The Furys (53 page)

Mr Short repeated his request. ‘Please sit down!' Well, at least courtesy wasn't at a premium in the offices of the Torsa Line.

Mrs Fury said, ‘Thank you, I prefer to stand.' She looked down at the little man's carefully oiled grey hairs, and she could not help smiling.

‘Yes?' said Mr Short. He knew perfectly well what Mrs Fury wanted. But one could not part from tradition. All inquiries were prefaced with an inquisitive and at the same time an arrogant ‘Yes?' Any departure from custom would be disastrous.

‘I have come for my son's allotment money,' said Mrs Fury. ‘Perhaps Mr Lake mentioned this to you on the telephone.' The woman had an idea that Mr Lake had already informed Mr Short that she was coming down.

‘Oh yes,' said Mr Short. ‘What is all this about your son's allotment? Hasn't he had his money? Dear me!' He turned his attention to some papers. ‘I find that the sum of two pounds became due on the third, but from that date the money automatically ceases. No doubt you will see our Mr Devereaux in the matter.' He began writing. He blotted the chit and handed it to the woman. ‘Some mistake must have been made,' he said. ‘Good-day,' he concluded.

Mrs Fury did not answer; she was too full. She felt she wanted to burst, to cry out that she had been right, that if she hadn't come down herself she would never had got it. She rushed out of the office, almost knocking the boy over as she went. Well, she had got it. No, she hadn't minded waiting at all. She wasn't even hungry. She took the lift to the ground floor. There she found a queue of nearly a hundred people lined up in the corridor. It was paying-out day for the
Aurelian.
She saw this at once by the large notice which hung in front of the crowd. It read: ‘
Aurelian.
Half-past one to four o'clock.' What time was it now? Twenty minutes to one. Well, that wouldn't be long to wait. She had been waiting since twenty minutes to ten. She took her place at the end of the queue and leaned heavily against the long low window. She didn't mind anything now. Even the walk back. It was nothing. Two pounds would lighten her steps. Denny would be surprised. Suddenly she struck the window-pane and said to herself, ‘That woman! Of course. I must see her at half-past three.' The sudden bang on the window attracted everybody's attention, but the woman seemed not to notice. In any case she wasn't even there. That two pounds, like a magic carpet, had already carried her home.

A continuous hum filled the corridor. Everybody talked, laughed. They all seemed to know each other. They talked about their husbands, sons, brothers, and how lucky they were to have got away before the strike began. It was dreadful. A young man shot dead by the soldiers last night. Two dray-loads of beer upset on Harbour Road. An old man in Keeper's Hill beaten up by the Orange band. Three hundred people in hospital with head wounds. All the police from Babbinton had great spikes in their hats. Cruel bastards. They had knocked down cripples who were waiting to go to a concert. Disgraceful. They say you won't be able to get in or out of the city tomorrow without you have a pass from Mr Williams. Dreadful. They were glad their men-folk had got away. The steady hum reminded Mrs Fury of the peculiar low noise of the lift dynamos. Beyond a hum it was nothing. The air seemed electric with words, disjointed phrases, giggles, and laughs. Some youths in the queue were indulging in horse-play. The clerk put his head out. He looked very important and greatly bored. ‘Keep quiet! How do you people expect to be paid if you make all that noise?' Yes; how were they? How was he, in fact, to carry out his important duties at two pounds a week with such a racket going on about his ears? Mrs Fury stood at the glass window, thinking, ‘Soon be time.' The first thing she must do when she got home would be to get those shoes mended and get them stretched. For two pins she would fall flat now. Her feet were aching again. The irate clerk came out into the corridor this time, giving the waiting queue a full view of his person. They noticed he wore spats, similar to his superiors, and black coat and pin-stripe trousers. Mr Coats seemed to manage very well on two pounds a week, and without losing any of his importance. Then he disappeared again, and the most striking thing about him as he made his hurried return to the office was his spindle legs. Mr Coats was well known. Mrs Fury knew him too. She had taken her husband's and her son's money from his parchment-coloured, sweaty hands many times. At last the queue began to move. Mrs Fury looked at the clock. She began to count, add, subtract, multiply. It passed the time away. At the same time she leaned on one foot, then on the other. These alternate movements seemed to ease the pain in her feet. At last she was at the window. Mr Coats took the chit without looking at her, placed it on the desk in front of him. Then he read it. He then went to a drawer and drew out another chit. He placed it alongside the first one, then buried his hands in a perfect mountain of silver, and the very feel of the coins seemed to impress upon him the importance of his position.

