The Furys Read online

  ‘How did it happen?’ he asked suddenly, pushing his plate from him.

  ‘Happen? God knows! I have only the wire here and …’

  ‘I’m talking about Anthony,’ he growled back at her. ‘What’s up with the lad? He fell from the mast. Wonder he wasn’t killed. When’s he coming home? Did Lake say?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say. I told you what happened at dinner-time, but you were in too much of a hurry to get out. Isn’t Peter your son too? One might expect …’ She stopped. What more was there to say? She had realized this impasse from the beginning. He wasn’t interested in Peter. Didn’t she know why. Only too well. But not to show a sign. Not to appear affected by the news. Heavens! She said coldly, ‘After seven years he’s failed. Have you no sympathy for anybody? What about the boy himself? Denny, what’s the matter with you lately?’ What a peculiar expression he was wearing. Of course, he was tired. Working all day. But to treat Peter’s affair like that. It overwhelmed her. She was angry again. Why couldn’t he open his mouth? Three times she had told him about the boy. And he had said nothing. If he hadn’t any feeling, perhaps he had at least a little decency. She might well have been talking to the floor-mat, on which her feet were now noiselessly stamping. She thought – seven years’ struggle. All gone. Like a flash. ‘Denny!’ Mrs Fury’s voice softened a little as she uttered this single word. Her husband looked up at last. If only she did her talking when the family was at home. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Well, what is it this time?’ He saw her face darken with anger. She thumped the table with her clenched fist. She became agitated once more. She was working herself up into a frenzy. She thumped the table again with her fist. Her eyes flashed.

  ‘I tell you the lad’s failed. That’s the fourth time. And you haven’t a word to say. Not a word. All I have done for that boy. Denny! Denny! Please say something.’ The man sat back in the chair as she cried out, ‘Say something.’ Her anger could hold itself no longer.

  ‘Well, I told you,’ said Mr Fury. He fidgeted in his chair. Comforting words, thought the woman. Mr Fury continued.

  ‘I told you all along. Didn’t I warn you? It will prove to you that you cannot drag a horse to drink if he isn’t thirsty. Neither can you make a man go to the altar if he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘Denny! Denny!’

  ‘Confound you! Why do you start these discussions every time I come home? It’s been the same with every one in the family, and you know it. I’m tired of them. I’ve been working hard all day, and I tell you I’m in no mood for rows of any kind. I’m not going to sit here listening to what you have to say about Peter. I suppose the other lad might well freeze to death for all you care. Serve you right. Serve you right.’ He got up and pushed his chair back to the wall. Then he asked suddenly, ‘Do the others know?’ When he looked across the kitchen, his wife was crying. He went up to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Fanny,’ he said. ‘Listen to me. Don’t you take on so about things. You gain nothing by it. The only thing to do now is to get the lad home. Right away.’

  The woman jumped to her feet. What? She faced up to him. She thrust her face up against his own.

  ‘Get him home. Heavens! That’s all you have to say. Get him home. Can’t you say something else? Try and think a little. Look at the disappointment to me. And is it the boy’s fault? How do we know? We know nothing yet.’ Mr Fury put an arm out and slowly pushed his wife back towards the sofa. She sat down, he looking down at her.

  ‘No.’ he said, with great bitterness. ‘No. It’s not the boy’s fault. It’s yours!’ There. He had said it now. It had lain in his heart for so long. And now he had said it, and the bitterness had gone with it. He had carried this thing about with him for years, like an everlasting wound. And he knew it was the bitter truth. It had suffocated him. Well, it was said and over. Cruel. Yes. But what else could he have said? He looked down pityingly at the woman. She appeared to have grown smaller. She sat there, her face buried in her hands. The man looked at the other figure in the chair, then at his wife. ‘Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fanny! Fanny! You’ll get over this. You’ll overcome this bitter disappointment like you’ve overcome other things.’ She answered him with sobs, and a periodic uttering of the word ‘Peter’. Mr Fury sat down by her side.

  ‘I told you,’ he went on. ‘Didn’t I, Fanny? Tell the truth. Didn’t I say you would never make a priest of him? A Fury a priest. Silly. Silly. Impossible. Now you know it.’ He dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the inert figure of the old man in the chair. And now the lad had better come home at once. He could prepare to soil his fine hands too. He could roll up his sleeves with the rest of the children and get to work. The same as John had done, and Anthony, and Desmond. The woman laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Look at him! Look at his wife!’

