The Furys (59 page)

‘Will there be any more questions to answer?'

‘No, no! No more questions to answer.' Mrs Kilkey wanted to fall down again, to grip her body, to roll from side to side; anything to appease these pains.

‘Are you all right, child?'

‘Yes! Here's the hill. The rest is easy.'

They did not speak to each other until they came in sight of Bellman's Theatre. A troop of soldiers were galloping along the main Harbour Road.

‘How late it is, Maureen!'

‘Then hurry!' Maureen cried. She was feeling desperate. She only wanted to get home, to undress, to lie on her bed. To be alone.

She felt her mother's arm glide round her waist.

‘I know you're not well, Maureen. I shall never forgive myself if anything happens.'

‘Oh! Don't start that, please! For God's sake! You'll get your money. Don't worry,' said Maureen. She was angry. It was the pain, and not her spirit, that had spoken.

‘Here we are!' Mrs Fury said. ‘King's Road.'

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her. In a few minutes she would be in Hatfields. She hadn't minded the walk, the questions. It had been worth it. She hoped Denny would have some tea ready when she got in. This nearness to home made her feel drowsy again. She had been on her feet since seven o'clock that morning.

Maureen was almost panting now. They had reached Price Street.

‘At last,' she said. ‘Good-night, Mother! Don't stop. The soldiers are out, and it's not wise to stay out at this time of night. I have a key, and in any case Joe will be in.'

‘Good-night.' Mrs Fury kissed her daughter. ‘Good-night.' Then they went their ways, Maureen down Price Street, Mrs Fury across the road and round to Hatfields. When she reached the house she put her hand in the hole of the wall to get the key, but already the door was open. Mr Fury had placed a mat behind it.

‘He must have gone to bed,' she thought. But Dennis Fury was sitting in the kitchen when she went in.

‘Oh! Hello! Here you are! I thought you were never coming,' Mr Fury said. He was sitting in front of the fire, and he did not turn his head when he spoke.

‘You needn't have waited for me,' she said. ‘You could have gone to bed.'

‘I wasn't waiting for you,' replied Mr Fury. ‘I'm waiting for the lad to come in.'

‘What! He isn't in! How long has he been out?' she asked. ‘Denny, you ought to know it's dangerous for the boy to be out at this time of night – what with these soldiers riding about the streets … A man was shot dead in the Instone district tonight!' She took off her coat and flung it on the sofa.

‘I got some supper ready,' Mr Fury said.

She couldn't eat it now. She only wanted a cup of tea. She was worried about Peter.

‘He may have gone to the show,' Mr Fury said.

‘Show! What show? He hasn't money for shows.'

‘How do you know? Suppose his Aunt Brigid gave him something for his pocket. Always does. Lousy old devil! There she is stuck in old Pettigrew's, and never even came round to see how you were getting on.' He poked the fire into flame.

‘You left the bucket in the middle of the floor,' he went on. ‘Fell over the bloody thing. Spent half an hour mopping it up.'

‘Peter is late, wherever he's gone! I wish you would speak to him about this. I'm going to bed.'

‘Then go,' said Mrs Fury. ‘Go! You must be tired, I'm sure.' She laughed, seeing him go through the kitchen door. Yes. He must be tired. Then she leaned on the table, her fingers still holding the cup. Her head dropped. She was fast asleep. The front door was pushed in, but she did not hear it. Now it closed – the mat was being straightened out in the lobby. Peter came in. He sat down and looked at his mother.

‘Poor Mother!' he said. Mrs Fury was snoring softly over her tea-cup.

