The Furys

by James Hanley

  Peter moved forward in the chair. ‘What on earth is at the back of Desmond’s mind?’ he asked himself.

  ‘I’m not disappointed,’ replied Peter. ‘Why should I be? It’s the silly attitude you adopt. You’re no different from the others.’

  ‘What! What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m no small boy now,’ continued Peter. ‘Am I?’

  He rose to his feet and stood looking down at the big man in the chair.

  ‘Remember when we used to go fishing down at Antree,’ began Peter, ‘and I used to do all your worming for you? And I asked you to let me hold the line. And you wouldn’t. D’you remember that? I was a little boy then. But all that has altered. And when I come to see you I don’t want you to adopt the attitude of a hurt but forgiving brother.’

  ‘Oh aye! And do you think I am worrying about you? Or about any of the family? No, by God! No. I pitched all that behind me long, long ago. Mother never comes. None of the family. They’re ashamed.’

  He got up and stood in front of Peter. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Does Mother know you have come here?’ His whole manner had changed, and the boy saw it at once.

  ‘No, she doesn’t know. Did you think she sent me here to spy?’ he asked heatedly.

  ‘Now, listen to me, Peter. I’m your brother. I’m older than you, though I’m not as clever. See! I admit that. Because of this I am rather suspicious. That’s all. I thought Mother might know you were coming round. Mother would do anything to break my home up. Do you understand? And I won’t let them. Does she know you met me on the Dock Road?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘And what’s more, I shan’t tell her I’ve been here either.’

  ‘All right, then. We won’t argue about that. I’m glad you’re not being a priest. Yes, I am glad. All priests should be burnt. That’s my opinion. And if I had my way I would burn Father Moynihan tomorrow. He is the one who put those crazy ideas into your mother’s head. But tell me, can people like Mother afford it? They can’t. Nor can anybody else. And there’s no return for it, is there, only a sure place in Heaven.’

  He smiled and waved his hand towards an imaginary heaven.

  ‘I’m not thick, Peter. Don’t think that. I kept that house going for years – you included – when Dad decided to do a walking tour through the States. Your mother never said nothing. Everything was going on in the same old monotonous way. I wasn’t blind, mind you. No doubt she thought I would never marry. H’m! Then I decided to get out. Yes, and I’m going to get out of here soon. Your thick brother has ambitions. He’s going to walk out of this stinking muck-heap, and on somebody’s back too. Doesn’t matter whose.’ He patted his chest. ‘Just consider,’ he went on, ‘just consider the number of people who squeeze their guts out for nothing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘that’s honest. Is that why you joined the Labour Party?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When I first went into it I did the dirty, mucky work. Out night after night, in all kinds of weather. Standing on street corners, ringing a bell, looking very much like a lunatic, and considering myself lucky if I got an audience of three people. But there was always a dog. Yes. Plenty of damned dogs. Seemed more intelligent than the duds I spoke to. Talk about cabbages! Christ! They weren’t even good cabbages. Yes. I did that for weeks, months, years. Getting the mucky end of the stick all the while. Do you think these people are interested in bettering themselves, in improving their conditions? No, sir! You do a couple of years on the parade ground and you’ll see the truth of the matter. Let the bastards vegetate, let them lie in their own muck. They’re not interested. No, sir! Just not interested.’

  After this flow of oratory Desmond sat down.

  ‘But I am sorry for the women,’ he said. ‘Aye, I am sorry for the women.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Peter. ‘I was in town the other night sitting on one of those lions in Powell Square watching the fun. I met a most comical man named Professor Titmouse. Have you ever heard of him?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Peter noticed that his brother kept looking at the clock. Perhaps he wanted him to go. Funny that he hadn’t mentioned a word about Sheila!

  In a corner of the kitchen there stood a tool-box. On this tool-box there stood a large draught-board. As soon as Peter saw this he exclaimed. ‘Let’s play a game.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Desmond got the draught-board and laid it out on the table.

  ‘White or black?’ he asked.

  He looked up at the clock again. His mind wasn’t on the draught-board. He was thinking of something else, whilst at the same time he looked forward to the game with his brother with almost boyish excitement.

