Our Time Is Gone (19 page)

Too much for her. Shouldn't have said a word. Just talked of his work as the doctor said—about ships sailing away on the sea. Perhaps she was bad again. He leaned over, put a cold hard hand, whose skin was the colour of coral, upon her hot forehead. Poor woman! She seemed worn out.

‘I'll just sit quiet here,' he thought. ‘I've a quarter of an hour.' He never took his eyes from her. So those two had been to see her. H'm. Very nice of them indeed! As far as he was concerned, to hell with them both. One day this woman would see things so clear that she wouldn't ever need to look at them again. She'd understand.

She opened her eyes. It wasn't often that she looked at him like this. What was she saying?
Couldn't
he take her to Mount Mellery? It would be a beautiful holiday. He looked so tired himself.
Couldn't
he try? All her life she had longed for this holiday together.
All
her life. She only thought of him now. Lately she thought about everything. One time she could cry over any little thing. Now only Peter made her cry. She loved him. She had loved him, Denny too. She was getting better. She would look after him then. He wanted looking after.

He kept on looking out of the window. He didn't know what to say. Now he looked at the clock and he begged for the minutes to fly. He wanted to go! He was afraid of his own tongue. He wouldn't speak about it again. Not now! Wait till she was out of it altogether. He looked at the clock twice. She watched him, looked too. It meant nothing to her. The loud tick was like that which she had heard in her head this past week.

‘Denny! Denny! Don't go! Please stay! Oh, Denny!'

‘I'm
not
going, woman! I'm just sitting here, Fanny, content to be quiet and happy to see you able to talk and to look at me. From this day we have only one thing to do. We have to look after ourselves, see! If we don't nobody else will. Cheer up, woman, we know you've had a rotten time. Well, forget about it. We're going to have good ones from this very day. Honest to goodness, Fanny.'

‘Are we?' she said, not thinking of her husband, nor seeing him, the two words dripping like water from the tongue. Were they?' I'm so tired,' she said, ‘
so
tired.'

He knew she was—he said nothing. He waited for the clock. ‘Clock, clock!' he cried in his mind, ‘move! Move!' He wanted to go—to run out; he loathed himself for the very thought—but he didn't want to stay any longer. He was afraid, not of her, or of her illness, nor of his work or ‘the bloody war,' only afraid of two words—Mount Mellery. Damn! Why had he mentioned it? She had not forgotten.

‘We've never had a holiday together. Can't you come, Denny? Couldn't we go to-morrow?'

‘Fly minutes,' his mind cried. ‘I want to go!'

‘But, Fanny, don't you understand? Won't you understand?'

His voice rose in spite of the hold he had upon himself. ‘I can't go! I'm sailing away, and if I don't sail I'll get gaol,' and he wanted to say: ‘one's enough in gaol without two,' and he wanted to laugh. ‘I won't be long away, woman. The time'll pass quickly, you see!' He flooded her with reassurances—filled her with hopes. ‘You have to get better first, Fanny. The doctor said that.'

‘Fancy Desmond coming!' she said. ‘Fancy! After all this long time. Just think, Denny.'

Denny didn't want to think. He blurted out: ‘He'll reach the bloody moon one of these days, that's what he'll do——He came because he had to. They sent for him. He told me! I saw him! But I'm through with the lot of them!'

If only somebody would cry: ‘Time! Time!' And when they cried it he would change—all feelings rise—he would have to go. Mount Mellery. That was what had caused it. Mount Mellery. ‘A bloody dream,' he said to himself.

‘Has anybody been to see you, Fanny?' he asked, and glancing at the clock saw that it wanted only a few minutes to the half hour. Thank heavens.

‘Father Moynihan came, and Father Tierney. Some other man,' she said quietly.

‘Oh! Was Father Moynihan nice? I'll bet he was. Real trump he is.'

‘I don't know! They told me! I never saw them! I feel so sleepy, Denny.'

He put his arms round her. ‘Listen, woman! I have to go now! Remember all the time I'm away, every minute, I'm thinking about how you are getting on, see, and one of these days——'

‘One of these days.' Her mind took in the old, old phrase. How many thousands of times had she heard him say it. The words went round and round her brain. ‘One of these days.'

