by James Hanley
He saw chimneys, he saw houses, he saw that everlasting film that filled the air—that aura of Hatfields. But he looked towards the sea again. He had turned his back on all that. All that frenzied living, all those dull monotonous days—those unspeakable hours when he wanted to burst from sheer boredom.
Here he need but take a few more steps and he could swim in the waters of all peace and content. Here was serenity, behind him fear. Here was life, behind him—nothing.
‘Ah! Christ! It’s wonderful. Wonderful. I could cut a piece out of myself when I think of what I did. Giving all this up. Never again. Never again.’ Behind him, if he cared to look, was the raised map of sameness and misery; here, but for the asking, life. The only life he ever wanted to live now. There was no thought of home, of wife, or of family. His mind and heart were stripped clean. He thought of nothing but the next step—the next desperate step when he would plight his sixty years against those younger than himself. All ships were one ship. All called with the same urgent, passionate, and unmistakable voice.
‘Here goes,’ said Mr. Fury, and moving away from the wall, disappeared into the road, vanished amongst the deluge of noise and traffic, and finally emerged on the other side. Then he passed into the dock itself. If his mind’s eye but took a quiet and furtive glance behind him it could have seen the husk outside. The old self he had thrown off.
Mr. Dennis Fury wore, like any knight of old, the bright armour of a new life.
‘Marvellous! Marvellous!’
Hands in pockets he strode along the quay as though the docks were his very own, his eyes fastened upon the ships, their bright names, their tall masts, and mostly that extraordinary inviting air they wore as they lay snug against the quay.
When he came to an iron bitt, that protruded like some squat fist through the stone of the quay, Dennis Fury sat down.
He sat down not so much to rest as to sit in silent contemplation upon the scene with all that air of childish wonder that comes to him who has long been absent from his own, and has now returned to them. He took off his hard hat, laid it on the quay, clasped his hands, leaned forward, elbows hard pressed upon his knees, and surveyed the scene. God be with the old days. Beyond, somewhere harboured in that immensity which is the sea, was the treasure-house of his past. If he could but look down into its depths he could see there his own boyhood and youth—his manhood. The sea held them. The sea held them against all things, against time and against eternity. It held them securely—secure and inviolable as it held the faith and hopes and works of simple man. It held these, and it held, too, serenity, nobility, hope, and peace. This simple man looked out upon the wide waters with those blue eyes that had seen the route of many a ship, and his heart trembled for sheer joy. ‘Fanny thinks that I’m cruel, but that is wrong. I’m not. How can a man be cruel if he’s happy?’
‘Penny for ’em. Fury—you bloody, scarred, old warrior from hell, and what in Christ’s good name has got you sitting in this latitude?’
Dennis Fury felt a blow on the back as though a great tree had hit him. He gasped for his breath. ‘Why, you, Devine!’ he stammered. ‘You, Devine!’
‘Mr. Jimmy bloody Devine! All alive and kicking. And you, you bloody old warrior, what the hell are you sitting here for? You look as though you were going to measure your length in the river. How are you—in Jesus’ name?’
The man grasped Mr. Fury by one hand to pull him to his feet. ‘Heave,’ he shouted. ‘Heave,’ and pulled Dennis Fury to his feet.
‘By the living Jesus this is simply grand. How—how are you, Denny my boy?’ He gripped Dennis Fury’s hands—and seemed to wring them rather than shake them as though with some excess of riotous joy that gripped him. Without even waiting for Mr. Fury to reply, he pulled him along towards the gate. ‘It’s years since I saw you! We’re going to celebrate. By God we are!’ Carried along by his enthusiasm he seemed to carry the surprised Mr. Fury too, and only when they passed through the dock-gate did normality return.
‘Devine! It’s splendid! How are you, at all, at all? I was just looking round for old times’ sake, as it were. I haven’t been in these parts for a hell of a while. By God, you’re actually growing younger. How do you do it? You look about thirty, and you must be turned sixty.’
The big man gave a laugh. ‘Sixty-one last Sunday,’ he said. ‘Quite true,’ he added—as though he feared Mr. Dennis Fury might not really believe him.
