The Furys by James Hanley Page B

as I do,’ she shouted back. ‘You’ve met the Cork boat before this. What’s wrong with you lately, Denny? You seem to be fishing for rows all the time. It gets on my nerves.’ The man did not reply. There was nothing to say – well, yes, he had lots to say. He sighed. So useless.
    â€˜Ever since you gave up the sea you’ve been the same.’
    Mr Fury stared at the door. In one minute she would dash out. Ah! So she had guessed. She had seen the truth for once. He became restless. What was he standing there for? Ought to be getting back to work.
    â€˜Well, I suppose we had better meet his boat at the Stage. It comes up about half-ten, doesn’t it?’ The door was thrown open. Mrs Fury appeared.
    â€˜Of course it does, you fool!’ The door slammed in Mr Fury’s face. He continued to stare at the door, as though it were a sort of mad dog. Then he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘The whole trouble with you is that you’re mad. Yes, you’re mad about Peter, and now you want to take it out of me. That’s solid truth and you know it. Good enough. I’ll look for a ship and clear out of it. You can have your precious family all to yourself then. Anthony seems to be the lucky devil in this family. He’s never home.’ He went out, swearing loudly.
    Family. His family. Christ! It made him laugh. Bloody fool he was ever leaving the Cardine. Yes, he thought, a bunch of strangers. Their father. It made him laugh. Why, they already looked upon him as intrusion. They had grown up without him. When he retired from the sea they accepted it grudgingly. He was a sort of lodger in the house. He had tried to understand them, but their attitude, their indifference, had wounded him. He suspected his wife. She had known them more intimately, sharing all their days. He was jealous. Then Desmond had got married, and some while after Maureen had become independent too. He liked Desmond for no other reason than that his wife hated him. ‘Well she might,’ he thought. He was the only one in the family whom she had not been able to influence. That was the cause of most of the trouble. She wanted her own way in everything connected with the children. And he was seeing behind the scenes now. He went back to work and hardly spoke a word to anyone the whole afternoon. His wife was out again when he went home in the evening. He supposed she was to be found over at the Ferrises’. That was another thing Mr Fury hated. This continual going over to the Ferrises’. His meal was all ready on top of the hob. After tea he washed, shaved, and went out. Standing at the top of the street in the drizzle, he suddenly realized how miserable everything was. He couldn’t even go up to Vulcan Street now, what with Desmond’s latest activities, and the rumours he was hearing through Mr Postlethwaite. What a rotten world it seemed to be. Mr Fury hated this standing at the corner. He was always being hailed by somebody who knew him, but for the life of him he could not recollect half these acquaintances. Where else could he go? His life was divided between the house and the street corner. The house seemed to be broken up altogether since his daughter’s departure. Often he wished he could go up and have a talk with her, but when the time came he always backed out. He was conscious of his loneliness. In the midst of these meditations a hand suddenly descended on his shoulder.
    â€˜Why, Mulcare!’ he exclaimed, drawing back a little with the shock of this sudden meeting. What a time since he had seen the fellow. He looked at him a long time without moving. A broad smile covered the other’s face. He was a young man about thirty years of age. He was dressed in a brown tweed suit, wore a sailor’s jersey and a grey slouch hat. The clothes were not of English make. Mr Fury at once guessed where the young man had bought them. He continued to stare at Mulcare, hardly