rotten hole. Hatfields was a palace compared with it. Suddenly he stopped and leaned against a hoarding, his hands behind his back. âPoor little Peter,â he said. âPoor simple lad.â
By heavens, Fanny was a strong woman to come through all that! The very thought inspired the man with hope. By heavens, she would come through ⦠Yes. He was sure she would. âGood Lord,â he reflected, âhow we fought and argued, and fell out, and smothered things over. What an ass I was then! Ah, but weâre still together. Let the world go hang.â Fanny was a trump. He wouldnât hear a word said against her. His mood softened.
It was getting late now. But he didnât feel hungry. Suddenly he decided to ring the hospital again. It was no use walking about like this, and he hated everybody looking at him as they passed by. Perhaps she had woke up. Good God! He mustâphone now .
Between eight and twelve he rang four times. The answer was as before. There was no change. He could ring any time. Yes. Call any time. But she was deeply unconscious. The poor woman. âI must go at once for the priest,â he said.
Heyâs Alley was one of a series. Such names as Horse Alley, Fox Alley, Picklesâ Alley were neighbours. Looking at them from the river they appeared as a series of funnels. They were dark, stuffy, smelly. Geltonians who never ventured beyond the tall grey warehouses that flanked them, were blissfully ignorant of their existence. A sort of mole-like existence was in being here. Each alley contained twenty houses in all. They were not uniform in style, but they all served the same purpose. They justified investment. There was one lavatory for each alley. There were many children. Queues at the lavatory and wash-houseâthey were in fact public, quite common. Most of the occupants followed the sea as a calling. This could be seen from the windows of the end houses.
A man was said to âfall into his ship.â It was true too that these people could go backwards and forwards to the sea, and live their lives unseen. They were well hidden away. In No. 17 Heyâs Alley, which lay between Horse and Picklesâ, lived the Fury family. They had moved from Hatfields, situated in the north end of the city. At least the woman herself had moved and the man, home from sea rather sooner than expected, got something of a shock, but after the initial disappointment and surprise had passed, he had eventually, after a sort of bat-like exploration from north to south, discovered the area of alleys, and finally his home and his wife. That home-coming had pained him.
One son was at sea and had been away since the commencement of the war. He had been advised of the change. He was just as surprised. The former house had been their home for so long that it seemed impossible they could ever leave it. Another son now married was quite unaware of the change of address. The youngest son, the prime mover in the change of home was at present behind bars. The daughter who had married and eventually left her husband was considered lost. Nobody knew where she had gone: though they knew why. Her husband, however, still lived in the same street adjacent to Hatfields. Mr. Fury, on first catching sight of the alley, swore that he would never get used to it. He loathed it. To him it was a kind of defeat. But he kept back his opinions. His wife had done it, and she had done it for a good reason.
He accepted the situation, though time and time again he reflected with bitterness upon the forty-six yearsâ struggle he had made, and now it had brought them to this. He hated the place and he hated the people. At the same time he was worried by certain other changes that were taking place. His wifeâs behaviour attracted attention. He understood the reason for it. But what he could never understand and never would understand was her reason for turning away from her door the best, the truest friend
By heavens, Fanny was a strong woman to come through all that! The very thought inspired the man with hope. By heavens, she would come through ⦠Yes. He was sure she would. âGood Lord,â he reflected, âhow we fought and argued, and fell out, and smothered things over. What an ass I was then! Ah, but weâre still together. Let the world go hang.â Fanny was a trump. He wouldnât hear a word said against her. His mood softened.
It was getting late now. But he didnât feel hungry. Suddenly he decided to ring the hospital again. It was no use walking about like this, and he hated everybody looking at him as they passed by. Perhaps she had woke up. Good God! He mustâphone now .
Between eight and twelve he rang four times. The answer was as before. There was no change. He could ring any time. Yes. Call any time. But she was deeply unconscious. The poor woman. âI must go at once for the priest,â he said.
Heyâs Alley was one of a series. Such names as Horse Alley, Fox Alley, Picklesâ Alley were neighbours. Looking at them from the river they appeared as a series of funnels. They were dark, stuffy, smelly. Geltonians who never ventured beyond the tall grey warehouses that flanked them, were blissfully ignorant of their existence. A sort of mole-like existence was in being here. Each alley contained twenty houses in all. They were not uniform in style, but they all served the same purpose. They justified investment. There was one lavatory for each alley. There were many children. Queues at the lavatory and wash-houseâthey were in fact public, quite common. Most of the occupants followed the sea as a calling. This could be seen from the windows of the end houses.
A man was said to âfall into his ship.â It was true too that these people could go backwards and forwards to the sea, and live their lives unseen. They were well hidden away. In No. 17 Heyâs Alley, which lay between Horse and Picklesâ, lived the Fury family. They had moved from Hatfields, situated in the north end of the city. At least the woman herself had moved and the man, home from sea rather sooner than expected, got something of a shock, but after the initial disappointment and surprise had passed, he had eventually, after a sort of bat-like exploration from north to south, discovered the area of alleys, and finally his home and his wife. That home-coming had pained him.
One son was at sea and had been away since the commencement of the war. He had been advised of the change. He was just as surprised. The former house had been their home for so long that it seemed impossible they could ever leave it. Another son now married was quite unaware of the change of address. The youngest son, the prime mover in the change of home was at present behind bars. The daughter who had married and eventually left her husband was considered lost. Nobody knew where she had gone: though they knew why. Her husband, however, still lived in the same street adjacent to Hatfields. Mr. Fury, on first catching sight of the alley, swore that he would never get used to it. He loathed it. To him it was a kind of defeat. But he kept back his opinions. His wife had done it, and she had done it for a good reason.
He accepted the situation, though time and time again he reflected with bitterness upon the forty-six yearsâ struggle he had made, and now it had brought them to this. He hated the place and he hated the people. At the same time he was worried by certain other changes that were taking place. His wifeâs behaviour attracted attention. He understood the reason for it. But what he could never understand and never would understand was her reason for turning away from her door the best, the truest friend
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