Our Time Is Gone Read online

  Having made up his mind, Mr. Fury went back to the house. He had been wandering around since eight o’clock and now it was near midday. Again he rang up the hospital. This time they told him the woman was unconscious, but he could come any time now.

  Before the altar on the kitchen dresser Mr. Fury knelt down and prayed. He hoped, hoped, hoped Fanny would get well. For suddenly there came into his mind the thought of all she meant to him, of the happy times they had had, they could still have. Lots of things to do for her. Just he and she on their own. Five years ago they might have been. But she had said ‘No.’ Well, it couldn’t be helped.

  He had something to eat, a slice of cold ham and bread and butter. He made more tea. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but somehow could not endure the thought of going into a pub whilst she was lying so ill; no, he couldn’t do that.

  Later he went upstairs. He put on a collar and tie, one of his son’s collars, and laughed when he found it was much too big. Better than none at all. He put on his tie, his bowler hat, then left the house. The thought of going to the priest, of having made up his mind, of actually being on his way, lightened his step. Please God, everything would come right. He went straight ahead till he came to the tram stop. There he stood deliberating.

  There was Father Jolly. Yes. But, well—no. He’d always been after him to sign the pledge. Why, of course, there was Father Moynihan and then his heart sank again. Father Moynihan was no longer in Hatfields. In fact he was actually in Ireland—had been for some time now. With Father Moynihan off the list, Denny Fury began to feel that he was alone in the world. No matter. He’d go to Saint Sebastian’s. He’d find Father Tierney. Two priests couldn’t be in Ireland.

  When the tram came he went to board it, hesitated, finally let it go. It had just occurred to him that as soon as he got off the tram at the King’s Road there would be people who would recognize him. And they’d ask questions and in the end there would be nothing but talk. He didn’t want to talk. He was sick of talk. He boarded the next tram.

  Having paid his fare he went upstairs. There were only three passengers on top. A matronly lady, and two young girls, who ate chocolates and giggled at one and the same time. Mr. Fury seated himself right in front. It would be curious going back along the same route. Seeing the familiar roads and streets and shops, the well-known landmarks. He looked out at the passing people. All were strangers to him. He knew nobody at all in this part of Gelton. The tram rattled on like a tank, even swayed and rocked like a ship. He lit his pipe and sat well back in the seat.

  Soon he was seeing known things. Here a street he knew only too well. Lord! How many times had he walked down there to his ship? Yes, and there was the Grapes. Heavens above! Why the last time he had stepped into that house had been when he was on strike. It brought a Mr. Postlethwaite into mind. How was that fellow getting along? And George the son. In the army by now, no doubt. Those Orangemen were loyal. And poor Mrs. Postlethwaite. Lord! It seemed like a dream. Why, it must have been five years since he had seen the place. Was it as long as that?

  Suddenly he exclaimed under his breath: ‘Damn me! Look at it. Still standing. Well, just fancy that! The old Lyric. Good Lord!’ Many a time he and Fanny went there. Ah! It was hard thinking of her laid low—but all the same—and here the man was strongly tempted to spit, and only the warning in front of him held it back. Yes. Here were the old things and the old times. All swimming back, a whole flood of them. What a pity these things had happened. Well! You never knew, simply never knew! Yes. It hadn’t been easy for Fanny. Suddenly thrust back from Hey’s Alley to Hatfields made him understand. Aye! He supposed he would have done the same as her. Run away and hid himself.

  The matronly lady never budged, the giggling girls having finished eating their chocolate giggled louder, and their giggles rose and fell in waves, shot forward and backwards, made arcs in the tram. But Mr. Fury pulled hard at his pipe. Once he slapped his knee. Yes. Better go right to the end of the journey.

  He paid the extra twopence fare. The gigglers got off. and some shipworkers came aboard. The tram rattled on. He would get off there and walk back. Just get him to the King’s Road by the time darkness fell. He felt ashamed to go about in broad daylight. He was well known in the district. He didn’t want talk; he’d had enough of that. No time for it. Got to see a priest, any priest, one preferably who knew Fanny. No matter what happened then, he would feel rested in his mind. He thought of her every minute, every second, and wondered and hoped, and remembered, and felt miserable, then happy, then bewildered. She was all he had now. Home two days. Lord! He had never expected this.

