by James Hanley
‘Maury! I do ask you to come back to Joe. Why can’t we all be happy again, and who are those fellers in there? What are you doing here, anyhow? And don’t you ever see anybody you know? D’you write to Peter or anything? D’you know Desmond’s a Captain in the Labour Battalion. Aye! In the army. Maury, come back with us. You’ll forget all this in a couple of days,’ and as his appeals grew, and gained strength, his voice became louder.
Somebody was calling from the tent, but nobody outside appeared to hear. There was dead silence; brother and sister clung, and George slumped and watched.
‘Professor!’ exclaimed George derisively. ‘Well, I like that! The swine couldn’t even tell me a simple enough thing about my mare. All these fellows are bloody impostors. Liars!’ and he drew away from the caravan and waved his arms, embracing the whole fair and its human contents. Yes. Everybody here was a twister. Not a doubt of it. He looked at Maureen. Aye! Even she twisted a bloody good husband, he thought. Poor old Joe! Old Aunt Sally Joe. Stick-in-the-mud Kilkey. So here’s where Mrs. Kilkey was. All among the toughs, the boyos and the boozers! Fancy bumping into her like that! Not one man either. Two of them! And what a pair.
‘What a pair of mean twisting bastards they look,’ he said to himself. He stood watching, listening. Then he heard the voice from the tent. What was it saying?
Anthony had drawn his sister round the other end of the caravan. They were now lost to view in the darkness. In the distance lights began to appear. The music seemed even more desperate under the darkening night. It squealed and groaned, hummed and shrieked all manner of sounds, all manner of tunes, and somewhere behind it the air was filled with the steady throb of the engine.
‘Wonder how long he’ll be,’ mused George. ‘Time’s getting on, you two,’ he called softly. ‘Can’t miss our train.’
There was no answer, but now the voice from the tent became not only audible, but intelligible. It established proof, gave George his clue.
‘Maury,’ the voice called. ‘Maury! What are you doing there with those fellows?’
‘Hear that?’ said George.
There was no reply. George Postlethwaite began walking up and down. Well, apart from a few drinks and those three coco-nuts, and that glimpse up the judy’s clothes, there was nothing in it. Not a thing. Wasted trip. Why the hell hadn’t they picked up a couple of tarts and gone off?
‘Will you be long there?’ he said, becoming impatient and later afraid. Surely they hadn’t gone. Hooked it altogether. He went to the end of the caravan, peeped round. He saw them then. Huddled together, she was crying.
Anthony was saying: ‘Oh, God! Chuck it! I didn’t ask you for all that. Maury, you’ve been lousy towards Joe and Dermod and because I ask you to be decent you eat my head off. And who the hell is the feller calling your name? Who is he?’ He gripped her wrists, shook her. ‘Listen, Maureen! Be fair! I’m sorry I spoke like I did. But really, I swear you don’t know how nice everything’ll be if you’ll come back. Honestly it will. We’ll all be glad. And mother, she’s so——’
‘For—Christ’s—sake—will—you—go—a-way!’ she said, and so fiercely that some spittle from her mouth splashed on Anthony’s face.
He stood rigid, looking at her. At her brown eyes, her copper hair, her low-necked white blouse, and the almost coarsened flesh of throat and chest. It was like man’s flesh. It was hard, red. It wasn’t Maureen’s. This wasn’t the Maureen he knew. And her hands, her feet, the skirt she wore. No. It was all different. Joe wouldn’t know her. Mother wouldn’t. He pressed her hands together.
‘I don’t want to lose my temper with you,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t! I’ve been away over a year, and now I’ve only got two more days of leave. I have to go on that sixfifteen train, Maureen, and I want you to come. I want you to forget everything that ever happened. See! Let bygones be bygones. See! So now go and get your coat and hat and come.’ He drew her face to his and kissed her, whispering in her ears. ‘I don’t blame you for anything you ever did. It’s nothing of my business. All I know is that mother has left Hatfields and is now living in a stinking room. She tells me she’s happy. It’s so peaceful there! It makes me laugh. And it makes me want to cry too. Letting on the way she does.’
