by James Hanley
Who was that tall woman sitting on the bench? Mrs Ragner concentrated herself once more. And the young woman beside her? Ah! she had seen the young woman before – of course! A client. Then the tall woman must be her mother. Looks rather proud, independent. What a hat she has on! She pressed the bell again; her interest in the tall woman had grown to the extent that she decided to allow her other customers to wait. She turned quickly and looked up at the man in the jersey. Would Mr Corkran tell that tall woman to come up? Yes, the one wearing the black straw hat. She followed him with her eyes as he hurried down the room. Now she saw Mrs Fury rise to her feet, and the younger woman. They were coming up the room. Oh, of course. She knew the young woman quite well. She couldn’t remember the name very well. ‘She’s very big with child,’ she was thinking as the two women approached the table. She did not look at Maureen’s mother, and seemed to get some satisfaction from the woman’s embarrassment. She did not have to look for it. It came instinctively. It emanated from Mrs Fury and touched her.
Maureen said, ‘My name is Kilkey! I am already dealing with you. This is my mother. We came about a matter of a loan, Mrs Ragner.’ Having said this, the young woman turned round and looked at her mother as though to say, ‘Well! Here she is! Now begin.’
Anna Ragner leaned lazily upon the table. Her hands lay together, and now she looked at them. There was a ruby ring upon the third finger of the left hand, and two simple gold bands upon the fourth finger of her right one. Mrs Fury did not look at her hands, but straight into her face. She said to herself at once, ‘A Jewess!’ But she was wrong, as Maureen later told her. The woman was English, though of German descent on the father’s side. Mrs Fury glanced once or twice towards the door. Maureen pressed forward against the trestle-board, as though endeavouring to lighten her weight. Her coat was open. Mrs Ragner’s sleepy eyes took stock of the swollen belly, then they travelled slowly up Maureen’s body until they rested on her face. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Kilkey! That’s it.’ Then she lowered her eyes again, opened her account-book, and proceeded to forget that Mrs Fury and daughter existed. She turned the pages over, pored over a page, then repeated the process. She was looking for nothing in particular. She was only conscious that the tall woman, so proud seemingly, and so embarrassed, was still waiting. Well, that was good. That was discipline. Let the woman wait. She would attend to her in a minute. She looked under the table, and noticed with some curiosity that the tall woman was wearing odd shoes, and this curiosity was increased when the woman began to lift up, first one foot and then the other. She rested now on her right leg, now on her left. How fidgety the tall woman was! And the younger woman. She stood stock-still, her shoes gripping the floor. At last Mrs Ragner exclaimed in a hard voice:
‘Kilkey! Yes. What is it?’ Again she looked at Mrs Kilkey, ignoring the mother. She could attend to her later.
‘It’s about a loan,’ began Maureen. ‘My mother wishes the loan of twenty pounds.’
‘Yes! I see.’ This in a slow drawl. ‘Yes. Have you security?’
‘Oh yes. My husband will sign the promissory note.’
Mrs Fury now pressed her hands upon the table, and looking at Anna Ragner unflinchingly, exclaimed, ‘I am quite honest, Mrs Ragner.’
‘Ha ha!’ Mrs Ragner laughed. ‘Well! Well! Yes, I do not doubt it for a moment, Mrs – er – er – Fury. But it’s no good as security, is it?’ her smiling face, with its thick parted lips, seemed to rise in the air and almost touch Mrs Fury’s own.
‘I quite understand,’ Mrs Fury said. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
‘Would you mind waiting in the next room, Mrs Fury? – thank you.’
The word ‘thank you’ uttered so casually was like the closing of a door. Mrs Fury and Maureen, like Mrs Hanrahan, had passed outside the circle of Mrs Ragner’s vision. Mr Corkran now showed them into another room. As they sat down Mrs Fury laughed. She had to laugh. She couldn’t help it. She must laugh or burst.
‘Mother, Mother! Please don’t be so ridiculous. What is the matter with you?’
‘Are you ashamed?’ asked Mrs Fury.
‘Never mind! Stop laughing. The whole house can hear it. Please! Please!’
‘But I can’t! I can’t!’
The door opened again. Mr Corkran said, ‘Quiet, please.’
‘I hope she comes soon,’ Mrs Fury said. ‘It’s awful – this waiting. These unending questions.’ At that moment Mrs Ragner entered the room. She had disposed of her other clients. She sat down at a table. ‘Sit here, please.’ She looked at Maureen. ‘This is your mother?’
