by James Hanley
Peter walked away. Now he knew. Before he had only guessed, groped in the darkness. Now he understood everything. Well, he would see that white arm again soon. ‘Yes. By God, I will!’ He was in a ferment. He started to run, stopped. Hang it! What was wrong with him? ‘Keep cool, you fool, Mother will notice. Yes, Mother will notice.’
He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his face. He felt hot all over. His tongue was dry. At the corner of Price Street he was stopped by the military. Where was he going? What was he so excited about? Why, the fellow was trembling. The soldiers barred his path.
‘What have you done? Murdered somebody?’ One soldier poked Peter in the ribs with his finger.
‘Been following one of those bag-women,’ another soldier said.
‘I’m going home. Just there. See!’ He pointed in the direction of Hatfields.
‘Scoot!’
Peter ran. He knocked at the door. Was he all right? Did he look all right? That fellow had said he was trembling. The door opened.
‘Late,’ Mr Fury said. He drew back the door. Peter entered the house, his father following into the kitchen. Mrs Fury was sitting at the table. She did not look at Peter nor her husband. She looked directly in front of her. She looked at nothing. There was nothing to see. Her mind was a complete blank. Peter wanted to say ‘Hello, Mother,’ but the look upon Mrs Fury’s face prevented it. Mr Fury tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Get your supper and get to bed,’ said his father. He too sat down.
Not once during his hurried meal did the woman move. She seemed glued to her chair, that hopeless, almost frozen look upon her face. Mr Fury picked his teeth with one of his wife’s hatpins.
Peter, having finished his meal, rose from the table.
‘Good-night, Mother – good-night, Dad.’
Nobody replied to him. He went upstairs. The moment he reached his room he pushed the catch back. Then he opened the drawers. He was searching for an envelope. That long envelope with something hard in it. Ah! Here it was! The very thing. Feverishly he pulled out the photograph of Desmond and his wife. As he tore off that of the woman, he thought, ‘How did it come here?’ But perhaps Desmond had given it secretly to his father. He flung the other half, from the glossed surface of which Desmond’s hard face looked out – though it had seemed to soften a little as for the occasion – into the grate. Then he set fire to it. He had torn it in two. He had freed the one from the other. He undressed and climbed into bed. Then he lighted the lamp, lay back and held the photograph of Sheila Fury in front of him. He knew then that it had been worth it. Those seven years at college – that accidental meeting. He kissed the face that looked out at him from the cardboard. ‘There can’t be any mistake about it,’ he thought. Then he hurriedly placed the photograph under the pillow, blew out the lamp and stretched himself in the bed.
Mr Fury passed the door. He was going to bed. Below, tired of silence, of the spectacle of his wife sitting frozen and dumb at the table, he had said, ‘I’m going to bed, Fanny.’ She did not answer. Just looked ahead at nothing in particular. In his room, Peter had begun an excursion into a new, strange, and wonderful world.
The gas burned low, finally went out. But Mrs Fury was still sitting at the table. There seemed nothing else to do but sit there, staring at the wall.
3
Hatfields, like its neighbours, Vulcan Street and Price Street, abutted on to the main King’s Road. King’s Road was about a mile in length. It ran parallel with Harbour Road, at the end of which stood Mile Hill. When one had descended Mile Hill, flanked on either side by shops, public houses, and occasional waste ground, occupied at week-ends by travellers in linoleum, one had reached the city. Hatfields also ran flush into Dacre Road. At the bottom of Dacre Road there were the docks. Eleven and a half miles of them. This Dock Road ran right into the city and beyond it. Mrs Fury was now debating in her mind which way she should go. The top road seemed the more favourable, but it had its disadvantages. It was heavily patrolled. From Harbour Road came the looters and the roughs. It was not advisable to go that way. One was bound to be held up.
On the other hand, to go along Dock Road was to invite attentions of a disagreeable kind. One never knew from what dark hole or corner a man would emerge, a most repulsive sort of person who made a habit of accosting women, old and young.