‘Her whole life’s been letting on,’ Maureen said. ‘But I’m different. I’m not letting on to anybody—not even to you. You go back home. I’m all right. I’ve made it all right, and for God’s sake, don’t start being sorry for me. I don’t want it. Mother was very ill in hospital and I went to see her. But we only spoke two words. We’re strangers. All the same I hope she’s getting better. We’re all out of it now, and let’s stay out. I wouldn’t go back for anybody. There!’
Anthony hated her. Yet there was something in her determination, in her pig-headed determination, that he had to admire. But at the same time he wanted to strike her. He didn’t give a damn for anybody, but he liked his own sister to be decent to him. He’d never done anything against her. Not to any of them. He was like his father. Out of it. He began shaking her, saying:
‘Listen! Can you carry on like you are—like this I mean, and not remember the happy times we did have in Hatfields? And dad away at sea at his age. Sometimes I feel ashamed of myself. And I hope you will some day. There he is slaving away and nobody gives a damn.’ He became quite vehement. ‘That’s the truth. Mother keeps in touch with him. I write now and then, and there she is, all of us gone—and would you believe it, even wanting to make a nice home for me. Only last night she was talking—but I never told you, did I? I’ve got a girl, Maury. Yes, I’ll show you her photo,’ and he struck a match and held it over the photo he handed her.
This photograph lay handy in his jumper pocket and every friend and acquaintance of Anthony Fury had now seen ‘this wonderful girl.’
‘She is nice, isn’t she?’ Maureen said, a sudden break in her voice, and then Anthony took it out of her hand.
‘Yes, but don’t wet it, Maury,’ he said, wiping the water from it.
He stood away from the caravan now, looked round the corner. There was George. Best friend he ever had. It was really rotten spoiling this chap’s day out. ‘Won’t be a sec, George,’ he called over to him.
‘All right! But I’m not standing here all night. Gone four now, you know.’
‘Yes, I know!’ Then he turned to his sister. ‘Come on, Maury! I ask you, get your coat and hat. Come on home. You’ll be glad you did. Honest.’
A man came out of the tent, called: ‘Maury, chucks. Where are you? Come here.’
George laughed outright. ‘Me chucks,’ that sounded good. Chucks. H’m!
‘Who are you?’ came Anthony’s voice, and the man turned the corner and came on Maureen and her brother. For a moment he seemed uncertain about it, then came closer and exclaimed:
‘What the bloody hell?’
Anthony went up to him. ‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘Never mind who I am. Maury, what about Doogle’s supper? Come on now.’
Anthony swung round. ‘Who is he?’ he asked Maureen.
She peered out from under the oilskin. ‘Oh, it’s Dick,’ she said and made a little run towards the two men. ‘It’s my brother, Dick,’ she said, pointing to Anthony.
George wandered up, looked on. This seemed more interesting than the whole show. Hands behind his back he surveyed the party. In the darkness he could see the outlines of faces and little more. Then he spoke.
‘Hurry up, for God’s sake!’ he said, ‘I want a drink. It’s turned half-four now, and we’ve got to get seats into the bargain. Know what it’s like in Blacksea fair days, don’t you?’ He began swinging his hands. ‘Come on! Let’s get out of here.’
‘Maury,’ said Slye, ‘what about——’ But then he stopped.
Anthony was looking at him now, studying his swarthy features, noticing with some surprise the loud check suit that belonged to summer and not winter seasons. He noticed the man’s thick lips.
‘Who are you?’
said Anthony. ‘I’m this girl’s brother, whoever you are, and we’re just leaving for Gelton. Ready, George.’
‘I see!’ said Slye Esquire. ‘Like that, eh! Maury, get into that tent. Can’t you hear Doogle banging. Who are these fellers, anyhow?’ He swung round on George. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I know who you are now,’ said Anthony, ‘and what you want is a bloody good hiding and you’re going to get it!’ and in an instant he had thrown off his oilskins, and before Mr. Slye could retreat he had received Anthony’s fist full in the mouth. ‘Yes, I know who you are now.’
‘Give him a bloody good pasting!’ George shouted, and then went up to Maureen. George, who made no distinctions between what was dramatic and what was merely comic, suddenly caught Maureen Kilkey’s arm, and slowly drew her away from the two fighting men. ‘Mrs. Kilkey,’ he said, ‘I wanted to tell you something. They took your husband away last week. Aye! I told you before, but perhaps you didn’t hear. Aye! it was a blinking do, I can tell you that. Four of them, there were. Three privates and a corporal from the Gelton Regiment. Your husband wouldn’t go. They didn’t half give him a pastin’. Poor—look out,’ he shouted, and dragged Maureen away.
