The Furys

by James Hanley

  ‘They want gingering up,’ he said aloud. ‘Yes, they want gingering up.’

  There came to his mind a perfect picture of that Sunday meeting – a fiasco, a disaster. The word ‘Solidarity’ began to ring loudly in his ears. He laughed. Solidarity! They didn’t seem to know what the word meant. What use asking for solidarity – when one half of the workers were in disagreement with the other half? Yes, they had been fools. Was there no way of controlling the element that hung leech-like to their tails, that caused dissension, that thought of nothing but destruction, of acts of sabotage, of looting? Of course, they had walked right into the trap. Right into the damned trap. And now they were dribbling back to work in ones and twos. The miners were standing fast – they always did – but the others, the railmen, the tram-men, the factory workers – here they were slinking back to work. What was one to make of the damned business? Who was to blame for all this? He laughed aloud. A pretty question. The more he thought about it, the more urgent that journey to Garton was.

  Here was a powerful limb of the city, a veritable stronghold, beginning to crack up. If they lose this strike, all his years of work were wasted. No. It won’t be lost. They just daren’t lose it. Throw them back years. Good God! Were they to continue building this foundation without effect, without reward? It was like trying to build a castle on sand. He wiped his mouth with his hand and got up from the table. Ten minutes to eight. Plenty of time. Now he must go upstairs. He filled a cup with tea, and suddenly thought, ‘What the devil?’ and poured it back into the pot. He sat down and began lacing his boots. ‘Huh!’ he said aloud, and rising to his feet left the kitchen. He climbed the stairs, making a great noise with his heavy boots. He stood outside the bedroom door. The house was wrapped in silence. ‘Of course!’ he said, turned the knob of the door and silently entered the room. He closed it, and stood looking towards the bed. Yes. In that bed lay the cause of his suspicion. Was it a joke? People tell tales, of course. Or had this business just begun since the strike? He smiled. ‘I won’t believe it! I won’t even harbour the thought.’ He tiptoed to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping woman. Desmond Fury, looking at his wife, now forgot Mr O’Hare and Co. They had faded out. The word ‘Solidarity’ no longer rang in his ears, nor the three hoots upon Mr O’Hare’s motor-horn. He heard nothing but the gentle breathing of this woman. Here was something that stood outside strikes – outside of the world itself. Here in bed was something dream-like. He bent down and looked into her face. It was calm and peaceful, like that of a child. ‘Yes. People are bastards! They only talk.’ Smiling, he placed a hand upon her shoulder, and said, ‘Wake up.’

  Mrs Fury lay diagonally across the bed, her long hair billowing up like foam at one side of the pillow. Her mouth was partly open, so that he glimpsed her small teeth. One long arm hung over the side of the bed, the other rested with a sort of protecting gesture against her breast. The bed-clothes were drawn up to her neck. There was something languorous and provocative about her as she lay there, unconscious of the presence of her husband, that huge man now bent over the bed and seeming to ransack her inert body by the intensity of his gaze. He shook her gently again, saying:

  ‘Wake up, Sheila! It’s me! I’m going away now. Come! Wake up!’ As she opened her eyes she saw this huge face close to her own, and she saw a mouth. She opened wide her eyes. Now that face appeared to be all mouth, and it looked as though it were ready to swallow her. When Desmond said softly, ‘How nice you are!’ she saw his big teeth quite clearly. He put out his tongue and licked her lips. ‘How nice you are!’ he repeated. The woman immediately turned over on her side, saying scoldingly:

  ‘Please don’t do that! I have asked you not to. I hate it!’ She buried her face in the clothes.

  ‘I’m going to Garton,’ Desmond said. ‘Have you any money? Say three shillings?’ Again he put out his tongue, and as she turned over he caught her head with his right hand, drew it to his arm, and stroked her half-open mouth with his tongue.

  ‘Don’t!’ the woman said. She sat up in the bed. He saw the pear-shaped breasts bulging against her night-dress. ‘When are you going to Garton?’ she asked. She gathered up her hair and added, ‘Get me some pins from the table, please.’ Her eyes rested for a moment upon his broad back as he bent over the table, searching for pins. He picked them up, and as he straightened up looked at himself in the glass.

  ‘You look very nice,’ Sheila said; ‘now give me the pins.’ Desmond was looking at his wife through the mirror. His own face seemed not to interest him. He handed the hairpins to his wife. ‘Thank you!’ Sheila said, and pinned her hair.

