The Furys (65 page)

The boy looked up. At first he could not distinguish the figure in the darkened street. Then the man laughed. Why! Of course! It was George Postlethwaite. Dapper little George Postlethwaite with whom he had used to play ‘tally-ho'. Like Peter, George was bareheaded.

‘Well, did you find anybody in?' asked George. He noticed that Peter was trembling.

‘Yes, oh yes. I – I'm just going home. Which way are you going?'

George turned his head, and pointing with his finger said, ‘I'm just going down to the stables to see my horse. Doin' anything? Would you like to come?'

‘Oh yes!' Peter said. ‘I'll go. Which way?'

They moved off, George looking into the other's face, saying, ‘Aye, laddie, it seems a long time since my old man chased you up Hatfields with that brass rod of his. And those games of “tally-ho”. Ever remember them?'

Peter's face became wreathed in smiles. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘It only seems like yesterday, doesn't it?'

‘Yes,' said George. ‘And aye, but you've grown a rare wopper, Peter my lad. D'you like being home again?' He adjusted the chain that hung over his shoulders.

‘Not much,' Peter said.

They turned into Ash Walk, and walked its length without speaking. Then George said, ‘Just at the back of those houses.' He slackened his pace. ‘How's yer dad an' yer mam? All right?'

‘Yes, thanks – oh, listen!'

George laughed. ‘Aye, the old un knows when I'm coming. You bet. It's been a bit of a mucksweat what with this ‘ere strike and those bloody balm-pots going off the top. Silly sods! Here we are.'

They stopped in front of a big red gate, and George took from his pocket a large key, to which was attached a square of wood. ‘Got any matches?' He unlocked the gate. Peter followed him into the yard. He searched for matches, but George shouted, as from far away, ‘Got mine – it's all right.' He struck a match, and the yard revealed itself for a moment. Then the match went out. Mr Postlethwaite was unlocking another door. ‘Here we are,' he said. Peter followed him inside. The smell of hay and horse-stole filled the air. In the darkness he could not see the great roan mare, but he sensed her, he could almost swear he was touching her. George lighted a hurricane lamp and hung it on the nail. ‘There she is! Hey, Nabob, old girl.' The mare was lying down, but as George approached her she struggled to her feet. ‘Isn't she great?' he said. The roan had turned round and put her head against George's shoulder. Her large gentle eyes looked out at Peter, questioning, as though she were asking, ‘Who are you?' ‘Come over,' George said. Peter stroked her head and then her nose. He could feel her warmth against his body. ‘Best roan mare in the country,' George said. ‘Mr Dimmock, by gosh, he isn't half proud of her. Taking prizes all the year round, and gettin' any price for her foals. You're a beauty, aren't you, Nabob?' Nabob's ears seemed to dance about on her head. ‘Get that stool, laddie, and sit down,' said George. ‘Just behind you.' Peter sat down on the stool. He looked at George standing there, the roan's head resting over his shoulder. There was something in the attitude of both man and beast that touched him. The lamp shone down upon them. ‘Aye,' said George, as he began stroking the roan again. ‘Ever you want a real friend, Peter, you just take a horse. Better'n any human being. And I know. Me and Nabob's been together for years now. Haven't we, Nabob?' The mare put her mouth to George's head, and began rubbing his hair, and there seemed something mischievous in those large eyes. Nabob was indeed enjoying herself. She was having an enforced holiday. Outside in the big yard stood the lorry she pulled, its wheels rusted from recent rains. George let go his hold of the mare and went up and looked into her manger. ‘This holiday isn't doing you much good, old girl,' he said. ‘You're getting too fat.' He drew some hay down from the loft, and put it into the rack.

‘Does she stay here all the time?' asked Peter.

‘Oh aye,' replied George, ‘but every morning I take her out, not in the shafts, of course. I take her out for a little walk. I come down twice a day.' He had turned his back on the mare, who was now feeding contentedly. He drew a box from the wall and sat down on it, so that the light from the lantern shone full in his face. ‘What a funny little fellow George is!' Peter was thinking, as he looked into Mr Postlethwaite's weather-beaten face. One had only to look at him once to realize that George was a contented man who had no responsibilities and no worries, beyond Anne at home and the roan. ‘Why don't you come and see us some time?' began George. ‘Mother was only saying the other day, “What a size Peter Fury's got!” You must come and see us. You know where I live, anyhow. Next to Desmond. Aye, he's a mad un, your brother is.' He began drumming on the box with his stubby fingers.

