The Furys (11 page)

They boarded the next inward-bound tram for home.

3

Promptly at half-past five the next evening Maureen went round to Hatfields. Mr Fury had just finished his tea, and was sitting on the sofa reading the evening paper when his daughter came in.

‘Hello!' she announced, with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and sat herself down at her father's side. Mrs Fury was busy attending to her father. Mr Fury half turned his head and looked at his daughter. She was a rare visitor now. Since she had married Joseph Kilkey, he supposed she had been home twice in that twelve months. Mr Fury realized that there was something in Maureen he had lost sight of. It was the same with the other children. He had seen so little of them whilst at sea. Now they had grown up. Somehow they seemed beyond him. There was something about Maureen that he greatly admired, and he could not conceal it. Maureen Fury, like her mother, was tall and slim, and of graceful bearing. Their characteristics were almost identical. There was something imperious about her carriage, and even thirty years of married life had not wrested it from Mrs Fury. Maureen had a head of copper-coloured hair, whilst her eyes were deep grey in colour. Her face was long, the mouth was thin, like the mother's, and tended to give her a certain severity of expression, which her very nature at once belied. Mr Fury looked at her hands, and from her hands his eyes wandered to her face. His wife all over. Now at this very moment Mr Fury was puzzled. He had not forgotten his daughter's attitude when the question of sending Peter to Cork had first come up. Why this sudden change? He felt he wanted to talk to Maureen – but not there – not in the house. Perhaps he would go over to Kilkey's place and have a talk with her. Some night when Joe was working late. He had a faint suspicion that Maureen had changed her opinions, and was now taking her mother's part where Peter was concerned. The curious thing was that his wife had not breathed a word to Maureen about Anthony's accident. Mr Fury found a special place in his affections for Anthony. Anthony was looked upon as the simpleton of the family. He could not take his eyes from his daughter, even when his wife pushed Mr Mangan and his chair further back into the corner, and now turned round and faced them. He studied Maureen from the rear, frontally, and in profile. What was this something about his daughter that he specially admired? Was it her very youth, her freshness and enthusiasm? It certainly wasn't her interest in polemics. Mr Fury never associated women with polemics. Indeed, his daughter's sudden interest could only have arisen after contact with Mr Kilkey. Suddenly he patted Maureen on the back, and shouted, ‘Well, Maureen, any fresh news?' Then he winked at his wife. Mrs Fury had drawn up the cane chair, and was seated in it, looking at the fast-burning slack. Maureen assumed a quite serious expression, and facing her father, remarked, ‘Yes, the tramwaymen are coming out too. They're going to support the miners.'

‘Oh!' Mr Fury scratched his head with great vigour. Of course. He
had
heard something about it in the sheds. But he never wholly believed it. A mere rumour. And now they were talking about the police coming out as well. H'm! Next thing he'd probably hear about would be a war. A real War. What next! He looked up suddenly as Mrs Fury exclaimed:

‘About Peter!'

About Peter? Mr Fury looked across at the bent figure of Mr Mangan.

‘What's wrong now?' he asked.

‘Wrong!' exclaimed his wife. ‘Why, the lad will be stranded. That's what's wrong.'

Mr Fury burst out laughing. ‘Get away! get away! To hear you people talking you'd imagine the whole world was coming out on strike this very minute.'

‘There won't be any boats running,' continued Mrs Fury; ‘you don't suppose the authorities at the college are going to keep him there for ever …'

‘Why?' interrupted Mr Fury. ‘Have you heard, then?'

‘I've heard
nothing,'
said Mrs Fury, ‘
Nothing.
All I know is, that his last fees were paid eleven weeks ago.' The word ‘fees' remained in Mr Fury's mind for a long time. Maureen caught his eye.

‘It's rather rotten about Peter,' she said.

Mr Fury made no reply. He took the plug of tobacco from his pocket, and began to cut at it with a large jack-knife. Then he said, ‘Aye,' and began to rub up the tobacco in the palm of his hand. ‘Aye,' he said again.

‘Met somebody?' asked Mrs Fury.

It was a long time since Mrs Fury had smelt tobacco so strong. Not since her husband had left the ships. Mr Fury filled his pipe.

‘Met a fellow name of Mulcare,' he said. ‘A fine young chap. His father's in rather a big way in Dublin. But they don't get on very well together.' He saw his wife smile.

