by James Hanley
She crossed to the window and looked out. The air was damp and the streets covered with a thin film of rain. Nobody about. Hatfields had not yet come to life. The circumstances and the occasion made it possible for the men-folk to lie back at their ease. The women could do the worrying for a change. She opened the bottom window. In addition to the stale smell from the near-by yard there now rose the smell of frying bacon, of grease, of frying meat. People were getting breakfast ready.
Ten minutes past eight. The woman left the room, closed the door silently behind her, and passed downstairs. She stirred the slack in the grate, put up the tin blower and then opened the kitchen window for draught. The fire was soon blazing. She started to make breakfast. At the same time she was forming plans. Should she see Mr Lake first, or should she go at once with Maureen to see this Mrs Anna Ragner?
She sat down to think it over whilst the kettle boiled. Then she got up and went into the back kitchen to get the tea.
She had decided that Mrs Ragner could wait. Anthony was more important. He had been much in her thoughts lately, and she hadn’t had a letter from him since the one she received the day after Peter’s return. No. They could not stop the boy’s money like that. It was a mistake, and it was more necessary than ever. Her husband’s five and threepence was nothing, Mr Mangan’s pension a pittance. The allotment money was far more important.
Having poured the tea, she poured out a cup, drinking it standing at the table. She did not want anything to eat. She wasn’t hungry, and besides, there wasn’t time. She put on her hat (the one from Hobhouse’s had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper). This new hat came into her mind now. She would wear that hat on some more auspicious occasion. But nothing warranted her wearing it today. For one thing, it required a decent costume to go with it.
Mrs Fury was now ready. There was only one thing to do. Go upstairs and tell Denny she was going to town, leave orders with him, have him see to Mr Mangan and get his own and the boy’s meals ready.
As she opened the door of the room, the man, who had been lying awake under the bed-clothes indulging in the wildest day-dreams, sat up. Better that than to be called. Better to show anticipation than annoyance. The door closed. Mrs Fury stood at the foot of the bed.
‘I’m going now,’ she said quietly. She looked back at the door, and as though Peter’s snores had prompted it, said quickly, ‘And get that boy up too. He would lie there all day, snoring like a pig, if you let him.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Mr Fury. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, then opened them wide. He leaned forward in the bed and looked, not at the woman’s face, but at her hands. The grip upon the bed-rail accentuated their whiteness, their slimness. They seemed to stand out, things apart from her person.
‘That’s all,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Oh, and see to Dad,’ she added quickly.
‘But where are you going to at this time of the morning?’ asked Mr Fury.
‘I’m going to see Mr Lake,’ she replied sharply. ‘I thought you knew that already.’
‘How did I know? You never said anything to me about it. But look here. I don’t think you’ll get down there,’ went on Mr Fury. ‘Do you know the whole bloody city is in a state of siege? You can’t get near Mile Hill now. They stop everybody. Just turn them back without any questions. Not police this time, but soldiers. If it hadn’t been for last night’s silly business it would have been all right. But those crowds of Buckos from John’s Road have got the authorities’ goat. Apart from that, it’s dangerous.’ Mr Fury worked his way slowly down the bed, clothes and all, and caught his wife’s hands. ‘It’s true,’ he said.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Mrs Fury. Slowly she withdrew her hands from the bed-rail. The word ‘Well’, and the manner of its utterance, seemed to mock her husband’s apprehension and concern. This concern now manifested itself very forcibly, for Mr Fury climbed out of bed and hurriedly dressed. As he threw his braces over his shoulders, he said quickly:
‘It’s no joke! You can’t just trot off to town as though you were going on a picnic. It’s too serious. The authorities are angry and they’ll stop at nothing. Haven’t you heard about the curfew? You can’t get into the street after ten. Believe me, Fanny, you don’t know how bad it is. You haven’t been to town. I have, and I know.’
He was now dressed. He went up to his wife.
‘Look here! I’ll go. Just say what you want doing, and I’ll go like a shot. If you went off now, I’d never rest. I wouldn’t know what to do. I’d just be worrying all the time. Now then! You get that coat and hat off, Fanny.’ His eyes rested on the straw hat and he said petulantly, ‘Aye, woman, you’re a caution. D’you know, that morning we went down with your sister to look for the boat, d’you know, Fanny, I didn’t mind anything except you wearing that bloody old hat? And after me getting you one at Hobhouse’s!’
