The Furys (12 page)

‘What business?' He spoke in undertones.

‘The strike. Maureen will be in childbed soon.'

‘I wouldn't offer any advice,' Mr Fury replied. ‘Young people don't take advice these days. It's too old-fashioned.' He wasn't interested in Kilkey anyhow. He pulled out his pipe and struck a match. The woman changed the conversation. Between them the old man snored. He had fallen asleep. His bowler hat had slipped down over his eyes, the water kept dripping down his neck. The tram stopped. Some people got out. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer now.

‘Well, Denny,' began Mrs Fury. ‘I can hardly believe it. I've tried to imagine what he'll be like. Conjured up all sorts of pictures in my imagination. Seven years. It's a long time.' Mr Fury's pipe had gone out. ‘Yes,' he said, and struck another match. He smoked contentedly until the car reached Wilson Street. ‘How quiet he is!' thought the woman. She suddenly turned on him. ‘I half believe you don't care a fig about the boy,' she declared vehemently. He did not reply, but the glance he threw his wife seemed enough. He looked out of the window. He was studying the gilt lettering on a draper's shop window. She was labouring under one of her usual illusions. ‘I'm just as glad to see the boy coming home as you are,' he growled. ‘He's mine as well as yours.' His voice rose. Mrs Fury said, ‘I could see this coming.' People began to stare. ‘The trouble with you,' went on Mr Fury, ‘the trouble with you is that you want your children all to yourself. That's the living truth. I don't blame the others a bit for going off as suddenly as they did. You were simply asking for it.' His voice pitched even higher, his face had grown whiter than usual. Mrs Fury had never seen her husband so carried away as this. They were still arguing when the tram stopped at the Pier Head. Immediately the inert figure assumed an importance all its own. Even Peter was a secondary consideration. ‘Best to wait until the others have got off,' said Mrs Fury. She could hardly conceal her rage at this affront in the eyes of a tramful of people. Mr Fury got up from his seat.

‘You go ahead,' he said, almost authoritatively. ‘I'll carry your father down myself.' He watched her go. When she passed out of sight he looked down at the figure. ‘Strike me!' he said, and picked Mr Mangan up. Unable to carry him shoulder-high on account of the low roof, he dragged him along until they reached the steps. Then he placed him over his shoulder, and with one free hand clinging desperately to the stair rail made his way down to the platform. The conductor appeared much relieved at seeing the last of this ill-assorted family. He supposed they were a family. He stood watching Mr Fury carry the old man to the sidewalk. He put him gently down. Immediately Mr Mangan collapsed to the ground. Mr Fury barked savagely at his wife, ‘There! I told you. Look at him! How in the name of the Lord are we going to get him along the floating bridge, never mind get him along to where the ship berths?' Mrs Fury, for the first time that day, felt that she had made a mistake. Ought she to admit it? What could they do with her father now? They daren't leave him alone. That would only bring the police interfering. Well, she had got him this far, and she was going to see that he reached the boat. Did Denny think that she was just going to lie down to whatever he ordered? ‘Stand him up,' she said. Impatient, she went to the old man and stood him up herself. ‘Dad,' she said. Her husband stared. This was the first time for years that he had heard her address Mr Mangan as ‘Dad'. When the figure muttered, ‘Well, – er,' Mr Fury felt he was witnessing a miracle. Mrs Fury stamped her foot. ‘Put your arm under Dad, Denny,' she said. They started off again.

The sight of the Front awoke many memories in Mr Fury. It would have been an event, this walking along the Stage, in sight and sound of the river traffic. But now with Mr Mangan at his side he felt nothing. Yet he kept telling himself that he must go. His whole spirit cried out for the sea. To be free once again. Penned down like he was. Between four walls. And with a woman like Fanny. This, after spending practically the whole of his life on ships. They pulled up again. They had reached the bottom of the floating bridge. Here the brilliant arc lights shone down mercilessly upon them. More people stared. Mrs Fury ignored them. They moved on again. When they reached the Irish boat's berth, they discovered a large crowd already gathered there. Mr Fury thought this a little strange. Had it been the height of the summer he would have understood. But this. What was it all about? They drew nearer. Mrs Fury suggested they go up against the big chains. Mr Mangan would be able to rest against them. The man made no reply. They reached the chains. Now they could hear much talking amongst the broken-up groups of people. Mrs Fury became curious. She left her husband holding on to her father and moved a few yards further up the Stage. Then she heard words, clear and distinct, come to her out of the night air. ‘Murderer,' caught her ears ‘… the fellow's from Arklow.'

