The Furys (64 page)

‘Yes, yes!' His eyes were full of tears. ‘Yes! Is she dead? Please!' He began shouting, wildly, incoherently, but the same calm voice now said:

‘It's only the splash of blood from that man. See!' And he pointed to the dead youth, now covered by a soldier's overcoat.

‘Take the woman home.'

Sheila Fury had opened her eyes and looked into Peter's face.

‘Let me help you,' the man said. Somebody was holding water to her mouth. ‘There! There!' A space had been cleared. Everybody seemed to be yelling, shouting, swearing.

‘Take her out of this,' the quiet-voiced man said.

‘Are you all right, Sheila?' Peter stammered. He trembled violently, holding her hand.

‘There, go now.' The boy put his arm round the woman and they pushed their way through the crowd. A lump had come into his throat, he could not speak. Through dark passages, through entries, he hurried with Sheila. Yes, they had better go back. ‘Home!' Peter was saying. ‘Home!'

They entered the house by the back door. Peter could not drive out that flood of sound in his ears. He saw Sheila sit down on the sofa and rest her head against the wall. The fire burned low in the grate. He said, ‘Shall I light the gas?' but the woman said, ‘Sit down.' He sat down by her side. Sheila seemed unable to speak. Her face was pale. She breathed quickly, holding her hands to her side. The boy looked into her face.

‘Oh! The blood!' Sheila said under her breath. ‘The blood!' Peter did not hear her. He was deaf, and he was blind. He did not see the fountain of blood spurt from the youth's chest, he heard no cries. He saw only this face in front of him. This face had looked out at him from its welter of blood, and he wanted to fling himself upon her body. He gripped Sheila Fury's hands.

‘Sheila!' he said. ‘Oh, Sheila!' Her face was expressionless. ‘Sheila!' cried Peter, pressing her hands. Then he leaned forward and kissed her. She sat motionless.

‘
Did you not see me behind you? You
are
callous, my boy. Your mother cannot come. She is chained to some heavy wood. She cannot come. But I shall not spoil your dish. Ha ha!'
Sheila Fury leaned towards the boy.

‘Peter! Peter!'

‘Are you all right, Sheila? Please tell me!' His hand were trembling.

‘What is the matter with you?' she asked faintly. ‘What is the matter?'

‘Nothing! Nothing!'

He buried his head on her breast. He could feel the woman's heart beating against his head. He burst out laughing now.

‘I thought somebody was shouting into my ear,' he said.

‘Please!' the woman said.

She rose to her feet, and drew her hand slowly across her forehead.

That incident in the Circular Road had had a peculiar effect upon her.

‘Well!' she said.

Then she pushed him away with her hand. He stood, watching her go, and as she closed the kitchen door she slid her white hand up and down.

She went upstairs. The boy stood looking at the door. Then he sat down on the chair and laid his head on the table.

‘What is the matter with me?' The feelings that ran riot in him were strange and terrifying.

‘
You
are a young fool,'
said Professor Titmouse.

Yes, that was who it was. That was the voice always raging in his ears. That was the person he had dreamed about.

‘
It is just that she cannot help it. Go up. She is waiting for you. Do not hesitate.'
And, as though the man in the deerstalker hat had lifted him from the chair, Peter rose to his feet, opened the kitchen door and went upstairs.

Professor Titmouse seemed to tramp behind him.

‘
Here vanity has flowered anew, my young friend. Her fastidiousness will excite you tremendously. I should call this social cowardice, but then, you are not interested. You are too young. Besides, that chained woman can wait … Horrid? … Life holds out many delicious flavours!'

The black satin rag seemed to wave in front of Peter's face.

‘
Yes! That was a phenomenon. I myself was there. That bright fountain of blood, my friend, was a gleaming sword. But whose hand will hold it? Away! Up you go! She is waiting for you. You tickle her vanity. You stir her latent maternal feelings, and of course that Black Bull is at present in Garton.'
The man seemed to look into the boy's face. ‘
I
wish I could share your feast, but all that is too late. It is a good feast, a rare feast. It shall blot everything out. And now, good-bye.'
Peter stood outside the door of the bedroom. ‘Come in.' He opened the door, closed it silently behind him and stood looking down at the woman. Sheila Fury was naked. She was lying on her side in the bed. ‘
Go forward. Why hesitate?'
croaked the voice in his ears. He walked up to the bed and stood looking down at the woman. Yes, this was the light, the bright beckoning light. ‘
A single flash. No more.'
croaked the voice, ‘
That soft flesh is not soft. It is steel. Many a man breaks his head against it.
' The boy knelt down at the side of the bed and looked into the woman's face. Where and when had he knelt like this before? Ah yes! When he received his first Communion.

