The Furys

by James Hanley

  ‘You look really swell to-night, Maureen,’ said Joseph Kilkey. ‘Lovely!’

  ‘Do I?’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ observed the man. There was something lovely and graceful about even the way in which she swept crumbs from the table. He liked to see her moving about. Maureen reposing quietly in the chair was not half so attractive as the Maureen who now laid the supper. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the first Mass in the morning.’ She signalled to him by rattling the cup on the saucer. Mr. Kilkey joined her at the table. As soon as he sat down he began: ‘Hasn’t that boy pulled out, Maureen? And what a length. He pleases me no end—he’s lost that sly look he used to have. Seems more honest and frank, more sure about himself. But he doesn’t like me yet. Not as much as I’d like him to, anyhow. He doesn’t like my face, maybe.’ Mr. Kilkey laughed heartily, whereon the woman said angrily,

  ‘Fool! You old fool! What ideas you get into your head.’

  ‘Nothing happened, I hope?’ he commented warily. ‘Everything go off all right?’

  ‘Lots has happened,’ replied the woman. ‘You’ll soon see where your generous spirit has landed you. You damned fool! And I’m a bigger one for ever being a party to it.’

  From that moment the meal ceased. Mr. Kilkey didn’t want any supper. Maureen went on, ‘D’you know that confounded woman in Banfield Road is pressing Mother?’

  ‘Well! Tell us more about it. Don’t sit there with a long face. Dear! Dear!’ He suddenly leaned over the table, caught her by the hair, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Maureen, dear, don’t let us get excited about anything. I had a job to get the child asleep as it was. Now, please talk quietly. What is all this about your mother being pressed?’

  ‘It means that if we don’t watch out they’ll distrain on us. God! The fool I was! But you were the bigger one. I always said you were—I know for sure now. Why didn’t you stop me from going?’

  ‘Stop you! How could I stop you, Maureen? Surely you’re not going to use that argument against me? I couldn’t have stopped you, even if I had wanted. For two reasons: you are like your mother—nothing will stop you; and even more important, I’m not the kind of person who would refuse to help your mother. I know what responsibility I took on when I signed the note. There will be some way out. Isn’t there some compensation money due to Anthony?’ he asked. He looked worried. He hadn’t expected this.

  ‘Yes! There is! But whether she has got it or not I don’t know. Mother’s like that. She wouldn’t say. Now, listen to me. We’ve got to do two things. We’ve got to get that note altered, or something. We must find some way out. And if we do, we must leave Price Street. Understand? I want to get right out of this neighbourhood altogether. Begin a new life. I’m tired of it. And if you don’t know it, you’re blind, and not only blind, but a bigger fool than I thought you were.’

  ‘Now you’re backing,’ said Mr. Kilkey. It was not often Joseph Kilkey raised his voice, but he raised it now. ‘You’re backing out. You ought to be ashamed. To hear you talk, you’d think your mother was a monster. Maureen, be sensible. Try and be decent. The excuse you all have is that this mother of yours is so terrible, so monstrous, that the only way you can live is by running away from her, as far as you can get. Nonsense! You owe a deal of respect to her. You all do. But, mean, selfish, conceited crew that you are, you haven’t even enough generosity to put in a thimble. Of course I helped your mother. I’ll help her again, if needs be. Why shouldn’t I? She is a decent woman.’

  ‘Now we’re having that all over again. All right! You do that, and I go out to work right away. I can go back to my jute factory to-morrow. Joe, be sensible, be sensible. We have our own lives to live. Don’t you see?’

  She threw her arms round his neck. She kissed him passionately. ‘Yes, you are ugly, darling, but I love you—yes, I do love you. But all the same, you must be sensible. A note came this morning from that woman Ragner.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I burnt it,’ she replied. ‘There now—the child is awake.’

  She rushed to the cradle, picked up the child, and rocked it in her arms.

  ‘Let’s go to bed, Maureen,’ said Mr. Kilkey, ‘we’ll talk about this to-morrow.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it now, or not at all,’ replied Mrs. Kilkey. ‘You don’t know what you have let yourself in for.’

