The Furys (31 page)

Mr Fury picked up his sister-in-law's bag. Then he went out. As he passed Peter's door he kicked at it. ‘Seven bells,' he shouted. He heard a yawn as he went downstairs. At a quarter to seven all four were having breakfast. Mr Fury wanted to ask a question, and yet he dreaded to ask it. The woman was so contrary that she might well do exactly the opposite. No. He wouldn't ask the question. Just trust to luck. Then Miss Mangan obliged him.

‘What about Dad?' she asked.

‘Oh, I'll see about that,' replied Mrs Fury. All eyes were turned upon Fanny Fury. Each seemed to ask the same question: What will she do? Drag the old man all the way to the Stage again?

‘Peter will stay with his grand-dad,' announced Mrs Fury. She sat back at the table, like some sort of general. This was a surprise. Mr Fury was relieved, Miss Mangan more so. The sight of her father lying on the landing-stage still remained vivid in her mind. A quarter past seven. Everybody rose from the table.

‘What time does this boat go, Denny?' asked Aunt Brigid.

‘That I don't know. Nobody knows, all you can do is, get down to the ship's berth and wait there. There may be a boat today, but there certainly won't be one tomorrow.'

‘I see,' said Aunt Brigid. What a hole to be caught in! Mrs Fury turned to Peter. The boy was standing by the curtains that covered the kitchen door.

‘There's nothing to do for your grand-dad, except to give him his porridge at half-past eight. But you must go up now and then and look at him. Sometimes he wants sitting up to help him clear his throat.'

‘Yes, Mother,' Peter said. ‘I won't forget it.' It made him feel sick again.

‘All ready, then?' asked Mr Fury. He put on his hard hat and blue overcoat. Suddenly he called to Peter, ‘Here, Peter. Just run over to the sheds and see what's doing there. There ought to be a special of some sort.' He looked almost despairingly at Miss Mangan. The boy went out.

‘Surely there'll be a tram, Denny,' said Mrs Fury as she drew on her long blue serge coat. ‘Surely! …' Again the man looked at his sister-in-law, as though to say, ‘It's all your fault.'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I don't know.'

Peter came back, almost breathless.

‘There aren't any trams.'

‘What?' Mrs Fury looked at her sister. Miss Mangan stared bewildered at Mr Fury.

‘My heavens! This is awful. I don't know …'

‘Here,' cried Mrs Fury, ‘run to Hollis's, Peter, and tell them to send a taxi at once.'

Mr Fury sat down. All this excitement and confusion! Why hadn't Miss Mangan made inquiries? Why hadn't she made better preparations? Too busy, he supposed. That nose of hers ferreting about.

‘I thought you made inquiries yesterday,' said Mr Fury. It was almost a growl.

‘I did,' said Miss Mangan. ‘I did. Do you take me for a fool, Denny?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, don't start arguing now,' interrupted Mrs Fury. ‘This isn't the time for arguments.'

‘There aren't any taxis. Mr Hollis can't do anything.' The sudden shout as Peter entered the lobby seemed to strike the kitchen assembly dumb. Everybody stared at Peter when he came in.

‘Peter!' said his mother.

‘You can't get anything, Mother. Mr Hollis said so. Not even a taxi. Everybody's walking.'

‘Disgraceful!' shouted Miss Mangan. She thumped the table. This was indeed a bitter blow. To have to walk three and a half miles, not knowing whether there was a boat! Well, it
was
disgraceful. She looked at her brother-in-law.

‘Yes. I think it's disgraceful. The way these men go on strike. They haven't the slightest consideration for anybody. All for themselves. All for themselves.'

‘Christ almighty!' shouted Mr Fury. ‘The way you talk, one would think I caused the damned strike. Why …'

‘Denny! Denny! What an excitable man you are! Here! Pick up that bag.' Mrs Fury put on her hat. Mr Fury picked up Miss Mangan's bag. Aunt Brigid said she must slip upstairs to see her father.

‘Very well,' said Mrs Fury. Aunt Brigid went upstairs. ‘Peter, don't forget what I told you.'

‘No, Mother.'

Miss Mangan came down. She was wiping her eyes with a white handkerchief. Mr Fury gripped her bag.

‘Well! all set?'

‘Yes,' said Mrs Fury.

Mr Fury went towards the back kitchen door. Aunt Brigid hurriedly smothered Peter in an embrace.

‘Good-bye, Peter, now. Be a good boy.'

Peter said, ‘Yes, Auntie. Good-bye,' and freed himself from the embrace, the smell of perfume strong in his nostrils.