‘Well!' said the woman, laughing. ‘You are a funny boy. Come here.'

He climbed on to her bed, and gripped her arms. ‘Sheila!' he said. ‘I love you.'

‘How much? How much do you love me?' She turned over and lay looking at him. He only smiled, the while his eyes roamed over her naked body. Her very skin seemed to shimmer in the candle-light, whilst her hair, which she had let down, clouded the pillow.

‘Are you afraid?'

‘No.'

‘Not even of Desmond?'

‘No.'

‘Come, then,' she said, and drew his head down upon her breast. She kissed him. Her blood quickened. It pleased her to see this boy's head upon her breast. She liked the feel of it, as she liked the feeling of his hot and clumsy hands. The candle burned low, gave a final splutter, then went out. This sudden darkness seemed to accentuate their heavy breathing, just as the air around them seemed to throb to the desires that filled and held them fast, flesh to flesh.

Peter felt as though rivulets of flame were sweeping across his body. He felt the woman's hot breath upon his face. And he was actually floating in the air, bathed in the light of her body. Suddenly he began to sing. His clear alto filled the darkened room.

‘Ssh!' the woman whispered in his ear. ‘Ssh! …' But he only sang louder. ‘Ssh!' she said. ‘Tell me what you are singing.' She crushed his face against her own so that their eyes seemed to meet, and Peter was gazing as he sang, gazing into two deep pools of living water. He stopped singing.

‘I was singing a song about an Irish King,' he whispered in her ear. He heard her laugh, and it seemed to violate the silence of the room, that now harboured the lovely tones of Peter's voice.

‘But I couldn't understand you.'

‘I was singing it in Erse,' Peter said. He lay limp across her body. He felt as though some great weight had been lifted from his own, and those pools of water into which he rapturously gazed scintillated, seemed to whirl round in one luminous circle. Against this vision there sounded from below the sharp chiming of a clock.

‘Get up now,' Sheila said. ‘Get up.' The clock had struck in the kitchen. But Peter did not move. He lay heavily upon her; seeming to draw, as though by a peculiar magnetic power, a sort of vapour from those depthless pools, a vapour that clouded all about him. It was as if he had been drugged. The woman pushed him away and sat up. For the first time he seemed to see her smiling face. Before, it had been nothing but those dancing waters. Yes, she was smiling, and he had turned away his head. ‘Look at me,' she called to him. ‘Peter! Look at me.' But he only turned his head further away from her. She caught his arm and pulled him towards her. ‘What is the matter, darling?' she said. ‘What is the matter? You are crying.'

‘It's nothing!' He shouted this, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing.' He felt like a small child now, ashamed and angry in her presence. He experienced a feeling of revulsion. He could almost feel, with a sudden fear, that old sliminess creeping upon him. ‘Nothing,' he said.

This time the woman did not answer him. She was dressing quickly. ‘Light a candle, Peter,' she said. ‘I can't see.'

He struck a match and began to search about for a candle. He found a stub on the mantelshelf and lighted it. ‘What time is it?' he asked, and crossing the room, stood behind her, watching her tie up her hair. She smiled at him through the mirror. Again he was looking at her heavy mouth, that mouth which seemed to everlastingly mock the upper part of her face. Where did she come from? He didn't care. Who was she? He didn't want to know. Where did she go every night, and why did she always sit by herself on the shore? He didn't know, and he didn't care. He placed his arms on her shoulders and drew her head back. ‘Kiss me,' he said.

But the woman only put out her tongue. ‘Funny boy!' she said.

Now he felt hurt. He said, ‘I'm not a boy, Sheila. They all think that.' He relaxed his hold on her.

‘Who are all?' She placed a comb in her hair. ‘Who are all?' she asked again.

‘Everybody.'

‘Oh!' She turned round and flung her arms about him. ‘Well, you are funny,' she said. Peter laughed.

They went downstairs. Sheila was going out again. Where was she going? He didn't care. He was happy now. He watched her make up the fire. He wanted to say, ‘When is Desmond coming home?' Instead, he merely said, ‘Can I come again, Sheila?'