‘Yes,’ Maureen said.
‘Well, Mrs Fury, I shall be quite pleased to accommodate you with a loan if your daughter’s husband will sign the promissory note.’ She did not ask Maureen if her husband was working. She seemed to take Mr Joseph Kilkey for granted. ‘Now there are one or two questions,’ went on Mrs Ragner. Her fingers fidgeted with her pearl brooch, her lips had parted again, as though for a smile.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Fury said.
‘What is your husband’s name? Where does he work? What are his wages?’ She spread out the fingers of her left hand and seemed to breathe on them.
‘My husband’s name is Dennis Fury. He works on the Lanton Railway as a loco-man. His wages are twenty-two and sixpence a week.’ Mrs Fury looked away towards the tall bookcase that stood against the wall near the window.
‘I see,’ said Mrs Ragner. ‘Have you any children working?’ she asked.
‘No,’ replied Mrs Fury, ‘excepting one at sea, and at the moment he is not bringing money in.’ Beneath the table Mrs Fury’s fingers had gripped her knees. Her eyes rested upon Mrs Ragner’s pearl brooch.
Maureen now took up the conversation. It was quite all right, she said, her husband would sign the note. ‘It’s a question of what the repayments are and the interest.’
‘Of course I should want this weekly,’ said Mrs Ragner. She lay back in the chair, stretched her arms, and yawned. Mrs Fury thought she looked a very common person. ‘The repayments can be at fifteen shillings or a pound per week,’ began Mrs Ragner. ‘One could not accept less weekly for such a sum. I am sure you will understand. Any default in payment would send the interest up. You see, I have other people wanting money. The payments must be made each Friday, promptly. I am here between five and seven, and eight and ten.’ Mrs Ragner did not see clients in the daytime excepting at her small office in town, which consisted of a single room. ‘I am sure,’ Mrs Ragner was telling herself, ‘I am sure this woman is feeling her position very keenly.’ Once more she smiled at Mrs Fury, but the tall woman on the chair did not respond. Her expression was beginning to affect the lady opposite. There were some more questions to ask. She began stroking her hair, looking directly at Mrs Fury, as though putting her under a sort of final survey. This woman had a fine face, and in addition she wore a hat. And now she didn’t like that face, she was even jealous of it. Nature had been unkind to her. It had given this begging woman something she could never have. No. All her clients wore shawls, this one opposite wore a hat. Well, from now on she would proceed to forget that the woman was there. She would ignore her. She turned to Maureen, leaning over the table, her hands clasped together:
‘Supposing for some reason your husband’s position as guarantor should fail. Have you any furniture that would cover the amount advanced to your mother, that is to say, have you furniture of the value of this loan and entirely your own? Or, on the other hand, have you valuables of any kind. Insurance Policies? You see, it is necessary to ask you these questions. I have to accept your husband’s signature for the twenty pounds, or I have to refuse it. I do not wish to do that, however.’
Her figure swayed in the chair. Now the time had come to recognize that Mrs Fury, ‘a tall striking woman’, was also in the room. And it seemed that the only preliminary necessary was another smile. That fixed expression, that tense passionate face, called for one. She turned her head and looked at Mrs Fury
. Smiling, she asked in a low voice, ‘Are you in great need of the money?’
Mrs Fury did not move. Something like a bell seemed to strike in her mind. More questions. When would it end? ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am in need of it.’
‘Very much?’
‘Yes.’ The woman placed her hands on the table and repeated her reply. ‘Yes,’ she said.
Maureen had suddenly placed her hands on her stomach. She felt a pain coming. She seemed to crouch in her chair. She could see neither Mrs Ragner nor her mother. She thought, ‘Serve her right. She comes here and expects the money to be put into her hand right away.’ Mrs Anna Ragner now leaned so close over the table that Mrs Fury drew back in her chair. It wasn’t the woman’s face that made her do it, only her breath. It smelt strongly of onions. ‘Would it be too much if I asked why you require the money?’
‘To pay bills,’ Mrs Fury said. ‘God!’ she cried in her mind. ‘Even Aunt Brigid would have been better than this.’ But it was no use refusing now. She daren’t. Her whole soul thrilled to the possibility of paying those Authorities.
‘I see,’ Mrs Ragner said.
