Suddenly he looked at his wife.
‘Don’t worry, Fanny, we’ll pull through. And there’s my little bit.’ He stopped, staring open-mouthed at his wife. Mrs Fury lay back in the chair. She had turned suddenly pale.
CHAPTER X
1
‘A Mr Fury to see you,’ said the secretary, and stood waiting at Mr Lake’s desk. Mr Lake was a tall, corpulent gentleman with a very red face. His neck appeared to ooze over the stiff linen collar. The collar seemed to serve one purpose only – to hold his head on his shoulders. He now looked up at the girl and said brusquely: ‘Show the man in.’
He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and waited. When Dennis Fury knocked, he called out, ‘Come in,’ and immediately changed his position, dropping his arms to the desk, pushing papers here and there. Mr Fury said, ‘Good morning, Mr Lake,’ and stood, hat in hand, in the middle of the room. Mr Lake, without looking at the man, said, ‘Well, Fury, what can I do for you?’
Mr Lake and Mr Fury knew each other well. Mr Fury had once upon a time worked under Mr Lake. Mr Thomas Lake had risen much bigger now. He had a private office of his own – ‘Marine Superintendent’.
‘Sit down,’ commanded Mr Lake, and Mr Fury sat down.
‘Looking for a job?’ asked Mr Lake. Then their eyes met. Mr Fury slowly shook his head. No, he wasn’t looking for a job, he said – whilst he thought, ‘Christ! here’s my chance. Maybe get that damned ship I’ve wanted so long.’ But now the thought froze as Mr Lake said, ‘I’m glad to see you’re so comfortable, Fury,’ and he studied the colour and cut of Dennis Fury’s suit, the well-brushed bowler that lay on his knee, even the polished black boots.
‘I came about my son Anthony,’ began Mr Fury, making himself more comfortable in the chair. He stroked the crown of his bowler with his fingers as he made a sweeping survey of the room. ‘Indeed,’ he thought, ‘Thomas bloody Lake has made a quick ascent.’ Mr Lake said, ‘Ah! …’ paused, and then added quickly, ‘That’s different. Draw your chair in here, Fury,’ he concluded.
‘Yes, thanks,’ replied Mr Fury. How the fellow had changed! Getting almost sociable now. But perhaps there was something in it.
‘Have a cigarette,’ said Mr Lake. He flicked open a case and reached across to Mr Fury.
‘No thanks, never smoke them.’ What the hell was this? Better get down to brass tacks. He looked Mr Lake straight in the eye.
‘It’s about my son,’ he said. ‘They’ve stopped his allotment money. They’ve refused it on the ground floor.’
‘That, of course, is customary,’ remarked Mr Lake. ‘Its stoppage would date from the day of the accident. Have you heard from the lad? I’m surprised he didn’t mention it when he wrote.’
‘I know nothing about that. The lad wrote to his mother saying he would be home this week.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. I understand. But he won’t be home yet awhile,’ went on Mr Lake. ‘We have heard from our agents in New York. This stoppage will prevent that. You understand?’
Mr Fury did not reply. He was thinking furiously, ‘Can they stop it?’
‘I suppose you know it’s a compensation case,’ said Mr Fury. Mr Lake smiled.
‘That remains to be seen, Fury,’ he said. ‘The action on your son’s part was purely voluntary …’
‘Then why stop his money?’ asked Mr Fury. What the devil was the fellow getting at? Doubted the lad’s claim to compensation, and yet stopped his money! He looked angry now, and Mr Lake was quick to notice it. He said casually, ‘We must consider the matter carefully. All information and documents relevant to the case are in the hands of our solicitors. Perhaps you would like to have a talk with our Mr Devereaux?’ Mr Lake sat back in his chair.
‘No,’ said Mr Fury. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do that now.’ He could hear his wife speaking into his ear, ‘Answer no questions,’
‘I can’t see why his money should be stopped, Mr Lake,’ continued Dennis Fury. ‘The accident happened on board that boat, and he was carrying out his duties as a sailor for the company. Isn’t that correct?’
‘No. Not quite,’ said Mr Lake. ‘Be careful what you say, Fury …’
‘But you know, Mr Lake,’ said Mr Fury heatedly, ‘you know as well as I do that that ship couldn’t leave the quay in New York without her wireless was rigged up.’ He stopped suddenly. Ought he to have put that remark like that? Ought he to have even mentioned compensation? He had better be wary. Perhaps it were best left alone. Better talk it over with Fanny. If he made a mess of this, she would never forgive him. He had never been involved in an accident. No. He wouldn’t say another word.
‘Yes,’ continued Mr Lake. ‘But, you haven’t got the gist of the thing, Fury. You must understand this. Your son was not compelled to go up that mast. He was not even on duty, as a matter of fact. It was a purely voluntary act. If you were a wise man you would let me introduce you to Mr Devereaux. He could explain everything.’
‘I don’t want to see any solicitor,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘That’s quite definite. I only want to know why you’ve stopped his money like this.’
