The Furys (51 page)

She went into the chapel and knelt down. There were about twenty people scattered amongst the benches. Father Doyle was celebrating half-past eight Mass. Before her she saw a stout woman who had just sat back after receiving Communion. That head and that hat meant only one thing. Aunt Brigid. She was more certain than ever that it was her sister when her eyes alighted on a small bent figure next to her. This small figure was wearing a poke-bonnet. The bonnet seemed to sway, to bob up and down. That could only be Miss Pettigrew. None but Miss Pettigrew wore a bonnet like that. She must have dragged herself out to Communion in defiance of Dr Dunfrey's orders. Mrs Fury made the sign of the Cross, rose to her feet, and hurried from the chapel. She had made her decision. She would go the top road. It was quicker, in spite of the hill climb on the return journey. She straightened her hat. Then she bent down against the railings and tightened her shoelaces. She turned out of Ash Walk, passed down Price Street at a sharp pace, glancing hurriedly at the Kilkeys' window, and found herself on the main road. She felt better, more confidence in herself, as though she had imbibed a little strength from that visit to the chapel. A quarter to nine. With luck she should be there by half-past nine.

She reached the top of Bank Street without any difficulty, but when she came to Hotspur Road a minor disturbance had taken place. In Hotspur Road there was a bag factory. Around its red wooden gate a group of about fifty women wearing shawls had congregated. One of their number, a very stout woman, whose face was covered with running sores, was loudly proclaiming that the gate should be opened.

The police were there in full force. They could deal easily with these irate women, but that would not solve the problem. The foreman of the bag factory lived in a small house adjoining it. He had now come out, and was endeavouring to pacify the angry women. What was the matter? Everybody shouted at once. They wanted the gates open. What for? To go to work. The manager laughed. That was impossible. What was the use of making bags when there weren't any orders? Everybody was on strike. When their husbands and brothers decided to go back to work, the gates would open. Not before.

The manager disappeared into his house again. As he closed the front door he caught the eye of the police inspector. It was a well-meaning glance. The door closed. The manager took the precaution to lock it. The bolt shot back. The police went over to the women. They must go home. The women refused to move. Yes, the situation was dangerous. The sudden arrival of angry men-folk was the danger.

All this had no interest for Mrs Fury, whose path was blocked by a crowd that had swiftly gathered at the top of the street, and gathering force, now flowed into the road.

Mrs Fury looked ahead. She must either go right through or make a wide detour. She decided to go through. She began to push. People turned to look at her, more than one elbow jabbed roughly against her. A policeman saw her pushing through.

The first of the obstacles had arrived, not in the form of a crowd of decrepit-looking people, half-washed and half-dressed, but in the form of a policeman's eye.

As he approached, the crowd, from pure habit, fell away, so that Mrs Fury, now isolated, standing in a cleared space of at least six feet, became the attention of everybody. There was something deferential about the manner of this policeman as he went up to the tall woman and asked:

‘Where are you going, Missus?'

‘To town,' said Mrs Fury. She looked straight at the man. ‘To town,' she said, ‘on business.'

‘Is it important?'

‘Yes! Very important.'

‘You understand the state of things in the city?'

‘I do.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘To the Torsa Line Shipping Office for my son's allotment money.'

‘Oh!' said the officer. ‘I see!' He walked away.

Mrs Fury passed on. When she reached Harbour Road another obstacle arose, more formidable. She stopped. For the first time she saw people running. Saw batons raised, heard frightful screams. In the middle of the road lay a number of pianos, which an angry crowd of people, mostly women, had dragged out of the piano warehouse near by. Not content with that, they had begun to smash them with hatchets, whilst some young men had come out of a chewing-gum factory higher up the road, and were, at the time the police decided to clear the road, busily engaged in pouring fluid gum down into the framework of the pianos.

Mrs Fury saw none of these things. She saw only raised batons, heard screams, saw the terrified crowd darting back into their houses. She leaned against an empty shop door. She felt sick. There was still a mile to go. She ought to have taken something besides a cup of tea. Men, women, and children were flying past. The police came on at a run. She crouched against the woodwork. As the first policeman passed she screamed, ‘My Jesus!' But they had not seen her. She was trembling all over. Perhaps she ought never to have come. She looked up and down.