She got up from the table. Maureen got up too. Mrs Fury remained seated. ‘Will that be all? I shall give you this note. If Mr Kilkey will sign it I shall be pleased to accommodate your mother with the loan.’ She saw Mrs Fury’s lips begin to tremble, and made sure she was going to speak, but she only turned away towards the door, seeing nothing now save Mr Joseph Kilkey’s big hand wielding a pen as long as himself, and scratching his name on the document. ‘Perhaps you could bring me the note tomorrow,’ Mrs Ragner said.
They had passed out of the room, and were standing in the hall. Mr Corkran had now appeared. He stood looking at them, one hand holding the banister. His half-closed eyes rested on Mrs Fury’s face. They said, ‘Who are you? Where have you come from? You do not belong to these parts. I would like to know more about you.’ Mrs Fury, quite unconscious of these eyes staring at her, was measuring the hall with her eye and thinking that the paper which covered it was disgracefully dirty. A rather peculiar sort of house.
‘Corkran,’ Mrs Ragner said, ‘see these people out.’ She motioned to the door. Mr Corkran, in opening it, had pressed his face close to Mrs Fury’s. The woman shut her eyes. ‘It’s a dirty night, ma’am,’ Mr Corkran said. But Mrs Fury made no reply. She was putting her foot on the step when her daughter ran back up the hall and caught Mrs Ragner’s arm.
‘Please, Mrs Ragner,’ she said, ‘my mother is ill. Would it be all right if she sends my brother up for the money?’ For the first time she seemed to see in this figure dressed in a serge costume a living woman.
‘Provided your husband signs this note, and that your mother understands that the principal to be repaid must be at the rate of one pound per week, the interest two and sixpence. That is to say, the weekly payments will be twenty-two and sixpence. Where the principal returned is at the rate of fifteen shillings weekly, this interest will be three shillings a week.’
‘Yes, yes! I understand. Thank you, Mrs Ragner.’
Maureen felt that pain again. The hall was deserted. For some reason or other Mr Corkran had struck a match and was guiding her mother down the long gravel path. Mrs Ragner had gone into her room. The young woman bent down and held her stomach, saying, ‘Oh! Oh!’ Then she went out into the path. She hurried down to the gate and joined her mother. The tall man passed her.
‘Good-night,’ he said, but Maureen did not answer him. She caught her mother’s arm, saying:
‘Let us hurry. It is late, Mother.’
‘Maureen, you have been kind, coming all this way with me. And I don’t know how to thank Joe for his kindness. I really don’t.’
‘We mustn’t talk about it any more,’ Maureen said.
Mrs Fury had been glad of the rest. Once she had actually fallen asleep, to wake up at the sound of Mrs Ragner’s rings scraping the table. Well, it was over, thank heaven. She looked at her daughter and said:
‘Will there be any more questions to answer?’
‘No, no! No more questions to answer.’ Mrs Kilkey wanted to fall down again, to grip her body, to roll from side to side; anything to appease these pains.
‘Are you all right, child?’
‘Yes! Here’s the hill. The rest is easy.’
They did not speak to each other until they came in sight of Bellman’s Theatre. A troop of soldiers were galloping along the main Harbour Road.
‘How late it is, Maureen!’
‘Then hurry!’ Maureen cried. She was feeling desperate. She only wanted to get home, to undress, to lie on her bed. To be alone.
She felt her mother’s arm glide round her waist.
‘I know you’re not well, Maureen. I shall never forgive myself if anything happens.’
‘Oh! Don’t start that, please! For God’s sake! You’ll get your money. Don’t worry,’ said Maureen. She was angry. It was the pain, and not her spirit, that had spoken.
‘Here we are!’ Mrs Fury said. ‘King’s Road.’
She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her. In a few minutes she would be in Hatfields. She hadn’t minded the walk, the questions. It had been worth it. She hoped Denny would have some tea ready when she got in. This nearness to home made her feel drowsy again. She had been on her feet since seven o’clock that morning.
Maureen was almost panting now. They had reached Price Street.
‘At last,’ she said. ‘Good-night, Mother! Don’t stop. The soldiers are out, and it’s not wise to stay out at this time of night. I have a key, and in any case Joe will be in.’
‘Good-night.’ Mrs Fury kissed her daughter. ‘Good-night.’ Then they went their ways, Maureen down Price Street, Mrs Fury across the road and round to Hatfields. When she reached the house she put her hand in the hole of the wall to get the key, but already the door was open. Mr Fury had placed a mat behind it.
