The Furys

by James Hanley

  Mrs Sliney towered over Aunt Brigid. She kept leaning over and putting her face close to her as she went on animatedly telling the history of her years in Gelton, her marriage, her ambitions, her husband’s recent promotion at sea. Miss Mangan felt rather bewildered with it all. Mrs Sliney suddenly stopped. Miss Mangan looked round and noted a row of five cottages alongside of which stood a small tin chapel. Miss Mangan’s quick eye caught the words, ‘Welsh Methodist’. Mrs Sliney was pointing at one of the cottages and saying, ‘I live just over there. Won’t you come and have a bite of breakfast with me?’ She looked so appealingly at Miss Mangan that the woman hesitated before crossing the street. What time was it? Nearly ten. H’m! There wasn’t much time to waste. The woman still held her with the same appealing glance.

  ‘I’ll slip in for a few minutes,’ Aunt Brigid said. They crossed the street and entered the first of the five cottages. It was dark and stuffy inside. Mrs Sliney, like Mrs Fury, was very fond of huge fires, though, unlike Miss Mangan’s sister, she rarely opened a window. ‘Well now,’ exclaimed Mrs Sliney, ‘just drop your coat off, Brigid. You’ll feel cold going out again.’ She watched the woman take her coat off and stand resplendent in her bright green gown. Mrs Sliney felt that Miss Mangan dressed outrageously for a woman of her years.

  ‘I have some tea ready,’ she said. ‘Won’t you take a tot of rum in it?’ Miss Mangan sat down as far away from the great fire as possible. She leaned her head to one side and replied, ‘Hardly. Hardly, Frances.’ Then, after a long pause, ‘Oh, very well. Heaven knows when I’ll see you again.’ She watched the woman go outside. Then she let her eyes wander about the dark kitchen.

  Mrs Sliney came back with two cups of tea and a small bottle. She sat down. She poured a little rum into each cup. ‘There you are, Brigid,’ she said, and began to stir her own tea. She kept looking at the woman in the green gown. Miss Mangan, looking up suddenly, caught the other’s eye. This woman, she told herself, was envious of her. But why? Even Fanny had stared at her in the same queer way. Had marriage destroyed something in them that now shone triumphantly in her own person? ‘There’s something in it,’ thought Aunt Brigid. She was looking in the mirror again. Of course, and she must admit it, she was looking extraordinarily well. That’s what it was. She looked so well. Even a little prosperous. Mrs Sliney coughed.

  ‘I hear you brought the boy over with you,’ she said. ‘How is he getting along these times?’ Miss Mangan looked into the fire. She felt she ought to be wary at this stage. How was he getting on? In plain English it really meant: Why had he to leave the college so suddenly? ‘How quickly things spread about,’ she was thinking, oblivious of the fact that Mrs Sliney was refilling her tea-cup. She expected this. She pushed the cup in on the table and assumed an attitude of imminent departure. ‘Oh, well!’ she exclaimed, half rising from the chair, ‘now you are asking me a question.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I hardly know myself, and I’m certain his mother doesn’t.’

  Mrs Sliney said ‘Oh!’ and registered an expression of complete astonishment. This was interesting. ‘How strange, Brigid!’ she said. ‘I suppose you’re going up to see the daughter now, are you?’

  ‘That’s just where I’m going,’ replied Aunt Brigid, drawing on her gloves. ‘And then I’m going down to the shipping office to see about my journey back. I don’t wish to be stranded here, what with all this talk of a strike.’ She fastened her coat.

  ‘Yes. She’s having a child shortly, isn’t she? As for this strike, Brigid, I think it’s just a lot of guff. Just guff.’

  ‘Indeed! I wish I could be as optimistic as that,’ said Miss Mangan, moving towards the door. ‘I was glancing at the headlines in the paper this morning. But then you never were one for reading much, were you, Frances?’ and she smiled at Mrs Sliney.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ Aunt Brigid drew herself up at the front door. ‘No longer than I can help, I assure you. It’s a dirty place and no mistake.’

  Mrs Sliney said, ‘H’m!’ and opened the door. ‘It’s a pity you going back so soon,’ remarked Mrs Sliney. ‘It would have been nice for you to have met some of the girls.’

