The Furys (46 page)

‘Did you ever find your money, Dad?' asked Peter.

‘Oh yes! I found that. That's all right. Now better get some breakfast.'

‘Yes.' Father and son began to lay the table. Mr Fury sat down to bread and butter, Peter to some fried bread.

‘Where did you get to last night?' asked Mr Fury. He paused, hand in the air, holding the bread as though the question could allow of no delay. ‘Yes. Where did you get to?' Then he put the bread in his mouth.

‘After I lost you, I started off in the direction of the hospital. Then on the way I met a most peculiar person. I asked him the way to the hospital. He said he was going there too. Had a son lying ill.'

Oh aye.

‘Then we got involved with another crowd near Powell Square. We couldn't get out.'

‘Yes – were you there when they cleared the Square?' asked Mr Fury.

‘Oh yes, Dad. But I was sheltering on one of the lions. This man said he was a professor. He
was
funny. Look! He gave me his card.' The boy got up from the table and ran into the lobby. He came back flourishing the card, which he handed to his father.

Mr Fury read it. ‘R. H. Titmouse. Professor of Anthropology.' He put his finger and thumb against it and flicked it across the table. ‘Never heard of him,' said Mr Fury. ‘There's your grand-dad!' he exclaimed, and jumped up from the table. He stood listening at the bottom of the stairs. Yes. It was ‘him'. He was coughing and choking. ‘Aye! You're a bloody old nuisance,' he growled under his breath. ‘Peter!' he called. ‘Hurry up there! I want you to help me get your grand-dad downstairs. Your mother says he must go into his chair today.' Mr Fury slowly climbed the stairs.

‘Yes, Dad! All right! Coming,' shouted the boy, and began to gulp his tea. As Mr Fury climbed, the choking sounds became more audible. Mr Fury's apprehension increased. He went into the room. Mr Mangan had slipped off his pillow. For a moment Dennis Fury turned his head away. There was something about the position in which the old man was lying that reminded him of a young baby. His shirt had ridden up over his rear owing to his exertions. His face was a livid red, and the blood seemed to have flooded that big bald head, giving it the appearance of a great beetroot!

‘Aye, slobbered' said Mr Fury. He sat the old man up and patted him on the back. Gradually his face resumed its former colour. The blood flowed away from his head, the livid red gave place to the parchment-like colour. He was breathing quickly. Peter came up. ‘Best get your grand-dad downstairs,' he said.

Anthony Mangan must have his breakfast. Then he must be washed, dressed, and carried downstairs. Then he must be tied in with the piece of belting. Mr Fury was nonplussed. He looked at Peter. ‘Should we get him his breakfast now?' asked Mr Fury. He shifted his glance to ‘him'.

‘That would be best,' said Peter, hoping his father would oblige.

‘Then go downstairs and get his pobs. You'll find it on the hob. It's all ready.'

The boy went down for the pobs. Mr Fury again patted the old man on the back. ‘Aye, slobberer,' he said, ‘you can hear every word we say, with those big ears of yours – aye, and you can see everything. But you never open your gob. Do you? Aren't afraid of us, are you, eh?' He smiled, looking down on the man's bald head. A lump of dead ivory. Nothing more. Peter came up with the pobs. He stood holding the plate in one hand, the spoon in the other, whilst he watched his father take from his pocket a large red handkerchief and place it under Mr Mangan's chin.

‘I've just been telling your grand-dad how mean he is, taking advantage of eyes and ears and never obliging with that mouth of his,' said Mr Fury to the boy. He placed one hand flat upon Mr Mangan's head, and as though the action itself had momentarily spirited away the old man in the bed, he turned again to Peter, and said in a whisper: ‘Your mother was a fool ever to take him from Ireland. It was real cruel to take him away from his own home. He was a fine old man one time, your grand-dad was. I got nothing against him, except his mumblings, and he doesn't talk about Belfast any more. Your Aunt Brigid just planted him on your mother. That's what she did. Same as all her other bloody relations, when they were hard up, planted themselves on us. Aye. I wasn't here, or it wouldn't have happened. Lived on her. Then when they got their belly full, just cleared out. Just look at your Aunt Brigid. Treats your mother like a piece of dirt. Gone off to stay with that hump-backed old bitch Pettigrew! She never even asks your mother how she's getting on. Not a word. Well, Peter, my lad, for so many reasons, I like your mother. She's proud. I like her for it. You take my word for it, soon as ever there's a boat back to Cork, Brigid will be back to her stuffy old house in the Mall, and you won't hear any more from her. Nobody will. After a while she'll get hungry again. She'll get desperately hungry for another glance at her relations. Then she'll arrive like a bloody old dowager and just look us over. Your mother is worth ten of her, any day. Here! Get me that spoon and plate. I'm standing here talking to you, and your granddad waiting for his breakfast. Go down and get his chair ready.'