  She laid the child in the cradle, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, one hand resting on her hip.

  ‘Think of something.’

  This sudden turn of events left Mr. Joseph Kilkey quite speechless. It wasn’t so much the news itself—that was startling enough—it was the thought that this woman had just come from Confession.

  ‘Maureen,’ he said, ‘haven’t you just come from the chapel?’

  He looked down at the child in the cradle, as though he were addressing it, and not his wife.

  ‘What has that to do with it?’ replied Maureen.

  ‘A lot,’ he replied. ‘How can you go to the altar in that state of mind? Besides, what you are now asking me to do is quite impossible. I can’t let your mother down now. You are asking me to break a promise I made. How contrary you are! Wasn’t it you who first took your mother to that woman? Wasn’t it you who first asked me if I would go surety? Didn’t you realize that what I did enabled your mother to pay the college authorities in Ireland? Moreover, I didn’t do it without a certain amount of misgiving. I mean, I thought, and still do think, that the fees they charged were far, far too high.’

  ‘So you’re beginning to see daylight, then,’ said Maureen, ‘What have we got to do with that? We ought to keep clear of that sort of thing. We must move from this street.’

  ‘That’s not answering my question, Maureen. Maybe I should have put my foot down at once. But I didn’t. I was sorry about your mother, and, of course, I have quite regular work. Come to think of it, this can’t go on for ever, can it? I mean, the loan your mother had will be paid back some time. But I’m not going to shuffle out of a thing like that. I couldn’t, anyhow.’

  Maureen went livid with rage.

  ‘It means you won’t—you don’t want to. I’m not thought about in the matter. Joe, are you crazy? Can’t you go and do something?’

  Joseph Kilkey laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can do something. I can go to bed. I’ve something better to do than to sit up listening to you. I have work to go to. Understand this: I can’t get out of that affair. I’m bound to stand by what I’ve done until that loan is paid. It’s no use having any regrets. You asked me, and I did it. Why did you burn the note?’

  ‘Oh! I don’t know. I just burnt it, that’s all. Oh, leave me alone. You irritate me. You get on my nerves with your soft heart, and your content, and your patience. You bore me—you drive me crazy just looking at you. You don’t care about anything. You’re content to sit here day after day and do nothing.’

  ‘What more can I do?’ asked Mr. Kilkey. ‘It would suit you much better if you sat down and thought over things coolly, instead of frittering away your time thinking of what you wanted to do, and what you might have done. I know just how you feel. At heart you don’t really like me. But you aren’t so horrid about it as your mother. You want to be off. To be doing things. You ought to settle down. You have a child—a home—and a husband: if you don’t settle down soon there’ll be something happening that you won’t like.’

  Joseph Kilkey went up to his wife, and put his arms round her.

  ‘Oh, you leave me alone,’ she shouted, pushing him off. ‘Leave me alone. Why I married you, heaven knows.’

  Joseph Kilkey burst out laughing.

  ‘You don’t know why, Maureen? You’re less honest than I thought. You married me because you were glad to get me, didn’t you? That’s why, and you know it. But you’re not contented. All your family are the same. I have a certain respect for the woman who brought up that family—but there’s a limit to that. You all want the impossible. That’s the curse of it. All want th
e impossible. What has been denied you? Only what has been denied to thousands of people. But a good many of these people have sense. They make the best of things. Get this silly idea out of your head that you’re different from anybody else. You’re not. And it only makes you restless, conceited. It gives people swelled head. Keep in mind that we’re just ordinary folk—ordinary, but sane—and we’ll get on a lot better. Look at me. I can …’

  ‘Look at you! Yes, look at you, and then look at Desmond. There’s a difference, isn’t it? How long did Desmond remain wielding a hammer? Not long. Look where he is now.’

