by James Hanley
‘How could I take him back?’ asked Aunt Brigid. ‘How could I take him back – now?’ It seemed almost an ultimatum.
‘Why not?’ continued Mr Fury. ‘Why did he ever leave Ireland? Don’t you think Fanny has enough on her hands without him?’
Miss Mangan replied loudly, loud enough for the whole house to hear: ‘Nobody seemed more anxious to take Father than Fanny did. In any case, I think it was only right. He was always wanting to go to her. Her name never left his lips.’
Mr Fury blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He thought suddenly: ‘What the hell is that woman doing upstairs?’ ‘You have only yourself. Brigid. I think it’s only fair you should take your father back. It’s time Fanny got a rest. She’s reared a family. Now they’re grown up, Mr Mangan won’t get much show here. Fanny hasn’t the time. He ties the woman down!’ He put down his pipe, and folded his arms behind his head.
Brigid Mangan said, ‘Well?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you one or two things about old Mangan,’ he said. Miss Mangan rose from the chair, and stood on the mat looking down at her brother-in-law. How thin his hair was getting, and grey too! His jaws were drawn up. She supposed that was due to working in a ship stokehold all his life. ‘Aye,’ Mr Fury began, ‘I could tell you …’ ‘Ssh!’ Aunt Brigid put a finger over her mouth. At the same time Mrs Fury came into the kitchen.
‘Dad must go to bed at once,’ she announced. Mr Fury immediately got up.
‘Can I help?’ asked Brigid.
‘No! It’s all right. I can manage,’ replied Mrs Fury.
Peter had no sooner entered his room than his mother stepped in behind him. She closed the door. She sat down beside him on the bed. ‘Where were you until that time?’ asked she. Peter saw at once that his mother was in no light mood.
‘I went to see the men working on the railway,’ he began. ‘Then I came straight back here.’
‘Railway! What railway?’ asked Mrs Fury. She seemed to pin the boy to the bed with her cool, penetrating eyes.
‘The railway sheds at the back of Maureen’s street,’ said Peter.
‘Have you been to Vulcan Street?’ asked the woman. Her expression changed at once. She rose to her feet and looked down at her son.
‘No!’ Peter said. ‘I haven’t been to Vulcan Street, Mother.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘That’s quite honest, then?’
‘Yes, Mother. I only went to see Maureen. But she never opened the door to me.’
‘That’s a lie. Peter,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘A lie. Maureen was with me most of the evening. She only just went when your father arrived back with your Aunt Brigid. Did you meet your father and Aunt Brigid?’ She walked up to the window and turned her back on him. Peter got up.
‘No, Mother.’
The woman turned round. She went up to her son and said slowly, ‘Did you give the priest my message?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ ‘Why does she ask all these questions,’ thought Peter.
‘You are sure you’re telling the truth?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Mrs Fury went to the door. She opened it. She held the handle tightly in her hands.
‘Keep away from Vulcan Street,’ she said. ‘If I ever find out you have been there, I’ll kill you.’ She made a sudden rush back and whispered into his face, ‘I’ll kill you.’ Peter fell back upon the bed from sheer astonishment. When he regained his composure she had gone. Why didn’t she want him to go and see his brother? Why was she so afraid? He did not know. Nor could he find out anything. Maureen was no help there. Should he ask his father? Why couldn’t he see his brother? What crime had he committed? Why did he never come to the house? Why did his mother hate this woman? None of those questions could be answered. Suddenly he said to himself, ‘I’ll go tomorrow. Yes. I’ll go tomorrow.’ With this sudden decision the questions became more urgent, there was something almost burning in the intensity they had created. Why? Why? Why? He crossed over to the window and opened it. A week ago he had stood at another window, and had looked out upon green fields, great open spaces, stately trees. Here one looked out and saw nothing but a black pit. And over this pit there hung a kind of miasma. Hearing somebody coming up the stairs, Peter closed the window and sat down again on the bed. At the top the climber paused. He knew then that it was Aunt Brigid. He sat listening. The door opened. Aunt Brigid had a parcel in her hand. ‘Here, Peter,’ she said. ‘This is for you.’ She flung the parcel to the bed. Peter, smiling, exclaimed, ‘Oh, thank you, Aunt Brigid! Thank you!’ The door closed again. When he opened the parcel he found a pair of pyjamas. ‘Oh my!’ he said. ‘Oh my!’ and immediately undressed. Just as he got one leg into the bright blue pyjamas, Mrs Fury called up, ‘Are you in bed, Peter?’
