The Furys (19 page)

‘I never wanted to go. I never wanted to go. You fooled me yourself. You begged and begged of me to go. I went to please you. I went to please you. But I never liked it. It was like gaol. Worse than gaol. I hated it. And now I'm finished with it. It's silly. It's mad. Mother, I'm sorry, but …' He could say no more. He got up from the sofa, and as he moved away his mother's head fell forward. He did not look at her. He went and stood by the door, his hand upon the knob. His face was white. ‘A dirty woman!' his mother exclaimed. Peter turned round and ran to her. When she looked at him he flung his hands into the air. He imagined she was going to throw herself upon him again. ‘Mother, I …'

‘Go away,' she said. She heard him walk across the room, heard the door open, close. A long silence. Then she began talking again. It was incoherent, a mere gabbling of words, confusion. What had she been saying at all? Good God! Great convulsive sobs broke from her. Her whole life seemed to be rooted up by a relentless hand. It lay before her now. In pieces. If only he had spoken. Only hinted. If he had straight out and told her, ‘No, Mother, I don't want to go. I don't want to be a priest.' But that silence. It was foul, poisonous. That silence. All those years. Why had he stayed? Why hadn't he come home at once? Impossible question. But that lie. It was a great festering sore across her heart. If he had simply said, ‘No.' Just that word. It would have been a disappointment. But this. It crushed one into the mud, into the earth. It debased. Her whole frame shook. They would every one of them laugh in her face. Even Denny. Her body slipped lower. Her head fell. ‘Oh!' she said. ‘Oh!' She dragged herself to her feet. She sat down, holding on to the back of the chair with her two hands. Her hair, now loosened, hung about her shoulders. In the struggle her comb had fallen to the floor. It lay in pieces at her feet. Peter had trodden it underfoot. She kept biting her lower lip. She looked round the room. She was alone. She went over and closed down the window. The smell from the yard had suddenly become repulsive to her. ‘Well,' she said to herself, ‘that's over.'

She left the room and went upstairs. She could hear her father snoring. She no sooner reached the landing than she turned and descended again. She stood in the hall staring at the hole in the lobby wall, at the little heap of plaster that lay on the oilcloth. Where had Peter gone? And she had quite forgotten her father. Tomorrow she would have all the old struggle again. She went upstairs again to her room. She stood by the window watching the men shovelling heaps of bones on to trucks, which in turn were pushed through into the mill. She had never before evinced an interest in this proceeding. Now. for some strange reason, she could not take her eyes off these men as they piled the bones into the filled trucks. Beyond this yard she could not see. If she looked higher she beheld a sea of roofs. A buzzer sounded, and she saw the men suddenly leave off their work. She must go downstairs. No matter how much one tried to think about these things, the clock forced its way in. Its monotonous tick accompanied her, sleeping and waking. As she passed her son's room she heard the sound of books being dusted. Then she went below. Good Lord! Denny was no sooner gone than he was back again. The clock glared at her from the mantelshelf. She could never escape from it. A sort of continuous threat. She picked it up and shut off the alarm-switch. She turned it face to the wall. Her father burst into a fit of coughing. She went out to the back kitchen.

She began to stir the broth in the pan. What was she going to do with this son now? He had proved her wrong. Her mind was confused. Where was Brigid? When Mr Fury turned the knob of the back door it seemed to turn in her own mind. She pulled off the pan quickly, exclaiming, ‘Heavens! It's burning. Whatever can I be thinking about?' Her husband came into the back kitchen. ‘Hello,' he said, then went out again. She heard him climbing the stairs, and shouted, ‘Tell Peter to come down for his dinner.' Mr Fury called back, ‘All right.'

Mrs Fury never approached the large wooden table in the middle of the kitchen floor without feeling the slave of it. It was like a huge magnet. Her whole life appeared to be centred around it. Nor could she escape it. As she spread the cloth upon it now she became conscious of its significance. What things had happened at that self-same table. What rows there had been, what words used. It was a fount of revelation. Her father stood outside of this. The magnet could not draw him. Peter and his father came down and took their places. Looking at her husband, she reflected upon the habit of which she had so long tried to cure him. Mr Fury's demeanour at table was always irritating to her. He never drew his chair right up, and only half sat in it. There was a take-or-leave-it attitude about his approach to meals. Peter sat at the further end, his head lowered, though had he cared to glance up he would have discovered that both his father and mother were ignoring him. Mr Fury concentrated upon his broth. The first ten minutes at the Fury table were always charged with a sort of electric undercurrent. After a long silence a sudden explosion. But to Mrs Fury's surprise her husband appeared most casual in his remarks. ‘I met Kilkey going on,' he said. ‘Brigid is down there.' Mrs Fury said, ‘Oh! Well, what about it? Why shouldn't we expect that from a woman with such a large mouth as Brigid has? Before the day is out she will have interviewed Desmond and “the other one”.' Mr Fury thought, ‘It's funny, but I can't recollect a single instance where Fanny has used that woman's name.' He thought it rather silly this continual reference to Sheila as ‘the other one'.

