by James Hanley
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ remarked Mrs Postlethwaite, as she came out of the parlour of number nine. George was shaving in the back kitchen.
‘Aye.’ He paused, hand in the air, and looked round. ‘Are you going to bed now?’ The woman nodded her head. Mrs Postlethwaite was stout; indeed, her stoutness seemed on the increase, though this fact did not worry Mr Postlethwaite.
‘Aye,’ said George again. ‘’Tis funny. She goes off on her own quite a lot now. Must be something up.’
‘H’m! Yes,’ remarked his wife. She picked up the newspaper and went upstairs. Like George. Mrs Postlethwaite was pleased with the world. Sundays always found her very busy. She rose early, cooked the breakfast, laid dinner, and whilst that was cooking, proceeded to give number nine Vulcan Street a thorough clean down, whilst her husband spent most of his morning cleaning up Nabob’s harness. Dinner over, she retired to read the Sunday paper, whilst George went off to Crocus Street to see to the horse. In the evening they went out, sometimes to the landing-stage to sit and watch the traffic on the river, or sometimes to the Park. The Postlethwaites did not go to church or chapel. They went to a mission once a month. The mission had a band. George beat the big drum in the band. Once a year the mission went on a treat, sometimes to the famous Correll Grounds, kindly lent by the Earl of Tolly. Sometimes they went on a cruise in the Channel.
Having shaved, George put on his Sunday best. He then went upstairs. His wife was lying on the bed. She was reading with great excitement about a divorce case held in the courts that week. The news about the industrial dispute was merely dull geography. George sat down. There was something rather delicious about Anne lying like that. She turned and looked at him. ‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘Give us a kiss.’ They embraced. Only a stern sense of duty to Nabob prevented George from taking Mrs Postlethwaite there and then. There was something about Sunday that made him feel generous. The heavy dinner, the lazy, almost languorous atmosphere associated with their Sunday afternoons, aroused this feeling in him. Anne Postlethwaite turned a page, and began to read again. She had forgotten George. The man, standing at the bedroom door, was smiling down at her. Silently he closed it and went downstairs. ‘Funny!’ he said to himself. ‘It wouldn’t be Anne if she wasn’t at that confounded window.’ But now he reflected that the inhabitants of Vulcan Street made it part of the Sunday curriculum to sit looking out of the parlour window. He had watched his own mother do it many and many a time. She said she liked to see the different clothes people wore. Mr Postlethwaite now gathered up Nabob’s harness, slung the chains round his neck, the belly-band over his shoulder, and going out through the back door, set off at a sharp pace down the entry. He followed the same route every Sunday, never diverting from this set course. And as he walked the chains jingled and sang a sort of song of their own. As George neared the stable, he began to whistle. Nabob always knew this whistle, and whinnied until the door was open. Having fed and watered the roan, patted and stilled her, George sat down on the bundle of hay and watched Nabob chumping enthusiastically. He hardly ever left the stable before tea-time. He then returned home by the same route. George’s Sundays were all alike. Nothing save a revolution would alter them.
After tea, Mrs and Mrs Postlethwaite decided to go out. George maintained that a walk to the heath was the only possible walk.
‘I’m fed up with that Park,’ he said, ‘and it’s useless walking to town, seems everybody’s gone down to that meeting in Powell Square. There’ll be a few cracked heads tonight and serve them right.’
‘All right.’ remarked Anne, slipping on her grey dress with the scalloped sleeves. ‘We’ll go the shore.’ The shore was three miles away from Vulcan Street. George put on his hard hat. He looked at Anne. It may have been the grey dress that suddenly accentuated Mrs Postlethwaite’s plumpness, for George remarked upon it for the first time. ‘My, you are getting fat,’ he said.
The woman laughed, looked down at her body that threatened at any moment to burst through the tight dress, and remarked, ‘Well, what about it?’ She put her black toque on. Then her blue coat, which she buttoned up to the neck. They left the house.
‘What was all the talk about this morning?’ asked Anne as they turned out of the entry. She looked questioningly at George.
