Our Time Is Gone Read online

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT

  FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  Our Time Is Gone

  A Novel

  James Hanley

  To

  HAROLD RAYMOND

  (IN FRIENDSHIP)

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  DREAMS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  PART TWO

  SHADOWS

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART THREE

  INTERREGNUM

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Preview: Winter Song

  About the Author

  PART I

  DREAMS

  CHAPTER I

  I

  The crowds that surged round the doors of the Round House were good humoured, and full of spirit, and the bitingly cold wind of the November evening did not deter them. They pushed and swayed about the doors. They had been increasing in size for the past hour. As the first of the cars rolled up to the doors the crowd was forced back by the police, firmly, but not too firmly, as was usual when crowds gathered in such places. But this was no ordinary occasion and they could afford to be indulgent. At the sporadic outbursts of feeling, patriotic and otherwise, as well as the sometimes too manifest horseplay, they winked eyes. So long as good humour continued to permeate through the crowd they would remain indulgent. To them its only significance lay in sheer physical weight. But the Gelton Force had so often asserted itself against them, and in no unmistakable manner and authority, that they could this evening show a little indulgence. Society, at least that section of Gelton society that mattered, seemed quite safe.

  To-night was a special occasion, and if Bumbledom trembled with pride, Geltonian crowds trembled too, upon the precipice of many anticipations. Here, then, was the first car. The crowd started to sway and push, hats were knocked off and feet trodden on, whilst somewhere in its midst a child’s wail rent the air. The police did their duty and in due course the first car door opened. There was a momentary silence. A low murmuring sound began, and then an excited member of the audience cried out:

  ‘Ooh! Why—it’s Sir Digby Dick!’

  And it was Sir Digby Dick, a man of means, of large affairs, whose big red face had the bovine look of some of his own prize cattle. The crowd stood on its toes, leaned forward. Slowly, the gentleman moved towards the doors of the Hall. He smiled twice, hearing his name bandied about by the excited crowd.

  The car rolled away and another took its place. A long black car, bearing the city’s crest on its windows and bonnet. The Lord Mayor. There were a few cheers then, and the Mayor passed inside. The excitement had now reached fever pitch, for the cars were rolling up in a steady stream. One dignitary after another got out and went into the Round House.

  ‘Plenty of money knocking about to-night.’

  ‘Think this idea’s a good one?’

  ‘Ah, a lot you’ll get out of the bloody war.’

  ‘Ooh! Just look at’er! Just look at her dress!’

  ‘There’s a smasher of a car for you. Know whose that is?’

  ‘A damned good stunt I call it.’

  ‘Here, you, you ought to be in the army, a great big lump like you!’

  ‘What for? Fighting for a big fat girl like you?’

  ‘Take a bet there’ll be a scrum to-night, mate.’

  The remarks floated about on the night air. A line of cars stood, their engines silent, along the back area of the Round House, and in the front seats chauffeurs sat, as motionless as their charges, ciphers in livery. Some cheers burst forth, a few boos followed. A girl giggled, a man laughed. One rather important gentleman showed condescension. The crowd loved it.

  The police looked on indifferently. When a battered-looking taxi drove up they knew that the last of the dignitaries had passed inside. Here then were the lesser fry, the not so important, the less picturesque.

  Two men in tweeds and wearing immaculately white cutaway linen collars stepped out. Lanty and David. The crowd roared its hurrahs, the gentlemen smiled, and they, too, passed into the Round House. But to the general surprise a large Rolls car drove up, out of which stepped a number of army officers. When one of these, a tall burly looking man with a dark swarthy face got out, the crowd roared louder than ever.

  “Hurray! Hurray! Good old Fury.”

  Mr. Fury smiled, the other officers stood waiting. Then suddenly out of the car stepped a lady in black. The crowd saw her take Mr. Fury’s arm. The party then passed inside. When they had vanished from sight, tongues broke loose, opinions flew like hail. Some made themselves heard quite clearly above the crowd. A woman booed; a man spat, exclaiming: ‘Bloody turncoat! That’s what he is. Poshing it with the nobs now!’ The man spat again to show his contempt.

  ‘Yes, that was Mr. Desmond Fury all right, hob-nobbing with the great.’

  ‘Not Desmond Fury, surely?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘Speaking on the platform with that lot? I thought he was against them all.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘He’s very fond of best butter on his bread. Three years ago he was nothing.’

  ‘They all turn, take it from me.’

  ‘A bloody, blustering patriot, eh! So that’s how it is. H’m! Lovely, isn’t it.’

  The crowd listened to this latter comment in stony silence. This set the seal upon opinion, for good and all. A trade-union man hob-nobbing with the great. Unheard of. Unthinkable. But what could you expect, anyhow? The police listened, more patient. The world was at war. Let them have their little hour, their attitude seemed to say. Let them enjoy themselves. When crowds were good humoured, society, at least the best part of it, was safe. The high lights shone down on them and the wind continued to blow in wild gusts. Suddenly the public doors were opened and the fun began.