  ‘Look at them? Well, what about them?’ asked Mr Fury.

  ‘Will you get out and leave me alone. You have as much feeling as a stone. Good God! You’re always tired. You’re always fed up. No wonder the men on the ship led you a dog’s life. Day in and day out you’re always the same. Don’t want to be worried. Don’t want to be disturbed. Because you’re tired. Oh!’ She laid emphasis on the word ‘tired’. She laughed again. Suddenly she turned round and struck him across the mouth with her open hand. The man drew back. He did not speak. He got off the sofa and stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at her. He knew it all along. He had seen it coming. The difficulty with him was finding a way out. He had had these rows before. Once it started it went on and on interminably. He already felt himself entangled in the old web.

  ‘Hang it all,’ he said savagely. ‘It’s over and done with. Peter must come home and take his place with the rest of the family.’ The woman broke in then. ‘Yes,’ she remarked coldly. ‘You’re satisfied now. You feel you’ve been right all along, don’t you? You’re all satisfied. Treated me like a dog. The lot of you. You’ve all done it ever since that child went to Ireland. Ah! Don’t you deny it. You know it. Now you feel you’ve triumphed. You’ll have him like the rest. Like Desmond perhaps – like Maureen. My God!’

  Mr Fury was gradually losing hold on himself. It wasn’t so much the thing said, as what grew out of it. And all these arguments seemed to him to be ringed round with a desperate maddening futility. They started anywhere and ended nowhere. He threw his hands into the air. ‘Look here, Fanny. Why don’t you try to see things from other angles besides your own? Whoever prevented the lad from going to college? I didn’t, and you know it. I was away at the time. I never even heard a word about it until it was done. As for the others, they’ve been too busy to bother. Yes. Too busy to bother.’

  ‘That’s been the trouble all along,’ replied his wife. ‘The effort I had to make to keep him there. Did any of you help? Not a penny. Not even a kind word. The lad had simply ceased to exist for the lot of you. I know. You needn’t think I am as blind as all that. The lad in Ireland is ruined.’

  ‘Who ruined him?’ growled Mr Fury. ‘I say, who ruined him? Only yourself.’ He went on, but now he could not hear his own words, for his wife was yelling like a child. He rushed into the hall, picked up his cap and went out. He saw the evening newspaper on the hat-rack and stuffed it in his pocket. The woman was talking to herself. The words rang sharply in his ears. The sound of her voice seemed to follow him up the street. He entered the public-house, ordered a pint of beer and sat down. ‘What a woman!’ he said. When he put his hand to his forehead he found it covered with sweat. ‘Poor Anthony. Poor Anthony. A good lad that.’ The barman placed the beer in front of him. ‘Thanks,’ Mr Fury said.

  Damn it! He couldn’t drive away the sound of that harsh rasping voice. ‘Fanny is getting impossible,’ he said. He picked up his glass and drank greedily.

