by James Hanley
‘No more, Devine,’ he said. ‘I’ve got used to the limit in everything.’
‘Aye, I can see that at a glance, Fury. You were a bloody fool to turn your back on a lifetime of work like you did. You’re looking under the weather. Come for Christ Almighty’s sake. Another drink won’t do you any harm. Come on.’
And without waiting for an answer Mr. Devine called for more drinks. This gentleman’s ability to put away all that came in front of him occasioned no surprise in Mr. Fury, but the money did. The man must have had a rare pay off.
‘How long were you away on this trip?’ he asked.
‘Eleven months this,’ replied Devine. ‘Well, I’m right glad to meet you,’ and for the fifth time that morning he showed Mr. Dennis Fury what a very happy man he was. His hand came down slap on the other man’s shoulders.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘You’re looking under the weather.’ Mr. Devine could not help repeating himself so long as that old shipmate continued to sit slumped in the corner looking as though all the world’s woes had suddenly descended upon him. But it was in Mr. Fury’s nature—he could not under any circumstances whatever obliterate certain unmistakable facts. He had a home—two sons living there, a wife, an old and useless lodger, and two other children living somewhere in Gelton.
He had enjoyed himself, he had stepped upon magic ground again, his eyes had feasted upon all the old sights, he heard the same enchanting sounds again in his ears, but somehow their sparkle and brilliance became sobered and dim. ‘Hang it!’ he said to himself. He looked at this old shipmate of his, and said with an air of complete indifference, ‘Sure! I’ll have whatever you’re having.’ Yes. He was indifferent—he was going to be indifferent to every single thing but that vital matter of the ship.
‘It’s your last chance,’ a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, ‘your very last chance.’
‘Devine!’ he exclaimed. ‘When are you signing on?’
‘At three o’clock—that is just an hour and a half away. Shall we go down when we’ve finished this off?’ He picked up the glass of whisky and gulped it off at a shot.
‘Sure,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘let’s go down.’ He rose to his feet, for already he sensed a certain urgency, a certain impatience and desire to be off. To be up and doing. He couldn’t miss his chance. And besides, he had sworn and threatened that long, that to turn back could only bring derision and humiliation. No! He wouldn’t do that. He had taken the bull by the horns, and he was hanging on like hell, as though in this momentous hour his very existence depended upon it.
They went out of the public-house, Mr. Fury not too steady on his feet, a thing the big man was quick to notice. ‘Those old women have almost finished you,’ he said, laughing. He put his arm through Dennis Fury’s, and they walked slowly along the Dock Road until they came to the big gate and sighted the great iron bridge across which they must travel to reach the place where the Montmara was lying. Mr. Devine’s volubility increased as though their leisurely pace had acted as a stimulant. ‘She’s a good ship, Fury. You’ll like her. A bit rough below, but you find that in almost every ship. The pay, of course, is like all workers’ pay. Simply lousy. By my holy blessed Mother, Denny, we sailors are the simplest, kindest, easiest-going lot of cods in the whole wide world. But the funny thing is, the more we rail about our lousy pay, the more we swear about the state of things—the more we like it. You can’t do anything with sailors, that’s the devil of it. Too bloody independent. Oh—I couldn’t give up going to sea, Fury, not for a thousand pounds a week. No, sir, not me. I like it. So will you when you get into harness again. It’s most extraordinary my meeting you like this. As you say yourself, it’s a miracle.’
When they reached the bridge Mr. Devine suddenly vanished behind a goods wagon. But Fury looked out over the bridge at the ship and at the ships beyond, the ships lying in the river, head to port, head to the open sea. And he realized for the first time in three years that he was really happy. ‘Oh, it’s just great!’ Mr. Devine joined him and they walked on, Mr. Devine again supplying the opening conversation.
‘What brought you down in these parts?’ he asked.
‘What do you think? I came to look for a ship. But I must admit, Devine, I never expected to see you, and what’s more, I never expected to land in a job.’
‘Oh, you haven’t got it yet,’ said Mr. Devine in a cautionary tone. ‘Not yet.’ He smiled at Mr. Fury and went on, ‘But you haven’t told me why you came down. Have you chucked work in the sheds?’
‘I haven’t chucked anything yet,’ replied Dennis Fury. ‘I’m not so foolish as all that. I took a day off and came down here on the off-chance.’
‘Had a row at home?’ asked Mr. Devine. ‘I thought you had given the sea up for good and all. That’s what you wrote and told me once.’