‘You can smile, woman, and I'm glad to see it, so help me God I am, but I really mean it. I'm going to look after you from now on. Understand! And how'd you know but one of these same fine days I'll be taking you back home to Ireland for good. For good, Fanny. Say so-long to this stinking hole. Fanny, woman, we've been in it too long. It's a fact. It's done no good for me, and none for you! Now here's somebody coming,' and he half rose, looked towards the door. But the feet passed by and he sat down again. ‘You don't know how happy I am seeing you better.'

‘I said I wouldn't die, Denny! How could I? You'd be all on your own then. But I wish
you
could take me to Mount Mellery to-morrow. I
am
better now, you know. They all said I was, and I could get up and get dressed now, Denny! I worry about you. Are you eating enough? Have you enough clothes over you at night? Do you have the right food? All day and all night I do be thinking of you by yourself there.'

‘I'm managing, don't you worry about me. You get better woman, see.'

‘Have you really to go? Oh! Denny, this awful war! I do hate you to be going off.'

‘Ssh!' he said, as the door opened and a nurse stood there, looking at him.

It was time. He bent down and kissed his wife. ‘Dear Fanny! I must go now. They're waiting on me, see! God keep you, woman. Get well soon.'

She hung on to him now as though she would never let him go. He was afraid to move. The nurse was coming towards the bed now. He moved.

‘Good-bye, Fanny! I'll be seeing you soon again.'

‘
Won't
you take me to Mount Mellery, Denny? I'd love to go. It's a beautiful place. Do, Denny,' and she pressed his hands over her breast. ‘Denny?'

‘Yes—no—what?—listen, Fanny. I can't. God, I can't—don't you see I—well, oh—damn—good-bye!' and he stumbled away from the bed, seemed to stumble and go tottering from the ward like a person gone suddenly blind.

As he went off; down the corridor he seemed to hear the words following after him. He felt more miserable when he should have felt more glad. He would be afraid of to-morrow, the day of sailing he dare not think of at all.

How on earth could he take her to Ireland? The woman didn't know what she was talking about. Saying ‘No.' That was the worst. Saying: ‘I can't take you. I have to sail Friday.'

When he got home again, he cooked himself some food. Later he scrubbed his sea-bag. Began to gather his things together. It was something to do, something to occupy his mind. Now he knew he wouldn't feel right until he was at sea again.

By the last post a letter marked
O.H.M.S., Censored
, was pushed under the door. Mr. Fury looked at the handwriting. It was from his son Anthony. Here at last was something to think about. How was the lad getting on? Had he been in any battles yet? Where was his ship now? How did he like the Navy life? The man fingered the letter. It was addressed to his wife. He put it in the dresser drawer. Hands in pockets he went and opened the door. Stood looking up and down the street. Others looked at him, frozen looks—curious. Strangers to them meant nothing. Didn't count. A child asked him for a penny, another called him. ‘Old geyser.' Mr. Fury withdrew. He banged the door, cursed ‘Hey's bloody Alley.'

He took out the letter again. He wanted to open it. Twice he made the attempt, finally put the letter on the mantelpiece. At nine o'clock he went out, had half a glass of mild at the ‘Turk's Head,' then returned home again. Since Fanny was away suppers were unknown. He didn't bother. Never felt hungry like he used to. At ten he went to bed. He lay awake so long that in desperation he got up, dressed and went out. He went down to the docks, walked their length and back again.

He caught a tram and went with it the whole journey. It took him right back to Hey's Alley. It was half-past seven. He went out and bought the morning paper, which he never read. He went upstairs and lay down as he was, fully dressed. Life without Fanny wasn't up to much. He'd be glad when the day came and he could sail. Then he fell asleep.

When Desmond Fury left his father he walked the length of the hospital building and back again. He hung round until he saw a tram. He boarded this, and got off ten minutes later. He hailed a taxi and was driven home. His wife was in bed. He did not disturb her. He went into the sitting-room and sat down by the fire. He sat there to watch the fire eventually go out. But he made no sign of going to bed. He felt uncomfortable, not about his mother, but about his father. At last he went upstairs. It was half-past two.

