by James Hanley
‘It’s nothing!’ He shouted this, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing.’ He felt like a small child now, ashamed and angry in her presence. He experienced a feeling of revulsion. He could almost feel, with a sudden fear, that old sliminess creeping upon him. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
This time the woman did not answer him. She was dressing quickly. ‘Light a candle, Peter,’ she said. ‘I can’t see.’
He struck a match and began to search about for a candle. He found a stub on the mantelshelf and lighted it. ‘What time is it?’ he asked, and crossing the room, stood behind her, watching her tie up her hair. She smiled at him through the mirror. Again he was looking at her heavy mouth, that mouth which seemed to everlastingly mock the upper part of her face. Where did she come from? He didn’t care. Who was she? He didn’t want to know. Where did she go every night, and why did she always sit by herself on the shore? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He placed his arms on her shoulders and drew her head back. ‘Kiss me,’ he said.
But the woman only put out her tongue. ‘Funny boy!’ she said.
Now he felt hurt. He said, ‘I’m not a boy, Sheila. They all think that.’ He relaxed his hold on her.
‘Who are all?’ She placed a comb in her hair. ‘Who are all?’ she asked again.
‘Everybody.’
‘Oh!’ She turned round and flung her arms about him. ‘Well, you are funny,’ she said. Peter laughed.
They went downstairs. Sheila was going out again. Where was she going? He didn’t care. He was happy now. He watched her make up the fire. He wanted to say, ‘When is Desmond coming home?’ Instead, he merely said, ‘Can I come again, Sheila?’
The woman went up to him, and placing her fingers under his chin said, ‘Not when Desmond is here.’
‘Well, then.’ He looked appealingly at her, and now she realized why he had come. Her intuition told her with a flash.
‘We will go out on Sunday. Will that do?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘On Sunday, on Sunday.’
‘Unless Desmond stays in.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he shouted. He caught her in his arms. ‘I love you, Sheila,’ he whispered in her ear. Then he shouted again, ‘All that doesn’t matter.’
‘Be quiet! What is the matter with you? Don’t you know there are people next door?’ She put her hand over his mouth.
‘I don’t care!’ he shouted through her spread fingers.
‘If you love me, you must,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, you had better go.’ She stood by the door, as if waiting for him to go. For nearly a minute they were silent, the woman leaning against the dresser, the boy standing under the gas-bracket. There was the door, and there was Sheila. And beyond it there was the street, and darkness. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to lose sight of her for a moment. He made a quick rush to the dresser.
‘Let me go with you, please.’
‘Are you mad?’ She pushed him away, and going to the kitchen door said, ‘Please go. This way. Do you love me or not?’
‘Yes, yes. But can’t I go with you?’
She pushed Peter towards the door. ‘Peter, go now. Only until Sunday. Please!’ The situation seemed to have taken a ludicrous turn. She burst into a fit of laughter. Then she gave his mouth a fleeting kiss. ‘Sunday. At the bottom of Dacre Road. About half-past six.’
‘You promise?’
‘Yes.’
‘Honest and truly?’
‘Yes, funny boy. Now go.’ She watched his tall form go down the yard. As soon as the back door closed she went down the yard and bolted it. Then she returned to the kitchen, turned low the gas, and went out by the front door. This she closed silently behind her, by turning the key in the lock. A moment later she had been swallowed up in the darkness.
Outside the back door Peter was still standing. He felt as though his feet were rooted to the ground. He shivered with cold, the darkness only appeared to clothe him, for that experience in the bedroom seemed to have left him naked. This curious feeling of being unclothed grew stronger as he walked, so that once he actually felt his body in order to make sure about it. He stood for a while in the bottom of the entry. Then he went along and into the street. And now he didn’t care. He knew she loved him. She must love him to have done that. He leaned against a wall, and caressed its cold surface with his hot hand. ‘Damn!’ he cried. ‘Damn!’ ‘Well, it has only begun, my boy, it has only begun. It’s a long journey, and educating all the way. You will go again and again. She can’t help it. But come and see me some time too. In your presence I experienced the most extraordinary feelings. I …’ Peter started to run, but the voice sounded louder in his ears. ‘What did I tell you? That flashing light, eh? It clouds out everything. Ha ha! Yes, it clouds out everything. I am tremendously interested in social rottenness, my boy. Yes, run! Run for your life. You haven’t the lovely light to hide behind now. And that fountain of blood keeps bursting up, taking fire, that burning sword. Have you learned nothing from that act, my boy? Ah! …’
At the corner of Hatfields Peter stopped. ‘There is no need to run, my friend, she is in no hurry. Besides, she is very busy. Yes, she is varnishing those chairs.’ Peter took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He was sweating. ‘Damn!’ he cried into the darkness. It was as though this man had come alive, had emerged from the web of his dream, and now rode him pick-a-back, driving him on. ‘Go away!’ he cried. ‘God! Go away. Leave me alone.’