  ‘I’m going in ten minutes,’ Desmond said. He sat down on the bed, and placed one of his large hands at the back of the woman’s neck. She moved her head, saying, ‘Why?’ Then she pushed his hand away. Desmond put it back again, saying, ‘You mustn’t push it away like that, Sheila. It’s mine; and I don’t like it.’ He smiled. The clock in the kitchen struck eight. He looked at his watch. ‘Fast,’ he said. He leaned nearer the woman in the bed, and allowed his eyes to rest upon her parted lips. ‘On the other hand, I don’t think I shall go,’ he said quickly, and studied her face. But it registered nothing. Neither surprise nor disappointment. ‘Pure imagination,’ thought Desmond. The face revealed nothing. Yes. People only talked. What would they do if they couldn’t talk? Go mad, he supposed.

  ‘What will you do when I go?’ he asked. ‘I know it’s useless asking you to come with me.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t be interested,’ Sheila replied. The man suddenly changed his position so that his body lay slantingly across the bed, its bulk resting upon the woman’s legs. He lay on his back, his face upturned, so that it lay just beneath that of his wife. He could see her white neck, with the delicate blue veins patterning its cream-like surface. He could see her chin, her parted lips that reminded him of a flower petal. Above this he saw the delicate line of her nose. Her nostrils seemed to quiver. The breast rose and fell to her quiet breathing. He saw her eyes, and above them the forehead. She was lovely to look at.

  Sheila Fury, having arranged her hair, lay back against the bed-rail. As she did so, Desmond Fury moved his head forward as though he would kiss her, but he did not. He resumed his old position, the eyes again fastening upon the upward sweep of her beauty. He liked looking at her like that. The woman put her hands behind her head. ‘What do you expect I shall do?’ she asked petulantly. ‘Throw a fit?’

  ‘No!’ It was almost a snarl. ‘You certainly won’t do that,’ he said. ‘You’ll go out instead.’

  ‘Well?’ She stroked his face with her right hand. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘What else!’ he growled. ‘You’ll go out! But that isn’t the question though, is it?’

  He had raised his face, and because he knew it irritated her, and because he derived a certain pleasure from it, he stuck out his tongue and stroked her chin with the tip of it. Mrs Fury smiled. She could not help it, feeling this great dog’s hot tongue licking about her chin. But with the smile Desmond drew it in again, closed his mouth, and raised his head still higher. In this position he could see into his wife’s nostrils. She felt his hot breath upon her face.

  ‘Yes!’ he said, suddenly sitting up. ‘Yes, where do you go off to?’ He caught her hands and squeezed them, drawing them down from behind her head. ‘Aye,’ he added. ‘Aye. Where do you?’

  ‘You know where I go. You know what I do,’ she said. ‘I’m honest enough to say so.’

  Then he dropped her hands. He tore open her dress-body, and said sharply, ‘Yes, where?’

  ‘What about it?’

  Mrs Fury did not lose her smile. She remained cool, calm, collected. She began stroking the back of her husband’s hand. The hairs tickled her flesh.

  ‘You still love me?’ she said.

  ‘Never mind that! Answer my question.’ Desmond began to shout. He drew up his knees.

  ‘I go out to see my friends,’ Sheila said. She began feeling his
chin, and rested her fingers on the spot of plaster. ‘Darling, you’ve cut yourself.’ She bent her head and kissed his cut chin. Her lips seemed like silk rubbing against his hard face.

  ‘Who are these friends?’ he asked heatedly.

  ‘Who are yours?’ came the reply. ‘You are never in. Your ambition has gone to your head.’ She burst out laughing. ‘What is the matter with you, darling?’ she said softly. She leaned heavily on him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he growled. ‘Nothing.’ He appeared like a sulky schoolboy. His mood had changed. Thoughts sank, suspicion was clouded out. He saw only a woman lying in the bed. His woman. A body. His body.

  ‘Then, why wait? You’ll be late,’ said Sheila sharply. She pouted her lips, then stuck out her tongue and made a noise at him. ‘Yes! You’ll be late. Mustn’t be late.’

  Desmond gripped her hair and drew her head down upon his knee. He pressed her face to her breast. ‘I never ask you questions, do I, Sheila?’

  The woman shook her head. No, he never asked her any questions.

  ‘I never asked you where you came from. Who you were. I just took you. You know why.’

  He kissed her passionately. The woman closed her eyes.

  He blew gently upon her face. ‘Open them,’ he said. ‘Open them and look at me. I never asked you about the past, did I?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She raised her arms and clasped them around his neck.

  ‘It doesn’t interest me. Understand?’ He laughed, saying, ‘Darling, what do you do when I go out? Please tell me. I love you! Please tell me.’

  ‘Whilst you spend your energy at street corners?’ she questioned him.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I spend my time just thinking how foolish you are.’ She laughed again. She knew her husband so well. She knew him inside out. Now, she was telling herself, her big dog was beginning to get annoyed. She could almost feel the rage stirring in him.

