The Furys (49 page)

They left the café and stood on the edge of the grass plot.

‘What a lousy night!' said Desmond. ‘This way,' he said. Peter thought there was something peculiarly off-hand about his brother's manner. They walked down behind the tramway sheds.

‘Who was the man who went down under that goods train the other night?'

Desmond pulled up. ‘Were you there?' he asked.

‘No. I was watching them from the wall at the back of Maureen's house.'

‘Oh, that silly swine! He'll get killed one of these days,' Desmond replied.

‘How long do you think this strike will last?' asked Peter. He took a cigarette from his brother.

‘Months.'

‘Months! All that time?'

‘Why not?'

They passed through Price Street, turned left, and pulled up outside Desmond's home. The man took a key from his pocket and opened the front door. They passed into the house.

‘Shut the door,' Desmond said. He hurried into the kitchen to light the gas.

‘Ah!' thought Peter. ‘At last! Mother will never know.'

Desmond had lit the gas. Peter went into the kitchen, pausing for a moment to look round. The houses in Vulcan Street were no different from the houses in Hatfields. They had six rooms. Although the kitchen in which he stood looked larger, it was purely because of the way its furniture had been arranged. The fire was low in the grate.

‘Sit down,' said his brother, and went out to get coal for the fire.

The boy sat down. He looked round. The walls were bare. There was a table in the centre of the floor, covered with cheap American oilcloth. Four chairs lay against the wall. At one side of the kitchen stood an oak dresser upon which were two green vases, a dog of the same colour, and a small cabinet-box which Mr Fury had brought from Japan at one time. The dresser was now littered with newspapers, letters, typed documents, the pages of which were covered with tea-stains. Hairpins, feminine combs, and powder-boxes lay scattered about. Upon the top shelf some loose coins lay as though hastily thrown there. Peter now looked up at the mantelshelf. Excepting for two tea-caddies, it was bare. Above it there hung a framed photograph of Keir Hardie. Mr Hardie was wearing his cap. Desmond having refuelled the fire began to poke it.

‘You ought to get Dad to make you a blower like ours,' said Peter.

‘Yes,' said Desmond.

He seemed particularly keen to get a blaze into the grate. He was in his shirt-sleeves, which he had rolled up to the elbow. He put the poker down, sat back in the chair and sighed. It was the sigh of a man who is glad to get his great bulk comfortably fixed in a chair. This armchair creaked beneath the weight. His shirt was open at the neck.

‘Well,' he said at last. ‘Here we are! Tell us something about yourself. What did you do all those seven years?' He looked at the boy.

‘Oh!' he said. ‘I'm sick of that. Everybody knows why I left there.'

‘I should have thought you would have thought twice about seeing me,' remarked Desmond with a loud laugh.

‘I came to see how you were getting on,' said Peter.

‘Oh! I'm getting on all right now,' replied Desmond. ‘Somehow,' he was telling himself, ‘somehow there's a mistake here! Yes, I'm sure there is.' He slapped his hand on his knee. ‘What were you expecting to see? A palace? Tell me. You look a bit disappointed about something.'

Peter moved forward in the chair. ‘What on earth is at the back of Desmond's mind?' he asked himself.

‘I'm not disappointed,' replied Peter. ‘Why should I be? It's the silly attitude you adopt. You're no different from the others.'

‘What! What are you talking about?'

‘I'm no small boy now,' continued Peter. ‘Am I?'

He rose to his feet and stood looking down at the big man in the chair.

‘Remember when we used to go fishing down at Antree,' began Peter, ‘and I used to do all your worming for you? And I asked you to let me hold the line. And you wouldn't. D'you remember that? I was a little boy then. But all that has altered. And when I come to see you I don't want you to adopt the attitude of a hurt but forgiving brother.'

‘Oh aye! And do you think I am worrying about you? Or about any of the family? No, by God! No. I pitched all that behind me long, long ago. Mother never comes. None of the family. They're ashamed.'

He got up and stood in front of Peter. ‘Tell me,' he said. ‘Does Mother know you have come here?' His whole manner had changed, and the boy saw it at once.

‘No, she doesn't know. Did you think she sent me here to spy?' he asked heatedly.