‘Ha ha! The first reaction is always one of revulsion, my boy. But you’ll overcome that. I still look askance at your callousness, but you are young. Your ideals are stinking in the heap. No matter, you can still laugh, and that Black Bull will bellow later on. Ah, my boy, you have been educated the wrong way round, but as I say, you are young.’
Peter remained standing at the bottom of Hatfields. He heard the tramway clock strike. ‘Shall I go in?’ he was thinking. ‘No.’ He walked back down Hatfields, and turning into Price Street, walked slowly up, stopping to look at the darkened number thirty-five. Maureen didn’t matter anyhow. He didn’t care if he never saw her any more. And Sheila was nicer. His sister was hardened, coarse, and she was having a baby. He laughed, thinking, ‘Soon I shall be an uncle.’ Somebody had stopped in front of him. ‘Hello!’ the man said.
The boy looked up. At first he could not distinguish the figure in the darkened street. Then the man laughed. Why! Of course! It was George Postlethwaite. Dapper little George Postlethwaite with whom he had used to play ‘tally-ho’. Like Peter, George was bareheaded.
‘Well, did you find anybody in?’ asked George. He noticed that Peter was trembling.
‘Yes, oh yes. I – I’m just going home. Which way are you going?’
George turned his head, and pointing with his finger said, ‘I’m just going down to the stables to see my horse. Doin’ anything? Would you like to come?’
‘Oh yes!’ Peter said. ‘I’ll go. Which way?’
They moved off, George looking into the other’s face, saying, ‘Aye, laddie, it seems a long time since my old man chased you up Hatfields with that brass rod of his. And those games of “tally-ho”. Ever remember them?’
Peter’s face became wreathed in smiles. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It only seems like yesterday, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘And aye, but you’ve grown a rare wopper, Peter my lad. D’you like being home again?’ He adjusted the chain that hung over his shoulders.
‘Not much,’ Peter said.
They turned into Ash Walk, and walked its length without speaking. Then George said, ‘Just at the back of those houses.’ He slackened his pace. ‘How’s yer dad an’ yer mam? All right?’
‘Yes, thanks – oh, listen!’
George laughed. ‘Aye, the old un knows when I’m coming. You bet. It’s been a bit of a mucksweat what with this ‘ere strike and those bloody balm-pots going off the top. Silly sods! Here we are.’
They stopped in front of a big red gate, and George took from his p
ocket a large key, to which was attached a square of wood. ‘Got any matches?’ He unlocked the gate. Peter followed him into the yard. He searched for matches, but George shouted, as from far away, ‘Got mine – it’s all right.’ He struck a match, and the yard revealed itself for a moment. Then the match went out. Mr Postlethwaite was unlocking another door. ‘Here we are,’ he said. Peter followed him inside. The smell of hay and horse-stole filled the air. In the darkness he could not see the great roan mare, but he sensed her, he could almost swear he was touching her. George lighted a hurricane lamp and hung it on the nail. ‘There she is! Hey, Nabob, old girl.’ The mare was lying down, but as George approached her she struggled to her feet. ‘Isn’t she great?’ he said. The roan had turned round and put her head against George’s shoulder. Her large gentle eyes looked out at Peter, questioning, as though she were asking, ‘Who are you?’ ‘Come over,’ George said. Peter stroked her head and then her nose. He could feel her warmth against his body. ‘Best roan mare in the country,’ George said. ‘Mr Dimmock, by gosh, he isn’t half proud of her. Taking prizes all the year round, and gettin’ any price for her foals. You’re a beauty, aren’t you, Nabob?’ Nabob’s ears seemed to dance about on her head. ‘Get that stool, laddie, and sit down,’ said George. ‘Just behind you.’ Peter sat down on the stool. He looked at George standing there, the roan’s head resting over his shoulder. There was something in the attitude of both man and beast that touched him. The lamp shone down upon them. ‘Aye,’ said George, as he began stroking the roan again. ‘Ever you want a real friend, Peter, you just take a horse. Better’n any human being. And I know. Me and Nabob’s been together for years now. Haven’t we, Nabob?’ The mare put her mouth to George’s head, and began rubbing his hair, and there seemed something mischievous in those large eyes. Nabob was indeed enjoying herself. She was having an enforced holiday. Outside in the big yard stood the lorry she pulled, its wheels rusted from recent rains. George let go his hold of the mare and went up and looked into her manger. ‘This holiday isn’t doing you much good, old girl,’ he said. ‘You’re getting too fat.’ He drew some hay down from the loft, and put it into the rack.
