by James Hanley
‘Mother’s out,’ Peter said, but his father did not hear him. Mr Fury banged the door and now stood on the dark landing. What did it matter? He would still go down; she had gone out, but what of that? Dennis Fury held firmly in his mind a picture of his wife. He would go down. He would see her again, sitting at the table looking at her father. Yes, he would see her, the boy’s mother, just for a moment. He only wanted to hold this picture of her secure, then he would go back upstairs again. Peter stood listening. Mr Fury was creeping downstairs as though he might wake his wife, who an hour ago had gone out to see her daughter.
A minute later Mr Fury came back. ‘Well!’ he said to himself. ‘That’s strange! I never heard her go out.’ He entered the room and banged the door, He was like a man who has made a sudden decision, and now wishes to sit down and reflect upon it. He closed the door. Peter was sitting on the bed. He did not see his father standing in front of him, he heard no door shut, no bolt shot back. He did not even hear his grandfather’s loud snores that seemed to waft under his door. He saw nothing but this woman. She filled the room, he could put out his hand and touch her, he could smell her body, feel her breath. To Peter the very air in the room was charged with her spirit, her loveliness, her half-open mouth seemed to tremble in the air, to laugh at him, to smile, to speak. He wanted to burst out singing, to smash down those dismal walls with his voice, he wanted to burst.
‘What is wrong with you? You were out all day. Where were you?’ Mr Fury was shaking his son by the shoulder. ‘Wake up! You’re falling asleep.’ He gripped his son by the hair, and forcing his head back made to speak again, but now he dropped his hand and drew back. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Peter burst out laughing. He continued to laugh, his whole frame seemed to shake beneath this prolonged laughter.
‘But you’re sweating,’ his father said, and he watched his son pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his face. Then he said heatedly, ‘I don’t give a confounded hang what you’ve been doing. But I want to talk to you. Understand? Stand up,’ he said. Mr Fury did not look at Peter. He was looking at the door; he was looking through and beyond it; he was looking at his wife sitting in the kitchen.
‘You were out all yesterday, and the day before, and again today. Where do you put yourself?’ The boy began fumbling with his tie. It was a new one which yesterday his mother had bought him. ‘And last night, and every bloody night this week? And you don’t eat. Tell me, surely you’re not eating outside? Insulting us. Turning your nose up at what your mother struggles to get. Aye. By Christ, you’ve changed, sonny! Look here, if I thought you were eating outside this house and insulting your mother, I’d break your confounded neck. We are glad to get it. You stick your nose up at it. Well?’
Peter remained silent. ‘I came up to bed,’ went on Mr Fury, ‘leaving your mother down there, and she’s off again. Then I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep a wink. So I came in here and waited to see you. See? I want to have this talk with you. Where do you go? Have you been at Kilkey’s? Or at the Pettigrews’? Have you been up at Vulcan Street? You have money in your pocket. Who gave it to you? How much have you got?’
Peter replied, ‘I have two shillings. I’ve had it two days now. Aunt Brigid gave it to me. I met her going home from Mass.’
Oh aye. Very nice of her, I’m sure. Strike me lucky. I’ve worked for nearly forty years, and I can’t even get two-pence from your mother for a fill of twist. She’s been out half the day and nearly broke her back varnishing those chairs. D’you see? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Don’t you think you’re selfish? If I saw you turning round to give your mother a hand in the house, by God I would like you for it. Instead of that you clear out. You never say where you are going. Not a word. But that isn’t the point. No. That isn’t the point.’ The man caught his son by his shoulders and pushed him against the wall. In the light of the lamp it seemed to Peter that his father’s face was clouded with blood. ‘No. That isn’t the point,’ he shouted. ‘Aye! You stick up your nose at the grub, hang you. That’s what college has done for you. Ruined you.’
‘But I can’t eat it, Dad,’ Peter said, and he thought, ‘What is the matter with him?’ He was frightened now. It was the first time he had ever seen his father like this.
‘Your mother and I are glad to eat it.’
They stared at each other, and a silence came between them, punctured by Mr Mangan’s deep snores.
‘Well?’
‘I went with George Postlethwaite to the stables.’
‘Aye! Where’d you meet him? Vulcan Street?’
‘No. I met him in Price Street.’