2

At seven o'clock in the morning Desmond Fury had got up and dressed. He had slept badly; he went below and lit the gas, then he put the kettle on and decided to shave whilst it boiled. He stood in the middle of the kitchen rubbing his huge head; he would like to have gone back to bed again, but he could not very well do that. He had a most important engagement. His mind was befogged, he had the heavy head of a man who has spent a rather bibulous night. But Desmond Fury did not drink. He was in a bad temper, he was in a desperate hurry, and he was suspicious. He felt exasperated, this suspicion had come so suddenly. What was he suspicious about? He did not really know. ‘Hang it all!' he exclaimed under his breath; ‘people only talk, people are really bastards!' Upstairs his wife was peacefully sleeping. He looked at his watch. H'm! He must be at the corner of Ash Walk by half-past eight in order to join three other delegates from the branch, Mr O'Hare, Mr Cruickshank, and Mr Stevens. They had to be in Garton by eleven; would they manage it? He began to shave, whistling a popular tune as he applied the lather. When he finished, the kettle was boiling madly on the stove. He made some tea, then some toast over the stove. He carried the things to the table and sat down to breakfast. In his hurry he had cut his chin. Now the blood dripped on the toast, and he flung it into the grate, cursing. He looked at the cold grate. This morning she could light the fire for a change. Usually before he went out to work he took Sheila a cup of tea. This morning it never occurred to him to do so. His thoughts were occupied with but one thing. The journey to Garton. The situation was getting worse, so it seemed to Desmond. Was all his work just running to waste? Night after night spent at the branch rooms, arranging meetings, canvassings, keeping the books, collecting the subs. Was this a waste of time? No. It was worth it. As he supped his tea he counted the days and the months and the years he had spent in the cause. Yes, sometimes he did think it was all hopeless. However, he had set his mind upon this thing and he was not going to lose his chance. By God, no! This strike was his opportunity, it might not come again. ‘I'll fling the damned hammer into the Augth. To hell with it! Yes, and Vulcan Street can go to hell. For all I care, Vulcan Street can sink into the earth.' He had served his apprenticeship. Others could pick up plums, why should not he? He pushed away his cup and began pacing up and down the kitchen. He was dressed in his Sunday clothes; his blue overcoat, well brushed, lay over the arm of the chair. ‘I must think about it,' he said suddenly, then sat down again. He poured out some tea, holding the cup firmly in his strong fingers.

‘They want gingering up,' he said aloud. ‘Yes, they want gingering up.'

There came to his mind a perfect picture of that Sunday meeting – a fiasco, a disaster. The word ‘Solidarity' began to ring loudly in his ears. He laughed. Solidarity! They didn't seem to know what the word meant. What use asking for solidarity – when one half of the workers were in disagreement with the other half? Yes, they
had
been fools. Was there no way of controlling the element that hung leech-like to their tails, that caused dissension, that thought of nothing but destruction, of acts of sabotage, of looting? Of course, they had walked right into the trap. Right into the damned trap. And now they were dribbling back to work in ones and twos. The miners were standing fast – they always did – but the others, the railmen, the tram-men, the factory workers – here they were slinking back to work. What was one to make of the damned business? Who was to blame for all this? He laughed aloud. A pretty question. The more he thought about it, the more urgent that journey to Garton was.

Here was a powerful limb of the city, a veritable stronghold, beginning to crack up. If they lose this strike, all his years of work were wasted. No. It won't be lost. They just daren't lose it. Throw them back years. Good God! Were they to continue building this foundation without effect, without reward? It was like trying to build a castle on sand. He wiped his mouth with his hand and got up from the table. Ten minutes to eight. Plenty of time. Now he must go upstairs. He filled a cup with tea, and suddenly thought, ‘What the devil?' and poured it back into the pot. He sat down and began lacing his boots. ‘Huh!' he said aloud, and rising to his feet left the kitchen. He climbed the stairs, making a great noise with his heavy boots. He stood outside the bedroom door. The house was wrapped in silence. ‘Of course!' he said, turned the knob of the door and silently entered the room. He closed it, and stood looking towards the bed. Yes. In that bed lay the cause of his suspicion. Was it a joke? People tell tales, of course. Or had this business just begun since the strike? He smiled. ‘I won't believe it! I won't even harbour the thought.' He tiptoed to the bed and stood looking down at the sleeping woman. Desmond Fury, looking at his wife, now forgot Mr O'Hare and Co. They had faded out. The word ‘Solidarity' no longer rang in his ears, nor the three hoots upon Mr O'Hare's motor-horn. He heard nothing but the gentle breathing of this woman. Here was something that stood outside strikes – outside of the world itself. Here in bed was something dream-like. He bent down and looked into her face. It was calm and peaceful, like that of a child. ‘Yes. People are bastards! They only talk.' Smiling, he placed a hand upon her shoulder, and said, ‘Wake up.'