‘Fury!
Turcoman!
One pound,' he said. He flicked a pound-note from the drawer, put the chit with it and flicked it under the grill.

Mrs Fury almost fell. ‘It's two pounds,' she said. ‘Two!' she shouted. She was angry – obstacle after obstacle.

Mr Coats was equal to the occasion. ‘One pound,' he said. ‘Look at your slip. “One pound tobacco and slops.” Next.'

Mrs Fury turned away from the window. Her hand shook. She walked slowly down the corridor. When she came into the daylight she read the white slip of paper. ‘Contra account. Slops fifteen shillings, cigarettes five.'

Yes. Of course. It was right. The
Turcoman
pay-lists had been sent to the office. Yes. No doubt whatever. She was disappointed. A whole pound. And it meant such a lot. She thought of her shoes. ‘Have to leave them now.' She found herself in the street. She was confused, excited, as though she had been imprisoned in some dark pit and had just emerged into the daylight. She stood hesitant, looking round her. Well! Here she was! She had been waiting in that building so long that she had forgotten a great many things. There was a strike after all, and Anthony was in hospital, Brigid was with Miss Pettigrew, and Peter was hoping to get away to sea.

Gradually confusion drifted away, and her world was set to rights again. ‘I'll go home the bottom road,' she told herself, and started to cross the Square.

Now she was home again. Would she have some tea? Mr Fury said. ‘I've just made it, Fanny.' She shook her head. Mr Fury protested. Ridiculous. She hadn't had a bite all day. How had she got on? Had she seen Lake?

‘Yes! I saw him.' She flung the pound-note on the table, looked at it for a moment, and then pushed it away from her as though it were dirt, something foul and contagious. ‘There it is,' she said, and thought, Yes! There it is! Out all day for that!'

‘Well! That's better than nothing,' Mr Fury said. Yes. It was. Better than waiting. She looked at her father in the chair. Had Dad been fed? Mr Fury nodded his head.

‘Is the boy out?'

‘Yes. He's gone for a walk,' replied Mr Fury. ‘I couldn't say no to the lad. Been in all day.'

‘Of course! Have you had something to eat?' she asked.

‘Yes. Look here, Fanny,' said Mr Fury. ‘You look tired and done up. Go to bed.'

‘You go,' the woman replied. She sat down at the table and looked at the pound-note. A knock at the door. Mr Fury opened it. Peter followed his father into the kitchen. He sat down in his old chair near the fire. Peter said nothing. He ate some supper and went to bed. There was something in the expression upon the woman's face that frightened him. It seemed like a warning. He finished his supper, got up, said ‘Good-night,' and went upstairs.

‘Go to bed, Fanny! Go to bed!'

‘You go! I'm all right.'

‘This is silly,' Mr Fury said. He got up and left the kitchen. As the man ascended the stairs his heavy tread seemed like giant hammers, and with each tread of his feet he seemed to stamp upon the woman's brain. She could feel them. The door closed. The light was getting low.

They had left her with Dad! The woman got up and went into the back kitchen. In the darkness her hand groped along the shelves. She was searching for a little butter, a quarter pound of best butter she had put away. Her little luxury. She groped, thinking, ‘I left it behind that pan.'

She struck a match. No. The butter had gone. Her little luxury had disappeared. Well, she didn't want to eat, after all. She wasn't hungry, merely deluding herself. She returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table again. Mr Mangan grunted. She raised her eyes slowly and looked at the wall in front of her. Well, there was nothing else to do but sit staring at that wall.

CHAPTER XII

Mr Fury woke up, thinking, ‘Ought to be a good show at the Lyric this week.' He turned over in the bed.

‘I'll be hanged!' he exclaimed. ‘What time is it?' Had he slept on? And where was Fanny? He jumped out of bed. How long had she been up? He slipped on his trousers and tiptoed to Peter's room. The bed was empty. Must be late! Slept in! Yawning, he returned to the front room. His mind was befogged. He went to the window and looked out. Children were playing in the street. Then he heard St Sebastian's Chapel bell ring. Half-past nine. That must be the elevation bell at the nine o'clock Mass. Now dressed, but wearing his rope slippers, he went to Anthony Mangan's room. The old man too was up.