‘I suppose so,' he replied. Then he looked at Peter. ‘Well, so here you are, home again.' Peter said, ‘Yes, Father,' and wanted to jump on the table and yell out, ‘Of course I'm home. You pair of old fools! Of course I'm home.' Not a word about his reason for coming home. No. A dignified silence. Why didn't they say straight out, ‘We know why. We know why'? No. They preferred to signify that they knew everything by mere glances. He wanted to get up from the table; he could not eat his dinner now. Mrs Fury turned round to look at her father. She must attend to the old man as soon as ever her husband went back to work. ‘You can take it from me that the whole neighbourhood will know by now,' remarked Mrs Fury. She shot a glance at Peter, who lowered his head still further. ‘What is going to come next?' he thought. ‘Hold your head up, for Christ's sake,' shouted his father. Mr Fury then left the table, dragging the chair to the wall. He went out into the back kitchen to wash. ‘Hurry up,' said Mrs Fury to her son. Peter tried to finish his meal, but it choked. He pushed the plate away. ‘I'm finished,' he said. His father came in again. As he filled his pipe he exclaimed, ‘Yes. You were wrong all along, Fanny. There is going to be trouble. Fellowes came down to our place today. There's going to be a real strike. No halfhearted affair. They want us to support the miners. Poor bastards! They always do it dirty on the miners.'

‘Denny!' Mrs Fury looked from her husband to her son, turned her head further and looked at Mr Mangan. Then she said again, ‘Denny! Denny!' Peter looked at the clock. Twenty minutes past one. His father was becoming expansive.

‘Well, damn it, Fanny! A man can open his mouth.' Mrs Fury laughed. Mr Fury continued. ‘Surely! What about it? Peter isn't a child now. Is he?' He stared open-mouthed at the expression upon his wife's face. ‘I … Fanny …'

Mrs Fury seemed to shudder. She looked across at Peter. ‘I'm not well. That's what it is. Not well. I've felt like this for a long time. I'm really ill.' Then she screamed, ‘I can't stand it.' Mr Fury caught her as she collapsed. He kicked the chair out of the way and exclaimed brusquely, ‘Go for the doctor, you. Hurry up.' ‘Yes, Dad.' Peter took his cap and fled from the house. ‘Fanny!' Feeling her inert body against his own, he was suddenly filled with pity for her. Fanny could stand a lot. He knew what had struck her down now. Was it only in such moments as these that he was capable of realizing things? Mr Fury was asking himself. ‘I hope I'm not going to be ill,' Mrs Fury said in a low voice. The door banged. Blast it! That lad had left it wide open. He looked down at his wife. He had laid her on the sofa by the fire. Why was she like this? Such a state to be in. And Fanny was always so particular about her appearance. He felt at the back of her head. She hadn't done up her hair. Where was her comb? He went to the mantelshelf and looked about. He must find that comb. He searched the dresser. Suddenly he ran to the sofa. He must be crazy. He picked his wife up and carried her upstairs to her room. He put her to bed. The woman opened her eyes. ‘Denny!' she said. ‘Denny!' Her arms fell to her side. Mr Fury ran downstairs to get a drop of brandy from the bottle hidden away in the cupboard. He rushed upstairs, muttering, ‘Drink this. Drink this.' Mrs Fury's head fell back upon the pillow. He had to pour the spirit down the woman's throat. He drew a chair to the bed and sat down. At the same time he pulled out his gun-metal watch and stared at it. ‘Confound it!' He hadn't much time. It
would
happen now. He held Mrs Fury's hand.

What had happened? Was it Peter? It must have been Peter. It couldn't be the ominous news of the coming strike. Fanny was too much of a veteran like himself. That could not be it. ‘Then what is it?' he cried in his mind. He bent down and embraced the woman. ‘Fanny!' he said in a low voice, ‘Fanny! Tell me what's wrong.' But the woman did not appear to hear him. She lay like a log. Her eyes were closed, her mouth a little open. How white she was! She had never had a seizure like this before. He could not remember it. Well, well. The man got up and walked to the window. He looked at his watch again, became agitated, paced the room. Where had that boy got to? How long was this Dr Dunfrey going to be? He resumed his seat. He leaned his head on her pillow. What trials this woman had had! What obstacles she had overcome! Mr Fury's mind suddenly whirled back twenty-four years to the time he was on the ice in New York. Aye. That was the beginning. The beginning, the first paving of that hard road. Where had they arrived? Nowhere. A family, grown up, and she had reared them. He looked at the woman's face. ‘A brick. That's what Fanny is. A brick.' That expression upon her face. It was like a mirror through which he could see the very workings of her heart and mind. He sat up. He wanted to go to the lavatory, but he dared not leave the woman. He would have to wait. ‘Late, of course, hang it!' he growled savagely. At that moment she looked at him. He caught her eye. ‘Fanny!' he said. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing, Denny! I've been feeling like this for some time now. I suppose it's only natural. My strength has been taxed. I can't stand things like I used to, Denny.'