Mrs Fury lay diagonally across the bed, her long hair billowing up like foam at one side of the pillow. Her mouth was partly open, so that he glimpsed her small teeth. One long arm hung over the side of the bed, the other rested with a sort of protecting gesture against her breast. The bed-clothes were drawn up to her neck. There was something languorous and provocative about her as she lay there, unconscious of the presence of her husband, that huge man now bent over the bed and seeming to ransack her inert body by the intensity of his gaze. He shook her gently again, saying:

‘Wake up, Sheila! It's me! I'm going away now. Come! Wake up!' As she opened her eyes she saw this huge face close to her own, and she saw a mouth. She opened wide her eyes. Now that face appeared to be all mouth, and it looked as though it were ready to swallow her. When Desmond said softly, ‘How nice you are!' she saw his big teeth quite clearly. He put out his tongue and licked her lips. ‘How nice you are!' he repeated. The woman immediately turned over on her side, saying scoldingly:

‘Please don't do that! I have asked you not to. I hate it!' She buried her face in the clothes.

‘I'm going to Garton,' Desmond said. ‘Have you any money? Say three shillings?' Again he put out his tongue, and as she turned over he caught her head with his right hand, drew it to his arm, and stroked her half-open mouth with his tongue.

‘Don't!' the woman said. She sat up in the bed. He saw the pear-shaped breasts bulging against her night-dress. ‘When are you going to Garton?' she asked. She gathered up her hair and added, ‘Get me some pins from the table, please.' Her eyes rested for a moment upon his broad back as he bent over the table, searching for pins. He picked them up, and as he straightened up looked at himself in the glass.

‘You look very nice,' Sheila said; ‘now give me the pins.' Desmond was looking at his wife through the mirror. His own face seemed not to interest him. He handed the hairpins to his wife. ‘Thank you!' Sheila said, and pinned her hair.

‘I'm going in ten minutes,' Desmond said. He sat down on the bed, and placed one of his large hands at the back of the woman's neck. She moved her head, saying, ‘Why?' Then she pushed his hand away. Desmond put it back again, saying, ‘You mustn't push it away like that, Sheila. It's mine; and I don't like it.' He smiled. The clock in the kitchen struck eight. He looked at his watch. ‘Fast,' he said. He leaned nearer the woman in the bed, and allowed his eyes to rest upon her parted lips. ‘On the other hand, I don't think I
shall
go,' he said quickly, and studied her face. But it registered nothing. Neither surprise nor disappointment. ‘Pure imagination,' thought Desmond. The face revealed nothing. Yes. People only talked. What would they do if they couldn't talk? Go mad, he supposed.

‘What will you do when I go?' he asked. ‘I know it's useless asking you to come with me.'

‘Of course. I wouldn't be interested,' Sheila replied. The man suddenly changed his position so that his body lay slantingly across the bed, its bulk resting upon the woman's legs. He lay on his back, his face upturned, so that it lay just beneath that of his wife. He could see her white neck, with the delicate blue veins patterning its cream-like surface. He could see her chin, her parted lips that reminded him of a flower petal. Above this he saw the delicate line of her nose. Her nostrils seemed to quiver. The breast rose and fell to her quiet breathing. He saw her eyes, and above them the forehead. She was lovely to look at.

Sheila Fury, having arranged her hair, lay back against the bed-rail. As she did so, Desmond Fury moved his head forward as though he would kiss her, but he did not. He resumed his old position, the eyes again fastening upon the upward sweep of her beauty. He liked looking at her like that. The woman put her hands behind her head. ‘What do you expect I shall do?' she asked petulantly. ‘Throw a fit?'

‘No!' It was almost a snarl. ‘You certainly won't do that,' he said. ‘You'll go out instead.'

‘Well?' She stroked his face with her right hand. ‘Well?' she asked.

‘What else!' he growled. ‘You'll go out! But that isn't the question though, is it?'

He had raised his face, and because he knew it irritated her, and because he derived a certain pleasure from it, he stuck out his tongue and stroked her chin with the tip of it. Mrs Fury smiled. She could not help it, feeling this great dog's hot tongue licking about her chin. But with the smile Desmond drew it in again, closed his mouth, and raised his head still higher. In this position he could see into his wife's nostrils. She felt his hot breath upon her face.

‘Yes!' he said, suddenly sitting up. ‘Yes, where do you go off to?' He caught her hands and squeezed them, drawing them down from behind her head. ‘Aye,' he added. ‘Aye. Where do you?'