The Furys (6 page)

Mrs Fury looked up at the woman. ‘To town? Today?' ‘Yes,' the woman said. Then the window slammed down again. Mrs Fury retraced her steps. She felt disappointed, even a little hurt. Why should the girl have gone out? Everything seemed to be working the wrong way today. She, Peter's mother, knew nothing. Everything seemed vague. ‘Well, there must be some explanation,' she said to herself as she unlocked the back door. ‘Dear me!' she kept saying, ‘dear me!' And now she must begin all over again. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her two hands gripping the table. ‘I don't believe it! I don't believe it!' she said, whilst her eyes fell upon the silent figure in the high chair. She had tried so hard, so hard. Her body became suddenly limp. Mr Mangan coughed. ‘Soon be Friday,' she was thinking, ‘and I shall have to take Dad down to the Office for his pension.' She sat down on the sofa. She wouldn't do anything now. Just sit and wait for the post. When the knock came to the door she made a sudden rush into the lobby. There was no letter there. When she opened the door she found Maureen on the step in animated conversation with Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘Why, Maureen,' she exclaimed, and drew back into the lobby. Maureen came in. Mrs Fury gripped her daughter by the shoulders. ‘Oh,' she said, ‘I had a wire from your aunt today saying Peter has failed, and I don't understand.' Her voice broke.

‘Oh, Mother!' said Maureen. They passed into the parlour and sat down. Maureen picked up the telegram. ‘Oh!' Maureen exclaimed again. She looked up suddenly. ‘Does Dad know?' The woman nodded her head. Somehow she could not find words to express what she felt at that moment. After a long silence she said: ‘It's awful. I don't know anything. Not a line from Peter. Just that wire. I thought there might be a letter in the post this afternoon. When I talked to your father about it he got wild, and went out.' She drew her hand across her forehead. Maureen looked at her mother. If it was true, then it was a real blow to her. She looked at the telegram again.

After a long silence Maureen rose. She folded the telegram up. ‘Have you told anybody about it yet, Mother?' she asked.

Mrs Fury did not reply. She was studying her daughter. Was she going off again already? ‘Sit down, Maureen! Sit down. I see little enough of you as it is,' she said. The young woman sat down again. ‘I told nobody but your father,' continued Mrs Fury. ‘And I don't want you to tell anybody, Maureen. Not even Joe.' She looked into Maureen's pale face. ‘Not even Joe. I shall tell nobody.' She stamped her foot with a sudden burst of energy.

Maureen smiled. ‘But everybody'll know in time, Mother.'

Mrs Fury caught her daughter's hand in a vice-like grip. ‘Have you any respect left for me at all?' she asked loudly. ‘Sometimes I think you haven't! Yes! That's what I think. You were in town today?'

‘Yes, I was,' said Maureen.

‘Have you seen Mr Sharpies?' asked the mother.

‘Not yet. Tomorrow afternoon,' replied Maureen.

Mrs Fury rose to her feet and began pacing the floor. ‘So you are determined to go back to that factory, then?'

Maureen got up and stood in front of her mother. ‘Yes,' Maureen said. ‘I've quite made up my mind about that.'

‘Oh,' the mother said. ‘And what about this?' she remarked laconically, tapping her daughter's body.

Maureen laughed. ‘I'll see to that too,' she said.

‘Well, I just can't make you out, Maureen,' went on Mrs Fury. ‘Here you are carrying that man's child, and now you want to go back to that factory.'

‘Well, I don't want to talk any more about that, Mother,' Maureen said. The two women stood facing each other in the middle of the floor. Then Mrs Fury exclaimed savagely:

‘I could never make out why you married that fellow. He's the laughingstock of the neighbourhood.'

Maureen said slowly, and with great emphasis, ‘You'll know why some day.'

Then she walked out to the kitchen. She looked down at her grandfather. Mrs Fury came in behind her. They both stood looking at Mr Mangan. Not a word was spoken. ‘Of course,' thought Mrs Fury, ‘she's not the least bit interested in Peter. I might have known.'

Then Maureen said she must be going. The mother looked at the clock.

‘You aren't here five minutes yet,' she said coldly. ‘I wanted to talk to you, Maureen. I wanted to talk to you about a good many things,' She paused.

‘Joe'll be in in half an hour,' Maureen replied.

