The Furys (41 page)

‘I am being pressed by the authorities,' she had said. It's not enough that one should see the idea blown sky-high. But there must be a settling up also. Principle! Must be done.

‘Of course. Of course. But what can I do? Nothing. Except take you to Mrs Ragner,' Maureen had said.

‘Ragner. Anna Ragner?'

‘That's it,' Maureen had said.

‘But surely – surely – are you in with this woman too?'

Maureen had laughed. ‘Certainly! How do you think we live? On twenty shillings a week?'

Her laugh had frightened Mrs Fury. Was that why she was so determined to go back to the factory? Had she seen the man Sharpies? Yes, of course, that was the very reason. Yes, she had seen Sharples. She was starting work soon. ‘Oh! Indeed!' That had surprised the mother.

‘Aren't you happy?' she had asked her daughter. ‘Besides, what about the child?' Maureen's coolness had only increased her astonishment.

‘I shall see to that too,' Maureen said.

‘You seem to have changed,' remarked the mother.

Yes, she had. Marriage had given her the dignity of a human being. Mrs Fury had cried. It had been bad enough to have to go, to explain everything, but to have to listen to this. It was more than she could bear.

‘Insulting!' she had cried.

‘Nonsense!' said Maureen. ‘We're no longer children. We're human beings.'

And yet she had to bow down. There was no escape. There was no way out excepting through that woman. Ragner. Anna Ragner. Mrs Fury kept repeating the name under her breath as she went downstairs again.

‘No!' she cried in her mind. ‘It is useless. I
must, must
give it up. It is too late.' This flirting with the matter, this dalliance, this faint, faint hope. It was too late. Had he not said ‘Yes'?

She would have liked to have struck him. That word revealed his very falsity. The idea was sunk into the abyss. Never again. Never. She lighted the gas. What time would they be back?

Seven o'clock. She got dressed and went out. She would go to chapel. She locked the front door. Then she went upstairs. She put a chair on each side of the old man's bed and thought, ‘That will be all right till I come back.' She left the house by the back door. She hurried down the back entry, crossed the main road, walked by her daughter's house, which was in complete darkness, and turned into Ash Walk. A few minutes later she was kneeling in the chapel of St Sebastian. Father Moynihan had seen her coming. He was standing outside his confessional box when Mrs Fury entered. Save for these two, the place was empty. He stood looking at the woman, her head bowed down. She was completely alone in that island of benches. He went up the middle aisle and knelt down behind her. After a while he touched her arm, and she turned quickly, exclaiming, ‘What is that?'

‘Good evening, Mrs Fury,' said the priest. ‘I saw you come in. Will you come into the house?'

She rose to her feet and followed Father Moynihan through the vestry. ‘Sit here,' he said, and drew a chair towards his study table.

‘Well, Mrs Fury,' he began, and the expression upon his face seemed to add – ‘and tell me
everything, everything.'

‘There is nothing to say, Father,' said the woman. ‘Except that I am ashamed. I am not disappointed. Only ashamed. I would not have minded anything else but this. I …'

‘Yes, I know,' said Father Moynihan. ‘It is disappointing. Father Doyle and I have every sympathy with you. Let me assure you of that. Yes. We are sorry. He was a real nice boy. Now he has changed. He lacks what you have got. Mrs Fury. What is going to become of him?'

The woman slowly raised her face until it almost touched that of the priest. ‘That I do not know, I do not know.' There was a weariness in her voice.

‘It's a great pity. A great pity. And the unfortunate part about it is that there is so little doing now. This strike has affected hundreds of my parishioners.'

‘His father,' began Mrs Fury, ‘his father is trying to get him away to sea.'

Father Moynihan's expression underwent a lightning-like change, and raising his two hands he brushed one against the other with a light quick movement, as if to say, ‘Well, that's the end of the matter. I wash my hands clear of it.' He got up from his chair and began walking up and down the room.

‘It's tragic' he said. ‘When one comes to think of all the fine women who have left home and come here! Here to this city. Tragic.' He looked at the woman. ‘Tragic,' he said again.

‘Yes, Father. I know, I know.'

‘How is the old man getting on?' He sat down on the chair again.

‘Well, Father,' said Mrs Fury, ‘he's really very low. He doesn't speak at all now.'