‘Did you see your sister?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘Who’ve you seen, then? You’ve seen somebody. You’ve seen somebody who has made you go a little off the rocker. What are you shaking for? Stop it. Stop it, or I’ll knock you down. D’you hear?’ he shouted.
‘I’ve seen nobody.’ Mr Fury dropped his hands. He went and leaned over the table. He turned the wick down, as the lamp was smoking. His face had resumed its former expression, and the boy saw the sallow, sunken cheeks of a man who has spent his lifetime feeding fires.
‘I know you think I’m always growling. Sometimes I’m a bit bad-tempered, but not always. In fact, your mother says I’m soft. H’m! A lot of growling I do! But by the living Christ, when I see your mother sitting down there … Oh! … Well – I don’t know what to make of you. The other night you were so hungry that you pinched that little bit of best butter that your mother had on the shelf. Yes. She put it behind the pans, and you took it. Mean! That’s what I call it. Bloody meant I’ve been hungry many a time. D’you think I’d pinch it? By gosh, no! I wouldn’t be so mean. The one luxury your mother has. Just think, she did nothing but walk all that day, and she never got back till after ten at night. She made herself a cup of tea, and when she went to the shelf for the bit of butter, it wasn’t there. No. You took it. Rather than deny that woman her little pleasure I would sooner eat … But you’re a curious unfeeling lad, and I can’t make you out. You’re not like anybody else in our family. Well, let me tell you that though you may look upon me as a sort of old fogy, I’m not so dense. I don’t cut a line alongside you young fellers, but what matter? I’ve always tried to do the right thing. It costs nothing, after all. I’ve seen a few things since I’ve been home. I don’t go about with my eyes shut, believe me. You’ve been spoiled, ruined. That’s what’s wrong with you. And now listen …’ For the second time Mr Fury gripped his son by the shoulders. ‘And now listen to this. When you go to sea – clear out. Do you understand? Clear to hell out of it, and don’t come back. Your mother and I will probably get a little peace. We can get on very well together. Your mother and I have been married over thirty years, and everybody was happy until you came along.’
‘Dad! Dad! What’s the matter, please?’ He staggered back against the bed, and finally sat on it, looking up into Mr Fury’s white face.
‘Go downstairs and see,’ said Mr Fury. Banging the door behind him, he went out.
‘Dad!’ called Peter. There was no reply. He went to the front room door and stood there listening, his hand fumbling the knob. ‘Dad!’ he called, ‘Dad!’ Peter’s bare feet were trapped in the shaft of light that crossed the landingfloor from the open door of his room. ‘Can I come in? What is the matter, Dad?’
Mr Fury did not answer. He was standing by the window looking down into the bone yard. One night he had not been able to sleep and he had walked out. He had stood in that yard, and his son had followed him there, and he had refused to listen to the boy. He drew the curtains back across the window. There seemed to be no point in staring into that yard now. He could hear Peter’s bare feet pattering about the dark landing, from the floor of which there still rose the smell of soda and carbolic. ‘You get to bed!’ he shouted. Then he lit the candle. The silence was broken by a loud laugh on the landing.
‘I don’t want to go to sea! I’m not going to sea! I’m going to
work with Desmond on the railway.’ Then Peter rushed into his room, shouting, ‘I’m not going to sea!’
There was a crash in the boy’s room. Mr Fury dropped the candle and rushed to the room. He could see Peter standing against the bed-rail. The floor was covered with glass. ‘Peter! Peter! What’s the matter? By Christ, you have been drinking. Oh! A mere boy! Stop laughing when I tell you, or I’ll fling you down those stairs.’ He clapped his hand over his son’s mouth. ‘Ssh!’ he said, ‘Ssh! Your mother has come back. Ssh!’
He held on to his son. Below, a key turned in the lock.
Peter burst into tears. ‘Ssh!’ his father said. ‘Ssh! Here’s your mother coming up now.’
2
Mrs Fury was shaking Peter roughly by the shoulder and saying, ‘Get up! Get up at once. I have something for you to do.’ The boy sat up, grinning. Who was the person pulling him about? ‘And you have caught a cold, you fool. You’re sweating like a horse. Get up! Get up!’ She began shaking him again. Peter sat up.
‘Yes, all right, Mother. Coming.’ He sat with his knees drawn up, waiting for her to be gone.
‘Your father’s gone off in a great temper, Heaven knows where. Now, don’t you lie down again.’ Then she was gone, the door creaked on its hinges.
