The Furys

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The Furys

A Novel

James Hanley

For Tim

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

1

As the woman approached the building she became aware of two things. First, that the wintry sun had appeared and was now shining on two great sheets of glass. Second, that an old woman was standing by the long flight of stone steps selling matches. She drew nearer. The two sheets of glass suddenly moved. The huge building opened its mouth and she passed inside. The uniformed attendant at the swing-doors stared after her. A rare visitor, he thought. At the bottom of the long marble staircase she stopped and her eyes sought the topmost stair. She sighed. She was a tall woman, between fifty and sixty years of age. Her faded straw hat seemed to sit uncomfortably upon her head, wisps of black hair peeped out. She had a long face, rather pale, with large brown eyes. There was a marked severity about her expression, the mouth seemed hard. She stood staring at the top stair. From time to time she turned her head round, furtively, as though on the watch for somebody, the while her hands kept going to her hat. No. The hat was not right. Then she sat down on the step. Some gentlemen came out of the lift, stared at her for a moment, then passed on. The attendant at the door had long ago forgotten her. She lowered her head, her eyes seemed to roam over the vast floor space. Once she coughed. It echoed through the building. She was mumbling to herself. ‘From the mast on to his heels. Dear me!' Then she passed her hand across her face. ‘Ah!' she exclaimed after a long silence. She rose to her feet. ‘From the mast right on to his heels,' she kept repeating. She commenced to climb the stairs. These words appeared to have a strange effect upon her. She had been murmuring them all the morning. They circled round and round her brain. At times she seemed caught up in the very whirl of these words, to pass out of herself, to float in the air, carried along as it were in the flood of the expression which never left her lips. ‘From the mast on to his heels. Dear me!' Now she paused again.

She was dressed in a long black coat and skirt. Her black shoes were too tight for her, and her ankles were much swollen. The shoes were worn down at the heel. She raised her head suddenly. Somebody was coming down the stairs. A middle-aged man, a clerk perhaps. Seeing the woman standing in the middle of this wilderness of marble, he stopped and exclaimed: ‘You ought to use the lift. You'll never climb that flight of stairs.' There was a kindness in the tone of his voice. He jerked his thumb behind him, indicating the eighty-eight stairs the woman had yet to climb. She smiled. It was the first time that morning that anybody had spoken to her. She rather liked the gentleman. It touched her deeply. ‘You ought to use the lift.' She repeated the words aloud. ‘Come this way,' he said, and he took her arm. Slowly they made their way down the stairs again. He conducted the woman to the lift. The lift attendant looked curiously at the ill-assorted pair. Which floor did she want to go to? This was different, she thought. The tone of the man's voice, everything was different. She looked round. The kind gentleman had already disappeared. She stared at the lift, hesitated a moment, a rather frightened expression upon her face, as though she were about to step into some sort of cage. The lift man coughed. Some girl typists came running up and entered. They stood in a group in the corner. They were giggling amongst themselves. The woman outside lowered her head. She still hesitated. This was worse. She had better rush back to the staircase and climb after all. She was really out of place amongst such an assembly. There was a pungent smell of powder about the lift. ‘Hurry up,' the attendant said. She stepped inside. At that moment the clerk came hurrying back. The woman was sure he was a clerk. ‘What floor do you want?' he asked.

‘The top one, please,' she said.

‘Put this lady out at the top floor,' the gentleman said, and went away again. He smiled. He was the Company's solicitor. He was just going out for his morning coffee. The lift ascended. At the third floor the giggling typists got out. The lift hummed once more. Then it stopped. ‘Top floor,' the man said, and slid the gate back. The woman replied, ‘Thank you,' and passed outside. Another wilderness. Great corridors, many doors, each door numbered. She looked up and down. Then she approached the nearest door. ‘Engineering Secretary'. No, that wasn't it. It was the Marine Superintendent she wanted. She began to wander up and down the long corridors, her eyes scanning the names and numbers of each. Where this office was she did not know. How stupid of her. She ought to have asked the lift attendant. She was a little angry. It was simply stupid to be borne to the very top of this great building and then left in the middle of the desert as it were. Then she espied a boy hurrying towards her. She was certain he was going to speak to her, but he only whistled shrilly and went by. She called him. He came back to her. Where was Mr Lake's office? Did he know? Would he please show her to the door? They went off together, turned right, and at the end of a long brilliantly lighted passage they stopped. ‘In there,' the boy said, and left her standing at the door. Yes, this was correct. ‘Mr Lake. Marine Superintendent'. She opened the door and went inside. She looked around. A shutter was suddenly shot up, and she jumped with fright. A girlish face pushed itself out and a voice said:

‘Yes. Please.'