‘I thought I had, but I was only kidding myself up.’
‘Here we are,’ said Devine. The two men looked up at the Montmara.
‘Not a bad-looking packet,’ remarked Dennis Fury.
‘I should think not,’ replied Mr. Devine. ‘Let’s go on board.’
‘Sure,’ said Mr. Fury. The two men climbed the gangway and disappeared through the Montmara’s open saloon door.
‘I’m here, anyhow,’ said Dennis Fury to himself. ‘I’m here at long last.’ Then he began to laugh.
‘Come on,’ called Devine, ‘I’m going for’ard. Hadn’t you best move your legs? They’ll be calling names in half an hour.’ He waved his hand, signalling the little man to hurry. Dennis Fury ran along the saloon deck. ‘This way now,’ said Devine. And at last they passed from sight. The good ship Montmara had swallowed them up.
The Montmara’s two fo’c’sles were crowded. Men sat around the table and talked. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. Mr. Fury sat with Devine, who was arguing hotly about the merits of another line of boats. It was just the kind of conversation into which any seafarer can be drawn, and it did indeed draw a group of men from the table. Mr. Fury listened. He said ‘Aye’ and ‘No,’ but never got beyond that. He was a stranger in a strange land. He felt awkward and out of place amongst all these men, many younger than himself, and there was not one of them with the exception of Devine whom he knew. The conversation waxed strong; on either side of him arms shot up in the air, fists were thumped into palms, and yet all knew that the argument would end nowhere. It was merely something to while away the time until the names were called. The atmosphere became almost intoxicating. Dennis Fury wanted to go out, but he was jammed right between two big men who seemed determined to give some finish to the argument. Were the Ailsa line steamers better than the Persian line? Mr. Fury himself didn’t know and didn’t care. Then suddenly a voice shouted up the alleyway, ‘Names; all out for’ard.’ Immediately there was a scramble. Men pushed and thrust their way out to the well deck. Only Devine and Dennis Fury were left alone in the fo’c’sle.
‘Aren’t you coming? Lord Jesus, man!’ exclaimed the big man from Ennis. ‘Show a leg.’ He pulled Mr. Fury to his feet, and those feet were leaden. For some reason or other, and that was hidden away in the unfathomable depths of Dennis Fury’s soul, he had lost courage.
‘Yes, I’m coming. But I must just dash round the corner. I won’t be long.’
‘I should think not,’ shouted. Devine. ‘Man, man, what’s wrong with you? You come down here for a job, and Christ Almighty, I get you a job. Then you go weak in the legs. Hurry up. I’ll see Frisky and tell him your name. Here! Half a minute! Your book!’
Dennis Fury pulled the blue discharge book from his pocket and handed it over. Then he dashed into the lavatory. At last. He was alone. He could sit down, and he had wanted to be alone for the past hour, just to think. Maybe he had overstepped himself, gone out of his reach. ‘Aye! I’d better think it over.’ He stood up in the empty lavatory, and opening the port-hole he looked out over the river. He felt that urge as his eyes saw the wonderful scene in front of him. Yes, the urge was there, he couldn’t smother it, but
it could be tempered by reason. ‘Ah! I’m fed up with all that bloody life up there. Why shouldn’t I go? What difference will it make?’ Yes, what difference would it make to him, who had already been fashioned by a power outside himself, a force greater than all Hatfields, than all Gelton, and all men. ‘We’ve never known each other. Never understood each other. She won’t cry. She’s tough, Fanny is—yes, if I don’t take this chance——’ A voice seemed to whisper in his ear, ‘You must. You must. You can’t deny yourself.’
He could indeed slip back; by taking a few steps he could land back in number three Hatfields. He could get into harness again. He could go to work every morning at six o’clock and come home at five. He could read his papers, listen to Fanny talking about the past—there was never mention of any future, unless it be in that dreamworld of her faith—yes, he could do that. Swallow the anchor for good and all. Bury himself between bricks and mortar again. See the same faces, hear the same voices. Hear the same arguments, listen to the old regrets. By a mere word and a single movement he could shut out all that now lay before him—those wide waters and tall ships, those faces of men. Have done with it. ‘But I said I was going. To hell with it! If I go back on my word, that’s the finish. She’ll never cease to rub it into me.’ Rather a lame excuse, he thought. Yes, he was simply shirking round the problem.
