The Furys Read online

  ‘A minute, child. We’re all going your way.’

  ‘What about “him”?’ asked Mr Fury, pointing to the huddled figure of Mr Mangan. Ah! She hadn’t thought of that. She looked appealingly at Maureen. Could she stay? Maureen was embarrassed. Well, Joe would be expecting her. She hadn’t been in the whole evening. Perhaps …

  ‘We’ll take him with us,’ said Mrs Fury.

  ‘Good God, woman! That’s impossible! It’s impossible!’ shouted Mr Fury. He looked savagely at his wife. Then he turned to Maureen.

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Why can’t you oblige your mother for once? You know she wants to meet the lad, and so do I. Can’t you stay with your granddad? We’ll be back inside an hour.’ Maureen remained adamant. No. She really couldn’t. Besides, it didn’t require two people to meet Peter, and Aunt Brigid knew her way. She had been in Gelton before. Mr Fury flung his cap on the table. ‘To hell with it!’ he said, and sat down. Mrs Fury swore under her breath. ‘Maureen,’ she said, then suddenly stopped. ‘How could Joe go out and his wife like that? Expecting a child soon,’ she was thinking. Mr Fury said, ‘Well, what’s it going to be, in or out? We’re getting later every minute.’ Maureen crossed over to the window. ‘It’s a filthy night,’ she said. Mrs Fury shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Off you go, Maureen. Get off home to your husband. Don’t keep him waiting for you.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Denny, come here a minute.’ She was bending over her father’s chair. ‘Give a hand here,’ she said. Maureen slipped out into the back kitchen and left the house. Mr Fury went across to his wife. ‘But heavens above!’ he exclaimed; ‘the man can’t stand up!’ Mrs Fury gnashed her teeth. ‘How the devil do you think I manage him on a Friday? Of course he can stand. He’s not as helpless as all that. Put your arm under his shoulder. There.’

  They stood the old man up. ‘Er – er –’ he grunted. Mr Fury cursed inwardly at this turn in the situation. Why had he ever mentioned the old fool? Landed himself in this. He looked at his wife. ‘You’re crazy, Fanny; you’re crazy! He can’t walk. And the job we’ll have with him on the car! It’s madness. Besides which, the night is filthy. It’ll kill him.’

  ‘Come along,’ Mrs Fury said. ‘Get his hard hat from the rack. And his raincoat. Mangans won’t lie down, Denny. Don’t forget that.’ Mr Fury went out for the old man’s outdoor things. When he came into the kitchen, his wife was wiping her father’s face with a wet flannel. Christ! What a stubborn bitch of a woman she was! ‘Here.’

  ‘Then give a hand,’ she replied, as he held out the coat and hat. ‘Take this away.’ She almost flung the flannel into his face. But Mr Fury only said, ‘You’ll never do it, and in the end you’ll miss this bloody boat, and serve you right.’

  ‘Shut your mouth! Are you ready?’

  Between them they half carried the old man to the door. After much confusion they managed to get off the step into the street. ‘Go back and lock the place up,’ Mrs Fury said. She held her father up against the wall until her husband came out. He put an arm around Mr Mangan. Half dragging, half carrying the old man between them, they made their way slowly down the street. A periodic grunting from this bent figure caused them to stop twice, whilst Mrs Fury wiped her father’s eyes and nose. It was now pouring with rain. Some doors opened, a shaft of sickly yellowish light streamed out upon the murky pavements. The three figures stumbled into this light. A man came and stood at the door to watch them pass. He shouted into the kitchen, ‘Look at this,’ and he was joined by another man and a woman. All three stood on the step watching the snail-like progress of the Furys from number three. Mr Fury already felt this trio of eyes boring into the back of his head. Like the old man beside him, he was seized with a sudden longing for obscurity. He lowered his own head. Mrs Fury seemed oblivious of everything excepting the weight upon her right arm. They reached the bottom of the street.

  ‘Did you put out the gas-stove in the back?’ she asked.