‘Not yet, Mother,’ called back Peter, at the same time pushing his other leg in.
‘Then come down and help your father get Grand-dad to bed.’
‘Coming, Mother,’ shouted Peter. He stood for a moment on the landing. Aunt Brigid was saying her night prayers.
2
‘At last!’ said Mr Fury. ‘At last!’ He lay down on the sofa and covered himself up. Mrs Fury had gone to bed. With Peter’s help he had managed to get ‘him’ upstairs. He was still surprised at his sister-in-law’s generosity. Peter had appeared in the kitchen like a sort of bright blue apparition. But she hadn’t even thought of buying him. Mr Fury, a pipeful of tobacco. ‘The skinflint!’ he thought. ‘And she has money too.’ He stretched himself so that his legs came to rest on the arm of the sofa. He wasn’t used to sleeping on sofas. Well, with the best of luck he would be back in his own bed tomorrow. He hadn’t begrudged his sister-in-law the space. Not at all. On the contrary, the change had been welcome. He had escaped Fanny’s nightly sermon, Fanny’s harangue, Fanny’s regrets. And although he would return to his own room tomorrow, there were compensations. He needn’t set the alarm for half-past five. He would be able to lie in. But how long was this strike going to last? He thought Fanny seemed pretty cool about it all. but perhaps that was mere showing off before Aunt Brigid. Yes. That was the important question. How long was it going to last? Tomorrow he must go down to the Mechanics’ Hall and see about his strike-pay from the Federation. There were a lot of things to be done tomorrow. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day. Seemed like Fanny meant to have a holiday. There was only one thing he dreaded, though he had Peter to share it, and that was getting Mr Mangan down to the Post Office. What a job! He wondered how Fanny managed ‘him’ so well. Visualizing the scene, he almost regretted his promise. If only he could wake up to find Brigid gone. And ‘him’ too. But that was asking for a miracle. Then Miss Mangan had to be seen to the boat. Well, he didn’t mind that. With this sudden thought he sat bolt upright upon the sofa. What boat? Would there be a boat? He doubted it. He lay down again. Then he had to call and see Mr Lake about Anthony’s allotment money. ‘Bloody old Lake!’ exclaimed Mr Fury. ‘Damned swine!’ He could hear the two women talking excitedly over his head. Suddenly Mulcare came into his mind. Now if he came along he might be able to get Peter a job. Any job. Then Fanny and he would be on their own at last. He realized the truth of what she had said, again and again. Yes, at last they would have peace. He fell asleep seeing Anthony walking up Hatfields, his white canvas bag on his back.
Promptly at six o’clock he rose. He was astonished to see Aunt Brigid already up and dressed. She came bustling into the kitchen. Mr Fury pushed the sofa back to the wall.
‘Good-morning, Denny,’ Miss Mangan said, and passed into the back kitchen to wash herself. Well, she was going. But she was very disappointed. She hadn’t seen anybody. And to have missed the pleasure of meeting her eldest nephew was more than disappointment. It seemed deliberate frustration. ‘Good morning, Brigid,’ called Mr Fury. ‘Is Fanny up?’ As he called, his wife came into the kitchen.
‘Is everything ready, Denny?’ she asked. Mrs Fury was fully dressed.
‘Yes,
’ Mr Fury replied, ‘everything’s ready.’
‘Will you come upstairs a minute,’ she said in a whisper; ‘I want to talk to you.’
The man followed his wife upstairs. Immediately the door closed, Mrs Fury said, ‘D’you think there will be a boat, Denny?’
Mr Fury hesitated. He wasn’t certain. He looked at his wife. ‘I should think so,’ he said. ‘I wish I had a morning paper, we might know where we are. I’m just as keen to see her back as you are,’ he concluded.
‘Of course! of course! But will she get a boat?’
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t she? I’ll see she catches it, anyhow.’
‘All right. That’s all I wanted to know. I do hope she goes off. I have enough to think about now.’ She looked at herself in the mirror.
‘I never heard a word about this,’ went on Mrs Fury. ‘Why did you burn the paper last night?’
‘Paper?’
‘Yes. The paper!’
