by James Hanley
‘Half a minute! half a minute! Somebody running down the line.’
A silence came over the assembled men. The running figure came nearer. Then a voice shouted, ‘Drop your tools, men! Drop your tools!’
‘What the hell is this?’
The man came up then. He was a little man, wearing a porter’s vest, hat-less, a red scarf round his neck. ‘Wire just come in from Shacklady. Everybody to come out.’
‘Good!’ the man on the engine said. ‘Stand clear!’ The steam shot out and a shower of spray descended upon the assembled men. Two men were standing in the tender, the man lying on the sacking between them. ‘Pity they didn’t send word before this,’ one of the men said; ‘this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘We’ll scrounge a drink for him when we get to the sheds.’ The engine moved away. Soon it was swallowed up in the darkness. The gang of men seemed to stand as though in contemplation. Then one of them kicked a flare, saying, ‘Let the bastards have it this time, that’s what I say.’ He began to move away from the other men. ‘Aye.’ They set off in a body in the direction in which the light engine had gone.
‘Funny Wooden-face couldn’t hear that Goods!’
‘Aye.’
‘Mad bastard! That’s what he is.’
The crowd fell silent again. Like Peter, they had suddenly become conscious of something, of something that was more than silence; a sort of unearthly hush appeared to have descended upon the whole city. They walked on. The drizzle still came down. In the light of the flares it appeared like a shower of fine white dust, shining silvery on their shoulders. The sheds loomed in sight. There was not a sound to be heard.
‘Seems funny, doesn’t it?’ a man said, hearing for the first time the crunching of his hobnail boots on the ballast.
Nobody answered him. They passed on through the sheds. Coming out on to the streets, they saw even more men emerging from the tramway sheds. Once a car passed them, empty, dimly lighted. ‘Last trip,’ the driver shouted. Somebody called ‘Hooray!’ The tram vanished round the corner. The crowd of men passed into the King’s Road. Most men from the sheds lived round Price Street, King’s Road, Hatfields. They tailed off in little groups, arguing loudly. A policeman stood in the doorway of an emporium, silently observing them.
‘They’re the swine!’ a man shouted. The policeman turned his head, staring after the crowd of men. They passed through Price Street. Other men were coming up from the docks. The streets seemed blocked with men. In Hat-fields doors were opened. Women stood on the steps, while from the windows above half-dressed children stared into the street.
‘They’ve come out.’
CHAPTER VIII
1
For the past fortnight Mr Fury had been telling his wife that things weren’t looking too good. For one thing, the miners had threatened to strike. The issue at stake for Mr Fury was whether the railwaymen would be called out to support them. Mr Fury secretly hoped that they wouldn’t. He hated strikes, for the very simple reason that he had never been engaged in one. Being a sailor, and most of his life afloat, he was wont to associate strikes only with those engaged in work ashore. Nobody was more surprised than Mr Fury when, promptly at midnight, all workers downed their tools. Indeed, it took his breath away. He had never expected it to come so suddenly. When with Aunt Brigid he had emerged, not too steadily, from the Star and Garter, he was surprised to find so many people abroad at that hour of the night. The streets were crowded with excited people. Crowds went off towards the tramway sheds, the loco sheds. Others veered off in the direction of the leather warehouses. Others towards the docks. Aunt Brigid, as much taken aback at this panorama as her brother-in-law, asked him what it meant. Dennis Fury was confused. His mind seemed blocked. He couldn’t think. Mr Joseph Kilkey and his own wife appeared to bar the path.
‘I don’t know,’ Mr Fury said. ‘Looks like a gala night.’ When he had been five minutes in the open air his brain began to clear. At the same time newsboys began to parade the streets with special editions of the local papers. Aunt Brigid fumbled in her bag, withdrew a penny, and asked Mr Fury to get one. Mr Fury did so. But there was nothing beyond a few words in the stop-press that made it any more significant than the evening edition of the paper, the front sheets of which he had burnt in the fire. With Mrs Fury in bed, he did not quite like the idea of her reading this news. He folded up the paper. Miss Mangan, with one stout arm through her brother-in-law’s, asked him what all the fuss was about.
‘There’s some talk about a general stoppage at midnight,’ Mr Fury said, and looked away up the street. He felt her arm relax. Aunt Brigid became excited at once.
‘Oh, Denny!’ she said. ‘How awful! I do hope I can get a boat back home.’ She looked almost despairingly into his face.
