The Furys by James Hanley

has touched, yet knows he can hold no more. Maureen. Mrs Fury was murmuring her name. He went into the back kitchen. How long had they been there? Talking all the evening, he supposed. She must have gone down to tell Maureen about Peter. The Ferrises’ was a bad guess this time. Mrs Fury called. He went in, blowing his nose vigorously into his spotted handkerchief. ‘Have you had your tea, Denny?’ she asked. ‘I was out. Maureen came up with me. Joe says there’s rumour of a coming strike where he is. He’ll strike, of course.’ Mr Fury sat down. What a way she had of talking. She might as well have said, ‘Joe is going out to commit suicide.’ So he was going to strike! Oh! A stevedore at the docks. The thing was spreading, then? He looked across at his daughter. ‘Who said they’re coming out?’ The young woman rose to her feet. ‘Everybody’s coming out,’ she said, ‘and so are you. If you don’t, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
    â€˜Good God!’ thought Mr Fury. Was this Maureen?
    2
    Mr Fury repeated his question. ‘Who said the men were coming out? Forget it,’ as though a strike were the most surprising thing in the world. Maureen was seated in the corner, her hands clutching the back of the cane chair.
    â€˜But everybody’s coming out, Dad,’ she said. ‘Everybody.’ Mr Fury laughed. ‘Well, I’m not interested. Neither is your mother.’ He got up and crossed the kitchen. He placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. He smiled at her. ‘It’s Lyric night, Fanny,’ he said. ‘You best get ready.’ ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mrs Fury, ‘I’m not going.’ Mr Fury took no notice of the remark. He turned to his daughter. ‘Your mother and I are going to the Lyric,’ he said. Then he faced Mrs Fury again. A smile came at last. She got up. ‘All right,’ she said. They went upstairs together. Maureen called after them that she was going.
    â€˜I’ll slip round tomorrow, Mother,’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘I’ll come before you go down to meet him.’
    Then she left the house.
    Mr and Mrs Fury were busy changing into their Sunday best. Mr Fury felt that he must not speak. He must not breathe a word. Fanny was such a contrary woman. One word and she would change her mind. He had an idea that she had had fresh news about Anthony from the shipping office, but he controlled himself. This was Lyric night, and everything else could go by the board. Even whilst he was at sea, they had always managed to see a show at the Lyric whenever he came home. The preparations on Lyric night had assumed almost ceremonial proportions. Mr Fury always put his blue suit on, and also his shiny hard hat came out of the box. Again, he wore a collar and tie. Mrs Fury always wore her grey skirt and a white silk blouse. Over this she drew on her long blue serge coat. Mr Fury had already changed. Mrs Fury was in the act of running the hatpin through her hat when Mr Fury lost control of himself.
    â€˜Fanny,’ he said, ‘if you’ll come to Hobhouse’s with me I’ll buy you a hat. That one’s a real veteran and it’s nearly time you buried it.’ Mrs Fury, quite indifferent, sent the pin through the black straw hat, and then drew back a pace, the more thoroughly to survey her figure. Mr Fury drove his hands into his pockets and stared at her. The way she clung to that hat. He couldn’t make it out. As tenacious as an octopus. ‘I’m not joking, Fanny,’ he said, as he looked at her from head to heel. ‘I’m not joking. If you’ll get off the tram at Hobhouse’s I’ll get you a hat. A good hat. A real hat.’ The woman laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Denny,’ she said. She turned round and faced him. Then her quick eye caught sight of his collar. She went up to him and rearranged his