The Furys (22 page)

‘Good-bye,' Maureen said, confident that she would see her aunt again. The woman turned and began to run. Maureen stood on the step watching her, a smile slowly forming on her face as she watched the stout figure of Miss Mangan sail down the street, one hand holding her raised umbrella and waving frantically at the car-driver.

‘Poor woman!' thought Maureen. ‘Why she ever condescends to leave her little castle I really don't know.' Her aunt's one weakness was a ferret-like capacity for gathering in information from the family and carrying this information back to Ireland with something approaching the pride of an explorer who has returned with some rare fauna from secret places. The tram had stopped. She watched her aunt climb on, the conductor putting out a hand to help her. Then the car disappeared out of sight. Maureen went in and closed the door. She resumed her seat by the fire. And so Aunt Brigid had realized her ambitions. She had wormed that secret out. How? Maureen exclaimed aloud to the other empty chair, ‘So you found out!' She felt as though something had been stolen from her, as though a relentless hand had torn the secret from her heart.

CHAPTER VI

1

Peter, on returning with Dr Dunfrey, had shown him upstairs to the front room. He had waited in the lobby until his father had gone out. Then he had gone and stood on the landing. Everything seemed confusing. At times he asked himself if he really was home again. Now he leaned against the wall, listening to the loud-voiced doctor in the next room. Was his mother very ill? He had been the cause of that. He felt his shame grow upon him. He could not escape it. It was like a sort of slimy skin clothing his person. Well, this was the end. It was all over. Everything had changed. His life at Hatflelds before he went to Ireland was a complete blank. His parents were getting on in years. John was dead. Anthony at sea. Maureen and Desmond out of the house. He felt suddenly lonely. The old world and the old life were broken up. The companionship of his brothers and sister gone. Why had he been so foolish? He gripped the banisters, and exclaimed under his breath, ‘No! That's wrong! That's wrong. Why did I go? Why did I stay? Why did I remain silent?' Those indeed were the questions. Each time he put these questions to himself the shame clung more and more to him. He was imprisoned by it. This shame was something he could feel, could touch with his hands. He stood erect. Well, as soon as that doctor had gone he would go into his mother's room. He was seized with an almost passionate longing to prostrate himself, to kneel down in front of his mother and to say how sorry he was. ‘You fool!' he cried in his mind. ‘You mad fool!' And what a time to break away! Here was his brother Anthony coming home very shortly. What was he to say? Do? What had he gained at their expense? An education. A good education. Suddenly he laughed, thinking, ‘Even to whistle in one's room was a sin.' Well, he had escaped from all that. And yet he had to acknowledge that seven years ago it had been escape too. But the word was not so significant then. He was aware that he had passionately longed to go. Yes, he had wanted to leave Hatfields, that ocean of bricks and mortar, and go to Ireland. There, there had been airy rooms, good food, large fields, good companions, games. And now he was glad to be back. The green fields had seemed a greater prison. To Peter Fury, fresh from the college in Cork, the world was still a sort of huge forest, amok with chaotic growths. That seven years' isolation had filled his head with historical facts, a positive philosophy, some smattering of mathematics, and the principles of logic. He was well drilled in the articles of faith, of hope and charity. He knew his New Testament from cover to cover. He had been taught the essentials of truth, of clean living, of iron laws and strict obedience. He was well versed in geography, though his curiosity as to the exact position of Limbo had never been satisfied. That was part and parcel of another geographical system which steered clear of plain logic and reasoning, whilst proclaiming its infallibility. But Peter was soon to learn that this hotchpotch of knowledge, this seven years' isolation in the forge of learning, produced no weapon capable of hacking his way through a world beset with so many obstacles. There were philosophies both positive and negative, laws both good and bad, made sound and permanent only by the very paper on which they were limned. There was corruption, lies, deceit, and greed, as also there was beauty, nobility, and magnanimity. He was something new and strange in this industrialized ant-heap. What of his brothers and his sister? They had forged different weapons.