  Aunt Brigid was already in the street, feeling a little cleaner, filled with an earnest desire to be gone. There was something about the slatternly-looking woman on the doorstep that filled her with horror at the thought of ever being domiciled in Gelton. ‘It’s a dirty morning,’ she remarked, looking away up the street. The woman nodded her head.

  ‘God knows when we’ll see you again,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘It’s been nice to see you,’ Aunt Brigid said, putting forth all the control she was capable of. ‘Perhaps some day …’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course … well, bye-bye, Brigid.’ They shook hands.

  Mrs Sliney stood watching Miss Mangan’s stately stride until she had turned the corner by the chapel. Then she went in and banged the door. Aunt Brigid, having passed the chapel, paused for a moment by a grocer’s shop, looking into the window. She looked at nothing in particular. She was making up her mind. Her eye caught the clock on the wall inside the shop. Time was getting on. Ought she to go to Vulcan Street? She would certainly like to see Desmond. He had been her favourite, and, of course, that wife of his? She simply must see her. But she did not like to ask the direction to Vulcan Street. She turned away from the shop and walked on. ‘How beastly people are!’ she said to herself. A boy running towards her reminded her that she was not even sure of the number of the street where Maureen lived. She stopped the boy. ‘Where is Price Street, sonny?’ she asked, automatically putting her hand in her bag to get a penny for him. The boy turned away and pointed to a narrow street almost opposite them.

  ‘Over there’m,’ he said, taking the penny from Miss Mangan. ‘Thank you’m.’ Miss Mangan walked on. At last she was in the street. Number thirty-five. She mustn’t forget it now. As she wandered slowly down, her observant eye scrutinized the various windows. Number twenty-five. Not far now. She stopped outside the house. The step had been newly scrubbed. ‘My!’ she exclaimed, as she noticed the bright yellow curtains of number thirty-seven, which appeared to throw out a challenge to Mrs Kilkey’s bright green ones. She knocked at the door. When the young woman opened it, the recognition was not so spontaneous as Aunt Brigid had hoped. ‘Well, Maureen,’ she exclaimed, turning her head sharply to glance up the street, and thinking, ‘What a place to have brought Maureen!’ The young woman jumped down to the step and flung her arms about her aunt, exclaiming, ‘Why, it’s Aunt Brigid. How are you, Auntie?’ Miss Mangan smiled. They went in together.

  Maureen drew out a chair for her aunt, and Miss Mangan sat down.

  ‘Oh!’ Aunt Brigid said. ‘I walked all the way here.’

  ‘Let me help you, Auntie.’ she said. The woman stood up, and Maureen took off her coat. ‘Your gloves, Auntie.’ Miss Mangan said, ‘All right, child. Just hang the coat up anywhere. And how are you?’ She turned and looked at her niece. There was something hard and penetrating in her glance. Maureen came forward, standing in front of the fire, her hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘Is Peter home? How is he? What does he look like? I wanted to meet you last night, but I couldn’t very well go, as Joe wasn’t feeling too well.’ Miss Mangan never slackened in her penetrating stare.

  ‘Oh, Peter! Strange child. He’s as big as an elephant now. But then you’ll be going up there tonight, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie.’ Aunt Brigid put out a hand and caught her niece by the hem of her skirt. ‘Come here.’ Maureen took a chair and sat opposite her aunt. ‘How are you? I heard the news from your mother. Tell me, are you happy, Maureen?’ It seemed to the young woman that her aunt’s eyes suddenly changed colour. There was a silence. Miss Mangan laid her hand on Maureen’s knee, her eyes now taking in her niece’s altered form. ‘You are happy, then?’ she repeated, and Maureen, as though just wakened from a long sleep, sat up suddenly and replied:

  ‘Oh yes, Auntie. Oh yes. I like Joe. We are h
appy here.’

  Aunt Brigid slowly drew off her right glove and laid it on the table. ‘How did it happen, Maureen? I can tell you it was a great surprise to me. Your mother never dropped me a line about it. Your mother is a strange woman, child. Even with Desmond.’ The same dignified silence. ‘What is the use of it? I ask you. It’s time your mother had a little common sense.’ She tapped her foot upon the freshly scrubbed flags.