‘Yes, so do I,’ replied Mr Fury. ‘Yes. By God!’ he thought. ‘I don’t care how long this bloody strike lasts, so long as she catches the boat.’ To have that woman marooned in the house was something he could not stand. The strike, so far as Mr Fury was concerned, could only be associated with one thing. His sister-in-law. Yes. By fair means or foul, it didn’t matter which, Miss Mangan must be got on to a boat. Mr Fury was thinking furiously now. Yes. And it didn’t even matter what kind of boat, so long as it was a boat, and, he told himself with a smile, ‘a boat that could carry her without sinking’. She must be got away. He simply could not stand the woman in the house. Dennis Fury was more and more convinced that his sister-in-law’s visits were planned, and not chance ones by any means, and that each occasion was used for the gathering in of more family history. He once mentioned this to Fanny, who straightaway told him not to be so ridiculous. But the idea remained imprinted upon his mind. Aunt Brigid came over for information, and nothing else. He had derived a certain amount of satisfaction at her disappointment over her father. Indeed, he was rather taken aback at the inability of Mr Mangan to recognize his daughter. That was another thing that had been occupying his mind for some time. Why had ‘him’ become silent all of a sudden? He dated this silence from the day they had had the row over his sending money to Peter. Was there some sort of maliciousness, some stubborn indifference behind it? Mr Fury had thought so. But now he had changed his mind. ‘Old Mangan’s on his last,’ thought Mr Fury. Brigid Mangan almost wept when, on her first night in Hatfields, she knelt down in front of her father and exclaimed, ‘Dad! Dad! Don’t you know me? I’m Brigid.’ Anthony Mangan did not seem to recognize the woman. Out of that incident Mr Fury drew satisfaction, even a certain amount of pleasure. He felt it had even been worth her travelling all that way just to be ‘snubbed’ by her dad. Mr Fury’s theory was wrong. Aunt Brigid had come over because she was worried. Not about ‘Dad’, but about his little bit of money.
When Aunt Brigid and Mr Fury arrived back at Hatfields, they stood for a moment outside the door. A young woman had just hurried away. The door was still open. Perhaps it was this sudden return to Hatfields, to the dark and stuffy street, from the warm, comfortable, and cheery atmosphere of the Star and Garter, or it may have been pure imagination on Aunt Brigid’s part, but she imagined her brother-in-law’s arm to lie more heavily on her own. Indeed, Mr Fury was beginning to feel a little unsteady again. He may have been upset by this sudden vision of his wife standing in the doorway, when but a short while ago he had left her lying in bed. Or it may have been the air, or the unusual excitement of the crowded streets. He made a step forward, arm-in-arm with Miss Mangan, and suddenly lurched. Miss Mangan said, ‘Denny! Denny, my boy! Be careful.’ She gripped his arm more tightly. Mr Fury muttered something like ‘Ah!’ and moved forward again. Yes. Without a doubt, there was Fanny at the door, fully dressed. The woman must be mad after what Dr Dunfrey told her. Fanny Fury had got up and dressed, and gone below. She was attending to ‘him’ when the knock came to the door. Now Maureen had just gone. She stood at the end of the lobby, looking at the figures in front of her. As Miss Mangan mounted the step, Mr Fury following, Mrs Fury exclaimed, ‘Denny! Brigid! I
’m surprised.’ It seemed to her that both her husband and her sister were none too steady upon their feet. ‘I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘Don’t be surprised, Fanny,’ exclaimed Mr Fury jovially. ‘Be jolly instead,’ and followed the remark by a loud burst of laughter. The Postlethwaites’ door suddenly opened, and Mrs Postlethwaite came out on to the step. That sudden burst of laughter she knew well. Only Mr Fury laughed like that, and then only when he was drunk. Mrs Fury observed the large lady. Mrs Postlethwaite was really so large that she put Miss Mangan to shame. She was a little woman, with a rotundness that had become the joke of Hatfields. Her husband, seeing her grow stouter day by day. had said, ‘If that cooper at number thirty-seven ever sees you alone, he’ll be greatly tempted.’ This remark was quite beyond Mrs Postlethwaite’s comprehension. But her husband was only too conscious of her proportions. Now as she stood at the door, watching Mr Fury and Miss Mangan ascend the step, she did look like a barrel, a very large barrel. Mrs Fury caught her sister by the arm and pulled her in. Then she gripped her husband and dragged him in too. The door closed. ‘I’m surprised!’ she kept saying. ‘Surprised!’ ‘For Christ’s sake,’ shouted Mr Fury, ‘don’t be surprised! Be jolly instead.’ The three made their way along the lobby. The Postlethwaites’ door banged. Aunt Brigid sat down on the sofa immediately, gave a sigh, and lay back. She was completely out of breath. Mr Fury remained standing, hands in pockets, hat a little to one side. He was contemplating ‘him’. The clock showed half-past ten. Mrs Fury looked at her sister. ‘I hope you had a good day, Brigid,’ she said. Miss Mangan now sat up. ‘A very good day, Fanny! I met scores of old friends,’ she said. She pulled a clean white handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her face. ‘A very good day,’ she repeated, ‘I never saw so many old friends.’ ‘Yes. I’m sure you did,’ replied Mrs Fury. She looked across at her husband. ‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked.