‘Oh! It’s Fury,’ remarked George. ‘Talking a lot of bosh about the damned strike and workers’ rights. Trust the Irish! They’re in the middle of everything. If there’s a row of any kind you’ll find them in it.’
‘It wasn’t that,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. They had reached the main road. Until the end of this road was reached they maintained a silence. There was something rather odd about the road, so it seemed to George. Then Anne exclaimed, ‘How quiet it is, George!’ The long main road, always crowded on Sundays, was practically deserted. With the absence of vehicular traffic it had the appearance of a desert.
‘Aye,’ said George. ‘’Tis funny, isn’t it! Everybody’s gone to town today. It’s a change, anyhow. Nice and quiet.’
‘Yes,’ replied Anne. ‘What was the conversation about this morning?’ Again she looked at her husband as if to say, ‘I’m very interested.’
‘Oh! About that young brother of his who was going in for the priesthood. Yes. Desmond was surprised when I told him. The lad seems to have chucked it up. He’s going to go away to sea.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Anne. ‘That boy they were always talking about?’
‘Yes,’ continued George. ‘They’re not half upset about it either, so my old man was telling me.’
‘But it’s so silly,’ said Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘Serves the woman right, putting on airs like that. And they’re no different to anybody else.’
‘Quite right, Anne. They aren’t! Though they think they are. Anyway, the old woman’s getting it in the neck now. Thick and heavy. Suppose if she had had her way the whole bloody family would have been priests. But look what’s happened. The girl cleared out. Desmond never goes near a chapel, and the old man’s not much different. It’s that fellow Moynihan at the chapel, I think. He’s got Mrs Fury under his thumb.’
‘Awful queer folk, Catholics,’ Anne said.
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘But even then they’re still queer. They’re always rowing about something. My people who live next door to them hear them at it night after night. When the lad came back some aunt came with him, and I believe she’s a bloody tartar all right.’
‘Does Desmond know?’
‘No. He doesn’t care a hang about them, anyway.’ Suddenly George raised his head, took a deep breath, and exclaimed, ‘Here we are! Here’s the shore.’ He stopped, looked round, and added, ‘Aye! It’s great, isn’t it? Nice and peaceful.’
‘It’s lovely,’ said Anne. They could now see the sea. To reach it they had to pass through a railway tunnel, down a houseless street, to the dock road, where they turned right. Then they walked down a long sandy lane, flanked on either side by great iron railings. At last they put foot upon the shore. Mr Postlethwaite stopped again, took another deep breath, and said ‘It’s great.’ The woman was not so demonstrative. She walked quietly at his side. She felt happy. To be away from the kitchen, from its smells, from the street itself, that was something that Mrs Postlethwaite relished with a kind of secret joy. Nor were their outings confined to Sundays. When George came home in the evenings they went out. To escape from the kitchen, to get into the air, was almost a passion with Mrs Anne Postlethwaite. As they tramped slowly, lazily, along the deserted shore, they seemed lost in thoughts of their own. Something in the very atmosphere caught and held them. Such things as strikes never entered their heads. They were too happy. Half a mile ahead Mr Postlethwaite espied an old upturned ship’s boat. Its bow had rotted. When one stepped into it the timbers creaked. This old boat was their rendezvous. In the summer season, to get a cosy place in the ship’s boat was considered a great treat. Now not only the boat but the whole shore was at their command. As they drew nearer George exclaimed:
‘Isn’t that somebody paddling out there?’ He pointed with his finger towards a black object at the edge of the water. Anne looked in the direction the finger pointed.
‘Perhaps it is,’ she remarked; she leaned against the old boat.
‘But fancy paddling this time of year!’ she added. She turned round. Mr Postlethwaite lifted her up. Then he followed himself and sat down by her side. The man and woman looked out over the foam-specked water. Here and there they saw a steamer, one bound seawards, one making for the port. Mr Postlethwaite looked up the beach again. The black object attracted him. At any other time Mr Postlethwaite would have ignored it. He was not a very observant person, but there was something about this object that did attract him. It stood out so clearly against the background of sand-hills. And it was the only moving object in sight.