There was that woman in Hatfields, that passionate life, as deep as the life of the sea, to which he owed allegiance. She was his wife, Fanny Fury. He loved her. In the midst of this contemplation he was seized with agitation or desperation that cried for outlet. And already that man Devine was kicking at the door. More, he was thundering through the ventilator, ‘They’re calling your name, Fury. For the love of the living Christ!’ The door opened. Mr. Fury gave one look at Devine, and from this look alone he found just what he wanted. Yes. There was something about Mr. Devine which seemed to say, ‘Come on! Come on! or you’re lost.’
Mr. Fury stepped out of the lavatory. ‘Thanks, Devine,’ he said, white-faced, stammering, his hands trembling. ‘I thought I was taken bad. Where’s the bloody book?’
‘Where’d you expect it could be, except in that second’s hands? Let me tell you that that second is a hard man. You’ll like him for everything except his bloody drive. Ah! the son of a bitch makes you work. Well, we all have to do that or stick our bloody toes up,’ and he pushed Mr. Fury right ahead.
There could be no going back, no surrender, no retreat. He felt that big hand in the small of his back, and there was only one thing to do. Go forward. It almost seemed as though Mr. Devine himself had sensed that hesitating, wayward spirit, as if he realized in a sudden flash that this Mr. Dennis Fury was now, at this last and vital moment, afraid of the very thing for which every fibre of his body longed.
‘Here you are,’ he said, pushed Mr. Fury into the group of men, and then vanished. And there was the second engineer himself.
‘Fury,’ he called. It seemed like the voice of some ghost, spirited out of the past.
‘Here, sir,’ he replied, and stepped forward.
A pair of very brown eyes looked down at this prodigal son. Those eyes wandered from Dennis Fury’s hard hat to his highly polished brown shoes. This man was a family man. No doubt about that. Then he looked at Mr. Fury’s hands. ‘Doctor,’ he said gruffly, and pushed him to one side. The second engineer was satisfied. A man’s dress meant nothing, his face less, but his hands meant everything to a man like the second. He had a flair for hands, and he knew at once that Dennis Fury could work. He was a fireman born. Looked a bit tender here and there, but maybe the man had been out of a ship for a long time. He would do. It only remained for the doctor to do his duty. He examined six more books, put them in his capacious pocket, and then said, ‘You fellers go amidships, the doctor’s waiting there. All set.’
The men went off. The engineer went into the fo’c’sle to confer with his greaser. Mr. Fury passed into the saloon with the other men.
Well, he had done it. It was all over bar the signing. He had actually passed the doctor at sixty years of age.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’ll Fanny say now?’ Aye, what would she? And he felt a little thrill pass through him. He could show her, and what was more, he could show his sons, just what he, Dennis Fury, could do when he set his mind to a thing. He still felt that strange loneliness of being on alien ground. He sat on a settee in the saloon, expecting, hoping every minute that his friend would appear.
‘Damn! I’m getting quite neish,’ he said to himself. ‘What’s come over me at all?’ Yes, just what had come over him? This flinging everything into the melting-pot.
Then Devine came through the door. He sat down and slapped his thighs, exclaiming, ‘I hear you’ve got through, Fury. You see what you hid behind those old bones of yours, Denny my boy. The things you’ve been missing while you’ve been stuck away in that bloody old railway. When I think that twenty, ten, even five years ago, we were shipmates together. As soon as we get those notes we’re going to celebrate. Aye!’ And he gave vent to one of his bouts of boisterous laughter. ‘What was wrong with you this morning, Fury? I thought you’d gone a bit loopy. So help me Christ, I did. Ah! Give me the bloody life that keeps the curl in your hair. How is the missus these days?’ It was the first time he had mentioned Dennis Fury’s wife. Mr. Fury seemed startled. He hadn’t expected any enquiries about his house.
‘Oh! she’s all right,’ he replied. ‘Middling, you know. I have another son at sea now, you know—Peter, the youngest boy. I don’t know how he’s shaping.’
‘You’ve a daughter married too, haven’t you, Fury?’ continued Mr. Devine. He was quite casual in his remarks, as though he didn’t much care whether Mr. Fury had a daughter or not. This sudden change in the conversation came about through the simple fact that his boisterous spirit, his natural enthusiasm, had, for the moment retired to rest. Later it would assert itself, probably in the bar parlour of the nearest public-house.
‘Devine,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘I’ve taken a leap all right. Things at home aren’t exactly to my liking. When I came down here this morning, it was with the determination to get a ship at all costs. Even to take a jump. And if I hadn’t got one——’
‘Well, what would you have done?’ asked Devine.