  CHAPTER II

  1

  The Furys had lived in Hatfields for thirty years. The row of houses, whose fronts faced the long King’s Road, was counted to be th
e oldest property in that neighbourhood. Their rears faced the river. Those thirty back doors facing the sea were like so many dogs, barking out their defiance of time and change. They stood erect, solid as rock. Immune. Surrounding properties had been pulled down, new buildings erected, and these in turn had surrendered to the industrial flood, but Hatfields remained erect. The Furys were a large family. Their first child, Maureen, had been born in number three; Mr Fury was away at sea at the time. The last child, Peter, too, and again Mr Fury was at sea. Dennis Fury had come over from Dublin as a young man in order to find work in Gelton. He had been lodging with an Irish family for some months when he met his wife, Fanny Mangan. Mr Fury’s tale was not exceptional. Indeed, he was only one of many thousands who left Ireland to earn his living. He was not without friends. Gelton was full of Irish people. The Irish tale of drift in his case meant the sea, as in Fanny Mangan’s case it meant domestic service. For months Dennis Fury hung around the docks looking for a ship. It was on one of these hunting trips that he met his wife. She was a servant in the home of a wealthy Gelton cotton-broker. She herself had left County Cork at the age of twelve in order to make her way in the world. At least it showed her independence, and she was only two weeks in the city before she found herself the valued servant of this Protestant family. Her people were shocked. All communications with her mother ceased. In time her sisters and brothers adopted the same attitude, all excepting her youngest sister, Brigid Mangan. In spite of the horror which her action had inspired, she still continued to send money home to her mother, but no letters ever passed between them. Her leaving home was indeed the first glimmer of that independence and determination which was to carry her through the eventful years of her married life. Dennis Fury meanwhile floated about the city like a cork upon water, waiting and hoping for some release. Only a ship could deliver him. If Fanny Mangan’s family had been shocked on hearing of her being employed by an English Protestant family, Mr Fury’s people had betrayed no sign that their son’s sudden departure from home had made any rift in their little world. He was gone and forgotten. He had married Miss Mangan on the eve of his first voyage to sea. During all those years at sea Mr Fury had never forgotten the incident that had thrown this young girl in his path. It was on the deck of a pleasure steamer one summer’s evening that Dennis Fury first met the woman who was to share his life. Fanny Mangan was accompanied by her employers, a Mr and Mrs Pettigrew, and their youngest child. The girl had her attention drawn to a Pierrot troupe who were performing on the open deck. Unseen, the child in her charge had slipped through the rail. There was a sudden scream. Without a moment’s hesitation the girl flung herself into the river, and battling against the strong running current managed to reach the child. A second later a man jumped over the rail and swam to the woman and child. Willing hands hauled them to safety, the ship’s boat was drawn up, and the rescued put to bed. Mr Fury always remembered how as he held the girl’s head clear of the water she opened her eyes wide and looked at him. He had never seen such large brown eyes. In them he saw mirrored his own destiny. A month later they were married, and the following day Dennis made his first trip to sea. In this marriage Fanny Mangan found her goal. With it the silence between her family in Cork and herself was sealed. Then her youngest sister, Brigid, left home to work in one of the suburbs of that city. They corresponded regularly, a hidden bond of sympathy existed between them, an unbreakable bond that had been sealed from early childhood. Mrs Fury’s leaving home had been necessitous. Originally destined for the priest’s house at Forley, she had thrown up the work after only one day, and settled down with the Pettigrews. Without home, without friends, the meeting with Dennis Fury was a miracle. She became absorbed in her new life. They went to live in Hatfields. Maureen was born. The child became at once a barrier against the loneliness of her life, for her husband was away ten months in every year. She adored Maureen. The family increased. Now she watched them grow up. When Desmond was born the long silence between her family in Ireland and herself was broken, by the news of the death of her mother. This news came from her sister Brigid. Great changes, she learned, had taken place. Her two brothers had emigrated to America, and her father was now left alone. Brigid wrote of her inability to look after him. He was getting more awkward to live with in his advancing years. Fanny Mangan decided at once that she must bring her father over to Gelton. This was accomplished in the face of much opposition on her husband’s part. He had never liked Mr Mangan. Asked his reason for this dislike, which appeared to grow stronger with the passing years, Dennis Fury could give no answer. It would be true to say that Mr Fury did not know why. The Fury family grew up. Desmond was followed by three more boys, John, Anthony, and Peter. With the addition of her father, Mrs Fury found her hands full. She was never idle. Desmond was working on the railway as a plate-layer; John had, until his death at work, been a stevedore at the docks; Anthony was a quartermaster at sea. Maureen, until the time of her marriage, had been working in a jute factory.

