The Furys (16 page)

‘Impossible, Brigid,' Mrs Fury replied.

‘How strange!' Brigid said. ‘I can't imagine how Desmond could have met this woman.'

‘But haven't I just told you!' said Mrs Fury heatedly, ‘haven't I just told you he met her in Ireland!' Miss Mangan's curiosity was aroused, and her sister seemed to have scented it, for she added, with an air of finality, ‘He was bound to meet her anyway. Her family disowned her. She is nothing but a common prostitute. Worse than that, but I would not let the word cross my mouth.' Mrs Fury suddenly thrust her hand into the air, waved it excitedly in front of her sister's face, and shouted, ‘It's true! It's too true! She is a bitch of the first water, beautiful, but all rottenness behind. My God! One only has to look at her face. Her whole character, her history, her very future shines there. The fool! He's madly in love with her. He can't help it. Carried away. Do I care? Not a bit. Do I worry? Not a bit. I only know that by his action he disgraced me. Then Denny wonders why I lose control of myself whenever his name is mentioned. I am glad he has gone. Glad in my very soul. Can you imagine anything worse than that boy in the room there and he living here, together? Impossible! Won't he laugh! The devil! As indeed he has laughed all along. Soon I won't be able to hold up my head at all. He's evil. They're a pair. Well met. Fate never was kinder. It had to be. Yet look at the difference in their upbringing. I know nothing of hers; I know that Desmond's was hard; well, God Almighty, wasn't the whole family's upbringing hard? Does it kill one? Look at me. I have had thirty-two years of it, but I haven't gone under. No Brigid, I don't want to hear a word more about Desmond, and if you have any respect for me as a sister, and for the sake of the old man in the back room, I ask you not to go seeking them out. I've had enough. Just enough. It made me sick. It wounded me. Let well alone.'

This was the most amazing piece of news Miss Mangan had heard for many years. Peter was an oracle no longer. Peter was only a schoolboy who had failed somehow or other and come home again. But this other thing. Desmond and Sheila. It was like a powerful magnet, a brilliant and blinding light. She could not drive it away, and every moment the fascination, the mystery, the curiosity was drawing her nearer and nearer to it. She vowed in her heart that she must see them. She must not go back to Cork having failed in her object. ‘It's amazing,' she said, after a long silence. But Mrs Fury made no reply. She was sleeping the heavy sleep of a tired child. Brigid Mangan, on the other hand, did not feel tired. She experienced a fierce sort of restlessness. Morning seemed never to come, the hours were like eternities. What things she was yet to hear, yet to see! What a nest she had fallen into! The whole house seemed embedded in a mystery. She had not failed to notice Mr Fury's absence. It was only for her brother-in-law's sake that she had said nothing about it to her sister. But where had Denny Fury gone to? At that hour in the morning. Her mind throbbed. She wanted to get up, but dared not. It would wake Fanny. She could only lie there thinking of Desmond, of his wife, of Peter and Maureen, and not least, of Mr Fury's absence from the house. Yes, she was asking herself, ‘Where has he gone to?' And Maureen was going to have a child by this husband of hers named Kilkey. Funny, she had never liked the name Kilkey. She turned over, her eyes towards the window. The moon had disappeared. The room was in darkness. As she looked through the window at the wall of the bone factory she could not repress a desire to see a little more of this wall.

Strange. Bone factories were foul places, yet never to have been conscious of the smell only made her more curious than ever. She slid silently from the bed and went and stood by the window. Where Mrs Fury had seen a single figure moving about the yard, Brigid Mangan now saw two men. They were standing in a corner, sheltered from the light, and near the main gateway. What could they be doing there, she wondered. They weren't workmen. She was sure of that. Also she noticed that one of the men had raised his head and was to all intents and purposes watching the white face of Brigid Mangan at the window. ‘How peculiar!' she exclaimed under her breath, and went back to bed again. She covered her head with the clothes, as though she must keep intact every single thought, every impression. Her head beneath the clothes was a security at least. Her thoughts were like living beings, they swamped her, walked round and round her brain, guarded her pillow. Mrs Fury snored. But Miss Mangan, hidden beneath the bed-clothes, opened her eyes wide and peered into the cavity she made with her raised knees. Once – how strange that she should recall it now – once her father had said to her, she was still at school at the time, ‘Your sister Fanny will be the only one amongst our family who will be remembered.' What had he meant by that? The passage of years had not robbed those words of their significance – indeed, to Miss Brigid Mangan they seemed rather to have intensified it. From time to time she looked out from the bed-clothes. Still dark. Then she thought of the alarm-clock. How silly of them! It should have been left below. How was Denny to wake up without it? Instinctively she put out her hand and picked it up, feeling for the bell switch with her fingers. Set, of course. She ought to take it downstairs. It would disturb her sister.

