The Furys Read Online Free Page B

from the old man’s mouth and she ran in to him. Ah! Of course. She ran to the tap and came back with a tumbler of water, which she held to his trembling lips. What a fright! And he had merely wanted a drink of water. How he slobbered. The old agitation returned, she lost patience with him. Why couldn’t he hurry up, instead of spilling the water down his front? The telegram inside her blouse exasperated her. ‘There now,’ she said. In the back kitchen she took out the telegram and hid it behind the jars on the shelf. She went to her father and pushed him back roughly into the chair. ‘Sit still.’ Past two o’clock. She began to wash at the sink. She wrung out the clothes and flung them on top of the boiler. Then she rinsed them out under the clear running water. But her mind was not upon her task. Her mind floated elsewhere, her eyes saw nothing now save that helpless figure in the kitchen. She stopped and listened. There was no sound save the metallic tick of the alarm-clock. The time must be getting on. How it tied one down. Life was one continuous round of meal-getting. Then the neighbouring school bell rang. Four o’clock. Impossible. But when she looked out of the window she saw the children already on their way home from school. Another meal to get ready. She placed the last of the wrung clothes into the sink and set about getting the tea ready. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Darkness was setting in. She went into the kitchen and lighted the gas. Mr Mangan’s head had fallen forward upon his breast again. He was completely hidden once more. He was breathing heavily. She did not even look at him, but commenced to lay the table. It seemed but a few minutes ago that she had been laying it for the midday meal. She crossed to the chimney-piece to get the tea-caddy. As she did so her eyes came to rest on the top of her father’s bald head. Why was it, she suddenly asked herself, why was it that she had been so full of feeling for him today? She did not know. She wanted to tell him again, to surprise him with the news. His grandson whom he had not seen for nearly seven years, he was really coming home. The future became suddenly black. She was filled with apprehension. Everything had seemed so perfect, easy running; she had had rough times, but she had overcome them. Now she was to sink into the mire again. Oh God! Why did these things happen? She closed her eyes, the tea-caddy still in her hand, whilst the heavy breathing of her father rose almost mournfully to her ears.
    Mr Fury came into the kitchen. The woman swung round. Lord! Denny home. She rushed about the place, laying plates and cups, then she dashed outside to make the tea. Mr Fury took off his coat and cap and flung them over the back of the sofa. He sat down. He was black from head to foot. He heard the wash-bowl being filled outside, but did not move. His wife drew his chair to the table. She herself sat down. When he looked at her he noticed a strange expression upon her face. He had never seen it there before. He was filled with dread. He sat down opposite her. Probably waiting for him to say something, he was thinking. The clock ticked loudly. Promptly at half-past five the alarm rang.
    â€˜Confound it!’ Mr Fury said, darting a vicious glance at his wife, ‘confound it!’ He got up and shut the alarm off. The woman smiled, a faint attempt at indifference. The man sat down again. How he hated the same old thing day after day. Going to work. Coming home again. Sitting in the kitchen. Her opposite to him. Mrs Fury put down her knife and fork. ‘What a day I’ve had,’ she exclaimed. The man did not reply. ‘First it was Anthony. Falling from the mast. My Christ! And now it’s Peter.’ She watched her husband’s face, but it conveyed nothing to her. It was impenetrable. A mask. She saw him digging furiously at the meat with his fork. He was going to say