‘Good heavens!' she exclaimed, and ran to her husband. ‘Why,' she said, ‘Peter's on the same boat as the Arklow murderer. They've brought him over. Imagine! Peter on the same boat!'

‘What about it?' growled Mr Fury; ‘he won't eat the lad, will he?' He looked almost despairingly at the figure of Mr Mangan. ‘You're the most excitable woman I ever met in my life,' he remarked. ‘Now their eyes beheld the black shape of the ship looming up through the mist. Mrs Fury's hands gripped the chains. He noticed their whiteness. These chains ran the full length of the landing-stage. She swung round, exclaiming, ‘Denny! Denny! Come here!' ‘What a fuss she's making!' he thought. ‘I can't leave
him,'
he said. People were watching Mrs Fury. ‘What's wrong?' he asked. The woman almost flung herself at him. What was wrong? Why, his son was coming home. He was in that very boat. H'm! She tossed her head in the air. And wouldn't Peter be watching with the same anxious eyes as themselves? For his father and mother?

‘Yes, yes. Of course.' Mr Fury put a hand on his wife's shoulder. Excitement and confusion. The slack of the hawsers was being paid out. Now they had the bight over the bitt. Soon the gangway would go up. They craned their necks. Figures moved about the decks, the white faces looking like so many splashing lights in the darkness. Mrs Fury was staring now at a tall figure standing against the saloon doorway. ‘There he is!' she cried. She pinched her husband's arm. ‘See! How tall he has grown.'

The person in question happened to be a King's Messenger. People were coming down the gangway. But where was Peter? Mr Fury strained anxious eyes towards the gangway. Would he know the lad? So long since he had seen him. Then there appeared at the top of the gangway a tall youth, carrying a suitcase, followed by a buxom woman of medium height. Tears came to Mrs Fury's eyes. ‘He is there. There he is.' Mr Fury felt a weight on his arm, then it left him. There was a thud. ‘Blast!' he said. Mr Mangan had collapsed again. He looked round despairingly for his wife, but Mrs Fury had already rushed to the foot of the gangway. He tried to lift the old man to his feet. How awkward he was! A little crowd gathered. Then a policeman hove in sight. ‘Drunk?' he asked brusquely. Mr Fury looked at him, then at the gangway. ‘Fanny!' he called out. ‘Fanny!' Three people were rushing towards him now. Mr Fury imagined it to be three million. It was like an oncoming sea. Ah! Good heck! Was this his son? The buxom woman said, ‘Oh, Denny!' and knelt down by her father. Mrs Fury said, ‘One could not leave you alone for a single moment. How did that happen? Here's Peter.' Her husband looked at his son. Nearly six-foot high. ‘Well!' he said. ‘Well! I'm glad to see you home again.' He grasped the outstretched hand. The youth smiled. ‘Hello, Dad,' he said.

‘He'll be all right in a second,' Brigid Mangan was saying. She had an arm under her father's head. The policeman observed all this with consternation. He went across to Mr Fury. ‘Best get a cab for the old man,' he said. For the first time Peter became aware of his grandfather's presence. He bent down and looked into the old man's face. How small he was, how thin his face was, and he hardly seemed to have eyes at all. Peter felt a sudden disgust grow upon him. His aunt was wiping Mr Mangan's eyes. ‘Go and get a taxi,' Mrs Fury said.

Mr Fury went off to the taxi rank, glad of even a few minutes' respite. The silly woman! To bring an old man out on a night like this! He came back a few minutes later, standing on the step of the taxi. The driver got down to help Mr Mangan in. Mrs Fury was thinking, ‘Will it hold five of us?' whilst Mr Fury stood staring at his son, hardly able to realize that this was the small boy he had known seven years ago. It made him feel suddenly old, as old as that man whom the driver had now caught hold of in his arms. ‘Give a hand, Denny.'

‘Yes.' Mr Fury went inside the taxi and helped the old man in. They sat him down in the corner. Mrs Fury touched her son on the shoulder. ‘Sit 'longside your grand-dad,' she said. Peter got inside. He felt a repugnance to sitting by his grandfather. This was nothing like the man he had known seven years ago. What changes had taken place. He made himself comfortable. Mrs Fury and her sister climbed in. Mr Fury got in after them. They seated themselves after much fuss and bother. The driver stood holding the door, waiting for them. Mrs Fury looked across at her son. ‘Hold your head up,' she said, a remark which made the man at the door smile. ‘All set?' he asked. ‘Yes,' said Mrs Fury, ‘we're all set. Drive to the bottom of Hatfields.'

