by James Hanley
‘I see. Your wife has had some great trouble lately. I happened to read about it’—in an apologetic tone—‘of course I hardly ever read the papers—haven’t the time. But the name on the chart struck me—I remembered it then. I’m awfully sorry about that, Mr. Fury. Still we mustn’t get off the main point——’ and he changed the subject. ‘We’re going to send your wife to a good hospital where they can treat her for her nerves. She was in a very collapsed state when she was brought here. We had a good deal of information from the police. Now, Mr. Fury, you mustn’t worry. As I said she is a wonderfully strong woman—the heart is so sound that——’
‘She is a brick, doctor,’ broke from Mr. Fury, but the doctor did not appear to notice the interruption.
‘With a strong heart like that we have a chance of getting her better! How often do you sail, monthly or——’
‘I have to sail in a few days, doctor, which is what worries me, because, as we are on Government service, we never know how long we’ll be away on any particular trip. And between you and me, doctor’—as his earnestness grew and shyness melted away, the man leaned farther and farther forward in the chair until his head was now almost level with the doctor’s knee—‘well, I’m worried. Suppose she comes out of this place while I was at sea? You see, I couldn’t lay hands on my son or daughter at the moment. But I have a friend—as a matter of fact he is my son-in-law, and he’d be handy—and I know …’
‘Don’t worry yourself on that point, Mr. Fury. Your wife won’t be better for a long, long time. She must have months and months of rest. Plenty of good food, quietness, fresh air. I shouldn’t worry on that matter, and may I offer you a word of advice before you go in to see her? I don’t want you to talk about anything that will excite her. This family trouble of yours, for instance. Cut that right out. Talk about something to cheer her up, and if she begins to talk about those things you must try to get her to talk of something else—let me see—talk about your ship, your life at sea, you know,’ and here the doctor got up and Mr. Fury followed.
‘You really think the woman will get better?’ asked Mr. Fury. He had been waiting to ask this question, ever since he had arrived. He looked the doctor square in the face. Yes. This was a matter of anxiety—of honesty. Best to know now, good or bad, hopeful or hopeless. It had been dragging on his mind for days, weeks: ‘Will she—I mean …’
‘Your wife will get better. But, mind you, only because she is strong, physically.’
‘Fanny’s got—I mean my wife has spirit, doctor—always had.’
‘Spirit can be the reverse of good sometimes,’ the other said, though he did not seem inclined to explain this to the now impatient man.
Mr. Fury thought the doctor was very nice, the interview hadn’t been half so bad as he expected, but now he wanted to go in and see his wife. This was more than a surprise. She must really be getting better. So now he’d see her. He’d be able to talk to her. For a moment he saw her unconscious, and indifferent to the world. For a moment he saw her staring at him vacant-eyed, not knowing him, nor understanding. The doctor saw this impatience too. And by way of signifying that the interview was at an end, he said quietly, slowly, as he stepped forward and opened the door. ‘But it is a pity you have to sail so soon, Mr. Fury. Yet I suppose it can’t be helped.’
‘I’m going to get a shore job soon, doctor,’ he was saying, but the doctor was no longer there, and the door had closed.
Mr. Fury leaned against the wall. He waited for the nurse who was to take him to see his wife. At last she came.
‘To see Mrs. Fury? This way, please,’ and straight away she led him to where she lay. ‘Until half-past three.’
‘Thank you, nurse.’
She saw him coming, approaching the bed, and she tried to sit up. Tried to smile.
‘Fanny!’ he said. ‘How are you, Fanny?’ He was standing over her, smiling, trembling, excited, looking at her, up at the clock, turning to glance at the closed door.
‘Denny! You came! Oh! How are you, Denny?’
He was seated by her, a hand on her shoulder, stammering: ‘So glad! So glad!’
He didn’t want to say another single word. Just wanted to sit there looking at her, alive, eyes open, looking at him and knowing him—knowing him, Denny!
‘Are you getting better?’ he asked, worried now at asking, afraid to hear her talking.
