The Furys (83 page)

Meanwhile Dennis Fury leaned against the slate wall, his mind befogged, his stomach protesting against the ill treatment of the last four hours. He still wanted to be sick, he couldn't think of anything else, and his wide-open eyes saw nothing but the notice in front of him, a jumble of quite meaningless words. Somebody came in then, saw the man quite helpless and took his arm. Dennis Fury went quite willingly. The man led him along to a tram-stop. After much trouble he elicited from the fuzzled and helpless man that he wanted to go home.

‘But where?'

‘Hatfields—Hat …' and for the sixth time Mr. Fury's hand shot quickly to his mouth.

‘Right,' said the man. He stopped a tram, and said to the driver, ‘This old chap's had one too many. He has money and wants to get to Hatfields. Will you see him through?'

‘Yes,' replied the tram conductor, winking at the man, ‘shove him up.'

A few minutes later Dennis Fury was speeding homewards, a quite different person from that which had emerged so sturdily and respectably from the front door of number three Hatfields. His hard hat sat perilously over one eye, his white collar was crumpled, the tie hung out over the vest, his boots were splashed and the blue serge suit much stained. He was as white as chalk, his eyes mirrored a wholly weary spirit, and yet, though he returned a different man from what he had set out, he had tasted glory.

The tram bumped and rocked and roared until it came to the hill at Mile Road. Here it changed its tactics. It groaned, it shrieked, it sent sparks flying from its wheels, it seemed to stop as though for a break, then with a dull roar moved on again. The conductor kept his eye upon Mr. Fury, he having managed to extract, not without difficulty, the lawful fare from his pockets. Mr. Fury bobbed to and fro; once his hard hat fell off, but the obliging conductor put it on again. He had a tram-ticket stuck in his hand. ‘Here we go.' The conductor lifted Mr. Fury up, carried him out of the car and deposited him on the side-walk. He called the attention of the first person he saw, and this happened to be a barefooted boy about fourteen years of age.

‘Hey! Hold on to him,' said the conductor, ‘and tell the first man you see that this fellow wants to go to Hatfields. The man is tight.'

Then he went back to his car. The boy looked at Mr. Fury. He recognized him, not as the head of the household of number three, but as a person who was acquainted with the owner of a sweet-shop. The boy grabbed Mr. Fury's arm and said, ‘Come on, Dad.'

Mr. Fury's brain was slowly beginning to clear. The desire to be sick was not so strong as it had been. Every now and then the boy allowed the man to lean against the wall. Slowly they moved on—Mr. Fury maintaining silence, the boy encouraging with his ‘Come on now, Dad,' and at last they reached St. Sebastian Place. At the corner of this small place stood the sweet-shop and general store of a lady who went by the name of Miss Biddy Pettigrew.

‘Give us a penny, Dad,' said the boy, whose left hand was almost inside Mr. Fury's pocket. Dennis Fury said, ‘Eh! Eh! Wha's that?'

The boy pulled out a sixpence and ran away. At once the man half staggered, half walked into the sweet-shop. Then he measured his full length upon the floor. Miss Pettigrew, roused from a reverie consequent upon an hour spent over a misty volume of the life of St. Theresa, dropped this book and exclaimed, ‘Mary and the Holy angels! What was that?' She hobbled out of the kitchen, and seeing the man lying in a heap on the floor, exclaimed, ‘My God! it's Mr. Fury. Whatever is the matter?' Her eighty years and a bad bout of rheumatism proved no obstacle. She lifted the counter-top and hobbled into the front of the shop.

‘Dennis Fury! You're drunk, you're drunk. You ought to be right well ashamed of yourself,' and the flowers in the old lady's bonnet bobbed violently to and fro as though in silent and well-merited approval. She knew the man. She had been at one time an old friend of the Furys. Fanny Fury and Biddy Pettigrew were in the same order at the chapel of St. Sebastian.

‘Disgraceful,' she thought, ‘but I can't let him lie here. I simply can't.' She bent down and looked closely at Dennis Fury.

‘What are you doing in this state, Mr. Fury? You ought to be at work. What is the matter with you?' and then answered the question herself by exclaiming, ‘You're drunk! You're drunk.'

It may have been those beady and brilliant eyes, or it may have been but a momentary vision of that open mouth, a toothless cavern, or it may have been the face itself, lined and shrunken, that impressed Mr. Fury. It seemed to touch him somewhere, to clear away the mental fog, for leaning up on his elbow he exclaimed, slobbering the while, ‘Oh! Ish you, ish it? Christ! Oh, Christ, ish you, ish it?' The old woman moved back a little. Mr. Fury went on, ‘Have you heard ish—have you heard fromsh thas old bitch Brigish yet, eh? And do yoush sill suck jujush, you sly old …? Fancy you ‘gainst my wife. You old hag—er.'

Before the old woman could realize his intention he had thrown his arm round her neck and stammered into her now fear-ridden face, ‘Ah! I'll see you in hell, old gummy, when I get there, see. You'll suck your bloody old jujush there, won't you? But you mush wear your mackintosh, see. Give us a jujush, Biddy, nice jujush.'

The old woman was really frightened now. With great difficulty she managed to lower her head down, and so get clear of Dennis Fury's all-embracing arm. She hobbled to the door and in a high-pitched voice managed to call the attention of some children who were playing in the street. To the eldest, a girl, she exclaimed with great pantings and gestures that there was a drunken man in her shop.

‘Child,' she said, ‘you must go to number three Hatfields and tell Mrs. Fury to come at once and take her husband out of my shop. He is dead drunk, and tell her I think it's perfectly disgraceful. Run along now. I'll have some sweets for you when you come back.' She stood on the step, hardly daring to venture into the shop, uncertain and afraid of what the helpless man might do. He might indeed smash up her shop. She knew how violently tempered a person Dennis Fury could be.