‘Does she stay here all the time?’ asked Peter.
‘Oh aye,’ replied George, ‘but every morning I take her out, not in the shafts, of course. I take her out for a little walk. I come down twice a day.’ He had turned his back on the mare, who was now feeding contentedly. He drew a box from the wall and sat down on it, so that the light from the lantern shone full in his face. ‘What a funny little fellow George is!’ Peter was thinking, as he looked into Mr Postlethwaite’s weather-beaten face. One had only to look at him once to realize that George was a contented man who had no responsibilities and no worries, beyond Anne at home and the roan. ‘Why don’t you come and see us some time?’ began George. ‘Mother was only saying the other day, “What a size Peter Fury’s got!” You must come and see us. You know where I live, anyhow. Next to Desmond. Aye, he’s a mad un, your brother is.’ He began drumming on the box with his stubby fingers.
Peter sat up. ‘How d’you mean, he’s a mad un?’ he asked.
‘Well, look at him. Out all the while. Gone to Garton now. Speaking there. Aye, every day he is out. And when he’s working on the length he goes out in the evening. But I never did see anything in all this blather about socialism. Workers are only bloody mugs, I know, but when a fellow starts going off his onion about socialism, well … ever heard your brother speaking?’
‘No,’ said Peter. He made himself comfortable on the stool.
‘And his missus is never in, either. Funny pair. Still, when a fellow goes off like that, what can you expect any woman to do? I used to hear them arguing the fat at night. Sometimes Anne and me couldn’t get to sleep for it.’
‘Where does she go to, then?’ asked Peter, and there was no doubt whatever by the way he looked at Mr Postlethwaite that he expected to hear something which might whet his curiosity. But George was non-committal.
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘People talk, of course. I heard somebody say the other day that she goes to a house in town every night. Reckon your Desmond picked up a tartar when he married her. Your mam was in a way. Aye, no mistake about it. They had a fine row. I was at Mother’s that day. You never heard anything like it. Carried on like billy-o. I like your mam,’ he went on. ‘And Mother does too, but somehow they always steer clear of each other. Suppose you know why?’
‘Yes,’ Peter replied, ‘but I think it’s silly.’
‘Must go now,’ said George. He got up from the box and kicked it back to the wall. He went up to the mare, who seemed to have sensed his imminent departure, for she had turned her head round and looked at Peter. Peter was taking George away. Peter was taking this man away who came twice a day to see her.
‘Is she all right there?’ asked Peter, as they went out into the yard.
‘Right as rain. There’s nine o’clock struck. I was late this evening.’
Peter looked back at the now darkened stable, then he followed George across the yard. He helped him slide back the big red gate. Having locked it, they set off towards home.
‘Wouldn’t like to come up to the house?’ George said. ‘Only nine o’clock.’
Peter hesitated. Mention of the house made him think of Sheila again. ‘I don’t know, it’s late, really.’ No, she wouldn’t be there. He would go if she was there. ‘I had better go home,’ he said, and he thought, ‘This man knows. This funny little man knows all about me.’ They parted company at the corner of Hatfields.