‘Here!' cried Mrs Fury. ‘This way,' and she opened the front door. Mr Fury was so surprised that he almost dropped the bag. As Miss Mangan stepped down into the street, followed by Mrs Fury and her husband with the bag, it seemed as though all Hatflelds had turned out to see them go.

Mr Fury went on ahead. Mrs Fury and her sister walked behind. Not a word was spoken. Each was conscious of curtains pulled back, of people standing in doorways. Not until the bottom of Hatfields was reached did Miss Mangan explode. Dennis Fury was too far away to hear it. Indeed, Mr Fury might have been momentarily equipped with wings.

‘Fanny!' exclaimed Aunt Brigid, as she swung round and surveyed the length of Hatfields. ‘Fanny! What an awful street! The people at those doors, the eyes hidden behind the curtains. I don't know how you can live in such a place.' She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her face. Miss Mangan felt she was wiping off Hatflelds' grime. How on earth her sister had ever come to such a street she could not imagine, and that was the kind of den poor Dad was in!

Mrs Fury smiled. ‘I've had thirty years of it, Brigid, and I'm quite used to it.'

‘Don't you ever feel you want to get out of it?' asked Brigid.

Mrs Fury's eyes had a sudden far-away look in them. ‘Sometimes,' she said, and her own voice sounded strange to her ears. ‘Sometimes,' she repeated. They walked on. Mrs Fury kept her eyes upon her husband. He had now come to a sudden halt. The bag lay at his feet. He was looking at some men's underwear in a draper's shop window.

‘I'm sure you must get tired of it sometimes.' remarked Aunt Brigid. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Don't you ever want to go back home?'

‘Home! Oh God!'

‘I mean Ireland,' added Aunt Brigid.

Mrs Fury looked at her sister. She made no reply to the question. Aunt Brigid was diplomatic enough not to repeat it. There was something about her sister that moved her deeply. They caught up with Mr Fury.

‘Listen, Denny,' said Mrs Fury, ‘there must be some means of getting to the Stage. Can't we get a cab anywhere?' The man shook his head. Mr Fury had reached a stage in sheer desperation when he didn't care if a tram came along. He wouldn't do anything but walk. There was something almost spiteful in the look he gave Miss Mangan. ‘No!' he said. ‘You won't get a cab either. Even if there was one, it's too early.'

‘Why not Hobhouse's? Surely there's a cab or car of some kind.'

‘You won't get one, Fanny,' said Mr Fury. He picked up the bag again.

‘Wait here,' said Mrs Fury. ‘I'll run to Hobhouse's Yard. There might be one. You can't expect Brigid to walk that four miles.'

‘What if she has to walk back?' Mr Fury said.

‘Wait here, Brigid. I'll try to get you a conveyance of some kind,' and she rushed off, leaving Aunt Brigid and her brother-in-law gazing at each other, as though there was nothing else to do but gaze.

‘She's a caution! That woman's a caution.' Mr Fury kept looking at his watch. Mrs Fury came back at last, flushed, out of breath, and defeated.

‘I told you all along,' growled Mr Fury. ‘We could have been half-way there.'

They set off once more, Mr Fury going ahead of them with the bag.

There was something almost ghostly about the early morning walk. The city seemed dead. The pavements were deserted. It was as though in the night the life of the whole city had suddenly fled, leaving behind it a desert, a ruin. The long Harbour Road seemed endless. Fortunately for Aunt Brigid, the journey was all downhill. Now, as they neared the entrance to the city itself, they came upon groups of men standing outside factory gates. Outside a large jute factory they saw about one hundred young women. All seemed to be talking excitedly. There was nothing about this early morning flight of Miss Mangan that aroused their curiosity. The procession of three, Mr Fury leading, aroused no interest in them. Miss Mangan focused her eyes upon this crowd of young women, remarking to her sister:

‘It was in one of those places that Maureen worked, wasn't it?'

‘Yes,' replied Mrs Fury, looking straight ahead.

‘At last!' she was thinking. ‘Here we are. Almost at the end of the journey.' The last few days had seemed like a nightmare. With Aunt Brigid gone, they might be able to settle down again. Mr Fury called back, ‘This way.'

They turned down Salter Road. Miss Mangan could see the tall masts of ships. She looked reassuringly at Mrs Fury. ‘Almost there,' she remarked. Again Mrs Fury's reply was ‘Yes.' She was still looking ahead. Now they were on the dock road. They stood hesitating.

‘It's the next gate,' said Mr Fury.

