The Furys

by James Hanley

  A continuous hum filled the corridor. Everybody talked, laughed. They all seemed to know each other. They talked about their husbands, sons, brothers, and how lucky they were to have got away before the strike began. It was dreadful. A young man shot dead by the soldiers last night. Two dray-loads of beer upset on Harbour Road. An old man in Keeper’s Hill beaten up by the Orange band. Three hundred people in hospital with head wounds. All the police from Babbinton had great spikes in their hats. Cruel bastards. They had knocked down cripples who were waiting to go to a concert. Disgraceful. They say you won’t be able to get in or out of the city tomorrow without you have a pass from Mr Williams. Dreadful. They were glad their men-folk had got away. The steady hum reminded Mrs Fury of the peculiar low noise of the lift dynamos. Beyond a hum it was nothing. The air seemed electric with words, disjointed phrases, giggles, and laughs. Some youths in the queue were indulging in horse-play. The clerk put his head out. He looked very important and greatly bored. ‘Keep quiet! How do you people expect to be paid if you make all that noise?’ Yes; how were they? How was he, in fact, to carry out his important duties at two pounds a week with such a racket going on about his ears? Mrs Fury stood at the glass window, thinking, ‘Soon be time.’ The first thing she must do when she got home would be to get those shoes mended and get them stretched. For two pins she would fall flat now. Her feet were aching again. The irate clerk came out into the corridor this time, giving the waiting queue a full view of his person. They noticed he wore spats, similar to his superiors, and black coat and pin-stripe trousers. Mr Coats seemed to manage very well on two pounds a week, and without losing any of his importance. Then he disappeared again, and the most striking thing about him as he made his hurried return to the office was his spindle legs. Mr Coats was well known. Mrs Fury knew him too. She had taken her husband’s and her son’s money from his parchment-coloured, sweaty hands many times. At last the queue began to move. Mrs Fury looked at the clock. She began to count, add, subtract, multiply. It passed the time away. At the same time she leaned on one foot, then on the other. These alternate movements seemed to ease the pain in her feet. At last she was at the window. Mr Coats took the chit without looking at her, placed it on the desk in front of him. Then he read it. He then went to a drawer and drew out another chit. He placed it alongside the first one, then buried his hands in a perfect mountain of silver, and the very feel of the coins seemed to impress upon him the importance of his position.

  ‘Fury! Turcoman! One pound,’ he said. He flicked a pound-note from the drawer, put the chit with it and flicked it under the grill.

  Mrs Fury almost fell. ‘It’s two pounds,’ she said. ‘Two!’ she shouted. She was angry – obstacle after obstacle.

  Mr Coats was equal to the occasion. ‘One pound,’ he said. ‘Look at your slip. “One pound tobacco and slops.” Next.’

  Mrs Fury turned away from the window. Her hand shook. She walked slowly down the corridor. When she came into the daylight she read the white slip of paper. ‘Contra account. Slops fifteen shillings, cigarettes five.’

  Yes. Of course. It was right. The Turcoman pay-lists had been sent to the office. Yes. No doubt whatever. She was disappointed. A whole pound. And it meant such a lot. She thought of her shoes. ‘Have to leave them now.’ She found herself in the street. She was confused, excited, as though she had been imprisoned in some dark pit and had just emerged into the daylight. She stood hesitant, looking round her. Well! Here she was! She had been waiting in that building so long that she had forgotten a great many things. There was a strike after all, and Anthony was in hospital, Brigid was with Miss Pettigrew, and Peter was hoping to get away to sea.

  Gradually confusion drifted away, and her world was set to rights again. ‘I’ll go home the bottom road,’ she told herself, and started to cross the Square.

  Now she was home again. Would she have some tea? Mr Fury said. ‘I’ve just made it, Fanny.’ She shook her head. Mr Fury protested. Ridiculous. She hadn’t had a bite all day. How had she got on? Had she seen Lake?

  ‘Yes! I saw him.’ She flung the pound-note on the table, looked at it for a moment, and then pushed it away from her as though it were dirt, something foul and contagious. ‘There it is,’ she said, and thought, Yes! There it is! Out all day for that!’