The woman went up to him, and placing her fingers under his chin said, ‘Not when Desmond is here.'

‘Well, then.' He looked appealingly at her, and now she realized why he had come. Her intuition told her with a flash.

‘We will go out on Sunday. Will that do?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘On Sunday, on Sunday.'

‘Unless Desmond stays in.'

‘That doesn't matter,' he shouted. He caught her in his arms. ‘I love you, Sheila,' he whispered in her ear. Then he shouted again, ‘All that doesn't matter.'

‘Be quiet! What is the matter with you? Don't you know there are people next door?' She put her hand over his mouth.

‘I don't care!' he shouted through her spread fingers.

‘If you love me, you must,' she said quietly. ‘Now, you had better go.' She stood by the door, as if waiting for him to go. For nearly a minute they were silent, the woman leaning against the dresser, the boy standing under the gas-bracket. There was the door, and there was Sheila. And beyond it there was the street, and darkness. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to lose sight of her for a moment. He made a quick rush to the dresser.

‘Let me go with you, please.'

‘Are you mad?' She pushed him away, and going to the kitchen door said, ‘Please go. This way. Do you love me or not?'

‘Yes, yes. But can't I go with you?'

She pushed Peter towards the door. ‘Peter, go now. Only until Sunday. Please!' The situation seemed to have taken a ludicrous turn. She burst into a fit of laughter. Then she gave his mouth a fleeting kiss. ‘Sunday. At the bottom of Dacre Road. About half-past six.'

‘You promise?'

‘Yes.'

‘Honest and truly?'

‘Yes, funny boy. Now go.' She watched his tall form go down the yard. As soon as the back door closed she went down the yard and bolted it. Then she returned to the kitchen, turned low the gas, and went out by the front door. This she closed silently behind her, by turning the key in the lock. A moment later she had been swallowed up in the darkness.

Outside the back door Peter was still standing. He felt as though his feet were rooted to the ground. He shivered with cold, the darkness only appeared to clothe him, for that experience in the bedroom seemed to have left him naked. This curious feeling of being unclothed grew stronger as he walked, so that once he actually felt his body in order to make sure about it. He stood for a while in the bottom of the entry. Then he went along and into the street. And now he didn't care. He knew she loved him. She must love him to have done that. He leaned against a wall, and caressed its cold surface with his hot hand. ‘Damn!' he cried. ‘Damn!' ‘
Well, it has only begun, my boy, it has only begun. It's a long journey, and educating all the way. You will go again and again. She can't help it. But come and see me some time too. In your presence I experienced the most extraordinary feelings. I …'
Peter started to run, but the voice sounded louder in his ears. ‘
What did I tell you? That flashing light, eh? It clouds out everything. Ha ha! Yes, it clouds out everything. I am tremendously interested in social rottenness, my boy. Yes, run! Run for your life. You haven't the lovely light to hide behind now. And that fountain of blood keeps bursting up, taking fire, that burning sword. Have you learned nothing from that act, my boy? Ah!
…'

At the corner of Hatfields Peter stopped. ‘
There is no need to run, my friend, she is in no hurry. Besides, she is very busy. Yes, she is varnishing those chairs.'
Peter took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He was sweating. ‘Damn!' he cried into the darkness. It was as though this man had come alive, had emerged from the web of his dream, and now rode him pick-a-back, driving him on. ‘Go away!' he cried. ‘God! Go away. Leave me alone.'

‘
Ha ha! The first reaction is always one of revulsion, my boy. But you'll overcome that. I still look askance at your callousness, but you are young. Your ideals are stinking in the heap. No matter, you can still laugh, and that Black Bull will bellow later on. Ah, my boy, you have been educated the wrong way round, but as I say, you are young.'

Peter remained standing at the bottom of Hatfields. He heard the tramway clock strike. ‘Shall I go in?' he was thinking. ‘No.' He walked back down Hatfields, and turning into Price Street, walked slowly up, stopping to look at the darkened number thirty-five. Maureen didn't matter anyhow. He didn't care if he never saw her any more. And Sheila was nicer. His sister was hardened, coarse, and she was having a baby. He laughed, thinking, ‘Soon I shall be an uncle.' Somebody had stopped in front of him. ‘Hello!' the man said.