The Furys

by James Hanley

  He swung his body round and sat on the floor, facing the door. He looked at the sooted bed, the floor, the furniture, and at the paper scattered about the room. Light dawned suddenly. Of course, only last night he had mentioned this, and Fanny, yes, Fanny had seemed surprised. ‘I wonder, wonder,’ he thought, hardly daring to believe it, and then: ‘Peter. Perhaps it is that fellow.’ As though the thought had given him some reassurance, he began to clean up the room as best he could. He gathered up the paper, swept it into the grate again, and then went downstairs, returning with shovel and brush. He swept the floor. Then he took the bed-clothes on to the landing and shook them. He flung them on the bed, picked up shovel and brush, and went below again. Fanny had gone to Maureen. What for? Why the sudden rushing off like that? Gradually confusion gave place to ordered thought. Surely, surely she hadn’t sensed anything, hadn’t expected him to go looking for that money there and then. But if she had taken it, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him? It seemed so silly, childish. But why? What could she want it for? She had his wages, Anthony’s allotment money, ‘him’s’ pension. No. He couldn’t understand it. He went out into the yard. He felt he wanted air, fresh air, after that encounter with the grate. A face appeared over the wall. A voice called. ‘Hello, Mr Fury!’ The man looked up.

  ‘Hello, George!’ he said, and crossed over to him. George Postlethwaite jumped up and sat down on the wall.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ asked Mr Fury.

  ‘Oh, he’s not too bad. Mother and I and Anne went to see him last night. Aye, Da’s a caution. I told him; I said, “Dad, you’re a bloody old fool, going and getting that head on you size of a football.” Yes. They put twelve stitches in it, and I said to him, “Serves you right. Oughtn’t to have gone down like that. It was asking for it.” That’s what I say. What d’you think?’

  Dennis Fury wanted to laugh. There was something about Andrew Postlethwaite’s son that made him want to laugh. George was really funny.

  ‘Nice way to talk about your dad,’ remarked Mr Fury. ‘Suppose he’d pegged out?’ Mr Fury leaned against the wall and looked up at Mr George Postlethwaite’s good-humoured face.

  ‘Ah!’ said George. ‘It would have served him right an’ all. So it would. What’s he want going on strike at his age? Da won’t say Whoa yet, not for a heck of a time. I don’t see anything in this strike stuff,’ he went on. ‘What you reckon you get out of it? Cracked heads is all I can see. I said to Desmond yesterday, I said, “There’s so many bloody rights being fought for, that a man doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his arse” – ’scuse me – and that’s the solemn truth.’

  ‘Yes – oh yes. How’s Desmond getting on?’ asked Mr Fury. ‘I haven’t seen him for a solid month.’

  ‘Oh, he’s getting on all right. He was in that baton charge yesterday. Da told me about it. Your Desmond pulled down one of those mounted policemen and knocked all his teeth out. But as I say, What do you get out of it?’

  ‘Oh well,’ replied Mr Fury, ‘I don’t know. Mind you, I don’t agree with this particular strike.’

  ‘All the same,’ interrupted George; ‘every bloody one on ’em.’

  ‘Oh well, I expect you get a bit of fun out of them too.’

  ‘Maybe. Not much fun in getting twelve stitches from lug to lug.’

  ‘So Desmond’s getting on all right. Glad to hear that.’

  ‘Yes. So’s that missus of his,’ said George. ‘She’s out all the while now.’

  ‘Oh aye!’ Mr Fury was getting interested now. He climbed the wall and sat down alongside George.

  ‘Have a cig.’

  ‘Never smoke those things,’ said Mr Fury. He continued the conversation.

  ‘So she’s out all the while?’

  ‘Yes. So’s Desmond. Only yesterday we went for a walk to the beach. Anne didn’t notice at first. But I did. We saw a woman sitting on a huge stone staring out over the sea. Seemed so strange. Wasn’t a summer’s day yesterday, was it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Mr Fury, all ears now, and keenly excited at the turn which the conversation was taking. No doubt about it. George was in every way as proficient as his father.

  ‘Anyhow it looked funny, this woman all by herself looking out to sea. We were sitting on an old boat just opposite the Marine Parade. Guess who it was. I went up close’s I could. She didn’t see me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Desmond’s missus,’ said George. ‘She’s a queer un, isn’t she?’

