by James Hanley
‘Damn the name. I’m not satisfied. They sank a ship last night. The Ronsa’s forgotten. I’m going up. I’m going to see Mr. Crisp. He’s decent.’
‘I’m going.’
‘Me too.’
‘A bloody lot we get out of their old war!’
‘I had husband and son on her.’
‘Who cares a goddam if you had all your family? Nobody. Blast their war! Won’t bring them back now.’
The woman screeched into the building drowning out sounds of bells, whose echoes spiralled about the high roof.
‘Um—um,’ another said, ran from the group about the board, caught the lift gates, rattled them.
‘Um—um,’ she said.
She pulled, stretched her body, seemed to hang suspended on the lift gate.
‘Look out,’ one said.
‘Um—um,’ she said, being dragged away by men’s hands.
‘Don’t laugh.’
‘I’m not laughing.’
‘I just thought you were.’
‘Hennesy?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take this woman to the top floor and look for Mr. Cully. He’ll understand. Nobody else will.’
‘Um—um,’ the woman said, caught the man’s hand like a child. They soared upwards in the lift. ‘Um—um,’ the woman said, islanded in the corridor.
‘Oh—Mr. Cully. A moment. This lady. Deaf and dumb. I expect it’s about the Ronsa! Read about that big engagement on the Somme last night?’
‘Yes—yes—no.’
The woman followed Mr. Cully down the corridor, vanished through a door.
‘All these faces,’ Mrs. Fury thought. ‘All these faces.’
She stood at the bottom of the stairs. Who knows? Who knew? Two hundred doors, swinging in—out, forty corridors like tunnels to nowhere, everywhere! Shining bare walls. Tinkling bells. Who knew? Who held the key? Who told the truth? How did they know?
‘I wonder,’ she said. ‘I wonder.’
She went upstairs, walked up and down corridors. Read on a door. ‘Mr. Lake.’ Lake! Mr. Lake! Oh, I know him. He’ll know. He’ll——
She did not knock, but turned the handle of the door and walked in. Two red faces confronted her. Two pairs of eyes glowered. She had merely disturbed.
‘Caught,’ her face said to them. ‘Caught.’ A man’s hand round a girl’s waist, sweet words. ‘Disturbed,’ their blushes said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Is Mr. Lake here?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Any further news about the Ronsa?’
‘I believe you’ll find it on the board in the hall below.’
‘I read the board.’
‘That’s it,’ the man said. ‘Quite correct. I saw the notice pinned there about ten o’clock.’
‘Is there any further news yet?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘I don’t believe. Honest to God. I can’t! I can’t!’ Her fingers were drumming upon the broad mahogany counter.
‘Did you get the clearing papers for Sipia? I have to check them, Miss Knowles.’
‘I don’t believe it. There must be more news. Oh, God! Doesn’t anybody know?’
‘I put them on the desk there. Can’t you see them? Two hundred and eighty-four.’
‘Why, of course.’
‘For God’s sake!’ she said and leaned over the desk, trembled violently.
‘I’m awfully sorry, but Mr. Lake is down on the lower floor. This is the wages department. I’m sorry. Take the lift. Mr. Lake is the man to see.’
‘Mr. Lake is the man to see! To see! Mr. Lake! Lake.’ The words bounced up and down in her head. ‘The man to see—to see—see—Mr. Lake.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning. So sorry——Oh, Miss Knowles, take this down, please.’
She walked out, closed the door, was gone. But they hadn’t noticed it. They had yesterday. Everybody had. A terrible shock. But another was sunk to-day. One was history, one was in the offing, waiting for verification. Outside she suddenly struck the wall with the flat of her hands. Pattered upon it.
‘My God! He’s gone! Gone! I know! Denny! Oh, Denny!’
Gone! Gone! her hands said: Gone!
Gone! the wall answered.
‘I’m sure he was brave! God have mercy on him this morning, Denny!’
The wall answered: ‘I’m sure he was brave, Denny.’
Gone! Her hands cried Gone!