These sporadic outbursts on the part of the inhabitants of Harbour Road and its adjacent streets occurred at regular intervals, almost, one might say, as though they had been planned overnight. These were no spontaneous kicks at authority, but calculated. Periodically some shop or factory was raided. The whole length of the road gave one the impression that gigantic building operations were afoot, for every shop had boarded its windows.

Mrs Fury moved away from the shop doorway and continued her journey. She wanted to sit down somewhere. She felt her shoes pinching again, and a blister had come on her heel. As she drew near Mile Hill, the streets became more crowded, the scene more animated. Here a squadron of troops was drawn up, there a detachment of mounted police. Could she get through? Suddenly she exclaimed aloud, ‘I wish I had asked Denny to come with me. Peter could have well looked after Father.' But it was too late now. In any case, if she kept on walking she could be there in twenty minutes. Yes. She
must
keep on. She wanted to sit down. The very thought of being able to rest her feet only increased her determination. Of a sudden she stopped, thinking, ‘My God! Supposing that Mr Lake isn't there, after all! All this for nothing. No. Impossible! Just impossible!'

Twice in her quick walk down Mile Hill she had been stopped and questioned. At the bottom of the hill another kind of authority asserted itself. Federation delegates were everywhere. They swarmed like flies.

‘Where are you going, Missus?'

The woman's path was closed by a burly-looking man. He was dressed in a blue serge suit and wore a collar and tie, though this seemed to make him feel uncomfortable, for he repeatedly tugged at the collar as he eyed the tall woman up and down.

‘Who are you?' asked Mrs Fury. This was something new.

‘I'm a delegate,' he said. ‘Don't you know it's dangerous hereabouts? Listen to me, Missus. In a few days' time Mr John Williams will be the only authority in this city.'

‘I'm not interested in Mr Williams,' replied the woman. She drew herself up to her full height and looked down at this red-faced individual, still tugging at his collar.

‘No? Oh aye! You're one of those women who try to break the strike, eh? Well, I'm interested in you, see!' He gripped Mrs Fury's arm, and pulled her behind the shelter of a disused tram-men's hut.

‘Yes,' he said.

Mrs Fury struck him in the face with her fist. She shouted, ‘If my husband were here he'd break your neck, you insolent swine.'

She tore loose from the man and began to run. But again her path was blocked right across Powell Square. The Hussars were lined up. They had piled arms and were now standing at ease.

Mrs Fury was given to understand that from this point any further progress was impossible. That was definite. Final. The woman turned pale. As she looked across the Square she saw the doors, the great swing-doors, of the shipping office's high building. It seemed to call to her, to inform her that somewhere beneath its great dome Mr Lake was sitting, Mr Lake was waiting. The officer looked at the woman.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘It's in the interest of your own safety.'

‘But I must go,' Mrs Fury pleaded. ‘I have to get my son's money.'

‘Is it very important?'

The woman said, ‘Yes. I depend on it.'

‘People come down here for all kinds of reasons.'

‘Please!' Mrs Fury said. She wanted to add, ‘My feet are paining. I want to sit down.' She listened to the questions. Questions! Questions! Questions! Soon it would be impossible to breathe.

‘But other people are walking about,' said Mrs Fury. ‘I must go! I must go!'