Peter sat up. ‘How d'you mean, he's a mad un?' he asked.

‘Well, look at him. Out all the while. Gone to Garton now. Speaking there. Aye, every day he is out. And when he's working on the length he goes out in the evening. But I never did see anything in all this blather about socialism. Workers are only bloody mugs, I know, but when a fellow starts going off his onion about socialism, well … ever heard your brother speaking?'

‘No,' said Peter. He made himself comfortable on the stool.

‘And his missus is never in, either. Funny pair. Still, when a fellow goes off like that, what can you expect any woman to do? I used to hear them arguing the fat at night. Sometimes Anne and me couldn't get to sleep for it.'

‘Where does she go to, then?' asked Peter, and there was no doubt whatever by the way he looked at Mr Postlethwaite that he expected to hear something which might whet his curiosity. But George was non-committal.

‘Don't know,' he said. ‘People talk, of course. I heard somebody say the other day that she goes to a house in town every night. Reckon your Desmond picked up a tartar when he married her. Your mam was in a way. Aye, no mistake about it. They had a fine row. I was at Mother's that day. You never heard anything like it. Carried on like billy-o. I like your mam,' he went on. ‘And Mother does too, but somehow they always steer clear of each other. Suppose you know why?'

‘Yes,' Peter replied, ‘but I think it's silly.'

‘Must go now,' said George. He got up from the box and kicked it back to the wall. He went up to the mare, who seemed to have sensed his imminent departure, for she had turned her head round and looked at Peter. Peter was taking George away. Peter was taking this man away who came twice a day to see her.

‘Is she all right there?' asked Peter, as they went out into the yard.

‘Right as rain. There's nine o'clock struck. I was late this evening.'

Peter looked back at the now darkened stable, then he followed George across the yard. He helped him slide back the big red gate. Having locked it, they set off towards home.

‘Wouldn't like to come up to the house?' George said. ‘Only nine o'clock.'

Peter hesitated. Mention of the house made him think of Sheila again. ‘I don't know, it's late, really.' No,
she
wouldn't be there. He would go if
she
was there. ‘I had better go home,' he said, and he thought, ‘This man knows. This funny little man knows all about me.' They parted company at the corner of Hatfields.

‘Good-night. You come up and see us some time, laddie,' said George. ‘Ta-ta now.' He left Peter standing at the corner of the dark and deserted street.

Now that George had gone, the boy became aware of his loneliness. He felt isolated. He had better go home. Yes, he could have his supper and go to bed. He could lie quietly in bed and think of all that had happened. Tonight he could fall asleep thinking of Sheila. Thinking of her would cast out his loneliness. Yes, he was lonely. Nowhere to go. His father always growled, and his mother ignored him. His sister wouldn't see him, and Desmond – yes, Desmond didn't like him either. He felt certain of that. When he went to the billiard-room nobody spoke to him, because they had heard about his failure at the college. Yes, he hated them. But on Sunday, on Sunday at half-past six … He began running up the back entry. Outside the door he stopped. ‘Yes – on Sunday. I shall see her on Sunday.' And nothing else mattered.

When he entered the kitchen he was surprised to find the gas turned low, and the high-backed chair was empty. He went to the foot of the stairs and called, ‘Anybody in?' The echo of his own voice seemed to float down from the darkened landing. ‘H'm!' he exclaimed. ‘Funny nobody here.' He turned up the gas, then went into the back kitchen. He was feeling hungry. In a brown mug he found a quarter loaf, which he cut in slices. He looked for butter, but this time his search behind the pans was unsuccessful. He put some marmalade on the bread and went back to the kitchen. There was tea in the pot. In the Fury household this pot, like the proverbial Russian samovar, was never empty. He sat down and had his supper. When he had finished, he went to the foot of the stairs and called again, ‘Anybody in?'

