Free The Furys by James Hanley

are dull, and you know it. If you hadn’t been so dull all your life we might never have been in this hole.’
    â€˜Oh Christ! Are you starting on that again?’ Mr Fury swore under his breath. This was an old war-horse. How he hated it. The woman was insatiable. Give her a single opening and you were overwhelmed at once. You were caught up in the tidal flow, a flow that carried in its wake regrets, protests, insinuations, hints. Why had he ever mentioned Peter? He was a fool. He looked at her as she lay stretched out in the bed. His mind was torn with conflicting thoughts. He kept fidgeting about the bed. Mrs Fury stirred uneasily at his side. Whatever was wrong with him, moving about like that? How did he expect people to get to sleep? He couldn’t hold himself back.
    â€˜I can’t sleep,’ he exclaimed almost savagely. ‘I can’t sleep.’ Couldn’t sleep. H’m! Well, she should just think he couldn’t sleep. Whatever was he thinking about that it made him so restless? He didn’t know. But she did. It was his bad conscience. Yes. That was what it was. Then she exclaimed in a loud domineering voice:
    â€˜I should think you wouldn’t sleep. How do you think I feel? Do you think I am made of cast-iron? That I can stand every blow without saying something? That I shouldn’t lose control sometimes?’
    â€˜You’re off again,’ The man spoke from beneath the bed-clothes. ‘Yes. And I haven’t said what I want to say. I know you, and I’ll say it soon enough. I haven’t lived with you all these years for nothing. You’re the same old Denny Fury. You talk about Peter. What example was he ever set, what encouragement has he ever had from you, or any of your children? None. You showed a mean spirit all along, and the others took the cue from you. You begrudged me the boy. And when I told you today about the wire, about the shock it was to me, you never so much as opened your mouth. You never said, “I’m sorry,” or “It’s hard lines.” Not a word. You were secretly elated. You know you were.’ Mr Fury sat up in the bed.
    â€˜God! You could go on talking for ever. But what are you talking about? That’s what I want to know. When I came in this evening I was dead tired. I wasn’t in the mood for listening to groans about Peter. The other lad is just as much concern as he is. I’m tired now. But could a man get a decent sleep here? No. I say for the last time, I am sorry about Peter. I know it’s disappointing after those years of struggle, doing without, hoping, hoping all the time. It can’t be helped, Fanny.’ There was real sympathy now. He put his hand on her shoulder.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter, Denny.’ she said. ‘That’s all too late. It’s over and done with. It’s not Peter, it’s not so much that he’s failed, but it’s you …’ She had risen in the bed and was facing him. They were so close together they felt each other’s breath upon their faces. ‘It’s you and your indifference,’ went on Mrs Fury. ‘You are the living spit of your eldest son …’
    â€˜Will you give Desmond a rest? Are you going to argue about this the whole night through? I ask you? Isn’t there a limit?’ She began to cry. She felt weak, defeated. There was something she wanted to say and she could not express it. Each time she opened her mouth the desire was stifled, the power went. She couldn’t say it. Once she had been full of courage. She felt that her whole soul had been crushed by Peter. Why had she hidden so many things from her husband? Why, why? she cried in her mind. Why had she allowed herself to be cheated? Why didn’t she tell him everything? No! He had been away most of his life. She had spared him. He had only seen the nice part of everything. Fool! She cursed herself. She lay there thinking,