The Furys (54 page)

‘Out,' Peter said.

‘Yes, I know you were out.' Mr Fury raised his voice. ‘We know you were out. But where? And don't you talk to me like that, you young pup, or I'll flatten you! See!'

‘Sorry, Dad. Mother says we must take Grand-dad to the Post Office.'

‘Oh! Oh!' Dennis Fury plumped himself in the chair. ‘Your mother says, does she? Listen to me' – the sudden change in his voice startled Peter. ‘Listen to me! Your mother is all wrong. When did she tell you that? D'you know your mother's going out of her mind? Do you? You bastard! Where were you last night?'

‘Dad! Dad!' The boy gripped his father's knees. He could feel them trembling under his touch. ‘Dad!' he said. ‘Dad!'

‘Yes! Yes! It's all right. Sorry, laddie,' he said. ‘I didn't know what I was saying.'

He wiped his face with a large red handkerchief covered with great white dots.

‘Sorry, Peter! Sorry!' The man seemed confused, bewildered. ‘Must be getting light in the head,' he said. He laughed then. ‘Your mother must have made a mistake,' he said. ‘It's Friday when “him” goes down.' Peter could not understand his father.

‘No. It's today. Mother just said.'

‘Just said! But I can't get a word out of your mother. I asked her if she'd been to bed. She said “Yes,” but it's a bloody lie. She's been sitting at the table all night, staring at the damned wall. I
knew
it!' Mr Fury said. ‘I
knew
it. I know your mother better than anybody. Out all day yesterday.
All
day. How she got to town and back, God only knows. But she did. Aye, Peter, you ought to be proud of your mother, lad. Aye! She got Anthony's money. She did that. I couldn't get it. That swine Lake and me don't get on well together.' He leaned towards his son and added in a whisper, ‘And your mother didn't have a bite of food the whole day. Of course she said “Yes” when I asked her. But your mother's like that. Wouldn't complain. Never says a damned word. You never know when her belly's empty.' He suddenly brought his hand down heavily on Peter's shoulders. ‘Aye! She's like that. If ever you do anything on your mother I'll break your neck. Yes, I will that!'

Breakfast was laid. Bacon for Mr Fury, bread fried in the gravy for Peter. They sat down. This time the American oilcloth had appeared. It was newly scrubbed. Mr Fury deliberately changed his seat, and said to Peter authoritatively, ‘You sit there.' Yes, if Fanny looked at that wall once more he'd jump out, get the hatchet from the coal-house, and smash it down. That's what he would do. Getting on his nerves. Couldn't stand it any longer. Not a word was spoken during the meal, until Peter pushed away his plate.

‘What's the matter with you?' said Mr Fury, thinking of his wife's silence. ‘I say, what's the matter with you?' He put down some bacon rind from his fork.

‘Nothing,' Peter said, looking somewhat distractedly at his mother. ‘I'm not hungry.' He sat back in his chair.

‘Oh! You're getting very particular. One of these days you will be hungry, and you won't stick your nose up at fried bread.'

‘I'm not sticking up my nose at it,' replied Peter. ‘It's only what we got at college, anyhow.'

‘Fried bread!' cried Mrs Fury in her mind. ‘Fried bread!' She thought of the school fees.

‘You're turning into a little snob,' Mr Fury said. ‘The bloody seven years' holiday has turned your head! That's what I think! Your mother doesn't agree, of course. Fanny,' he said, turning to Mrs Fury, ‘Why don't you eat something?'

‘In a minute,' she replied.

Her husband got up. In a minute. That might mean tomorrow or next year. He went out to the closet and sat on the seat. He lighted his pipe. Soon great clouds of smoke came out through the space between the door top and the roof.

‘Sitting there like a dummy,' Mr Fury thought. ‘Almost as bad as “him”. Hang the confounded strike!' He couldn't see what anybody was getting out of it, except a few lucky ones like Mr Postlethwaite, who got a clout on the head. No. They wouldn't get anything. And that son of his, here, there, everywhere, talking a lot of bull about workers' rights. Now he came to think of it. that George Postlethwaite was right. Nobody got anything out of it except a cracked head. You couldn't beat those bosses. They had all kinds of plans up their sleeves, every kind of help at their hand. Soldiers, police, mounted and on foot. Specials, toffs from the colleges and universities wearing blue armlets. A lot of tommy-rot. As the smoke filled the small closet, Mr Fury thought, ‘Aye. All their damned promises will go up in smoke.' He could see Mr Postlethwaite lying in that hospital ward, his head heavily bandaged. He could hear George saying, ‘Trouble with these fellers, Dad, is they never know when to say “Whoa!” That's a fact. An' all you got for your trouble was a fat head.' Mr Fury suddenly laughed. ‘Yes,' he thought, ‘George is right.' Well, he never wanted the confounded strike. It just came. And there was Fanny sitting there like somebody daft. He knew what was the matter. Of course he did. And her own sister kept clear now. Might be asked to help a bit. Mean bastard. That's what she was. Her and her blasted father. The house had never been right since he came, anyhow. Now he was too old to go back.

