by James Hanley
‘Take these things out and throw them in the bin. It’s a disgrace. One can’t keep a single bit of food in the house with these mice!’
Peter carried them away. The woman went upstairs, placed her bucket on the floor, and sat down on the huge tin band-box that lay in the corner of the landing. It had just occurred to her that she had to see her daughter at half-past six. She thought of this, endeavouring to draw a picture in her mind of the whole proceedings. She could see Mrs Anna Ragner quite clearly now.
No! She had better not think about it. Just forget it. Her mind had a habit of conjuring up the most weird trains of thought. They seemed to take wing, to encircle and carry her away. She knelt down and began to scrub. During a momentary pause she heard her husband say, ‘Well – I suppose we’d better go out. Best to keep clear when your mother’s working.’ He was talking to Peter. She heard them moving about the kitchen. She seemed to divine their thoughts from their movements. She could mirror her husband’s irritation, his restlessness. He was like a ship anchorless in a storm.
The other! Peter! Well, he was an unknown quantity, a mystery. The boy seemed not to know what to do with himself. Such were Mrs Fury’s thoughts, when the back kitchen catch was lifted and they went out again. Where were they going? What did they do with themselves when they went out? Her thoughts seemed to synchronize with the circular movements of her scrubbing-brush. ‘What a job!’ she exclaimed. She didn’t mind anything excepting the landing. Now she came to think of it, Maureen had been a help. She pushed back the tin box that contained nothing but a set of broken Venetian blinds. Then she renewed her scrubbing. She had reached the end of the landing, and was on the point of taking out the stair-rods, when she heard a noise in the kitchen. Only one thing could make that noise, her father’s high-backed chair. She must attend to him at once. This was Mr Mangan’s signal that he was hungry. She wrung out the cloths, flung them to the floor, and for the fifth time went into the back kitchen with her bucket. She left it in the sink and went in to her father. She tied an apron round his shoulders, tucked it beneath his chin, and then got his milk pudding from the oven. Milk puddings and pobs were Mr Mangan’s only food.
She began to feed him. Those small bright eyes seemed to say, ‘I can see you, Fanny. I can see you looking hot and tired. I’m sorry for you. I can see you raising that spoon up and down.’ The woman wiped her father’s mouth after each spoonful. Once she was sure he smiled, and she said in a sort of confiding whisper, ‘Dad! You look almost bonny today!’
There, that was done. A quarter past two. How time flew when one worked! She made some tea, made toast at the fire, and sat herself down. There was something significant in the way the woman approached the square table set in the centre of the kitchen. She seemed not to walk to it, but to be drawn towards it by some magnetic power. And the act of sitting at it seemed a kind of blind obeisance to the slavery of this dead wood. The table was a throne, a cage, a cell, a refuge, a lighthouse. Everything, thought, word and deed, seemed centred about this four-legged table. Her family had sat at it, as children, as men. Plans had been made there – even John’s dead body had been laid upon it. The wood seemed to have drawn into it something of their very spirit.
The woman ate hurriedly, as though there were not a minute to be wasted. Now to the stairs. Would she get the stairs and lobby finished by half-past three? Would she have time to do the two kitchens? Having filled her bucket, she ascended the stairs once more.
Somebody knocked at the door. Mrs Fury ran downstairs. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Mr Swift, I’ll send it down.’ She looked at the man with the soft hat. He seemed very disgruntled. ‘But you always say that, Mrs Fury,’ he said, putting his foot on the top step. Instinctively Mrs Fury moved the door. ‘Do you think I’m going to run away with your damned money?’ she said. ‘I said it’ll be sent down, and it will be. I promise that.’ She shut the door and started on the stairs again. Half an hour later she heard another knock. Apparently this visitor was expected, for she went downstairs, took an account-book from the dresser drawer, and picked up her purse.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Oh yes. Rent.’ She opened the purse, then suddenly her mouth twitched. In it lay the pound-note she had obtained from the shipping office. There was no other money but this pound. And how she hated to give this pound! She wouldn’t get any change out of it, for there were arrears to be paid. Why hadn’t she thought to change that pound-note? She could have given him the bare rent. The shillings she wanted so much! She bit her lip in her anger. It was too late now. The man had seen the pound. Quickly he had receipted the woman’s book and marked off her arrears.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing Mrs Fury the book, and reached his hand out for the money.
‘Do you mind if I leave the arrears till next week? I’m really short,’ Mrs Fury said. She kept putting her hand to her face as though she imagined the collector were staring at the smut marks upon her nose and cheek.
