The Furys by James Hanley Page A

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    â€˜You’re a sloven, Denny.’ She poked him in the ribs. Mr Fury caught her hands in his own and squeezed them. Somehow, as he looked her up and down his pride returned.
    â€˜Well, Fanny, I’ll say this. That when you do dress, you look a real lady. No doubt about it.’ He was filled with an admiration he could no longer conceal. He went over to the window again and looked out. He heard his wife sit down suddenly on the creaky bed. Mrs Fury was changing her shoes. The man fell into a contemplative attitude, resting his head against the window-pane. Well, they had been together a long long time, and in all those years he could not remember a single Lyric night that had been a failure. Yes, when he came to think it over, Fanny was a good ’un. A real good woman, Yes. He understood. He knew what it was like. Getting two disappointments on the same day. He turned round. Mrs Fury rose from the bed. She must see Dad was fixed up before she went. The man nodded his head. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course.’ The woman left the room. Mr Fury walked across and surveyed himself in the mirror. ‘I don’t look so bad,’ he said under his breath. He sat down on the bed. At length Mrs Fury called, ‘Denny! Denny!’ He went below.
    The woman was standing at the front door, her hand on the knob. ‘Ssh!’ she said, ‘Ssh!’ ‘This way,’ Mr Fury said, and without another word led the way through the lobby. He wasn’t going out through that front door. Not for any money. They passed out into the yard.
    â€˜What about the back door, Denny?’ asked Mrs Fury. ‘That’s all right, Fanny,’ he replied. ‘You go ahead. I’ll bolt the door after you, then come over the wall.’
    A few minutes later he joined her at the bottom of the entry. They passed out into the neighbouring street. A mist was descending. The lamps shone dully through the haze. They arrived at the top of Dolan Street, and stood waiting for a tram. The light from a corner shop shone down on them. Once a man, passing by, called out, ‘Night, Denny,’ and Mr Fury, without turning round, replied, ‘Night, Frisco.’ He had recognized the voice. One of the things he most hated was waiting for a tram on the main road. People were always bumping into him. When an acquaintance bumped into Dennis Fury it inevitably meant two drinks at the Hangman’s or the Pitch-pine. Mr Fury took drastic measures in view of his depleted pocket-money. He was rarely seen on the main road now. All right whilst he was at sea. But railway wages didn’t allow of him indulging his generous spirit. At last a tram came along. Mr Fury helped his wife to the platform. Slowly they pushed their way through and found a seat. They had not been seated a full minute before Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘If we had caught a Great Comus Street tram we could have sat on top.’ Mrs Fury said drily, ‘Oh heavens, man! You won’t die without your pipe for a few minutes.’ But he could not catch her words. The tram had put on speed, and in addition its driver began stamping angrily on his foot-bell in a vain endeavour to clear the line of a pony and trap bowling along with a steady rhythm, its two wheels meeting the iron rails. Once or twice its driver, a red-faced youth, had turned round and shouted at the exasperated driver, ‘Keep your shirt on, Dad! Keep your shirt on!’
    This remark was not lost upon the passengers sitting at the front end of the tram, and there were occasional laughs and titters. But Mrs Fury seemed immune. She refused to be interested. She said under her breath, ‘The lads nowadays are just devils. That fool will be killed one of these days.’ Mr Fury said, ‘Yes, yes.’ His mind was occupied with something other than the tram and its angry driver. Suddenly the wheels of the trap skidded, with a loud grating noise. The tram had