  ‘Black,’ Peter said.

  They arranged their men. Suddenly a key turned in the lock. Peter sat up and looked towards the door.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Desmond. ‘Move. Why don’t you move?’

  ‘Yes. I was moving. Who was that?’ He looked questioningly at his brother.

  ‘That’s Mrs Fury,’ replied Desmond. ‘My move.’

  Peter heard somebody walking along the lobby. Now the person climbed the stairs.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ growled Desmond. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to move.’ His tongue began stroking his upper lip.

  Desmond was thinking hard. He put his face close to Peter’s, and his eyes seemed to dart forward as he asked in a whisper, ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Peter laughed.

  ‘Drinking! What makes you think that?’ he asked. He could no longer conceal his astonishment. What was Desmond thinking about? Was the fellow mad? Peter moved. Desmond moved. A silence grew between them. Peter was listening to footsteps in the room above his head. ‘That must be Sheila,’ he was thinking. What a funny way to come home! To go right upstairs without looking in. Did she always do that? Were they always out? Where did she go? And who was she? How had his brother come to marry this Protestant woman? And was she really what his mother had said? No. His mother had said that in a moment of rage. Of course, his mother hated her. How long had they been married? These thoughts began to race round Peter’s brain. Suddenly he took two men from Desmond.

  ‘You know I don’t drink, Desmond,’ he repeated. ‘Perhaps you’ve had one or two.’

  Desmond made no reply – he was too busy. He was studying the boy. Was this his brother? Little Peter? Of course not. This was a man. A complete stranger. It seemed only to occur to him now. The fire had burnt up. Desmond got up to put a penny in the gas-meter. Peter was unconscious of everything except the sound of the feet upstairs. What a strange house! What a peculiar life to lead! And how changed his brother was! He was glad he had not asked after his sister-in-law – that would have been most unfortunate. No doubt about it. Desmond seemed loath to talk about his wife. Perhaps he was ashamed. He heard the door bang. Desmond had come in again. As he looked at the huge man Peter thought, ‘No. I’m wrong. He wouldn’t be ashamed. He doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. He’s too thick. He looks like a big butcher.’ Desmond sat down again. The game was resumed, but they could take no interest in it. It seemed as if the sudden arrival of Mrs Fury had charged the atmosphere with a kind of light that threw into forms the hidden thoughts of one and the other.

  The one thought, ‘He seems very restless. I wonder why? He is not thinking of the game at all,’ whilst the other was thinking, ‘He is worrying because she was out when he arrived home.’

  Desmond was now studying a problem. It affected three white men and one black. His eyes were fixed upon the board, whilst Peter’s were fixed upon the kitchen door, which had opened, slowly and silently, as though the intruder were apologizing for her entrance and did not wish to interrupt their game of draughts. Peter sat quite still. There was something furtive about his manner; he was watching the door and at the same time watching the board. A hand appeared. It moved slowly round the door.

  The hand seemed to be endeavouring to unhook a black
satin dress which hung upon a nail behind the kitchen door. The nail had caught in one of the threads of the torn bodice. It searched about, trying to find the nail.

  ‘How silly!’ Peter was thinking. ‘Why doesn’t she open the door and take it off the nail in the ordinary way?’ The hand became an arm. A woman’s bare arm right to the shoulder had appeared behind the door. There was something about the arm which sent the blood mounting to Peter’s forehead. In its frantic endeavours to retrieve the dress from the nail it had only served to make it more secure than ever, for several threads of the torn bodice had wound themselves round the nail; and in addition to that, the movements it made seemed to Peter beckoning movements. The long white arm, clearly lined against the black varnished door, seemed to call. To call to Peter as he sat there, his whole body tensed, his mind confused by a swift panorama of pictures that not even Professor Titmouse could have conjured in his wildest moments.