‘Sorry!’ the man said. ‘I’ve already ticked it off. Thank you.’ He raised his voice as he said ‘Thank you’ – adding in an undertone, ‘Eightpence change. Good-day.’
He was gone; the door was shut; she was standing in the dark lobby looking at the coppers in her hand. ‘Eightpence change! Eightpence change!’ she could hear the collector say. Well, she had been a fool to let him get off with that pound-note. As she began scrubbing the lower stairs she became conscious of the draught coming in under the door and blowing along the lobby floor. It was late afternoon, it had grown suddenly dark. The atmosphere became cold and bleak. The very oilcloth upon the lobby floor, that was continually lifted up by the draught, accentuated this bleakness. Having finished the stairs, she thought, ‘Well, it is early yet. I might do the lobby as well.’ She knelt down and gave it a rough scrub. She would have liked to have given it a thorough clean, but time was pressing now. She would do the kitchen and then finish for the day. There was no doubt about it, the place was dirty. This last week or two had been like some fantastic dream.
As she approached the corner to wash under Mr Mangan’s chair she exclaimed, ‘Dumb! Dumb!’ as she pushed the old man in his chair further towards the cupboard. She had almost finished the kitchen when she felt a pain shoot across her back. She looked at the clean red tiles, and then at that patch by the back kitchen door. It was black, and it seemed to proclaim its dirtiness, to cry out to be washed. But no – she couldn’t do it. Not another single stroke! She was done up. She wanted to lie there, now, this very minute, on the damp kitchen floor and fall asleep. As she leaned over the iron bucket her head did begin to nod. Now she squirmed, for the pain had shot across her back again. No. She must get up at once, or she would fall into the bucket. The floorcloth, water-soaked, lay on the floor. As she rose to her feet she trod upon the cloth, and a stream of dirty black water oozed out and flowed across her newly scrubbed tiles. She didn’t even notice this, but walked to the sofa, and seemed to fling her body upon it, a dead weight. So she fell asleep, her head laid on the sofa arm, her two long arms hanging over it, so that it gave the impression of a person who has been struck down by a blow, who has lain on his face, and flung his arms past his head, encircling it as for protection. And upon this stretched-out figure the bead-like eyes of Mr Mangan seemed to fall, and to lie there too, as though he too knew her weariness, and shared it in spirit. Only the clock ticked, the fire gave out its murmurous noises from between the bars, like a sort of consolatory song. Half-past five. Neither Mr Fury nor his son had returned.
Darkness came suddenly, so that the walls of the kitchen now mirrored the dancing flames of the fire. With the growth of darkness the light spread further and further until it embraced the full walls of the kitchen. It caught a part of Mrs Fury’s black hair, and gave it the appearance of glistening pitch. Her hands hung limp, the fingers bent, as if the scrubbing-brush had patterned their position so, had taken their due toll. The woman slept. The water from the floorcloth had now trickled right across the clean red
tiles, and had made a little pool under Mr Mangan’s chair. The light from the fire caught this too. There seemed nothing that could escape its devouring eye. The bucket lay by the door. The unscrubbed patch looked cold and uninviting. The walls seemed to throb under the fantastic movements of the ever-climbing flames. She had taken the tin blower down and laid it inside the fender. The silence was punctuated by the monotonous tick of the alarm-clock, the occasional dropping of live coals upon the tin blower, and by Mrs Fury’s laboured breathing. Anthony Mangan seemed not to breathe. He was like one dead. Those bright eyes, still focused upon his daughter, had vied with the brighter light of the fire, but the fire had conquered. When the flames died down, when that dull red glow took the place of the yellow flames, then his eyes would shine – ‘like a cat’s when the darkness comes’, as Peter had once said.
The woman woke to the sound of their coming. They were actually in the kitchen, Peter lighting the gas, Mr Fury laying the table. Mrs Fury’s head felt heavy. What was the time? Good Lord! She got up. hurried into the back kitchen, and washed herself. Then she went upstairs, changed and dressed, and came down again.
‘Are you going out, then?’
Yes. She was going out. She had business to do. Had she had her tea? Yes, she had had her tea. She was standing by the lobby door. Peter and his father were in the act of sitting at the table, when the man’s eyes fell upon his wife’s hat.
‘Fanny,’ he said, ‘you’re a caution! I bought you a nice hat at Hobhouse’s, and now you never wear it. Dear me! You’re a caution!’ He sat down and began to eat.
‘Tut! Tut!’ Mrs Fury said, and in a moment she was gone.