‘And I’ve already told you,’ replied the impatient gentleman. This fellow was an ignoramus. He understood nothing. He had known Fury a long time now. He hadn’t changed much. Hardly at all.
‘Perhaps you can tell me when the lad will be coming home?’ said Mr Fury.
‘Yes, I can tell you that, Fury. Not u
nder a month. This strike has thrown all our plans into the air. As soon as we hear from our agents in New York we will write to you.’
‘Plans! Their plans!’ Mr Fury was saying to himself. But what about his plans? What about Fanny? The lad himself? ‘I can’t see how you can stop his money,’ Mr Fury blurted out. He was desperate now. To have to go back to Hatfields without that allotment money was more than he could bear. If it hadn’t been bad enough even getting down to the office! This Mr bloody Lake was just the same. No change.
‘You must see Mr Devereaux,’ Mr Lake said.
‘Good enough!’ Mr Fury rose to his feet. ‘I won’t see him. I’ve already told you that. I’ll see somebody else.’ His face had gone red. Mr Fury felt he would like to drive his fist into the fat gentleman’s face.
‘Of course, Mr Devereaux will be pleased to see anybody you nominate,’ remarked Mr Lake. He too rose to his feet. He pulled out his gold watch and looked at it, and from it to the window, a pensive expression upon his red face. ‘Yes, of course, always be glad to do that.’
‘Well,’ thought Mr Fury, ‘that’s jiggered it. Mr Lake does not intend to be obliging.’ He crossed to the door. As he opened it Mr Lake called out:
‘What are you doing these days, Fury?’
‘Railways,’ Dennis Fury said. His hand gripped the door knob more firmly.
‘Very glad to hear it. Not much in your line these days,’ said Mr Lake. Then he completely surprised Dennis Fury by adding, ‘Family well?’
‘So-so,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘Good morning.’ The door banged. Mr Lake returned to his desk and sat down. He could hear Mr Fury swearing as he tramped down the corridor. Mr Lake smiled.
‘All that journey for nothing!’ exclaimed Mr Fury. He went down in the lift. For a moment he stood contemplating in the spacious hall of the building, his eyes taking in the many improvements and alterations that had been made since last he had visited the office of the Torsa Line Steamers. ‘Swell beggars now,’ he said to himself. Then he passed through the swing-doors into the street. He looked up and down the street. Crowds everywhere. Marching in every direction. Police at every corner. And what was that by the Front? Soldiers. ‘By Christ!’ exclaimed Mr Fury. He set off for home at a sharp pace. Well, things seemed to be getting worse. Nobody was working. People were coming out all over the country. Suddenly he stopped. ‘Why not go and see Possie?’ he thought. ‘Poor beggar!’ A crowd came out of a side street shouting and laughing. Somebody called out, ‘The butchers are coming.’ The crowd rushed up the street in the direction of the railway station. Mr Fury found himself caught in the crowd. Where were they rushing off to? He dodged back to the side-walk again. Not much use going back up Mile Hill. Best take the bottom road. He turned back again, and as he passed the Torsa Line offices he spat as though in a sudden fit of contempt. ‘Lousy swine!’ He reached the dark road. Here the roads were not entirely impassable. Every dark gate had its pickets, its police, its soldiers. ‘H’m! Looks like a damned siege. Where have the khaki chaps come from? And when?’ Outside the Branston Dock he stopped to watch a scuffle between half a dozen beshawled women and two policemen. It was half-past eleven in the morning. The six women had just emerged from the dock carrying rolls of cloth, hams, tins of food. They were promptly stopped. Where had they got this stuff from? Mr Fury thought, ‘Pinched it.’ Suddenly he laughed. One of the women struck a policeman with a ham, and the officer fell back against the wall. He walked on. Near the Branston goods station another crowd blocked his path. This was quite different to anything he had seen that morning. Everybody was laughing, and a man kept shouting, ‘Go it, Roger! Go it, Roger!’ Mr Fury craned his neck. The crowd was ringed round two coupled dogs. Mr Fury continued on his way. ‘That’s all they have to worry about. H’m!’ Near the Garton Dock things were quieter. Mr Fury had not seen a quieter group of people gathered round the dock gate. The road was almost deserted. Further up, just at the corner of Bank Street, there was an unoccupied wooden bench. Mr Fury increased his pace. Then he sat down on the bench.
He felt hot, and he felt miserable. All that way for nothing. How was anybody to get down there tomorrow – or the next day – or next week? And the company were bound to write. But how was it going to be done? Already rumours were flying about that every pedestrian going citywards was being stopped and questioned by the police. Looting was taking place at night. The shops in Hurst Street and Andrew Street had had all their windows smashed. The iron gate had been pulled down at the entrance to the railway station. The Castle Hotel was boarded up. Its few guests, caught by the sudden stoppage, had to content themselves with passing their time in the billiard- and smoke-rooms. Some of these people had booked for America. Now shipping was held up. So they must wait. Occasionally, fugitive excursions were made into the city via the rear entrance of the hotel. The authorities had taken a serious view of the situation. Specials were enrolled, outside police were being called in, and already a draft of soldiers had come from the neighbouring barracks. The facts were now occupying Dennis Fury’s mind. The situation was bad. He had laughed at the idea of the strike. But he wasn’t laughing now.