‘Belfast!' he exclaimed. ‘The old man'll never see Belfast.' He spat on the floor. ‘No. Just kick the bucket in his chair. Ought to bury the chair with him when he dies.' Yes. Everything seemed to have gone topsy-turvy all of a sudden. He thought of his daughter. ‘Aye. I used to like Maureen – but I'm damned if I do now. Never comes near to see her mother. Wouldn't even see the boy. Too independent.' Stuck up all of a sudden. Well, he would never ask her for anything, not even for a pinch of tobacco. Certainly Fanny wouldn't. He'd swear his solemn oath on that. The water made a gurgling sound in the bowl. He banged the door, but it came open again. Blast! One would think the landlord would put a latch on it. He returned to the kitchen again. Mrs Fury was busy in the back kitchen.

‘Can I do anything?' he asked. He could see how worried she was. What was on her mind? She hadn't cleaned up for days. ‘Can I help with anything, Fanny?'

‘No.' She swept the dishes into the sink. Mr Fury stood watching her wash them. ‘I said No,' the woman shouted. The man leaned back against the mangle.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Don't get your shirt out about it. I'll go out.'

‘Go out,' Mrs Fury said. Dennis Fury took her at her word. In two minutes he was hurrying down Hatfields. He was like a man who has suddenly remembered an important engagement. But his destination was nowhere in particular. Simply ‘out'. As soon as the back door closed, Mrs Fury called to her son:

‘Did you leave that note at Price Street?'

‘Yes, Mother.' He heard her washing down the drainboard.

‘You put it under the door as I said?' She was wringing out the cloth into the sink.

‘Yes, Mother,' Peter called back.

‘Did you wait until Mr Kilkey had gone out?'

‘Yes.'

Mr Joseph Kilkey, when not working, always went out to the half-past eight Mass at St Sebastian's.

The house was silent again. The woman came into the kitchen. Her sleeves were rolled up beyond the elbow.

‘Has your father gone?' she asked. She had actually seen her husband pass down the back yard as she stood behind the window, washing up, but now she seemed to have completely forgotten it.

‘He's gone, Mother.'

‘Then you go too,' she said. ‘You can easily catch your father up. Go for a walk with him.'

The boy seemed not to comprehend.

‘I said, Go out,' replied Mrs Fury. ‘You're in the way here.'

‘Yes. All right. I'll go out,' Peter said. He put his coat on and went out.

The woman sat down. She was alone at last. They had gone out. She felt the air was clearer. Now she could get on with her job. She got up and threw the window open. That was better. Now she could begin. She stood by the window contemplating. Should she begin at the top or at the bottom. The whole house was a disgrace. Suddenly she said, ‘I'll begin at the top.' She went into the back kitchen, armed herself with bucket, cloths, soap, and scrubbing-brushes. Yes, the place was like a pigsty. She filled the bucket and went straight upstairs. She went into Mr Mangan's room. She would do his first, then the boy's. After dinner she would do her own room and the kitchen and back kitchen. She began to clear the clothes from her father's bed.

Anthony Mangan's room contained a large iron bedstead, a cane chair, and a table. The floor was covered with oilcloth, now almost worn bare. Two rusty laths from the bed trailed upon the floor, so that each time the bed was moved to be made up the laths scraped the cloth. This continuous scraping soon trod great holes in the oilcloth. Mrs Fury now removed the bed from the wall. The bed consisted of straw mattress, sheet, blanket, and two overcoats. The sheet was stained with slobber. The woman flung the bed-clothes on to a chair, turned the mattress up, and then flung up the window. She carried the bucket to the corner, knelt down and began to scrub. When the oilcloth was wetted it threw up an odour, partly the smell of its own cloth, partly from a kind of staleness that lay hidden beneath it, and that rose up each time the woman scrubbed the floor. Each scrubbing was a revelation. It revealed more clearly how worn the cloth was, and there was always that thin film of mould between it and the floor. At one time this sheet of oilcloth had been lifted and the wooden floor thoroughly scrubbed; now it was impossible. The oilcloth if lifted would come to pieces. Only its own rot seemed to hold it together. Moreover, it was practically glued to the floor. As she scrubbed with great circular movements of her right hand, which movements she changed alternately, the circular movements had a peculiar effect upon her. They made her dizzy. Sometimes her hand made sweeping circles long after the desire to scrub had left her, as though through long habit she had become a slave to its rhythm, a rhythm that pulled one to the floor, that held one's knees in a vice-like grip. She experienced this dizziness now. She was kneeling just at the end of the bed. The strong smell of carbolic soap filled the room. She had finished scrubbing a patch of the oilcloth to her satisfaction, but somehow her arm, as though controlled by some force outside her own body, continued to make these rotary movements. At such times she instinctively put her hand out and caught the leg of the bed, or the chair, or the corner of the table. It had a steadying effect. The other arm stopped moving. Mrs Fury caught the rail of Mr Mangan's bed, and rested back on her heels. After she had rested a while she began again. Mr Mangan's room was even dirtier than she had thought. She had now reached the door. Outside of this was a clean white patch of boarding from which she had taken a small green carpet upon which to kneel. The smell of carbolic came through to the nostrils, as though it rose vaporous from some hidden cavity of the boarding. The woman rose to her feet and surveyed the room.

