by James Hanley
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Fury said. She drank the water quickly, at a single gulp.
‘Thanks very much.’ She handed the glass to the girl and smiled at her. ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said. ‘Will that be all right?’
‘Oh yes.’ The girl went away. The window shot down. Mrs Fury was alone. ‘How quiet and peaceful it is here!’ she thought. She stretched out her legs. ‘Oh!’ she said. If only she could take that shoe off! But she couldn’t do that. She leaned her head against the wood again. The silence itself appeared to close the woman’s eyes.
Twice the door opened and two gentlemen passed through. The woman did not move. One of them stood looking at her in a curious sort of way. Then he too passed into the office. Mrs Fury had fallen asleep. As the time passed, more people arrived. Telephones began to ring, typewriters kept up a steady tattoo, broken periodically by a swishing of papers. The woman did not move. Her bosom rose and fell. She was fast asleep. Sleeping had changed her. That tensive, agitated expression upon her face had given place to a calmness and serenity. Her finely moulded face was dead white. Wisps of black hair about her ears accentuated it. It was in this state that Mr Lake found her when he arrived at the office. As he came in he paused, seeing the sleeping woman on the bench. Then he closed the door silently and stood looking down at her. Yes, he knew the woman at once. He could tell that face anywhere, pick it out of any crowd. Hundreds of women came to see Mr Lake in the course of his duties, but he could never form pictures of them in his mind. They were simply faces. Mrs Fury seemed different. Of course! She had come to see him recently about her son. He recalled the incident at once. She had had a faint in his office. But he had never expected to see her here now, at this time – and certainly not sleeping soundly on the office bench. He passed through to his inner office, and sat down. How on earth had the woman managed to get down to the office? Of course she must have walked, but how did she manage it? He rang his bell, and the window attendant answered it. ‘How long has that woman been here?’ he asked.
He began arranging papers on his desk.
‘She’s been here since a quarter to ten, Mr Lake,’ the girl replied. She stood waiting, her hand playing with the knob of the door. Mr Lake looked up from his desk.
‘Well, you say I’m here, then, and will see her,’ he announced.
‘Yes, Mr Lake.’ The girl closed the door and went away. She raised the window and looked out. Now she smiled, for Mrs Fury had commenced to snore. She lowered the window, and went out through the door. Gently she took the woman’s arm, and said in a whisper, as though Mr Lake might be listening, ‘Excuse me, lady – Mr Lake is here now. Will you come this way, please?’
The woman sat up as though shot. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry! Imagine my falling asleep.’ She laughed. She felt foolish, highly embarrassed. ‘I …’
‘Will you come this way, please?’
‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’ She followed the girl through the outer office, and now she experienced afresh that feeling of age. Typists and clerks looked at her as she passed through. Were they looking at her hat, at her swollen ankles, at her worn shoes – the only ones she could walk in, the others pinched so much – or were they looking at her long serge coat? She could feel their eyes upon her. They stopped outside the office, on the glazed window of which she read in bold black lettering, ‘Mr Lake, Private’. ‘Thank you,’ she said. The girl had gone, the door was open – Mr Lake had raised his head – he was looking at her and saying, ‘Come in, please! Come in!’
Mrs Fury entered and closed the door behind her. This time, and she noticed it at once, the gentleman did not rise.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fury,’ he said. ‘Will you take a chair?’
As the woman seated herself he said, ‘Thank you,’ and immediately proceeded to forget that she existed, for at that moment the telephone bell rang and he picked up the receiver – ‘Hello! – Yes.’ He hung on waiting, whilst his eyes began roaming about the desk, alighting on this and that paper. ‘Yes – No – I have altered that! But ring me again. Engaged. Good-bye.’ He put down the receiver and looked across at Mrs Fury. She was sitting straight up in the chair, her hands lying idly in her lap.
‘Well, Mrs Fury,’ he said, ‘and what can I do for you?’