‘Oh! Dear me! And that eldest boy of yours?'

‘I never see him, Father. I only saw him once with his wife. We never go there.'

‘That was strange,' continued the priest. ‘Father Doyle and I have often talked about it.'

Mrs Fury fidgeted in the chair. Was it impossible even to secure peace in the chapel, to hide oneself, to forget? It seemed so. Here was Father Moynihan, feeling in the best of spirits, and asking all kinds of questions.

‘I have nothing whatever to do with them, Father! I know nothing.'

‘But you know who his wife is, surely,' said the priest. He rested his hand on the back of Mrs Fury's chair.

‘No, Father! I don't even know that. And if I know anything, my son knows even less.'

‘Well, she's the daughter of a North Country clergyman,' replied Father Moynihan. He got up from his chair again, this time to indicate that her time was up. He placed the chair against the wall.

‘Well, Mrs Fury, you have my best wishes. I …'

The woman took a small gold cross from her pocket. ‘Will you bless this, Father?'

‘Certainly.' Father Moynihan blessed the cross and returned it.

‘Well, good-bye now. Come and see me again some time. By the way, how did the boy get on?'

‘Oh, Mr Sweeney sent him home, Father. The boy couldn't work. The crowds in the street called him a scab.'

‘Oh! Dear me! Dear me!' This was sailing too near reality. He showed the woman to the door. ‘Good-bye now.'

‘Good-bye, Father! Thank you.' The door closed. The darkness swallowed her up. The trees flanking the path to the gate soughed in the wind.

Peter now sat between Mr Mulcare and his father in the back parlour of the Pitchpine. Mr Mulcare had ordered a small whisky, Mr Fury took plain beer, whilst Peter had a bottle of mineral water in front of him. This was real adventure. He had never been in a public-house before. He was content to sit and listen to their conversation. They were talking of his father's old ship, the
Ballisa.
In the opposite corner a man and woman attracted the boy's attention. The woman had approached the man from a lone seat up the back of the bar. She now subjected the gentleman to some good-natured badinage. The man was quite indifferent to it all. He sipped his beer contentedly, whilst his eyes roamed along the shelf above his head, filled with brightly coloured bottles. The woman was slightly tipsy, and swayed to and fro. Once she spat. The action disgusted the boy. It might have been a man who had spat upon that sawdust-covered floor. The man now put down his glass, and said in a rude manner, ‘Are you going to clear out or not – you poxy-faced-looking bitch?' Mr Fury stopped speaking and looked across at the couple. Then he looked at Peter. Mulcare seemed oblivious of the incident.

‘They're making a damned mistake, Fury. That's what I think,' said Mr Mulcare suddenly. ‘Every time it's the same. One wonders sometimes what they are really trying to get at.'

‘Get at! I suppose they're going to kick against their wages being lowered.'

‘Aw! … You're making a mistake, Fury. And is that the basis of the strike, the cutting of wages? Think again.' He laughed loudly.

Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘Well, I know! They've cut the bloody miners' wages to nothing. You have some high ideas of your own, young man. But they don't get you anywhere.'

Peter was staring at Mr Mulcare.

In the opposite corner the lady had refused to budge. Her expression was that of a lady whose dignity had been questioned. Mulcare suddenly asked, ‘Is she soliciting?'

Mr Fury scratched his head. He hadn't caught the word, and he did not want to ask a question. He was thinking of Peter.

‘One of those old bag-women,' he said quickly. ‘They're always about.' He drained his glass, got up from the table and said, ‘Excuse me! Won't be a tick! Going out to pump.'

Mulcare turned to Peter. ‘Your father was telling me you were at college for seven years,' he said.

‘Yes,' replied Peter.

‘Didn't you like it?' asked Mulcare.

‘Only at first,' replied the boy.

‘Why only at first?' questioned Mulcare. He leaned his head in his hand and looked closely at Peter.

‘Well, it was all a cod,' blurted Peter, as though he had been saving up this effort. And it was an effort. But it seemed that with Mr Mulcare it was different. He liked the man now. His confidence was returning. He hadn't liked him in the house. He had detected a sort of arrogance in him. The way he had looked at his mother. He hadn't liked that.