  The tram had climbed all the way. A long hill. Mr. Fury turned in his seat and looked back. What a hill, and that hill made Hey’s Alley a greater hole. What a hole! Never mind. Something good would come. No! If anything happened to her now—it couldn’t—no, it wouldn’t be fair. The tram pulled up with a jerk, the conductor crying: ‘Terminus! Terminus!’

  He went slowly down the stairs, stepped down into the street. He stood there looking about him. He felt like a child who has suddenly emerged from a dark room after being shut in for a long time. Right opposite him stood the ‘Glow-worm,’ tall, solid, violently red, bright brasses, ornate decorations. ‘Imagine the “Glow-worm” still standing,’ he said to himself, and he looked at it almost with devotion, as though it were a century and not just nearly two years since he had stood in front of it. Here were all the old sights. Now he must look about him. He smiled at the thought. Watch without being watched. For old faces, old signs. The world seemed suddenly alive again. Crowds of workmen, poured past him coming out of the docks, the roads were jammed by inward and outward dock traffic. Cars hooted, horses struck hoofs and sparks flew, voices hailed, a brake screeched, trams clanged. Mr. Fury now decided to move.

  Should he go back by the top road? He might meet friends the other way. Nothing would be so awkward as explaining things, trying to be cheerful. Refusing a drink, having a drink. Talking about old ships, old trips. No! All that was done with. This wasn’t the time for dreaming. He rang the hospital from the first telephone box. Better news. He wanted to shout out his relief. Fanny was awake. Awake! She was taking nourishment. Thank God!

  Passing St. Peter’s chapel he stopped, then went in. He knelt down and said a prayer for his wife. His step was light when he came out. Thank God! She was still alive. Fanny! Now he could see the priest and be easy in his mind. It was really splendid. Twice Mr. Fury stopped and said to himself, ‘Wonderful. Fanny’ll come out of this, I’m sure.’ He even laughed. ‘A real brick Fanny is!’

  When he came to a pub he stopped dead. Why, with this good news, shouldn’t he go in and have a pint? Fanny wouldn’t mind, anyhow! He hadn’t had a drink past his lips for days. Almost without realizing it he was pushing open the swing door. At the counter he called for a pint of Falstaff. Then he sat down, blew a little of the froth off and drank his wife’s health.

  The place oddly enough was empty. At this time of day it should be full. But it wasn’t. He looked at the licensee, an immense man with outjutting ears, a cast in his eye, an enormous collar round his neck, and a frontage like a mountain. All the same he didn’t know him. They threw each other superficial glances. Mr. Fury knocked out his pipe and filled it again. He sent clouds of smoke round the bar of ‘The Mariner’s Arms.’

  Ten minutes later he left and went slowly on. He hoped it would get dark soon. He didn’t want to be seen by anybody. One never knew. There was an old hag of a woman named Pettigrew! She might see him, at least if she was still alive. He remembered Miss Pettigrew and her jujubes. She had a general shop round the corner from Saint Sebastian’s church. Rather be dead than meet that old woman.

  He laughed, suddenly remembering a time he had got drunk and had almost fallen off the tram, and a lad had guided him to her shop of all places. Poor old woman. If he remembered rightly he had insulted her. Well, she was the type who wanted insulting. Taking Fanny’s sister as a lodger whe
n she came over from Ireland, as though the house in Hatfields wasn’t good enough for her. Was she still alive? That sly devil of a sister of Fanny’s. The last he had heard of her was that she had dragged her father to Lourdes. He wondered now—and it amused him to think of it—he wondered how many times she had ducked old Mangan’s head under the famous waters. ‘The poor old man,’ he found himself saying: ‘The poor old, old man.’

  Why, here was Christmas Street, and Derby Street and Long Lane! Here were the old cotton warehouses and the hoists, and the streets full of the debris of the day. Bills of lading and newspapers and bits of cotton sticking to all the neighbouring walls. He couldn’t be very far off now. Suddenly he was tired. He crossed the road and sat down on a stone bitt outside the flour warehouse. He rested for a few minutes and then went on.

  He lowered his head at the approach of people. He simply did not want to be caught out. He’d see the priest, and then he’d get right back to Hey’s Alley. He longed for his bed. Hadn’t had a decent sleep since he’d been home. It was the devil having to sail away so soon! But nothing could be done about it. He’d signed for the duration; they were under the Government. No use troubling about it. He was sure the priest would help. He wished she could go to Mount Mellery before he sailed. But that was quite impossible.