‘Now, listen to me, Peter. I'm your brother. I'm older than you, though I'm not as clever. See! I admit that. Because of this I am rather suspicious. That's all. I thought Mother might know you were coming round. Mother would do anything to break my home up. Do you understand? And I won't let them. Does she know you met me on the Dock Road?'

‘No,' said the boy. ‘And what's more, I shan't tell her I've been here either.'

‘All right, then. We won't argue about that. I'm glad you're not being a priest. Yes, I am glad. All priests should be burnt. That's my opinion. And if I had my way I would burn Father Moynihan tomorrow. He is the one who put those crazy ideas into your mother's head. But tell me, can people like Mother afford it? They can't. Nor can anybody else. And there's no return for it, is there, only a sure place in Heaven.'

He smiled and waved his hand towards an imaginary heaven.

‘I'm not thick, Peter. Don't think that. I kept that house going for years – you included – when Dad decided to do a walking tour through the States. Your mother never said nothing. Everything was going on in the same old monotonous way. I wasn't blind, mind you. No doubt she thought I would never marry. H'm! Then I decided to get out. Yes, and I'm going to get out of here soon. Your thick brother has ambitions. He's going to walk out of this stinking muck-heap, and on somebody's back too. Doesn't matter whose.' He patted his chest. ‘Just consider,' he went on, ‘just consider the number of people who squeeze their guts out for nothing.'

‘Well,' said Peter, ‘that's honest. Is that why you joined the Labour Party?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘When I first went into it I did the dirty, mucky work. Out night after night, in all kinds of weather. Standing on street corners, ringing a bell, looking very much like a lunatic, and considering myself lucky if I got an audience of three people. But there was always a dog. Yes. Plenty of damned dogs. Seemed more intelligent than the duds I spoke to. Talk about cabbages! Christ! They weren't even
good
cabbages. Yes. I did that for weeks, months, years. Getting the mucky end of the stick all the while. Do you think these people are interested in bettering themselves, in improving their conditions? No, sir! You do a couple of years on the parade ground and you'll see the truth of the matter. Let the bastards vegetate, let them lie in their own muck. They're not interested. No, sir! Just not interested.'

After this flow of oratory Desmond sat down.

‘But I am sorry for the women,' he said. ‘Aye, I am sorry for the women.'

‘That reminds me,' said Peter. ‘I was in town the other night sitting on one of those lions in Powell Square watching the fun. I met a most comical man named Professor Titmouse. Have you ever heard of him?'

‘Never heard of him.'

Peter noticed that his brother kept looking at the clock. Perhaps he wanted him to go. Funny that he hadn't mentioned a word about Sheila!

In a corner of the kitchen there stood a tool-box. On this tool-box there stood a large draught-board. As soon as Peter saw this he exclaimed. ‘Let's play a game.'

‘Yes.'

Desmond got the draught-board and laid it out on the table.

‘White or black?' he asked.

He looked up at the clock again. His mind wasn't on the draught-board. He was thinking of something else, whilst at the same time he looked forward to the game with his brother with almost boyish excitement.

‘Black,' Peter said.

They arranged their men. Suddenly a key turned in the lock. Peter sat up and looked towards the door.

‘What's the matter?' asked Desmond. ‘Move. Why don't you move?'

‘Yes. I was moving. Who was that?' He looked questioningly at his brother.

‘That's Mrs Fury,' replied Desmond. ‘My move.'

Peter heard somebody walking along the lobby. Now the person climbed the stairs.

‘What the hell's wrong with you?' growled Desmond. ‘I've been waiting for you to move.' His tongue began stroking his upper lip.

Desmond was thinking hard. He put his face close to Peter's, and his eyes seemed to dart forward as he asked in a whisper, ‘Have you been drinking?'

Peter laughed.

‘Drinking! What makes you think that?' he asked. He could no longer conceal his astonishment. What was Desmond thinking about? Was the fellow mad? Peter moved. Desmond moved. A silence grew between them. Peter was listening to footsteps in the room above his head. ‘That must be Sheila,' he was thinking. What a funny way to come home! To go right upstairs without looking in. Did she always do that? Were they always out? Where did she go? And who was she? How had his brother come to marry this Protestant woman? And was she really what his mother had said? No. His mother had said that in a moment of rage. Of course, his mother hated her. How long had they been married? These thoughts began to race round Peter's brain. Suddenly he took two men from Desmond.