‘Then you'd best get off,' said the mother. She stood with her back to Maureen, staring into the glowing coals of the fire. It seemed that in that glowing mass she could see mirrored Maureen's real thoughts. She heard her cross the kitchen, but did not move. Not until the door closed with a resounding bang did Mrs Fury turn round. She immediately lighted the gas. Well, she might have known. Yes, even she, Maureen, her only daughter, was unsympathetic. What were her children made of? She was glad now that she had not mentioned Anthony. No! Not if Anthony died that very day would she breathe a word to Maureen. The girl had completely changed. She seemed no longer her own daughter, her flesh and blood, but an utter stranger. For the first time that day Mrs Fury burst out laughing. Why on earth had a woman like Maureen married that fool of a man? Kilkey! Even the name sounded repulsive and ugly. Kilkey. She had met him once. She began to get her father's supper ready. This consisted of a boiled egg beaten up in milk, to which she added bread. Mrs Fury always tended her father. She fed him, washed and dressed him, and took him out occasionally. The rest of the family had no time for old Mr Mangan. Having made his meal ready, she produced a large spoon and towel. Then she drew a chair up to where he sat. She tucked the towel under the old man's chin and began to feed him. After a while her hand moved automatically from the plate to her father's mouth. Her thoughts kept taking excursionary flights. One moment Anthony loomed up largely, the next moment he disappeared and Peter took his place. What a peculiar family she had reared. More and more, so it seemed to her, they appeared to be taking after their father. When such thoughts took shape, she felt all the more keenly the bond that held her to her father. In moments of isolation and utter loneliness she clung to Mr Mangan as to a rock. He was a sort of refuge. Now she dare not think any more. She must drive Peter out of her mind. He was the last, the one in whom she imagined she had vested the best that was in herself. No. She must not think about it. She must just wait – wait for news. Of course, it might not be true. She contented herself with this. It might not be true. Mr Mangan having finished his supper, she wiped his mouth and took the towel from under his chin. Then she went into the back kitchen and returned a moment later with a tin bowl of water, a flannel, and a clean towel. She washed her father's face and hands. Then she cleared the things away and went upstairs. She made ready his bed. Mr Mangan was becoming more burdensome than ever. Mrs Fury came downstairs. She unwound the leather belt. Then she placed her hands under her father's shoulders. Hoisting the man over her shoulder, she carried him upstairs. She undressed Mr Mangan, tucked him safely in the bed, and picking up the lighted candle she held it aloft, at the same time bending over to look into his face. Mr Mangan's eyes were wide open, but they betrayed nothing. Not a muscle of his face moved. His breast rose and fell. ‘Good-night, Father,' Mrs Fury said. Then she left the room. As she went slowly downstairs she sighed. That was done. What a relief. In the lobby she stood, hesitant, listening. The house was silent. Mrs Fury decided that she must go out. She could not sit in that kitchen another minute. She blew out the candle. Then she dressed herself in her outdoor clothes. She wrote a pencilled note to Mr Fury and left this pinned to the mantel-border, so that her husband would see it on his return. She closed the back door, and left by the front one. She stood on the step for a moment, looking up and down the street. It was quite dark. Then she slipped the door key into a hole in the wall, and walked quickly away. It began to rain. The woman hurried round the corner, just in time to see a tram coming down the road, its bell clanging loudly, whilst in front there galloped at break-neck speed a light horse and lorry. Mrs Fury boarded the tram.

‘Carsholt Road,' she said as she handed the conductor her fare.

3

Mr Fury's head hung perilously near his glass. He had fallen asleep. The barroom was empty. A big fire burned in the grate. The barman looked across at the sleeping man and smiled. The door opened. A tall, heavily built man came in and stood at the counter. He called for a drink. He turned round and looked at the man whose head was gradually drooping lower and lower. The man went across and drew the glass away. Suddenly he bent down and exclaimed, ‘Why, if it isn't Denny Fury. Hey. Fury! What the hell! You're falling asleep, man. Wake up there!' The dozing man sat up with fright. He had been dreaming. As he opened his eyes he imagined the bar-room to be full of people, and that all these people were staring at him. The newcomer sat down beside him. Mr Fury stared stupidly at the froth now settling in his glass. He turned his head sharply and a flash of spit struck the open grate. The expression of bewilderment gradually wore off. He looked at his companion. Then he put out his hand, and a broad smile lighted up his face.

‘Why, Devine! How are you? Haven't seen you for years.' ‘I'm all right,' replied the man. ‘What are you going to have?' Mr Fury said he would like a large Falstaff. They began to talk. They were old friends. Mr Devine asked after the children. How was the eldest lad getting on these times? Mr Fury groaned. Another of them, he thought.

‘Desmond! Oh! He's all right. How's your missus?'

‘She's none too well lately. This here rheumatism has got her again.'

‘Sorry,' Fury said. ‘Still on the same old packet?'

‘Aye.' The man picked up his glass. ‘Good health, Fury,' he said. ‘Good health and good luck.' Mr Fury touched the man's glass with his own.