‘Why the bottom, Fanny?' asked her husband from his corner. ‘What's the matter with the door?' Mrs Fury said, ‘Shut up,' and turned to the driven ‘Pull up at the bottom of Hatfields, driver,' she said. ‘Right, ma'am.' The man climbed on to his seat. Nobody spoke. The engine tuned up. Mr Mangan still grunted like a pig. Mr Fury jammed his face against the window. Brigid Mangan kept fidgeting about, not comfortably settled. Mrs Fury sat back with folded arms, her eyes pinned upon her son. Peter coughed. Everybody began to move. The taxi started off. ‘Shut the window,' Mrs Fury said. Mr Fury closed the window. He looked at his son again. ‘Bless me,' he said to himself, ‘he's a full-grown man!' His wife sat erect like a soldier.

CHAPTER IV

1

‘Peter! Oh, Peter! How are you?' The youth felt himself caught in a pair of strong arms. He was overwhelmed, crushed against this body whose arms seemed to intensify their clutch upon him. A mouth sought his own. ‘Oh, my dear boy!' Mrs Fury sat back in the taxi now, reflecting upon the animated scene at the bottom of the gangway. How he had grown! She had an idea that Peter had wanted to free himself from her grasp. She had loosened her hold upon him at the very moment when her husband had called out to her so frantically. The light from the powerful arc lamps had shone brightly upon them. Some people had laughed. He had looked splendid standing there. So strong and healthy-looking, a smile suffusing his tanned face.

‘Hello, Dad,' he was saying. She remembered the astonishment with which her husband had met his son. She had known it all along. The man had never seen him for seven years. He hadn't appeared to recognize him at first. ‘A bit of a whipper-snapper when I went away.' She could hear him saying that. She had smiled on seeing him grip her son's shoulders, saying, ‘Well, Peter, I'm right glad to see you home again.' No more than that. Not a word about his failure. Not a word about his future. How old and wretched her sister was looking! Hardly as old as herself. She ought to have married, she was telling herself. She coughed loudly, but not a movement from the others in the taxi. Peter sat back, his head almost on the old man's shoulders. Mr Fury, on the same seat as his wife and sister, was jammed up against the window. Occasionally they caught glimpses of each other's faces, whenever the taxi passed a street lamp. They were well away from the Stage now, although to Mrs Fury the taxi appeared to be going at a crawling pace. From time to time she looked at her husband, then across at her son. She leaned forward once, certain that Peter had spoken to his father. But the stony silence was maintained. She sat back again. What a time the man was driving them to Hatfields! Mr Fury was still thinking of the great crowd they had left at the ship's berth, eager for a glimpse of the apprehended Arklow murderer. It seemed to him now that he had been the only one anyway concerned about his father-in-law. With Peter's sudden arrival his wife had ceased to pay any attention to the old man.

Suddenly Brigid Mangan broke the silence. She turned to her sister.

‘What is this I hear, Fanny, about a general strike?' Mrs Fury laughed. ‘Oh that!' She had heard about it. ‘Why?' Brigid Mangan said, ‘Well, if the boats are going to be held up I shall be in a fix. I have only a few shillings with me. Indeed, I hope I can catch the boat back at eight o'clock tomorrow night.'

Mr Fury said: ‘You'll catch it all right. There won't be any strike. In any case, it wouldn't interfere with the running of the traffic for a day or two.'

‘You think so, Denny?'

‘Yes.' Mr Fury very much wanted to, but seated as he was, he could scarcely move an inch either way. ‘Excuse me,' he said rather abruptly, and Miss Mangan moved away a little whilst he pulled out his pipe.

‘Open the window, Peter,' called Mrs Fury. ‘Your father's been presented with the most foul tobacco.' Her husband laughed. Peter laughed. He reached over and pulled down the window. He looked across at his father. This little old man with the grey hair was his father. He could only remember him as he was seven years ago. He was more robust then, his hair was fair and grew thick upon his head. How he had changed! There was a sudden jolt, and everybody was thrown towards the middle of the taxi. ‘My heavens!' exclaimed Brigid Mangan. Then the taxi stopped altogether. The driver came to the door. ‘Better get out, Missus,' he said, addressing himself to Mrs Fury. ‘My taxi's broke down.' Mr Fury said, ‘Well, I'll be hanged!'