  ‘But Mother wrote to you, Auntie,’ replied Maureen, with some astonishment.

  ‘Perhaps she did, but I didn’t get it, Maureen,’ replied Aunt Brigid coldly. Pause. ‘What time will your husband be in for dinner?’ She sat back in her chair, assuming her favourite position, head a little to one side, arms spread out upon her knees. Now that she was able to study her niece more closely, she realized how alike both mother and daughter were. The same head, the same eyes, nose, and mouth. The same self-assurance, the same tensity. But there was something else. A change in Maureen, and she had been quick to notice it. Yes. She had changed, but in what way? She could not take her eyes off the young woman.

  ‘Joe will be here at twelve o’clock,’ Maureen said. ‘Will you stay for dinner with us, Auntie? Or are you going home?’ Miss Mangan moved uneasily in her chair. Should she stay? Or should she just wait to meet Kilkey and then go off and see her eldest nephew? She looked at Maureen. She was smiling at her now. There was something quite charming, even genuinely affectionate, she felt, in the young woman’s desire to have her stay. She could not very well disappoint the child. She drew off her other glove.

  ‘It’s so nice of you, Maureen,’ she said. ‘I should love to stay. Indeed. I’m rather anxious to meet Mr Kilkey. But won’t I be in your way?’

  Maureen laughed in her face. ‘No.’ she said, ‘you won’t.’ She leaned across and said in a low voice. ‘But what else have you brought back with you from Ireland, Auntie? Any secrets? Don’t you know anything about Peter? Why he left so suddenly? Dad was awfully angry …’

  ‘Was your dad ever any different?’ remarked Miss Mangan suddenly. ‘One can well understand. Your mother asked me the same question this morning. I know nothing about him. He would tell me nothing. I was amazed when I saw him. Almost a man now, Maureen. You’ll hardly know him. So your dad is angry about it! It’s a pity. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t angry over something. Don’t you ever feel that you owed it to yourself to leave Hatfields? What a house it is! It seems they’ve lived there too long. Years and years. That’s what gets your mother down, Maureen. I know it. It’s like a prison.’

  ‘H’m!’ Maureen said. ‘You don’t know anything about Hatfields, Auntie.’

  Miss Mangan threw her head back. ‘You surprise me, Maureen,’ she said. ‘You must know by now that your mother has never had one ounce of luck since she went to live there. She’s a changed woman since I saw her last. It seems to me that Anthony is wise to stay at sea. Poor boy!’

  Maureen rose to her feet. ‘Auntie,’ she said, ‘why bring Anthony into it? It’s not Mother’s fault if she’s still in Hatfields.’

  ‘Oh! Your mother tells me it’s all through your father. Then your father says it’s your mother’s fault …’

  ‘Hello!’ called out a voice suddenly from the back of the house.

  ‘Why, it’s Joe,’ exclaimed Maureen, running into the back kitchen. ‘Will you help me with the dinner, Auntie? It’s your favourite,’ she called out. ‘Boiled bacon, cabbage, and potatoes.’

  Mr Kilkey put his head inside the door. ‘Visitors?’ he asked, looking at Maureen. They both went into the kitchen.

  ‘My Aunt Brigid from Cork,’ said Maureen. She looked at her aunt. ‘This is Joe, Auntie,’ she said. She felt triumphant, as though she had waited all her life for this very occasion.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Mr Kilkey, putting forth a hand. Aunt Brigid hesitated. Her first thought was, ‘What a repulsive-looking man!’; her first feeling one of physical revulsion. They shook hands.

  ‘Now, Auntie,’ Maureen said, laying a hand on Miss Mangan’s arm. Mr Kilkey said, ‘Excuse me,’ and hurried outside to wash himself. He came in a few minutes later and went straight upstairs. Meanwhile the two women were busy getting the plates. Aunt Brigid laid the table, Maureen carried in the meal. Mr Kilkey came downstairs. He looked at his watch. ‘A bit late,’ he said. They all sat down. Mr Kilkey began his dinner, whilst Aunt Brigid drew her plate to her. She was seated at the top of the table. She could see both husband and wife in profile now. She found it difficult to conceal her surprise. It was something more than surprise. Twice Maureen looked her way, and she lowered her head quickly and began using her knife and fork with mock earnestness. It seemed to Aunt Brigid that wherever she turned, wherever her eyes wandered, the face of Mr Kilkey wandered too. And what a face, she was thinking. It was disgusting. To think that her only niece had married that man, with his bald patch at the back of his head, his dirty-looking skin – it reminded Aunt Brigid of wet leather – and his enormous hands. Surely the man must be old enough to be the girl’s father.

  ‘I hope you are enjoying it, Auntie,’ said Maureen, looking up at her aunt, whilst she cut more bacon for her husband. Miss Mangan, from the other end of the table, smiled. ‘It’s beautiful, Maureen,’ she said. ‘You have your mother to thank for that.’ At that moment Mr Kilkey looked up from his plate. Miss Mangan again lowered her head. ‘What time does this fellow go back?’ she was wondering. She positively hated him now. There must be something in all this. Why had Maureen flung herself at a man like Kilkey? It was disgusting. Maureen said, ‘More, Auntie?’

  ‘No, child, thanks,’ she replied, and looked along at Maureen.

  ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed under her breath. ‘I’ve got it now.’ Why hadn’t she noticed it before? It was staring her in the face. That young woman was coarsened. Yes. Coarsened. That was the change. ‘My heavens!’ she kept repeating in her mind. She looked at Maureen again, saying slowly to herself. ‘Maureen is now in a jute factory. She rather likes it. The hours are long but the wages are good.’ That was nearly three years – no, impossible, it was much longer than that, Miss Mangan was thinking. Her sister had written to her about it. ‘Maureen has gone out to work. I didn’t want her to go, but the girl was so restless, I let her go. It’s in a jute factory. She seems to like it.’ Yes, thought Aunt Brigid, she could read every one of those words on her niece’s face. So that was the jute factory. The long hours. Maureen looked twenty years older. Mr Kilkey pushed his chair away, saying, ‘Excuse me. I must go now.’ He went to the mantelshelf for a cigarette, lit it, and went outside. Miss Mangan turned her head and looked out of the back window.

  ‘What a peculiar street you live in!’ she exclaimed. ‘You have the railway at the back.’ She supposed that Kilkey man had brought her here.

  ‘Yes,’ Maureen said. ‘But it’s quiet here, and handy for Joe’s work.’

  ‘Of course,’ Aunt Brigid replied. She too got up, saying, ‘Let me help you clear these off, child.’ Mr Kilkey pushed his head round the door.

  ‘So long,’ he said. They heard the door bang.

  They began to clear off the things from the table. Miss Mangan still felt a little bewildered. Now that Kilkey had gone, they might be able to sit in peace and talk about things. Looking at her niece, she could already imagine her framing the very question she so much dreaded to answer. Well, what could she say other than that Joseph Kilkey was disappointing? She kept looking at Maureen’s swollen belly. They washed and dried the things. Suddenly Maureen said:

  ‘When you come to think of it, Aunt Brigid, it’s terrible the bad luck Mother has. Isn’t it awful about Anthony?’

  Miss Mangan hung up the towel on the rack. ‘Yes,’ continued Maureen, ‘just think of it! But of course Mother told you all about it, didn’t she?’ Aunt Brigid nodded her head, saying, ‘Yes, child. She told me. It’s frightful. What a handful your mother has to look after! I suppose sometimes when you sit down and think it over you feel you are well out of i
t.’ She looked at Maureen as if to say, ‘That’s solemn truth.’ But the young woman made no reply. She emptied the basin and wiped it out. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ she said. They went in.

  ‘I’ll make a drink of tea later on,’ Maureen said. They sat down.

  ‘Your grand-dad seems to be quite helpless now,’ remarked Aunt Brigid as she made herself comfortable in the chair. ‘It nearly broke my heart to see him in such a pitiable condition.’

  ‘Mother does her best. She can’t do any more,’ said Maureen sharply, at which remark Aunt Brigid sat up.

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. Your mother does her best. But it is sad. One never imagines they will reach that stage, though. I remember when I saw him last he was a hale and hearty man.’ The young woman rose in her chair. This surely was some reflection upon her mother.

  ‘But he’s old, Aunt. All old people are like that. Besides, it takes Mother all her time looking after the family and keeping the house over their heads.’