  ‘Indeed!’ Mr Fury could hardly conceal his surprise. Was George fishing, he wondered. He couldn’t tell him anything, for he knew nothing about the woman. He looked at George and replied slowly, ‘Maybe she went out for a walk, just like Anne and yourself.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said George. Then the conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Mrs Postlethwaite from the kitchen called, ‘George! George!’

  ‘Yes, Mother! Coming.’ and George jumped down from the wall. Mr Fury did not move. Mrs Postlethwaite looked out of the door and said, ‘Nice day,’ to which Mr Fury replied that it was, in a rather absent-minded way. Mrs Postlethwaite went on, ‘Wife out?’

  Mr Fury turned round. ‘Yes – went out a while ago,’ he replied.

  How sociable the Postlethwaites were today, he thought. Time to jump off the wall and return indoors. He would cut a figure before Fanny, sitting on the wall like that. Just as he swung round to lower himself into the yard, George came out again.

  ‘That aunt of yours was up there last night’ – but it was now too late. Mr Fury had dropped into the yard. He went into the house.

  ‘What a time she is!’ he said to himself. ‘What can she be doing at Maureen’s all this while?’

  One thought capitulated to another. So many different thoughts had never before played havoc with Dennis Fury’s mind. They’d stopped Anthony’s allotment money. Fanny rushed out, not even waiting to hear that it had been stopped. Desmond Fury was in the baton charge, and Sheila Fury was always out. And on top of that, his money – his hard-earned savings – was gone. If Fanny wasn’t such a one for secrets, for keeping things to herself, everything would be quite different.

  He couldn’t sit down now. Couldn’t rest. Impossible. Why didn’t Fanny come back? Five hours away now. Well, he was going to have it out with her as soon as ever she got back. He could stand a lot. But this – the stealing of his money – it was just mean. Dirty and mean. He wouldn’t have minded at any other time. But just now, when things were a bit below the level, well, it was a caution. He knew she had a lot to do. He had never denied it. Hadn’t he put the money away for such a very purpose as this? Saving it for a rainy day. Cutting himself short of things, never breathing a word to his wife. Now he hadn’t even the satisfaction of being able to surprise her, of being able to say, ‘Here you are, Fanny. I saved this up on the Q.T. It’ll help out.’ He paced up and down the kitchen. For the first time he seemed to notice the empty high-backed chair. ‘His’ chair. With ‘him’ in it he would hardly have noticed it. Now, with ‘him’ out of it, it was full of significance. Why hadn’t Fanny got her father up? What was up with the woman at all? The more he thought of that visit to Maureen, the more mysterious the atmosphere became. Had she given the girl the money? Fancy her going round like that! So suddenly. If he remembered rightly, she had only crossed the doorstep of thirty-five Price Street twice since the girl got married. Tired of the kitchen, feeling as though it were too small, suffocating him, he went out into the yard again. But it was only cold and miserable there too. He had a good mind to go out. He looked at the clock. Then he swore and sat down again. No, he would wait, hang on until she came back. She couldn’t be away for ever. And as soon as ever she put her head in the door he would ask her straight out. After all, he had a right. It was his money. At that moment Mrs Fury appeared. Mr Fury got up as she came in.

  Mrs Fury, without looking at her husband, passed across the kitchen and sat down in the high-backed chair. She was flushed and excited. She began fidget
ing with her hat.

  ‘Still got that damned old hat on,’ he said. ‘And after me going and getting you one at Hobhouse’s!’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ The woman turned her head round and stared up at the clock.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Mr Fury.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mr Fury. He went over to her. ‘Something wrong,’ he went on. ‘You rushing off like that.’ They faced each other now.

  ‘What did they say at the office?’

  ‘Say! They said lots, and stopped his money into the bargain.’

  ‘Stopped it? What for?’ Mrs Fury pulled the pin from her hat. She held it so tightly clenched in her hand that for a moment Mr Fury imagined she meant to run it through him. He had never seen her so excited before. ‘What did they say?’ She took off her hat and threw it on the table.

  ‘They said that when a man met with an accident at sea his allotment note was cancelled from the day of the accident. I said …’

  ‘Yes? What did you say? How wide did you open your mouth? Remember last time?’ The woman rose to her feet and stood looking at Mr Fury. There was something hard and bitter in the expression on her face, as though a kind of malignant rage had suddenly flashed itself there.

