The Furys (24 page)

‘Grand-dad!' Peter said. The old man was sitting bolt upright. The expression upon his face changed again. Peter, looking at him, wondered why he had said ‘Oh!' Mr Mangan's body began to resume with a painful gradualness its former position, shoulders bent, head low upon them, and a little to one side. Peter put his right arm back on to the arm of the chair. Mr Mangan, after that slow and painful excursion into the past, closed his eyes and sighed. Anthony Mangan had become ‘him' once more. ‘Him' that slobbered and suffered his helpless person to be carried from his bed to the kitchen, to be part carried and part dragged to the little Post Office at the bottom of Hatfields, so that his daughter, ‘a splendid woman', might receive his pittance in order to further entrench against the hazards of the economic tides. Peter, after making him comfortable, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

3

Mrs Fury had fallen asleep, and her last thought had been ‘I wonder where Brigid could have got to?' She had an idea that her sister would call on Maureen, and was sure she would visit the ‘other pair'. What a fool she had been ever to say a word about Desmond! Then she reflected. No. Perhaps she had carried secrecy too far. She had not yet forgotten her sister's caustic remarks about her silence and her own complete ignorance of Peter's being in Cork, and within a stone's throw of her own house. No, this silence, this secrecy had taken its due toll. Then she fell asleep, utterly weary. She did not wake again until her husband came back from work. Mr Fury went straight upstairs, without changing. He sat down by the bed in his oil-smeared clothes.

‘How are you, Fanny?' he asked.

The woman sat up in the bed. ‘Oh! I'm all right!' she said. ‘I'll be up tomorrow. Dr Dunfrey said I could get up tomorrow.'

‘That soon? What was wrong?' he asked her.

She noticed the puzzled look he wore.

‘Sometimes one takes to bed just to get a little peace,' she said.

‘Oh!' The man got up. but Mrs Fury immediately said, ‘Sit down.'

‘I want to get these bloody things off,' growled Mr Fury, and he pulled at his greasy trousers. He sat down again.

‘About Peter!' Mrs Fury said suddenly. Mr Fury looked at her.

‘Well, what about him? Something else up now?'

‘No. I talked to the boy this morning. I want you to look after him now,' she went on. ‘I'm sick of it.'

‘Oh aye!' exclaimed Mr Fury. So she had had a talk with him! And what was he to do with the lad? He said slowly, ‘And what do you want me to do with him?'

‘Get him to work, of course. Can't you get him to sea?' Mr Fury now looked really astonished. Here was a sudden change in the situation. Real capitulation. Get him a job.

‘Haven't we had enough of the family at sea? There's one away now. Is that all he sat at the desk for seven years for? To go to sea?' Then he turned his head and looked away out of the window. He was thinking fast. Why, that fellow Mulcare. Of course, just the very thing. But … a sudden pause in the thought. He swung round again.

‘I don't want Peter at sea,' exclaimed Mr Fury. ‘Surely after the money that's been spent on him he ought to put up a better show than that. Besides, if I
did
get him a job, I could only get him below. I don't want that, Fanny. I've had thirty-odd years in the stokehold. On deck, that's different. But listen to me, can't we talk over this some other time? Why all this sudden haste?' Yes, why all this hurry? This was a climb down and no mistake. In fact, he was quite unable to understand it. Anyway, he hadn't heard a word about the reasons for the boy suddenly leaving the college. Why shouldn't he know? He was the lad's father. He had a right to know. He made as if to speak, then drew back. No. He couldn't ever ask her now. He would get it out of Peter himself. He knew she had heard from the Principal and had destroyed the letter. That was one of Fanny's failings. Keeping things to herself. She had been like that all her life. Hiding things. Now that he was working ashore he was beginning to find things out. Some were quite silly. Not even a child would conceal them. Well, it was just part and parcel of the woman. He supposed she would never alter.

‘You know why I want him out of the house,' the woman said.

‘Want him out of the house!' exclaimed Mr Fury.

‘Yes. Look here, Denny, just think it over. Isn't it nearly time we had some peace? After all these years. Isn't it time we got to understand each other? All these years at sea I've hardly seen anything of you. I've tried; I can't do any more than that.'

‘Well,' thought Mr Fury, ‘that's honest, anyhow.' He took the sweat-rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands on it. Then he leaned over the bed and embraced his wife.

‘All right, Fanny,' he said. ‘Good enough! I know a chap who'll get Peter fixed up in a jiffy. Now I must go and get changed.' He crossed the room, opened the door, then suddenly stopped. ‘I see you had a letter from Anthony,' he called across to her. ‘How is the lad?'

‘Oh, he's getting on well now. He hurt his heels. He'll be coming home on the next available boat, so he says. That will be one more landed on me.'

‘Is that why you want Peter out of the house?'