The woman was awake.

‘Hello,' he said, undressed and got into bed.

‘Anything wrong, darling?' she asked, and automatically she switched out the light.

‘Nothing,' he said rather surlily, and turned away from her. He lay there, staring into the darkness. He felt her come nearer, touch his arm.

Whatever she said he had an answer ready. She put an arm round him. What
was
the matter? Hurrying off like that? And look at the time! She'd been in three hours. Mr. Trears had driven her home. Awfully nice man.

He stretched out in the bed.

‘Yes, Des?' she said.

He seemed on the point of blurting something out, but suddenly he held his tongue. She switched on the light and looked down at him. To her he appeared just a sulky boy.

‘Switch out that light! What the devil do we want it on for?'

‘Something is wrong.'

‘Something isn't wrong. Go to sleep. Don't be worrying me, please.'

‘Are you worried, Des?' she said, suddenly putting both arms round him.

He turned over, facing her. His dark eyes seemed to blaze at her.

‘I understand lots of things, darling. I'm not a little child. Tell me about it. Somebody ill? Somebody you know? Who was it? I don't want you to be worried, Des. I want you to be happy——'

‘I am happy,' he said, and pressed her head over his shoulder. ‘I
am
happy.'

‘You're not.'

‘I feel ashamed,' he said quietly, and then was silent.

‘Good Lord!' She gave a little laugh. ‘What about? What about, darling?'

Sorry he had spoken, he growled. ‘Nothing! Nothing! Go to sleep now.'

‘But I can't now, you know I can't! Anything that upsets you, upsets me. Do tell me. It's something sad, isn't it? Look at me and say it is something sad.'

‘Worse than sad,' he shouted, raising his voice for the first time. ‘Rotten!'

‘Yes, but
what? What
is?'

‘Oh, God! Everything. You—me—the war—the whole bloody world! I've been to the Gelton General Hospital. My mother's lying there! She's unconscious. I met my father there! I could have cried! But I didn't! I just came away and now I know everything's lousy. Simply lousy.'

‘What?
What?
' she asked, irritated, wondering. ‘What?'

‘Everything! Go to sleep! I'll tell you to-morrow.'Night now.'

She lay there wondering. ‘Of what are you ashamed, Des?' she asked, and stroked his hair.

‘Don't worry me,' he growled at her. ‘Anyhow I can't sleep!'

He got out of bed. She heard him go into the next room. The door closed. She wanted to go after him, to talk to him. She hated Desmond to be worried, and he was worried about his parents. But she didn't go in, and some minutes later she was fast asleep.

But in the next room the big man lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. This
would
happen just at the time he was leaving Gelton. Well, he must do something about it. His father worried him far more than his mother. He knew his father. Sympathy was out of place. He could say: ‘I'm sorry about this, Dad,' and his father could say: ‘blast your sorrow!' Yes, that was the kind of man his father was. It did seem rotten that she should be lying there and not one of the family with her. They should
all
be there—the whole family. But how could he go again? After all the things that had been said, all the things that had been done? No! It was asking too much of him. A moral responsibility there was. Well, he would do something for them, but see them again, no. They wouldn't thank him for it. Too independent for that.

Though the room was cold he did not appear to feel it, although he lay thinly clad on top of the bed. It was full of draughts. The room was hardly ever used. But he had not been lying there very long before he realized that it was chilly. Might as well have stayed below in the sitting-room. Funny! All this time he had been pushing, climbing and after all he was getting somewhere—and all that time they had been living
their
lives God knows how. Thoughts crowded into his head. Where was Anthony, and Maureen and her husband? He hadn't seen them for years. Had they been to see his mother? Was his father still going to sea? Had they had any news from Ireland? Had she been informed? Was his mother still living in Hatfields. Did she hear from Peter? Hang it! Peter! Like talking about somebody dead a long time. He thought of the trial. He had not gone near his mother at all.

She
. Yes, she knew it.
She
had tried to see Peter. His own wife. After all that had happened. No! He had better not think about these things. He didn't want the old doubts returning. But did Peter write? Poor Peter! Only a kid really.