In the inner office voices murmured.
‘I saw that Chaplin one last night.’
‘Did you! What’s it like?’
‘Oh, Lord! That man is funny!’
‘I heard Jones talking about it coming in this morning. These women, he said.’
‘What?’ she said.
‘These poor women,’ he said. ‘Hundreds! Hundreds! Hanging round.’
‘Are you going to play tennis this evening?’
‘Well, I might—might not. All depends! The weather. Can’t trust it lately.’
Outside one hand made a circling movement, round and round the wall.
‘Denny! Oh, Denny!’
‘Are you not well?’
‘I’m all right, thank you,’ she said.
‘Oh, sorry——’
‘I’m well. I’m not well. I’m——’ She turned away, went down the stairs.
One flew past her, crying: ‘Oh, the bastards out of hell! The bastards out of——’
There was the board. The agents of the sea rose from their beds, and took the keys of the sea, and opened it. There was the board and what they found on it.
‘All hope abandoned. We regret to inform, etc. etc.
She passed out of the building, clumsily, dreamily, passed from the building.
‘I’m sure Denny was brave! God rest him! I’m sure he was—was——’
‘Gelton Times.’
‘Special.’
‘Victory on the Western Front.’
‘Special. Special.’
A woman in the gutter sang: ‘It’s a long, long trail a’ winding——’ Watched the people come out—the droves of women, put pathos into ‘long.’ It was pay day at the offices for three ships—allotment payments for two.
‘Nice flowers, lady! Fresh violets, lady.’
‘See the jumping German general. One, two—three! There he goes. Penny each.’
‘Spare a penny, lady! Boer War. No pension.’
An ugly stump of arm rose, threatened to touch Mrs. Fury’s face.
‘It’s a long, long——’
‘Nice flowers, lady.’
‘Have you any bluebells?’
‘No, lady. Nice violets, lady. Only penny the bunch.’
‘Real souvenirs, lady. Made from real souvenirs! One for your coat, lady.’
‘I can’t cry any more,’ she said to herself. ‘Nothing matters. I tried! Nothing matters. I hope God was merciful. I’m sure Denny was brave. I must be. Must be. I’ll go away. Away somewhere! I don’t want to see anybody. Nobody. Nobody!’
‘’Tis the last ro-ho-ose of summer’—the woman’s voice seemed to crack as she reached the top note, the lower register was deadly mute—‘of summ-mer.’
‘Only a penny, lady. Watch Hindenburg jump, lady. Penny each. Penny each.’
It was turned two o’clock. She walked down to the river. Took a seat there with others who watched the sea-gulls wheel and soar, swoop and perch dizzily upon the masts of ships. Their cries fell like showers amongst the crowds of people. The sun shone strongly and the turbulent green water seemed gay under the light. Many ships rode at anchor, for the dock berths were full. Somewhere behind the sheds the ships she had worked on would be lying, loading or unloading, and there, by merely turning her head a little to the right, she could read in gigantic green lettering painted the length of the shed. ‘Dublin and Irish Mail.’
Dublin and Irish Mail.
Nearly fifty years ago she had come by sh
ip there, to that very shed. Fifty years. What a long time it was! Children scampered about in front of her. A man read the noon paper, looked for the winning horse at Sandown. She saw: ‘Casualty Lists for Monday. Local.’ She saw barges go by, a ship towed. The green water pranced below.
‘I’ll go home,’ she thought.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
CHAPTER XIV
I
3 EDGOTT COURT, GELTON,
August 16th, 1916.