  ‘Ah well!’ he sighed, ‘we’ve got to do the best we can for her. That’s all.’

  When he reached Princess Street he turned into it and at the top found himself at the corner of Sebastian Place. He had walked down that Place hundreds, thousands of times, and though he wanted to avoid meeting people he knew, and though he hated that Pettigrew woman like the devil, he was tempted to go down to the end of Sebastian Place, stand on the opposite side and look across at the shop. When he saw the name ‘Guiness’ on the fanlight he received a shock. Not Pettigrew. Then she must be dead. Well! Poor old woman. Fanny would be surprised.

  How strange everything was. This had been a long, lonely journey. He crossed the road, and then he saw a man hurrying towards him. As he rushed round the corner he heard his name called. Mr. Fury did something he hadn’t done for years. He ran and did not stop until he got out of the street. He dodged about by the wall and finally, scenting all danger past, made a rush for the place again. This time he was in luck, and in a few minutes he had reached the church.

  Thank the Lord for that! He was safe. He passed through the iron gate, walked slowly up the drive and rang the bell. When the door opened, a pretty red-haired girl looked out at him. He leaned a hand on the wall, fingering the stone. Was Father Moynihan in? He would like to see him. Yes. It was urgent. A very sick case. Yes. Urgent! And he approached the step. When the girl replied in a rich Irish brogue: ‘He’s gone out,’ Mr. Fury felt he had found a lost friend. He was here after all. Father Richard Moynihan. Imagine it. He looked up at the girl. ‘I thought perhaps he was in Ireland?’

  ‘He was up to a month ago,’ she replied. She had not asked him inside. He wished she would. Nothing he would like better than to sit down. ‘Will he be long, miss?’

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t be back till very late. Will you leave a message?’

  Mr. Fury hesitated. Secretly delighted as he was at this good news of the priest, he thought of, and now vividly saw, his wife in the hospital.

  ‘Can I see another priest. It’s rather urgent, miss. Is Father Tierney in?’

  ‘Yes. Father Tierney is in. Will you come in, please?’

  He passed inside.

  ‘Wait here, please. What name shall I say?’ She looked down at one hand that had begun to tremble on his knee. She understood.

  ‘Fury. Just say Denny Fury. I’m sure he’ll know,’ and he followed her with his eyes. A lovely Irish girl. Just over from home too. Good Lord! Didn’t it make one think of the times gone, and how he had left that place, and Fanny too. Ah! But the Irish and not the Jews were the real wanderers. Before he was aware of it, a young priest was standing in front of him. The girl herself had gone.

  ‘Mr. Fury! Why, you are a stranger! And how are you, Mr. Fury?’

  Mr. Fury stood up. ‘Why, Father Tierney. You gave me a start, so you did. Oh dear me, Father. It’s good to see you,’ and he shot forth his two hands, and gripped those of the priest. ‘I hope you are well, Father. I’m glad to hear you’ve Father Moynihan back again with you.’

  ‘Now, Mr. Fury! What’s your trouble? Come along to my room now.’

  ‘Yes, Father!’ And he followed behind the priest, bowler hat in hand.

  ‘It’s my wife, Father! It’s Fanny! I’m afraid—afraid——’

  CHAPTER II

  I

  ST. SEBASTIAN’S PRESBYTERY,

  Tuesday, November 14th.

  DEAR MRS. KILKEY,

  This evening your father called here to see me. I’m sorry to say that your mother is at this moment very seriously ill at the General Hospital, and I advise you to go and see her as soon as possible. I, unfortunately, did not see your father; I was out, but he left a message with Father Tierney. I trust God your mother will get better. I am myself going to the hospital to-day.

  I remain, Yours sincerely,

  RICHARD MOYNIHAN, P.P.

  The woman slowly folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She went quite pale.

  ‘Who’s the letter from?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Never mind why. Take a look in the glass. What’s wrong? Who’s it from? Don’t be sulky.’

  ‘From a friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Oh, a priest if you want to know,’ exclaimed the woman uneasily. She was half inclined to rise, but somehow the necessary effort wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘What priest?’