She had knelt there varnishing those chairs. And she hadn't seen him. And the other night when he had come in she had been sitting at the table, fast asleep, her fingers holding the cup. His mother had been fast asleep. He had been able to look fully into her face, and he had seen the lines about her eyes, which, when closed, seemed to reveal even more clearly those lines which at first he only noticed upon her forehead. Perhaps the lines crept down from the forehead and so spread about one's face. And the fringes of her black hair touched the white of the table. As he sat looking at the deserted table it seemed she had come to it, and was now sitting there. He could even hear her breathing. He took off his shoes and tiptoed across the kitchen. He looked at the table again. Then he went upstairs. Outside his room door he paused. They must all be out. He turned the knob and entered the room. It was pitch dark. The window was open from the bottom. He put his shoes on the floor. Then he sat down on the bed. ‘Oh!' he said, and jumped up again. His father was sitting on that bed.

Mr Fury, dressed in shirt and drawers, had heard his son come in. He had got out of bed and stolen quickly into Peter's room. He would wait for him. He sat quietly in the darkness, hardly breathing. He had heard his son call up the stairs, ‘Anybody in?' but he had not made any reply. He was content to sit as quietly as a mouse and wait there. He would catch the boy out. He would surprise him. ‘Light the lamp,' he said. Peter struck a match and looked at his father. ‘Light it,' his father said, but he only dropped the match in his confusion. He struck another one and lit the lamp. He placed it on the table so that his father's face was framed in the light and his own was in the shadow. ‘Sit down here,' Mr Fury said, ‘I want to talk to you.' How frail his father looked in shirt and drawers! A little old man. He sat down by his side. The man folded his arms and looked across at the bare wall. ‘What's up with you?'

‘Nothing, Dad,' replied Peter. ‘Nothing.' And his eyes, falling upon the tattooed star upon his father's wrist, remained there. ‘Nothing, Dad,' he repeated, with downcast head. His head began to throb, and he felt once more that burning, scalding sensation in his blood, as there loomed up for a moment a picture of Sheila Fury. Sheila Fury standing by the door and saying ‘Go. Go now.'

His father shouted, ‘What is the matter with you lately? You go about half goopy. And you don't eat anything. No, by God! you turn your damned nose up at what your mother and I are glad to eat.' He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon it. Now his face was in shadow, and the light had flung his shadow upon the bare wall, giving Mr Fury a monstrous head and long lean body. And the figure trembled on the wall. Suddenly he jumped up from the bed saying, ‘Wait a minute! Don't you turn in yet. I'll be back in a second.' He turned towards the door.

‘Mother's out,' Peter said, but his father did not hear him. Mr Fury banged the door and now stood on the dark landing. What did it matter? He would still go down; she had gone out, but what of that? Dennis Fury held firmly in his mind a picture of his wife. He would go down. He would see her again, sitting at the table looking at her father. Yes, he would see her, the boy's mother, just for a moment. He only wanted to hold this picture of her secure, then he would go back upstairs again. Peter stood listening. Mr Fury was creeping downstairs as though he might wake his wife, who an hour ago had gone out to see her daughter.

A minute later Mr Fury came back. ‘Well!' he said to himself. ‘That's strange! I never heard her go out.' He entered the room and banged the door, He was like a man who has made a sudden decision, and now wishes to sit down and reflect upon it. He closed the door. Peter was sitting on the bed. He did not see his father standing in front of him, he heard no door shut, no bolt shot back. He did not even hear his grandfather's loud snores that seemed to waft under his door. He saw nothing but this woman. She filled the room, he could put out his hand and touch her, he could smell her body, feel her breath. To Peter the very air in the room was charged with her spirit, her loveliness, her half-open mouth seemed to tremble in the air, to laugh at him, to smile, to speak. He wanted to burst out singing, to smash down those dismal walls with his voice, he wanted to burst.

‘What is wrong with you? You were out all day. Where were you?' Mr Fury was shaking his son by the shoulder. ‘Wake up! You're falling asleep.' He gripped his son by the hair, and forcing his head back made to speak again, but now he dropped his hand and drew back. ‘Have you been drinking?'

Peter burst out laughing. He continued to laugh, his whole frame seemed to shake beneath this prolonged laughter.

‘But you're sweating,' his father said, and he watched his son pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his face. Then he said heatedly, ‘I don't give a confounded hang what you've been doing. But I want to talk to you. Understand? Stand up,' he said. Mr Fury did not look at Peter. He was looking at the door; he was looking through and beyond it; he was looking at his wife sitting in the kitchen.