  ‘Well! That’s better than nothing,’ Mr Fury said. Yes. It was. Better than waiting. She looked at her father in the chair. Had Dad been fed? Mr Fury nodded his head.

  ‘Is the boy out?’

  ‘Yes. He’s gone for a walk,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘I couldn’t say no to the lad. Been in all day.’

  ‘Of course! Have you had something to eat?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Look here, Fanny,’ said Mr Fury. ‘You look tired and done up. Go to bed.’

  ‘You go,’ the woman replied. She sat down at the table and looked at the pound-note. A knock at the door. Mr Fury opened it. Peter followed his father into the kitchen. He sat down in his old chair near the fire. Peter said nothing. He ate some supper and went to bed. There was something in the expression upon the woman’s face that frightened him. It seemed like a warning. He finished his supper, got up, said ‘Good-night,’ and went upstairs.

  ‘Go to bed, Fanny! Go to bed!’

  ‘You go! I’m all right.’

  ‘This is silly,’ Mr Fury said. He got up and left the kitchen. As the man ascended the stairs his heavy tread seemed like giant hammers, and with each tread of his feet he seemed to stamp upon the woman’s brain. She could feel them. The door closed. The light was getting low.

  They had left her with Dad! The woman got up and went into the back kitchen. In the darkness her hand groped along the shelves. She was searching for a little butter, a quarter pound of best butter she had put away. Her little luxury. She groped, thinking, ‘I left it behind that pan.’

  She struck a match. No. The butter had gone. Her little luxury had disappeared. Well, she didn’t want to eat, after all. She wasn’t hungry, merely deluding herself. She returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table again. Mr Mangan grunted. She raised her eyes slowly and looked at the wall in front of her. Well, there was nothing else to do but sit staring at that wall.

  CHAPTER XII

  Mr Fury woke up, thinking, ‘Ought to be a good show at the Lyric this week.’ He turned over in the bed.

  ‘I’ll be hanged!’ he exclaimed. ‘What time is it?’ Had he slept on? And where was Fanny? He jumped out of bed. How long had she been up? He slipped on his trousers and tiptoed to Peter’s room. The bed was empty. Must be late! Slept in! Yawning, he returned to the front room. His mind was befogged. He went to the window and looked out. Children were playing in the street. Then he heard St Sebastian’s Chapel bell ring. Half-past nine. That must be the elevation bell at the nine o’clock Mass. Now dressed, but wearing his rope slippers, he went to Anthony Mangan’s room. The old man too was up.

  ‘I’ll be hanged!’ he said again, and left the room. He stood for a moment on the landing. How silent the house was! He went downstairs. Mr Mangan was sitting in his chair: a big fire blazed in the grate. Peter had gone out. Mrs Fury was sitting at the table, her arms folded.

  Looking at her, Mr Fury thought, ‘She was sitting like that last night. What’s the matter with the woman?’ He sat down opposite her at the table.

  ‘You were up early,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She had not been to bed, but had remained sitting in the kitchen. She had kept the fire going, made some tea about half-past three. Now she was sitting in exactly the same position as when her husband last saw her, the same expression upon her face. She reminded Mr Fury of a certain wax figure of a well-dressed lady that, standing too long in the window under a hot sun, had begun to melt. Looking at his wife, it came back to his mind vividly. Hardly any difference. Fanny was just like that wax figure.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Has Peter gone out?’

  ‘Yes.’

&n
bsp; She changed arms, now resting the left upon the right.

  ‘What in the name of Christ are you staring at?’ shouted Mr Fury. ‘Surely you haven’t been sitting like that all night! Strike me lucky, but it’s enough to give anybody the pip.’ He darted a glance at his father-in-law. ‘Him too,’ he thought.

  Had she had any breakfast? The table was bare, even the cheap American oilcloth had vanished. Or was he just dreaming? Had the hands of the clock, tired of their even beat, broken loose and raced round their clock face? And what in the name of Christ was she looking at? He turned his head round quickly and looked at the wall. Had she seen a bug crawling up it, or, like Mr Mulcare, had she just sat there fascinated by a slow-moving spider? Anyhow, he, Denny Fury, could see nothing to look at. Or had his wife had a dream like that famous saint who, returning from a visit to Hell, and in order to prove the fierceness of the fires thereof, had burnt a hole in the wall with her foot? If not, then what on earth was she thinking about? He raised his head and looked at Mrs Fury again. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘she’s been in Peter’s room, and she’s seen that mess-up. She must have guessed! She knows I know all about the money. She took it.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what you have on your mind,’ he said.

