The Furys (63 page)

The rooms of the Federation, number thirty-one Branch, were situated over a tailor's shop, now empty, its owner having gone bankrupt. Already the committee were considering the renting of this shop for the coming municipal elections. Desmond, followed by Mr O'Hare, Mr Stevens, and Mr Cruickshank, now climbed the stairs. The branch rented two rooms; one was used for the meetings, the other was used for a dining-room. The door leading to the dining-room was now open, and as the party passed into the committee-room they saw a stout little man at the table. He was eating bread and cheese, and from a blue mug he occasionally supped beer. Desmond Fury did not know this man. He had never seen him. Mr Johns, however, for that was the gentleman's name, knew not only Desmond Fury, but almost every man in the Federation. Mr Johns was a crane-driver at one of the large northern goods wharfs. He worked devotedly for the cause. All his spare time was taken up by street meetings, by personal canvassing. He had a large family of nine children. His wife was paralysed. He was a man of cheery disposition, he was generous of spirit, he believed in Socialism. It was his ideal. He lived and worked for it. Unlike many more in the movement, he was unobtrusive, he worked quietly, he stole nobody's thunder. He had no personal ambitions. He wanted to see all workers' conditions improved. He was now having dinner. He had just come in from the tram terminus, where he had been speaking. He knew better than any man what the conditions were. He knew what caused strikes. He knew the fear and terror that they spread, and he knew the secret silent suffering that went on all the while. Everybody liked Mr Johns. He was a member of the Council at Garton. Even his worst political opponents liked him. He pushed away the remains of his meal and took out his pipe. He could hear a lot of talking going on in the next room. He had better go in as soon as he had taken a fill for his pipe. He did not recognize the voice. Desmond Fury was speaking. Suddenly the voice ceased, and he heard chairs being moved about. The door opened and Mr O'Hare and Mr Stevens came in.

‘Hello, Johns!' said O'Hare. ‘How are things?' He sat down. Mr Johns shook hands with Mr Stevens. Desmond Fury came in with Mr Cruickshank. Mr Johns' eyes met Mr Fury's. ‘We don't know each other,' they seemed to say. Mr Cruickshank seemed to shiver in his clothes, standing head and shoulders below Desmond Fury, who had now gone up to the table where Mr Johns sat. Mr O'Hare and Mr Stevens were engaged in high conversation. Mr Cruickshank sat down to burst into another fit of coughing. Desmond Fury looked at Mr Johns. ‘Who is the fellow?' he thought. He smilingly offered his hand to Mr Johns. ‘Who are you?' he asked. ‘I don't know you.'

Mr Cruickshank's handkerchief came out again, and he wiped his mouth. ‘He's an honest man,' said Mr Cruickshank, and he looked directly into Desmond's eyes. ‘He's an honest man, Fury.'

CHAPTER XIV

1

Anthony Mangan, sitting belted in his chair, seemed to be taking an unusual interest in Mrs Fury. She had brought in from the front parlour two chairs belonging to the parlour suite. These were now standing in the middle of the kitchen floor. The kitchen table had been pushed back to the wall. One of the chairs had been varnished. Mrs Fury, kneeling on the floor, was busy varnishing the other. Every now and then she stopped to loosen the brush, which stuck to her fingers. Her face had two varnish smears on it. It was half-past four and the kitchen was growing dark. She must light the gas. The old man never took his eyes off the woman, he seemed to follow her every movement. For the past hour the house had resounded to hammerings, for Peter had been busy fixing up the bookshelf in his room, which had collapsed that morning from the rottenness of the wall and the weight of books upon it.

