The Furys (36 page)

At half-past four in the afternoon, Powell Square was like a battlefield. The crowd seemed to have renewed its determination. Its object was the storming of the Castle Hotel. Up the road the smashing of glass could still be heard. Ambulances began to make their appearance opposite the Forester Hall. About the Square lay men with bleeding heads, and terrified children clung frantically to pillars and posts. In the first charge there had been a maddening rush for safety. The stone lions were used as places of refuge, men and women climbing up to sit astride their backs. Holes and corners contained their quota too. If it had been possible to rip open the ground beneath them men would have done so, for they had been forced back and front by drawn batons. Mr Postlethwaite was lying in a pool of blood under the statue of the Earl of Breconsfield. A few yards away a mounted policeman lay on his face, which was bruised and swollen. Just at his feet lay his horse. It was dead. Somebody had driven an iron spike clean through its breast. Desmond Fury had disappeared. Andrew Postlethwaite's face was covered with blood. More ambulances, more police. Two ambulance men picked up Mr Postlethwaite and placed him on a stretcher. Outside the Forum Theatre an even more desperate situation had arisen. A section of the crowd, numbering some five hundred shouting men and women, were endeavouring to smash down the doors of the theatre. There was nothing inside that they wanted. They only wanted to escape. For the third time they had met a baton charge with sticks, bottles, and stones. Their supply of ammunition was used up. They only saw the raised batons, and beat against the doors, which at last gave way. The mass of frenzied people streamed into the theatre.

When Desmond Fury threw himself at the mounted policeman, he had one thought uppermost in his mind. He must kill this man. But the officer on the horse was equal to the occasion. He met Desmond's rush with a swing of the baton; Fury dodged it, clung to the horse, and seizing the reins with his hand shot out his powerful fist, throwing the officer, who had risen in the saddle, off his balance. The mounted man let go his baton and gripped Desmond about the waist. Beneath the horse's flying hoofs two men had already gone down. Desmond Fury, using every ounce of his strength, flung himself upwards until he was almost breast to breast with the policeman. At the same moment the horse reared, whinnied, and collapsed, blood pouring from its breast. Desmond Fury and the officer rolled over to the ground. The officer now discovered that the other man was no mean adversary. Desmond Fury worked his way over the body of the policeman, caught his raised fist in one hand, and without a moment's hesitation struck with the other. ‘Swine! Swine!' Then he fled. He was now the centre of another yelling crowd at the corner of Horton Street. Desmond Fury had one idea. To get free. To be clear. If he could cross Horton Street he would find shelter – one of the shops. Then he would wait for a lull. When he got his chance he would run for it. If he could manage to reach the bottom of Mile Hill he would be as safe as houses. He did not know where Mr Postlethwaite had got to. He only realized that the baton had swung dangerously over the man's head and he had flung himself at the mounted policeman. Here one could not draw breath, one could not think. One was held, intoxicated by the very sights and sounds. He did not know what time it was. He only knew that the mass meeting had been a failure: that the police were ready, and had laid their plans well. He only knew that the great meeting had been turned into a kind of arena, packed with angry, shouting people: that a gentleman in morning dress had appeared at the window, complete with flower, and had roused the crowd's ire. Who had thrown the stone? No one would ever know. Desmond, watching the mob stream into the theatre, suddenly flung up his hands. ‘Ha!' he thought. ‘That's it,' and he began to beat his way through the bodies about him. For a single moment he stood alone in the cleared space. Then he ran. No policeman followed, only some people. Laughter and a shower of stones hurled after him. ‘Coward, coward!' What was that? ‘Coward!' Desmond Fury flung himself through the door now torn off its hinges. The dark musty corner of a waiting-room seemed to beckon to him. He flung himself into it and lay down. ‘Phew!' he said. ‘Phew!' Then an arm moved. He was lying prone over a woman's body. ‘Please, please,' a voice said.