  ‘This woman,’ Mr Fury was thinking, ‘this woman is beside herself about something.’ And as he traced the bitterness in her expression he felt he would like to crush it, to wipe it out with the question, ‘Where’s my money gone to?’ He drew back and leaned against the mantelshelf. ‘What are you being nasty about?’ he asked her. ‘Have I done anything?’

  ‘Nasty!’ The woman laughed. ‘Nasty!’ Then she went upstairs. Mr Fury followed. Hearing him coming behind her, she banged the door and cried, ‘Go away! Please leave me alone.’ Then silence. The man stood outside the room door listening. He could hear her quick breathing. Once she walked across the room. Whenever she became excited it seemed that the whole house echoed to her anger, her restlessness. The very air harboured it. What was all this about? Not a word about his money. Not a word. Slowly a bitterness seemed to grow upon him too as he stood there, hidden in the darkness of the landing. Why wasn’t the woman straightforward? What was worrying her? Why couldn’t she tell him? Why didn’t she tell him everything? Everything – and clear the air, for good and all. The house might settle itself down to a little peace. She would keep things to herself; then, when she could no longer hold herself in control, she exploded. Mr Fury called softly, ‘Fanny!’

  He hardly expected it, but the door opened. She was looking at him now. Here was resignation, surrender. The bitterness, the hardness had gone. Mr Fury succumbed to it at once.

  Was it mere subterfuge? Was she planning something fresh?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Fury said slowly. ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes one can’t stand it.’

  ‘If only you wouldn’t keep things to yourself!’ He thought, ‘To ask about my money now is out of the question.’

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I got this this morning. It’s the strike-pay.’ He handed her the five shillings. ‘I kept the odd coppers for tobacco.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She went into the room again, Mr Fury at her heels.

  ‘What did they say at the office, Denny?’ she asked. She was standing by the window arranging the curtains. At the same time her eyes swept Hatfields. Children were playing in the street. At some of the doors men sat smoking, women talking.

  ‘They said lots, and stopped his money into the bargain,’ said the man. He was leaning on the iron rail of the bed. ‘If you hadn’t rushed off like you did, I could have told you that hours ago.’

  ‘But they can’t stop it.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, they can. Lake told me. Some technicality. They reckon Anthony wasn’t on duty at the time. He was purely a volunteer. I argued their rights to stop it, but Lake wanted to refer me to their Devereaux. I wasn’t having any. Another thing is that they don’t even know when the lad will get home. Shipping companies’ plans are all to hell with this stoppage on. Boats held up in New York. Lake was quite sociable this time. Getting real swell – big office of his own – even offered me a cigarette.’ Mr Fury laughed now as he recalled the incident.

  ‘All of which means that I shall have to see them myself,’ said Mrs Fury, still looking up Hatfields.

  ‘That’s it! Best to see them yourself. I quite agree.’

  Suddenly the woman beckoned. ‘Who is this man?’ she asked. ‘He’s just stopped outside our door.’ She drew back the curtain and her husband looked down.

  ‘Well, I never!’ he exclaimed, his expression revealing a pleasurable anticipation. ‘Why, it’s that young chap Mulcare I was telling you about. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Will he come in?’

  Mr Fury said, ‘Of course. Of course he’ll come in,’ and made towards the door.

  ‘I shall be down in a few minutes,’ Mrs Fury said. ‘I have to attend to Father.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mr Fury was hurrying down the stairs. This was a surprise. He opened the front door.

  ‘Hello, Mike!’ he called out boisterously. ‘Glad to see you. Come in. Thought you’d sailed long ago.’

  Mr Mulcare smiled, and followed Mr Fury into the kitchen. ‘Sit down here.’

  Mr Fury cleared the sofa of hats and coats and newspapers.

  ‘Well, well! I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘Where’s your boat?’

  ‘She’s across at Manchester,’ replied Mulcare. ‘She came down there with a scab crew, and is loading now.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Mr Fury sat down. ‘The wife will be down in a tick. So she’s really going, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Mulcare said. He made himself comfortable on the sofa. He was wearing a light grey suit, white collar and blue tie, and soft peaked cap of a material similar to the suit. He wore black block-toed shoes and grey socks. Mr Fury was lost in admiration. What a fine, well-set-up young man he looked! Suddenly Peter came into his mind. Peter wearing a light grey suit and soft cap. ‘Why,’ he thought, ‘that lad of mine dressed up like this – he’d knock socks off Mulcare.’ He already visualized Peter sitting alongside Mr Mulcare.