‘A cod! You mean you made a mistake,' said Mr Mulcare. ‘One doesn't have to spend seven years in a college in order to discover that it was all a cod.' He had an idea that the boy was lying. He began to finger the empty glass. ‘Barman,' he called, ‘come here.' The barman came hurrying forward. ‘Same!' said Mulcare. He turned to Peter. ‘I once went to college too,' he said, and a smile appeared.

‘You did?' Peter was surprised.

‘Yes, but I didn't stay seven years like you. Only two years, Peter.'

The boy smiled. It was the first time the man had called him by his Christian name.

‘I hated it,' said Peter. He had warmed to the man, and was becoming more expansive. ‘It was like gaol.'

‘Gaol! What were you training for? Priesthood?'

‘Yes,' replied Peter.

‘I am sure your mother was disappointed,' said Mr Mulcare. Peter remained silent. After a while Mulcare added, ‘I like your mother.' Then he turned round and looked towards the door. ‘What a time your father is!' he said.

So this man had been at college, and now he was a sailor. Peter wanted to know more. ‘What college were you at, Mr Mulcare?' he asked.

‘It's such a while ago that I've forgotten. I wish your father would hurry.' He turned to look at the door again. Peter looked at the man in the corner. The woman was now sitting on his knee. The man kept saying, ‘Drink it, dearie. Get it down your gul. You'll need it.' With a none too steady hand he forced the glass to the woman's mouth. She laughed into it so that the spirit splashed about her face. ‘Clumsy! Clumsy!'

Mulcare placed a hand upon the boy's arm. ‘You want to go to sea. Why?' There was something so direct about the question that Peter, his thoughts momentarily absorbed by the actions of the man and woman in the corner, from which pair it seemed he could not now take his eyes, that he replied without turning his head, ‘Because I want to see the world. To see life!' The man and the woman suddenly looked his way, tittered, and then to the boy's complete surprise drank his health from the same glass.

‘Good luck to the laddie. All the best, Softy.'

Mulcare laughed. Peter blushed and looked down at his half-empty glass of lemonade. ‘What a time your father is,' said Mulcare. ‘Hasn't fallen down, I hope.'

‘Yes. Your mother is a fine woman,' said Mr Mulcare. He picked up his glass and looked over its brim at the boy as he added, ‘Well, good luck to you, boy!' He drained his glass and put it down on the table. Where the devil had Mr Fury got to? Surely he hadn't gone out for any special reason. He looked at Peter, who was still watching the antics of the inebriated lady and gentleman in the corner.

‘Did you ever come across a chap named Logan?' he asked.

Peter appeared thoughtful for a moment. ‘No,' he said, ‘I can't say that I have.'

‘I know the Principal,' said Mulcare. ‘He taught me once. But that was before he went to Cork at all. A most ambitious gentleman.'

‘You mean Brother Geraghty,' said Peter.

‘That's the man.'

The door opened, and Mr Fury came in. He sat down and looked at his son.

‘Where the hell did you put yourself, old man?' asked Mr Mulcare.

‘Oh,' he said quietly, ‘I met a chap in the passage there whom I haven't seen for years. It's funny, wherever I go I'm always bumping up against people whom I sailed with at one time or other.' He began to play with his lad's watch-chain. Now he pulled out the watch and said, ‘It's getting late. I must go. I promised a friend of mine who is in hospital to go and see him.'

‘Have a short one?' asked Mr Mulcare. It seemed this friend of his whom he was going to meet was a gentleman of great patience, for it was now nearly eight o'clock, and he had promised to meet his friend at a quarter past seven. Now Mr Fury reminded him of his obligation.

‘What about that friend of yours?' he asked.

‘He's all right! You'll like him! Well – a short one? Don't know when I shall see you again.' He looked at Peter. ‘And this lad is going aboard my ship soon, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' replied Peter. ‘Yes.'

‘I've had enough,' said Mr Fury. ‘I must go, and I don't know whether I shall get into that hospital at this hour, either.'

All three rose to their feet. The inebriated pair now focused their attention upon the trio moving away from the table.

‘Night!' said the gentleman.

‘Hee … eee,' the woman said.

‘That's a bitch all right,' remarked Mr Mulcare. They passed out into the street. They stood on the kerb talking for a few minutes.