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ said Dennis Fury. ‘Just wonderful. Why, I’m only a year older than you.’
They walked along the road and stopped at the nearest bar. ‘That’s because you’re married, Fury,’ said Mr. Devine. ‘You see, I’m not. No man who goes to sea should marry. And d’you know,’ he slapped Mr. Fury once more upon the back with the flat of his hand, and in a sudden burst of almost youthful enthusiasm exclaimed excitedly, ‘and d’you know, I’m still at the same old job.’
‘What! Storekeeper?’
‘That’s it. Making the yarn and mending the wire. Filling the foreman’s pocket with cotton waste, and, oh, doing the same old thing. That’s another thing I don’t believe in, Fury. Changing one’s job. One job for me. And I’m as good a storekeeper as any on this line of docks.’
They entered the public-house.
‘Now you’re really boasting,’ said Mr. Fury as they sat down to the table. Over the drinks they became reminiscent, expansive, and as the conversation soared to the heights so did the world around them seem to dwindle, to fade into the background, insignificant and unimportant.
‘Well! Well!’ said Mr. Devine. He lay back in his seat. The two men silently surveyed one another. Dennis Fury looked at this six-foot specimen from Ennis with his thick black hair, and short bushy moustache set haphazardly, it seemed, under the short squat nose. There was something aggressive about Mr. Devine’s physiognomy until one came to his eyes, and one saw at once that Nature tempered it by a certain childlike simplicity, for the man behind the eyes was a complete opposite to the arrogant, aggressive, even fierce personality that had seated itself opposite Mr. Fury. It was disconcerting to allow one’s eyes to wander over the massive figure, the very personification of maleness, and then to discover those eyes that mirrored something that seemed quite alien—something womanish, soft and kind and gentle.
‘Fury,’ said Mr. Devine, ‘you’re not the man you were.’
‘Maybe not. I’ve been working ashore for three years, amongst men I could never take to. Don’t know why, but I never could. By God, Devine, you must tell me something. What’s your ship?’
He sat up and leaned on the table, watching Mr. Devine fill a pipe with black shag.
‘Montmara’s my ship. Lying over there in the basin. West Coast South America. No passengers ever. Good crowd. Decent skipper. Food not too bad either. Rolls like hell, but a sticker. I could probably get you a job in the black gang, Dennis, if you weren’t already fixed up.’
Dennis Fury almost jumped from his seat. ‘Give us your hand,’ he shouted,’ give us your hand,’ quite indifferent to the astonished glances being flung at him by the other customers. ‘I call this a bloody miracle.’
‘You shouldn’t swear, Fury,’ remarked Devine laughingly. He lighted his pipe. The morning lengthened, drinks appeared upon the table as though by magic, and with a firm hand and a clear eye Mr. Devine drank them off—punctuating each mouthful with a resounding ‘Ah!—that’s good.’
‘Drink up, Fury my boy,’ he said. He seemed to fill the bar parlour with his inexhaustible boisterousness. People stared at this tall, big-boned man with his bosun’s cap pulled well down over one eye, his grey shirt open at the neck, his heavy shoulders—the long arms and big hands. Something of his bigness seemed to go out to them like a warmth. Dennis Fury felt puny and insignificant beside him. Mr. Devine urged, but the other shook his head.
‘No more, Devine,’ he said. ‘I’ve got used to the limit in everything.’
‘Aye, I can see that at a glance, Fury. You were a
bloody fool to turn your back on a lifetime of work like you did. You’re looking under the weather. Come for Christ Almighty’s sake. Another drink won’t do you any harm. Come on.’
And without waiting for an answer Mr. Devine called for more drinks. This gentleman’s ability to put away all that came in front of him occasioned no surprise in Mr. Fury, but the money did. The man must have had a rare pay off.
‘How long were you away on this trip?’ he asked.