‘Listen to me,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘What would this Mr Lake do for you? Nothing. Well, please understand that I intend to see Mr Lake myself. They are not going to do just as they like with Anthony’s money.’ Mr Fury resigned himself. They could go on talking all morning, but that woman would never alter her mind. He knew it only too well.
‘All right, woman! You go ahead. If you see Lake I’ll raise a cheer. I’ll even put a long chalk-mark on this here ceiling. I’ve told you. You’ll get turned back. Why walk six miles for nothing?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous! How do you think we’re going to live? I …’ Mrs Fury stopped. Mr Fury was looking at her in a peculiar way. They stood facing each other outside the front room door. The combined snores of Peter and his grandfather rose, cutting the silence.
‘If you had not used up that money, and I know you have,’ Mr Fury’s eyes seemed to say.
‘And I have,’ Mrs Fury’s changing expression supplied the answer.
‘All right, then. Off you pop,’ said Dennis Fury.
She’d be back in half an hour, fretting and scolding, if he knew anything.
‘Dad must go downstairs today. See you give him the milk pudding I have just put in the oven. And I have left everything in the kitchen for you. You have nothing to do but light the gas and put the pans out.’ She made a move towards the stairs. ‘And keep your eye on that boy,’ she added quickly, and her voice seemed to convey a warning note.
‘Yes, yes. Of course. All right. Ta-ta.’ Mrs Fury had gone out the back way. Dennis Fury thought, ‘Silly woman. Just won’t be told. Won’t be told. Determined! Determined! And she knows I know about my money. Aye. My own bloody money that I saved. No need to ask where that went. Well, must go and wake him up.’ He stood on the landing and shouted, ‘Peter! Peter! Seven bells. Seven bloody ringing bells,’ he said. ‘Get up.’ Then he went into Peter’s room.
‘Yes, coming!’ Peter had shouted, and immediately buried himself in the clothes again.
‘Come on!’ said Mr Fury, as he opened the back room door. ‘Your mother’s gone to town on business. We have to look after the house today.’ He sat down on the bed.
The boy sat up. ‘What time is she coming back, Dad?’ he asked. Then he got out of bed and began to dress. He was thinking of Desmond now. Seven o’clock at the Blue Bird Café. He’d manage it somehow or other.
His father was busy filling his pipe. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never asked your mother what time.’
‘Oh!’ Peter carefully folded the blue pyjamas he had received from Aunt Brigid. ‘How is Mr Postlethwaite?’ he asked. He stood against the table looking at his father. How old he seemed to be getting, and even smaller each day! A little old man.
‘Oh, he’s all right. Silly old beggar,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘Well, better get below and see what’s doing. I asked your mother three times if she had had any breakfast. “Yes,” she said, “I had breakfast.” But she only lies, Peter. Only lies. The woman eats nothing, and I know it. She’s gone down to town to see Mr Lake! That’s where she’s gone. Sometimes I think your mother is a trump. You ought to be proud of her. The best woman in this
street. I was a fool once. She ought never to have come to Hatfields.’ They went downstairs.
‘Did you ever find your money, Dad?’ asked Peter.
‘Oh yes! I found that. That’s all right. Now better get some breakfast.’
‘Yes.’ Father and son began to lay the table. Mr Fury sat down to bread and butter, Peter to some fried bread.
‘Where did you get to last night?’ asked Mr Fury. He paused, hand in the air, holding the bread as though the question could allow of no delay. ‘Yes. Where did you get to?’ Then he put the bread in his mouth.
‘After I lost you, I started off in the direction of the hospital. Then on the way I met a most peculiar person. I asked him the way to the hospital. He said he was going there too. Had a son lying ill.’
Oh aye.
‘Then we got involved with another crowd near Powell Square. We couldn’t get out.’
‘Yes – were you there when they cleared the Square?’ asked Mr Fury.
‘Oh yes, Dad. But I was sheltering on one of the lions. This man said he was a professor. He was funny. Look! He gave me his card.’ The boy got up from the table and ran into the lobby. He came back flourishing the card, which he handed to his father.