Peter got up and dressed, and hurried downstairs. What did she want? ‘God!’ he thought. ‘She must have found out.’ But, while he was sitting at the table dipping his bread in the tea, she told him what she wanted him to do. Peter’s eyes had already noticed the absence of two chairs from the parlour suite. Here they were in the kitchen, right at his hand. Mrs Fury said, ‘As soon as you are ready, I want you to take these chairs down to McIntyre’s, understand?’
Peter looked at the chairs again. Yes, these were the chairs she had been varnishing. He didn’t know what to say. Had he to carry these chairs all the way to McIntyre’s? He hated the idea, and as though his mother had divined his thoughts she shouted:
‘Come along now. Hurry up. I can see at once that you don’t want to go. Do you expect me to take them, or your father, when we have a great hulking son doing nothing but filling his belly and galavanting around the place?’
The boy went red in the face. He got up from the table and stood looking at the chairs. He said gruffly, ‘What am I to do when I get there?’
Mrs Fury went up to her son, and looking him straight in the face said, ‘Do I have to explain to you that I am selling them? Do I have to explain to you that we have to live? Get out. Here, take these chairs and be off. Are you ashamed to carry them through the streets? Leave them at the shop. Your mother has done the dirty work. All you have to do is leave them there. Mr McIntyre will pay you.’ She watched her son pick up the chairs, and now he stood hesitating in the kitchen. Which way should he go? Better go out the back way. He put them down again, then carried one at a time down the yard. ‘And don’t be long,’ Mrs Fury cautioned him. She followed her son down the yard.
‘I shall give you a couple of coppers for your pocket,’ she said. Peter, without making any reply, went off down the entry. As she closed and locked the back door she heard him laugh. Peter had stopped in the entry and was sitting on one of the chairs. He pulled out the two-shilling piece his aunt had given him. Well, she could keep her coppers. He didn’t want them, and why was his mother selling these chairs? Yes, why was she selling them? Were they so badly off, after all? His father had been saving money up for a long time, and now they were selling chairs. He got up and continued his way down the entry. At the bottom he stopped again. He hated to go into the street. Everybody would stare. Why had his father gone off in such a bad temper? Ah, he thought, he must have found out who took his money. Leaning on the chairs he looked back up the entry. Then his mother had lied to him. She had told him everything was all right. All those years he had been away. They were really poor. Selling their furniture. He picked up the chairs and went out into the street. But passers-by saw nothing unusual in a boy carrying two chairs through the street. ‘McIntyre’s is over a mile away,’ he said to himself. Periodically he stopped and sat down. The chairs were not heavy, but awkward to carry. He could see a man coming along the road, carrying a large brown parcel. The man seemed to be walking straight towards him. Peter started to move on again. As he picked up the chairs the man came up, looked curiously at him for a moment, and then passed on. He stopped again, looking after the boy. Then he ran back to Peter and caught him by the tail of the coat.
‘Excuse me!’ he said. Peter dropped the chairs and swung round. ‘Excuse me!’ he said. ‘Is your name Fury?’
‘Yes, my name is Fury,’ replied the boy, staring curiously at the man with the parcel.
‘Is it Peter Fury?’
The boy smiled. ‘My name is Peter Fury,’ replied the boy. He sat down on one of the chairs.
‘Hang it all!’ exclaimed the man. He put down the parcel and sat on the other chair. ‘Well, my name is Kilkey,’ he said, laughing. ‘Joseph Kilkey, and by all the rules I am your brother-in-law. Pleased to meet you, my boy. How are you?’ He shook hands with Peter. The boy seemed unconcerned. Then he burst out laughing.
‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘How are you, Joe?’ So this was his sister’s husband. Aunt Brigid had told him all about Mr Kilkey, How old he looked! He patted his knees with his hands.
‘I’m just going round to see your mother,’ Mr Kilkey said. ‘When are you coming to see us?’ he asked.
Peter at once got up and picked up the chair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I went round twice to see Maureen, but she wouldn’t open the door, so I don’t think I shall go again.’
Mr Kilkey sat fast in the chair. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you mustn’t say that! Your sister wasn’t very well that night. You must come.’ Joseph Kilkey got up. ‘Yes, you must come round and see us. Maureen will be right glad to see you, laddie.’ He picked up his parcel. ‘Well, so long,’ he said, and went off down the street, leaving Peter staring after him, chairs in hand.