‘Eleven months this,’ replied Devine. ‘Well, I’m right glad to meet you,’ and for the fifth time that morning he showed Mr. Dennis Fury what a very happy man he was. His hand came down slap on the other man’s shoulders.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘You’re looking under the weather.’ Mr. Devine could not help repeating himself so long as that old shipmate continued to sit slumped in the corner looking as though all the world’s woes had suddenly descended upon him. But it was in Mr. Fury’s nature—he could not under any circumstances whatever obliterate certain unmistakable facts. He had a home—two sons living there, a wife, an old and useless lodger, and two other children living somewhere in Gelton.
He had enjoyed himself, he had stepped upon magic ground again, his eyes had feasted upon all the old sights, he heard the same enchanting sounds again in his ears, but somehow their sparkle and brilliance became sobered and dim. ‘Hang it!’ he said to himself. He looked at this old shipmate of his, and said with an air of complete indifference, ‘Sure! I’ll have whatever you’re having.’ Yes. He was indifferent—he was going to be indifferent to every single thing but that vital matter of the ship.
‘It’s your last chance,’ a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, ‘your very last chance.’
‘Devine!’ he exclaimed. ‘When are you signing on?’
‘At three o’clock—that is just an hour and a half away. Shall we go down when we’ve finished this off?’ He picked up the glass of whisky and gulped it off at a shot.
‘Sure,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘let’s go down.’ He rose to his feet, for already he sensed a certain urgency, a certain impatience and desire to be off. To be up and doing. He couldn’t miss his chance. And besides, he had sworn and threatened that long, that to turn back could only bring derision and humiliation. No! He wouldn’t do that. He had taken the bull by the horns, and he was hanging on like hell, as though in this momentous hour his very existence depended upon it.
They went out of the public-house, Mr. Fury not too steady on his feet, a thing the big man was quick to notice. ‘Those old women have almost finished you,’ he said, laughing. He put his arm through Dennis Fury’s, and they walked slowly along the Dock Road until they came to the big gate and sighted the great iron bridge across which they must travel to reach the place where the Montmara was lying. Mr. Devine’s volubility increased as though their leisurely pace had acted as a stimulant. ‘She’s a good ship, Fury. You’ll like her. A bit rough below, but you find that in almost every ship. The pay, of course, is like all workers’ pay. Simply lousy. By my holy blessed Mother, Denny, we sailors are the simplest, kindest, easiest-going lot of cods in the whole wide world. But the funny thing is, the more we rail about our lousy pay, the more we swear about the state of things—the more we like it. You can’t do anything with sailors, that’s the devil of it. Too bloody independent. Oh—I couldn’t give up going to sea, Fury, not for a thousand pounds a week. No, sir, not me. I like it. So will you when you get into harness again. It’s most extraordinary my meeting you like this. As you say yourself, it’s a miracle.’
When they reached the bridge Mr. Devine suddenly vanished behind a goods wagon. But Fury looked out over the bridge at the ship and at the ships beyond, the ships lying in the river, head to port, head to the open sea. And he realized for the first time in three years that he was really happy. ‘Oh, it’s just great!’ Mr. Devine joined him and they walked on, Mr. Devine again supplying the opening conversation.
‘What brought you down in these parts?’ he asked.
‘What do you think? I came to look for a ship. But I must admit, Devine, I never expected to see you, and what’s more, I never expected to land in a job.’
‘Oh, you haven’t got it yet,’ said Mr. Devine in a cautionary tone. ‘Not yet.’ He smiled at Mr. Fury and went on, ‘But you haven’t told me why you came down. Have you chucked work in the sheds?’
‘I haven’t chucked anything yet,’ replied Dennis Fury. ‘I’m not so foolish as all that. I took a day off and came down here on the off-chance.’
‘Had a row at home?’ asked Mr. Devine. ‘I thought you had given the sea up for good and all. That’s what you wrote and told me once.’
‘I thought I had, but I was only kidding myself up.’
‘Here we are,’ said Devine. The two men looked up at the Montmara.
‘Not a bad-looking packet,’ remarked Dennis Fury.
‘I should think not,’ replied Mr. Devine. ‘Let’s go on board.’