‘I don't know,' she said. The man stood there waiting, but Mrs Fury remained silent. Then he went downstairs. So she had heard from Anthony! He would never have known had not Peter told him about the letter. He had had to ask her even about that. ‘Oh well! I'm glad he's not so badly off as I thought. Aye! Fanny's certainly surprised me. Fancy wanting Peter out of the way! The lad she has idolized. Well, well!' The thoughts remained with him. Even during his ablutions he kept thinking over his wife's remarks. After he had changed into his ordinary clothes he went into the kitchen. Peter had made the tea and laid the table.

‘You get your tea, Peter,' he said. ‘I'm taking up something to your mother.'

‘Yes, Dad,' Peter said.

Mr Fury took the wooden tray from the cupboard, placed a cloth on it, then cups and saucers, a teapot, and some newly made toast. This was the first time he had ever carried up a meal to his wife. She had never been ill. It seemed strange to him that he should be carrying this tray upstairs, and that his youngest son should be eating alone at the table. A son head and shoulders over himself. He felt dwarfed, insignificant. He went upstairs, saying, ‘Close the door, Peter, and watch the fire.'

‘Yes, Dad.' He watched his father go upstairs.

‘Well, Denny,' said Mrs Fury, ‘this is unusual.' He put down the tray, saying, ‘Yes, it is, isn't it?' He poured out tea.

‘Here y'are, Fanny! Peter made the tea, and here's some toast.' He handed the cup to his wife and placed the plate of toast on the chair at her side.

‘Dad must have his tea,' remarked Mrs Fury, as she stirred vigorously her own cup of tea.

Mr Fury nodded his head. Yes, certainly, they must not forget ‘him'. He got up and went to the door.

‘Peter!' he called. ‘Peter!' The boy came to the foot of the stairs.

‘Tell him it's in the oven,' said Mrs Fury.

‘Peter!' called Mr Fury down the stairs. ‘Your mother says to give your grand-dad his tea. It's in the oven.' Then he banged the door.

‘That lad has grown into a fine fellow, hasn't he, Fanny?'

Mrs Fury supped her tea. ‘Yes,' she said, between sups, ‘he has.'

‘Has Brigid been in?' asked Mr Fury.

‘Haven't seen her yet.'

‘Indeed!' Mr Fury put his cup down and took out his pipe. Immediately Mrs Fury said, ‘The window, Denny.' ‘All right.' He got up and opened the window.

‘Well, Brigid's a caution,' he began. ‘Out all day. Wonder when she'll be back?'

Mrs Fury said she didn't know.

‘She's got a nose better than any fox,' exclaimed Mr Fury.

‘I hope she won't be held up here, Denny,' Mrs Fury said.

Of course not. All those rumours were just silly. There was no more fear of a strike coming than there was of his dropping dead that very minute.

‘Denny!' Mrs Fury stammered.

‘It's right, Fanny,' he went on. ‘It's all a lot of talk. By the way, that young fellow I was telling you about is coming along one evening. I hope you'll see him. Mulcare's a nice lad. He was with me on the
Ballisa.
His old father's a lawyer in Dublin.'

‘A lawyer!'

‘Aye. a lawyer. Quite a big chap, too, from what I heard about him. Seems they had a row.'

‘Indeed! Is that the young man you had in mind when I mentioned Peter?'

‘Yes, of course!'

‘I'd like to see him,' said Mrs Fury. She put the cup and plate on the tray. ‘I'm tired,' she said, and lay back.

‘All right. You go to sleep. You'll be as right as rain tomorrow.' He gathered the things on to the tray, and went downstairs. As soon as he reached the kitchen he exclaimed, ‘Why, Peter! What's wrong?'

‘Nothing,' Peter said. ‘It's the way Grand-dad slobbers and messes about. It made me vomit. I had to go outside.' The boy wiped his eyes. Mr Fury pushed Mr Mangan further into the corner.

‘Your grand-dad's a bloody old nuisance,' Mr Fury said. He took the handkerchief that was pinned to the side of Mr Mangan's chair. He wiped the old man's face.

‘How do, slobberer?' he said. Peter laughed. Mr Fury went into the lobby and came back with the evening paper. He got out his spectacles and settled himself down to read. Peter sat watching him turn the pages. ‘Now is the time,' he thought. He went over to his father and pulled the paper away. ‘Dad,' he said, ‘I'm sorry about what happened at the college. Could you get me away to sea?'

‘College! Sea! What are you talking about? Why, I don't even know why you left the college,' said Mr Fury. He gripped his son's hand and pulled him down on to the sofa beside him. ‘I don't know a single thing,' he said once more.

‘Mother knows.'

‘But what's that got to do with it? Your mother never tells me anything.' Yes, why shouldn't he know? ‘Well, haven't you got anything to say? Look how upset your mother is. I don't give a hang myself …'

‘I can't tell you,' Peter said.

Mr Fury said, ‘Oh!' he kicked the paper into the middle of the kitchen. And that was the result of Fanny's control! Couldn't get a word out of the lad. His face went suddenly red.