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, so that a goodly portion of his white cuffs were exposed to view. Mr Lake, who always looked hale and hearty, seemed to have excelled himself today, or perhaps it was only the tall pale-faced woman sitting frigidly upon the leather-cushioned chair that served to heighten this unusual appearance and manner of the stout man behind the desk. His large head somehow seemed a little uncertain of itself, as though at any moment its position would be threatened by the collapse of those layers of fat that hung over his collar. This large cut-away collar served a single purpose, in that it formed the foundations for the security of the large head. He was wearing a grey suit today, a light grey tweed suit, as though optimistic that the fine weather might oblige by arriving before its time. He also wore fawn spats. Mrs Fury saw them now, as she lowered her eyes and peeped a little furtively under the table. These were buttoned about a pair of fine black shoes, with very pointed toes. The woman now raised her eyes and looked at Mr Lake’s face. Yes. This was the gentleman who had said. ‘Bring this lady a glass of water.’ It had touched her deeply. It struck some hidden chord in her being, and now, looking at the man’s large blue eyes, she experienced it again. To hear it had been like music, it had been more, it had touched the woman’s heart. In Hatflelds nobody said ‘lady’. This was altogether a different world. Quiet, peaceful, inhabited by men with clean faces, grey suits, and white collars. So different from that other world. Yes. So different. How could Denny talk so insolently of this man, who now stroked his chin and said suavely, ‘Now, Mrs Fury’?
‘I have come to see you about my son. It seems that my husband could get no satisfactory explanation from you. He said my boy’s money had been stopped. I have come down for some explanation of this matter.’ She moved her right hand and raised it in the air for no other purpose than to touch her straw hat, which she seemed to have imagined had moved to an awkward angle. But there was nothing wrong with her hat. It sat secure upon her head. Mr Lake lowered his hand and laid it on the table.
‘I see!’ he said – pushed some papers to one side and said again, ‘I see.’ Perhaps he was considering the matter. He looked away towards the window.
‘Yes. I see no reason why any money should be stopped,’ continued Mrs Fury, ‘at least not until satisfactory reason is given. I have not walked four miles for nothing. All this apart from the fact that my boy is lying in hospital. I know nothing beyond the facts he gave me himself. My husband told me that he was not coming home under a month.’ Mr Lake had lowered his head. Now he raised it to find himself subjected to the woman’s penetrating glance.
‘That is quite true,’ he replied. ‘I can tell you that your son is doing well, and if he continues to progress, I see no reason why he should not rejoin the Turcoman at his old job – that is, after the usual annual overhaul. The Turcoman will sail again in January, Mrs Fury. As I told your husband when he called, this stoppage has upset the Company’s plans, so that some ships, booked for home, have been ordered to refuel and take stores aboard from New York, and proceed further. The ship your son was due to sail on has already left that port. But we have a ship scheduled to leave New York for Liverpool on the twenty-eighth. Your son will sail on that ship. With regard to the allotment note, that is entering another matter.’ Mr Lake’s expression changed. He sat back in his chair, and allowed his eyes to wander round the room. Then they alighted on Mrs Fury’s straw hat. He smiled. ‘Yes. What is the explanation you require, Mrs Fury?’ he asked quickly. His manner was now that of a gentleman upon whom time is pressing, and who desires to bring the matter in hand to a close as soon as possible.
‘I do not think you have offered the explanation I have come for,’ began Mrs Fury. ‘As y
ou know, my son met with his accident the day after his allotment was due, so that you must know I am entitled to that. What is more, Mr Lake, I require that money now. It is needed. I cannot see why you should stop it. I have never heard of this being done before. When Mrs Ferris’s son met with that accident aboard the Amilian, his money was not stopped.’ She stopped suddenly. Mr Lake had risen to his feet.
‘I quite understand,’ he said. ‘Quite understand. Is your husband out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! Dear me! What do you think about the dispute, Mrs Fury?’
‘Nothing. You are getting away from the point. Shall I go to the office on the ground floor for the one pound thirteen and eightpence that is due to me, or do you simply refuse to pay this money?’ She too had risen and now stood facing the stout gentleman, whose corporation, as though resenting the position it had been forced into, rested heavily against the mahogany desk. ‘Well?’ she said. Why was he evading the point? Good God! To think of the sum under dispute, to think of it, and then to see that great building, those marble stairs and floors, those polished woods, those carpeted offices, this well-dressed gentleman with white cuffs. Yes. When she thought of it, she didn’t feel tired now, not even hungry – necessity like some willing hand had appeased, necessity had obliterated these feelings. It had forced her to her feet. Mr Lake and Mrs Fury stared at each other.