And as Slye and Anthony beat at each other with their fists, Maureen shouted:
‘Stop! For God’s sake! Anthony! Anthony! Dick!’ and she ran in to try and separate them. ‘Anthony! What are you doing? Good God! Will you go away out of it? I never asked you to come running after me,’ and she ran away into the darkness.
Anthony heard nothing. He landed right and left on Slye, and as the man retreated, George put out a foot and tripped him up.
‘Sod!’ Anthony said. ‘You’re the swine who took her away. Well, now she’s coming back with me.’
Behind the caravan Maureen was suddenly sick. That was how it was. Anthony was happy, and he was getting married. Joe had been taken for the army. Her mother was at last alone. Then where was Dermod?
George found her sobbing against the wooden door. ‘Here, Mrs. Kilkey! Don’t get all upset. I thought you’d be happy seeing your brother after all this time. Aye! Rare lad, Anthony! Remember that time we used to play Lally Ho. Remember! Wouldn’t think it was fourteen years ago, would you? Come on, Mrs. Kilkey, cheer up. He only gave the fellow what he deserved. As for that other feller in there—blasted cheat—I nearly had a go at him myself.’
They could hear the struggle of the two bodies in the mud.
‘There, you swine!’ said Anthony, and got up, wiping the mud on to his handkerchief.
‘Maureen! Where are you, Maureen?’
At this moment Mr. Doogle emerged from the tent. He looked round. ‘Slye Esquire?’ he called, and went over to where he heard the voices.
Anthony had gone round to his sister. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ve given that bastard a hiding he won’t forget. They’re not men, Maury! Just worms. Come on home! Here, wipe your eyes. And don’t be such a fool. You’re no kid.’
George went and stood by the tent. He saw Slye Esquire on the ground, and over him leaned the Professor. And then he saw Maureen rush to them.
‘Dick! Oh, Dick!’ she shouted, and began trying to lift him up.
‘All right, Long-legs,’ said Mr. Doogle. ‘Keep cool! When you’ve been in this business as long as I have you’ll know who are gents and who are not. I wouldn’t expect anything else from a half-drunken sailor. There.’
He had managed to get his partner on his feet. Slye Esquire looked round blinking.
‘Maury! Where are you?’
Instead of Maureen he found Anthony in front of him.
‘Maureen is coming back with me. My name’s Fury. Anthony Fury. She’s my sister, and means damnall to you. And now you can clear to hell!
‘George?’
‘Hello! Not going to say you’re moving, surely. This is a nice rumpus.’
‘Maureen!’ called Anthony, and when she came, caught her arm. ‘For Christ’s sake! Why don’t you say something, instead of whimpering like a kid?’ and when she looked at him he let go her arm.
Somehow it was no longer Maureen who was looking at him, but an utter stranger.
‘Are you coming, Maureen? You’ll never see me again if you don’t.’
George went up to her. ‘Mrs. Kilkey,’ he said, ‘it’s none of my business, but your ma’s very ill, you know. You ought to go home.’
‘All right! All right!’ Anthony said. Blast it! The whole world would know their business soon. He stood looking at his sister.
‘Maury, I know you’re unhappy. And so is Joe and little Dermod! Come on! To hell with these people! They’re only human rats. Ought to be in the army. Shake them up a bit.’ He reached out his arm and caught her by the hands. ‘I’m going soon,’ he said. ‘We have to catch that train back at six-fifteen.’
Slye Esquire, leaning heavily on Mr. Doogle’s arm, was being led away slowly until they passed out of sight beyond the booths, beyond the caravan. They were in fact closing down for the day and seeking their own shelter. Those two louts would soon be gone. Mr. Doogle warned, admonished, but Slye put a hand to his eye, rubbed it, and said very shakily: ‘All right. Don’t worry, Doogle, I expected something like this. But I’m not worrying.’
‘You will in a minute,’ he said. ‘The whole evening’s business is damned.’
‘Is it? What a pity? But to-morrow the Sacred Heart will recoup all losses.’ And then he called: ‘Maury! Maury!’