Mr. Fury remained silent. He was listening to a stentorian voice shouting, ‘Pass through, all those whose names are called.’ Devine jumped to his feet at once. ‘Right forward,’ he said, and what Dennis Fury might have done remained a secret, locked for ever in that little man’s soul. They lined up with the other men. And when at last they stood in front of the table, Dennis Fury knew that everything was sealed. ‘Four pounds,’ said the man behind the papers. ‘Sign here.’ He pushed a pen into Mr. Fury’s hand, a hand that trembled and shook with a mixture of fear and joy as he wrote slowly along the line, ‘Dennis Fury.’ An advance note was pushed at him and he picked it up, thrusting it into his pocket without even looking at it. ‘What have I done?’ he asked himself as awkwardly, blindly he stumbled out of the saloon on to the deserted deck and leaned over the rail.
‘Well! I’ve done it, and that’s all,’ he said aloud, looking down into the dirty waters of the river. ‘I’ve changed everything.’ That woman would cry, she’d stamp and rage, she’d goad, and shout and carry on.
‘But I’ve done it all the same, I’ve finished with all that; she thought I wouldn’t turn a hair—wouldn’t move. Ah! God—Fanny’s like steel—like solid stone—she just wouldn’t give up that lad—no she wouldn’t. She’ll hang on to him till the very end.’ Let her hang on—he would still be the head of the house—his money would turn up just as regularly. There was hardly any difference anyhow. They wouldn’t see much of each other. But that hardly mattered. The woman had long ago, for some mysterious reason, withdrawn into herself. It couldn’t go on. He was sorry—yes, to the depths of his heart he was sorry. He had tried. It was no use. Fanny didn’t care so long as she got her own way.
‘I�
�ll never forget the money I had up that chimney. Never.’
The memory of that discovery fortified him. It justified everything he had done. And he need not consider any of the other things. No, none of them.
‘Dreaming again? Good Jesus, man! Come along, everything’s set for the spree.’
Here Mr. Fury hesitated. He was like Devine, a happy man. He had signed on a ship. He had a job. And he was sailing at eight o’clock on Friday evening. But he hesitated.
‘I’m only going to have one pint, Devine,’ he said, moving away from the Montmara’s rail. ‘One more pint. I’m really teetotal. I hardly touch anything but beer, Devine. One pint a night, and one at Sunday dinner.’
Mr. Devine flung his hands towards the sea. All opposition was swept away, all reason and reckoning. Mr. Devine was going to celebrate, and so, too, was Mr. Dennis Fury. He would see to that all right. Trust him.
‘I’ll carry you home,’ he exclaimed laughingly. ‘Lord Jesus, man, the railway has almost ruined you. Isn’t it the grandest thing that I met you this morning? Isn’t it now? For heaven’s sake say something, man—oh, blast it, I will believe the woman has sat on you. Really believe it. Come on, man.’
He put his arm through Mr. Fury’s and dragged him off towards the gangway. Then when they reached the Dock Road Mr. Devine said, ‘I am going to get a cab. We’re going into town.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘I am going home. I’ll have one pint with you and then I’m off.’ So that’s how the fellow was going to celebrate!
‘You can celebrate for me when you get into town,’ remarked Dennis Fury, who was now talking into the empty air, for his friend had already gone off to look for a cab. He found one half-way up Bankhill, and in it he returned. The cabby was smiling, Mr. Devine was smiling. Opening the door, the big man got out, caught hold of Mr. Fury, gave him a push, and before the astounded man realized what had happened he found himself sitting in the cab, wedged tight against the bodywork by the pressure of his friend’s bulk. The cabby gave a pull on the reins, and the horse, giving a somewhat angry stamp upon the cobbles, at length moved off. They were off! Workmen passing by looked in at the two men—the one almost doubled up against the side of the cab, the other sitting upright and assertive, apparently feeling in a very expansive frame of mind, for his face was broadened by a smile that showed his big horse-like teeth almost black from chewing tobacco. His hands rested on his knees, and an enthusiastic, impatient pair of eyes looked out through the space that was bounded by the horse’s rear. He was a man who was happy, who was going off on a spree, irresponsible and gay, and he had beside him an old shipmate whom he glanced at every now and again out of the corner of his eye as he said encouragingly, ‘Sit up, Fury, for Jesus’ sake. Don’t you want to see the sights? You’re missing everything. Shake a leg there.’