  A sort of low mumble was all the reply she received. Now they were approaching the main road. Mr Fury suddenly wished that the earth might open and swallow him up – if not himself, then this dragging helpless figure in the middle. How on earth did Fanny manage the fellow on a Friday? ‘She wouldn’t mind that,’ he was saying to himself. ‘It’s a question of ten shillings every time with her. I suppose that went across to the beggar in Ireland too.’ The rain was running down his neck. Once he set himself erect and glanced across at his wife. Her attitude was almost imperious. With her head erect she walked on, oblivious of the passers-by who stopped to stare at this quaint trio. At last they were nearing the tram-stop. Mr Fury heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t mind the rain. He was only concerned about hiding himself away from the light, from the curious eyes that looked into his own as he stumbled along. What a position to be in! Hang it, the fellow ought to be in his grave! Ought never to have come to the house. Mr Fury had never forgiven Mr Mangan for the remarks he had passed to him on the occasion of Peter’s letter home for money. Now things would be worse. The lad home, Mr Mangan still in the chair, and worst of all, his sister-in-law. A hopeful prospect, he thought.

  ‘By Christ!’ he shouted. He had lost control of himself. Mrs Fury heard nothing. A tram was rushing down towards them, the driver clanging his bell. ‘Hold him tight!’ she shouted. The noise was deafening. Mr Fury hung on. The tram pulled up with a screeching sound. The driver looked astonished at the three figures as they stepped off the footpath, whilst the conductor, who had just shot down the stairs, exclaimed, ‘What’s this? A funeral?’ He spat out on the road. ‘Full up below,’ he shouted, and looked down at the upturned faces of Mr and Mrs Fury. They looked yellow and ghastly beneath the light. The figure in the middle did not interest him. It possessed nothing, revealed nothing, to convince him that it was humanized. ‘Full up below,’ he repeated. This red-faced young man with an almost bovine expression upon his face began to get impatient. ‘Hurry up now,’ he said, and put out a hand to help them on. ‘Best get on top, Denny,’ Mrs Fury said.

  ‘Oh God!’ murmured Mr Fury. ‘All right. Get on, for heaven’s sake! I’ll lift the old man on.’ With the conductor’s unwilling help they managed to get the old man on to the platform, Mrs Fury pushing him from behind, whilst her husband’s one free hand gripped the brass rail. ‘Strike me!’ exclaimed the conductor. The woman shot him a vicious glance and exclaimed angrily, ‘Can’t you help? He’s an old man. What are you standing there for?’ She nudged her husband.

  ‘Come on, Denny, for goodness sake. We won’t get a seat at all in a minute.’ She put a foot on the stairs. The conductor and Mr Fury followed, pushing the old man up in front of them. The woman held her father’s hand. They reached the top stair. They held on desperately to the rails. The tram careered along. Through the open window the rain shot into Mr Mangan’s face. ‘At last!’ They both breathed a sigh of relief. They found a vacant place on the long seat right in the front end of the car. More excitement and confusion as they threaded their way awkwardly through the seated passengers. A forest of murmurs. Everybody was staring. They sat down. Mr Fury put his hand at the back of Mr Mangan’s head. The car seemed to sway from side to side. The old man’s head bobbed up and down, backwards and forwards. Mrs Fury paid for their tickets. The conductor vanished again. Not a word was spoken, though the murmuring amongst the passengers had not yet died down. Mrs Fury was lost in thought. Her eyes saw nothing but her daughter Maureen, a sort of inner eye remained focused upon the young woman, and her change of form. What a time, she was thinking, for Joe to think of going out on strike! Maureen surprised her. Poor child! Did she think it was some kind of jolly holiday? She hadn’t seen anything yet. Well, she would lose all her illusions soon. She kept staring through the window at the brilliantly lighted shop fronts. And the way the girl talked. She wasn’t blind to her attitude towards her husband. No doubt Denny would think that she, Fanny, was behind all this. Joe was only a fool if he came out. Ridiculous that one man had to imperil his livelihood and that
of his wife just because a number of other men said it was the only thing to do. Men were like children, and they hadn’t half the imagination of children. H’m! She rubbed her hand on the glass, and looked across at her husband. ‘What do you think about this business?’

  ‘What business?’ He spoke in undertones.

  ‘The strike. Maureen will be in childbed soon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t offer any advice,’ Mr Fury replied. ‘Young people don’t take advice these days. It’s too old-fashioned.’ He wasn’t interested in Kilkey anyhow. He pulled out his pipe and struck a match. The woman changed the conversation. Between them the old man snored. He had fallen asleep. His bowler hat had slipped down over his eyes, the water kept dripping down his neck. The tram stopped. Some people got out. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer now.