‘Tell me,’ said Mr Lake, more suavely than ever, ‘tell me, Mrs Fury, are you intending to make this a compensation case?’
‘You asked my husband the same question, and you got your answer. But that isn’t the point, Mr Lake.’ She seemed to thrust her white face so close to Mr Lake’s highly coloured one that the gentleman started back. ‘That isn’t the point, Mr Lake!’ she shouted. ‘The point is that we have to live.’ In that moment when she leaned towards him, as though necessity’s hand had pushed her forward, Mr Lake saw only her open mouth and some broken teeth. He sat down.
‘I wish you to understand, Mrs Fury,’ said the gentleman, ‘I wish you to understand that this matter is out of my hands. Has the money been refused you?’ Mr Lake was cold, indifferent. He only wanted this woman to go. But, judging by the determination with which she planted herself in the chair again, it was obviously going to be difficult.
‘But you yourself refused it,’ she said sharply. ‘You refused my husband. As for compensation, that is another matter and has nothing to do with my money.’
‘There must be some mistake, then,’ said Mr Lake. ‘In any case, this matter is not in my hands any longer. I think you had better see Mr Short.’
What? The matter was not in his hands? Had she come all that way for nothing?
‘But you have always dealt with allotment notes, Mr Lake,’ said the woman.
‘I don’t deal with them now,’ said Mr Lake. He rose to his feet and crossed to the door, saying as he placed his soft fleshy hand upon the door handle. ‘I thought you had come to me for advice of some kind. Very sorry! Some mistake has been made. The department is not in my hands now, Mrs Fury. You had best see Mr Short. Corridor two. Fourth floor. Room fifty-eight.’ He turned the handle of the door. The woman rose to her feet. Now that sickly feeling had returned again. All this for nothing. Why hadn’t he explained?
‘Miss Green,’ called Mr Lake.
‘Please show this lady to Mr Short’s office. Say Mr Lake sent her down.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Lake now smiled at Mrs Fury. ‘I hope you find this rather urgent matter dealt with to your satisfaction,’ he said. ‘Obviously there is a mistake somewhere.’ The woman had gone, Mr Lake seemed to be talking into air. he could see the woman quite clearly, not with her passionate face and open mouth, glimpsing her broken teeth, but sleeping – leaning against the buff wall of the small waiting-room, her mouth a little open, snoring. Mr Lake smiled. He closed the door of his office and returned to his desk.
‘Will you wait here, please? Mr Short has gone out to have coffee,’ said the boy who had raised the window of the inquiry office in room fifty-eight. He looked at Mrs Fury, smiling. ‘Yes,’ the woman said. Still smiling, the boy shut the window. Wait! Of course she could wait. She was used to waiting. She could wait until the very earth cracked, exploded, blew out, disappeared into space. Of course. She sat down on a chair and looked at the little glazed window – ‘Inquiries’, she read. ‘Inquiries’, she said to herself. And the word became imprinted upon her mind. Inquiries regarding the sum of one pound thirteen and eight. ‘My Christ!’ she shouted, and paused, mouth open, as though the very words had stuck there, holding her mouth in this peculiar position, like a fish with a hook in its mouth. Then she laughed. Her eyes focused themselves upon the glass window again. The lettering moved. The lettering began to dance. First one was stripped naked and laid on the table. Then gentlemen began to dissect the body. And now were exposed to view the various organs – heart, brain, lungs, spleen, stomach, bowels. The inquiries were beginning. First survey not entirely satisfactory. Something else. Ah! There! Feelings, thoughts. The gentlemen became more inquisitive. Well, that was enough! Everything had been revealed. Anything else? Yes, this woman is not satisfied. She is waiting outside. The matter is one of great urgency. The sum of one pound thirteen and eightpence is involved.
‘Mr Short won’t be long now, madam.’ The window shot up and down again. The lettering ceased to dance. It was still now. ‘Inquiries’, her eyes read again, and the lettering was dancing round her brain. The door opened. Two gentlemen came in, one small, bearded, about sixty years of age. The other taller, thin, aesthetic-looking. They carried tightly rolled umbrellas.