Mr Fury, having delivered himself of this oration, now sat down on the bed, and began to feed Mr Mangan, whilst he thought, ‘Lord, fancy having this every day for years, and not getting a word of thanks!' It was like piling stuff into a hungry and insatiable pig, a pig that had no head, only a belly and a mouth. A great open mouth like a crocodile. He laughed then, so that the spoon trembled in his hand and he upset some of the bread and milk on the bed. Yes, he knew all along Fanny had taken that money. And he knew why – aye, he knew why. Spent on the lad below-stairs. Well, he wouldn't say a word. Not a single word. He understood.

The room door opened again, and Peter came in. He sat down and watched Mr Mangan being fed. Those small bead-like eyes, cupped and almost hidden by the shaggy brows, had they always been small like that? They were open now. Those eyes were resting upon his face. Why didn't he speak? What did those eyes appear to say? Did they say: ‘Look! Look at me! I am a person. I am imprisoned by my years, by ageing and helpless flesh. Once I was young like you.' Did those eyes harbour hatred, maliciousness? In fact, did those eyes really see, and what did they see? Peter now looked at his grandfather's hands. Large, fleshy hands, lying upon the bed, the fingers crooked up, the nails long, bluish, spotted, the palms of the hands hard, much lined, the skin like leather. And that mouth, that helpless mouth. The mouth that hung loosely like an old, empty and useless pouch, the spittle settling about his lips and chin. The mouth which in sleep lay open and gaping. Peter looked suddenly at his father. There was something in his manner, in the way he held the spoon, that seemed to mirror the gentle tenderness he now felt. Yes. His father cursed Mr Mangan, but he knew also that he pitied him too.

‘Well, that's done!' said Mr Fury. He put down the plate and spoon. Then he said to his son, ‘Give me a hand here; I'm going to dress slobberer now.'

Between them they managed to get Mr Mangan's heavy tweed trousers on. Peter thought. ‘How many years has he been wearing these trousers?'

‘Now his woollen vest,' said Mr Fury. They put the woollen vest on.

‘There are still two waistcoats,' remarked Mr Fury; ‘will you get them?'

‘Yes, Dad,' replied the boy, already visualizing their surface, filmed by grease, food stains, and saliva. As he picked them up from the chair he felt that sickly feeling again. They seemed cold, clammy to the touch. At last! They had put his two vests on. There was only his coat.

‘That can go on when we stand him up,' said Mr Fury. ‘Where's his socks?'

‘Here,' replied Peter.

‘Good! You put one boot on, I'll put the other.'

Anthony Mangan, like some wax figure, was now fully dressed.

‘Hold him,' said Peter, and went for his grandfather's coat, which hung behind the door. This coat, like the vests, had a greasy and food-stained frontage. It was green with age. They managed to put this on, during which time Mr Mangan swayed from side to side like a drunken man. The swaying movements were accompanied by deep grunts.

‘How Mother manages him I don't really know,' remarked Peter.

‘
Your
mother,' replied Mr Fury slowly, and laying great emphasis upon his words, ‘
your
mother can manage anything.
Anything.
There! All set.' He laughed. Peter laughed. Mr Mangan did look so funny, balancing so precariously.

‘Your grand-dad's getting positively ugly,' said Mr Fury. But the boy made no reply to the remark. For the first time he appeared to have divined the callousness of his father, but it was an unconscious callousness, the callousness of a child who sticks a pin in a kitten. They took Mr Mangan by his arms and got him outside the door. They paused at the top of the stairs.

‘I can carry him down on my back, Dad,' said Peter.

‘Don't worry. Just keep tight hold of his arm. Ready!'

They began to descend. Every second stair they stopped. The stairway was so narrow that all three men were jammed together. They seemed to force themselves down. Another pause. This time, a rest for ‘him'. The bottom of the stairs had been reached.