The woman went to the window. She shot a quick glance at this girl's face. Why of course. She had been in the lift with her. If only she had opened her mouth then, it would have saved all this trouble. But she had felt so ashamed. She did not know why. She experienced it again as she looked into the bright face of this colourfully dressed girl. Above her head a clock ticked. Instinctively her eyes wandered to its face. How late it was getting. Must hurry up. Denny would be coming home to dinner today. It would just happen on a day like this of course. The girl tapped on the desk with her fingers.

‘I want to see Mr Lake, please,' said the woman. ‘My name is Mrs Fury. It's about my son. I had a cable from New York to say that he had met with an accident. Thank you.' The woman drew back. The girl disappeared. The window shot down again. Mrs Fury sat down. ‘Dear me!' she exclaimed under her breath. ‘From the top of the mast on to his heels. Good God!' The door opened. The girl had come back. ‘This way please,' she said, and led the woman towards an inner office. In the few moments of her crossing that highly polished floor Mrs Fury became conscious of her appearance. Her hand went to her hat again. She began to push the wisps of hair out of sight. She looked down at her dress, then lower. She felt this drabness cling to her like some sort of dirty skin. She was out of place in this office. The door ahead of her had opened now. A tall grey-haired gentleman stood facing her. The girl went away.

‘Mrs Fury?' he said.

‘Yes,' the woman replied. She passed inside. The door closed.

‘Will you please take a chair?' said the grey-haired gentleman. Mrs Fury sat down. So this was Mr Lake. Lord! The number of times she had heard that name. And now here was the gentleman himself in flesh and blood. Mr Lake was indeed a name that had a certain significance for her family. Even Denny had spoken about him, trip after trip. She laid her hands in her lap and looked at this man. He was wearing pince-nez. Mrs Fury thought he looked a kind, benevolent old gentleman. Now she felt his eyes upon her. She sat up.

‘It's about my son,' she said. Her whole body seemed to stiffen in the chair. ‘I had a cable from New York. Is it very bad? How did it happen? Has he gone into hospital? I …' she paused. The man lowered his eyes. He had been watching this woman and noticed how gradually she was losing control of herself. Her hands seemed to cross and recross her bosom. They appeared to him to be rather finely shaped hands. He rose from his chair and stood over her.

‘Your son is a quartermaster on the
Turcoman?'

‘Yes.' She did not look up at him. The same aimless movements of her hands. ‘How irritating it is,' thought the grey-haired man.

‘The fact is, I am sorry to say,' continued the kind-looking gentleman, ‘the fact is that your son fell from the cross-trees. He is not seriously hurt. He landed, fortunately enough, on his heels. I should think that with …' Mrs Fury's head appeared to sag a little. ‘From the mast on to his heels,' she said. Then she stood on her feet. ‘Oh!' she said. The man put an arm about her shoulder. ‘Sit here, Mrs Fury.' He drew up a chair. Then he flung up the window. He rang a bell on his desk. A young woman appeared. ‘Bring this lady a glass of water,' he said. The woman opened her eyes and looked up at the window. The word ‘lady' had a peculiar effect upon her. She smiled. How long ago was it, she wondered, how long ago since she was spoken to like that? She turned round in the chair. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. The man smiled and sat down again.

‘That's quite all right, Mrs Fury, I'm very sorry about this accident to your son. Unfortunately we have not full details from Captain Thomas. But the
Turcoman
is leaving New York for Gelton tonight. Your son is in hospital, and will eventually be sent home on another boat.' He began to tear some notes up and put them in the waste-paper basket. The woman got up from her chair, walked across to his desk, and leaning over said, ‘Is that all? Or perhaps you could tell me how it happened?' Again he smiled. He did not know. As he had already told her, no details were available as yet, but as soon as he had them he would inform her. Meanwhile she was not to worry. Her son was having the best attention, and in a few weeks he would be on his feet again. Meanwhile she could continue to draw his allotment money from the ground-floor office. Mrs Fury realized at once that there was nothing more to be done. She turned towards the door. The man followed her.