‘Sure,’ said Mr. Fury. The two men climbed the gangway and disappeared through the Montmara’s open saloon door.
‘I’m here, anyhow,’ said Dennis Fury to himself. ‘I’m here at long last.’ Then he began to laugh.
‘Come on,’ called Devine, ‘I’m going for’ard. Hadn’t you best move your legs? They’ll be calling names in half an hour.’ He waved his hand, signalling the little man to hurry. Dennis Fury ran along the saloon deck. ‘This way now,’ said Devine. And at last they passed from sight. The good ship Montmara had swallowed them up.
The Montmara’s two fo’c’sles were crowded. Men sat around the table and talked. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. Mr. Fury sat with Devine, who was arguing hotly about the merits of another line of boats. It was just the kind of conversation into which any seafarer can be drawn, and it did indeed draw a group of men from the table. Mr. Fury listened. He said ‘Aye’ and ‘No,’ but never got beyond that. He was a stranger in a strange land. He felt awkward and out of place amongst all these men, many younger than himself, and there was not one of them with the exception of Devine whom he knew. The conversation waxed strong; on either side of him arms shot up in the air, fists were thumped into palms, and yet all knew that the argument would end nowhere. It was merely something to while away the time until the names were called. The atmosphere became almost intoxicating. Dennis Fury wanted to go out, but he was jammed right between two big men who seemed determined to give some finish to the argument. Were the Ailsa line steamers better than the Persian line? Mr. Fury himself didn’t know and didn’t care. Then suddenly a voice shouted up the alleyway, ‘Names; all out for’ard.’ Immediately there was a scramble. Men pushed and thrust their way out to the well deck. Only Devine and Dennis Fury were left alone in the fo’c’sle.
‘Aren’t you coming? Lord Jesus, man!’ exclaimed the big man from Ennis. ‘Show a leg.’ He pulled Mr. Fury to his feet, and those feet were leaden. For some reason or other, and that was hidden away in the unfathomable depths of Dennis Fury’s soul, he had lost courage.
‘Yes, I’m coming. But I must just dash round the corner. I won’t be long.’
‘I should think not,’ shouted. Devine. ‘Man, man, what’s wrong with you? You come down here for a job, and Christ Almighty, I get you a job. Then you go weak in the legs. Hurry up. I’ll see Frisky and tell him your name. Here! Half a minute! Your book!’
Dennis Fury pulled the blue discharge book from his pocket and handed it over. Then he dashed into the lavatory. At last. He was alone. He could sit down, and he had wanted to be alone for the past hour, just to think. Maybe he had overstepped himself, gone out of his reach. ‘Aye! I’d better think it over.’ He stood up in the empty lavatory, and opening the port-hole he looked out over the river. He felt that urge as his eyes saw the wonderful scene in front of him. Yes, the urge was there, he couldn’t smother it, but it could be tempered by reason. ‘Ah! I’m fed up with all that bloody life up there. Why shouldn’t I go? What difference will it make?’ Yes, what
difference would it make to him, who had already been fashioned by a power outside himself, a force greater than all Hatfields, than all Gelton, and all men. ‘We’ve never known each other. Never understood each other. She won’t cry. She’s tough, Fanny is—yes, if I don’t take this chance——’ A voice seemed to whisper in his ear, ‘You must. You must. You can’t deny yourself.’
He could indeed slip back; by taking a few steps he could land back in number three Hatfields. He could get into harness again. He could go to work every morning at six o’clock and come home at five. He could read his papers, listen to Fanny talking about the past—there was never mention of any future, unless it be in that dreamworld of her faith—yes, he could do that. Swallow the anchor for good and all. Bury himself between bricks and mortar again. See the same faces, hear the same voices. Hear the same arguments, listen to the old regrets. By a mere word and a single movement he could shut out all that now lay before him—those wide waters and tall ships, those faces of men. Have done with it. ‘But I said I was going. To hell with it! If I go back on my word, that’s the finish. She’ll never cease to rub it into me.’ Rather a lame excuse, he thought. Yes, he was simply shirking round the problem.