‘Haw haw! Yes, I remember that. That was when Jones upset his wine in the lady’s lap. Yes. Haw haw!’
They passed through without seeing the woman sitting on the seat. ‘Mr Short will see you in a few minutes,’ said the boy.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Fury said. The door opened, and a man came in from an outside café, bearing a tray. On the tray were poached eggs on toast, tea for one, rolls. The waiter looked at Mrs Fury. As he lowered the tray in order to open the door, the woman had full view of its contents.
‘Dirty day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Fury said, ‘filthy.’
The man disappeared into the office. For the fourth time the window shot up. The boy closed it again. He had merely wished to ascertain whether the woman was still waiting. Now he came out to her and exclaimed brusquely, ‘This way, please!’
Mrs Fury knew at once that she liked the girl in Mr Lake’s office much better. She passed down a narrow corridor.
‘In there,’ said the boy, and disappeared as though by magic. Mrs Fury saw a large clock over Mr Short’s door. A quarter to twelve. How time seemed to fly! Even when one had to wait. She opened the door.
‘Yes, come in!’
This was a larger office than that of Mr Lake. It had a long low desk of rosewood. On the wall there hung framed pictures of the Company’s steamers. These were displayed proudly flying the International flags. Mrs Fury noticed at once that the windows were clear, and that heavy blue curtains hung on each side of them. The floor was covered with a pile carpet, which made her feel more conscious than ever of her shoes. The carpet was light green, a darker green bordering it. Mr Short’s brown boots, spatless, rested on a little red foot carpet. Mr Short was the gentleman with the beard. She recognized him, having seen him pass through, and his boisterous ‘Haw haws’ rang fresh in her ears. He was bent almost double over the roll-topped desk. He was endeavouring to pin some papers together. The small thin hands trembled as he pinned them.
‘Sit down, Mrs – er –’ he said.
But this time Mrs Fury politely ignored the invitation. This time she would stand. When she sat she was too conscious of having to wait, and of feeling hungry. No. She felt better standing up.
Mr Short repeated his request. ‘Please sit down!’ Well, at least courtesy wasn’t at a premium in the offices of the Torsa Line.
Mr
s Fury said, ‘Thank you, I prefer to stand.’ She looked down at the little man’s carefully oiled grey hairs, and she could not help smiling.
‘Yes?’ said Mr Short. He knew perfectly well what Mrs Fury wanted. But one could not part from tradition. All inquiries were prefaced with an inquisitive and at the same time an arrogant ‘Yes?’ Any departure from custom would be disastrous.
‘I have come for my son’s allotment money,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Perhaps Mr Lake mentioned this to you on the telephone.’ The woman had an idea that Mr Lake had already informed Mr Short that she was coming down.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Short. ‘What is all this about your son’s allotment? Hasn’t he had his money? Dear me!’ He turned his attention to some papers. ‘I find that the sum of two pounds became due on the third, but from that date the money automatically ceases. No doubt you will see our Mr Devereaux in the matter.’ He began writing. He blotted the chit and handed it to the woman. ‘Some mistake must have been made,’ he said. ‘Good-day,’ he concluded.
Mrs Fury did not answer; she was too full. She felt she wanted to burst, to cry out that she had been right, that if she hadn’t come down herself she would never had got it. She rushed out of the office, almost knocking the boy over as she went. Well, she had got it. No, she hadn’t minded waiting at all. She wasn’t even hungry. She took the lift to the ground floor. There she found a queue of nearly a hundred people lined up in the corridor. It was paying-out day for the Aurelian. She saw this at once by the large notice which hung in front of the crowd. It read: ‘Aurelian. Half-past one to four o’clock.’ What time was it now? Twenty minutes to one. Well, that wouldn’t be long to wait. She had been waiting since twenty minutes to ten. She took her place at the end of the queue and leaned heavily against the long low window. She didn’t mind anything now. Even the walk back. It was nothing. Two pounds would lighten her steps. Denny would be surprised. Suddenly she struck the window-pane and said to herself, ‘That woman! Of course. I must see her at half-past three.’ The sudden bang on the window attracted everybody’s attention, but the woman seemed not to notice. In any case she wasn’t even there. That two pounds, like a magic carpet, had already carried her home.