Peter was roused from his contemplations by hearing the loud-voiced Dr Dunfrey exclaiming, ‘Good-bye, Mrs Fury! Stay in bed for the day. You can get up tomorrow.' Then the door banged. He heard his heavy, almost clumsy tread as he made his way slowly down the badly lighted stairs. Peter followed him down to the lobby. The six-foot man was putting on his overcoat. Peter took his hat from the rack and handed it to him. The huge man looked hard at Peter, then exclaimed, ‘Why? When did you come back, young man?' He put on his hat. ‘H'm! He knows too,' thought Peter. ‘Why doesn't he shout out – “
I know too
”?' Standing there staring at him like that!

‘I came home yesterday,' Peter said.

Dr Dunfrey moved to the door. He handed Peter a note. ‘Take that to the chemist's, young man,' he said. He opened the door and went out. His car was humming at the kerb. Peter stood at the door until the car started off. Then he went upstairs again. He stood outside his mother's door. He could hear the rustling of paper. His mother must be reading. Then he knocked, and waited for her to call. But Mrs Fury did not answer his knock. He stood there, hesitant:

‘Can I come in, Mother?' he called out; at the same time he turned the knob of the door and partly opened it. He could see his mother sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows. The green-backed magazine she was reading dropped to the floor.

‘Is that you?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘What is it?'

Peter was silent. A lump came into his throat. He coughed. ‘I want to speak to you, Mother,' he said. There was something pleading and urgent in his utterance.

‘Well?' called Mrs Fury, and Peter went into the room. He did not look at the woman in the bed, but stood with his back turned, one hand holding the door, the attitude of a person who has to make a quick decision. Then he closed the door silently and crossed over to the bed. He stood at its foot, staring abstractedly at the patchwork quilt.

‘Well?' said his mother once more. Peter looked up. ‘Mother!' he said, then paused. He seemed to be collecting himself for the next effort. ‘Mother! Please forgive me! I am sorry. I know I have disappointed you. I could not help it. But please forgive me. I know how much you have done for me.' He stopped suddenly, and looked straight into his mother's eyes. Mrs Fury avoided his glance at once. She moved uneasily in the bed.

‘The others said that too,' she said coldly. ‘You see where you have put me.' Now she raised her head and looked at him.

‘I'll do anything you ask, Mother,' said Peter.

She saw tears coming into the boy's eyes. But she was not affected by them. ‘It is so easy to cry,' she thought. Peter's hands, suddenly endowed with a life of their own as apart from his body, began to move up and down the iron rail of the bed. They seemed a clue to his thoughts. After a while Mrs Fury shouted, ‘Stop that! Stop it!'

He dropped his hands to his sides. ‘Come here,' she said. Peter went up to her. The woman moved the chair at the side of the bed. She motioned to him. ‘Sit down,' she said. There was silence for almost half a minute. Mrs Fury leaned forward and looked at her son. He had disappointed her, wounded her, he had lied. And yet she loved him. No matter what he had done, he was different from the others. And he was her son, he was still Peter. How tall he was! How well, even beautiful, he looked! She sat back.

‘It's too late now,' she said. ‘From today you had best look to your father.'

Peter's expression changed at once. He burst into tears. She watched his head lower itself until it was almost on a level with her own shoulder. Peter sobbed, his whole frame shook. He sat up, brushed his face with the sleeve of his coat, and exclaimed almost savagely, ‘I
am
sorry, Mother. I
am
sorry. I
am
sorry.'

The woman was quite unmoved. ‘But don't I tell you it's too late, or are you growing dull? What's the matter with you? I've told you to look to your father. He's the one. And it'll be quite a change for him to look to his children. It'll even be an education. No, Peter! You must go to your father. I want a little peace now. I've had my share.'

Peter put a hand over that of his mother. Neither of them spoke. They were like two figures carved in stone. ‘Please, Mother,' exclaimed Peter. ‘I'll do anything for you.' For the first time Mrs Fury smiled. Well, he had done that filthy thing, and yet, here it was, all-revealing, before her very eyes – that thing she had thought lost. It was still with him.

‘You must go to Confession tonight, Peter,' she said at last.

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘You'd better go down now,' she said, ‘and keep an eye on your grand-dad until your father comes home from work.'