‘Funny!’ said George. ‘It looks like a woman to me.’ At which remark Mrs Postlethwaite jumped, and exclaimed astonishedly:
‘What woman?’ Mrs Postlethwaite’s thoughts had been very far away. Indeed, as her eyes fastened upon the distant horizon with a sort of rapt expression, she experienced a peculiar sensation: as though her thoughts and feelings, her very body had melted into the distant expanse of sky and water. She looked petulantly at George. The expression upon her face was like that of a child who has just been woken up.
‘What woman?’ she asked.
‘Can’t you see?’ said George. ‘I wish I hadn’t smashed those glasses Mr Dimmock gave me last May Day. You could’ve seen perfect.’ But now, looking at the distant object, which certainly seemed to be moving, she felt angry. There was nothing about it that could rouse her interest. It was quite insignificant. To be roused from a reverie to look at something black nearly half a mile away only increased her petulance.
‘You seem very interested,’ she remarked. The distant sky and water had lost their interest. She laid her hands on her knees.
‘You’re queer, George,’ she said vexedly. ‘You always interrupt at the wrong time.’ George remained silent. As the silence grew, he became fidgety.
‘Why on earth don’t you go and see what it is?’ said Anne. ‘You seem greatly interested.’ She pushed him with her elbows.
‘I’m not!’ protested George. ‘Suppose you think I am, ’cause I said it looked like a woman. An …’ He climbed down from the boat.
‘Come on, Anne,’ he said. ‘Let’s go further along.’ He helped his wife down and they walked further north. That particular part of the shore had lost all interest. As they drew nearer, even Mrs Postlethwaite failed to conceal her curiosity, now suddenly roused by the fact that the object at the water’s edge was a woman. She made no comment. She wanted to hear what George had to say. Yes – it was a woman. She was sitting on a large stone, her head resting in her hands. She gazed out across the waters. Mr Postlethwaite said suddenly:
‘There you are! What’d I tell you? It is a woman. She isn’t paddling, though. Just sitting there staring. Funny, isn’t it?’ Mrs Postlethwaite made no reply. She refused to go a step further.
‘I’m not going any further, George,’ she said. ‘You go if you like. It isn’t right to go and look at people in that way.’
‘She might be going to chuck herself in,’ said Mr Postlethwaite, and he laughed.
‘Nonsense! She’s a long time making up her mind.’ Mrs Postlethwaite stood watching her husband. She saw him stop. Then he turned round and looked at her. The woman thought he was going to shout, but he went slowly on. George Postlethwaite’s curiosity was now thoroughly roused. Why was she sitting like that? Was she asleep? What was she thinking about? Perhaps she was dead. He was almost within reach now. He slackened his pace. The figure on the stone did not move. The woman seemed unaware of Mr Postlethwaite’s leisurely approach. ‘Why should a woman sit like that for hours on a stone?’ was the question that suddenly formed itself in Mr Postlethwaite’s mind. Yes. Why? Now he stopped. He stared at the woman’s back. Yes. She was alive. But what was she doing sitting there? The very idea that a woman might like to sit upon the shore on a Sunday afternoon and reflect never occurred to Mr Postlethwaite. George associated the shore with crowds – men, women, children, ice-cream carts, donkeys. But the seashore in winter seemed no place for any woman to sit. What had aroused Mr Postlethwaite’s curiosity was the fact that the woman had been sitting there for quite a long time. Now she appeared to sense his presence, and she half turned her head. Mr Postlethwaite immediately turned his own. He felt like a thief caught in the act. Well, he had come all this way, so he didn’t see any harm in looking at her. When he did so, his jaw dropped and he put a hand to his mouth; his face expressed both surprise and bewilderment. Then he turned and ran, and did not stop until he came up to Mrs Postlethwaite.
‘Anne!’
‘What? What’s the matter? Is she dead?’ Anne asked.
‘No, no!’ replied George excitedly. ‘D’you know who it was? It’s that Mrs Fury.’
Anne now revealed her astonishment. ‘Mrs Fury? Which Mrs Fury?’ She was holding on to George’s arm.
‘Desmond’s wife,’ said George. ‘I was surprised – I …’ Suddenly rain fell.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Mrs Postlethwaite. ‘Now we’re caught, George!’
