by James Hanley
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 goi
ng 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.’
‘If you’d move that behind of yours just a little, Devine,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘I might be able to get my hand in my pocket and get my pipe out. Then maybe I’ll join you in seeing the sights.’ He pushed forward, and the bulk at his side gave way a little. He pulled out his pipe, smoothed tobacco out in his hand, and filling the pipe lighted it, and began filling the cab with the bluest smoke that ever came out of tobacco.
‘What are you staring at, Devine?’ said Mr. Fury.
‘Sit up, man, for the love of God, and don’t look as if you were going to a bloody funeral. I half believe you’re feeling sorry for yourself, Fury, really I do.’
‘Not me, Devine,’ replied Mr. Fury through his teeth, which was about all that could now be seen by Mr. Devine. The upper part of Dennis Fury was lost in clouds of smoke. The man seemed to smoke furiously and desperately, as though it were the last pipeful he were ever going to smoke. Puff after puff, cloud after cloud. Mr. Devine by sheer bulk might have filled that cab with himself, but Mr. Dennis Fury had almost obliterated him in smoke. Meanwhile the cab rolled and bumped over the cobbles. Once or twice their apparently unwilling horse shied for no particular reason, an action that caused Mr. Devine more genuine concern than all the thunderous rolling of a thousand ships. A ship, and not a cab, was the only thing that might roll.
‘It’s taking us a hell of a time to get wherever you’re going,’ exclaimed Mr. Fury after a long silence, to which the other replied that in ten minutes they would be at their destination.
‘And where is that?’
‘“The Trough and Maiden,”’ replied Mr. Devine, ‘where a sailor can get the best drinks in Gelton—and if he requires it, the nicest girl too. But that don’t apply to you, Fury, Lord Christ, no. That only applies to me. You see, Fury, a man feels bucked when he gets complimented, and you paid me a very nice one this morning. But here we are, big boy, here we are-e-o!’
The cab had pulled up with a sudden jerk. Both men got out, Mr. Fury stretching himself after the crampedness of the last forty minutes, whilst Mr. Devine paid the cabby the fare. They were in town again. Mr. Fury hesitated. One had to be reasonable in all things. He mustn’t lose his head entirely. It was so easy for a man like himself to go over the border, so to speak. He hadn’t celebrated for years. He wasn’t the man he was—he was, in fact, quite tender in all the vital parts, and he could not forget, either, the dramatic circumstances that had landed him in his present position. He must be reasonable. He had said he was going for a ship, and he had got one. Well, then, in all reason he ought to return home, place his advance note on the table, and say to Fanny, ‘There you are! Sailing on Friday. I told you.’
‘I’ll have one pint only,’ said Dennis Fury, ‘I’m sticking to that. One pint only. If you haven’t any responsibilities you’re lucky—but I have, and as soon as I’ve had my pint I’m off.’ He looked determined, as Mr. Devine saw at once.
‘I shan’t lead you astray, Fury my boy. Why should I? But, jumping Jesus, man, you can come and have a drink, can’t you? In we go, right through.’
The two men went in. The door swung to behind them.
It was not until after five o’clock that Mr. Dennis Fury emerged, not on the arm of his generous friend but on the arm of a decrepit-looking woman who apparently imagined that this insignificant-looking person with his hard hat almost covering one eye was a recent arrival from far-distant shores, and one maybe who was in need of a little temporary affection. Mr. Devine himself was fast asleep, and the combined efforts of three barmen could not make any impression upon a customer who, though a very good one, had now served his purpose, and having done so was an inconvenience not only to them but to the licencee herself, who wanted him off the premises. Both men had evidently imbibed far more than was good for them. One was content to sleep peacefully so far—but Mr. Fury, who had now reached the street, had only one wish, and that was to lie down somewhere and be sick. The decrepit-looking female who had so naïvely offered to assist the barman divined by some means or other that this was what he wanted to do. ‘Hold up, dearie,’ she said, putting her arm round Mr. Fury’s waist. ‘If you want to be sick there’s the place round the corner.’ And without waiting for any reply she dragged the man round the corner and with one push landed him inside the convenience. He could be sick in there, and she could wait, sentry-like, outside. As soon as he emerged she would tootle him off in a cab, he of course paying the fare, and together in the security of her top room they might indulge in confidences. Mr. Fury seemed a genuine find.
Time passed, but the man did not appear. At that moment a policeman ambled along and took up a stand right opposite the convenience. The woman at once sheered off. It was not quite diplomatic to stand outside such a place, especially when one was subject to the stares of a policeman. A few minutes after she had gone the policeman followed her.
Meanwhile Dennis Fury leaned against the slate wall, his mind befogged, his stomach protesting against the ill treatment of the last four hours. He still wanted to be sick, he couldn’t think of anything else, and his wide-open eyes saw nothing but the notice in front of him, a jumble of quite meaningless words. Somebody came in then, saw the man quite helpless and took his arm. Dennis Fury went quite willingly. The man led him along to a tram-stop. After much trouble he elicited from the fuzzled and helpless man that he wanted to go home.
‘But where?’
‘Hatfields—Hat …’ and for the sixth time Mr. Fury’s hand shot quickly to his mouth.
‘Right,’ said the man. He stopped a tram, and said to the driver, ‘This old chap’s had one too many. He has money and wants to get to Hatfields. Will you see him through?’
‘Yes,’ replied the tram conductor, winking at the man, ‘shove him up.’
A few minutes later Dennis Fury was speeding homewards, a quite different person from that which had emerged so sturdily and respectably from the front door of number three Hatfields. His hard hat sat perilously over one eye, his white collar was crumpled, the tie hung out over the vest, his boots were splashed and the blue serge suit much stained. He was as white as chalk, his eyes mirrored a wholly weary spirit, and yet, though he returned a different man from what he had set out, he had tasted glory.
The tram bumped and rocked and roared until it came to the hill at Mile Road. Here it changed its tactics. It groaned, it shrieked, it sent sparks flying from its wheels, it seemed to stop as though for a break, then with a dull roar moved on again. The conductor kept his eye upon Mr. Fury,
he having managed to extract, not without difficulty, the lawful fare from his pockets. Mr. Fury bobbed to and fro; once his hard hat fell off, but the obliging conductor put it on again. He had a tram-ticket stuck in his hand. ‘Here we go.’ The conductor lifted Mr. Fury up, carried him out of the car and deposited him on the side-walk. He called the attention of the first person he saw, and this happened to be a barefooted boy about fourteen years of age.
‘Hey! Hold on to him,’ said the conductor, ‘and tell the first man you see that this fellow wants to go to Hatfields. The man is tight.’
Then he went back to his car. The boy looked at Mr. Fury. He recognized him, not as the head of the household of number three, but as a person who was acquainted with the owner of a sweet-shop. The boy grabbed Mr. Fury’s arm and said, ‘Come on, Dad.’
Mr. Fury’s brain was slowly beginning to clear. The desire to be sick was not so strong as it had been. Every now and then the boy allowed the man to lean against the wall. Slowly they moved on—Mr. Fury maintaining silence, the boy encouraging with his ‘Come on now, Dad,’ and at last they reached St. Sebastian Place. At the corner of this small place stood the sweet-shop and general store of a lady who went by the name of Miss Biddy Pettigrew.