3

Dennis Fury had changed his mind; as he left Mr Postlethwaite, telling him to ‘walk on', he had practically come to a decision. When he came out into the street again, he stood for a moment on the kerb, looking in the direction of Andrew Postlethwaite. But the gentleman from next door was nowhere in sight. Mr Fury guessed at once. Andrew Postlethwaite had seized the opportunity to go in and have a wet whilst his friend delivered himself higher up the road. No use to curse Andrew for his miserliness. He, Mr Fury, had created the opportunity. Mr Postlethwaite never paid for other people's drinks. That was a new rule with him. He had refused Miss Mangan's invitation to the Star and Garter for the same reason. He couldn't see anything in it. In the end all such invitations turned out to be that one paid for other people's as well as one's own. Not seeing his friend on the road, Mr Fury immediately said to himself, ‘Good enough! He's gone into the Drums and Fifes. Then he can bloody well stay there.' Mr Fury retraced his steps. Mr Postlethwaite could go to the devil. Damn mean, sliding into publics on the sly. From time to time Mr Fury looked round, not in the hope of seeing Andrew but of estimating the situation. From where he stood, he got a clear view of Mile Hill, and down it he saw crowds hurrying towards Powell Square. Yes, home was the best place on a Sunday afternoon. His stride was leisurely, the expression upon his face that of a peaceful and contented man. When Mr Fury was alone he certainly enjoyed his own company. From time to time he stopped and looked at the shops. Shops are entrancing, their windows full of lovely things. Here the road was not so crowded, and it narrowed considerably. It was flanked by equally narrow streets, each of which had its children playing about the gutters. The smell of roasting beef, of soup, of oranges, was in the air. It made Dennis Fury feel hungry, he had been out since eleven o'clock. He had gone to Mass, and from there right on to the Pitchpine, outside of which he had met Mr Postlethwaite by arrangement. He had asked Fanny to go to the late Mass, but she refused. Mr Fury was tired asking her. Mrs Fury always went to the earliest Mass. There were two reasons for this. One met nearly everybody in the parish at the eleven o'clock Mass. And again, Sunday in number three Hatfields was always a busy day; meals to cook, Mr Mangan to wash, dress and feed, house to be cleaned. When Dennis Fury returned about half-past twelve, armed with his Sunday paper, the house had been swept clean; Mr Mangan sat in his chair, with a clean shirt, collar, and tie; and the dinner was cooking. Today things were a little changed. The house had not got over Aunt Brigid's invasion, nor Peter's sudden return. It would be a while before the Fury household settled down to normal.

When Mr Fury reached the Prince's Theatre, he stopped to look at the contents bill for the coming week. ‘H'm!' he exclaimed. ‘Getting as bad as that Forum in the town.' He turned off the road and walked in the direction of the Lyric. Might as well see what was doing. It was too early for tea yet, and besides, Fanny was bound to be out. She always went to the chapel meeting on Sunday afternoon. The Lyric Theatre stood at the top of Valley Street; it was reputed to be the best variety theatre in the north end of the city. Mr Fury slowly climbed the hill. He was thinking of nothing in particular; his mind was wholly vacant. His eyes were already endeavouring to read the contents bill that was displayed on a huge hoarding at the top of the Valley. Strike or no strike, he and Fanny would go to the Lyric. Fanny always looked forward to it. And although she was not very demonstrative after the performance, he was convinced she enjoyed it. Dennis Fury now stood looking at the contents bill. ‘Mac and Andrew – the Two Dancing Dolls. Ivano – the Master Juggler. The Five Tumblers. Anna Semple – Soprano.' ‘Oh!' said Mr Fury. ‘Looks good.' He walked away, making a mental note of the artistes, visioning them in their different parts. He looked at his watch. A quarter past twelve! Not much use going home before five. Fanny wouldn't be in. He walked further up the Valley, past the Lyric Theatre. Then he decided to go right to the top, and walk back through the Park. Mr Fury very rarely went to the Park. When he did go, he invariably met somebody he knew. He turned down Bolton Street, and entered the gates. The Park seemed deserted. Its atmosphere was cold and bleak. Mr Fury increased his pace. He looked at the miserable-looking trees with their coating of grime, the legacy of the industrial world, and once stopped to watch a sparrow, black as any chimney-sweep, peck frantically upon the gravel path, as though hidden beneath it were the choicest collection of worms and bread-crumbs. He stopped again to look at the deserted boat-house, badly wanting a new coat of paint, and the deserted boats drawn up on the slipway. Passing the boat-house, he found himself in an open space, across which an easterly wind was now driving. Mr Fury increased his pace. Clouds of dust and sand blew into the air. It seemed to Mr Fury that nothing in the world was more miserable-looking on this Sunday morning than the Avon Park. He decided to make for the bandstand, a sort of oasis in the wilderness. When he arrived there it was empty. He took one look at the cold, dismal interior, and decided to sit on one of the benches surrounding it. He was sheltered from the driving wind, which was increasing in velocity. ‘What a cold, miserable-looking place!' thought Mr Fury. He pulled out his pipe. Having filled it, he got it firm and snug between his teeth, lay back, and puffed away contentedly.