  ‘Yes. Look where he is,’ snapped Mr. Kilkey. He had turned pale, a quite unusual thing. Maureen stepped back from him as though he were going to strike her. ‘Yes. Look at him. He can’t earn the respect of a decent man. Who wants that? I don’t. I’m not worried about Desmond. Sometimes I think that when your mother was a girl somebody poisoned her—somebody filled her with ambition. It’s pitiable, for she seems to have poisoned all her children. You’re a mean, restless, dissatisfied lot. Peter’s hardly any different. You’re all incredibly selfish, and this goes to your heads. It carries you away. The only thing one can say in your mother’s favour is that she had more spunk than her children. Maureen, we’ve been married two years. I love you very much. I love our child. I’m really happy and contented. I don’t want any change—any rushing about—any ambitions—any more than what I’ve got. Call me anything you like. I don’t care. I earn good money. I have constant work. We have a nice home. Life doesn’t last that long. Why worry? That’s the kind of a person I am. Understand? And now you’re let out properly, you’re like a stubborn little child. You’ve stolen the cake and now you’re mad because you can’t get any at the party. That’s what you’re like. Peter is working now. So is your father. There’s Anthony’s money. The old man’s pension. Many a woman with that coming in would feel she was a millionaire. Listen to me. If all you children had got together you could have helped your mother; instead, all you do is look on from a distance and hate her for the way she treated you all. Maybe she was rather impossible. But she meant well, Maureen. In her heart she meant well. You see, that helps, doesn’t it? One laughs at a man who thinks he can beat the steeplejack at his own game and only a few feet up falls on his behind—but one admires him for his courage. Maureen, if you don’t try and settle down, I don’t know what will happen.’

  He sighed, then slumped into the chair by the fire. The woman watched him stroke his bald head, and there was something about this action that seemed repulsive. It made her squirm. She stood watching him. A silence stole over the kitchen. What had made her so angry? Not Mrs. Ragner’s note. That didn’t worry Maureen overmuch. After all, that was her husband’s affair. No! But that talk she had had with her brother had opened up old sores. Nothing could have suited her better. It gave her her opportunity. Oh! But she mustn’t think about that now. Quite useless. Here was a man who, to look at him, one might imagine had a heart so soft as to melt under the touch—when really behind it all lay a deep determination. Joseph Kilkey was satisfied. And Maureen knew this. It goaded her. She hated satisfied people. Her spirit rebelled against it, fortified by the bitterness of frustration. Three times she could have married, but that mother had prevented it. Now she was married—was tied at last.

  ‘Maureen! Let’s not argue any more. You know how I loathe arguments, don’t you? Worrying makes you grow old. Try and be sensible.’

  ‘God! Don’t I try?’ she stormed at him. ‘But do you? Sometimes I wish I were a man. Yes. A man. A working man. I’d kick from the day I was born. I’d kick against everything. That’s what men should do. Kick and keep kicking. Sometimes I think we’re fools. The way we have to live. The continued scrounging—the little humiliations—the vain hopes. Christ! One should kick against the lot. D’you know what is wrong? I’ll tell you. We’re pressed together too closely. We can’t breathe. We smother each other—get on each other’s nerves—we crucify each other. Here in this street. In every street. Yes, by God! I wish I were a man. I wouldn’t be satisfied. No! No! No!’

  She threw her head back and stamped her foot upon the floor.

  ‘I used to hate Peter! I thought he was cowardly, sly—but he’s not satisfied. He is going to get what he wants. I don’t blame him either.’

  ‘All that won’t get you anywhere, Maureen. It’s not always kicking that makes men. I agree that the workers are fools. But the fact that the world is made like it is, and that some people rebel and some accept it—that doesn’t make character. It’s character that counts, Maureen, all along the line. Character. Desmond hasn’t any. Nor will Peter be able to pride himself for long, if he keeps on as he is. People make me sick. Do you know when I feel most happy? When I can come home from work of an evening and shut the door behind me. Yes. Shut all these irritating, sulky, desperate, unsatisfied people out. A simple pleasure. Well, maybe I’m blowing my own trumpet too hard. If you want to leave this house, say so, and we will shift. Not before time. I told you when I married you that we ought to have gone miles away from Hatfields.’

  ‘So you are seeing sense at last,’ said Maureen. ‘But before you go I want you to do something. I want you to go round to Mother and put it quite plain. We ought to have been freed from this obligation long ago. It’s a year gone by. You get Mother to sign a note relieving you of any responsibility—understand? You know that if you don’t we won’t be able to call our furniture our own. That’s what I want you to do.’

