The Furys Read Online Free

Again this morning. He ought to have been in and seen what it was like. Mr Fury picked up his knife and fork, stared stupidly at his plate and commenced to eat. So the old man had had another bout. H’m! How long was this going to go on? Suddenly the silent figure stirred itself, and the exclamation ‘Ah!’ burst forth from the old man’s lips. Husband and wife looked across in astonishment. At last, thought the woman. And after all that time. They watched him, waiting. But the figure lapsed back into its original state. Mrs Fury leaned across the table.
    â€˜He is getting very trying, Denny,’ she said. The man nodded his head and went on with his meal.
    They maintained a silence until the meal was over. Mr Fury followed his wife out into the back kitchen.
    â€˜I wish he’d go away,’ he said. The woman frowned. Her husband went up to her and said again:
    â€˜Yes. I wish he’d go. Damn it all, it gets on a fellow’s nerves. Why doesn’t he go to his sister in Belfast? He used always to be talking about her.’ He turned on the tap and let the water run into the wash-bowl. He rolled up his sleeves and started to wash.
    â€˜It’s quite impossible,’ replied Mrs Fury. ‘One must put up with the inconvenience. Even the inconvenience of an old man like that. He’s my father. And after all …’ She stopped. Her husband had not heard her. He was swilling his face under the water. She waited until he had dried himself. He seemed to have anticipated his wife’s remark, for he suddenly asked: ‘How is Anthony? What did they say at the office?’ He began pulling at the roller towel.
    â€˜He’s all right,’ she said. ‘He’s in hospital. I saw Mr Lake this morning.
    â€˜That swine?’
    â€˜Yes.’ The woman was angry now. Why was he skirting round the other matter? ‘Yes,’ she repeated, ‘that swine.’ Then she pulled the telegram from her blouse and said, ‘Look at that.’ Mr Fury did not take it from her. His eyes ran along the form, then raised themselves slowly until they were on a level with Mrs Fury’s face. ‘Well?’
    â€˜Well!’ she screamed out, ‘is that all you have to say?’ She was on the verge of tears now. The man rushed into the kitchen for his coat and cap.
    â€˜Talk about it tonight,’ he growled. ‘There’s always something wrong in this confounded house. You never even opened your mouth about Anthony. No. It’s this other pig in Cork you worry about. Look at the clock.’ Mrs Fury did not look at the clock. Her eyes were on the floor. She saw nothing. A dizziness came over her. She heard the door bang. So he had gone. Tonight. When he came home. Suddenly she laughed. Imagine it. Fussing about her own father whilst that telegram lay in her blouse. And Anthony. ‘God!’ she cried in her mind. ‘I ought to have stuck it in his face. Yes. I ought to have stuck it in his face.’ Then she began to recite at the top of her voice: ‘Peter’s failed. Peter’s failed.’ Suddenly Peter disappeared and Anthony took his place. She could see the heavy swathes of bandages about her son’s feet. ‘From the mast on to his heels.’ She went into the kitchen. That figure in the chair irritated her. ‘You dumb fool,’ she cried. ‘You old fool. Your precious grandson is coming home.’ She gave a high-pitched hysterical sort of laugh and ran upstairs to her room. She locked the door. She went across to the dressing-table and stared into the mirror. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Why, who was this woman staring into the mirror? Herself? Fanny Fury? Impossible. Only this morning she had dressed in front of it. What had happened? She burst into tears. She could no longer hold them back. Well, there was much to think about now. The old fear returned. The word ‘Future’ was