  ‘Never mind that. I married you. You’re my wife. ‘Where do you go at night?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Do you want me to believe that?’ he growled. His face wore a sullen expression, an expression that seemed momentarily to darken the texture of his skin.

  ‘Don’t pinch my arm, you fool!’ she shouted at him. What was it that she could fling against this strength? What was it she could use against this huge dog, this sullen brute? What weapon?

  She raised herself up. ‘What is the matter with Desmond, I wonder? I wonder? But perhaps he wants something. Is that it?’ She stroked his hair with her hands.

  ‘I only want to know where you go. People are talking. I don’t want to know anything of what you used to do; only what you do now.

  ‘Sheila!’ He flung her back upon the bed and knelt over her. ‘Sheila! I love you madly. Forgive me. I won’t ask you any more questions. I love you madly.’

  ‘How nice!’ she said, opening her arms to him. ‘How nice, big dog!’

  ‘But no matter where you go, you’re my wife, eh?’ he said, grinning at her. He pulled open her gown and cupped her breasts in the hollow of his huge hand. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘I love you. A minute.’

  She drew the gown over her head and lay back staring up at her husband.

  ‘Yes, I love you.’

  The woman drew his head down, and whispered into his ear, ‘Darling – do you? But isn’t my big Desmond silly asking all these questions? Isn’t he a funny boy? Come, you know what you want. Are you still ambitious, darling?’ Her mouth tickled his ear, but he did not feel it. He heard nothing but the breathing of the woman on the bed. The spout of desire sucked up his thought. His blood sang. Feeling his body grow limp, she said softly, ‘Get up! You know you’ll be late.’

  The man raised his head. Already she was pushing him away. ‘You love me, don’t you, Sheila?’ he said. The expression upon his face was bovine, his thick lips were parted, he breathed heavily.

  ‘Stay!’ she said. ‘The cause of the workers is going to your head.’

  She knew he would rise from the bed, and go downstairs, and hurry out. She knew this as well as she knew her own finger.

  Desmond Fury had got off the bed. He stood in a corner of the room dressing.

  ‘I’m going now,’ he said. He walked back to the bed, leaned down and said, ‘Kiss me.’ There was something bestial and cunning about his grin. His grin said, ‘You are mine. I love you. When I come back your body will still be here. It will always be here. That maddening, everlasting flesh.’

  Below in the kitchen the clock struck the half-hour.

  ‘I’ll be late!’ he shouted, and rushed from the room. His heavy tread made the stairs creak. He drew on his overcoat. He felt happy, exhilarated. Then he laughed. ‘Ha ha! People are only bastards. They’re only jealous.’ That experience had been ecstatic. It clouded out those tormenting thoughts of his. She still loved him. Ah! Now he could conquer everything. What had been worrying him? A little boy wearing a nice clean collar. ‘Huh!’ he said. ‘Huh!’ and began flinging some things into his cheap attaché-case. No! The wise thing was never to ask questions. It was silly. He loved her too much, and by God! if he kept asking them she might go away. He mustn’t. People only talk. Nothing mattered but that he loved her – now – his wife. His slow ponderous mind harboured suspicion no longer. Let her go out! It only harboured a dread fear that she might cease to love him. ‘To hell with people!’ he cried in his mind. Why set in motion the wheel of the past? He had taken her from the strand in Ireland because he loved her. No. He didn’t care if she came from Hell itself. And she would be there when he got back. He laughed as he closed his attaché-case. ‘People are bastards,’ he muttered. ‘But they’re only jealous of her loveliness, that’s all. Yes, she is lovely to me, and, by Christ, I shall kill anybody who comes between us.’ The door banged. He hurried down Vulcan Street whistling loudly. Mrs Fury could hear him as he went down the street. She lay back in the bed, and covered her head with the clothes. She began to cry. In the night she had been dreaming of her father, and another man who wore a beard. She fell asleep stroking this beard. Number seven Vulcan Street was wrapped in silence.

