The Furys by James Hanley

regretted it. He was wont to reflect in moments of bitterness that he had been a fool for ever leaving the ship. No use crying about it now. It was too late. Shipping companies weren’t taking men like Mr Fury. There were too many young men walking about the docks. No, it would be nothing short of a miracle if he ever put a foot on ship again. The worst of it was – and each time he thought about it he felt angry – the worst of it was, that fellow Postlethwaite had actually got him the job on the railway. He, Mr Fury, had taken the job, just to please Fanny. Now he came to think over it, he had been a fool. ‘Well! one of these fine days,’ he said to himself, ‘one of these fine days I’ll just pack my bag and clear out.’ Mr Fury’s imagination carried him away. ‘Aye, one of these days …’
    Mr Fury took another glance at the little man from number five Hatfields. ‘Imagine the likes of him beating a big drum,’ he thought. The ludicrous side of Mr Postlethwaite seemed to become personified at that moment. Yes, and before he packed his bag he was going to see that that son of his packed his bag too. Wasn’t going to have Postlethwaite getting Peter a job. One was enough. The very idea of being under an obligation to the Postlethwaites rankled in his mind. Yes, one obligation was enough. The high words he had had with Fanny were vividly recalled now. And the last word hadn’t been said, he reflected. No doubt about it, Fanny had changed. But what had made her change? Mr Fury realized he had set himself an impossible question. Was it Desmond’s marrying out of the chapel? Or was it Maureen marrying Kilkey? It was rather sudden, of course. Neither Desmond nor Maureen had breathed a word about their plans until the last minute. Perhaps Fanny thought her children were cheating her. He still felt resentful. There had been no need for that row last night. Sometimes Mr Fury even imagined that Mrs Fury was getting a little light-headed. There was a sudden pause in the thought. They had come in sight of the sheds. Ahead of them the little green door that led to the wooden bridge was wide open. They passed through. Mr Fury looked at his neighbour.
    â€˜Good-morning,’ he said. ‘See you again at clock-off.’
    â€˜Good-morning,’ replied Mr Postlethwaite.
    Later, more men came hurrying through the door. There were a series of ‘Good-mornings’, comments on the weather, a dirty joke. Mr Fury passed down the shed, his mind still full of the previous evening’s bother – there wasn’t the slightest doubt about it, the woman was beyond all comprehension. What was it that changed her? Rough times – the man laughed. But everybody had had rough times, sometime or other. Of course it could only have come to a point with a fellow like Peter. He had always been a strange child. The oddest relationship existed between mother and son. Quite different from the other children. Mr Fury was of opinion that this last child had been thoroughly spoiled. He hadn’t seen much of Peter. Their relationship was somewhat distant and reserved. They weren’t like father and son at all. He had been away in the Mediterranean when Peter had first gone to college in Cork. When he arrived home one trip the boy had gone. He had thought his wife’s idea quite a ridiculous one, and he had told her so. He had felt hurt. Never to have breathed a word to him. As though he weren’t his father at all. So his thoughts swung from his wife to his son. Peter never even wrote to him. He was still thinking of Peter when the dinner-bell rang.
    Mr Fury always went home for his midday meal. The house was only a few hundred yards from the shed. As he mounted the wooden stairs to the bridge a voice hailed him. He swung round. ‘Hello,’ he exclaimed, ‘wanting me?’ The tall broad-shouldered man who stood gripping a stanchion said, ‘No.