Well, well! That was Maureen’s husband. She wanted him to go round there now. ‘That is very nice of her,’ thought Peter, ‘but I shan’t go.’ He disappeared round the corner.
Mrs Fury had just made her father fast in the chair when the knock came to the door. At first she did not open it, but went into the parlour, and peeping through the curtains saw a man standing at the door. She could see the large parcel he carried, but she could see nothing of the man except the back of his head. She went back into the kitchen and sat down. It was somebody selling things. She well knew those timid knocks, as though the person was ashamed to offer his goods, or feared to burst his knuckles on the wood. But the knock was repeated, very loudly. The gentleman at the door was very insistent. ‘Let him knock,’ she thought. Again she went into the parlour and looked out. ‘Heavens!’ she said, catching sight of the man’s face. Then she rushed into the lobby. She stood holding the door knob in her hand. This was a surprise. Why had he come? She opened the door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fury. Can I come in?’ He saw at once how astonished the woman was. He stood there smiling.
‘Well, Mr Kilkey! I never expected you. Never. You’re the last person I ever thought I should see at my door.’ The woman laughed. ‘Please come in.’ She pulled back the door. She was surprised, she was truly astonished, and she could not hide it. Here was a man whom she had never had in her house but once. She didn’t like him. She distrusted him. Like her sister, she thought Mr Kilkey an ugly old man, and her dislike of him was merely occasioned by the fact that Maureen had married him. Of Mr Joseph Kilkey she knew nothing, beyond the fact that he lived in Price Street, that he was a stevedore at the docks, and that he attended to his duties at the chapel regularly. She also knew that he was the caretaker of the new hall which Father Moynihan had built, in order, as he had said in the pulpit, ‘to keep the young men of his congregation off the streets’. Here was this man in her own kitchen.
‘Sit down, Mr Kilkey,’ she said, and watched him put the large brown p
aper parcel on the floor and kick it under the table.
Mr Kilkey looked at ‘Dad’. ‘How is the old man these days, Mrs Fury?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Dad! He’s just the same, Mr Kilkey. The stroke has had a terrible effect upon him. Please excuse me for a moment,’ she added quickly, and went off upstairs, leaving Joseph Kilkey still looking at Mr Mangan belted in his chair. ‘Poor old man!’ he said.
Mrs Fury was standing on the landing. With her fingers she was scratching on the banister. Had Maureen sent him round? Good God! What could the girl have meant by that? Was she to go through the same old thing over again? It must be about the loan. It couldn’t be anything else. This was too much. She had never liked the man, and yet, yes – she must admit it – the fellow was decent – what other man but Joseph Kilkey would put his hand to such a thing? No. She had nothing against him at all. But Maureen! How mean of her! To send him round like this. To ask questions. More questions. The man was smoking, she could smell it coming up the stairs.
As she stood there upon the dark landing she was filled with a desperate longing to fly – to fly away from Hatfields. She went slowly down the stairs. Through the kitchen door she saw Mr Kilkey leaning on the table. He had taken off his cap. As she came in, Mr Kilkey drew his pipe from his mouth.
‘That’s a fine boy you have, Mrs Fury,’ he said. ‘I met him coming up.’
The woman did not speak. He had met Peter with those chairs. He had met Peter carrying those chairs. She turned and looked at her father. ‘He has met Peter on his way to sell those chairs to Mr McIntyre,’ her eyes seemed to say. Well, she had better sit down. She crossed to the sofa. She could not take her eyes off Mr Kilkey’s bald patch.
‘Did Maureen send you round?’ she asked, her eyes still fixed upon the bald spot.
Joseph Kilkey smiled. ‘Oh no, Mrs Fury. She didn’t even know I was coming,’ he replied. ‘I thought I would come round myself. I hope you won’t mind my taking this liberty.’ He had turned round and was now facing the woman on the sofa. He was looking at her shoes, at her dress, at her hair. He was looking into her face and thinking, ‘I am glad I came. I am so glad I came. And I shall come again. I like this woman.’ He pulled his chair out from the table, crossed one leg over the other, and leaning over in his chair continued: ‘Yes, I thought I would come round and see you. You are no doubt wondering why. It isn’t that matter of my signature, Mrs Fury. No, that is quite all right, I can assure you. I was only too glad to do that for you.’ He paused again.