  ‘Well, Denny,’ began Mrs Fury. ‘I can hardly believe it. I’ve tried to imagine what he’ll be like. Conjured up all sorts of pictures in my imagination. Seven years. It’s a long time.’ Mr Fury’s pipe had gone out. ‘Yes,’ he said, and struck another match. He smoked contentedly until the car reached Wilson Street. ‘How quiet he is!’ thought the woman. She suddenly turned on him. ‘I half believe you don’t care a fig about the boy,’ she declared vehemently. He did not reply, but the glance he threw his wife seemed enough. He looked out of the window. He was studying the gilt lettering on a draper’s shop window. She was labouring under one of her usual illusions. ‘I’m just as glad to see the boy coming home as you are,’ he growled. ‘He’s mine as well as yours.’ His voice rose. Mrs Fury said, ‘I could see this coming.’ People began to stare. ‘The trouble with you,’ went on Mr Fury, ‘the trouble with you is that you want your children all to yourself. That’s the living truth. I don’t blame the others a bit for going off as suddenly as they did. You were simply asking for it.’ His voice pitched even higher, his face had grown whiter than usual. Mrs Fury had never seen her husband so carried away as this. They were still arguing when the tram stopped at the Pier Head. Immediately the inert figure assumed an importance all its own. Even Peter was a secondary consideration. ‘Best to wait until the others have got off,’ said Mrs Fury. She could hardly conceal her rage at this affront in the eyes of a tramful of people. Mr Fury got up from his seat.

  ‘You go ahead,’ he said, almost authoritatively. ‘I’ll carry your father down myself.’ He watched her go. When she passed out of sight he looked down at the figure. ‘Strike me!’ he said, and picked Mr Mangan up. Unable to carry him shoulder-high on account of the low roof, he dragged him along until they reached the steps. Then he placed him over his shoulder, and with one free hand clinging desperately to the stair rail made his way down to the platform. The conductor appeared much relieved at seeing the last of this ill-assorted family. He supposed they were a family. He stood watching Mr Fury carry the old man to the sidewalk. He put him gently down. Immediately Mr Mangan collapsed to the ground. Mr Fury barked savagely at his wife, ‘There! I told you. Look at him! How in the name of the Lord are we going to get him along the floating bridge, never mind get him along to where the ship berths?’ Mrs Fury, for the first time that day, felt that she had made a mistake. Ought she to admit it? What could they do with her father now? They daren’t leave him alone. That would only bring the police interfering. Well, she had got him this far, and she was going to see that he reached the boat. Did Denny think that she was just going to lie down to whatever he ordered? ‘Stand him up,’ she said. Impatient, she went to the old man and stood him up herself. ‘Dad,’ she said. Her husband stared. This was the first time for years that he had heard her address Mr Mangan as ‘Dad’. When the figure muttered, ‘Well, – er,’ Mr Fury felt he was witnessing a miracle. Mrs Fury stamped her foot. ‘Put your arm under Dad, Denny,’ she said. They started off again.

  The sight of the Front awoke many memories in Mr Fury. It would have been an event, this walking along the Stage, in sight and sound of the river traffic. But now with Mr Mangan at his side he felt nothing. Yet he kept telling himself that he must go. His whole spirit cried out for the sea. To be free once again. Penned down like he was. Between four walls. And with a woman like Fanny. This, after spending practically the whole of his life on ships. They pulled up again. They had reached the bottom of the floating bridge. Here the brilliant arc lights shone down mercilessly upon them. More people stared. Mrs Fury ignored them. They moved on again. When they reached the Irish boat’s berth, they discovered a large crowd already gathered there. Mr Fury thought this a little strange. Had it been the height of the summer he would have understood. But this. What was it all about? They drew nearer. Mrs Fury suggested they go up against the big chains. Mr Mangan would be able to rest against them. The man made no reply. They reached the chains. Now they could hear much talking amongst the broken-up groups of people. Mrs Fury became curious. She left her husband holding on to her father and moved a few yards further up the Stage. Then she heard words, clear and distinct, come to her out of the night air. ‘Murderer,’ caught her ears ‘… the fellow’s from Arklow.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, and ran to her husband. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘Peter’s on the same boat as the Arklow murderer. They’ve brought him over. Imagine! Peter on the same boat!’

  ‘What about it?’ growled Mr Fury; ‘he won’t eat the lad, will he?’ He looked almost despairingly at the figure of Mr Mangan. ‘You’re the most excitable woman I ever met in my life,’ he remarked. ‘Now their eyes beheld the black shape of the ship looming up through the mist. Mrs Fury’s hands gripped the chains. He noticed their whiteness. These chains ran the full length of the landing-stage. She swung round, exclaiming, ‘Denny! Denny! Come here!’ ‘What a fuss she’s making!’ he thought. ‘I can’t leave him,’ he said. People were watching Mrs Fury. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. The woman almost flung herself at him. What was wrong? Why, his son was coming home. He was in that very boat. H’m! She tossed her head in the air. And wouldn’t Peter be watching with the same anxious eyes as themselves? For his father and mother?