‘He must have gone to bed,’ she thought. But Dennis Fury was sitting in the kitchen when she went in.
‘Oh! Hello! Here you are! I thought you were never coming,’ Mr Fury said. He was sitting in front of the fire, and he did not turn his head when he spoke.
‘You needn’t have waited for me,’ she said. ‘You could have gone to bed.’
‘I wasn’t waiting for you,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘I’m waiting for the lad to come in.’
‘What! He isn’t in! How long has he been out?’ she asked. ‘Denny, you ought to know it’s dangerous for the boy to be out at this time of night – what with these soldiers riding about the streets … A man was shot dead in the Instone district tonight!’ She took off her coat and flung it on the sofa.
‘I got some supper ready,’ Mr Fury said.
She couldn’t eat it now. She only wanted a cup of tea. She was worried about Peter.
‘He may have gone to the show,’ Mr Fury said.
‘Show! What show? He hasn’t money for shows.’
‘How do you know? Suppose his Aunt Brigid gave him something for his pocket. Always does. Lousy old devil! There she is stuck in old Pettigrew’s, and never even came round to see how you were getting on.’ He poked the fire into flame.
‘You left the bucket in the middle of the floor,’ he went on. ‘Fell over the bloody thing. Spent half an hour mopping it up.’
‘Peter is late, wherever he’s gone! I wish you would speak to him about this. I’m going to bed.’
‘Then go,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Go! You must be tired, I’m sure.’ She laughed, seeing him go through the kitchen door. Yes. He must be tired. Then she leaned on the table, her fingers still holding the cup. Her head dropped. She was fast asleep. The front door was pushed in, but she did not hear it. Now it closed – the mat was being straightened out in the lobby. Peter came in. He sat down and looked at his mother.
‘Poor Mother!’ he said. Mrs Fury was snoring softly over her tea-cup.
2
At seven o’clock in the morning Desmond Fury had got up and dressed. He had
slept badly; he went below and lit the gas, then he put the kettle on and decided to shave whilst it boiled. He stood in the middle of the kitchen rubbing his huge head; he would like to have gone back to bed again, but he could not very well do that. He had a most important engagement. His mind was befogged, he had the heavy head of a man who has spent a rather bibulous night. But Desmond Fury did not drink. He was in a bad temper, he was in a desperate hurry, and he was suspicious. He felt exasperated, this suspicion had come so suddenly. What was he suspicious about? He did not really know. ‘Hang it all!’ he exclaimed under his breath; ‘people only talk, people are really bastards!’ Upstairs his wife was peacefully sleeping. He looked at his watch. H’m! He must be at the corner of Ash Walk by half-past eight in order to join three other delegates from the branch, Mr O’Hare, Mr Cruickshank, and Mr Stevens. They had to be in Garton by eleven; would they manage it? He began to shave, whistling a popular tune as he applied the lather. When he finished, the kettle was boiling madly on the stove. He made some tea, then some toast over the stove. He carried the things to the table and sat down to breakfast. In his hurry he had cut his chin. Now the blood dripped on the toast, and he flung it into the grate, cursing. He looked at the cold grate. This morning she could light the fire for a change. Usually before he went out to work he took Sheila a cup of tea. This morning it never occurred to him to do so. His thoughts were occupied with but one thing. The journey to Garton. The situation was getting worse, so it seemed to Desmond. Was all his work just running to waste? Night after night spent at the branch rooms, arranging meetings, canvassings, keeping the books, collecting the subs. Was this a waste of time? No. It was worth it. As he supped his tea he counted the days and the months and the years he had spent in the cause. Yes, sometimes he did think it was all hopeless. However, he had set his mind upon this thing and he was not going to lose his chance. By God, no! This strike was his opportunity, it might not come again. ‘I’ll fling the damned hammer into the Augth. To hell with it! Yes, and Vulcan Street can go to hell. For all I care, Vulcan Street can sink into the earth.’ He had served his apprenticeship. Others could pick up plums, why should not he? He pushed away his cup and began pacing up and down the kitchen. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes; his blue overcoat, well brushed, lay over the arm of the chair. ‘I must think about it,’ he said suddenly, then sat down again. He poured out some tea, holding the cup firmly in his strong fingers.