‘You know I don't drink, Desmond,' he repeated. ‘Perhaps you've had one or two.'

Desmond made no reply – he was too busy. He was studying the boy. Was this his brother? Little Peter? Of course not. This was a man. A complete stranger. It seemed only to occur to him now. The fire had burnt up. Desmond got up to put a penny in the gas-meter. Peter was unconscious of everything except the sound of the feet upstairs. What a strange house! What a peculiar life to lead! And how changed his brother was! He was glad he had not asked after his sister-in-law – that would have been most unfortunate. No doubt about it. Desmond seemed loath to talk about his wife. Perhaps he was ashamed. He heard the door bang. Desmond had come in again. As he looked at the huge man Peter thought, ‘No. I'm wrong. He wouldn't be ashamed. He doesn't understand the meaning of the word. He's too thick. He looks like a big butcher.' Desmond sat down again. The game was resumed, but they could take no interest in it. It seemed as if the sudden arrival of Mrs Fury had charged the atmosphere with a kind of light that threw into forms the hidden thoughts of one and the other.

The one thought, ‘He seems very restless. I wonder why? He is not thinking of the game at all,' whilst the other was thinking, ‘He is worrying because she was out when he arrived home.'

Desmond was now studying a problem. It affected three white men and one black. His eyes were fixed upon the board, whilst Peter's were fixed upon the kitchen door, which had opened, slowly and silently, as though the intruder were apologizing for her entrance and did not wish to interrupt their game of draughts. Peter sat quite still. There was something furtive about his manner; he was watching the door and at the same time watching the board. A hand appeared. It moved slowly round the door.

The hand seemed to be endeavouring to unhook a black satin dress which hung upon a nail behind the kitchen door. The nail had caught in one of the threads of the torn bodice. It searched about, trying to find the nail.

‘How silly!' Peter was thinking. ‘Why doesn't she open the door and take it off the nail in the ordinary way?' The hand became an arm. A woman's bare arm right to the shoulder had appeared behind the door. There was something about the arm which sent the blood mounting to Peter's forehead. In its frantic endeavours to retrieve the dress from the nail it had only served to make it more secure than ever, for several threads of the torn bodice had wound themselves round the nail; and in addition to that, the movements it made seemed to Peter beckoning movements. The long white arm, clearly lined against the black varnished door, seemed to call. To call to Peter as he sat there, his whole body tensed, his mind confused by a swift panorama of pictures that not even Professor Titmouse could have conjured in his wildest moments.

The hand, as though severed from the body to which it belonged, had now been endowed with a life of its own. The hand spoke. The hand spoke to Peter sitting in the chair. ‘Behind this door,' it seemed to say, ‘is a body, to which I am attached. This body is now naked. And I am endeavouring to get this dress from the nail in order to clothe it. But if you should suddenly dash forward and open the kitchen door, be sure you will see something to start the eyes in your head, to send your blood mounting higher and higher.' There could not be any doubt about it. That hand seemed to beckon. Desmond moved his man, but now to his great astonishment Peter shot out his hand and shouted, ‘My move! It's my move!' and pushed the man to the floor.

Desmond sat up. ‘Here! For Christ's sake!' he said. He seemed suspicious now. ‘Have you got the jim-jams?' Peter was trembling like a leaf. Desmond caught his brother's arms, and forcing him towards himself, looked into the boy's eyes. ‘What's the matter?' he said. ‘What's the matter with you? Has seven years of college heightened your sensibilities? What are you staring at?'

‘Nothing! Nothing! It's all right. Let go my arm. I'm sorry I spoiled your game. I don't know what was the matter with me.' He laughed a curious high-pitched laugh. ‘I was dreaming,' he said. ‘I could see a man committing hari-kari in Powell Square, and some Goblins clothed in Pentecostal flames came and carried him away. I …'

The door opened, Mrs Fury came in.

Desmond got up. ‘Hello, darling!' he said. ‘Got back? This is Peter. This is my brother Peter …' He looked from one to the other. He didn't seem sure of himself. What was all this blather about Goblins? Was the boy ill?