She got out of bed and stole silently to the door. She went on to the landing, closing the door softly behind her. At the top of the landing she suddenly stopped and put her hand to her mouth. Was that a voice she had heard? She put a foot on the stair. Yes. Somebody was talking in the hall. She became frightened now. Ought she to run in and wake Fanny up? No. On reflection she realized that would make matters more complicated than ever. Was it Denny coming back? Nobody else. She descended the stairs, and at the bottom drew the long green curtain around her. Yes. She recognized the voice now. ‘You get up to bed at once,' she heard Mr Fury say. She clutched the curtain excitedly. It must be Peter. At that moment something brushed the curtain. It was her nephew climbing the stairs as noiselessly as a cat. Miss Mangan stepped out from the curtain and stood in the hall. A shaft of light from the kitchen splashed the dull red of the lobby wall. She went to the kitchen door and looked in. Mr Fury was sitting on the sofa taking off his boots. He had been out, then. But what was Peter doing out too? She hesitated, then something appeared to propel her forward. The next moment she was standing in the lighted kitchen, her old dressing-gown drawn tightly about her figure. In her outstretched hand she held the alarm-clock. Mr Fury looked up with astonishment. The whole house must be sleepwalking, he was thinking, staring at the pale-faced woman in front of him. ‘Why, Brigid!' he said.

‘It's the clock, Denny,' Miss Mangan said. She stammered; her nerves were on edge. Mr Fury stood up. ‘Thanks,' he said. ‘I clean forgot about it.' He sat down on the sofa. ‘Is Fanny asleep?' he asked. Miss Mangan nodded her head stiffly. ‘What is she doing up at this hour?' Mr Fury asked himself. He knew she was going to speak. He could even see her mouth moving, she was forming a question. He laughed.

‘Damn it!' he said. ‘I couldn't sleep down here. I don't know why. My head's a bit thick too. But you go off to bed, Brigid. Don't stand there like that. You'll get your death of cold.' He signified by his actions that he wanted to get undressed. Miss Mangan looked questioningly at the clock, as though at this very moment it was going to ring and proclaim in its strident voice the uselessness of such a proceeding. ‘It's hardly worth while, Denny,' Miss Mangan remarked. She surprised him by sitting down on the sofa. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea,' she went on. ‘I don't mind at all. Fanny is tired out, and I don't feel sleepy myself.' Mr Fury replied, ‘No. It's quite all right, Brigid, I always look after myself. Thanks all the same. You go back to bed. What on earth are you going to do with yourself till nine o'clock? Fanny rarely gets up before that time.' They looked at each other. Then they both laughed.

‘All right,' Mr Fury said. ‘You go ahead and make some tea, then. I'll go out and have a wash and shave. But I'll take my solemn oath that woman upstairs will make something extraordinary out of this, don't you forget. She's got such a mind.' But Brigid Mangan made no reply. She was conscious that she was in the midst of something exciting. She might even hear something, if she was patient. So far he hadn't said a word about Peter. ‘I'll sound him,' she thought. As they sat down at the table, Mr Fury with his toast in front of him, and Miss Mangan with her cup raised in the act of drinking, the silence was broken by the harsh voice of Mrs Fury.

‘There! I told you.' exclaimed Mr Fury. He went out into the hall and listened. Miss Mangan put her cup down and waited. ‘She's having a nightmare,' he said, as he came into the kitchen again. ‘And no wonder. A woman like that could never be free from them.' Miss Mangan said, ‘I heard Peter going downstairs about an hour ago. I wonder what he was doing?' She caught his eye, and knew at once that the boy had been out with his father. Well, well! There seemed to be no end of mysteries in number three Hatfields. Mr Fury went out to clean his boots. When he came into the kitchen Brigid Mangan had gone. He sat down on the sofa and exclaimed, ‘Confound the woman! She came down here to spy. Aye. And she's caught the fellow upstairs too.' Yes. That son of his who had discovered him leaning against the wall behind the house. Even now she was telling his wife all about it. He went into the hall and put on his cap. Then he stood listening at the bottom of the stairs. Not a sound. He went out and banged the door loudly behind him. A minute or two later the alarm rang. Mrs Fury woke up. ‘Why, Brigid!' she exclaimed, and sat up. Miss Mangan was standing by the window, staring down into the yard.