  ‘What has brought this about?’ asked Joseph Kilkey. ‘Has something happened? Did Peter tell you something? What is it? It’s hardly the atmosphere of a confession night.’

  ‘Peter told me nothing that I don’t already know—and that’s less than nothing. Mother has got into some queer entanglement with Mrs. Ragner, and I want to keep out of it. The best thing you can do is go round and see her.’

  ‘What! Pull the floor from under her feet and at the same time invite her out on this drive. You must think I’m crazy. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  ‘Well and good! If you think I’m going on with that thing hanging over my head, you are very much mistaken. I’ve had one experience of my own,’ she raised her voice again and shouted, ‘but we wouldn’t have any of these experiences if men had more spunk in them. The only person in Gelton who has done well out of that silly bloody strike is Mrs. Ragner and a few more like her.’

  ‘Maureen! You’re not going to the altar in the morning, surely?’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to the altar. Of course I’m not going to Holy Communion.’

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Mr. Kilkey, ‘my God!’ Quite dazed by this revelation, he walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. On the landing he again stopped, put his hand to his head, and said, ‘Oh, my God! Is Maureen losing her faith?’ Then he went into the bedroom, lit the candle, and sat down on the bed. ‘Something has happened to make that girl like this. Oh, dear God!’ he said.

  Slowly he unlaced his boots. ‘Always thinking of themselves,’ he said to himself. ‘And that poor woman. Tied for ever to that house. Not a word of complaint. Not a word. Ah! she might be foolish—even to craziness, but she’s got guts, more guts than her selfish family. Such a conceited lot.’ In imagination he could see that woman laughing. ‘Aye! She can laugh too. The same Fanny Fury. She has always a spirit. But some people want the bloody moon.’

  Hearing no sound in the kitchen, he called out from the bed, ‘Maureen, are you coming to bed? It’s very late.’

  She called back, ‘Yes. Coming now.’

  A few minutes later she reappeared, carrying the child. ‘You forgot the cradle.’

  ‘Hang it! I was so excited, I forgot all about it,’ said Mr. Kilkey and jumped out of bed.

  ‘I believe I forgot to lock the front door,’ she shouted after him.

  Joseph Kilkey, having returned with the cradle, placed it at his side of the bed. It was a habit of his, whenever the child cried, to put one foot out of
the bed and gently rock this wooden cradle—one that he had made himself. Maureen placed the child in it and then began to undress. By the light of the candle he watched her. ‘Ah!’ he thought, as his eyes fell upon her bared breast, ‘she’s everything she shouldn’t be—but she’s a woman, and a comely one too.’

  He embraced her passionately as soon as she climbed into bed. ‘I’m sorry, Maureen,’ he said, ‘if I said anything to offend you. You know I wouldn’t do that,’ and he heard the sharp intake of her breath as he put one of his cold, clammy hands between her breasts. ‘Ssh!’ he said. ‘Ssh,’ and smothered her face on his breast. ‘Ssh!’ One foot stole quietly out and began a slow gentle rocking of the cradle.

  Peter Fury had found his sister sitting on the bench behind the pulpit. There was something about its shape—about the very close, sickly smell of the chapel, that stirred repugnance in him at once. It was as though somebody had gripped him by the neck and with a sudden movement dipped him into the past—as though he had been temporarily covered with the skin of the old life. He found Maureen praying. But praying with that absent-mindedness of a person who prays rather from habit than conviction. There was something about her that betokened an attitude of faith, of respect for one’s duty—yet at the same time one sensed the blind obeisance to something never hoped to be understood. Yet it could not be said that Maureen Kilkey’s attitude towards her faith and the way of life it embodied was an indifferent one. It had reached that stage where the incomprehensible is no longer a mystery but a fact. She could sit here and say her penance with the conviction of a person who is certain as to the ultimate end. And she could pray and think at the same time. She could, indeed, whilst she murmured her prayers, talk to her brother at the same time.