‘Good-night. You come up and see us some time, laddie,’ said George. ‘Ta-ta now.’ He left Peter standing at the corner of the dark and deserted street.
Now that George had gone, the boy became aware of his loneliness. He felt isolated. He had better go home. Yes, he could have his supper and go to bed. He could lie quietly in bed and think of all that had happened. Tonight he could fall asleep thinking of Sheila. Thinking of her would cast out his loneliness. Yes, he was lonely. Nowhere to go. His father always growled, and his mother ignored him. His sister wouldn’t see him, and Desmond – yes, Desmond didn’t like him either. He felt certain of that. When he went to the billiard-room nobody spoke to him, because they had heard about his failure at the college. Yes, he hated them. But on Sunday, on Sunday at half-past six … He began running up the back entry. Outside the door he stopped. ‘Yes – on Sunday. I shall see her on Sunday.’ And nothing else mattered.
When he entered the kitchen he was surprised to find the gas turned low, and the high-backed chair was empty. He went to the foot of the stairs and called, ‘Anybody in?’ The echo of his own voice seemed to float down from the darkened landing. ‘H’m!’ he exclaimed. ‘Funny nobody here.’ He turned up the gas, then went into the back kitchen. He was feeling hungry. In a brown mug he found a quarter loaf, which he cut in slices. He looked for butter, but this time his search behind the pans was unsuccessful. He put some marmalade on the bread and went back to the kitchen. There was tea in the pot. In the Fury household this pot, like the proverbial Russian samovar, was never empty. He sat down and had his supper. When he had finished, he went to the foot of the stairs and called again, ‘Anybody in?’
She had knelt there varnishing those chairs. And she hadn’t seen him. And the other night when he had come in she had been sitting at the table, fast asleep, her fingers holding the cup. His mother had been fast asleep. He had been able to look fully into her face, and he had seen the lines about her eyes, which, when closed, seemed to reveal even more clearly those lines which at first he only noticed upon her forehead. Perhaps the lines crept down from the forehead and so spread about one’s face. And the fringes of her black hair touched the white of the table. As he sat looking at the deserted table it seemed she had come to it, and was now sitting there. He could even hear her breathing. He took off his shoes and tiptoed across the kitchen. He looked at the table again. Then he went upstairs. Outside his room door he paused. They must
all be out. He turned the knob and entered the room. It was pitch dark. The window was open from the bottom. He put his shoes on the floor. Then he sat down on the bed. ‘Oh!’ he said, and jumped up again. His father was sitting on that bed.
Mr Fury, dressed in shirt and drawers, had heard his son come in. He had got out of bed and stolen quickly into Peter’s room. He would wait for him. He sat quietly in the darkness, hardly breathing. He had heard his son call up the stairs, ‘Anybody in?’ but he had not made any reply. He was content to sit as quietly as a mouse and wait there. He would catch the boy out. He would surprise him. ‘Light the lamp,’ he said. Peter struck a match and looked at his father. ‘Light it,’ his father said, but he only dropped the match in his confusion. He struck another one and lit the lamp. He placed it on the table so that his father’s face was framed in the light and his own was in the shadow. ‘Sit down here,’ Mr Fury said, ‘I want to talk to you.’ How frail his father looked in shirt and drawers! A little old man. He sat down by his side. The man folded his arms and looked across at the bare wall. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing, Dad,’ replied Peter. ‘Nothing.’ And his eyes, falling upon the tattooed star upon his father’s wrist, remained there. ‘Nothing, Dad,’ he repeated, with downcast head. His head began to throb, and he felt once more that burning, scalding sensation in his blood, as there loomed up for a moment a picture of Sheila Fury. Sheila Fury standing by the door and saying ‘Go. Go now.’
His father shouted, ‘What is the matter with you lately? You go about half goopy. And you don’t eat anything. No, by God! you turn your damned nose up at what your mother and I are glad to eat.’ He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon it. Now his face was in shadow, and the light had flung his shadow upon the bare wall, giving Mr Fury a monstrous head and long lean body. And the figure trembled on the wall. Suddenly he jumped up from the bed saying, ‘Wait a minute! Don’t you turn in yet. I’ll be back in a second.’ He turned towards the door.