Mr Fury's eyes took in the surrounding scene. The bandstand was set right in the middle of the playing-fields. These fields were part grass and part sand, and bordered by trees, leafless and as bleak-looking as the stretch of wilderness they surrounded. The man leaned his head to one side. His attitude was contemplative, as his eyes followed the columns of thickish blue-black smoke that rose from the bowl of his pipe. His thoughts seemed to sail up after this column of smoke. He looked around him, thinking, ‘Aye, what a difference there'd be if everybody was content! Peter working ashore and helping his mother. Brigid back in Ireland again, and “him” too. How nice it would be to see Desmond and Sheila coming round on a Sunday evening, and Maureen and Joe! A real happy gathering.' Ah! It was difficult. Everything was upset. It was a nuisance. Of course, the trouble was that children
would
grow up. And these children developed minds and ideas of their own. Yes, that was the cause of the trouble, that was the cause of the ceaseless arguments. That was why Fanny had changed, why Desmond and Maureen had married, why Peter had failed and he himself had given up going to sea. That was why Mr Postlethwaite secretly hated him, why George beat the big drum in the band. People had minds of their own.

‘Aye, if only we could be a happy family.' There Mr Fury's thoughts stopped. It was really asking for the moon. ‘To hell with it! Sometimes I wish I could just pick up my bag and clear out, right out.' He sighed, knocked out his pipe, and put it back in his pocket. Then he rose to his feet and began walking round the bandstand. He thought of his early years at sea. Round and round he walked, hands stuck in his pockets, as though he were chasing the very thoughts that had risen flood-like and taken possession of him. Sometimes he stopped suddenly and smiled, as though he were living again some moment of the past, catching and holding the memory of it with the frenzied passion of one who can live it no more. He thought of those sailings from the Hudson, from Maine, from Tilbury. He thought of that great hike from Baltimore to New York, of the rigging gang in Ohio and the rubber factory in Boston. ‘Ah, those times are gone,' he thought. ‘They can never come again.' Here he was, the same Dennis Fury as of old, but now washed up by the tide. Now there was no tide to catch, no ship to join, no tot of rum to share with mates on sailing day, no delight in fugitive excursions ashore, no yarns. There was nothing. Only that damned loco shed and the daily sight of Andrew Postlethwaite's miserable face. He stood by the door of the stand and began staring at the wooden sand-covered floor. When the wind grew stronger he went inside and sat down. Again he pulled out his pipe, not to light, only to look at, and to think of the years he had had it, the good times he had had, and here it was, the same old pipe. He looked at it almost affectionately as he put it back in his pocket. How nice it was to be alone, to be quiet just for a short space of time!

‘Aye, in those days one could get a good show at the Lyric for tuppence.' How times were changing indeed! He began scratching a spot of grease from his trousers, and his thoughts were of his wife. ‘Fanny got me this suit three years ago, and it's a good un yet.' Then he began to laugh. ‘What would I like best?' he asked aloud. ‘A holiday in Ireland with Fanny. She hasn't seen her home for thirty-one years, except that rush to Cork. Brigid is no good. She's no sister to that woman.' He pulled out his watch. Well, he had better go now. Mustn't be late. He brushed tobacco ash from his clothes and got up. Then he left the stand and started off at a sharp pace for the gate leading to Banfield Road. What a queer, lonely place a Park could be on a Sunday morning! Not a soul to be seen. A real miserable hole indeed. He reached the gate and turned round, to stand staring at the place he had lately left. From that distance it looked even more bleak. He leaned against a post and watched the wind send the sand along in waves, the bare branches of trees shake trembling in the wind, as though they sought to free themselves from the silent sentinel to which they belonged. In the summer they would be thick with foliage, and upon those desolated fields hundreds of children would play. Mr Fury fixed his hat firmly on his head and made his way home through Banfield Road. There was something splendid about the word ‘home', there was something to look forward to, anyhow, after that wilderness of a Park. He even smiled at the thought of the big fire and the cosy sofa on which he would stretch himself. When he got back everything would be spick and span. Sunday was Fanny's day. ‘That's the first time I've ever been in that Park,' said Mr Fury to himself as he turned into the Harbour Road, ‘and it's the last.'