‘Well – you see, Fanny – I …’
Mrs Fury put a finger to her mouth. Miss Mangan was coming.
‘Take the bag, Denny,’ Mrs Fury said.
Mr Fury picked up his sister-in-law’s bag. Then he went out. As he passed Peter’s door he kicked at it. ‘Seven bells,’ he shouted. He heard a yawn as he went downstairs. At a quarter to seven all four were having breakfast. Mr Fury wanted to ask a question, and yet he dreaded to ask it. The woman was so contrary that she might well do exactly the opposite. No. He wouldn’t ask the question. Just trust to luck. Then Miss Mangan obliged him.
‘What about Dad?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I’ll see about that,’ replied Mrs Fury. All eyes were turned upon Fanny Fury. Each seemed to ask the same question: What will she do? Drag the old man all the way to the Stage again?
‘Peter will stay with his grand-dad,’ announced Mrs Fury. She sat back at the table, like some sort of general. This was a surprise. Mr Fury was relieved, Miss Mangan more so. The sight of her father lying on the landing-stage still remained vivid in her mind. A quarter past seven. Everybody rose from the table.
‘What time does this boat go, Denny?’ asked Aunt Brigid.
‘That I don’t know. Nobody knows, all you can do is, get down to the ship’s berth and wait there. There may be a boat today, but there certainly won’t be one tomorrow.’
‘I see,’ said Aunt Brigid. What a hole to be caught in! Mrs Fury turned to Peter. The boy was standing by the curtains that covered the kitchen door.
‘There’s nothing to do for your grand-dad, except to give him his porridge at half-past eight. But you must go up now and then and look at him. Sometimes he wants sitting up to help him clear his throat.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Peter said. ‘I won’t forget it.’ It made him feel sick again.
‘All ready, then?’ asked Mr Fury. He put on his hard hat and blue overcoat. Suddenly he called to Peter, ‘Here, Peter. Just run over to the sheds and see what’s doing there. There ought to be a special of some sort.’ He looked almost despairingly at Miss Mangan. The boy went out.
‘Surely there’ll be a tram, Denny,’ said Mrs Fury as she drew on her long blue serge coat. ‘Surely! …’ Again the man looked at his sister-in-law, as though to say, ‘It’s all your fault.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’
Peter came back, almost breathless.
‘There aren’t any trams.’
‘What?’ Mrs Fury looked at her sister. Miss Mangan stared bewildered at Mr Fury.
‘My heavens! This is awful. I don’t know …’
‘Here,’ cried Mrs Fury, ‘run to Hollis’s, Peter, and tell them to send a taxi at once.’
Mr Fury sat down. All this excitement and confusion! Why hadn’t Miss Mangan made inquiries? Why hadn’t she made better preparations? Too busy, he supposed. That nose of hers ferreting about.
‘I thought you made inquiries yesterday,’ said Mr Fury. It was almost a growl.
‘I did,’ said Miss Mangan. ‘I did. Do you take me for a fool, Denny?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, don’t start arguing now,’ interrupted Mrs Fury. ‘This isn’t the time for arguments.’
‘There aren’t any taxis. Mr Hollis can’t do anything.’ The sudden shout as Peter entered the lobby seemed to strike the kitchen assembly dumb. Everybody stared at Peter when he came in.
‘Peter!’ said his mother.
‘You can’t get anything, Mother. Mr Hollis said so. Not even a taxi. Everybody’s walking.’
‘Disgraceful!’ shouted Miss Mangan. She thumped the table. This was indeed a bitter blow. To have to walk three and a half miles, not knowing whether there was a boat! Well, it was disgraceful. She looked at her brother-in-law.
‘Yes. I think it’s disgraceful. The way these men go on strike. They haven’t the slightest consideration for anybody. All for themselves. All for themselves.’
‘Christ almighty!’ shouted Mr Fury. ‘The way you talk, one would think I caused the damned strike. Why …’
‘Denny! Denny! What an excitable man you are! Here! Pick up that bag.’ Mrs Fury put on her hat. Mr Fury picked up Miss Mangan’s bag. Aunt Brigid said she must slip upstairs to see her father.
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Fury. Aunt Brigid went upstairs. ‘Peter, don’t forget what I told you.’
‘No, Mother.’
Miss Mangan came down. She was wiping her eyes with a white handkerchief. Mr Fury gripped her bag.