‘How ridiculous!' she said, and changed the conversation back to Peter. Mr Fury was on the point of protesting. Very soon, he felt, they would be canonizing this young fellow. At that moment a wire came. It saved the situation. Peter was on his way, with Aunt Brigid. Mr Fury's face fell. So she was coming after all. Two of them now. Peter had left by an earlier boat. All eyes went to the clock. The woman jumped to her feet. ‘Why!' she exclaimed, ‘we've only got three-quarters of an hour to meet the boat. Get your coat on, Denny.' She half pushed her husband out of the chair. She rushed into the hall. A minute later she appeared, fully dressed, in the kitchen. She was wearing her new hat. Mr Fury beamed. ‘You look a real toff, Fanny,' he said.

‘Hurry up, Denny. You're so slow. And always behind time. Come along now. I half believe you don't want to meet the lad.' Her tone of voice suddenly changed. Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘All right! All right!' It was a nuisance, but he did not want any scenes on the tramcar. Maureen got up and said she must be going too. Mrs Fury stopped her.

‘A minute, child. We're all going your way.'

‘What about “him”?' asked Mr Fury, pointing to the huddled figure of Mr Mangan. Ah! She hadn't thought of that. She looked appealingly at Maureen. Could she stay? Maureen was embarrassed. Well, Joe would be expecting her. She hadn't been in the whole evening. Perhaps …

‘We'll take him with us,' said Mrs Fury.

‘Good God, woman! That's impossible! It's impossible!' shouted Mr Fury. He looked savagely at his wife. Then he turned to Maureen.

‘Look here,' he said. ‘Why can't you oblige your mother for once? You know she wants to meet the lad, and so do I. Can't you stay with your granddad? We'll be back inside an hour.' Maureen remained adamant. No. She really couldn't. Besides, it didn't require two people to meet Peter, and Aunt Brigid knew her way. She had been in Gelton before. Mr Fury flung his cap on the table. ‘To hell with it!' he said, and sat down. Mrs Fury swore under her breath. ‘Maureen,' she said, then suddenly stopped. ‘How could Joe go out and his wife like that? Expecting a child soon,' she was thinking. Mr Fury said, ‘Well, what's it going to be, in or out? We're getting later every minute.' Maureen crossed over to the window. ‘It's a filthy night,' she said. Mrs Fury shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Off you go, Maureen. Get off home to your husband. Don't keep him waiting for you.' She turned to her husband. ‘Denny, come here a minute.' She was bending over her father's chair. ‘Give a hand here,' she said. Maureen slipped out into the back kitchen and left the house. Mr Fury went across to his wife. ‘But heavens above!' he exclaimed; ‘the man can't stand up!' Mrs Fury gnashed her teeth. ‘How the devil do you think I manage him on a Friday? Of course he can stand. He's not as helpless as all that. Put your arm under his shoulder. There.'

They stood the old man up. ‘Er – er –' he grunted. Mr Fury cursed inwardly at this turn in the situation. Why had he ever mentioned the old fool? Landed himself in this. He looked at his wife. ‘You're crazy, Fanny; you're crazy! He can't walk. And the job we'll have with him on the car! It's madness. Besides which, the night is filthy. It'll kill him.'

‘Come along,' Mrs Fury said. ‘Get his hard hat from the rack. And his raincoat. Mangans won't lie down, Denny. Don't forget that.' Mr Fury went out for the old man's outdoor things. When he came into the kitchen, his wife was wiping her father's face with a wet flannel. Christ! What a stubborn bitch of a woman she was! ‘Here.'

‘Then give a hand,' she replied, as he held out the coat and hat. ‘Take this away.' She almost flung the flannel into his face. But Mr Fury only said, ‘You'll never do it, and in the end you'll miss this bloody boat, and serve you right.'

‘Shut your mouth! Are you ready?'

Between them they half carried the old man to the door. After much confusion they managed to get off the step into the street. ‘Go back and lock the place up,' Mrs Fury said. She held her father up against the wall until her husband came out. He put an arm around Mr Mangan. Half dragging, half carrying the old man between them, they made their way slowly down the street. A periodic grunting from this bent figure caused them to stop twice, whilst Mrs Fury wiped her father's eyes and nose. It was now pouring with rain. Some doors opened, a shaft of sickly yellowish light streamed out upon the murky pavements. The three figures stumbled into this light. A man came and stood at the door to watch them pass. He shouted into the kitchen, ‘Look at this,' and he was joined by another man and a woman. All three stood on the step watching the snail-like progress of the Furys from number three. Mr Fury already felt this trio of eyes boring into the back of his head. Like the old man beside him, he was seized with a sudden longing for obscurity. He lowered his own head. Mrs Fury seemed oblivious of everything excepting the weight upon her right arm. They reached the bottom of the street.

