The Furys (79 page)

Suddenly he gripped his sister by the arm—laid his head on her shoulder.

‘Maury,' he said, with passion and conviction, ‘Maury, Dad has feelings and Mother has feelings. But I'm not supposed to have any. I hate it. Hate it. Have I to keep hanging my head for ever—have I to be sorry for ever? God—if you had seen them at dinner-time you'd imagine I was slowly poisoning them. But the main point is this. Dad is going back to sea. That's what I came to tell you. You would have heard in any case, no doubt—but you see, as I'm affected, I thought I would come over and see you. Maury, you understand me, don't you? You do agree that Mother took advantage of me when I was a child? Don't you?'

‘Of course I do!' She began stroking his hair with her warm red hand.

‘Dad says it is I or him. If I don't go, he'll go. He's quite serious about it. Honestly.'

Maureen Kilkey's comment upon this was to burst into a fit of laughter.

‘Peter,' she said, ‘is that all that worries you? What Dad has threatened to do? Good Lord! If you had seen as much of him as I have you'd laugh too. I don't believe a single word he's said. Not a word. He just brags, threatens—that's his way. He wouldn't leave Mother. He'd sooner kick you out. Don't forget that. Dad may seem an easy-going man, even a bit soft, but he knows what he's doing. I shouldn't take the slightest notice of it. You wouldn't leave home, would you?' She looked long and earnestly into her brother's face.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I wouldn't mind so much if they didn't treat me as a child. They never tell me anything. Mother has something on her mind even now, but she says nothing. I feel all this secrecy has something to do with me. I feel ashamed all the time—and I don't want to be like this—after all, I'm no child. Mother has shown by her very attitude that she still hangs on to this crazy idea she has.'

‘What crazy idea?'

‘Oh, I don't know. This being her boy—her favourite—wanting me to forget all that ever happened and then be smothered with her affection. But I won't do that. Listen, Maureen. I know you'll be shocked, but I have a confession to make. I don't believe any more. I mean, I don't believe what you believe in—or what Mother believes in. In fact, when I think of the time I tried to find Limbo on the map of the world—it makes me want to burst out laughing. No, Maureen, I don't and can't believe in that thing any longer. I'm open to be convinced like anybody else, but when it is used just to suppress people—well, then it's time to kick. You see, I am a man now. I stand on my feet. If I stay with Mother—if I live at Hatfields—it will always be under a cloud. I could never be happy. I would be observing the other things, obeying the very things I didn't believe in. It would be one long series of lies, lies, lies. It couldn't be otherwise. I haven't the heart to tell Mother what I really think. That's why I hated the college. Hated being a boy at school. You couldn't say anything at all. Now I want to say almost everything—but am prevented.'

‘What prevents you?' asked Maureen. They had moved out of the shelter of the doorway, and walked slowly along past Miss Pettigrew's sweet-shop. Then they turned the corner and did not stop until they came to Mr. Dingle's wine-shop, in whose spacious doorway they sought shelter.

‘Oh, I can't help it. I love Mother, you see, and she knows it. In fact, I sometimes think she plays on it. Really, at heart, I believe she wouldn't rest.'

Maureen stopped his mouth with her own. ‘I have to run now. Good-night. Remember what I told you.'

He stood looking after her until she vanished in the darkness. Then he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked slowly on. His thoughts carried him to that dark and deserted street near the Custom House, but his feet were carrying him towards Hatfields. Suddenly he stopped.

‘Why should I go back there now? To sit and listen to them talking. About what might have been—about what Dad didn't do. What he
should
have done. What Mother would do if she had her time all over again. To the devil with that!' thought Peter, and turning round walked back the way he had come. Fresh air was much better. He went on smiling to himself, whistling a tune of a popular song. He was grown up. He was feeling very happy.

The only early visitor Mrs. Fanny Fury had ever received into her house was her own husband—and in those far-off days when he was at sea. Sometimes his ship docked in the middle of the night—sometimes in the early morning. But the early open door had been closed for nearly three years. There were no early visitors. Mr. Fury went off to work at six, and the door did not open again except to the usual tradesmen until he returned home from work at five o'clock in the evening. With the exception of the head of the household, everybody at number three used the back-door entrance. In fact, much of Hatfields' business was done at the back entrance. Front doors were only for one purpose. To be opened to visitors. Families went in and out of the back door. Number seven's front door had never been opened for a year, so that people had ceased to believe that anybody lived there at all. Its occupants, however, could generally be seen passing up and down the entry.