‘Come on,’ said Mr Postlethwaite. ‘If we walk quickly we’ll get in before it really comes down heavy.’ Buttoning their coats tight up to their necks, they started off arm-in-arm, now running alternately with a fast walk. Once they both looked round. The woman was still there.
‘Extraordinary!’ blurted George, gripping Anne’s arm more securely. Anne made no reply. Between the revelation on her husband’s part, and the sudden fall of rain, she felt too bewildered to talk at all. In addition. Mr Postlethwaite was increasing his pace, and it was beginning to tell on her. She ought never to have put on that tight dress. ‘Fancy that woman being there!’ George gasped out. Anne said, ‘Yes, it is strange,’ and hung heavily on her husband’s arm.
2
As Desmond Fury drew near to Mile Street the number of people seemed to increase. Never before had he seen so many people. He asked himself a question: Were all these people going to the meeting in Powell Square? ‘No,’ he thought, ‘that’s impossible. Powell Square would never hold them.’ As he looked down the hill at the hundreds of people, he imagined that every room, every cellar and hole had yielded its quota to this human avalanche. It swelled before his very eyes. He stopped to look at his watch. It would soon be time. Desmond Fury was a railwayman’s delegate. He was to act as steward at number eleven stand in the Square. The object of the mass meeting was to voice agreement with and support of the miners. Every trade was represented. It was a complete stoppage. Dockers, seamen, railwaymen, tramwaymen, transport workers, everybody who earned his living with his hands, had put down their tools in support of the miners. Desmond’s astonishment remained. As he came up to the public-house called the Drums and Fifes he recognized a well-known figure. He stopped. This figure emerged from the swing-doors of the public-house, carrying with it the strong smell of beer and tobacco smoke, which later seemed to join forces with the sourish smell that emanated from the convenience right alongside the Drums and Fifes. The figure was dressed in a check suit, a suit quite unsuited to that period of the year, a white cut-away collar, red tie with white spots on it, and a pair of light-brown boots. Until he removed his hard hat in order to scratch his completely bald head nobody would have recognized in him Mr Andrew Postlethwaite. He looked more like a bookmaker’s clerk than a loco man. He was smoking a briar pipe. Mr Postlethwaite’s face was rather redder than usual. He looked quite pleased with himself. It was not often that Desmond met the little man from Hatfields. Whenever he saw him he always recalled the occasion when, one New Year’s night, he had let the New Year in to number five Hatfields in such a boisterous way that Mr Postlethwaite, then in his prime, had promptly struck Desmond on the head with a brass rod. Desmond Fury still carried the marks of the stitches in his head. He hailed the man at once.
Although he disliked Mr Postlethwaite the Billie, he had a great respect for that Mr Postlethwaite who paid his subscriptions regularly to the Federation. Andrew Postlethwaite was a good man in that respect. He was never in arrears. Desmond knew that, having control of the books.
‘Hello, Mr Postlethwaite!’ he called. ‘You going to the meeting?’ The little man looked round. He had recognized the voice.
‘Hello, Desmond!’ he said, shooting forth a hand. ‘How are you? Yes, I’m going down. I suppose you’re speaking down there?’
‘Oh no,’ replied Desmond. ‘Not yet. Stewarding for the railwaymen.’
He looked up and down the road. Then he smiled.
‘Did you ever see such a crowd, Mr Postlethwaite?’ he said. ‘By Jove! I think this meeting will be good. I never saw so many people before.’ He smiled again.
‘Aye,’ remarked Mr Postlethwaite. ‘Fairish. No more’n fairish. Remember the time when I saw a crowd of eighty thousand watch the Villa beat Everton. That was a crowd.’ He pulled out his pipe and spat in the gutter, as though in mock derision of Desmond Fury’s astonishment and enthusiasm.
‘Yes,’ remarked Desmond. ‘If one could get as many men to meetings as one gets at football matches, there would never be any strikes.’
Mr Postlethwaite changed the conversation at once. He pointed up the road.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘Your father’s just up the road there. He’ll be here in a tick.’ Desmond followed Mr Postlethwaite’s finger. Mr Postlethwaite appeared to look anxious now. Where on earth was the man?