CHAPTER V

1

The bone factory, situated at the rear of Hatfields, was divided from the houses themselves by a huge wall. The inhabitants saw nothing beyond this great wall unless they happened to be in the attic part of the house, when they were able to see the yard, in the corners of which were deposited great heaps of bones. The yard itself was approached by a wooden gate. This gate, for some strange reason or other, was never locked. Another gate stood within the yard, and this in turn led to the shed where the bones passed through for crushing. If the occupants of the thirty houses called Hatfields had taken a certain pride in the knowledge that the street was indestructible, they were losing it now. The sense of security, of permanency, was wavering. The bone factory had been standing there five years. At first there were protests from property owners. The concern taking over the land offered to compensate to the landlord, but the people themselves, though conscious of the obnoxious approach being made upon their contentment, were the chief obstacles to the proposal. They preferred the smell to the trouble of finding alternative accommodation. In time the smell itself became a part of the place. It assumed the same permanency as the brickwork that had stood secure for so many years. But rumours were ever abroad that the houses would and must soon go. The factory people wished to extend, the health authorities decided that the matter was serious. When Mrs Fury heard about this she only laughed. But other people in the street had already realized that the collapse of Hatfields was inevitable.

When Mr Fury left the house, he walked slowly down the street. A walk in the night air would do him good. But he could not tell why his steps took him in the direction of this yard. Perhaps he did not want to be seen walking abroad at that late hour. The policeman who controlled the area round Hatfields might think it a poor excuse, that a man like Mr Fury should not be able to sleep. At the bottom of the street he turned sharp right, then stopped. He was practically facing the gateway. It had always seemed strange to him that this big gate on the road should be left open. The proprietor of the factory, however, felt that not even a tramp would care to take advantage of any sanctuary it might offer, for the most pungent and disgusting smell hung in the atmosphere. Mr Fury stood contemplating this gate. He had never been in the yard. At that moment he felt a tap on his shoulder, and a breathless voice exclaimed ‘Dad!' Mr Fury jumped with fright. He turned round. Peter was standing in front of him. The boy had an overcoat over his underclothing, and was wearing slippers. ‘Why! What the devil! What do you want?' asked the astonished man, staring fixedly at his son. Peter increased his astonishment by smiling and replying, ‘What's the matter. Dad?' Mr Fury caught him roughly by the arm, saying, ‘What's the matter? The matter is that if your mother finds you have come out here there'll be a holy row. Get back to bed at once, and don't come following me,' But the son did not move. His eyes roamed about the figure of his father. From the light of a single bulb that now swung aimlessly in the wind Peter was able to see his father's face. How ghastly and yellow it looked in that light! He moved a step. His father followed. ‘Ah,' thought Peter, ‘that's better.' The light no longer fell upon Mr Fury's face. ‘Come along,' said his father, ‘you get home. Do you hear me?'

‘But why are you out here? Won't you tell me what the trouble is, Dad?' He had moved so close to his father that Mr Fury could feel the boy's breath upon his face. He could not longer conceal his surprise at this sudden development. How had the boy known where he was? ‘Surely,' he thought, ‘he isn't spying on me!' He would credit Fanny with even that. Peter took his father's arm. ‘Come on home, Dad.'

‘I can't sleep,' Mr Fury said. ‘And I had a rotten day today.' Then he embraced his son, saying, ‘Well, by God! I'm glad to see you home again.' There was something about Peter standing there like that, holding on to his arm that filled Mr Fury with admiration. Was this the little boy who went away seven years ago? He stroked his forehead. ‘What's the matter?' asked Peter. He drew back a little. ‘Oh, nothing,' Mr Fury replied. ‘Nothing.' Ought he to say something? Ask that question? No. It might be dangerous. Fanny would hear all about it. He couldn't do that. He had been caught out once before over Anthony. Was he afraid? No, it wasn't that. But he was so weary, he just wanted to be quiet. The excitement of the last twenty-four hours had been enough. He didn't want any more. The incident with Anthony stood out clearly in his mind now. But this wasn't Anthony. This was the youngest of the large family, and he was different altogether. Perhaps the lad would say something. Christ! It was silly, standing there like that. They were like two shy children, looking at each other, saying nothing. How she had idolized Peter! He looked away towards the house. Peter said, ‘It's cold. Dad. Come on home.' His father's hand fell suddenly on his arm. He began to push him slowly inside the gateway. Peter laughed, but his father said angrily: