by James Hanley
‘Here,’ thought Mrs Fury, ‘here is this ugly person sitting in my chair and telling me it’s all right! And I have never liked him.’ She lowered her head upon her breast. For the first time she felt she had been wrong. She felt ashamed, she did not want to look at him. What could she say to this? Mr Kilkey got up from the chair, and sat down beside the woman.
‘I would like to do something for you, Mrs Fury,’ said Mr Kilkey. He took out his pipe and relighted it. ‘Mr Fury out?’ he asked, and he looked around the kitchen.
‘My husband has gone out,’ replied the woman. ‘I think he went about his strike-pay, Joe.’ She had never called Mr Kilkey ‘Joe’ until now, but the man’s earnestness, his simple, honest approach, had touched her. And yet, she wanted to laugh. What could this man do? What help could he offer? Nothing, so far as she knew. With his signature, yes, but then Mrs Anna Ragner and herself would finally settle that matter. She became suddenly cautious. Even now she might withdraw. She had best consider her position. This strike might go on for a while yet. And her son’s allotment money was held up. She had that to attend to. She could foresee even now what this stoppage involved. Any decision she had contemplated taking was now out of her reach, for Mr Kilkey said, ‘Oh! That note is all right, Mrs Fury. I saw to that. Maureen will go up with you.’ After a while, as though he had learned her position from Mrs Fury’s expression, he added quietly, ‘I quite understand! And now I want to do something,’ he said again.
‘I am sure that is very nice of you, Mr Kilkey,’ replied the woman.
Mr Kilkey reached down for his brown paper parcel and said, ‘I got your boy a rig-out. Maureen was telling me that Peter is going away. I hope you will accept these with my best wishes.’
The woman was so taken aback that she could hardly speak.
‘Joe!’ she said. ‘Really! I hardly know what to say. It is most kind of you. I …’
Words failed her. She could only sit looking at this man, and if she had distrusted, if she had never liked him, she liked him now. There was a loving, generous spirit hidden within that man. It seemed to shine out from beneath his ugliness, it beautified his person. ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ She placed her hand on the man’s arm.
Mr Kilkey’s parcel lay spread open upon the red tiled floor. And there was a full outfit. Shirts, trousers, dungarees, jerseys, sea-boots, white canvas bag and lanyard, even soap and matches, tin plate, cup and spoon. A sailor’s full bag. The sight of these articles upon the floor only served to convince the woman that it was all too true, all too real. Her son had shut one door, and was opening another. And she herself must see it closed. She mustn’t think about it any longer.
‘We’re none of us perfect, Mrs Fury,’ Mr Kilkey was saying. ‘I quite understand. I talked to Maureen about it. You take my advice, my good woman, and let Peter go. He could never do anything much here now, and it’s for his own good. I mind how hurt he felt that night he came down to the hall. Nobody would speak to him. I was there at the time, but it never struck me at the moment that it could have been your son. Well, well,’ he went on, ‘I hope you’ll let him go.’
‘The boy never breathed a word to me about that,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘I had wondered why he would not go near the schoolrooms. Now I can understand. Still, it will do him good. It will be a lesson to him, Mr Kilkey. A lesson. Tell me, do you think this strike will go on much longer?’ She looked almost pathetic as she asked this, as though the man at her side was going to solve the dread problem for her there and then.
‘They’ll all be back at work next week, Mrs Fury. You take it from me.’ His eyes seemed to wander up and down the woman’s face. ‘You’ve reared a big family,’ he said, ‘but you look well on it.’ They smiled at each other now. There were no more barriers, no more distrust, no more dislike. They might have been friends for years.
‘What a good man he is,’ thought Mrs Fury, ‘a quiet, steady, sober man. I feel I ought to take back all that I have ever said against him.’ Ah! If Peter had had this man’s companionship, how different everything would have been! To think that he, a comparative stranger to her, should come round to her house and do this generous thing, whilst her own sister kept clear of the place. Mr Kilkey was no rich man. He must have done without something to get these clothes. Here her thoughts came to a halt. To have been inquisitive on the matter would have taken away the kindness that had prompted it. She began to gather up the clothes, looking carefully at each article as she dumped it into the bag. Then she carried the bag out to the back kitchen.
Mr Kilkey sat silent and thoughtful. Here was a woman who if his wife was right, was at the moment tormented and distracted, and yet was able to hide it behind a calm and unruffled exterior. He did not know what worried her, but he guessed it must be the failure of her young son, and the callous indifference of her eldest one. ‘What she wants.’ thought Mr Kilkey. ‘is a long holiday – a holiday away from Hatflelds, away from the city.’ Yes, Mrs Fury wanted a holiday. He would like to do something. He heard her pattering about in the back kitchen, and called out, ‘I hope you are not getting anything for me, Mrs Fury.’ to which the woman replied, ‘No. no …’
The more he looked at the woman, the more firmly convinced he became that the piece of orange cardboard in his pocket had been a good idea on his part. He pulled out the orange ticket from his pocket, and subjected it to a minute inspection. It was like the three hundred other tickets that Father Moynihan had had printed, but now, as he held it in his hands, it was different, it was significant. He got up and went into the back kitchen. Mrs Fury was standing looking out of the window, and she was holding the white lanyard belonging to the canvas bag. She turned on hearing the man behind her. The man stood near the mangling-machine. He seemed awkward, hard put to it to know how to begin. He had sold tickets to many women, but not to Mrs Fury, and besides, this was not a ticket he wanted her to buy. He had bought it, and he only wanted her to accept it. He started to laugh. It seemed the best way to begin. ‘I’m sure you’ll think I’m a nuisance, Mrs Fury,’ he began, ‘but there’s just one other thing to do, and then I’ll go away.’ She looked at the ticket in his hand. ‘I want you to accept this ticket, Mrs Fury. Maureen bought it for you. and nothing could please her or myself more than for you to have it.’ After a while he stammered out, ‘You deserve it.’
‘But what is it for?’ the woman’s questioning glance seemed to ask.
‘It’s for a week’s retreat to an Ursuline convent, Mrs Fury. The whole of the Third Order are going there for a week. I don’t know anything about the place, mind you, but from what I’ve been told it’s really beautiful. It’s a great manor house in its own grounds in the country which the Ursulines have taken over. Father Doyle and Father Heraghty are going as well. Please take this’ – he held out the ticket. ‘I am sure you’ll like it.’ Seeing the woman’s hesitation he went on quickly. ‘You know right well, Mrs Fury, that you deserve this week’s holiday. And you ought to go. Don’t begrudge yourself a quiet week in the country. I don’t want to be poking into your affairs. Sometimes Maureen and I talk things over, you see.’ He became confident. ‘You’ll get your lad off to sea, Mrs Fury. Let him go! It’s your duty to him and to yourself.’ He stopped suddenly. He felt he had overshot the mark.
Mrs Fury held the ticket in her hand. Who was this man offering her a ticket? Who was this fellow who insisted on her going, who advised her about her children? She let the piece of cardboard fail from her fingers.
‘But how could I go, Mr Kilkey? That’s impossible! What would Denny do? And Dad?’
‘Maureen and I have arranged all that,’ said the indefatigable Mr Kilkey. ‘There’s no need to worry.’
Mrs Fury became seated and dropped the lanyard on the floor. Then she said, ‘I must think about it.’ whilst Mr Kilkey hoped his plan had worked. Maureen had arranged nothing, but he, Mr Joseph Kilkey, would see to that, and as soon as he got home. He followed the woman into the kitchen again. He did not sit down, but stood leaning o
n the dresser.
‘Maureen will come round and cook and look after Mr Fury and your father. Do go,’ he urged. ‘The change will do you good.’
The tears that came from Mrs Fury’s eyes surprised him, though it was nothing but his own fondness that had drawn them out. ‘Cheer up. Mrs Fury,’ he said.
‘Mr Kilkey,’ she blurted out, lifting her apron to her face. ‘What am I to say to all this? Your kindness astonishes me. How could I be other than honest with you? When you married my daughter I hated you. I never forgave Maureen for it. I wouldn’t have you near the house. I didn’t like you. There! Now you know. Forgive me.’
Joseph Kilkey smiled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget all that. I only wish I could have done more for you. I like you, Mrs Fury.’