He came downstairs and passed through the kitchen. He did not see his mother kneeling at her task. He did not see Mr Mangan, the silent witness of the procedure. He saw something else – a sort of beckoning light in the distance which drew him on. Mrs Fury did not even raise her head as her son passed through. Peter was glad of this, and yet her silence made him pause at the back kitchen door. Funny that she had never even asked him where he was going. He glanced back at the kneeling woman, then, lifting the latch, he went out. It did not matter, anyhow. That light was beckoning to him. He didn't want any tea, he wasn't hungry. He closed the door and went down the yard. Then he passed into the entry and began to run, and did not stop until he had reached the main King's Road. Here he hesitated, looking up and down the road. His manner was furtive, he seemed undecided. First he walked in the direction of town, then he retraced his steps, stopping again outside a boot-shop, now closed and boarded up, for its windows had been smashed in. Whichever way he turned he saw this light. Filled with a sudden resolution, he made straight for number seven Vulcan Street. Well, she said he could come, and they were going to go out together. He did not stop again until he reached his brother's door. He raised his hand to knock, but again hesitated. ‘
I am not looking,'
a voice seemed to whisper into his ears. ‘
I am not even interested in your fugitive passions, my boy. As I told you before, I am only interested in sociology, and in the various phenomena that human activities throw up. Ha ha!'
He could hear this harsh croaking laugh ringing in his ears. Peter looked up and down the street. Then he knocked at the door and waited. There was no reply. He looked up at the bedroom window, then through the parlour one. Yes, there was a light in the kitchen. He could see its reflection in the lobby. He knocked again. ‘Surely, surely,' he was saying, when to his surprise Mr George Postlethwaite put his head out of the door of number nine, and looking at the boy said, ‘Hello, there! Desmond's away. Aye. He's been away two days now. Up beyond Garton.'

Peter replied, ‘Hello, George! Thanks. I …' he almost said, ‘I know all about it,' but saved himself in time. The door in front of him opened. The person must have been standing behind this door, for Peter could not see anybody. The door opened slowly and a woman's voice said, ‘Come in.'

Peter entered the lobby. The door closed. George Postlethwaite continued to stare.

In the dark lobby he touched the woman's hand. This was the light, this was the beckoning light that wiped out the vision of his kneeling mother, of his father reading upstairs, of his ugly grandfather. This light swept everything away.

‘Hello!' he said, and touched Sheila's arm.

‘Come,' Mrs Fury said. They went into the kitchen. She drew out a chair for Peter, saying, ‘Wait, I shan't be long.'

Then she went upstairs. Peter sat straddled upon the chair. He looked round the kitchen. Yes. There was the draught-board that he had upset, there the table against which her body had leaned, there the patch on the floor where she had broken the mantle, and she had leaned heavily against him as she put a fresh one on. He felt a strange sensation as he recalled the pressure of her body and how he had felt its bulk. As he closed his eyes, the whole thing came to him again, crystal-clear. Sheila's feigned surprise on that first morning he had called. He had divined it at once. And of course he had said, ‘Is Desmond in?' And the woman, laughing, had replied, ‘He isn't in.'

She knew that too. She knew he had come to see her. At first he had been shy and embarrassed. He remembered how he had first walked along the dark lobby to emerge into the lighted kitchen and see her standing under the gas. He had felt like a person who is walking barefooted along a lengthy carpet in the darkness, whose knowledgeable feet have told him that further and still further there is more carpet. Then suddenly he steps into a pool of icy water. Yes, that was how he had felt at first. He had sat straddled upon this same chair, content to sit looking at her, caring not whether she ever spoke, as long as she remained there and he could sit looking at her. She was wearing a long velvet dress, her throat was bare, and her mouth was partly open. The camera had lied to him, for he saw that her mouth was bigger than it appeared to him on the photo which he had torn from the card. She had a broad forehead, and her large eyes were set well apart. But the mouth seemed to upset the harmony of the features. She had small teeth and her lips were red and full. He remembered studying them, thinking of his sister's coarseness. No. Maureen was not like that. Perhaps the jute factory had made her so. Sheila Fury showed up Maureen more clearly than a microscope. Once Sheila had leaned towards him, saying, ‘You are funny.' And then she had asked him why he left school in Ireland. Yes, she had caught him out. He hadn't known what to say. Just the same old thing, ‘I didn't like it. All a cod.' A screen for his dirtiness. Yes, a screen for his dirtiness. They had had breakfast together.

‘I like you,' he had said, and Sheila had smiled. He sat upright in the chair and exclaimed aloud, ‘And I do like her.' He put his hand to his mouth. ‘
Why not love me? I am so lonely. Have you got my card? Do come and see me some time!'
Then he burst out laughing.

Sheila Fury came into the kitchen. She was dressed for going out. Her lips had framed a question, but she said nothing, just stood at the expression on Peter's face.