He put his hand on her head. He was filled with pity for her. ‘I know! I know! I'm sorry, Fanny. I understand.' His watch came out again. ‘Must go soon.'

Mrs Fury ignored the remark. She went on: ‘I had a letter from the authorities this morning about Peter.' ‘Oh!' Mr Fury forgot the time.

The woman leaned across to him and said, ‘You could never imagine it, Denny! Nor could I. No, you could never imagine it, not if you lived to be a hundred.'

‘But what did they say?' asked Mr Fury. ‘Why did he get passed out?'

‘I shall never tell you, Denny,' replied Mrs Fury. ‘Never! Never!'

‘But, Fanny …' stammered Mr Fury, ‘I …'

Mrs Fury remained silent. This thing had come, had struck her, but the vision of it all was clouded out. ‘It's happened, Denny,' she went on. ‘It's over. That's all. There is nothing to inquire into, nothing to think about. Why should one think? I'll say no more,' she said. ‘Get him out of it. Get him out of it.' Mr Fury got up from his chair and went to the door. That was how it was. He paused, thinking, ‘It's terrible.' He went back to the bed, took hold of her hands, and said, ‘All right. I understand. I understand, Fanny. It's opened my eyes. Aye. It's opened them at last. It's the children. We're getting further and further away from each other. Fanny, we must stick together.' He squeezed her hands. There was the sound of voices below. He jumped up. ‘That's Dunfrey now,' he said. ‘I must go now, Fanny. I'm late. So long.' He hastily kissed his wife and ran out of the room.

He met the big doctor coming up the stairs. ‘Good-day, Fury. What's wrong? Which room?' Mr Fury jerked a thumb in the direction of the big front room. ‘In there, Doctor,' he said. At the bottom of the stairs Mr Fury bumped into Peter. ‘How awkward you are!' he exclaimed gruffly, stumbling towards the door. Peter looked up: ‘Sorry, Dad.' The door banged. A great draught swept along the lobby. Peter went upstairs and stood listening outside his mother's door. He wanted to go in to her. He wanted to say how sorry he was. It was all his fault. Now his father had turned against him. He could hear the doctor talking to his mother. ‘You'll have to look after yourself more, Mrs Fury. You must slow down a little.' He stood there, his hands gripping the panels of the door. A flood of memories swept through him. The door knob turned. Peter hurried downstairs again.

3

Aunt Brigid stood in front of the dressing-mirror. For some twenty minutes she had been contemplating. Should she put on the blue serge costume? No. The skirt was rather too full. She had better put on the green gown. Where was the green gown? The floor around her was already strewn with shoes, underwear, gloves and scarves, blouses of three different colours. She could not help admiring herself in the glass. What a difference between Fanny and herself! She undressed for the fifth time and put on the green gown. She found it a little tight about the waist. But she could not afford to change her ideas now. It was getting late. She simply could not miss the last Mass. At the last Mass one met everybody, one heard everything. The last Mass was an expedition from which one generally returned with new fauna and flora. Already she pictured the different people she would meet. She bent down and picked up the scent-bottle from the bag, and after applying a fair amount to the upper part of her person, felt she was completely groomed. She could not forget the incident of the burnt toast, nor her sister's remark. However … She heard Fanny calling ‘Peter! Peter!' and realized too well the significance behind the call. Peter would have to unravel himself! A strange boy. ‘Well now,' thought Aunt Brigid, as she surveyed herself in the glass for the last time, ‘well now. You look quite well, in fact you look very well. That is as it should be.' She smiled and turned to her bag again. Every now and then a smile stole across her good-humoured face. It was a round red face, out of which two blue eyes gazed good-humouredly upon the world. She put back the scattered clothes, locked her bag, and placed it under the bed. Then she went across to the bedroom window and looked down into the street. What a dirty black place Hatfields was! She rather wondered why a woman like Fanny should ever elect to live in such a hole. ‘There's no doubt about it now,' thought Miss Mangan, as she closed the room door behind her, ‘Fanny's marriage has been disastrous.' Perhaps her father was right after all. ‘Poor Dad!' she exclaimed. She had hardly spent a minute with him. But again those pictures came into her mind, and ‘Dad's' importance was at once forgotten. This excursion down to the chapel was too exciting. The things she would see and hear, the changes that would confront her!