PART THREE
CHAPTER XIII
1
Price Street was in darkness save for the path of light that came from the open door of number thirty-five, where Maureen Kilkey stood waiting for her mother. Its two lamps had been blown out by the high wind. The tall figure of Mrs Fury now loomed up out of the darkness. The filtering light from the kitchen gas caught her face.
‘You look tired, Mother,’ said Maureen, as she looked at her mother. ‘You are tired, aren’t you?’ she asked. She had her left hand upon the front door knob, her right was drawn up and covering her breast.
Mrs Fury smiled. ‘I’m not tired,’ she replied.
‘Of course, my mother all over,’ thought Maureen. ‘She would say that, even if she was ready to drop.’
Seeing the attitude of the young woman on the step, and the now questioning glance she received, Mrs Fury repeated, ‘I’m not tired, what makes you think so?’
‘Nothing,’ Maureen replied. She closed the door. They linked arms and walked slowly down the street. Not a word passed between them until they turned into the main road, when they increased their pace. The very movements of Mrs Fury betrayed an anxiety that could only be appeased when the large gloomy-looking house in Banfield Road was reached. At last Maureen spoke.
‘It’s a long way, Mother, and all uphill. But you know that already.’ She suddenly pulled up and looked at her mother. This pause only served to steel Mrs Fury to her purpose. What was her daughter dallying about? Didn’t she want to go now?
‘Please, don’t be worrying about me, Maureen,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I am used to climbing. Was your husband in when I called?’ she asked. They had moved on again, as though the purpose itself had pushed them forward.
‘No,’ said Maureen. ‘He wasn’t in. He’s been out since half-past ten this morning at the Moreston Dock, doing picket duty.’
‘But isn’t that dangerous, child? Some man called for your father to go picketing at a railway station, but I wouldn’t let him go. It’s a disgraceful state of affairs. I never thought the stoppage would turn out like this. The few devils who are working are finding it takes them all their time to get home safely with their wages. And as for food, it’s getting difficult. How are you managing?’
‘Oh, I’m managing all right,’ replied Maureen. ‘Are you?’
‘Oh yes. Quite well. I can see your father is sick of it already. The poor man doesn’t know what to do with himself. I shall be glad when he goes back to work.’ She clung more tightly to her daughter’s arm. They had now reached the end of King’s Road. Here they stopped to rest for a moment.
Their way now lay along Harbour Road until Bellman’s Theatre was reached. Here they would turn left, along Aston Road for nearly five hundred yards, when they would cross the lines into Instone Road. Here, the first hill began. Having reached the top of Instone Road, one stopped for a moment to contemplate, before an even steeper hill was climbed. This was Causeway. At the top was Banfield Road. They would turn right along this road until they reached a pickle factory. At the back of the factory, standing detached on a small piece of waste land, stood Anna Ragner’s house. From Hatfields the distance was five miles. Mrs Fury had never been in this, the highest part of the city, during her long life in Hatfields. For one thing, there was no business that would take her there. And again, it was inhabited by people of a different religious persuasion to Mrs Fury. Here the Billies lived. In the neighbourhood of Hatfields it was not much different. She knew everybody, and most neighbours, except for a sprinkling of families like the Ferrises, were stalwarts of the Prince of Orange. The few Catholics whom circumstance had compelled to live here were considered to be most unfortunately placed, for on the twelfth of July the people proceeded to reveal their loyalty to Prince William in as blatant and bloody a manner as possible. It was a miniature Vesuvius, for every spouting lava of a most vicious and filthy kind. Mrs Fury’s devotion and faith impelled her in every way to steer clear of such a place. Now, for the first time, she was going into the stronghold. It was to her an excursion into the unknown. In the present circumstances it was more than an excursion, it was a real adventure. Maureen had nothing much to say. Maybe she was preparing herself for the interview with the lady in Banfield Road. As for her mother, she had already conjured up visions of this woman and of her house. She had already climbed the hill, passed through the street, and entered the house. The lights of Bellman’s Theatre proclaimed to all and sundry that inside its doors the show of the century was about to open. That inside one might sit down and forget about strikes, hold-ups, baton charges, the persistency with which landlords and creditors knocked at the doors. In brief, for the sum of one and threepence – Gallery sixpence – one could shut out all reality and lose oneself in a pleasant dream, the ears attuning themselves to the ribaldries of the low comedian, the senses teased and excited by a row of legs in tights. The lights from the theatre threw a sort of halo over great piles of timber, oak and ash, teak and pine, that towered above the wall of the timber yard on the opposite side. A small queue of people were lined up outside the Gallery entrance to the theatre when Mrs Fury and her daughter came in sight of its doors, and finally under the gleam of its lights. The two doors leading to Pit and Stalls had now been closed. Obviously that select clientele had already taken their seats. Mrs Fury turned suddenly and smiled at Maureen. ‘That reminds me,’ she said. ‘Your father has actually asked me to go to the Lyric this week. How he imagines we are going to go, heaven knows. His five and threepence won’t help.’ She laughed, but Mrs Kilkey did not share it, she rather resented this remark about Dad. Dad was always being made to look a perfect fool. At the kerb they pulled up. Here they would turn again. Adjoining Bellman’s Theatre was a large public-house called the Travellers’ Arms, and right opposite this, near the tram stop, there was situated a large public convenience. Just outside of it these stood four iron benches, painted a vivid green. Maureen was pointing at them.