All three passed into the dock. Suddenly Aunt Brigid shouted, ‘There is a boat, Fanny, after all!' She added, ‘Thank God!' There was indeed a boat tied up at the quay. Mr Fury stood waiting for them. When they came up, he said, ‘Yes.'

‘Well, here we are,' exclaimed Mrs Fury. They looked up at the boat. Even then Mrs Fury was filled with apprehension. Yes. The boat was there. But the very atmosphere of the place suggested something else. Miss Mangan opened her mouth wide, and it remained open, like that of a fish, whilst Mr Fury looked up at the funnels of the ship.

There seemed nobody about. A silence like the grave itself seemed to hem them in, held them there speechless. Then a miracle happened. A man came out of a cabin and stood for a moment, his eyes upon the gangway, at the bottom of which Miss Mangan now stood. Mr Fury stood at her side, the bag locked between his legs. Behind Miss Mangan Mrs Fury stood, a sort of moral support in this fresh crisis now threatening. The man looked down at them, they looked up at the man. They were waiting, with something approaching dread itself, for this man to speak. Once they tensed themselves, for the man did look as though he were going to speak. But he only spat into the gutter.

‘Any chance of this boat sailing, mate?' called up Mr Fury.

Miss Mangan gripped the gangway as though at the word ‘Yes' she would spring forward. Mrs Fury said, ‘Brigid! Brigid!'

‘No.'

‘Damn and blast!' shouted Mr Fury. He heard the man laugh. He did not look at the man, he could hardly control himself. ‘Are you sure? Isn't there any kind of a bloody boat crossing to Cork today?' He would have liked to dash up the gangway and knock the man down. The fellow was actually grinning at them, as though revelling in their plight.

Miss Mangan drew back suddenly, so that she trod on her sister's foot. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Oh, Fanny!' Mr Fury had grown quite pale.

‘There isn't a boat, then?' he called up.

‘No! Haven't I told you there isn't any bloody boat sailing!' shouted the man.

‘When will there be one?' asked Mr Fury.

‘I don't know. Perhaps next year.' The man went into the cabin again, shutting the door with such a loud bang that Mr Fury cried, his anger having reached boiling-point, ‘You insolent bastard – I'll …'

‘Denny! Denny! Please control yourself. You fool!' Miss Mangan was speechless. She sat down on a large bacon box and surveyed the boat from stem to stern. After an almost unbearable silence Mr Fury exclaimed:

‘Well! There isn't any boat. I told you, didn't I? There isn't any boat. It's useless.'

He picked up the bag.

‘Come, Brigid,' said Mrs Fury. ‘This is really disgraceful. To be caught out like this! We'll have to make plans.'

Yes. She would have to make plans.

They started off on the return journey. They were like three people stricken dumb. They left the dock behind them and turned up Salter Road. Miss Mangan was wondering whether she would even be able to walk back. When they came to the hill, for some strange reason they went into single file. And Brigid brought up the rear.

PART TWO

CHAPTER IX

1

Mr George Postlethwaite was a very happy man. Son of Mr Andrew Postlethwaite, next door neighbour of the Furys in Hatfields, he had now been married six months. George was a carter to Mr Dimmock, a shipping agent. Andrew Postlethwaite's son lived in number nine Vulcan Street, next door to Desmond Fury. It was Sunday morning. George was seated on the yard floor, his back against the wall, legs spread apart. Upon his knees there lay various chains and belts from his horse's harness. This he was now engaged in cleaning. As he applied spit and polish with energy and enthusiasm, the jingling of the chains rose into the air, so that the people in the neighbouring houses would say, ‘That's George in the yard.' This continual jingle of the bright chains was accompanied by George's whistle. To whistle at his work seemed the right and proper thing to do for a man as happy as George was. Mr Postlethwaite junior was twenty-eight years of age, and though small like his father, was more thickly set. There was nothing extraordinary about George, except his perpetual smile. Nothing effaced this smile. He was wearing a sailor's jersey, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His head was bare. The hair was thick and curly, almost red in colour. His face was red, and it seemed that this continuous smile only served to enhance its natural colour. Mrs Postlethwaite was at that very moment frying her husband's breakfast. There was a lazy air about Vulcan Street on Sunday mornings, but George was wont to make a rift in this as soon as he appeared in the back yard, the harness dangling about his neck. If George was proud of his horse ‘Nabob', the horse must have been equally proud of its master, for it seemed that no horse looked as well kept as Mr Dimmock's. Mr Dimmock's horses always took first prize in the annual horse parade. The back window of number nine shot up, and Mrs Postlethwaite called, ‘George! Breakfast's ready.' ‘Coming,' said George. He put down his cloth and went into the house.