  Suddenly Mrs Fury’s face changed colour, the muscles worked convulsively. It was as though her husband’s words had started some atrophied organism working in her body. Mrs Fury heard sounds in her head. It was as though her mind were singing. She put her hand to her head and laughed. She imagined that somebody had made a hole in her head, and that a great number of people went tramping past, pressing down her brain as they went by. And they were singing. She laughed again. Dennis Fury was stricken with fear. He gripped the table and stared at her more raptly than ever. What was she thinking about?

  ‘Listen,’ he began, then stopped. The woman had begun to smile. ‘Yes. No doubt about it,’ thought Mr Fury, ‘her and that wax figure might be sisters.’

  ‘What about breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ the woman said.

  She rose to her feet, looked at Mr Fury, then disappeared into the back kitchen. Aunt Brigid was doing a highland fling on top of Mrs Fury’s head.

  ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ she said, and dropped the cup she held in her hand. Mr Fury jumped up.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  Peter came in, his hair blown over his face by the wind. He swept it back with his hand.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Mr Fury said. It was a growl.

  ‘Half-past eight Mass,’ Peter said.

  ‘Oh!’ his father exclaimed.

  He went into the parlour thinking, ‘Fanny must be going balmy.’ He stood by the window. Looking out he saw – just nothing. Peter was now standing behind him. He touched his father on the shoulder.

  ‘Dad!’ he said. ‘Dad!’

  The man turned round. ‘What – what’s the matter?’ He was thinking of his wife.

  ‘Grand-dad has to go for his pension,’ Peter said. He began tugging at the curtains.

  ‘Today? Forget it,’ his father said. ‘Today? It’s Friday. Today’s only Wednesday.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But the time is changed now,’ the boy went on. ‘Mother had it altered at the Post Office.’

  ‘But all pensions are paid on certain days of the week, you know that as well as I do, or at least you ought to know. Where were you last night?’

  ‘Out,’ Peter said.

  ‘Yes, I know you were out.’ Mr Fury raised his voice. ‘We know you were out. But where? And don’t you talk to me like that, you young pup, or I’ll flatten you! See!’

  ‘Sorry, Dad. Mother says we must take Grand-dad to the Post Office.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Dennis Fury plumped himself in the chair. ‘Your mother says, does she? Listen to me’ – the sudden change in his voice startled Peter. ‘Listen to me! Your mother is all wrong. When did she tell you that? D’you know your mother’s going out of her mind? Do you? You bastard! Where were you last night?’

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ The boy gripped his father’s knees. He could feel them trembling under his touch. ‘Dad!’ he said. ‘Dad!’

  ‘Yes! Yes! It’s all right. Sorry, laddie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know what I was saying.’

  He wiped his face with a large red handkerchief covered with great white dots.

  ‘Sorry, Peter! Sorry!’ The man seemed confused, bewildered. ‘Must be getting light in the head,’ he said. He laughed then. ‘Your mother must have made a mistake,’ he said. ‘It’s Friday when “him” goes down.’ Peter could not understand his father.

  ‘No. It’s today. Mother just said.’

  ‘Just said! But I can’t get a word out of your mother. I asked her if she’d been to bed. She said “Yes,” but it’s a bloody lie. She’s been sitting at the table all night, staring at the damned wall. I knew it!’ Mr Fury said. ‘I knew it. I know your mother better than anybody. Out all day yesterday. All day. How she got to town and back, God only knows. But she did. Aye, Peter, you ought to be proud of your mother, lad. Aye! She got Anthony’s money. She did that. I couldn’t get it. That swine Lake and me don’t get on well together.’ He leaned towards his son and added in a whisper, ‘And your mother didn’t have a bite of food the whole day. Of course she said “Yes” when I asked her. But your mother’s like that. Wouldn’t complain. Never says a damned word. You never know when her belly’s empty.’ He suddenly brought his hand down heavily on Peter’s shoulders. ‘Aye! She’s like that. If ever you do anything on your mother I’ll break your neck. Yes, I will that!’