‘Did you put out the gas-stove in the back?' she asked.

A sort of low mumble was all the reply she received. Now they were approaching the main road. Mr Fury suddenly wished that the earth might open and swallow him up – if not himself, then this dragging helpless figure in the middle. How on earth did Fanny manage the fellow on a Friday? ‘She wouldn't mind that,' he was saying to himself. ‘It's a question of ten shillings every time with her. I suppose that went across to the beggar in Ireland too.' The rain was running down his neck. Once he set himself erect and glanced across at his wife. Her attitude was almost imperious. With her head erect she walked on, oblivious of the passers-by who stopped to stare at this quaint trio. At last they were nearing the tram-stop. Mr Fury heaved a sigh of relief. He didn't mind the rain. He was only concerned about hiding himself away from the light, from the curious eyes that looked into his own as he stumbled along. What a position to be in! Hang it, the fellow ought to be in his grave! Ought never to have come to the house. Mr Fury had never forgiven Mr Mangan for the remarks he had passed to him on the occasion of Peter's letter home for money. Now things would be worse. The lad home, Mr Mangan still in the chair, and worst of all, his sister-in-law. A hopeful prospect, he thought.

‘By Christ!' he shouted. He had lost control of himself. Mrs Fury heard nothing. A tram was rushing down towards them, the driver clanging his bell. ‘Hold him tight!' she shouted. The noise was deafening. Mr Fury hung on. The tram pulled up with a screeching sound. The driver looked astonished at the three figures as they stepped off the footpath, whilst the conductor, who had just shot down the stairs, exclaimed, ‘What's this? A funeral?' He spat out on the road. ‘Full up below,' he shouted, and looked down at the upturned faces of Mr and Mrs Fury. They looked yellow and ghastly beneath the light. The figure in the middle did not interest him. It possessed nothing, revealed nothing, to convince him that it was humanized. ‘Full up below,' he repeated. This red-faced young man with an almost bovine expression upon his face began to get impatient. ‘Hurry up now,' he said, and put out a hand to help them on. ‘Best get on top, Denny,' Mrs Fury said.

‘Oh God!' murmured Mr Fury. ‘All right. Get on, for heaven's sake! I'll lift the old man on.' With the conductor's unwilling help they managed to get the old man on to the platform, Mrs Fury pushing him from behind, whilst her husband's one free hand gripped the brass rail. ‘Strike me!' exclaimed the conductor. The woman shot him a vicious glance and exclaimed angrily, ‘Can't you help? He's an old man. What are you standing there for?' She nudged her husband.

‘Come on, Denny, for goodness sake. We won't get a seat at all in a minute.' She put a foot on the stairs. The conductor and Mr Fury followed, pushing the old man up in front of them. The woman held her father's hand. They reached the top stair. They held on desperately to the rails. The tram careered along. Through the open window the rain shot into Mr Mangan's face. ‘At last!' They both breathed a sigh of relief. They found a vacant place on the long seat right in the front end of the car. More excitement and confusion as they threaded their way awkwardly through the seated passengers. A forest of murmurs. Everybody was staring. They sat down. Mr Fury put his hand at the back of Mr Mangan's head. The car seemed to sway from side to side. The old man's head bobbed up and down, backwards and forwards. Mrs Fury paid for their tickets. The conductor vanished again. Not a word was spoken, though the murmuring amongst the passengers had not yet died down. Mrs Fury was lost in thought. Her eyes saw nothing but her daughter Maureen, a sort of inner eye remained focused upon the young woman, and her change of form. What a time, she was thinking, for Joe to think of going out on strike! Maureen surprised her. Poor child! Did she think it was some kind of jolly holiday? She hadn't seen anything yet. Well, she would lose all her illusions soon. She kept staring through the window at the brilliantly lighted shop fronts. And the way the girl talked. She wasn't blind to her attitude towards her husband. No doubt Denny would think that she, Fanny, was behind all this. Joe was only a fool if he came out. Ridiculous that one man had to imperil his livelihood and that of his wife just because a number of other men said it was the only thing to do. Men were like children, and they hadn't half the imagination of children. H'm! She rubbed her hand on the glass, and looked across at her husband. ‘What do you think about this business?'