  ‘A Father Moynihan! It’s about my mother! She’s in hospital. I——’ and then she made the effort and was on her feet, stammering. ‘I must go. I’ll have to go.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘She’s ill. Couldn’t you hear? Very ill.’ The woman crossed the kitchen.

  ‘Here! Where are you running off to now? Don’t you know the case comes off at eleven?’

  ‘What case? Oh, yes. Yes. I forgot. Still, I’m going. My mother’s dangerously ill.’

  ‘Are you taking the kid?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why the devil you ever brought him here I don’t know. You never kept your bargain.’

  ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘Christ! I know he is. He looks just like you, though you were different one time. I mean at the factory you were different. You know you had looks. Now you just look sour. Well, you’d better get off and see your mother. But get back by one. This woman’s calling at two. I’m bloody worried over this Rogers case. You know, I wish you’d be a bit more sympathetic, Maureen. You’re getting sour. To be frank with you I don’t like sourness. You should never have brought that kid here. He was all right where he was, with that good-natured husband of yours. Blast these police. They’re always interfering. Only yesterday——’

  ‘I must go! It may mean anything. I’m so—oh——’ and the woman rushed out of the kitchen.

  The man followed her upstairs. The room door slammed. He stood outside shouting: ‘What’s all this bloody nonsense? Anyhow, how do I know it’s your mother? Let’s see the letter. I’ll——’

  ‘You can see it downstairs. It’s on the dresser,’ he heard her saying.

  ‘Good God!’ he said, ‘at this hour of the morning. At this hour indeed,’ and he went downstairs. He sat down and went on with his breakfast.

  Meanwhile the woman upstairs was changing her dress, and every now and again she stole a glance into the mirror. What a sight she looked. What a sight! Mother in hospital! She hadn’t got over the shock. It was more than a shock, to one whose world had never taken in the full significance of hospitals and doctors and dying and pain. Those were tiresome things. She finished dressing and went downstairs. She was ready to go. The man got up, crossed over to her.

  ‘Kiss, Ma
ury,’ he said. ‘Nice kiss for Dick, Maury! Sorry I was so bloody irritable.’ He kissed her full on the lips. ‘Don’t forget. Before two. I’m worried.’

  ‘So am I,’ she replied coldly, making for the door.

  He caught her arm. ‘I may have to leave Gelton soon, Maury,’ he said.

  ‘You mean——’ She pulled free her arm and grasped the door-handle.

  He pushed his face down, smiled, caressed her cheek with his lips. ‘I mean we, Maury. I’m all confused! I wish you hadn’t to go.’

  She looked him full in the face. ‘Do you still love me, Dick?’ she asked.

  ‘Love you! Christ, of course I love you, my little Maury,’ and he caught her by the shoulders and embraced her, holding her tight as though he would never let her go. ‘You know, Maury, it’s a pity about the kid.’

  ‘Do you really love me, Dick?’ she asked, raising her face to his.

  ‘Yes, ducks, but didn’t you hear what I said? The kid. You know, Maury …’

  ‘I wish you would call him by his name, for once anyhow,’ she said. She began stroking his hair with her hand, smiling up at him.

  ‘Yes. I know! What is his name? Dermod. Yes. Well Dermod’s a nuisance. That’s all, Maury! You should never have brought him. Maureen, you were a fool. That husband of yours has regular work, a good job, only himself to keep. You were the fool when he stopped sending you the few bob for the kid. You never wrote, did you? Silly little bitch!’ He pushed her away.

  ‘Dick! Oh, Dick! You don’t mean——’ She burst into tears. ‘You don’t mean, Dick! you do love me, don’t you, darling? I’ll do anything for you. Really. Honestly. Only love me, Dick. Love me like I love you.’ She threw her arms around him. She kissed him passionately, clung to him. ‘Don’t you understand, Dick?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’Course I understand! Don’t be such a bloody fuss, Maureen! Lately you’ve done nothing else but fuss. Fuss, fuss, fuss! It’ll spoil your looks, old girl, and what will I do then? What will Dicky do then? I like you to look nice, Maury. Pretty, you know. You’re getting thin too,’ and he brought the flat of his hand down against her hip. ‘I like my girl to be fat. See, Maury,’ and he traced her body’s shape with both hands, running his hands down from shoulder to knee. Finally he clasped her about the waist, raised her from the ground, laughed.