by James Hanley
He shouted at the top of his voice, stamped his foot upon the gravel path.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I must go. Come along.’
They turned to the gate. He lifted her over it. Then they scurried off through the darkness, like two people hunted, two people hurrying backwards rather than forward, as though life itself were one long retreat. Their heads were high, but somehow, looking at them from behind, one sensed this huntedness, this scurrying through dark streets, behind walls, through alleys, past warehouses, as though there shone above them some inexorable eye from which they could never escape. When they crossed the square by the Custom House, Peter pulled up, caught her hands, thrust his face to her own, and said:
‘Now tell me.’
‘Sometimes,’ she said slowly, as though in some way she begrudged utterance to the very words that all this time had hung upon her lips, ‘sometimes I think you’re deluding yourself. You see, I am a woman. I am nearly thirteen years older than you. And in spite of what you say, you are—at least to me—but a boy. I haven’t any right to touch what you must hold most dear. Perhaps I should never have done what I have already done. I say perhaps. I’m not so sure. That’s all. Maybe I did it simply because I pitied you. I say maybe. Again I don’t know. You say perhaps, “You are a woman and you ought to know.” I’m not sure about that. When we think we know most—we really know least. Like you, I’m afraid. Well …’ She buried his hard head upon her breast.
‘Peter—dear Peter. I don’t know, don’t know. I can’t say another word except I don’t know. Now I must go.’
‘God Almighty!’ he said. He shook her roughly. ‘You are only tormenting me. You listen to me. Sheila, listen! Don’t say that any more. Will you promise? Please promise!’ All his innocence, his youth, his belief, his hope, all went out to her in that simple utterance. And as he squeezed her shoulders so hard that she actually winced, it was as though he were holding together the altar he had built about her name and presence—her body, her love, her feelings. It hurt just holding her like this, hurt at the very depths of his soul because he loved her, trusted her. She was his happiness. Desperately he clung to it, and all that it meant.
‘Don’t say any more! Please! please! I know. It’s Desmond! You are afraid of my brother. But, Sheila, don’t you see …?’
‘I afraid of Desmond?’ She smiled at him. ‘What have I to fear from him? Nothing. No two people understand one another better than we do.’
‘Then you have told him!’ he almost gasped. ‘You told him?’
‘I told him nothing. Silly boy! Now …’ She said good-night with her warm mouth, holding him frenziedly, wishing him gone—yet dreading the very moment when she herself must go. ‘Good-night, Peter darling.’
‘Now!’ he said, ‘tell me! Where is this new house you are in—and to-morrow? What about to-morrow?’
‘Don’t ask me that.’ She broke free and ran. The youth ran after her, partly fell on one knee as he flung himself, hands out, to catch the hem of her skirt. ‘Stop,’ he said fiercely. ‘You must, Sheila. You must. To-morrow. Same place, same time. I’ll be there. You will, won’t you? Yes, yes. Lovely Sheila!’ He kissed her, then turned and fled, his fingers pressed against the drum of his ears as though he were determined not to hear her reply, filled with dread and yet with joy, floating upon a delirious wave, yet fearful he would be flung down. So he ran on until he reached Preston Row, when he slowed down to a quick walk. At the end of the Row he would catch a tram. He would be home before midnight at the latest. Twice he stopped, stood with feet apart, hands clasped together, looking up at the stars. ‘Am I happy? God! Yes, I am happy.’ Even now in the murk and dark of this mean street, silent, deserted, he could feel the aura of her presence. ‘Sheila! Sheila! We shall yet be together. Marvellous Sheila!’ The world was blotted out—there were only two people in it—Sheila and himself. ‘Yes, I am happy’ he half shouted, and ran on. He would catch a late tram. Just as he reached the stop he heard the dull roar of one in the distance. He began shivering with the cold. His whole body like some delicate instrument could yet feel the touch of her hand. ‘Dear Sheila!’ he said. ‘Dear Sheila!’ The memory of the woman, of her embraces, the feel of her flesh, had tempered his body, every fibre of his being retained that ecstasy, that thrill of being with her. She was gone, but that aura of her presence still hung around him. Suddenly the tram came roaring to a standstill; only then did his spirits fall, only then did that urgent, passionate music filling his breast become suddenly voiceless. He boarded the tram. It was empty. Crouched in a corner seat, holding his coat collar tight around his neck, he began the journey home. Home to Hatfields. It was like going into a long dark and damp tunnel, racing away from the light—the darkness at last obliterating that aura of her presence. He pictured her crouched in the corner of the arch—her white face held up to him—and this vision he retained, harbouring it in his memory, holding it frenziedly and desperately, as though as the tram pursued its inexorable journey through the tunnel it was taking toll of that strange, wonderful, and passionate hour. He was going home to Hatfields. He saw the house, the street, the bone factory; saw his father and mother seated in the kitchen—saw his crippled grandfather belted in his chair. He had escaped that, and now he was returning to it. He saw a crowd streaming out of a theatre in the King’s Road. Saw men singing as they made their way home, arm-in-arm. And out of these crowded pictures that rushed down upon him there emerged suddenly the figure of Mrs. Anna Ragner. ‘Good God!’ he thought. ‘What did she do that for? Why has Mother tied herself up with that woman? I’ll bet any money that Dad knows nothing about it. But I know. I am the only one she has told.’ He felt suddenly bitter. Yes. His mother would get some satisfaction from letting him know. Why was he rushing back towards Hatfields? Because he liked it? Because he was happy—because he loved his mother and father? He did not really know. A dumb, blind obeisance. No effort of the will had set his feet upon this tram. He was a quite will-less person. No! He did not know why at all. The car pulled up. He got off and walked slowly home. When he reached the house it was in black darkness. Strange indeed, but his mother had given him the key. He let himself in, lit the gas, cut a piece of bread, ate it, swilled down a cup of cold tea, and then, extinguishing the light, went up to bed. He heard voices in his mother’s room. That was to be expected. To have passed that room without hearing sounds would have been impossible at that hour of the night; it seemed that his father and mother as though by some quick, unconscious prearrangement had decided to release the flood walled up throughout the day. They talked for hours. It had always been like that. And always would be. In other houses there was silence. People slept soundly at this late hour, but not his father and mother. ‘A funny pair,’ he said to himself as he undressed and climbed into bed. There would hardly be any need to ask them what the subject of the conversation was. He knew already. It was one of those imperishable subjects, inexhaustible—never-ending.