  ‘Will I be in time?’ Desmond was asking himself as he turned the corner into King’s Road. He looked at his gun-metal watch again. Mustn’t be late. Mustn’t disappoint them. That would upset his plans. He hoped they would get Williams down to Garton. That was very important indeed. Already he could see himself on the Executive Committee, saying good-bye to duties at the branch rooms. Desmond was smiling. There was an optimistic spring in his very step. ‘You are a happy man,’ his body appeared to say. Funny that, seeing these soldiers returning to barracks from a night patrol of the streets, he should think of that hammer. ‘Ah! I’ll fling that to hell,’ he said. He had now reached Ash Walk, in which stood the chapel of St Sebastian. Ash Walk was a small street, containing but a dozen houses, St Sebastian’s taking up the opposite side. Well, the car wasn’t there. He had better wait. Impossible for them to have been and gone. Mr O’Hare was no such punctual gentleman. As he came slowly down the Walk two old women came out of the chapel and passed him. He knew them. They turned their heads away. Desmond sat down on a doorstep. They wouldn’t be long now. He looked across at the sleepy-looking chapel, with its comical steeple. Once on a time he had rung the Angelus in that belfry. But that was a long time ago. He had given up all that sort of thing. Fairy tales. He smiled. He folded his arms and leaned back against the door. His eyes followed the line of the steeple until they reached the weather-vane. But his thoughts had gone further. They had passed over the roof, dragging Desmond Fury in their wake. He could see himself a small boy at school, singing in the choir, going collecting with Father Coghlan. ‘Ah!’ he thought. ‘What times those were!’ His father was at sea. He used to go to the shipping office once a month with his mother. He had wanted to stay on at school. But that couldn’t be. His mother had stood by him, but his father was adamant. It couldn’t be done. Then he had wanted to go to his grandfather in Ireland, an
d again to Ohio to his uncle. Childish ambitions. Silly. Yes, he remembered those times. ‘I liked those times,’ Desmond thought. ‘We were happy.’ The family income was twelve and sixpence a week. He remembered leaving school and going to work in a timber yard for six shillings a week, hours six to six. He bought his first fishing-rod. Maureen went to work in a draper’s shop. The family income increased to twenty-three and sixpence a week. ‘Happy times,’ he was thinking. Suddenly, for no reason whatever, his father had deserted his ship and gone tramping in a large continent called the United States of America. He remembered exactly just how his mother had looked when at the shipping office they told her there was no money for her. He used to read the letters sent to his father.

  ‘Dear Denny, – We are very happy. We get your two pounds ten each month. It’s wonderful. I only hope the work isn’t too hard.’

  ‘And his father’s reply, ‘Not a bit – but the grub’s lousy.’

  ‘Yes, that tramp in the States,’ Desmond was thinking, ‘that tramp was the beginning of it all.’ Maureen went to work at a jute works. He, Desmond, had got sacked from his job. They were living on five and fourpence a week, but they were happy. His mother went out to work. It helped. Not a line from Mr Fury. And she had always kept them fed, clothed them. Kept them clean. Ah! through all that time his mother had never lost faith. Never lost faith! It shone brightly over the house. And John was coming along. ‘Poor Mother!’ Desmond said. Then a letter had come out of the blue. It was from Mr Fury. He was working in a rigging gang in one of the big Ohio yards. Not a penny came with the letter. ‘I’m on the ice,’ he wrote. Desmond rose to his feet, and began walking up and down the walk. On the ice. Aye, his father had been a real harum-scarum and no mistake. They had come through. Mother had sailed them along splendidly. The man gave a sigh, and his large brutal face took on an expression of tenderness and compassion, as though the thought itself had patterned it. ‘Poor Mother!’ he said. He thought of his sister, of her awakening nature, and he thought of the man at the jute factory. ‘The Beast’ they called him. ‘Well, that was over and done with. ‘Dear me!’ he exclaimed aloud. ‘Dear me! How one’s mind can carry one away!’ He looked down the Walk. Not a soul in sight. ‘Aye! And here we are!’ He spoke aloud, as though addressing the chapel. ‘Here we are! Still in the same old place.’ Why had he come out so early? Now he came to think of it, he needn’t have hurried. Peter came to his mind. ‘How right I was! Mother backed a loser once again.’ He had expected to see a rosy-cheeked boy wearing a nice Eton collar, and he had discovered a man almost as big as himself. ‘Well, well, he must be getting very fond of me all of a sudden. I must get him to bring my rods from Hatfields. Yes. We must go fishing together again.’ He walked to the top of the Walk and looked up and down the road. Were they coming? Nearly nine o’clock. Surely they hadn’t been and left? If they were to be at Garton by noon they would have to get a move on, always assuming that Mr O’Hare’s bone-rattler would be equal to the task. Mr O’Hare’s broken-down old motor had materialized out of the subs from funds. The branch was growing. They decided to buy this derelict car and use it in the furtherance of their work. The only person capable of driving it was Mr O’Hare. His mind became occupied now by the events of the past few days. The possibilities were that this stoppage might break up all of a sudden. ‘They want gingering up,’ he said to himself, ‘gingering up.’ But where on earth was the car? Had they cancelled the plans? Had the motor broken down? He became worried. Nine o’clock. He sat down on the step again, pulled a note-book and pencil from his pocket and began to write.