‘Well! all set?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fury.
Mr Fury went towards the back kitchen door. Aunt Brigid hurriedly smothered Peter in an embrace.
‘Good-bye, Peter, now. Be a good boy.’
Peter said, ‘Yes, Auntie. Good-bye,’ and freed himself from the embrace, the smell of perfume strong in his nostrils.
‘Here!’ cried Mrs Fury. ‘This way,’ and she opened the front door. Mr Fury was so surprised that he almost dropped the bag. As Miss Mangan stepped down into the street, followed by Mrs Fury and her husband with the bag, it seemed as though all Hatflelds had turned out to see them go.
Mr Fury went on ahead. Mrs Fury and her sister walked behind. Not a word was spoken. Each was conscious of curtains pulled back, of people standing in doorways. Not until the bottom of Hatfields was reached did Miss Mangan explode. Dennis Fury was too far away to hear it. Indeed, Mr Fury might have been momentarily equipped with wings.
‘Fanny!’ exclaimed Aunt Brigid, as she swung round and surveyed the length of Hatfields. ‘Fanny! What an awful street! The people at those doors, the eyes hidden behind the curtains. I don’t know how you can live in such a place.’ She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her face. Miss Mangan felt she was wiping off Hatflelds’ grime. How on earth her sister had ever come to such a street she could not imagine, and that was the kind of den poor Dad was in!
Mrs Fury smiled. ‘I’ve had thirty years of it, Brigid, and I’m quite used to it.’
‘Don’t you ever feel you want to get out of it?’ asked Brigid.
Mrs Fury’s eyes had a sudden far-away look in them. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, and her own voice sounded strange to her ears. ‘Sometimes,’ she repeated. They walked on. Mrs Fury kept her eyes upon her husband. He had now come to a sudden halt. The bag lay at his feet. He was looking at some men’s underwear in a draper’s shop window.
‘I’m sure you must get tired of it sometimes.’ remarked Aunt Brigid. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Don’t you ever want to go back home?’
‘Home! Oh God!’
‘I mean Ireland,’ added Aunt Brigid.
Mrs Fury looked at her sister. She made no reply to the question. Aunt Brigid was diplomatic enough not to repeat it. There was something about her sister that moved her deeply. They caught up with Mr Fury.
‘Listen, Denny,’ said Mrs Fury, ‘there must be some means of getting to the Stage. Can’t we get a cab anywhere?’ The man shook his head. Mr Fury had reached a stage in sheer desperation when he didn’t care if
a tram came along. He wouldn’t do anything but walk. There was something almost spiteful in the look he gave Miss Mangan. ‘No!’ he said. ‘You won’t get a cab either. Even if there was one, it’s too early.’
‘Why not Hobhouse’s? Surely there’s a cab or car of some kind.’
‘You won’t get one, Fanny,’ said Mr Fury. He picked up the bag again.
‘Wait here,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘I’ll run to Hobhouse’s Yard. There might be one. You can’t expect Brigid to walk that four miles.’
‘What if she has to walk back?’ Mr Fury said.
‘Wait here, Brigid. I’ll try to get you a conveyance of some kind,’ and she rushed off, leaving Aunt Brigid and her brother-in-law gazing at each other, as though there was nothing else to do but gaze.
‘She’s a caution! That woman’s a caution.’ Mr Fury kept looking at his watch. Mrs Fury came back at last, flushed, out of breath, and defeated.
‘I told you all along,’ growled Mr Fury. ‘We could have been half-way there.’
They set off once more, Mr Fury going ahead of them with the bag.
There was something almost ghostly about the early morning walk. The city seemed dead. The pavements were deserted. It was as though in the night the life of the whole city had suddenly fled, leaving behind it a desert, a ruin. The long Harbour Road seemed endless. Fortunately for Aunt Brigid, the journey was all downhill. Now, as they neared the entrance to the city itself, they came upon groups of men standing outside factory gates. Outside a large jute factory they saw about one hundred young women. All seemed to be talking excitedly. There was nothing about this early morning flight of Miss Mangan that aroused their curiosity. The procession of three, Mr Fury leading, aroused no interest in them. Miss Mangan focused her eyes upon this crowd of young women, remarking to her sister:
‘It was in one of those places that Maureen worked, wasn’t it?’