The two men stopped. Mr. Slye put a hand on Doogle’s shoulder. ‘Wait,’ he said.
Back at the tent George Postlethwaite waited.
‘Walk on a bit,’ Anthony said. ‘We’ll follow up.’
‘Listen, Maureen,’ continued Anthony. ‘I can tell by looking at you that you know it’s rotten. I mean living like this. And I’ll say you’ve never been to chapel since you left us. D’you know, Father Moynihan asked me about you when I was home last. You know, before all that happened, Maury. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not sad over Peter, like all of us.’
She did not appear to hear. Instead, she heard the faraway voice of Slye Esquire, and then it sounded nearer. She listened to him calling: ‘Maury! Maury.’
Anthony heard. He grasped Maureen round the waist and held her. ‘If you’d only forget everything,’ he said, ‘and come back, everything would be fine. Maury! I’ve never asked you for anything. Nothing! Not a pennyworth of help. Mother hasn’t got a soul except some curious woman called Gumbs. I ask you—will you come? Not for me. I don’t care a hang what you do. I’m honest, see! I’m thinking of mother. Beginning to save up—fancy—save up, so her and dad can go home. Doesn’t it make you laugh. Make you feel sorry—I—oh God, come on back to Gelton with me. I’ll do anything, anything. I’ll give you anything.’
‘Maury! Maury! Coming, Maury?’ The voice sounded even nearer now.
Anthony shouted after George: ‘Coming! Coming now.’ He was angry, he could not hide it any longer. Why was she such a fool? Suddenly he saw her fling the oilskin towards him, and it made a curious ripping sound in the wind.
‘Your coat,’ she said. Her own coat was now unbuttoned, and its length blew about in the rising wind.
‘Maury! Maury!’ called Slye, exactly where from it was impossible to tell, but Anthony heard it. Maureen heard it. George heard it.
‘Maureen! Are you coming?’ shouted Anthony, his patience at an end.
‘All right! All right!’ he roared after George. ‘I said I’m coming! Maureen, I mean well—we all do! Do come back with us to Gelton.’
‘Maury!’ called Slye.
Maureen turned, and as she did so the wind got under her coat, and as she went forward, hobbling rather than walking through the sucking, squelching mud, the coat ballooned out at either side, and Anthony watched her go.
‘Coming, Maury?’ called Slye.
Anthony watched her go forward, and heard the man call her names.
In the darkness it seemed no longer Maureen, no longer a wom
an, but some enormous black bird, with outspread wings, a monstrous crow hobbling away from him.
He did not call again, did not move. He let her go. He thought of Joan, and hurried after George.
II
Joseph Kilkey, on waking that morning to the sounds of heavy knocking upon his front door, realized at once who the knockers were, and he realized something else too, something instinctive that told him that he would need, not man’s help, but God’s, for he got quickly out of bed, and going to the dressing-table he took from the top-drawer a pair of brown scapulars. These he used only in attendance at the monthly service for the members of the Third Order of Saint Francis. He put them round his neck, then buttoned up his shirt. Always he carried inside his vest pocket a small medal of Saint Christopher, but now as he heard the hammering on the door he seemed to realize that he would want the help of more than one saint that day. He dressed hurriedly, then went downstairs.
It all happened very suddenly. He opened the door and the little lobby of No. 6 Price Street seemed full of soldiery. There were four of them, four strapping members of the Gelton Regiment. Red faced, red necked, they breathed the very essence of belligerency into the lobby. They were all speaking at once.
‘Get your things,’ one said, scraping his feet on the linoleum on which he later spat. ‘Come on! Go and get your bloody clothes on!’ he shouted.
‘Five minutes, and no more,’ said another. ‘We know your game. You bloody coward!’
‘And never mind what’s left of your hair, mate,’ said a third. ‘We’ll brush it for you.’
‘And this time we haven’t knocked for a joke. What’s this about being a blasted conchie?’
Joseph Kilkey stared at them, but he did not speak. One hand still clung to the knob of the door. Their very persons breathed violence, the incautious belligerency of the ignorant.
The last speaker walked right up to Mr. Kilkey and pulling his hand from the knob of the door banged it shut with his boot. Then he pushed him down the lobby towards the kitchen, saying to the others. ‘Wait there! Nothing to worry about. He won’t bolt.’