He lay down, leaning on his elbow. ‘Perhaps Dad is right. Maybe Mother is a little crazy. She does seem to be changing lately.’ But there was one picture he always retained in his mind, indeed it refused to go away at all. That was her face lit up with a passionate, desperate frenzy on the morning he had gone off to sea. Each time he thought of it he went cold all over. More, he could feel the blows she had rained upon him in the shed. Mother would never forget that. Never. Her attitude when he arrived home had been peculiar too. No embrace. A mere handshake. A different person—a different expression—a different meaning. It had only made him feel that old shame again. Some enquiries as to how he had fared; and as to Mr. Mulcare’s health. Mention of Anthony’s accident, the compensation that they had fought for, his going away again. No more. A mere silhouette of his brother. Not that he, Peter, wanted any fuller picture. At this particular time there were things more important, and more interesting, than the news of Anthony. A request to him to take a message, an urgent one—Mother’s messages were always urgent—and his say
ing he would be seeing a shipmate and might be late. No questions asked. No interest shown. Briefly, rank indifference. Was this change real, or was it only fake? Was she watching him—his mother could spy as well as anybody—or was it a certain helplessness? As these thoughts went racing through his mind, he saw her face again as he had seen it just five hours ago. The sudden confrontation after a year’s absence—the complete absence of surprise—he might have only left the house that morning. In fact he, Peter, was disappointed. It was a shock. He was like a stranger to her. Not that he hoped for the return of that passionate love with which she had smothered him since he was a child. Oh no! He had had enough of that. But shocked only because this attitude, this change, this rank indifference, was like a clear mirror in which he saw her waning faith, her yielding hope. ‘Mother is going down the nick,’ he thought. Suddenly he felt a desire to cry. ‘No! All that is silly.’ He mustn’t do it. One glimpse of the strange emotions he felt, just one glimpse, and she would resurrect herself from that torpor, smother him in that love. ‘To hell with that!’ He had been smothered enough. He hadn’t talked it over with his father yet either. That was a meeting fraught with difficulties too. ‘Dad doesn’t care a hang what I do, anyhow.’
‘Well! I’ll have to meet him to-morrow, anyhow. I’ll have lots of things to do to-morrow.’ No doubt of that. For one thing, his mother, indifference or no indifference, would say, ‘You must go to your duty.’ That couldn’t be avoided. Upon compliance depended everything. No member of the Fury family who neglected his duty could be expected to live under the same roof. Then he would be expected to call and see his sister, and the little boy, and Joe Kilkey. He smiled under the bed-clothes. They wouldn’t ask him to see Desmond. That was out of the question. That big brother was outlawed from the Fury clan for good and all. ‘I think I’ll take them all to see the bioscope,’ he said under his breath. He had a vision of his father sitting by the fire in the kitchen, busily engaged scraping grease from the soles of his boots. With this picture still in his mind he fell asleep. In the next room the voices still went on—though they had died down to a whisper. About two o’clock in the morning, these, too, ceased, and number three Hatfields lay secure under silence at last.
