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Authors: James Hanley
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she had ever had. It made him sad. He tried to be as cheerful as he could. He kept his temper because he had to, for here was a woman more capable of losing it than he. At times he was afraid for her. She seemed so odd. There were occasions when they seemed like strangers to each other. But when early one morning he woke up to find her gone and then to discover she had been wandering about the streets, he realized something was wrong. What had happened this very morning was its culmination. When she went off like that there was always a crowd of curious people around the door to see her brought back.
Mr. Fury longed to fly from it. It didnât seem fair. All those years, all that toil, and just ended in this. It seemed cruel, and now there was not one child to whom he could turn. They had well scattered. He made a solemn vow that they would not remain in Heyâs Alley for long. What exactly had made her come here of all places?
The more he asked himself why, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He felt fooled, frustrated. He wasnât exactly crying about it. Not he. But no man with a bit of decency in him could look twice at the place without asking himself what forty-six years of hard work meant.
He was a happy-go-lucky sort of man, who could be, and had been called a fool for every day of his sea life, but had swallowed it all good humouredly. He always said: âFanny will grow out of that,â but his reckoning seemed quite disastrous, for she went on calling him a fool, to which he parried by saying that her silly ambition would get her nowhere. Their life was as full of wrangles, as it was of regrets. Why didnât he look to his family more? How could he? He never saw them. He was always at sea! Then why didnât he think of her more? He did! He loved her. The best woman in the world for him. Then lighter moments came. They went off to the country for an occasional walk. They went to the music hall. And then the man sailed away again. These diversions werenât quite enough, however. The woman complained by letter. He never answered them.
The children were growing up. He hardly knew them, nor they him. The woman ruled the house. Living was a struggle. She kept on saying this with monotonous regularity. But what could he do? Nothing more than he was doing already. Working hard and earning money. Yes. But look at the lost opportunities. Look at the chances he had lost through not staying in America. After all it was a wonderful country, and the foster home of the Irish. Familiarity bred contempt. Mr. Fury shut his mouth and kept it shut. He sailed away and came home again. The children went on growing. What a father? Well, if he couldnât show ambition she would . She would make a priest of one. She knew who. He said: âFantastic, canât afford it.â She laughed, she went on, quite determined. The other children hated her for showing favouritism, for offering things they had been denied themselves. They decided to get out of the place. The eldest married and never returned to see them. The daughter flung herself into a marriage which she had broken asunder only a year after it had taken place. The treasured favourite failed. It was the end. Now she didnât care very much; she had been fooled all along the line; she had kept her father for years, for nothing, and had received little thanks. What bit of money he had saved went elsewhere. Not to his daughter, who had endeavoured to make the last years of his affliction as easy as possible for him. She had piled debt upon debt about herself in order to satisfy her pride. It had been struggle all along the line. It had ended in murder. Only a masterly defence had saved her treasured son from the rope. This was a cup she had to drink, overflowing with gall.
Here in Heyâs Alley she knew nobody and spoke to nobody. The spaciousness and greater freedom of the Hatfields district did not exist here. Here it was much darker,
Mr. Fury longed to fly from it. It didnât seem fair. All those years, all that toil, and just ended in this. It seemed cruel, and now there was not one child to whom he could turn. They had well scattered. He made a solemn vow that they would not remain in Heyâs Alley for long. What exactly had made her come here of all places?
The more he asked himself why, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He felt fooled, frustrated. He wasnât exactly crying about it. Not he. But no man with a bit of decency in him could look twice at the place without asking himself what forty-six years of hard work meant.
He was a happy-go-lucky sort of man, who could be, and had been called a fool for every day of his sea life, but had swallowed it all good humouredly. He always said: âFanny will grow out of that,â but his reckoning seemed quite disastrous, for she went on calling him a fool, to which he parried by saying that her silly ambition would get her nowhere. Their life was as full of wrangles, as it was of regrets. Why didnât he look to his family more? How could he? He never saw them. He was always at sea! Then why didnât he think of her more? He did! He loved her. The best woman in the world for him. Then lighter moments came. They went off to the country for an occasional walk. They went to the music hall. And then the man sailed away again. These diversions werenât quite enough, however. The woman complained by letter. He never answered them.
The children were growing up. He hardly knew them, nor they him. The woman ruled the house. Living was a struggle. She kept on saying this with monotonous regularity. But what could he do? Nothing more than he was doing already. Working hard and earning money. Yes. But look at the lost opportunities. Look at the chances he had lost through not staying in America. After all it was a wonderful country, and the foster home of the Irish. Familiarity bred contempt. Mr. Fury shut his mouth and kept it shut. He sailed away and came home again. The children went on growing. What a father? Well, if he couldnât show ambition she would . She would make a priest of one. She knew who. He said: âFantastic, canât afford it.â She laughed, she went on, quite determined. The other children hated her for showing favouritism, for offering things they had been denied themselves. They decided to get out of the place. The eldest married and never returned to see them. The daughter flung herself into a marriage which she had broken asunder only a year after it had taken place. The treasured favourite failed. It was the end. Now she didnât care very much; she had been fooled all along the line; she had kept her father for years, for nothing, and had received little thanks. What bit of money he had saved went elsewhere. Not to his daughter, who had endeavoured to make the last years of his affliction as easy as possible for him. She had piled debt upon debt about herself in order to satisfy her pride. It had been struggle all along the line. It had ended in murder. Only a masterly defence had saved her treasured son from the rope. This was a cup she had to drink, overflowing with gall.
Here in Heyâs Alley she knew nobody and spoke to nobody. The spaciousness and greater freedom of the Hatfields district did not exist here. Here it was much darker,
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