Well! What more was there to say excepting, ‘Thanks! Thanks!’ and to cake the piece of coloured cardboard that had the power to carry her out of Hatfields for a whole week? She was too full. ‘Thanks! Thanks! Please go now, Mr Kilkey.’ She shielded her face with her coarse apron and watched Joseph Kilkey put on his cap. She followed him to the back door and let him out. She remained standing there until he disappeared round the corner of the entry. Then she went back into the house. She picked up the ticket, looked at it for a moment, and casually dropped it into the big green vase upon the dresser. It was as though, looking at it a second time, she had doubted its power, mistrusted that man’s kindness. But why should she do that? ‘It is so unusual,’ she was thinking. Between smiles and exclamations of astonishment that nobody save Mr Mangan witnessed she went about her work, and only fell back into her old state when she stood in the parlour looking at the vacant places near the wall where the chairs had stood. She must sit down. That visitation had been almost overwhelming. Everything was so uncertain. Even her son’s going to sea, the strike, Mr Mangan’s health, Anthony’s return. One made a decision today, and tomorrow it was altered. One could be sure of nothing. She laid her head on the arm of the rocking-chair. How kind that man was! She could never have believed it. Never! And how splendid it would be to get to the country for a whole week. Perhaps by that time the strike would be over. But now – well, one’s every step was aimless.
A series of sharp coughs from the occupant of the high-backed chair reminded her that she must be up and doing. Reality was pressing in, breaking down the texture of her dreams.
Mrs Fury was busy washing in the back kitchen when the back door resounded to a series of kicks. She let fall the sheet she held in her hand and stared down the yard. Who could this be? Peter, of course. She had locked the back door after Mr Kilkey. She hurried down the yard. When she pulled back the door Aunt Brigid and Miss Pettigrew were standing in the entry. ‘Well!’ she said. She drew back into the yard, holding the latch in one hand, the other she held to her apron. Miss Mangan was wearing a new grey dress. She looked anything but pleased.
‘I’m surprised you never heard us, Fanny,’ she said coldly. ‘Miss Pettigrew and I have been knocking at the front door for nearly five minutes.’ She advanced into the yard, followed by the hobbling old woman of eighty-two, whose guest she had been for the past three weeks.
‘Well!’ said Mrs Fury. ‘Well! Come in.’ She preceded them up the yard. ‘I thought it was the boy,’ she said, turning round to her sister. ‘He is out.’ Miss Pettigrew came up haltingly, banging her stick on the stones. The little old woman was smiling. ‘Well,’ she was thinking, ‘it’s been worth it.’ She had shamed Miss Mangan into coming. The three women entered the kitchen. Mrs Fury became flurried. She stared from one to the other. Miss Pettigrew sat on the sofa and gave a sigh. She felt done up. Aunt Brigid, prior to sitting down, placed her parcel on the table and remarked, ‘I have brought a bottle of port for Dad. It’s the best port that Mr Dingle has in the shop.’ She sat down and threw open her coat. Her grey gloves, one of which was fast becoming holed, she now drew off and laid on the table. She looked across at Mr Mangan. ‘I’m sure that port will do him good,’ she said. She made herself comfortable. Mrs Fury did not sit down. She was too surprised to move. So she had come now! H’m! But she didn’t want her here at all. And as for the old woman on the sofa, she did not want her either.
‘How are you, Fanny?’ asked the old woman, looking across at Brigid as though to say, ‘How slow you are, Brigid! Well, I have done it instead.’ Her poke-bonnet with its single red rose bobbed up and down.
‘Quite well,’ replied Mrs Fury. ‘I hope you are the same.’ She leaned against the side of the grate. ‘No. I shall not sit down,’ she said to herself. ‘At least they will know that I don’t want them here.’ To see her own sister sitting there, and sporting her new costume, only increased her admiration for Mr Joseph Kilkey.
‘How are things?’ asked Aunt Brigid suddenly. She did not look at Mrs Fury, but at the ornaments on the mantelshelf above her head.
‘One can’t complain,’ replied Mrs Fury. She looked at the bottle of port on the table.
‘Did you hear about the celebrations in honour of Father Coghlan?’ asked Miss Pettigrew. ‘He’s turned ninety-four yesterday.’ She said this as though her own eighty-two years were a mere nothing.
‘No,’ Mrs Fury said, looking anywhere but at this talkative old woman.