Mustn’t excite! Mustn’t talk of those things. That was what he said. Well, he wouldn’t talk then. It was nice sitting here—seeing her—better—still living—Fanny.
She was thin, pale, grown longer in the bed somehow, her eyes sunken, cheeks drawn, hair grown greyer—but she was still Fanny. He wanted to embrace her, but he was afraid of that too. She took his hand in hers. Looked hard at him.
How had he been managing? Had he looked after himself properly? Got his food? Kept the place tidy? What did he do with himself? He answered in whispers. And then suddenly she said: ‘Maureen came.’
‘The doctor said not to——’ He paused, then said—‘Maureen—when? I didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t see her! I don’t know. I was tired. I fell asleep,’ she said breathlessly.
Damn Maureen! Damn everybody! He looked at her again. ‘You look better, woman.’
‘And Desmond came! They told me! It made me happy! That time—you know—Peter. I—he sent me money. Desmond was——’ she stopped, lay further down in the bed. ‘I never saw him! They told me! He’s a captain or something. My uncles and grandfathers were all captains—you know, Denny. You used to laugh.’
Damn Desmond! Damn the lot of them! He thought that was finished with.
‘They say they’re going to shift you on Friday, Fanny. Said you’re getting better. And the doctor said——’
‘Did they?’
‘Fanny, Fanny! Aren’t you glad to see me? I’m so glad to see you,’ he said.
Was she getting better? Was she really awake? and suddenly he hoped they had taken away her black bag. Her cursed black bag!
‘Fanny! I want to tell you something.’
He sat up, leaned back, watching her. Would she smile? Could she smile? Show interest.
‘I’ve been saving up for you to go to Mount Mellery, Fanny! And soon, please God, you will. I’ve nearly got it now. Fanny, it will be lovely for you there, quiet, peace, the beautiful God’s air there, the monks—the peace—the peace.’
‘Will you come?’ she said, and suddenly gripped his fingers.
Would he come?
‘How can I, woman? Lord, wouldn’t I just love to! But how can I, woman? Sure, I’ve got my work to be doing. I don’t think I could, Fanny. You see——’
‘It would be lovely,’ she said, and her head leaned towards him. ‘Lovely.’
Maybe. But how in hell’s name could he go? He shouldn’t have said it. Now she’d get all excited. Ask him to do the impossible. Fanny all over. She was like a child in some things. When would she realize what the world was really like?
‘Fanny, woman, it’s impossible. I’ve to sail as you know. It’s war-time! Sure if I lost my job what would I do? Have to go to the war or something. I’ll see you off there, woman, but I can’t go! I wish——Ah, what’s the use of talking! I shouldn’t have mentioned it. The doctor said——’ He paused—yes, he knew what the doctor said.
‘It would be the first holiday we’ve ever had together, Denny. It would be beautiful, I’m sure. The lovely Mount Mellery place—the—oh——’ Suddenly her head moved to one side of the pillow, she shut her eyes, lay still.
Too much for her. Shouldn’t have said a word. Just talked of his work as the doctor said—about ships sailing away on the sea. Perhaps she was bad again. He leaned over, put a cold hard hand, whose skin was the colour of coral, upon her hot forehead. Poor woman! She seemed worn out.
‘I’ll just sit quiet here,’ he thought. ‘I’ve a quarter of an hour.’ He never took his eyes from her. So those two had been to see her. H’m. Very nice of them ind
eed! As far as he was concerned, to hell with them both. One day this woman would see things so clear that she wouldn’t ever need to look at them again. She’d understand.
She opened her eyes. It wasn’t often that she looked at him like this. What was she saying? Couldn’t he take her to Mount Mellery? It would be a beautiful holiday. He looked so tired himself. Couldn’t he try? All her life she had longed for this holiday together. All her life. She only thought of him now. Lately she thought about everything. One time she could cry over any little thing. Now only Peter made her cry. She loved him. She had loved him, Denny too. She was getting better. She would look after him then. He wanted looking after.