‘Easy!' cried Mr Fury. ‘Easy! Your grand-dad's no feather, and he isn't a block of wood either.'

They got him into the kitchen. Peter drew the chair near to the fire. Mr Mangan having been placed in the chair, Peter wound the belt round. Then father and son sat down on the sofa to survey the now secured figure. Also Mr Fury wanted to get his breath. As he lay back on the sofa, Peter exclaimed, ‘We haven't washed him, Dad.' Mr Fury, as though overcome with a sudden weariness, closed his eyes. ‘Let him be!' he said. ‘He can get a wash tomorrow.'

Peter glanced up at the clock. Half-past eleven. Mr Fury seemed to have fallen asleep again. The boy bent down to fasten his bootlace. His father, disturbed, sat up.

‘What are you doing?' he asked.

‘Fastening my bootlace,' replied Peter. He sat up again. ‘Tell me, Dad,' he said, and he leaned his hands on his father's knees. ‘Tell me, is it true that Joe Kilkey is twenty years older than Maureen, and that she had to marry him?'

‘What's that?' Mr Fury was thoroughly awake now. ‘Who told you that?'

‘I just heard it,' said Peter.

‘Well, it's a damned lie. I'll bet you any money it was your Aunt Brigid. Any money you like. Maureen's all right. So's Joe Kilkey. All they want is to be left alone. She's got a quiet, decent man for a husband. That's what your mother wants, Peter. A quiet, decent man like Joe Kilkey. She ought never to have married me. I'm too harum-scarum. I can't settle down in any one place for long.'

‘Are you going to sea again, Dad?' asked the boy.

‘I don't know,' replied Mr Fury. This was a question he wasn't in the mood for answering.

‘I hope your mother's all right,' he said. He had been thinking of her all the morning.

Peter thought, ‘Mother's out! We're alone. The time for asking questions has come.'

He looked at his father and said, ‘The other night I called to see Maureen, and she never opened the door for me.'

‘Perhaps she didn't hear you,' said Mr Fury. He got up from the sofa. ‘Maureen wouldn't do a thing like that,' he went on. He took a spill from the mantelshelf and lit his pipe. He puffed frenziedly at the pipe.

‘Hang it!' he exclaimed. He sat down and began to clean the pipe.

‘If Maureen saw you and didn't open the door, maybe she had a reason. Your sister, like the rest of the family, contributed to your keep at the college. Also, like the rest of us, she goes to chapel. Well, I don't exactly know – but I hope she does. She'll hear things. By now your Aunt Brigid will have met everybody in the parish! But now that you're asking questions, perhaps I, as your father, can return the compliment. Just what happened that you had to leave Ireland? I know, mind you! And it's not inquisitiveness on my part, let me assure you of that, Peter, but just that to hear it from your own lips is better. You understand?' He crossed to the sofa and looked down at his son. ‘You're no child now. Your mother thinks so. Well, that suits her. I won't interfere. Why did you have to go?'

The boy looked up at his father. ‘This little old man has slaved all his life. Can I begrudge him an answer?'

‘I went with another fellow named Carlow to a house,' said Peter. ‘There were other lads from the college there as well as me. There were women there, about ten of them. There was an old woman too. It was her house. She used to stand outside the college gates. Whenever the fellows were coming out she used to sell things to us. One day Carlow and I bought a little rubber boy from her. She said it came from Italy. The rubber boy was full of water. She showed us how to work it. When we went back that night, Carlow said to me, “That's Judy Scanlon, old Judy Scanlon! She's one of these.” At first I didn't know what he meant. Later I found out. Carlow was testing this rubber boy under the tap. It wouldn't work. It was blocked up. There was paper inside. It was a note: “Come to see me one day. I'll give you a good time.” Carlow begged me to go with him. “It's no secret,” he said. “Everybody goes. The Brothers know. They close their eyes to it. It can't be helped.”'

During this recital Mr Fury had assumed a hunched position. He had bent right over, as though engaged in a minute scrutiny of his son, as though he were asking himself, ‘What is this? What is it all about? Is this the little boy upon whose head the bishop placed his aged hand; in whose coat Father Moynihan pinned the silver medal?'

‘And did you go?' An involuntary utterance. He was hardly aware that he had asked the question. He knelt down. ‘Look at me,' he said. ‘Look at your father.' Peter raised his head.