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Mr Fury put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Excitement and confusion. The slack of the hawsers was being paid out. Now they had the bight over the bitt. Soon the gangway would go up. They craned their necks. Figures moved about the decks, the white faces looking like so many splashing lights in the darkness. Mrs Fury was staring now at a tall figure standing against the saloon doorway. ‘There he is!’ she cried. She pinched her husband’s arm. ‘See! How tall he has grown.’

  The person in question happened to be a King’s Messenger. People were coming down the gangway. But where was Peter? Mr Fury strained anxious eyes towards the gangway. Would he know the lad? So long since he had seen him. Then there appeared at the top of the gangway a tall youth, carrying a suitcase, followed by a buxom woman of medium height. Tears came to Mrs Fury’s eyes. ‘He is there. There he is.’ Mr Fury felt a weight on his arm, then it left him. There was a thud. ‘Blast!’ he said. Mr Mangan had collapsed again. He looked round despairingly for his wife, but Mrs Fury had already rushed to the foot of the gangway. He tried to lift the old man to his feet. How awkward he was! A little crowd gathered. Then a policeman hove in sight. ‘Drunk?’ he asked brusquely. Mr Fury looked at him, then at the gangway. ‘Fanny!’ he called out. ‘Fanny!’ Three people were rushing towards him now. Mr Fury imagined it to be three million. It was like an oncoming sea. Ah! Good heck! Was this his son? The buxom woman said, ‘Oh, Denny!’ and knelt down by her father. Mrs Fury said, ‘One could not leave you alone for a single moment. How did that happen? Here’s Peter.’ Her husband looked at his son. Nearly six-foot high. ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Well! I’m glad to see you home again.’ He grasped the outstretched hand. The youth smiled. ‘Hello, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘He’ll be all right in a second,’ Brigid Mangan was saying. She had an arm under her father’s head. The policeman observed all this with consternation. He went across to Mr Fury. ‘Best get a cab for the old man,’ he said. F
or the first time Peter became aware of his grandfather’s presence. He bent down and looked into the old man’s face. How small he was, how thin his face was, and he hardly seemed to have eyes at all. Peter felt a sudden disgust grow upon him. His aunt was wiping Mr Mangan’s eyes. ‘Go and get a taxi,’ Mrs Fury said.

  Mr Fury went off to the taxi rank, glad of even a few minutes’ respite. The silly woman! To bring an old man out on a night like this! He came back a few minutes later, standing on the step of the taxi. The driver got down to help Mr Mangan in. Mrs Fury was thinking, ‘Will it hold five of us?’ whilst Mr Fury stood staring at his son, hardly able to realize that this was the small boy he had known seven years ago. It made him feel suddenly old, as old as that man whom the driver had now caught hold of in his arms. ‘Give a hand, Denny.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Fury went inside the taxi and helped the old man in. They sat him down in the corner. Mrs Fury touched her son on the shoulder. ‘Sit ’longside your grand-dad,’ she said. Peter got inside. He felt a repugnance to sitting by his grandfather. This was nothing like the man he had known seven years ago. What changes had taken place. He made himself comfortable. Mrs Fury and her sister climbed in. Mr Fury got in after them. They seated themselves after much fuss and bother. The driver stood holding the door, waiting for them. Mrs Fury looked across at her son. ‘Hold your head up,’ she said, a remark which made the man at the door smile. ‘All set?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fury, ‘we’re all set. Drive to the bottom of Hatfields.’

  ‘Why the bottom, Fanny?’ asked her husband from his corner. ‘What’s the matter with the door?’ Mrs Fury said, ‘Shut up,’ and turned to the driven ‘Pull up at the bottom of Hatfields, driver,’ she said. ‘Right, ma’am.’ The man climbed on to his seat. Nobody spoke. The engine tuned up. Mr Mangan still grunted like a pig. Mr Fury jammed his face against the window. Brigid Mangan kept fidgeting about, not comfortably settled. Mrs Fury sat back with folded arms, her eyes pinned upon her son. Peter coughed. Everybody began to move. The taxi started off. ‘Shut the window,’ Mrs Fury said. Mr Fury closed the window. He looked at his son again. ‘Bless me,’ he said to himself, ‘he’s a full-grown man!’ His wife sat erect like a soldier.