  ‘You’re looking grand. Oh, here’s the wife.’ Mrs Fury had come into the kitchen. Mulcare at once rose to his feet, and said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Fury.’ The woman made a step forward, then stopped and subjected Mulcare to a scrutinizing glance. Her head was bent forward. She seemed to survey his person from beneath her eyelids. ‘How are you?’ She shook hands with the young man and sat down by the table.

  ‘Are you the young man Mr Fury was telling me about?’ Again her eyes fastened upon his person. They rested first upon his grey silk socks, then slowly climbed until they came to rest upon his face.

  ‘A fine, strong, healthy young fellow,’ she thought. So this was the young man who would get Peter away. This was the Mr Mulcare who had left his father in Ireland. Whilst her husband talked and the young man listened, Mrs Fury set to studying him. Rather well dressed. A sailor? What kind of a sailor?

  Mr Fury looked across at his wife. ‘Would you make a drink of tea, Fanny?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She got up and went outside. Mr Mulcare seemed to follow the woman with his eyes. He half turned his head and looked at the alarm-clock.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Fury?’

  ‘Not now. Not now. I hope you’ll wait. I was sorry I missed you last time. The lad will be in soon. He started work today. Some sort of errand-boy’s job. I don’t know what it is exactly.’

  ‘Does his mother want him to go to sea?’ asked Mr Mulcare.

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. If you could get him a job, certainly. He’s at a very impressionable age, really,’ continued Mr Fury. ‘He ought to go away. Pull him out a bit. But mind you, I don’t want him to go below.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ replied Mulcare, laughing. ‘On the bridge, eh?’

  Mr Fury said, ‘Anywhere excepting down below. I had thirty years of it.’

  ‘So one can see,’ replie
d the young man.

  ‘Why, here he is now,’ said Mr Fury, jumping up as he heard the back door latch lifted. Peter came into the kitchen.

  2

  He was wearing a dungaree suit of his father’s. His face and hands were dirty, on his head he wore a light tweed cap, pulled hard down over one eye. When he removed it, his hair, imprisoned all day, and quite unused to head-covering, shot up in obvious rebellion.

  ‘Go and clean yourself up,’ cried his mother. ‘You’re a sight.’

  ‘Half a minute,’ said Mr Fury. He turned to his son and caught his arm.

  ‘This is Mr Mulcare. Remember me telling you about him?’ At which announcement Mr Mulcare rose from the sofa and shook hands with Peter.

  ‘Pleased to see you,’ he said.

  Peter stood head and shoulders over the man. They seemed to take stock of each other. There was something about the grip of the man’s hand that established a confidence at once.

  ‘Well! You’re a fine big lad,’ said Mr Mulcare. He turned to Mr Fury, ‘Isn’t he now?’

  Mr Fury laughed. Peter was beaming at the compliment.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Fury said. Mr Mulcare sat down again.

  ‘Take your coat off, man,’ said Mr Fury. ‘Fanny’s making some tea.’

  ‘I can’t stay, Fury,’ replied the man. ‘I only called here on chance. I am on my way down to meet a friend.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was obvious that Mr Fury was keenly disappointed. He had spoken to Fanny so often of Mr Mulcare, praising his qualities, his abilities, and now he wasn’t even going to stay. Peter had gone out to wash himself.

  ‘I am sorry you’re not going to stay, Mike,’ said Mr Fury.

  ‘I only wanted to have a look at your boy, Fury,’ replied Mr Mulcare.

  At that moment Mr Mulcare’s eyes alighted upon a spider climbing the wainscoting. He lay back and followed its erratic course. Now it stopped. Mr Fury kept looking at Mr Mulcare with rapt attention. The spider proceeded up the green-painted wood, and the young man’s eyes followed. Suddenly it disappeared. The man’s eyes seemed glued to the spot. He was lost in thought. Still studying Mr Mulcare, Mr Fury’s ears attuned themselves to the running commentary in the back kitchen. Mrs Fury was busy at the stove. Peter was drying himself with the roller towel.