CHAPTER II
Hatfields is one of a number of grey, dingy-looking streets crowded together on the dock-side in North Gelton. Here the Fury family had lived for over thirty years. Some ten minutes’ walk from this street along the main King’s Road brought one to the Avon Park, a small recreation ground. This oasis in the industrial desert had been laid down by the powers that be in Gelton in order that the citizens should have some harbour of escape from the thickly clustered streets. Men and women could sit there in the quiet of the evening and indulge in contemplation and reflection. Children could play on its gravel paths, but not on the grass. It consisted of half an acre of land fenced in by iron railings painted a bright green. There was the grass lawn upon which no foot might tread, two or three bushes, and some twenty benches. These were always occupied. Winter or summer there was always somebody to grace the Avon Park with his presence. On this bright June evening the recreation ground was full. Every bench, excepting one standing near to the gate, was full of people, old and young. On the paths excited children played, their raucous voices filling the air. Old men tapped their sticks, young men with nothing better to do leaned lazily on the railings and watched the grass grow. Although the bench near the gate had only two people sitting on it, a man and a woman, and although there were people who would have liked a seat, there seemed for some reason or other an objection to sitting on that bench nearest the gate. Maybe the very attitude of its occupants prevented this. These two people had ten minutes ago entered the gardens carrying on an animated conversation, which, as they drew nearer, seemed to be of an argumentative nature. They had seated themselves at the extreme end of the bench, and from that moment had maintained a dignified silence. Looking at them, one realized that any invasion of that silence would be met by a resentment, if not a truculence, already apparent by their very demeanour. It seemed, therefore, that these two people had best be left alone. The air was alive with the cries of children, the laughter of men and women, but these two people stood outside it all. They were very much taken up with their own thoughts, having lapsed into deep contemplation upon a subject which they had discussed so audibly as they came through the gate. No two people were less alike. The woman was tall, thin, and wiry. She had a long white face, a perfectly shaped nose set between a pair of eyes remarkable not only for their deep brown colour, but for the very restlessness they mirrored. Looking at them, one was conscious of the restless spirit behind them. Her hands, long and thin and very red, were resting upon the back of the bench. She had her back to the man and was leaning over the bench watching some children playing in the park behind her—at least she appeared to be watching them. She wore a long black coat almost reaching the ankles, but not hiding the black shoes which encased a pair of feet that must long have protested against imprisonment, for here and there the leather bulged as though the shoes were too tight for her. On her head she wore a plain grey straw hat in which was pinned with a brass brooch a single feather. She looked intelligent, proud, and the features, but for a certain queerness occasioned by the hard mouth, were not without charm. If she removed her hat one could see a head of thick black hair, slightly grey and parted in the middle of the head. The man was of medium height, slight in build. He wore a blue serge suit, a hard hat, a black silk scarf round his neck, and a pair of highly polished brown shoes. His hands were large, ugly, and gnarled. There was a large five-pointed star tattooed on his left wrist. Compared with the woman, his features were quite ordinary. He had a thin face, large eyes, a bulbous nose, and a heavy mouth which never seemed to be fully closed, so that he gave you the impression of always being on the verge of an exclamation. His hair was quite grey under the black hat, closely cropped, and his moustache, grey and drooping, did not help to enhance his very ordinary appearance. One could tell at a glance that he was a man with a sense of humour. Deep in contemplation now, he yet at the same time suggested content, peace, whereas the woman suggested only restlessness. These two people were Mr. and Mrs. Fury. They had walked over from Hatfields, still continuing an argument that had begun in the kitchen. The woman every now and again looked at the clock set over the entrance gate. It seemed that at any moment she would get up and go home. That was the impression she made. There were things to do. The man hardly moved. She fidgeted upon her end of the bench. Suddenly the silence was broken by the man, who remarked gruffly, ‘Well, have you thought about it, Fanny? But for Christ’s sake don’t let anything I say upset your plans.’
He pulled out a pipe, lighted it, and was soon sending clouds of blackish-blue smoke into the air. He put his hands in his pockets, stretched out his legs on the path, and assumed an attitude of complete repose. He evidently was in no hurry.
‘Yes,’ replied the woman, ‘I am still thinking about what you said. Did you think I should forget how significant you made it?’ She laughed, but did not turn round.
‘Don’t think I’m joking, Fanny,’ said Mr. Fury. ‘I was never more in earnest.’
‘Aren’t you always in earnest?’ she shot back at him. ‘This sudden desire to go to sea is not new. Indeed no! I’ve felt it all along. I’ve seen it. I’m not blind. The pity of it is that you didn’t go when you first got the itch. That’s what I regret. Instead, you calmly inform me that unless I agree to give up my son you’ll go off. Denny, for God’s sake have no qualms about it. If you think I am going to accept that, you’ve made a mistake. Besides, it’s a mean advantage to take. If you were a young man I shouldn’t mind. But to suddenly announce your desire to go off at the age of sixty comes as a surprise, naturally. You will tell me no doubt that I was the cause of your giving it up.’ She turned round and looked at him, smiled, and it was not without bitterness, and then turned her back upon him again. The man knocked out his pipe. The silence was b
roken, therefore the smoking of a pipe seemed quite out of place, at least to Mr. Dennis Fury, who held that a pipe can only be smoked properly when one is content. Somehow the waters of content had flowed over his head. He looked at his watch. There was that pint to have at ‘The Star and Garter,’ a traditional ritual that must be observed whatever the cost. Putting the pipe away, he moved up nearer his wife. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m in earnest. You can choose between the boy and me. Nobody was more surprised than I when he turned up again. I thought he would have sense to keep away. After the trouble he’s caused. Come to think of it, I have every right to say this. I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, and I never have. I have always been contented.’