Mr Fury was still contemplating. There was a vacant, stupid expression upon his face. He appeared to retain his balance only with the greatest effort. He had not even heard the remark passed. Aunt Brigid again wiped her face with her handkerchief. ‘I met him as I was coming off the tram,’ she said. ‘He was with a peculiar-looking man. I can’t remember his name.’ She looked at Mr Fury. He, still balancing precariously, said, ‘Postlethwaite from next door.’
‘I hope you didn’t prepare anything specially,’ remarked Aunt Brigid, getting up from the sofa. Mrs Fury moved away from the table to allow her sister to pass. ‘Oh no!’ she said, following the woman with her eyes. The kitchen door closed. The sudden bang almost threw Mr Fury off his balance. Mrs Fury went to him, caught him by the arm and said angrily, ‘You fool! You old fool!’ She dragged him to the sofa and plumped him down. ‘You fool!’ she said. ‘I like the way you kept your vow. Never to go into a public with Brigid.’ She could hear her sister changing her shoes in the room directly overhead. After what seemed an interminable silence, Mr Fury looked up at his wife.
‘I left you in bed!’ he said. ‘What are you doing up here now? You must be crazy, getting out of bed. Get on back.’ Mrs Fury laughed.
‘And where would you be if I stayed in bed? Where would Dad be? The whole lot of you? I have something else to think about besides staying in bed. You fool!’ she shouted. Then she left him and went into the parlour. Yes. She had something to think about. How could she have lain in bed? She must make plans. First, Aunt Brigid must get the first boat back. She did not want her. Mrs Fury’s great objection to a prolonged or enforced stay on Miss Mangan’s part was occasioned by a certain suspicion. That suspicion was that Aunt Brigid would go to Desmond’s house. And not only number seven Vulcan Street. Miss Mangan would go to her friends. From them she would learn many things. Mrs Fury did not wish this. She had her own good reasons for it. Aunt Brigid was curious, was suspicious. She had plagued her with questions, But Fanny Fury controlled herself. Her sister must be got back. That was the first thing. The next thing was Peter! Peter was like a wound. He too must go. If she had not paid much attention to her husband’s remark about ‘the nice young fellow who’ll call’, she intended to do so now. If this man could get Peter away to sea, it would be good. Good for Peter. Good for herself. His presence in the house was a continuous reminder of what had happened, a kind of mirror in which she saw reflected her aims, disappointment, and now humiliation. She had enough to do to look after Mr Mangan. Anthony would soon be home. Mrs Fury had dismissed her husband’s hints about a strike with an emphatic ‘Pshaw! – Rot!’ Now it had come. It wasn’t the first. Veteran-like, she had already visualized its end.
She thought, ‘What a fool Denny is!’ To have met that woman like that, and to have gone into a public with her! Truly he was a man easily influenced. She remembered the frightful row they had had four years ago. And he had vowed he would have nothing more to do with her. Heaven knows what they had been talking about! She heard her sister’s door close. Miss Mangan went downstairs. Mr Fury was gradually recovering. He sat up now as she came into the kitchen.
‘What about some supper, eh?’ Then he called, ‘Fanny! Fanny!’ Mrs Fury came in, one hand over her mouth.
‘What’s the matter, Fanny?’ he asked. Had she been crying? He looked at Aunt Brigid. ‘It’s the devil!’ he said. ‘Who would have thought this would have come about! I had heard rumours; but took no notice of them. Then, before you have time to get your breath, the whole country comes out.’
‘It’s perfectly disgraceful!’ exclaimed Aunt Brigid. ‘These men seem to have no consideration whatever. I do hope that I shall get a boat back tomorrow.’ She looked over at her father. It seemed to her that everybody had suddenly replied. ‘Yes! yes!’ – even old Mr Mangan.