  The hand, as though severed from the body to which it belonged, had now been endowed with a life of its own. The hand spoke. The hand spoke to Peter sitting in the chair. ‘Behind this door,’ it seemed to say, ‘is a body, to which I am attached. This body is now naked. And I am endeavouring to get this dress from the nail in order to clothe it. But if you should suddenly dash forward and open the kitchen door, be sure you will see something to start the eyes in your head, to send your blood mounting higher and higher.’ There could not be any doubt about it. That hand seemed to beckon. Desmond moved his man, but now to his great astonishment Peter shot out his hand and shouted, ‘My move! It’s my move!’ and pushed the man to the floor.

  Desmond sat up. ‘Here! For Christ’s sake!’ he said. He seemed suspicious now. ‘Have you got the jim-jams?’ Peter was trembling like a leaf. Desmond caught his brother’s arms, and forcing him towards himself, looked into the boy’s eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you? Has seven years of college heightened your sensibilities? What are you staring at?’

  ‘Nothing! Nothing! It’s all right. Let go my arm. I’m sorry I spoiled your game. I don’t know what was the matter with me.’ He laughed a curious high-pitched laugh. ‘I was dreaming,’ he said. ‘I could see a man committing hari-kari in Powell Square, and some Goblins clothed in Pentecostal flames came and carried him away. I …’

  The door opened, Mrs Fury came in.

  Desmond got up. ‘Hello, darling!’ he said. ‘Got back? This is Peter. This is my brother Peter …’ He looked from one to the other. He didn’t seem sure of himself. What was all this blather about Goblins? Was the boy ill?

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mrs Fury said. She gave him her hand. The boy shook it. And now he held it, thinking, ‘This is the hand – this is the hand that crept round that door.’

  The woman was smiling at him. She could feel him trembling. She loosed her hold. Turning to Desmond she said, ‘About supper?’

  Desmond was sitting in the chair. For a moment he did not speak. He kept staring at Peter, then at his wife. ‘Is there anything in it?’ his eyes seemed to say. ‘Hang it! I can’t understand.’

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he said.

  He looked directly at his brother. Peter did not move. He kept glancing at the woman, at her hand, her arm, her breast, her long body, now hidden behind the black dress. But he had seen it. Yes. He had seen that naked body. He had stripped her at a glance.

  Sheila Fury thought, ‘What a funny boy!’ She stood, her body hard pressed against the table so that her dress tightened beneath the pressure, and the clear outline of her body was there to see, and Peter had seen it. From her white neck to her firm and supple breasts, and lower. But Desmond too had seen it. He looked at the clock.

  ‘Too late for supper.’

  He was abrupt, and he was now determined. Whilst that woman stood there, her body clearly lined in the light, his own seemed to sing, to cry out, to protest. So he looked at Peter.

  ‘It is late,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t you better go? You must come and see us some time. You will, won’t you?’

  Peter got up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall,’ and looked, not at his brother, but directly into the eyes of the woman. In a flash she had divined the position. Her expression changed. Her eyes seemed to ransack Peter as he stood there, whilst the snub that had parted her red lips seemed to say, ‘Well, yes, come. You are so funny. Yes. Do come.’

  For Peter the woman did not exist. She had vanished. Through a sort of haze he could see a naked arm floating in the air. And then the arm made short circling movements, as though it wanted to grasp something, to hold it, to embrace it.

  ‘Surely,’ said Sheila, ‘there is time for supper.’

  ‘And I say there isn’t,’ replied Desmond. He had moved towards the door.

  ‘What is all the excitement about?’ said Sheila. ‘Cool yourself, man! We can offer your brother a cup of tea, surely.’

  ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock,’ said Desmond. ‘Can’t you hear those swine outside?’

  ‘Swine? What swine?’ She had fixed her eyes upon her husband, upon his large, brutal-looking mouth, as though the very force of her glance might close it and hold it fast. Desmond caught her arm.

  ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘Listen!’

  All three stood listening. From the street came the sound of hoofs. The soldiers had arrived. The woman went into the parlour and looked out through the window.

  ‘Yes,’ she called out. ‘It’s those Hussars again.’