‘What are you laughing at?' she asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing, Sheila,' replied Peter, and he waved his hand in the air, as though he were casting out from his mind the vision of his strange companion on that memorable Monday night. He got up from the chair and smoothed his coat and trousers with his hand. ‘Ready,' he said. ‘Which way?' He stood, hands in his pockets, looking at the woman. ‘This way,' she said quickly, and they went out by the rear entrance. The entry was narrow, so that they pressed against each other as they walked. When they came out into the street, they increased their pace, slowing down to a rambling gait when they reached the main road. They were obviously two persons wholly undecided what to do or where to go. They stopped again, and in the dark shelter of a shop doorway Sheila asked, ‘Does your mother know you have been to see me' – she paused – ‘three times?' She did not look at him, but away up the street.

‘No. That doesn't matter, anyhow.'

‘I know where we'll go,' Sheila said. ‘Come.' She caught Peter's arm. He felt the softness of her arm against his own, and her action was significant. If he had not been sure before, he was sure now. He was certain. It was the breaking down of the barrier. Shyness and embarrassment fled from him. He kept looking up into her face.

‘Where are we going?' he asked, not caring whether she replied or not, not caring what she said. That arm that had crept round the door was through his own. Yes, he even had some of those threads from the black bodice in his pocket.

‘To have tea,' Sheila replied. They passed four streets without speaking. Sheila Fury then said, ‘We turn this way.' She intended to go to a café situated at the bottom of Circular Road, but now as they came in sight of it she realized at once that they ought to have gone the other way. A crowd of people was standing at the top of the road. It was a silent crowd, and it seemed to be waiting for something. Peter had seen it too.

‘There must be something up here,' he said. ‘Shall we go and see?'

‘Yes.' The woman's voice seemed to come from far away. ‘Yes,' she repeated. ‘We ought to have gone the other way. It's difficult to get through crowds like this.' As they came up to its fringe, the whole body of people seemed to turn their heads. They were looking down the Circular Road.

‘It's soldiers!' cried Peter. He pulled roughly on Sheila's arm. ‘Soldiers!' he said.

The crowd were waiting to see these mounted troops pass by. A detachment of thirty Hussars were coming up the hill at a walking pace, headed by an officer. Sheila and Peter stood a little away from the road, and waited. Just beside Sheila a young man was standing. He was about nineteen years of age. He was in his shirt-sleeves. Hearing the noise outside, he had come out of the house. The soldiers were drawing nearer. The crowd began talking loudly. Here they were – the Hussars, who two nights ago had galloped off to Mile Hill to break up a disturbance that had broken out between two sets of strikers and their families. A religious feud. Yes. Here they were – the fellows who had gone forward with fixed bayonets and dragged people from their beds, who had shot dead an elderly man for no other reason than that he had been standing in the line of fire. The angry murmur rose in the air.

‘Here's the bastards!' shouted a voice, as the mounted men drew nearer.

‘Yes! Here they are, the dirty swines!'

Sheila held on to Peter's arm. ‘Yes, here they are!' shouted a woman's voice in the crowd. ‘Give them a gutful, the swines!'

‘I'm going,' announced Sheila, but Peter held on, saying, ‘Wait, Sheila! Please wait!' The crowd had begun to move forward in a body towards the troops, who had now reached the top of Circular Road. As if from nowhere, police appeared and began to drive them back towards the kerb. ‘Please wait!' Peter said.

There could be no doubt about the ugly temper of this crowd. They pressed forward. ‘Hait!' cried the officer. The troop halted. ‘About turn!' he cried out, his eyes surveying the crowd. Hands were raised. ‘Give it to the bastards!' From an upraised arm a glass beer-bottle flew. It struck a horse, that reared, almost throwing clear its rider. At the same time the crowd rushed forward on the smashing of the glass. The troops had levelled their rifles.

‘Stand back!' The crowd pressed on.

‘Fire!' shouted the officer, now red in the face. ‘Ugh!' the crowd stood cowed. They made a wild rush for the kerb.

Peter screamed. ‘Sheila! Sheila! Oh Christ Almighty!' The young man on her left had fallen. From his breast there rose a veritable fountain of blood. ‘Sheila!' screamed Peter. The woman had collapsed in his arms. Then she fell. She fell, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, conscious only that her face was wet. The boy's hands were trembling. He knelt down, wiping her face. He could hear somebody shouting, ‘Stand back! This woman is dead. Stand back!' Peter began shaking, his hand dropped the bloody handkerchief. ‘Is she hurt? She has fainted.' A great noise flooded Peter's ears. Then somebody was saying, ‘Fainted! It's blood-splashes.' And the speaker was looking into the boy's white face. ‘Are you with her?'