‘It is really disgraceful. That family is going beyond all bounds. There's no doubt about it. A disgrace to Ireland—a disgrace to their church, to their friends, to those who would be their friends.' The old woman actually laughed then. ‘I must certainly write to Brigid about this,' she thought.

‘Oh, it's you,' she half shouted as she saw Peter Fury standing in front of her. ‘There's your father, Mr. Peter,' she said. ‘And now get him out of my place. I think it's perfectly disgraceful. Perfectly disgraceful.'

She disappeared into her kitchen, banged the glass door, and left the young man alone with his father. Peter looked down at him. ‘Poor old Dad,' he said.

‘Can I help you, Mother?' asked Peter.

Mr. Fury was now lying in bed. Peter had half dragged, half carried him home. He had carried him upstairs. The first thing his father did was to be sick. Peter held his head. He had a curious feeling holding it. He imagined his father was just like a little boy. Then he had undressed him and put him to bed. Mrs. Fury had hardly spoken except to say ‘I hope he's satisfied now.'

It was after six o'clock, and already there was stirring in Peter this old, old longing to be away. To be out of that house and beyond such things. Away, with Sheila. His every thought was of her. He looked at his mother, but saw only this other woman. He looked down at the white face of his father, but it became the urgent, passionate face of Sheila.

‘I don't want you for anything,' remarked Mrs. Fury. She went upstairs. Where he was going, what he might do, didn't seem to matter very much at the moment.

She went into the room, took a chair and sat down by her husband. She looked at him. ‘Well,' she began, ‘you've done it, and you must be very happy now. I'm not a bit surprised. Not the slightest bit. You've got what you wanted. God knows all this might be for the best. I used to think that one fine day we would really be happy together. Still, one gets what's coming to them, and that's about all life is, isn't it? Don't worry over me. I can look after myself. It'll pull hard for a while, but I'll get over that, like I've done before. You can thank only your own good self for this stroke of luck, for at one blow you can throw off everything from your shoulders. It used to torment me, watching you, day in, day out, night after night, sitting down there with a look on your face as long as my arm, and I knew you were itching to go. Just itching to go. Don't laugh when I say this, but I really feel proud of you. To think that at long last you've shown some spirit, though you're the only one who'll benefit from it. You can lie there and think of what you've done to-day, and you can feel very happy and proud of yourself.'

She got up, and going to the window drew back the curtain and looked down into the area beneath. She still went on talking, though now the words seemed aimless and without any meaning—she addressed not the man in the bed—who indeed was snoring loudly—but she addressed the window, the room, the curtains; anything upon which her eyes fell seemed to act as a stimulant to the ceaseless flow of words. She was like an automaton, speaking the same old thing over and over again. Once she stopped and went over to the bed. Mr. Fury was fast asleep. He had not heard one single word. He was in dreamland. Mrs. Fury went back to the window. This time she took a chair and sat down. Instinct bade her sit down, but her reason irritated her, goaded her. She got up again. What was she sitting down for? In fact, what on earth was she talking for?—talking to that helpless and disgraceful-looking person in the bed. Something was stirring in her. She could feel it at the depths of her being, something like a wave that surged restlessly. It took possession of her, overwhelmed her. She knew then that she wanted to cry, to empty herself utterly of that peculiar gnawing. She felt, so she surrendered to the wave. She lay across the back of the chair, eyes wide open, yet seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing except a great relief as she allowed herself to succumb to the feelings that she had so long driven back and tried to stifle. She felt a hurt, a hurt deeper than flesh, deeper than blood, a hurt that touched the very core of her being, of all there was human. There escaped from her lips a passionate cry, and she turned round as though on the very crest of its utterance and looked at the man in the bed.

‘I am tied hand and foot. Do you understand? Hand and foot. I shan't ask any of you for help, don't worry on that point. I can look after myself. Yes. Go away. It is much better,
far
better. We have never understood one another.
Never. Never
.' Her voice rose. ‘Nor any of our children. Yes, go, we only crucify each other. Be off.'

Dennis Fury stirred in the bed. He opened his mouth, yawned, then closed it again. His sleep was deep, untroubled, save for the presence of a certain old woman with the wizened face of a monkey, who opened her toothless mouth and barked at him something he was quite unable to understand. An old woman, whose black bonnet sat firmly upon a head as small and almost as clear of hair as a cocoanut. The flowers in her bonnet bobbed wildly about, seemed to touch his face. Imprisoned in the mesh of dreams, he cried out, ‘Ah! Old hag! You'll suck jujubes in hell. But don't forget to wear your mackintosh, for how could you suck them without it?'

The expression upon his face was fretted, even tense, as if those irritating flowers were tickling him under his chin, and those quick-changing expressions came and went swiftly and lightly like gusts of wind. From the end of the bed, where she now leaned heavily on the foot-rail, the woman watched that face.

‘Beast!' she thought. ‘Beast! Sodden drunk. Lucky man who could find money to his hand. Lucky devil!' she said loudly.

The man in the bed answered this sudden exclamation, all unwittingly of course, with a deep grunt. The woman left the room, banged the door, and went into the next room to see her old father.

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About the Author

James Hanley (1897–1985) was born in Liverpool, England, to an Irish Catholic family. He spent time in the merchant navy and served with the Canadian Infantry during World War I. From 1930 to 1981 Hanley published forty-eight books, including the novels
Boy
,
The Furys
,
The Ocean
,
Another World
, and
Hollow Sea
. He penned plays for radio, television, and theater and published a work of nonfiction,
Grey Children
, on the plight of coal miners. Hanley died in London but was buried in Wales, the setting for many of his works.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1935 by James Hanley

Cover design by Jamie Keenan

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0580-7

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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