DEAR ANTHONY,
I am so sad to tell you that your poor father, God have mercy on him, has gone. But maybe you yourself have heard about it by this time. His ship was torpedoed somewhere in the Mediterranean I think, and sank without a soul being saved. It is impossible to tell you how I feel, I feel just dead. Just dead. Three times I went to the shipping office, always hoping and praying it would be wrong. But it was only too right. Your dad’s gone, and you simply don’t know what it means. Pray for him, for he loved you all. I know it. I feel just tired with it all. He was so built up with this idea of our going home, and God knows I was, for I worked towards this end myself. I never told him, of course. He would have been wild. And now it doesn’t matter, does it? I was looking forward to his coming home, something kept telling me he would be home soon. But now he’ll never come. I only begin to realize now how decent he was, how clean and faithful all through his life. And he worked so hard, so hard. Many a time I’ve looked at him, and I could see it in his face, all over him, the work. God give him peace this day, he offended nobody. Many a time we had rows—I used to think he was so indifferent to you all, but now I see I was wrong. It’s taken a lifetime for me to learn how much he meant to me, and now it doesn’t matter. When I think of some of the things I’ve done and said to your father, I could cry about it. I thought I did my best for the lot of you, and your father did, and there you are.
I trust you are well. Now I am going away. I just feel tired, that’s all. Oh, Anthony, if you had seen those poor crying creatures standing in the offices, and one could cry to the moon. To the moon. It was all—oh—well. Tell me, are you still as happy? I hope so. That’s a nice girl you have. I hope you will both be very happy. After you are married you must both come and see me. I’ll be at St. Mary Magdalene’s Hospice. I’ll see you both. God willing. You have been a kind, thoughtful son, so you have, and I love you for it. And now I want you to do something. Just for me—I mean for your own, for Joan’s good. I want you to go away to America! Will you think of that? It’s a great country, your father always said so, but I could never never get that man to go there.
One wants so little, and it seems such a lot. But I hope you will go. I’ve spent a lifetime in the black hole I was brought to from Ireland, and it’s never changed and it’s no good. I know! I’ve seen too much of it. Now I must close. I’ve written the address of the place on the back of the sheet. Don’t worry about me. I shall be all right and very happy. Don’t forget to pray for your father. I’m sure he was brave. He always was. God keep you.
Your affectionate mother,
FANNY FURY.
Mrs. Fury addressed this letter to her son, sealed it, and put it in her pocket. She started to clean the room. She cleared the table and stood it back against the wall. Dusted the mantelpiece and swept the floor. From the cupboard she took down the box and emptied the contents. A number of newspapers she rolled up and burnt. She gathered letters and photographs together and tied them with string. The black bag she took from the chair. From this she took some papers, a lot of newspaper cuttings that contained snapshots of her son Peter. She flung them into the fire. She put the letters and photographs into the black bag. From the dresser she took two unopened letters.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, and threw them unopened into the fire.
She drew the curtains across the window and then began to tidy herself. She washed herself, tidied her hair, rubbed her boots with the brush. Then she put on her hat, and took the bag from the chair. Upstairs she heard noises. Perhaps Mrs. Gumbs had returned, perhaps she hadn’t. She closed the door silently behind her and went downstairs.
All the morning there had been showers of rain. The sun was out, and the wet pavements were drying. She walked down the street, and two people said: ‘Good morning. Beautiful to-day after the rain.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A lovely day,’ turned the corner and was free of the Court.
She saw the same man selling newspapers, the same children playing. The same shop windows, same people behind the counters. She crossed the road. Many soldiers on leave passed her, a group of naval men came along singing lustily. All were drunk. The trams carried posters: ‘Join now! Join now.’ Somehow as the woman read the wording it seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Join now! Join now! A man played a violin in the gutter. A poster outside a shop announced in black. ‘End of War in Sight?’ The huge question-mark was in bright red. She seemed to sail along now, oblivious of her surroundings, the black bag clutched tightly under her arm. She boarded a tram. As she sat down she saw herself in a small mirror affixed to the wood, beneath which was a strip for striking matches. She looked into this glass.
‘I feel old,’ she thought. ‘I am old.’
And he was speaking into her ear now, and speaking to her out of a letter. ‘Our time’s going, woman.’ Is it? Perhaps it was. ‘I feel old. I am old!’
The tram rattled along, flashes of blue darted viciously from under its wheels, the driver rang his bell, stamped, began to shout, ready to apply the brakes. Motors hooted, horses scraped hooves. Ahead the line was blocked by sheep.