He got up from the bench. ‘Oh well. We’ll pull through all right,’ he told himself.
He turned up Bank Street, and at the top found himself on Mile Road again. Now he was beginning to feel hungry. He crossed Price Street without even glancing at the Kilkeys’ front window, and eventually passed into the entry at the rear of Hatfields. As he came to the back door Mrs Fury came out. They stared at each other for a moment, unable to speak. They were like two thieves who have just discovered each other’s presence in the same building. Mr Fury was the first to speak.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Out. Can’t you see?’ she said. She was caught out. She was between two fires. She wanted to go and she didn’t want to go. Mr Fury did not understand.
‘Can’t you say where you’re going?’ he asked her.
‘To Maureen’s,’ she said.
‘Oh! I see. All right. Don’t you want to know what Lake said?’
‘No. I have no time.’ She had made her decision. She would not back out. She simply could not afford to.
‘What’s the matter, Fanny?’ asked Mr Fury. He became anxious now.
‘Nothing. Your dinner’s on the hob,’ she replied. Then she hurried up the entry. Mr Fury stood watching her go. This was queer. Something funny indeed. Didn’t even wait to hear about the lad’s money. He went into the house. Another surprise. ‘Him’ was still in bed. Peter had started work at his new job. Ten shillings a week. Mr Fury got his dinner and sat down. But he couldn’t enjoy it. His favourite dish. He pushed the plate aside and went upstairs. Mr Mangan was asleep in bed. It was the first time he had ever seen ‘him’ sleeping at that time of day. He made to descend the stairs again, but suddenly an idea occurred to him. He went into Peter’s room. He looked at the unmade bed, the clothes tossed into a bundle at its foot. He went to the fire-grate and stood there, leaning his hands upon the mantelshelf. Then he smiled. Well – after all, there was this little bit he had hidden away. He knelt down and looked up the chimney. He recalled now how each week he had put two shillings up the back of the chimney. Nobody had known. Nobody could know. The room was unoccupied since Desmond had left it. He put up his hand, and a shower of dust and soot came down the chimney. His smile vanished. He thought he heard the door move, and looked round. But the door was closed. His face was black with soot. He put his hand up again and began to grope about the brick shelving. ‘H’m! Funny!’ he thought, as he groped. ‘Funny!’ His other hand gripped the mantelshelf. Again he ran his hand along the shelving. Then he loosened his grip upon the mantelshelf. ‘Good God!’ The money was gone! Gone! Nearly twelve pounds. That he had saved week by week, and nobody had known. His face went white, his eyes closed, whilst he thought, ‘Gone! But where? Who knew?’ Then he opened his eyes again and stared frantically at the chimney. It couldn’t be! Impossible! Perhaps it had blow
n down. The grate in the room was full of paper, as there had never been any fire in the room excepting once when Desmond had been ill. Now with feverous fingers he tore the paper out, shook it, shot it into the air, tore it, rolled it into balls, and in his haste and extreme excitement shot the rolled balls of paper all over the room. No! ‘Good Christ!’ Perhaps the draught had blown it higher up. Again he shot up his hand, grasping frantically, higher, higher, then changing hands. This procedure sent down shower upon shower of soot. The room was now covered with it. ‘Damn!’ he cried aloud, unable to control himself any longer. It had gone; there was no doubt of it, that twelve pounds of his had vanished. He staggered to his feet, and without considering his now blackened clothes, sat down on the bed and placed his head in his hands. Continually he cried in his mind, ‘Who? Who? How long ago?’ He jumped to his feet, and turning round looked at the grate. Then he shouted, ‘It’s that fellow Peter. That’s who it is. But why should he take it? What has he done with it?’
And he had meant to surprise Fanny. Yes. He had meant to surprise her. Of course she knew, but she didn’t know how much. She didn’t think where he had hidden it. Now he couldn’t surprise her. No. He could only stand there, staring, cursing the empty grate. Whoever had taken it was mean. Mean! He wanted to cry, to shout out there and then his anger, his disappointment, the very pain that had seized him as he made the discovery. But perhaps, one never knew, there might be … He knelt down. ‘Please, St Anthony, help me to find this money.’ As though fortified by this very utterance, he once more knelt down and put his hand up the chimney. But a quite different hand, a trembling and knowledgeable hand. It touched nothing but brick, it disturbed nothing but cloud upon cloud of soot. It was useless. He looked up the chimney. If only he could seize the grate, tear it to pieces, crash it beneath his feet! As he looked up into the black hole he seemed to trace upon the darkness his very despair. He sat down, his arms to his sides, and continued to stare bewilderedly at the grate. Perhaps the money would suddenly blow down. Perhaps the brickwork would give way and reveal the secret at last. Perhaps …