‘Yes, Mother.' He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs. There seemed something almost symbolic in the closing of that door, as though he had shut out his past, shut out that helplessness, that burning sense of shame, that bewilderment and torment. Now he felt free. He had flung off that slimy skin. He knew where he was. He would go to his father. He would get work. He would make a solemn vow that very night. He would work hard, help his mother. He would win back her affection and respect. He would forget all that he had ever learnt. It was all waste, all fungus. He must start at the beginning again. The positive philosophy must be a belief in his mother. That was what it must be. He felt so suddenly happy that he wanted to shout, to sing. He went into the kitchen and sat down on the sofa. He was sitting there for nearly ten minutes before he became aware of the figure in front of him. Old Mr Mangan seemed to be staring at something. There was something fierce, almost frenzied, in his stare. Peter suddenly turned round and looked out of the kitchen window. At what was his grandfather staring?

‘What is he staring at?' thought Peter. Why didn't his grandfather talk, say something? Sitting there like a dummy the whole day long! As the light fell away, old Mr Mangan's eyes appeared to take on an unusual brightness. In the fast darkening kitchen they seemed to him like two pinpoints of white fire. He got up from the sofa and took down the tin blower from the fire, and the murmurous noises beneath the grate suddenly ceased. He heard his mother cough. At that moment he exclaimed aloud, as though he were talking to the old man, ‘I wish I could get away to sea too.' Mr Mangan seemed to be looking directly at Peter now. The boy got up and drew a chair nearer to his grandfather. He stared into the old man's face. There was something vacant and idiotic in that persistent stare, the way he sat there so limp and helpless, his mouth half open, continually snuffing up his nose. Mr Mangan was already on the threshold of a long journey, memory was reined in, his spirit was rising in that very chair. Suddenly his expression changed. Peter sat back in his chair. It was as though a sort of impotent rage had flashed itself there, imprisoning him, so that he could not start off on that long journey. All the power in him seemed to have rushed to the eyes, so intensifying their almost frenzied stare.

‘Sits there slobbering all the time,' thought Peter, as he watched the saliva trickle down the old man's chin. He put a hand on the old man's knee. At once, as though there was hidden in that touch a kind of magic essence, the expression changed again, the vacant idiotic stare returned. It was as if Peter's hand had suddenly turned a sort of key, had freed his grandfather from this prison in which he sat. When Peter touched Mr Mangan's knee, he thought he had touched a slab of stone. He wanted to shout, ‘What on earth are you staring at, Grand-dad? What are you staring like that for?' He turned round and looked out of the window again. Yes, what was his grand-dad continually staring at? Always staring, staring. Not a word from him. Had the stroke stricken him dumb? He remembered his mother writing and telling him the old man had had a stroke.

2

Mr Mangan could see Peter as clearly as he could see the window through which he stared. But he never thought of the boy. His thoughts were very far away now. Each day he had stared so, each day he had thought. It was as though his mind were imprisoned by clay: that with each throb of thought, which had to be dug out with pain and labour, the clay gradually crumbled away. And as the clay crumbled, so the light slowly filtered in. He was like a man working at a great bank, under which is hidden something he has long lost, and has suddenly remembered. So Mr Mangan's mind worked slowly, and as the world of the past slowly took shape, took the breath of life, the warmth of blood and flesh, so the world of the present slowly descended lower and lower. Peter watched his eyes. ‘How bright they are!' he thought. ‘Like a cat's when the darkness comes.' He could see into his grandfather's mouth. He heard his slow breathing. Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Grand-dad!' but Mr Mangan was seventy years away in the flesh, breathing his youth, leaving behind him in the high-backed chair a crumpled heap from which life had fled, something that had finished its journey-work, a small, yellowish face, the years clearly traced in its many lines and wrinkles, the huge and helpless hands, the dangling legs. Once he coughed, and Peter drew his chair back to escape the expectoration that came from his mouth. He took the old man's big handkerchief from the arm of the chair and wiped his mouth. The mouth moved in a most peculiar way, as though expressing a thanks of its own. Peter got up. He stood with his back to the fire watching the slow movement of Mr Mangan's right hand. He stared down at his big skull. ‘How old he is!' he said, half aloud. ‘No wonder Mother is fed up. And Dad too. Having to take him down there every Friday slobbering like he does.' He laughed. Could his grandfather hear him? Mr Mangan's eyes seemed to change from white fire to red. In the darkness they appeared to have assumed a liquidity, and Peter imagined them to be two little pools of red water.