‘These bloomin’ sheep,’ a man said.
The tram-line cleared, the vehicle went on. Came to a halt, as the conductor saw the woman emerging from the top deck.
‘Dickson Place,’ he said, an impatient finger waiting to press the bell. ‘Dickson Place.’
She came slowly downstairs, and he helped her off. It made her smile. She was on the sidewalk. The tram clattered out of sight.
‘I look old. I am old.’
She turned up Dickson Place. There it was. The Hospice of Saint Mary Magdalene. The door was tall, painted blue. ‘Our Lady’s Blue,’ she said, and stood for a moment on the steps. There was a brass bell, and she meant to ring it, but as she put her hand on the door it opened. She pushed it farther back. ‘The same place,’ she said. ‘The same place.’
She stood in the doorway and looked down a hall with blue tiling and cream walls, and on her right a picture of Our Lady. At the end she saw a desk, and at the desk the nun was writing. Mrs. Fury went slowly down the hall, through which passed a shaft of light from the sun.
Then she halted, turned and went back. She closed the door. Its click made the nun look up. The woman was coming towards her. An old woman. A tall old woman. She rose in her seat, hands resting on the desk. Her hands were very brown, and her small round face the same. A nut brown in colour, she looked at the woman in front of her.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning, sister,’ Mrs. Fury said, and she gave a little bow as she said it.
The sister smiled. ‘A tired creature,’ she told herself. ‘Please sit down.’
There was a chair behind her. She sat down, held the black bag on her knee.
‘A bright morning,’ the sister said.
‘A lovely morning, sister,’ Mrs. Fury replied, her eyes towards the window, fully open, and looking through it she saw the branches of a tree, and through them the blue of sky. To her right she saw an oak sliding door.
‘From the top window you can see the sea,’ the sister said, seating herself again.
‘Yes, sister.’
‘Yes—well?’ the sister said, and studied the woman’s face as she looked out through the window. A quite handsome woman when she was young.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I’ve come in,’ Mrs. Fury said, ‘and I don’t want to go out again.’
She lowered her head, and as she did so the sister turned a
nd looked through the window. Somewhere in the building women’s voices were heard singing.
‘Yes, I see,’ the sister said. ‘Now let me see. Your name, child.’
‘Fanny Fury.’
‘Yes …’
The pen scratched. Mrs. Fury watched the hand move, circled by its pure white linen cuff. The sister spoke again, leaning forward, smiling a little.
Mrs. Fury looked up.
‘Yes, sister? No, sister! Yes, sister.’
‘I see,’ the sister said.
She rose, came from behind her desk, went up to Mrs. Fury, lightly placed her finger-tips on the woman’s arms, looked closely at the resolute features. The woman rose at the touch, stood taller than the nun.
‘I see,’ the sister said, and looking into the woman’s eyes, asked quietly: ‘And have you anybody to claim you in case of death?’
She saw the eyes move, peer over her shoulders, look out through the window.
And through this window Mrs. Fury saw the sea and in it Denny Fury was plunging. She seemed to stiffen a little as she stood there.
The sister went back to the desk, and picked up her pen. She pressed a button and a bell rang. She looked at the woman.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘No!—not now,’ Mrs. Fury said.
The sliding door opened and she passed inside.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Furys Saga
Chapter 1
There was nothing to be heard in the small office save the clock’s tick and the scratching nib. Once or twice Father Twomey had paused to look up, to listen. He thought he had heard heavy lumbering footsteps outside the door, but the sounds had died on the air. He went on writing. Suddenly the door was flung rudely open, and three sailors staggered into the room. The priest swung round and exclaimed somewhat angrily:
‘What is the meaning of this? Couldn’t you have knocked first?’
He stared at the three men, one of whom, the tallest, promptly collapsed and lay sprawled in the middle of the room.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said, rising to his feet. He stood looking down at them, he was a very tall man.
‘S’Apostleship sea?’
‘This is the office of the Apostleship of the Sea.’ He studied the men.