The Furys Read Online Free Page A

imprinted upon her mind in letters of fire. Future. The future. She began walking up and down the room. The fear that had lain hidden so long suddenly took possession of her. She deluged the room with her violent movements. The indifference of her husband. The stupidity of the old man by the fire. She could talk about that tonight. Insulting enough. But what when the others heard about it too? She closed her eyes. It made her feel sick again just thinking about Peter. Her youngest son. She had idolized him. Denny had made so light of the matter. It was Anthony he worried about. She was angry with him about his remarks concerning her father. He had lived with them so long now. He was one of the family. And her husband all of a sudden wanted him out of the house. Where would he go? There was no place for him. His sister in Belfast? Poor Father. He imagined things. His brain was going. Eighty-two years of age and he wanted to go home to Belfast. That was a place she had never seen. No. It was impossible. He would just sit rooted in that chair until he finally passed out. It almost numbed her to think of Peter. The questions tonight. Why had he failed? As if she knew anything about it. And Anthony. Those two hours spent groping about the big shipping office, the meeting with the benevolent-looking gentleman, the climb up the stairs, the lift. She could not easily forget it.
    She went downstairs again and began to clear away the dinner things. Her own meal lay uneaten on the table. How could she eat, worried as she was about her sons? God! Her husband knew nothing at all. Nothing at all. She could not help glancing across at her father. There was something peculiar about him, and she noticed it now. It was his huge head, completely bald. It seemed so out of place on those small shoulders. Anthony Mangan was five foot seven in height. His large hands, the skin of which was dry and yellow, lay idly in his lap. Mrs Fury said to herself, ‘He’s awake at last. He’s really awake.’ The old man had slowly stirred to life again. His pale watery eyes harboured a sort of suspicious dread. The expression upon his face changed. He could see this tall woman now. His daughter. Why was she staring at him like that? But now a faint smile crossed her face. ‘Are you awake, Father?’ she asked, and drew nearer to him. The man grunted like a pig. She knelt down in front of him. It seemed that with each movement he aggravated his daughter. She must now wipe his eyes. Again the large handkerchief appeared from Mrs Fury’s capacious pocket. She wiped his eyes gently. She began to settle his coat and vest more comfortably. It was all crumpled, and stained with slobber and the remains of meals. His tie – it was a piece of string – was almost hidden behind his shirt. ‘Straighten up now,’ she was saying; ‘your grandson’s coming home soon.’ At last he smiled. Mrs Fury said, ‘Yes, he’s coming home.’ She drew back in fright as the old man suddenly opened his mouth, revealing the toothless cavern. Surely he was going to speak. She ran into the hall and stood there. What was her father going to say? The figure in the chair leaned forward, an idiotic smile upon the upturned face. Was he going to ask why? She tore the telegram from her blouse again. Yes. It was only too true. She laughed. That Denny should treat the matter so lightly, that ‘he’ should question. It was too ridiculous.
    But the old man merely wanted a drink of water. The word ‘Peter’ had not crossed his mind. Mr Mangan was only thirsty. He tried to rise again, but fell back, gasping for breath. Where had she gone to? His eyes rested upon the door, waiting, watching. But Mrs Fury could not move. The blow had struck at last. Her head fell forward upon her breast, her two hands were entwined. She stared down at the much-faded carpet. First Anthony and then Peter. A sort of low screeching sound issued