When Mrs. Fury opened her front door at half-past eight in the morning it was to find her daughter with the child standing on the step. (When Maureen Kilkey wanted business done she liked to get it done at once.) Without showing the surprise she naturally felt, she opened wide the door, and mother and child passed into the kitchen.

Immediately she sat down, Mrs. Fury said, ‘You are early. Is anything wrong?'

Maureen did not reply at once. She was looking at a neatly made parcel of sandwiches on the dresser. She realized they were sandwiches at once, for beside them there lay a neatly folded bundle of blue dungarees.

‘Hasn't Dad gone out?' asked Mrs. Kilkey. She placed the boy on the mat, who at once became quite indifferent to his relations and began a brave attempt to pull the fender from the hearth. Maureen nudged him gently with her foot.

‘Stop it,' she said, whereon, quite unconcerned, the child looked up at her and smiled—a smile that seemed to say, ‘Don't you wish you could lie down on the mat and play with the fender?'

Mrs. Fury smiled down at the child, though one realized it was a forced smile. She sat with folded arms, looking across at her daughter. How slovenly the girl was getting—even coarse-looking; her greasy-looking hair seemed hardly to have been touched with a brush—whilst her blouse, unbuttoned at the top, was smeared with grease-marks—and how stout too. But that was to be expected. No! There was something about Maureen that had an uneasy effect upon Mrs. Fury.

‘Are you all right?' asked the mother.

‘I'm all right,' replied Maureen like a shot. She still looked at the parcels.

‘Hasn't Dad gone out?' she asked again. She seemed much affected by those parcels on the dresser.

‘Your father is out—yes.'

‘But he's left his things behind him,' said Maureen. She saw Mrs. Fury laugh.

‘Your father is having a holiday to-day,' said Mrs. Fury. ‘And why should I refuse him a holiday after all these years? Have you seen him lately?'

‘No, I haven't,' replied Maureen. She was watching the child again, who seemed fully determined on disorder, for he had managed to move the well-polished fender just three inches from the hearth, at least one corner of it.

‘Will you stop it when I tell you,' cried Mrs. Kilkey, administering a resounding slap on the child's rear. She fully expected him to cry, but instead he looked up at his mother with those seemingly knowing eyes and once more smiled at her.

‘Your father has decided to go to sea,' Mrs. Fury began, when Maureen interrupted quickly, saying:

‘But it wasn't about that I came round to see you, Mother.' The mere fact that Mr. Fury was going to sea was quite unimportant. ‘It's about this loan,' said Maureen. ‘I had a letter from Banfield Road on Monday. I meant to come and see you before this, but couldn't manage to get round. You must tell me everything. You see, Joe is worried and so am I. We have been talking about this matter together. I must stand by what he says. You are terribly in arrears, and our furniture covers the principal of the money, so it looks as though our furniture will never belong to us. How is this, Mother? You've had Anthony's compensation money?'

The mother made no reply. There rose in her in this very moment a wave of fierce hatred for this daughter—not because such hate grew from the chaotic state of affairs existing between herself and the businesslike lady in Banfield Road, but solely arising from Maureen's unconcern about her father. The fact that Denny was going away meant simply nothing. Nothing. She looked at her daughter and exclaimed savagely, ‘Out with it! Come on now. Tell us your grievances. What is gnawing at you?'

‘Don't lose your temper, Mother. You ought to control yourself more. You'll only make yourself ill. A year ago I tried to help you. We covered your loan of twenty pounds—but be quite honest with me—haven't you reborrowed?'

‘What do you want to do? I say
you
because I am sure Joe Kilkey has not sent you round here. Don't say we, Maureen; be honest, say I. You want to get clear. Isn't that it?'

‘That's just it,' replied Maureen. ‘We want to get clear. We intend to leave Price Street. Leave the neighbourhood altogether. We're sick of it—I more than Joe. That's what you should have done long, long ago. Instead you are still here—tied down in the same old place. I should have thought that you——'

‘Don't think,' said Mrs. Fury. ‘Say what you want.'

‘We want you to go and see Mrs. Ragner. Quite frankly, we can't stand surety any longer. You ask me to be honest. I have been. I've told you that we don't want to cover the loan any more. You know very well that Mrs. Ragner will always have a hold over our house until you clear the principal of twenty pounds. Haven't you cleared it off in all that time?—you ought to have done.'

‘You simply don't understand. My heavens, I never thought I should ever have to discuss my business with my children.'

‘A pity, isn't it? Everything might have been different if you had,' replied Maureen.

‘Because you want to go back on your promise doesn't say you can be insulting. I won't have it. I say, I won't have it—from my own children.'