  The last child, Peter, Mrs Fury adored. He seemed to her to be so different from the others. The woman, whose ambitions had long been thwarted by what she was wont to describe as her husband’s ‘lack of character’, realized at once that Peter was something for her alone. Something to mould. Someone who would shine out differently from the rest of the family. The spirit within her, long buried, suddenly took fire. This son was going to be different. Peter must be a priest. At first Mr Fury protested. Why should this son be singled out for special favours denied to the others? Mrs Fury was equal to the occasion. Why had they been denied to the others? He himself knew best. Dennis Fury had nothing to say. He half believed that his wife was right, though his every word and deed only revealed the resentment against what he called his wife’s ‘crazy Irish idea’. The woman was determined. She broke down all opposition. Her ambitions had been buried too long. Her husband retired, he had nothing more to say. He ceased to take any interest in Peter. He watched the others, though indeed he saw little of them, being away at sea except for an occasional three-day holiday ashore whilst his ship was loading cargo or being overhauled in dry dock. But he saw a change in the other brothers. They alienated Peter from their affections. They looked down on him, at the same time secretly hating their mother for this sudden bestowal of favours never offered to themselves. Desmond said that it wasn’t fair to the boy himself. Mrs Fury felt as though her eldest son had dealt her a blow. Wasn’t fair to Peter? What on earth was he thinking about? But Anthony agreed with his brother. He said it was up to Peter. He knew best. Did he want to go away? Did he really want to go in for the Church? A veritable web spun itself about the mother. Only one person stood outside it. The silent figure of her father. He sat and watched. His ferret-like grey eyes studied each member of the household. He was the silent witness. The family took little notice of him. All excepting Mr Fury. He hated these ceaseless arguments in the old man’s presence. He even fancied that Mr Mangan found a sort of malicious glee in this overpowering daughter of his as he watched her, day in and day out, weigh down all opposition. Arguments she wiped out with a single word. Suggestions were useless. Mr Fury would sit watching old Mr Mangan and say to himself: ‘How much do you know, old devil? Aren’t you laughing behind that sallow-looking face of yours?’ He was certain that behind this mask, this skin which clothed his personality, Mr Mangan really smiled, really laughed, as he saw the ruthlessness of his daughter. This daughter who years ago had defied him. Now here she was, the mother of a large family. And that family had touched almost every part of the globe. ‘Yes,’ Mr Fury would repeat to himself, ‘I’d like to know what you are thinking, you old devil.’ Somehow he himself managed to steer clear of this great net. Her children were imprisoning her. She knew it, and her mind began to work. She made huge rents in this web they had spun about her. Her mind was imprisoned. If she didn’t watch out she would be suffocated. Her children looked on, amused, indifferent. They tried to get Peter to themselves. Often they questioned him. Did he hone
stly want to go? Did he realize all that it would involve, the sacrifice, the isolation – did he understand? The boy said nothing.

  They became more suspicious. Why didn’t he speak his mind? It was impossible to understand him. He was like a drugged person. They could get nothing out of him. He maintained a stony silence. He had the stubbornness of his mother. Desmond accused him of hiding something. Why didn’t he speak out? They weren’t going to kill him. Mrs Fury witnessed these things, but she never betrayed her feelings. She remained calm and unruffled. Her spirit flamed. She would triumph. One day Anthony said straight out, ‘He is only doing this to please you.’ Mrs Fury lost her calm at once. She became angry. It was insulting. The others ceased to take any interest in Peter. His father ignored him. He was away at sea on the day that Mrs Fury saw her son off on the Cork boat. Then began the long series of humiliations. At first Mrs Fury only hinted, then cajoled, later still demanded. The children laughed in her face. And yet, they were responsive. There might be something in it after all, they thought to themselves, refusing to acknowledge their own weakness, for Mrs Fury had discovered the vulnerable in them. A sort of insane optimism prompted their actions. One never knew. The mother was winning. Those working contributed towards the boy’s board and fees, when they were out of work they would be excused. They gave with unwilling hands. It was all a sop. Their ideas had changed again. They could see nothing in it. Mrs Fury secretly smiled. She could mow down these obstacles in her path. She became sympathetic, listened to them. It was silly, more than silly, they said. It was sheer madness. Besides, they couldn’t remain in Hatfields for ever. The woman thought, ‘Ah! That was it.’ She had scented this. How long ago was it, she began to ask herself, since she had first heard this disturbing rumble? It was so close to her now. Almost deafening. She tried to gain their confidence. They withdrew, saying nothing. The eldest son was becoming restive. Then suddenly Maureen revealed her secret. She would be getting married soon. The mother remained calm. This was no crisis. H’m! She had seen worse than this. Yet she knew that the net was beginning to give under the weight. She could not deny it. How to prevent it? Maureen became expansive. Her husband was a young man from County Clare. He worked on the docks. Mrs Fury became inquisitive. Strange, she thought. Her suspicions of Desmond appeared to be correct. What hand had he had in this? A conspiracy? She thought they were together in the evenings for the purposes of their work. She had an idea it was something connected with politics, but she wasn’t sure. This Kilkey fellow worked at the docks. John had known him too.