Mr Fury read it. ‘R. H. Titmouse. Professor of Anthropology.’ He put his finger and thumb against it and flicked it across the table. ‘Never heard of him,’ said Mr Fury. ‘There’s your grand-dad!’ he exclaimed, and jumped up from the table. He stood listening at the bottom of the stairs. Yes. It was ‘him’. He was coughing and choking. ‘Aye! You’re a bloody old nuisance,’ he growled under his breath. ‘Peter!’ he called. ‘Hurry up there! I want you to help me get your grand-dad downstairs. Your mother says he must go into his chair today.’ Mr Fury slowly climbed the stairs.
‘Yes, Dad! All right! Coming,’ shouted the boy, and began to gulp his tea. As Mr Fury climbed, the choking sounds became more audible. Mr Fury’s apprehension increased. He went into the room. Mr Mangan had slipped off his pillow. For a moment Dennis Fury turned his head away. There was something about the position in which the old man was lying that reminded him of a young baby. His shirt had ridden up over his rear owing to his exertions. His face was a livid red, and the blood seemed to have flooded that big bald head, giving it the appearance of a great beetroot!
‘Aye, slobbered’ said Mr Fury. He sat the old man up and patted him on the back. Gradually his face resumed its former colour. The blood flowed away from his head, the livid red gave place to the parchment-like colour. He was breathing quickly. Peter came up. ‘Best get your grand-dad downstairs,’ he said.
Anthony Mangan must have his breakfast. Then he must be washed, dressed, and carried downstairs. Then he must be tied in with the piece of belting. Mr Fury was nonplussed. He looked at Peter. ‘Should we get him his breakfast now?’ asked Mr Fury. He shifted his glance to ‘him’.
‘That would be best,’ said Peter, hoping his father would oblige.
‘Then go downstairs and get his pobs. You’ll find it on the hob. It’s all ready.’
The boy went down for the pobs. Mr Fury again patted the old man on the back. ‘Aye, slobberer,’ he said, ‘you can hear every word we say, with those big ears of yours – aye, and you can see everything. But you never open your gob. Do you? Aren’t afraid of us, are you, eh?’ He smiled, looking down on the man’s bald head. A lump of dead ivory. Nothing more. Peter came up with the pobs. He stood holding the plate in one hand, the spoon in the other, whilst he watched his father take from his pocket a large red handkerchief and place it under Mr Mangan’s chin.
‘I’ve just been telling your grand-dad how mean he is, taking advantage of eyes and ears and never obliging with that mouth of his,’ said Mr Fury to the boy. He placed one hand flat upon Mr Mangan’s head, and as though the action itself had momentarily spirited away the old man in the bed, he turned again to Peter, and said in a whisper: ‘Your mother was a fool ever to take him from Ireland. It was real cruel to take him away from his own home. He was a fine old man one time, your grand-dad was. I got nothing against him, except his mumblings, and he doesn’t talk about Belfast any more. Your Aunt Brigid just planted him on your mother. That’s what she did. Same as all her other bloody relations, when they were hard up, planted themselves on us. Aye. I wasn’t here, or it wouldn’t have happened. Lived on her. Then when they got their belly full, just cleared out. Just look at your Aunt Brigid. Treats your mother like a piece of dirt. Gone off to stay with that hump-backed old bitch Pettigrew! She never even asks your mother how she’s getting on. Not a word. Well, Peter, my lad, for so many reasons, I like your mother. She’s proud. I like her for it. You take my word for it, soon as ever there’s a boat back to Cork, Brigid will be back to her stuffy old house in the Mall, and you won’t hear any more from her. Nobody will. After a while she’ll get hungry again. She’ll get desperately hungry for another glance at her relations. Then she’ll arrive like a bloody old dowager and just look us over. Your mother is worth ten of her, any day. Here! Get me that spoon and plate. I’m standing here talking to you, and your granddad waiting for his breakfast. Go down and get his chair ready.’
Mr Fury, having delivered himself of this oration, now sat down on the bed, and began to feed Mr Mangan, whilst he thought, ‘Lord, fancy having this every day for years, and not getting a word of thanks!’ It was like piling stuff into a hungry and insatiable pig, a pig that had no head, only a belly and a mouth. A great open mouth like a crocodile. He laughed then, so that the spoon trembled in his hand and he upset some of the bread and milk on the bed. Yes, he knew all along Fanny had taken that money. And he knew why – aye, he knew why. Spent on the lad below-stairs. Well, he wouldn’t say a word. Not a single word. He understood.