  The crowd rushed forward, milled, stumbled, thrust, leaned, in fact it did all the things that healthy good-humoured crowds did; women shouted, girls giggled, youths thwacked off hats, old men breathed quickly, the pupils of hundreds of eyes became dilated. They were on the threshold at last. One fell and was trampled on. One lost a hat and laughed, one swore, one was silent. They poured in, and the air of the hall was electric. The air was full of words, the atmosphere tense. They could see that the dignified and important had already taken their seats, and some not so important sat quietly behind three solid rows of Bumbledom. Everybody talked. There was the platform, at present empty, its long deal table already covered with the Union Jack, and standing on it a number of water-bottles and glasses to come in handy during the perorations.

  Somebody at the back of the hall cried audaciously:

  ‘Down with the bloody lot of them!’ and this was followed by a more final utterance that came from a gentleman a little drunk, who up to now had been ignored by everybody. ‘Down with every-bloody-body! That’s wass I say.’

  Everybody laughed again. One cheered, one shouted. Hurrah! One clapped hands. Suddenly a woman screeched at the top of her voice: ‘Here they are! Don’t they look lovely!’

  A man, quite unable to sense the satire behind the remark, promptly replied in a brusque-like voice: ‘They look fine. They’re grand. Three cheers, I say!’

  The cheers that followed so half-heartedly were at once acknowledged by the ladies and gentlemen who had now filed in procession across the platform, there to take their seats and so look
out upon a good assembly of Geltonian society.

  A short man rose from the centre of this row and approached the table. He was dressed in the loudest brown suit imaginable, sported a violently red tie as well as a much-brilliantined head of greying hair. When he spoke he did so slowly, awkwardly, owing to a loose upper dental plate, but nobody took any notice of him. After all, he was nothing in particular. The secretary, the announcer, the organizer and arranger of these meetings. His red face bristled with importance.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Then a dignified pause. He was waiting for absolute silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. To-night as you know we have arranged this meeting because we feel that the time has now come to weigh in the balance …’ and here he stopped. Perhaps he had forgotten his speech. Or perhaps the dentist’s plate had proved more troublesome than he had anticipated.

  ‘Come on then, man. Weigh the balance, can’t you?’

  ‘I—er—as you know——’ Pause. ‘—Ladies and gentlemen, we have here this evening a representative body of opinion that cannot fail to have some influence upon you all. I’—he spoke quietly now; his voice had a kind of gobble in it, not unlike a turkey’s—‘I—we—we are at war! The hour has come’—pause—‘the time has gone by when we could——’

  ‘Ahem!’ This came from the man at the end of the row, Sir Digby Dick.

  The audience watched the gentleman’s mouth, and watched his hands. They watched his feet under the table, and they watched the expanse of gold chain shake upon his waistcoat. And the bright light was like a halo over his brilliantined hair. Suddenly, to everybody’s surprise, he struck his fist upon the table and announced in a voice more controlled and dignified: ‘I now call upon his Worship the Mayor to address the meeting.’

  Having said this, he retreated backwards and was guided to his seat by a hand that by good fortune alone had steered Mr. Dingley well clear of a lady’s lap.

  The Mayor rose and approached the table. A short thin man in clerical grey, middle-aged, going bald, with an almost cadaverous-looking skin. He played with a pencil, occasionally hitting the table with it. The crowd sat up now. Silence reigned again. Here was the Mayor of Gelton. Having taken a good look at his audience he commenced to speak.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Now in this first year of a terrible war, it is my bounden duty to impress upon you the urgent need of every one of us to do our bit. The greatest and the least. This meeting has been called because we must impress you with the supreme importance of one thing. Our Duty.’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’

  ‘Hurrah!’

  ‘Three cheers for the Mayor!’

  ‘To-night there stands upon the platform representatives of the Army, of the Law and professions, as well as’—pause—‘ahem—as well as, I am proud to say, the elected representatives of the people—I mean the working people. And am I not right in saying that it is the workers who always suffer in war? Therefore I say we must get together’—pause—‘we must unite! You in this hall to-night, you mothers and sweethearts, you sons and brothers, all—all of you will pay a price so heavy, so’—pause—‘so great——’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Silence!’

  ‘Tommy rot!’

  ‘Why don’t you go and fight?’

  ‘Get off the bloody platform, and let somebody speak who can.’

  ‘Give him a chance.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Kick him out.’

  When the momentary hubbub died down the Mayor continued, though one glance at the expression on his face showed that this could only be done under the greatest pain and stress.

  ‘I know we have to think carefully! This war might go on for years’—pause—‘for centuries—er—I mean——Ladies and gentlemen, as Mayor of this great city it was my duty to come and preside at this great meeting. This great drive for men and more men—this great drive for——’

  ‘And women too,’ announced a thin, cracked voice from the body of the hall.