‘Same to you, Dermod,' he said. They drank.

Dennis Fury endeavoured to look cheerful. He hadn't got that voice out of his ears yet. They were silent for some time. Then Fury said: ‘I never see much of Desmond now. He hardly ever comes to the house, though it's only a stone's throw away, you might say. As a matter of fact, I heard a rumour …' He stopped suddenly. ‘Well, Christ, one hears so many rumours. They say he's coming out on strike with the loco-men. How true it is I don't know. Strikes give me the pip.'

‘Coming out in sympathy with the miners?' queried Devine. ‘Aye.' Mr Devine had a sudden fit of coughing. Dennis Fury had sailed with this big raw-boned man from Dromod. He hadn't changed. The same shock head of red hair, the same straggling moustache. He looked at Fury.

‘One swallows these rumours wholesale,' he said. Mr Fury merely nodded his head. His eyes were focused upon his glass once more. He pushed his half-glass of beer away from him. The man at his side ceased to exist. Damn and blast the woman! He wouldn't be sitting here at all but for her. Growling. Always growling. He wondered how long she would carry it on. Peter. H'm! Well, he had realized it all along. A blind plunge. Now she had been caught out. How she hated being caught out. Stubborn woman. Anybody taking a glance at Peter would know at once he wasn't cut out for the Church.
He
knew, though. The ease with which people talked of the tremendous possibilities that never existed excepting in their own minds. Of course, he was sorry for Fanny in a way. He admitted that. It was a blow for her. But to carry on like that. He wouldn't have cared so much if she hadn't left the other lad out of it. By heavens! Now he thought of it, he should have gone down to the offices himself. What would they tell her? The usual lies. He knew those people better than she did. The lad might be dead for all they knew. He could not get Anthony out of his head. But Peter would not be shut out. He kept creeping in. Fancy her making his failure an excuse for attacking Desmond. The pity of it was the woman didn't really know her own children. Not one of them. When would she really wake up? This continual conflict between stubbornness and common sense. Something jabbed at him. He looked up. Devine was poking him in the ribs with his long fingers. Mr Fury sat up as though struck.

‘You're falling asleep again,' said Mr Devine. ‘Why the hell don't you go home and turn in?' Fury smiled. It was a forced smile.

‘Come on,' went on Devine. ‘Drink up your beer. You've had a row with the missus, haven't you?' He looked into the other's wide-open eyes.

Dennis Fury had never credited his companion with any great powers of deduction. Now he had hit the mark. Suddenly he laughed. Having a row with Fanny was just like eating and sleeping and waking. It was part of the texture of their lives. Mr Fury drained his glass and got up. ‘Well, see you again some time,' he said in an abrupt manner. ‘So-long, Devine.' Then he sauntered out. The other stared after him, a surprised look upon his face. Going off like that! As Dennis Fury turned the corner, he suddenly remembered the newspaper. He pulled it from his pocket. Why, there was nothing in it. An idea had suddenly occurred to him. Why shouldn't he take a walk along and see Desmond? He hadn't seen him for quite a while. In fact, he had only seen him twice since his marriage. Better go. It was so easy to lose touch with one's own, thought Mr Fury. Fanny had felt that too. He himself did. He missed Desmond from the house. Yet he could not say anything against it. He could not blame the lad. When he reached the top of the road near the car terminus he stopped. He sat down on one of the wooden benches outside the tramwaymen's shelter. He pulled his cap off and began scratching his head. He was undecided. Should he go or not? Better think it over. One never knew. Fanny might hear about it. Then there would be another row. How she hated Desmond. A sort of poisonous weed. He could not understand the woman. He had tried, endeavoured to be helpful, and failed hopelessly. It was a mystery. She had
never
liked the eldest son. He had been a good son. Why shouldn't he go off and marry if he wanted to? Thinking of him brought the other children trailing in his wake. Maureen, Anthony, John. Aye. John had been a splendid lad. Mr Fury sighed. ‘Better dead, perhaps,' were the words that slowly formed in his mind. And Peter. He jumped up from the bench. Damn Peter! He would walk a little further. He couldn't be very far from his son's house now. It was turned half-past seven by the tramway clock. He was certain to be in. He passed into Vulcan Street. When he came to the house he heard voices, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Mr Fury stopped outside the window. The front room was full of people, the gas was lighted. They had not even drawn the curtains. People seemed to be holding animated conversations with his son. Desmond was still dressed in his workaday clothes. Just come home, thought his father. Hands were suddenly raised. Violent gestures were made. Above the noise he heard the word ‘strike'. The father turned away from the window. That's how it was, then.