There were a number of these men always frequenting that area. They were mostly tramps. At night they slept out on the shore. Here their instincts seemed to have full rein, and more than one woman taking a morning walk along the shore was surprised when from behind some sand-hill there suddenly emerged one of these species, entirely naked.
As the woman stood, hesitating, at the corner of Hatfields, these things passed across her mind. In a series of pictures she could see them. But the Dock Road would be patrolled too. Her husband was right. Still, she was out now, and besides, it just had to be done.
Mr Lake sat in that office of his for no other purpose than to be seen, to be interviewed upon the vital matter of her son. The fact that she had not had any recent letter from him only served to make her more determined than ever. After all, it was important. She could not see why or how she should be stopped by anybody. This proposed journey was nothing new to Mrs Fury. She was used to it. It wasn’t so much the having to walk, that was nothing – she could walk miles – no, it was all the obstacles placed in one’s path by these disputes. The merest loafer at the street corner felt it to be his shining hour. He stepped out into the road and asked people where they were going. To town! H’m! Then he pulled his cap down hard over his eyes.
‘Can’t go that way, ma’am.’
‘Why?’ the person would ask. ‘Why not?’
‘Dangerous!’ He was a well-informed fellow, he knew. But if the person liked, he would take her another way. In brief, for a small financial consideration, he would free her path of all obstacles. The pedestrian generally fell for it. Yes. One’s path was barred by obstacles. Those obstacles were explanations. Explanations all the way there and all the way back.
‘Where are you going? Why? What is that you are carrying?’
Tiring, irritating. It made one’s walk a veritable torture.
‘I’ll call into the chapel on my way,’ she said to herself, and immediately turned towards Ash Walk. The streets were deserted. Only smoke pouring out from the forest of chimneys indicated that behind the bricks and mortar people lived, that these people were now rising, washing, dressing, making breakfast.
She went into the chapel and knelt down. There were about twenty people scattered amongst the benches. Father Doyle was celebrating half-past eight Mass. Before her she saw a stout woman who had just sat back after receiving Communion. That head and that hat meant only one thing. Aunt Brigid. She was more certain than ever that it was her sister when her eyes alighted on a small bent figure next to her. This small figure was wearing a poke-bonnet. The bonnet seemed to sway, to bob up and down. That could only be Miss Pettigrew. None but Miss Pettigrew wore a bonnet like that. She must have dragged herself out to Communion in defiance of Dr Dunfrey’s orders. Mrs Fury made the sign of the Cross, rose to her feet, and hurried from the chapel. She had made her decision. She would go the top road. It was quicker, in spite of the hill climb on the return journey. She straightened her hat. Then she bent down against the railings and tightened her shoelaces. She turned out of Ash Walk, passed down Price Street at a sharp pace, glancing hurriedly at the Kilkeys’ window, and found herself on the main road. She felt better, more confidence in herself, as though she had imbibed a little strength from that visit to the chapel. A quarter to nine. With luck she should be there by half-past nine.
She reached the top of Bank Street without any difficulty, but when she came to Hotspur Road a minor disturbance had taken place. In Hotspur Road there was a bag factory. Around its red wooden gate a group of about fifty women wearing shawls had congregated. One of their number, a very stout woman, whose face was covered with running sores, was loudly
proclaiming that the gate should be opened.
The police were there in full force. They could deal easily with these irate women, but that would not solve the problem. The foreman of the bag factory lived in a small house adjoining it. He had now come out, and was endeavouring to pacify the angry women. What was the matter? Everybody shouted at once. They wanted the gates open. What for? To go to work. The manager laughed. That was impossible. What was the use of making bags when there weren’t any orders? Everybody was on strike. When their husbands and brothers decided to go back to work, the gates would open. Not before.
The manager disappeared into his house again. As he closed the front door he caught the eye of the police inspector. It was a well-meaning glance. The door closed. The manager took the precaution to lock it. The bolt shot back. The police went over to the women. They must go home. The women refused to move. Yes, the situation was dangerous. The sudden arrival of angry men-folk was the danger.