‘Let’s sit down here for a rest,’ she said, and pulled at her mother’s arm.
‘I’m not tired, Maureen,’ said Mrs Fury quickly. She did not know that her daughter, heavy with child, was feeling very tired herself. She saw these occasional rests as nothing but obstacles. Would she never get there? When were they going to arrive? She was sick now. She wished she had wings so that s
he could fly to Banfield Road and back again to Hatfields.
‘But I’m tired,’ Maureen said sharply. ‘I want to sit down here.’ She pulled her mother towards the vacant iron bench. Was her mother the only tired person in the city?
But again the woman drew back, exclaiming, ‘Surely, Maureen! Those benches are right alongside those lavatories!’
‘What does that matter?’ Another hand was pulling Mrs Kilkey towards the bench. An invisible and impatient hand. Mrs Fury allowed herself to be drawn slowly along. They sat down. The silence of Price Street seemed to envelop them again. They were like two strangers who have suddenly met one another in an even stranger world, and who for some reason or other have been struck dumb. Mrs Fury, her arms resting by her sides, looked in the direction of the town. Maureen was looking the other way, up the hill, and now wondered whether even she could really climb it.
Mrs Kilkey was now feeling sorry she had come. A strange feeling had come over her. She had felt it before. Yesterday she had been having breakfast with her husband. They had gone into the back kitchen, she to wash up, Joseph Kilkey to dry the dishes. For some reason this strange feeling had arisen at a moment when her husband was seized with an ardent desire to kiss her. But her whole nature had revolted. She could not understand. The very sight of his face so near to her own only filled her with paroxysms of blind rage. She was beside herself. She had struck him in the face and run upstairs to her own room. There she had bolted her door against him, and had lain on the bed, her whole body bathed in sweat, surrendering to the peculiar flood of feeling that had taken her. And again, as she had sat quietly and peacefully sewing in the garden, she had been overcome by it. And her father had seemed to wilt before her uncontrollable wrath. So it had come again to her as she sat on the iron bench. She had sensed its coming. It was not her hand that had dragged the reluctant Mrs Fury to join her on that bench. No! It was another hand, that invisible hand that seemed to push itself up ruthlessly from some hidden depths of her own being, and now it caught and held her. It was in such moments, when the tide of feeling overwhelmed, that she seemed most conscious, and most sensitive to the life she carried within her. The hand had risen as from the very root of her being, and now sought to drag her down. Down and further down. Seated upon the iron bench, she had huddled her figure, her head was lowered upon her breast, her two hands clenched, and she was surrendering herself. She wanted this hand to hold her, to pull her down, to sink lower and lower, beyond consciousness itself. The desire to sink was a hunger in itself. She was naked upon that bench, for the hand had stripped her. She willed herself to it and was dragged down, yet she wanted to hide, to shield herself, to clothe her nakedness. At first Maureen could not understand these feelings. They bewildered. She thought, almost with horror, ‘I ought not to have come! I must go! I will be caught out, taken unawares.’ Yes, she only wished to hide herself now – to be alone – absolutely alone with the quickening life within her. To shut everything out, as yesterday she had shut her husband out and locked her door. The woman beside her on the bench was only something black, a heap of clothes, and finally nothing. She felt a swimming sensation in her head, and the blood seemed to race madly through her veins. The swimming sensation produced dizziness, and she experienced that feeling of a person who under an anaesthetic hangs suspended for a moment between the abyss of reality and unconsciousness. Now she was actually floating. The world had collapsed. She was floating in the air and she was crying. She shivered violently, so that Mrs Fury, lost in her own thoughts, turned round and said, ‘What is the matter?’ She leaned towards Maureen, then suddenly drew back, as she exclaimed under her breath, ‘My Jesus! Her time has come.’ What was she to do? She stared abstractedly at her daughter. It was Maureen and it wasn’t Maureen. It wasn’t a real face – only a quasi-human one. She clutched her daughter’s arm.