  ‘This great drive, ladies and gentlemen, has brought here to-night those men who by experience know best what war means. I mean——’ The Mayor paused, looked round; the faces on the platform smiled up at him. ‘We must have men! More men! Our very existence is now threatened by the Huns. Our livelihood. Can we stand here and do nothing? Can we sit calmly here to-night and not visualize the horror through which our country is passing? We are a great country. For years and years …’ and here the Mayor felt a finger pushing into the small of his back, and the finger seemed to say: ‘What’s all this about? You were simply asked to get up and say a few words, a few introductory things about the men on the platform, who whether we like it or not have suddenly assumed an importance it would be suicidal to hold from them. That,’ the finger seemed to say, ‘is enough! Introduce the next speaker. Mr. Desmond Fury.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ went on the Mayor, ‘we are happy to have on our platform to-night one who can rightly say he is a worker. One who has the great cause of the workers at heart. And who has honoured us by electing to speak. I now call upon Captain Desmond Fury, whom we all know. One who has done much to improve the conditions of the workers, and who through his great organizing ability, has been honoured to lead a body of men whose loyalty is not, never was, in doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Desmond Fury.’

  For a full minute the roars in the hall were deafening. Then Captain Fury rose.

  ‘Get down!’

  ‘Throw him out!’

  ‘Worker! He’s no worker!’

  ‘Silence.’

  ‘Chuck him out!’

  ‘Order! Order!’

  ‘Bloody turncoat! That’s what he is!’

  ‘Silence—please.’

  Calmness returned. The big, swarthy-faced man approached the table. When he pressed his large, strong hands palm downwards upon the table and faced his audience, one realized at once that he would speak without pause, without fear, and in the face of all opposition. His powerful figure seemed to have had a most extraordinary effect upon the people on the platform. They looked up at him. A big man—a physical giant. The audience saw his powerful face, those behind him the strength of his back. They saw feet, firmly planted, feet that would not move until the last word had been said.

  Captain Fury gave one studious look at the vast audience before him. Then he looked over their heads, looked above and beyond them. He commenced to speak. His voice rang through the hall like a great bell. His body leaned forward, shoulders arched themselves.

  ‘My Lord Mayor,’ he turned to bestow a smile upon the Mayor, and the rest of the assembly, not forgetting his wife. ‘My Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen. It is not my purpose here to-night to extol, to castigate, rather is it to appeal. I have done so much of the former’—here he paused to give way to the laughter and little hand-claps—‘but to-night I have felt it my duty to appeal to that body of men and women, whom I have had the honour of knowing, since, ladies and gentlemen, I am one of themselves——’

  There was a chorus of cat-calls, but they sailed past Captain Fury’s ears.

  ‘There is no man in this hall to-night, whose cause has not been taken up by me. I have fought for and with them. To-night I appeal to them. They have suddenly become of the greatest importance: overnight as it were. I recognize that this war is a just one. It is one in which everybody is involved. Workers and employers. Lords and commoners. Kings and beggars. We are fighting for Right over Might. To-night I feel it my duty to appeal to the workers of this city to roll up in their thousands, and in their tens of thousands. In the past months I have organized as fine a body of men as the world could ever have. And I organized them because I realized that here lay an unused fund. A fund of energy—a fund whose usefulness was best shown by organization. This body of men has commanded the respect of the country; and so successful has this been that I am happy to say that in the near future I shall proceed to London, there to organize and perfect a body of labour whose importance cannot be estimated.
I go further, ladies and gentlemen, and say from conviction and from that knowledge that only comes to one who has himself been a worker——’ here he paused again, and this time his ears opened wide to the cheering, the sounds those ears liked best.

  He stood erect now, arms folded, always giving the impression that where all this came from, this worthiness or falsity, there was yet much more to come, ‘—one who himself has been and is a worker—and proud to lead such splendid men. I know, my Lord Mayor, that there have been occasions when we have differed, but——’

  Pandemonium broke loose. This had only one effect upon Captain Desmond Fury. He stood rigid, fearless, determined. Suddenly he found himself shouting, then roaring, and then he had risen high above the din. Triumphant. Absolutely unassailable. Bumbledom cheered, one waved a tiny Union Jack, one stamped his feet loudly. Hands clapped. Half the audience had risen, some were making gestures that everybody excepting the speaker feared. He was not worried about demonstrations, about riots. He was too used to that sort of thing. It was easy. They were simply sheep. Nothing more, nothing less. He roared at them like a bull. Thumped his fist upon the table.

  By this time a good part of the audience were lost to view, hidden behind the clouds of tobacco smoke that rose and hung in the air. He went on and on. He was like a turned-on tap. Compared with the efforts of the previous speaker it was shattering. People fidgeted in their seats, there were whispers amongst the people behind Captain Fury. Mr. Dingley looked at Mrs. Fury and forgot the importance of this occasion, so entranced was he by her charming smile. And how well she dressed.

  A charming woman indeed, and what a smile. One of those smiles that meant much more than it really conveyed. And Mr. Dingley stared and stared. From time to time Mrs. Fury looked up at her husband. She was lost in admiration for him. These last months had been revealing ones for her without a doubt. Now she could say with perfect equanimity that she had taken the wisest of all possible courses. No, she could never regret it. She had learned a lot. She smiled up at her husband again, though there was nothing much to see beyond his broad back and towering height that had the effect of shutting off a good deal of the audience.