All this had no interest for Mrs Fury, whose path was blocked by a crowd that had swiftly gathered at the top of the street, and gathering force, now flowed into the road.
Mrs Fury looked ahead. She must either go right through or make a wide detour. She decided to go through. She began to push. People turned to look at her, more than one elbow jabbed roughly against her. A policeman saw her pushing through.
The first of the obstacles had arrived, not in the form of a crowd of decrepit-looking people, half-washed and half-dressed, but in the form of a policeman’s eye.
As he approached, the crowd, from pure habit, fell away, so that Mrs Fury, now isolated, standing in a cleared space of at least six feet, became the attention of everybody. There was something deferential about the manner of this policeman as he went up to the tall woman and asked:
‘Where are you going, Missus?’
‘To town,’ said Mrs Fury. She looked straight at the man. ‘To town,’ she said, ‘on business.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Yes! Very important.’
‘You understand the state of things in the city?’
‘I do.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the Torsa Line Shipping Office for my son’s allotment money.’
‘Oh!’ said the officer. ‘I see!’ He walked away.
Mrs Fury passed on. When she reached Harbour Road another obstacle arose, more formidable. She stopped. For the first time she saw people running. Saw batons raised, heard frightful screams. In the middle of the road lay a number of pianos, which an angry crowd of people, mostly women, had dragged out of the piano warehouse near by. Not content with that, they had begun to smash them with hatchets, whilst some young men had come out of a chewing-gum factory higher up the road, and were, at the time the police decided to clear the road, busily engaged in pouring fluid gum down into the framework of the pianos.
Mrs Fury saw none of these things. She saw only raised batons, heard screams, saw the terrified crowd darting back into their houses. She leaned against an empty shop door. She felt sick. There was still a mile to go. She ought to have taken something besides a cup of tea. Men, women, and children were flying past. The police came on at a run. She crouched against the woodwork. As the first policeman passed she screamed, ‘My Jesus!’ But they had not seen her. She was trembling all over. Perhaps she ought never to have come. She looked up and down.
These sporadic outbursts on the part of the inhabitants of Harbour Road and its adjacent streets occurred at regular intervals, almost, one might say, as though they had been planned overnight. These were no spontaneous kicks at authority, but calculated. Periodically some shop or factory was raided. The whole length of the road gave one the impression that gigantic building operations were afoot, for every shop had boarded its windows.
Mrs Fury moved away from the shop doorway and continued her journey. She wanted to sit down somewhere. She felt her shoes pinching again, and a blister had come on her heel. As she drew near Mile Hill, the streets became more crowded, the scene more animated. Here a squadron of troops was drawn up, there a detachment of mounted police. Could she get through? Suddenly she exclaimed aloud, ‘I wish I had asked Denny to come with me. Peter could have well looked after Father.’ But it was too late now. In any case, if she kept on walking she could be there in twenty minutes. Yes. She must keep on. She wanted to sit down. The very thought of being able to rest her feet only increased her determination. Of a sudden she stopped, thinking, ‘My God! Supposing that Mr Lake isn’t there, after all! All this for nothing. No. Impossible! Just impossible!’
Twice in her quick walk down Mile Hill she had been stopped and questioned. At the bottom of the hill another kind of authority asserted itself. Federation delegates were everywhere. They swarmed like flies.
‘Where are you going, Missus?’
The woman’s path was closed by a burly-looking man. He was dressed in a blue serge suit and wore a collar and tie, though this seemed to make him feel uncomfortable, for he repeatedly tugged at the collar as he eyed the tall woman up and down.
‘Who are you?’ asked Mrs Fury. This was something new.
‘I’m a delegate,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know it’s dangerous hereabouts? Listen to me, Missus. In a few days’ time Mr John Williams will be the only authority in this city.’
‘I’m not interested in Mr Williams,’ replied the woman. She drew herself up to her full height and looked down at this red-faced individual, still tugging at his collar.