  Breakfast was laid. Bacon for Mr Fury, bread fried in the gravy for Peter. They sat down. This time the American oilcloth had appeared. It was newly scrubbed. Mr Fury deliberately changed his seat, and said to Peter authoritatively, ‘You sit there.’ Yes, if Fanny looked at that wall once more he’d jump out, get the hatchet from the coal-house, and smash it down. That’s what he would do. Getting on his nerves. Couldn’t stand it any longer. Not a word was spoken during the meal, until Peter pushed away his plate.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Mr Fury, thinking of his wife’s silence. ‘I say, what’s the matter with you?’ He put down some bacon rind from his fork.

  ‘Nothing,’ Peter said, looking somewhat distractedly at his mother. ‘I’m not hungry.’ He sat back in his chair.

  ‘Oh! You’re getting very particular. One of these days you will be hungry, and you won’t stick your nose up at fried bread.’

  ‘I’m not sticking up my nose at it,’ replied Peter. ‘It’s only what we got at college, anyhow.’

  ‘Fried bread!’ cried Mrs Fury in her mind. ‘Fried bread!’ She thought of the school fees.

  ‘You’re turning into a little snob,’ Mr Fury said. ‘The bloody seven years’ holiday has turned your head! That’s what I think! Your mother doesn’t agree, of course. Fanny,’ he said, turning to Mrs Fury, ‘Why don’t you eat something?’

  ‘In a minute,’ she replied.

  Her husband got up. In a minute. That might mean tomorrow or next year. He went out to the closet and sat on the seat. He lighted his pipe. Soon great clouds of smoke came out through the space between the door top and the roof.

  ‘Sitting there like a dummy,’ Mr Fury thought. ‘Almost as bad as “him”. Hang the confounded strike!’ He couldn’t see what anybody was getting out of it, except a few lucky ones like Mr Postlethwaite, who got a clout on the head. No. They wouldn’t get anything. And that son of his, here, there, everywhere, talking a lot of bull about workers’ rights. Now he came to think of it. that George Postlethwaite was right. Nobody got anything out of it except a cracked head. You couldn’t beat those bosses. They had all kinds of plans up their sleeves, every kind of help at their hand. Soldiers, police, mounted and on foot. Specials, toffs from the colleges and universities wearing blue armlets. A lot of tommy-rot. As the smoke filled the small closet, Mr Fury thought, ‘Aye. All their damned promise
s will go up in smoke.’ He could see Mr Postlethwaite lying in that hospital ward, his head heavily bandaged. He could hear George saying, ‘Trouble with these fellers, Dad, is they never know when to say “Whoa!” That’s a fact. An’ all you got for your trouble was a fat head.’ Mr Fury suddenly laughed. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘George is right.’ Well, he never wanted the confounded strike. It just came. And there was Fanny sitting there like somebody daft. He knew what was the matter. Of course he did. And her own sister kept clear now. Might be asked to help a bit. Mean bastard. That’s what she was. Her and her blasted father. The house had never been right since he came, anyhow. Now he was too old to go back.

  ‘Belfast!’ he exclaimed. ‘The old man’ll never see Belfast.’ He spat on the floor. ‘No. Just kick the bucket in his chair. Ought to bury the chair with him when he dies.’ Yes. Everything seemed to have gone topsy-turvy all of a sudden. He thought of his daughter. ‘Aye. I used to like Maureen – but I’m damned if I do now. Never comes near to see her mother. Wouldn’t even see the boy. Too independent.’ Stuck up all of a sudden. Well, he would never ask her for anything, not even for a pinch of tobacco. Certainly Fanny wouldn’t. He’d swear his solemn oath on that. The water made a gurgling sound in the bowl. He banged the door, but it came open again. Blast! One would think the landlord would put a latch on it. He returned to the kitchen again. Mrs Fury was busy in the back kitchen.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ he asked. He could see how worried she was. What was on her mind? She hadn’t cleaned up for days. ‘Can I help with anything, Fanny?’

  ‘No.’ She swept the dishes into the sink. Mr Fury stood watching her wash them. ‘I said No,’ the woman shouted. The man leaned back against the mangle.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t get your shirt out about it. I’ll go out.’