At last! Well, here she was! There in front of her was the building. And there were the police, the soldiers, the Specials. When in Heaven's name was the strike going to end? It was like a war. It was bad enough going out in order to buy some food, but this – this questioning was far worse. She looked at the note in her hand. Then up at the great swing-doors. Here was something that the strike had not affected. Clerks, she told herself, never went out on strike. No. They were busy over their desks. Mr Lake, of course, would never think of going out on strike. She approached the swing-doors and handed in her note. She passed inside. Then she stood looking about. This wilderness of marble again. Those great flights of stairs. More marble. Those long windows. Those lines of pictures, the polished woodwork. The ascent and descent of the lifts, noiseless save for a low humming sound that reverberated through the building and came to an end with the sudden click of the gate. Yes. Here everybody was working. Everybody attending to his business. Here was order, efficiency. Occasionally people hurried past her, mostly typists and secretaries from the lower floors. To the right, a long highly polished bench. Mrs Fury sat down. ‘Oh!' she said, ‘the relief! Away from those crowds, the dust, the questioning, that beastly man calling himself a delegate.' She looked at her hand. Yes. The skin on her knuckle was broken. Well – she could not have done anything else. As soon as she had rested her feet, she would go up in the lift and sit in the corridor. ‘At half-past three I must go and interview that woman,' she said under her breath. Now she must see Mr Lake. She settled her long coat, brushed the dust off its hem with her hand, and as she passed a long mirror set in the buff-coloured wall, she paused to examine herself. She straightened her hat. Then she walked to the first lift that came down. It was rather a slack day for the lift attendants. The gate clicked and shot back. The woman stepped in. The man shut the gate and pressed the switch. Mrs Fury ascended. The attendant did not even look at her. She might not have been there. Top floor! The gate clicked again. Mrs Fury stepped out. She smiled now. She
was
really here. She walked along the corridor, and when she reached Mr Lake's office stood outside for a moment contemplating. Yes. She felt better now. She was quite ready to talk to the gentleman. She opened the door and passed in. She rang the bell. The window shot up. Yes. This was the same girl as last time.

‘Mrs Fury to see Mr Lake!' she said. Then she sat down.

‘Oh! I'm sorry, Mr Lake isn't in yet,' replied the girl. ‘Can you wait? He's never here before eleven, you know.' She smiled at Mrs Fury.

‘What a nice girl!' the woman was thinking. Then she exclaimed, ‘Oh!' and her face fell. ‘Oh dear me! Very well, I'll wait.' Of course she could wait. Then she added, ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to get me a glass of water. I've had to walk all the way from Hatfields.' She leaned back and rested her head against the wooden partition.

‘Certainly!' said the girl, and she hurried away to get the water.

‘Thank you,' Mrs Fury said. She drank the water quickly, at a single gulp.

‘Thanks very much.' She handed the glass to the girl and smiled at her. ‘I'll wait here,' she said. ‘Will that be all right?'

‘Oh yes.' The girl went away. The window shot down. Mrs Fury was alone. ‘How quiet and peaceful it is here!' she thought. She stretched out her legs. ‘Oh!' she said. If only she could take that shoe off! But she couldn't do that. She leaned her head against the wood again. The silence itself appeared to close the woman's eyes.

Twice the door opened and two gentlemen passed through. The woman did not move. One of them stood looking at her in a curious sort of way. Then he too passed into the office. Mrs Fury had fallen asleep. As the time passed, more people arrived. Telephones began to ring, typewriters kept up a steady tattoo, broken periodically by a swishing of papers. The woman did not move. Her bosom rose and fell. She was fast asleep. Sleeping had changed her. That tensive, agitated expression upon her face had given place to a calmness and serenity. Her finely moulded face was dead white. Wisps of black hair about her ears accentuated it. It was in this state that Mr Lake found her when he arrived at the office. As he came in he paused, seeing the sleeping woman on the bench. Then he closed the door silently and stood looking down at her. Yes, he knew the woman at once. He could tell that face anywhere, pick it out of any crowd. Hundreds of women came to see Mr Lake in the course of his duties, but he could never form pictures of them in his mind. They were simply faces. Mrs Fury seemed different. Of course! She had come to see him recently about her son. He recalled the incident at once. She had had a faint in his office. But he had never expected to see her here now, at this time – and certainly not sleeping soundly on the office bench. He passed through to his inner office, and sat down. How on earth had the woman managed to get down to the office? Of course she must have walked, but how did she manage it? He rang his bell, and the window attendant answered it. ‘How long has that woman been here?' he asked.

He began arranging papers on his desk.

‘She's been here since a quarter to ten, Mr Lake,' the girl replied. She stood waiting, her hand playing with the knob of the door. Mr Lake looked up from his desk.