‘Fancy!’ said Miss Pettigrew. ‘I thought you would have heard. How is everybody?’ She turned her head and looked away through the window. Miss Mangan looked glum.
The oldest parishioner of St Sebastian’s, who had made such a quick recovery from her illness, due no doubt to Dr Dunfrey’s unfailing skill, now drew from her skirt pocket a small bottle of sweets. Miss Pettigrew always carried this small bottle of sweets wherever she went. She unscrewed the lid, and holding out the bottle in her trembling hand said in a wheezy voice, ‘Have a jujube, Fanny!’
Mrs Fury looked at the woman and then at the bottle. ‘I never eat them, Miss Pettigrew,’ she replied, ‘thanks all the same.’ To be offered a jujube in the middle of a busy morning was something really phenomenal to Mrs Fury.
Undaunted, the old woman turned to Aunt Brigid. ‘Have a jujube, Brigid,’ she said almost pleadingly.
Miss Mangan leaned forward in her chair. ‘Thank you, Biddy,’ she said, and looked straight at her sister as if to say, ‘I shall certainly take one because you refused.’ She smiled now, not at the situation, but at her own inability to extract a confection from the narrow bottle, for her plump fingers could not reach them, whereon Miss Pettigrew, with a vigorous shake of the hand, shook a red jujube upon Aunt Brigid’s lap, remarking between loud sucking sounds, for she had taken one herself, ‘I find them excellent for colds, Brigid, excellent! Dr Dunfrey thinks they are too highly acidized, whatever that may mean, but I think he’s wrong.’ She said this with the ardent conviction of a person who had put down her recovery to the return to the jujube bottle rather than to Dr Dunfrey’s unfailing attention.
‘Thanks,’ repeated Aunt Brigid, picking up the jujube and putting it into her mouth. The silence of the kitchen was broken now by the twin sucking sounds of Miss Mangan and Miss Pettigrew. Mrs Fury did not move. ‘I don’t want them here! What have they come for?’ she was thinking.
‘How are the children?’ asked Aunt Brigid. ‘Has Peter got anything to do yet?’
‘Not yet.’
Miss Pettigrew raised her head and looked at Mr Mangan. ‘How is your father, Fanny?’ she asked between audible sucks.
‘Just the same,’ Mrs Fury replied, and she glanced at the old man.
‘Fanny!’ said Aunt Brigid. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Do please sit down. It makes me feel uncomfortable seeing you stand like that.’ She made a violent move in her chair.
‘Yes, sit down, Fanny,’ advised Miss Pettigrew. With her figure in profile, Miss Pettigrew looked just bonnet and nose. The veins in her thin neck stood out as she talked. Her skin was yellow, and had an almost scaly appearance.
Mrs Fury went into the parlour. She came back with a chair and sat down.
‘They say now that every
body will be back at work next week,’ began Aunt Brigid. ‘I do hope it’s true. I shall be glad to get back to Ireland.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will,’ replied Mrs Fury. She was surprised at her own calm. These two women bored her. Bored her to distraction. What could have brought her sister here? Had she something unpleasant to say?
Miss Pettigrew took another jujube from her bottle. ‘Fanny,’ she said, ‘are you coming with the Order to the Ursuline Convent?’
‘I don’t know.’ She got up again from the chair. She couldn’t sit down. She was restless. There was that journey again to Banfield Road. Why didn’t these people go away? She picked up the wine-bottle from the table.
‘What is this, Brigid?’ she asked. Miss Mangan was too astonished to reply. What was that? Why, the port wine she had bought for her father. As she held the bottle in her hand the kitchen door was thrown violently open, and Dennis Fury, followed by Michael Mulcare, came into the kitchen.
‘Hello!’ he said. It was almost a growl. ‘Sit down, Mike,’ he added, ‘if you can find room.’ Then he surveyed the gathering.
Mr Fury took one glance at Miss Mangan and went out. ‘Fanny!’ he called. ‘Fanny!’ Mr Mulcare was smiling at Miss Pettigrew. ‘Have a jujube, young sir,’ she said. Mrs Fury went into the back kitchen. ‘Listen,’ said Mr Fury, ‘where’s that boy?’
‘Peter? He’s gone out!’ She stood staring at her husband.