‘No? Oh aye! You’re one of those women who try to break the strike, eh? Well, I’m interested in you, see!’ He gripped Mrs Fury’s arm, and pulled her behind the shelter of a disused tram-men’s hut.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Mrs Fury struck him in the face with her fist. She shouted, ‘If my husband were here he’d break your neck, you insolent swine.’
She tore loose from the man and began to run. But again her path was blocked right across Powell Square. The Hussars were lined up. They had piled arms and were now standing at ease.
Mrs Fury was given to understand that from this point any further progress was impossible. That was definite. Final. The woman turned pale. As she looked across the Square she saw the doors, the great swing-doors, of the shipping office’s high building. It seemed to call to her, to inform her that somewhere beneath its great dome Mr Lake was sitting, Mr Lake was waiting. The officer looked at the woman.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s in the interest of your own safety.’
‘But I must go,’ Mrs Fury pleaded. ‘I have to get my son’s money.’
‘Is it very important?’
The woman said, ‘Yes. I depend on it.’
‘People come down here for all kinds of reasons.’
‘Please!’ Mrs Fury said. She wanted to add, ‘My feet are paining. I want to sit down.’ She listened to the questions. Questions! Questions! Questions! Soon it would be impossible to breathe.
‘But other people are walking about,’ said Mrs Fury. ‘I must go! I must go!’
At last! Well, here she was! There in front of her was the building. And there were the police, the soldiers, the Specials. When in Heaven’s name was the strike going to end? It was like a war. It was bad enough going out in order to buy some food, but this – this questioning was far worse. She looked at the note in her hand. Then up at the great swing-doors. Here was something that the strike had not affected. Clerks, she told herself, never went out on strike. No. They were busy over their desks. Mr Lake, of course, would never think of going out on strike. She approached the swing-doors and handed in her note. She passed inside. Then she stood looking about. This wilderness of marble again. Those great flights of stairs. More marble. Those long windows. Those lines of pictures, the polished woodwork. The ascent and descent of the lifts, noiseless save for a low humming sound that reverberated through the building and came to an end with the sudden click of the gate. Yes. Here everybody was working. Everybody attending to his business. Here was o
rder, efficiency. Occasionally people hurried past her, mostly typists and secretaries from the lower floors. To the right, a long highly polished bench. Mrs Fury sat down. ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘the relief! Away from those crowds, the dust, the questioning, that beastly man calling himself a delegate.’ She looked at her hand. Yes. The skin on her knuckle was broken. Well – she could not have done anything else. As soon as she had rested her feet, she would go up in the lift and sit in the corridor. ‘At half-past three I must go and interview that woman,’ she said under her breath. Now she must see Mr Lake. She settled her long coat, brushed the dust off its hem with her hand, and as she passed a long mirror set in the buff-coloured wall, she paused to examine herself. She straightened her hat. Then she walked to the first lift that came down. It was rather a slack day for the lift attendants. The gate clicked and shot back. The woman stepped in. The man shut the gate and pressed the switch. Mrs Fury ascended. The attendant did not even look at her. She might not have been there. Top floor! The gate clicked again. Mrs Fury stepped out. She smiled now. She was really here. She walked along the corridor, and when she reached Mr Lake’s office stood outside for a moment contemplating. Yes. She felt better now. She was quite ready to talk to the gentleman. She opened the door and passed in. She rang the bell. The window shot up. Yes. This was the same girl as last time.
‘Mrs Fury to see Mr Lake!’ she said. Then she sat down.
‘Oh! I’m sorry, Mr Lake isn’t in yet,’ replied the girl. ‘Can you wait? He’s never here before eleven, you know.’ She smiled at Mrs Fury.
‘What a nice girl!’ the woman was thinking. Then she exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ and her face fell. ‘Oh dear me! Very well, I’ll wait.’ Of course she could wait. Then she added, ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to get me a glass of water. I’ve had to walk all the way from Hatfields.’ She leaned back and rested her head against the wooden partition.
‘Certainly!’ said the girl, and she hurried away to get the water.