‘I'll be hanged!' he said again, and left the room. He stood for a moment on the landing. How silent the house was! He went downstairs. Mr Mangan was sitting in his chair: a big fire blazed in the grate. Peter had gone out. Mrs Fury was sitting at the table, her arms folded.

Looking at her, Mr Fury thought, ‘She was sitting like that last night. What's the matter with the woman?' He sat down opposite her at the table.

‘You were up early,' he said.

‘Yes.'

She had not been to bed, but had remained sitting in the kitchen. She had kept the fire going, made some tea about half-past three. Now she was sitting in exactly the same position as when her husband last saw her, the same expression upon her face. She reminded Mr Fury of a certain wax figure of a well-dressed lady that, standing too long in the window under a hot sun, had begun to melt. Looking at his wife, it came back to his mind vividly. Hardly any difference. Fanny was just like that wax figure.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Has Peter gone out?'

‘Yes.'

She changed arms, now resting the left upon the right.

‘What in the name of Christ are you staring at?' shouted Mr Fury. ‘Surely you haven't been sitting like that all night! Strike me lucky, but it's enough to give anybody the pip.' He darted a glance at his father-in-law. ‘Him too,' he thought.

Had she had any breakfast? The table was bare, even the cheap American oilcloth had vanished. Or was he just dreaming? Had the hands of the clock, tired of their even beat, broken loose and raced round their clock face? And what in the name of Christ was she looking at? He turned his head round quickly and looked at the wall. Had she seen a bug crawling up it, or, like Mr Mulcare, had she just sat there fascinated by a slow-moving spider? Anyhow, he, Denny Fury, could see nothing to look at. Or had his wife had a dream like that famous saint who, returning from a visit to Hell, and in order to prove the fierceness of the fires thereof, had burnt a hole in the wall with her foot? If not, then what on earth was she thinking about? He raised his head and looked at Mrs Fury again. ‘Ah!' he thought, ‘she's been in Peter's room, and she's seen that mess-up. She must have guessed! She knows I know all about the money. She took it.'

‘I wish you'd tell me what you have on your mind,' he said.

Suddenly Mrs Fury's face changed colour, the muscles worked convulsively. It was as though her husband's words had started some atrophied organism working in her body. Mrs Fury heard sounds in her head. It was as though her mind were singing. She put her hand to her head and laughed. She imagined that somebody had made a hole in her head, and that a great number of people went tramping past, pressing down her brain as they went by. And they were singing. She laughed again. Dennis Fury was stricken with fear. He gripped the table and stared at her more raptly than ever. What was she thinking about?

‘Listen,' he began, then stopped. The woman had begun to smile. ‘Yes. No doubt about it,' thought Mr Fury, ‘her and that wax figure might be sisters.'

‘What about breakfast?' he asked.

‘Yes. Of course,' the woman said.

She rose to her feet, looked at Mr Fury, then disappeared into the back kitchen. Aunt Brigid was doing a highland fling on top of Mrs Fury's head.

‘Oh Jesus Christ!' she said, and dropped the cup she held in her hand. Mr Fury jumped up.

‘What's that?'

‘Nothing,' she said.

Peter came in, his hair blown over his face by the wind. He swept it back with his hand.

‘Where have you been?' Mr Fury said. It was a growl.

‘Half-past eight Mass,' Peter said.

‘Oh!' his father exclaimed.

He went into the parlour thinking, ‘Fanny must be going balmy.' He stood by the window. Looking out he saw – just nothing. Peter was now standing behind him. He touched his father on the shoulder.

‘Dad!' he said. ‘Dad!'

The man turned round. ‘What – what's the matter?' He was thinking of his wife.

‘Grand-dad has to go for his pension,' Peter said. He began tugging at the curtains.

‘Today? Forget it,' his father said. ‘Today? It's Friday. Today's only Wednesday.'

‘Yes, I know. But the time is changed now,' the boy went on. ‘Mother had it altered at the Post Office.'

‘But all pensions are paid on certain days of the week, you know that as well as I do, or at least you ought to know. Where were you last night?'