‘Well, that's better!' she thought. ‘Smells cleaner, and the wind coming through the window will soon dry the floor.' Oilcloth seemed to imprison and hold water; it never dried as quickly as the boards, she was telling herself as she put the bucket down on the landing and went into the room again. She began to make Mr Mangan's bed. She paused, holding the sheet in her hand, staring at her father's expectorations patterning it. Should she wash it? No. Not today. She couldn't do everything in one day. She went to the door again and stood surveying the floor. ‘That's done with,' she said aloud, ‘and it wanted it.' Yes. And thank God she was able to do it. She thought of Mrs Postlethwaite and her rheumatics, of Mrs Barroise with her water on the knee. Yes, thank God she was able to do it. She picked up the bucket and went into Peter's room. She sat down on the bed, thinking, ‘This was Desmond's room.'

Well, really, now she came to think of it, it was disgraceful. That boy had had everything. Everything. And it had only ruined him, swelled his head. She looked at Peter's bed. Peter's bed, also of iron, was smaller. Instead of a straw mattress it had a flock bed, two sheets, a blanket, and an overcoat. The overcoat had at one time been worn by Mr Mangan himself. But Dad was younger then, even hale and hearty. In addition to the iron bed, Peter's room contained a dressing-table. It was very old, its oak polish almost worn away. The back of the dressing-table was made of stout unpolished ply-wood. This dressing-table served two purposes. Everything in the Fury household seemed destined to serve two purposes. Peter's dressing-table hid a huge hole in the wall. The paper had rotted. Mrs Fury had covered it time and time again with fresh paper. The paper became damp, and finally fell from the wall. Undaunted, Mrs Fury bought a tea-chest, took off the lid, and decided to nail it over the hole in the wall, which was now growing bigger. At that time the dressing-table stood against the window. With the first stroke of the hammer the nail bent, the plaster came away. The wall must be rotten, she thought. Perhaps the landlord would see to it. But that gentleman had somehow forgotten the matter. Mrs Fury decided to move the dressing-table, no feat in itself, but one which caused her endless labour. Desmond had tried again with the tea-chest top. The wall protested – there was a great hole there now! If one cared, one might put one's head through and look fifteen feet down into the back yard. As she sat on the bed she cast her eyes under this table. Just as she expected. A small pool of water was lodging on the floor. This slowly trickled through and made stains that turned a rich brown upon the ceiling beneath. She stripped Peter's bed, and as with her father's room, flung up the window to let the air in. There was a three-legged table, on which stood a small brass oil-lamp. In the corner and nailed to the wall was a shelf containing books. This was always on the point of collapsing. The damp was creeping along the whole wall. Having cleared the room, Mrs Fury went below to get fresh water. She threw a glance at her father as she passed through the kitchen. Mr Mangan sat, both hands on his knees; to Mrs Fury's great surprise he seemed to be smiling. She was inclined to stop, to see how long that smile would last. But she merely refilled the bucket and returned upstairs again. At half-past eleven she would go down and have a cup of tea. As she knelt down and began to sweep under the bed she noticed soot. Now, as she swept, it rose in clouds. What was this? And here was the strip of carpet all marked with somebody's feet. Under it more soot. The sheet on the bed was marked too, but she had noticed it in rolling back the bedclothes. Then he knew! Now she understood his remark: ‘My little bit,' he had said. Denny must have gone to the chimney for it. And she had taken it. She had taken it for that young devil Peter. Yes. And it had gone. But there were still fees to be paid. She hadn't seen the end of that yet.