  Desmond followed his wife into the parlour. Peter remained standing at the kitchen door. The long lobby was in darkness. He too had heard the sound of horses passing down the street. But he was holding on to the kitchen door, looking at the nail to which adhered some threads from Sheila Fury’s black dress. He picked these threads off, and stood looking at them. Desmond came in again. Peter hastily dropped the threads and looked at his brother.

  ‘I must go,’ he said, essaying a smile, a smile that he knew well could not conceal his agitation.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ They walked down the lobby.

  Sheila Fury came and joined them at the door. Peter, his hand upon the brass knob, turned and looked at the woman. There was nothing to see now, only her white face and those burning eyes.

  ‘Well, good-night, Peter,’ she said. She did not offer him her hand.

  Peter opened the door and stood out on the step. Mrs Fury had gone into the parlour again. A mounted soldier drew rein outside the Furys’ door.

  ‘Where is that man going?’ The question was addressed to Desmond Fury.

  ‘Going. He’s going home. Where the hell d’you think he’s going? To commit suicide or assassinate the King?’ He cleared the step at a bound and went up to the soldier.

  ‘Our orders are to question anybody in the streets, and to arrest where no satisfactory explanation is forthcoming,’ the soldier said. He looked down at Desmond Fury.

  ‘Thank you. We are well aware of that.’ He called to his wife. ‘Sheila! Bring out that iron bar.’ Mrs Fury came running out with an iron bar in her hand. This bar was an inch thick and three feet long. It had apparently been a railing forced from a gate. Desmond Fury, in full sight of the soldier, handed this bar to Peter. ‘Here!’ he said. ‘Now go. If you find any obstacles barring your path you know what to do with it.’ He looked up at the soldier. ‘This boy lives only a few streets away,’ he said.

  The soldier looked at the iron bar. Desmond took the bar from his brother.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Beat it now! Our friend has given me his word. In fact, he informs me that nobody is beat up excepting under the greatest provocation. Isn’t that so?’ But the horse had begun to move. At the top of Vulcan Street there were other horses drawn across the street. Now it wanted to join them. The darkness swallowed it up.

  ‘Good-night.’ Desmond shook hands with Peter. Something made the boy turn his head. Mrs Fury was looking at him from the parlour window.

  ‘Good-night.’ The hand holding his own squeezed ti
ghter so that he almost winced with the pain.

  Feeling the woman’s eyes upon him, he leaned on to the door and said laughingly. ‘What’s the matter with you, Desmond? Are you afraid of me?’ In a moment he was pulled forward. He was looking at two rows of teeth. The rest of the face seemed to be hidden in the darkness of the lobby.

  ‘Afraid? No. But I’m jealous.’

  Peter could feel his brother’s hot breath upon his face. Ah! So he had suspicions, had even guessed. ‘I’m not clever,’ he could hear his brother saying, ‘but I’m not thick either.’

  The door banged. Peter was standing in the street. A single lamp shone. The other had been blown out by the wind. He stood looking at the door. In the next house the parlour was lighted up. He heard a man singing. He recognized the voice at once. It was George Postlethwaite. He looked at the window of number seven again. Was she still standing there? No. She had gone.

  Then he heard a step in the lobby. He put his ear to the keyhole. Raised voices broke the silence. Mr and Mrs Fury were arguing in the lobby.

  ‘Now!’ Desmond was saying. ‘Now, have you been on that bloody shore again? Where is this shore? What is it? What’s there to attract? – or is it some other shore?’

  There was no reply from the woman.

  ‘You were there last Sunday. The people next door saw you. Tell me, for Christ’s sake, have you got some holy itch for the sea? What is it? Out! God! You’re never in!’

  The woman was speaking.

  ‘Out! What are you talking about? You’re never in yourself. Mind your own business.’

  ‘I am.’ Desmond shouted. ‘I am minding my own business. One can’t get a word out of you. Where do you go running off to at night? Everybody is talking about it.’

  ‘Don’t press on my arm. It hurts.’

  ‘Her arm! Oh, that arm.’ thought Peter. ‘He’s pressing that arm that came round the door. The long white arm.’

  ‘I’ll kill you one of these days, you bitch,’ Desmond said.