He kept on looking out of the window. He didn’t know what to say. Now he looked at the clock and he begged for the minutes to fly. He wanted to go! He was afraid of his own tongue. He wouldn’t speak about it again. Not now! Wait till she was out of it altogether. He looked at the clock twice. She watched him, looked too. It meant nothing to her. The loud tick was like that which she had heard in her head this past week.
‘Denny! Denny! Don’t go! Please stay! Oh, Denny!’
‘I’m not going, woman! I’m just sitting here, Fanny, content to be quiet and happy to see you able to talk and to look at me. From this day we have only one thing to do. We have to look after ourselves, see! If we don’t nobody else will. Cheer up, woman, we know you’ve had a rotten time. Well, forget about it. We’re going to have good ones from this very day. Honest to goodness, Fanny.’
‘Are we?’ she said, not thinking of her husband, nor seeing him, the two words dripping like water from the tongue. Were they?’ I’m so tired,’ she said, ‘so tired.’
He knew she was—he said nothing. He waited for the clock. ‘Clock, clock!’ he cried in his mind, ‘move! Move!’ He wanted to go—to run out; he loathed himself for the very thought—but he didn’t want to stay any longer. He was afraid, not of her, or of her illness, nor of his work or ‘the bloody war,’ only afraid of two words—Mount Mellery. Damn! Why had he mentioned it? She had not forgotten.
‘We’ve never had a holiday together. Can’t you come, Denny? Couldn’t we go to-morrow?’
‘Fly minutes,’ his mind cried. ‘I want to go!’
‘But, Fanny, don’t you understand? Won’t you understand?’
His voice rose in spite of the hold he had upon himself. ‘I can’t go! I’m sailing away, and if I don’t sail I’ll get gaol,’ and he wanted to say: ‘one’s enough in gaol without two,’ and he wanted to laugh. ‘I won’t be long away, woman. The time’ll pass quickly, you see!’ He flooded her with reassurances—filled her with hopes. ‘You have to get better first, Fanny. The doctor said that.’
‘Fancy Desmond coming!’ she said. ‘Fancy! After all this long time. Just think, Denny.’
Denny didn’t want to think. He blurted out: ‘He’ll reach the bloody moon one of these days, that’s what he’ll do——He came because he had to. They sent for him. He told me! I saw him! But I’m through with the lot of them!’
If only somebody would cry: ‘Time! Time!’ And when they cried it he would change—all feelings rise—he would have to go. Mount Mellery. That was what had caused it. Mount Mellery. ‘A bloody dream,’ he said to himself.
‘Has anybody been to see you, Fanny?’ he asked, and glancing at the clock saw that it wanted only a few minutes to the half hour. Thank heavens.
‘Father Moynihan came, and Father Tierney. Some other man,’ she said quietly.
‘Oh! Was Father Moynihan nice? I’ll bet he was. Real trump he is.’
‘I don’t know! They told me! I never saw them! I feel so sleepy, Denny.’
He put his arms round her. ‘Listen, woman! I have to go now! Remember all the time I’m away, every minute, I’m thinking about how you are getting on, see, and one of these days——’
‘One of these days.’ Her mind took in the old, old phrase. How many thousands of times had she heard him say it. The words went round and round her brain. ‘One of these days.’
‘You can smile, woman, and I’m glad to see it, so help me God I am, but I really mean it. I’m going to look after you from now on. Understand! And how’d you know but one of these same fine days I’ll be taking you back home to Ireland for good. For good, Fanny. Say so-long to this stinking hole. Fanny, woman, we’ve been in it too long. It’s a fact. It’s done no good for me, and none for you! Now here’s somebody coming,’ and he half rose, looked towards the door. But the feet passed by and he sat down again. ‘You don’t know how happy I am seeing you better.’
‘I said I wouldn’t die, Denny! How could I? You’d be all on your own then. But I wish you could take me to Mount Mellery to-morrow. I am better now, you know. They all said I was, and I could get up and get dressed now, Denny! I worry about you. Are you eating enough? Have you enough clothes over you at night? Do you have the right food? All day and all night I do be thinking of you by yourself there.’
‘I’m managing, don’t you worry about me. You get better woman, see.’
‘Have you really to go? Oh! Denny, this awful war! I do hate you to be going off.’