‘Did your mother tell you not to say anything to me?'

‘No, Dad!' Peter could not look into his father's face. There was a pained expression upon it. That shame stole upon him once again.

‘Look here, Peter! I'm just a rough-and-ready man. I don't put on any airs. I don't ask questions. Not one of you children can say I ever had anything against you. Can you, now?' Peter looked him full in the face. ‘No, Dad,' he said. There was something so earnest, so frank about the way in which he spoke, that Mr Fury got up and pulled Peter with him. They stood facing each other. Peter wanted to smile, but he controlled himself. What was his father going to say to him?

‘Listen!' began Mr Fury. ‘Your mother wants me to get you a job going to sea. But I have had enough experience of it to know that it's no good. It's no life at all. When I was the same age as you I made a mistake, just as you will be doing now if it's the sea you mean to follow. I tell you straight to your face that I don't want you to go to sea.' Suddenly, for some unexplainable reason, the man turned away and stared at Mr Mangan. Yes, he had made a mistake, and he had never forgotten it. It had followed him down all the years of his life. Fanny had never ceased to remind him of it. He turned to Peter again.

‘I must talk to your mother about it. I'm not going to ask you any questions. I'm not even going to ask, as I have a right to do, why you left that college. If your mother had mentioned it to me, I would have put my foot down at once. It's absurd. Waste! That's what I say. Waste of time and money.' Mr Fury felt he had said enough. He sat down on the sofa and took up the evening paper. Peter still remained standing in the middle of the kitchen. Would he ever escape this sense of shame?

After a while, Mr Fury folded the newspaper up and threw it into the corner. ‘Don't stand there like that!' he shouted, and Peter jumped as though with sudden fright. He went upstairs to his room. He called in to his mother:

‘I'm going now!'

‘Where?'

‘To the chapel, Mother.'

‘Very well. Don't you be late.'

‘No, Mother! I'll be right back.' Mrs Fury put down the letter she was reading. She could hear her son moving about the room. What was he doing?

‘Is your father downstairs?'

‘Yes, Mother. He's reading the evening paper,' Peter called back.

‘Come here.' He went to his mother's room. He saw the letter lying on the bed.

‘When you go down, tell Father Moynihan that I'm coming to see him tomorrow.'

‘Yes, Mother.' The boy stood hesitating.

‘All right!' exclaimed the mother. ‘You'd better go now. Have you got your Prayer Book?' Peter replied that he had.

‘Tell your father to come up.' The woman lay down again and picked up the letter. She heard the street door close. Peter had gone out. She held the letter in her hand. She had read it three times. Now she began to read it again. It was a long letter from her son Anthony.

‘Dear Mother, – Well, at last I'm out of hospital. But I'm on crutches. Can you imagine Anthony on crutches? If ever anybody had forecast this humiliating position for me I would have trounced them roundly. How are you, Mother? Well, I hope. I feel much better myself, though I can put neither foot to the floor, and the doctor says they'll take a pretty time healing. But I'm more than glad to be out again. I'll be coming home on the
Aurelia.
We should dock about the twenty-third of the month, providing the Atlantic is kind to her. She's an old boat. It seems funny; I'll actually be a passenger on this ship. Something new for me. I got your letter while I was in hospital. They sent it on from the ship. How is Dad? And Maureen? I often think Maureen was silly to go and marry that fellow Kilkey. He's …' the remainder of the sentence had been scratched out. ‘Mike Nolan wrote telling me that Desmond has been made a foreman ganger. You never said anything about it in your letter. I suppose you still keep him out of the house. Honestly, Mother, I can't understand why you do this. In the end it will only recoil on you. However, I'm not going to start probing into the family history. Might do Aunt Brigid out of a job …' Mrs Fury laughed again. There was another long scrawly line after this which she could not make out. The writing was too illegible. She turned up the wick of the lamp, her curiosity aroused. What could it be? She put the page against the lamp globe. After a close examination she discovered it to be – ‘Friday. Half-past ten p.m. I couldn't finish this letter last night. My feet began to pain badly. I won't be sorry when I am up and doing again, I can tell you. I just hate this going about on crutches. I used to laugh at Grand-dad when he had his four years ago, but I never thought I should be on them myself. By the way, how is Kilkey getting along? Is he still with the Porter company? How is old Possie from next door? Still wearing his Orange tie, I suppose. A funny family, aren't they?' Another scrawl. This was the beginning of a sentence scratched out, blotting the page. ‘I've just come on board the
Aurelia,
straight from the hospital. I came on a stretcher. I was disappointed. I was hoping to see something of New York on the way down, but they wouldn't even let me sit up for a minute. This ship is sailing on Wednesday morning at half-past nine. As it takes an old tub like this about ten days to do the run from New York to Gelton, I reckon I should be docking at the Branston on Friday week. I won't be sorry. Oh! I never told you how it happened. It was rather funny, in a way.