‘What about supper?’ asked Mr Fury. He got up from the sofa. ‘Yes! What about it?’ said Mrs Fury, and vanished into the back kitchen. ‘Can I help?’ asked Miss Mangan, rising from her chair and hurrying into the back kitchen. Mr Fury heard his wife say, ‘No, no! Not at all! It’s all right, Brigid!’ He went out himself and carried back the bread, the cold meat, plates and knives.
‘It’s a pity we didn’t bring in some Guinness,’ he said. ‘Tut tut!’ exclaimed Mrs Fury. In a few minutes tea was made. All three sat at the table. Miss Mangan kept staring at her father. How long had that old man been sitting like that? Years. ‘Ah!’ thought Aunt Brigid, ‘I’m sure he has seen much. And now one cannot get a word out of him.’ What had he done with his ‘little bit of money’? Was it already gone? Spent! She trembled at the very thought. Not that she wanted any of it, oh no! But to think that it might be spirited away by the Furys! Why didn’t he speak? He was like a sphinx. If only she had a key to unlock that door in her father’s mind, how much she might learn! As it was, she knew nothing. Fanny was as silent as the grave. Maureen no better. That girl was hiding something. She saw it at once. As for Desmond …
‘It’s Peter!’ said Mrs Fury, rising at once on hearing the knock. ‘Peter!’ said Mr Fury. ‘But at this hour! I thought the lad was in bed.’ He looked at Miss Mangan as if to say, ‘Keep cool! Control yourself. There’s nothing significant in Peter coming home at ten past eleven, you confounded fox!’
But Aunt Brigid was much too occupied with her own thoughts. Mr Fury had made to go to the door, but Mrs Fury was quicker. She seemed to have been waiting for it. They heard the front door open; a whispered conversation ensued, but they could not hear what was being said. Peter stood looking at his mother, one hand flat against the wall.
‘Did you go?’ she asked.
‘The boy nodded his head, ‘Yes.’
‘Where have you been until now?’ asked Mrs Fury.
‘After I left the chapel I went round to see Maureen.’
‘Oh! I see. Maureen was out: she came round to see me,’ said his mother. She was totally unprepared for what followed.
‘She wasn’t out! She was in. It’s a lie! It’s a lie!’ his voice rose. Mrs Fury clapped her hand over his mouth.
‘Shut up! Shut up! Where have y
ou been till now?’
‘I told you. Mother, I went round to Maureen’s place. She was in. I saw her. She wouldn’t open the door. I went round the back way. I saw her plain as daylight sitting at the table. I saw her husband too.’
‘Maureen was here, I tell you,’ said his mother. ‘Here – here with me.’ Then she caught his arm. ‘Come!’
They went into the kitchen. Only Aunt Brigid smiled. She smiled at Peter. She had heard the word ‘lie’. It was intriguing.
‘Well, so you got back, then?’ remarked Mr Fury.
‘Yes, Dad.’ The boy sat down at the table. Everybody looked at him as though momentarily expecting a revelation. Mr Fury pushed away his plate. Then he took out his pipe.
‘It’s a b—,’ he said.
‘Denny, how many times have I to tell you about using that word?’
‘Aw!’ he growled. He went outside to the yard.
Mrs Fury looked at Brigid. ‘Denny’s awful.’ Then she turned to Peter: ‘You hurry up and get off to bed.’ Then Mr Fury came back, trailing with him a great cloud of bluish-black smoke.
‘Have you still got that old rope of yours?’ asked Mrs Fury. ‘Yes! And damned good tobacco it is,’ he replied. Peter got up, said, ‘Good-night everybody,’ and went upstairs. Mrs Fury followed immediately – an action that quickened Aunt Brigid’s curiosity. The secrecy, the whisperings, the looks and gestures – the house was really mysterious.
Miss Mangan took a chair and placed it beside that of her father. ‘How awful Dad looks!’ she thought. Mr Fury puffed away contentedly at his pipe. He was wondering how Mr Postlethwaite had got on.
‘Dad looks terrible,’ said Miss Mangan sharply. She placed her hand on the old man’s head and stroked it.
‘Does he?’ said Mr Fury. ‘Well, let me tell you, Brigid, that he’s a rare handful. Fanny has her hands full. I suppose you wouldn’t think of taking “him” back with you? I’m sure if you did he’d open that mouth of his. He used to be talking once about nothing else but Belfast. His sister in Belfast. Always hoping he would catch the boat. Now he just sits there with his mouth shut tight as a trap.’