The room door opened again, and Peter came in. He sat down and watched Mr Mangan being fed. Those small bead-like eyes, cupped and almost hidden by the shaggy brows, had they always been small like that? They were open now. Those eyes were resting upon his face. Why didn’t he speak? What did those eyes appear to say? Did they say: ‘Look! Look at me! I am a person. I am imprisoned by my years, by ageing and helpless flesh. Once I was young like you.’ Did those eyes harbour hatred, maliciousness? In fact, did those eyes really see, and what did they see? Peter now looked at his grandfather’s hands. Large, fleshy hands, lying upon the bed, the fingers crooked up, the nails long, bluish, spotted, the palms of the hands hard, much lined, the skin like leather. And that mouth, that helpless mouth. The mouth that hung loosely like an old, empty and useless pouch, the spittle settling about his lips and chin. The mouth which in sleep lay open and gaping. Peter looked suddenly at his father. There was something in his manner, in the way he held the spoon, that seemed to mirror the gentle tenderness he now felt. Yes. His father cursed Mr Mangan, but he knew also that he pitied him too.
‘Well, that’s done!’ said Mr Fury. He put down the plate and spoon. Then he said to his son, ‘Give me a hand here; I’m going to dress slobberer now.’
Between them they managed to get Mr Mangan’s heavy tweed trousers on. Peter thought. ‘How many years has he been wearing these trousers?’
‘Now his woollen vest,’ said Mr Fury. They put the woollen vest on.
‘There are still two waistcoats,’ remarked Mr Fury; ‘will you get them?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ replied the boy, already visualizing their surface, filmed by grease, food stains, and saliva. As he picked them up from the chair he felt that sickly feeling again. They seemed cold, clammy to the touch. At last! They had put his two vests on. There was only his coat.
‘That can go on when we stand him up,’ said Mr Fury. ‘Where’s his socks?’
‘Here,’ replied Peter.
‘Good! You put one boot on, I’ll put the other.’
Anthony Mangan, like some wax figure, was now fully dressed.
‘Hold him,’ said Peter, and went for his grandfather’s coat, which hung behind the door. This coat, like the vests, had a greasy and food-stained frontage
. It was green with age. They managed to put this on, during which time Mr Mangan swayed from side to side like a drunken man. The swaying movements were accompanied by deep grunts.
‘How Mother manages him I don’t really know,’ remarked Peter.
‘Your mother,’ replied Mr Fury slowly, and laying great emphasis upon his words, ‘your mother can manage anything. Anything. There! All set.’ He laughed. Peter laughed. Mr Mangan did look so funny, balancing so precariously.
‘Your grand-dad’s getting positively ugly,’ said Mr Fury. But the boy made no reply to the remark. For the first time he appeared to have divined the callousness of his father, but it was an unconscious callousness, the callousness of a child who sticks a pin in a kitten. They took Mr Mangan by his arms and got him outside the door. They paused at the top of the stairs.
‘I can carry him down on my back, Dad,’ said Peter.
‘Don’t worry. Just keep tight hold of his arm. Ready!’
They began to descend. Every second stair they stopped. The stairway was so narrow that all three men were jammed together. They seemed to force themselves down. Another pause. This time, a rest for ‘him’. The bottom of the stairs had been reached.
‘Easy!’ cried Mr Fury. ‘Easy! Your grand-dad’s no feather, and he isn’t a block of wood either.’
They got him into the kitchen. Peter drew the chair near to the fire. Mr Mangan having been placed in the chair, Peter wound the belt round. Then father and son sat down on the sofa to survey the now secured figure. Also Mr Fury wanted to get his breath. As he lay back on the sofa, Peter exclaimed, ‘We haven’t washed him, Dad.’ Mr Fury, as though overcome with a sudden weariness, closed his eyes. ‘Let him be!’ he said. ‘He can get a wash tomorrow.’
Peter glanced up at the clock. Half-past eleven. Mr Fury seemed to have fallen asleep again. The boy bent down to fasten his bootlace. His father, disturbed, sat up.