‘Don't be so foolish, Mother. What do you owe Mrs. Ragner?'

‘I won't discuss it any more,' said the mother. ‘Understand? If you want to relieve yourself of the responsibility, you are quite capable of looking after yourself.'

‘What I came to say I
have
said,' replied Maureen. ‘Now let me make a suggestion. When you get Anthony's thirty-five pounds you must go at once to Mrs. Ragner and inform her that we don't want any more to do with it. If you still owe her money you must find somebody else. I'm not going back on anything. I'm being quite clear about the matter. We covered your twenty, but as it now stands much higher than that—it's time to call a halt. You see, a woman like Mrs. Ragner carries out her contracts to the letter. And what do you suppose I am going to do the day a van calls and clears out the house? You
must
think of other people besides yourself, Mother—you
must
. Don't you understand? We have a family now.'

‘So I can see,' replied Mrs. Fury—looking down at the child, who, quite unable to pull the fender out any further, had vented his disgust by wetting the mat. Mrs. Fury took on that strange attitude of hunching her shoulders together like a person suddenly seized with a twinge of pain. Then she burst out laughing. Maureen, suddenly angry, jumped to her feet.

‘There is nothing to laugh at except your own damned foolishness.'

This had no effect upon the woman. Laughter had seized her. She went on laughing as though every fibre of her being had surrendered to this mysterious wave that flooded her, that continuous wave of laughter that carried everything in its wake. Thoughts—words—feelings—repressions—secrets—glances—a veritable flood.

‘For Christ's sake,' said Maureen, ‘what is the matter with you? Stop it. Stop it.' She stamped her foot angrily upon the floor. ‘Will you listen to what I say? You must get us clear of it. D'you understand? We've had quite enough of it. Quite enough. Are you laughing at the lovely position you've put us in, or are you laughing because Dad has taken the day off? But I'm not laughing. Neither is Joe. You can't get people to oblige you every time your own foolishness—your own ridiculous ambition—your damned secrecy about everything—gets you into a mess.'

She swept the child from the mat, gave him a clout on the head with the flat of her hand and exclaimed, ‘See, your grandmother's upset because you wet the mat, you little …'

Then the wave of laughter ceased. Mrs. Fury slumped back in the chair. She had emptied herself.

‘I'll see that you don't have to worry,' she said. ‘Go on home where you belong. I'll see Mrs. Ragner. Don't be afraid. I won't disturb your sleep any longer. Nor your husband's.'

‘Will you at least be reasonable?' cried Maureen Kilkey. She held Dermod under one arm—with her free hand she thumped the arm of the chair. ‘Lately you've gone past it, Mother. Really you have. And it's not making you look any younger. I don't know how you can sit there quite unmoved, thinking of Dad at his age off looking for a ship.'

‘Did I ever prevent your father from doing what he really wanted to do? I knew two years ago he was getting tired of the old round. When a man wants his freedom he makes what's quite plain look very mysterious; but I understand your father. At heart he doesn't want to go at all. I know it. And he knows I know it. He thinks that I'll empty this house to please him. He thinks I'll give up my last child to please him. He never made a bigger mistake. Never. That's the reason for the sudden holiday. No, Maureen, I've seen more of this world than you have, and I understand your father better than anybody. You would think that for that old man upstairs—my own father—I slave day after day, tied to him. Quite wrong. Your grandfather is nearer to me than anybody in this house. While he is here I can always remember. Sometimes when we are alone together I like to remember. I even think I'd like to go home to Ireland. Of course, I know I never will go'—the woman laughed again, ‘still it's nice just thinking about it, isn't it? You think I'm hard—even crazy. You're quite wrong, Maureen—I'm not hard—nor crazy. But you see I've reared a family who have gone any way but the way I would like them to have gone. You know perfectly well what I mean. I stand by my faith—and it's stood by me since I was a tiny child—and I shall never let it go. I wish my children had done likewise. What did I ask? Very little. Three things. Keep your faith, be clean, and be honest. That wasn't much to ask of anybody. I reared you all with this belief. Would you be where you are to-day if you had kept my advice? Would Desmond? Would Peter? I've reared a family, and yet half of them are too ashamed to come and see me. Well, I've learned a lot, I can tell you. But I forget easily too. That's a good thing. Rearing you all I've hardly lived myself. Your father I hardly knew. A stranger. Why is this? Because to put food into your bellies and clothes on your backs he spent thirty years at sea. And all that time he was getting on, growing up—and so was I. What life have we had? None! Now go away and leave me alone. I'll see Mrs. Ragner this very day. I would hate to think that you couldn't sleep over me. Now go.'