‘Ssh!’ he said, as the door opened and a nurse stood there, looking at him.
It was time. He bent down and kissed his wife. ‘Dear Fanny! I must go now. They’re waiting on me, see! God keep you, woman. Get well soon.’
She hung on to him now as though she would never let him go. He was afraid to move. The nurse was coming towards the bed now. He moved.
‘Good-bye, Fanny! I’ll be seeing you soon again.’
‘Won’t you take me to Mount Mellery, Denny? I’d love to go. It’s a beautiful place. Do, Denny,’ and she pressed his hands over her breast. ‘Denny?’
‘Yes—no—what?—listen, Fanny. I can’t. God, I can’t—don’t you see I—well, oh—damn—good-bye!’ and he stumbled away from the bed, seemed to stumble and go tottering from the ward like a person gone suddenly blind.
As he went off; down the corridor he seemed to hear the words following after him. He felt more miserable when he should have felt more glad. He would be afraid of to-morrow, the day of sailing he dare not think of at all.
How on earth could he take her to Ireland? The woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Saying ‘No.’ That was the worst. Saying: ‘I can’t take you. I have to sail Friday.’
When he got home again, he cooked himself some food. Later he scrubbed his sea-bag. Began to gather his things together. It was something to do, something to occupy his mind. Now he knew he wouldn’t feel right until he was at sea again.
By the last post a letter marked O.H.M.S., Censored, was pushed under the door. Mr. Fury looked at the handwriting. It was from his son Anthony. Here at last was something to think about. How was the lad getting on? Had he been in any battles yet? Where was his ship now? How did he like the Navy life? The man fingered the letter. It was addressed to his wife. He put it in the dresser drawer. Hands in pockets he went and opened the door. Stood looking up and down the street. Others looked at him, frozen looks—curious. Strangers to them meant nothing. Didn’t count. A child asked him for a penny, another called him. ‘Old geyser.’ Mr. Fury withdrew. He banged the door, cursed ‘Hey’s bloody Alley.’
He took out the letter again. He wanted to open it. Twice he made the attempt, finally put the letter on the mantelpiece. At nine o’clock he went out, had half a glass of mild at the ‘Turk’s Head,’ then returned home again. Since Fanny was away suppers were unknown. He didn’t bother. Never felt hungry like he used to. At ten he went to bed. He lay awake so long that in desperation he got up, dressed and went out. He went down to the docks, walked their length and back again.
He caught a tram and went with it the whole journey. It took him right back to Hey’s Alley. It was half-past seven. He went out and bought the morning paper, which he never read. He went upstairs and lay down as he was, fully dressed. Life without Fanny wasn’t up to much. He’d be glad when the day came and he could s
ail. Then he fell asleep.
When Desmond Fury left his father he walked the length of the hospital building and back again. He hung round until he saw a tram. He boarded this, and got off ten minutes later. He hailed a taxi and was driven home. His wife was in bed. He did not disturb her. He went into the sitting-room and sat down by the fire. He sat there to watch the fire eventually go out. But he made no sign of going to bed. He felt uncomfortable, not about his mother, but about his father. At last he went upstairs. It was half-past two.
The woman was awake.
‘Hello,’ he said, undressed and got into bed.
‘Anything wrong, darling?’ she asked, and automatically she switched out the light.
‘Nothing,’ he said rather surlily, and turned away from her. He lay there, staring into the darkness. He felt her come nearer, touch his arm.
Whatever she said he had an answer ready. She put an arm round him. What was the matter? Hurrying off like that? And look at the time! She’d been in three hours. Mr. Trears had driven her home. Awfully nice man.
He stretched out in the bed.
‘Yes, Des?’ she said.
He seemed on the point of blurting something out, but suddenly he held his tongue. She switched on the light and looked down at him. To her he appeared just a sulky boy.
‘Switch out that light! What the devil do we want it on for?’
‘Something is wrong.’
‘Something isn’t wrong. Go to sleep. Don’t be worrying me, please.’
‘Are you worried, Des?’ she said, suddenly putting both arms round him.
