Our Time Is Gone (24 page)

‘Hope so! She's all I got now,' he replied. He wished this fellow would go, just the same. But the next minute he himself prevented all such possibility. He got up from his chair and went to the cupboard. From this he took out an envelope. Then he returned to the table and sat down. He took out the letter.

‘No reason why you shouldn't read it,' he said, and he threw it in front of Desmond.

Desmond picked it up.
H. M. Prisons. September
. Three months ago. ‘Oh!' he said. He sat back in the chair and began to read. Mr. Fury fingered his cup of brandy.

M
Y
D
EAR
D
AD
,

I am writing you a letter to-day. It means that I won't be able to write another for six months. So please explain to mother that I can't write her a letter as well. Well, Dad, I hope this finds you well. I am quite well myself and have settled down to things much easier than I thought. I work hard and am strong and healthy. But it is very lonely. At night I can't sleep very well. But I have got used to it now and if I lie awake for three hours it's just part of the whole routine business here. I'm sorry I can't write you a long letter, because there isn't much to write about here. Besides I would rather ask you lots of things. And get a letter from you sometimes too. Oh, Dad, you don't know what it's like getting a letter here. It's like—oh, I simply couldn't tell you. Now for the barrage. Get ready. How is everybody? Yourself, Dad, mother, Maury, Joe, Anthony, and Desmond? Sometimes I think I should write a long long letter, one which both Sheila and he can read. I am sorry I caused all this trouble, Dad. You don't know how I feel. The day I left Gelton I wanted to see Desmond and Sheila, because I felt I could tell them things which would make them understand me. But they only let mother see me! Tell me all about her when you write because mother won't do it herself. Are you on the same ship? Does old Postlethwaite still work on the railway, and the son—Lord, I've even forgotten his name——[Two lines that followed had been blacked out by the prison censor. He read on—]

I'd like to hear from Maureen and if only Joe would write. Not all at once, Dad, because I wouldn't get them. But sometimes I dream of waking up and finding my cell floor covered all over with letters.

The letter rambled on from subject to subject, doubling backwards and forwards.

—yesterday some gentlemen came and I was carrying bags of sand with a man named Elson. They stopped me and asked me questions. I think they're what are called ‘Prison Commissioners' or something. It was funny. They asked me if the food was all right and I said it was—it is in a way—I mean after you get used to it. But it's not like the Hatfields' Hot pot, is it, Dad? Do you still like being away at sea better than working ashore? How's the Lyric? D'you still go? How's Dermod? He was a nice kid. He wouldn't remember me now, I suppose.

Sometimes we hear about the war here. Yesterday a man who was in here for four years was let out. He should have served eight. But I think he got off to go to the war. They might let me go to the war, Dad.

The letter then rambled back to the family again, and for a second time he enquired how everybody was, hoped all were well and he wished to be remembered to them all, etc. etc. He ended the letter ‘with love from your affectionate son, Peter.' And as a postscript, that somehow destroyed all that had gone before—it was quite cryptic—‘I'll be here for another thirteen and a half years, Dad.'

Desmond Fury was visibly moved. The visit to his father, the precarious state of his mother—these faded into the background, were dominated by this letter. As he folded it up and handed it back to his father, he exclaimed roughly, bluntly. ‘It's hard lines, Dad.' And that it seemed was as far as expression could really go. He simply couldn't say another word. And now it was he who wanted to go. To run out into the dark street, and walk slowly home.

He thought of Peter. He could see him now, a fine strong lad, fresh out of school, all enthusiastic over a fishing expedition for nothing more than ‘Jack Sharps.'

Mr. Fury got up and put the letter back in the box. When he sat down again and spoke he let words fall from his lips that did nothing but wound.

‘I thought you might see the lad's letter in case you forgot him.'

Yes. They had to come. They had lain coiled like serpents somewhere at the back of that tongue, and they twisted and burrowed and squirmed to be free. Well, they were free now.

‘In case you forgot.'

He spoke casually, almost indifferently, and the words sank into Desmond's ears. They covered all the things said and unsaid, done and undone. ‘In case you forget' swamped everything. Happiness, London, Sheila, his father, his mother. ‘In case you forgot,' and he
had
to think, had to see Peter, like some small and bent figure that stood still and alone, peeping at him from the other side of the world. As far as that. The brother who loved him, fished with him. The clever boy, the earnest boy, the suddenly startled and disappointed boy. The reckless one who had put paid to everything for everybody.

‘He says they—well, at least he hints—that he might get out sooner, if he goes to the war.'

‘Aye—yes——Oh, yes,' Desmond said. Of course.

That would be almost like justice. Wouldn't it, indeed? Kill an old bitch and your hand was well trained, and held its degree of cunning, and the hand was free to kill young bastards too.

‘Aye,' he said again—then followed it with a long, almost dreamy, ‘Oh——'

Now and again he glanced at his wrist-watch. Another fifteen minutes and that man would be at the door waiting for him. Yet Hey's Alley pulled. Somehow it didn't really matter if he never called. The place pulled, and it pulled at him in the wrong way. He wanted to go! He didn't want to go. It was ‘lousy ‘his dad living here—and worse—completely on his own. Sailing soon. Yes, he could see that already by the half-packed bag. It was quiet here, it was stuffy in a peculiar way, it was even homely. Hey's Alley. The gut of Gelton! Hey's Alley hidden and festering and stinking. Yet danger breathed. Everywhere. In this very kitchen. Danger. His mother. Getting on. A hard struggle of a life—a shock at the end. His father off to sea soon. Danger there! Danger everywhere. And Peter hidden too. He and Sheila happy? Were they?

Confound it! Getting ideas into his head again. His mind cried: ‘Be practical! Life is no kid-glove affair.' Of course it wasn't. It was ruthless. He was going. It had been a depressing visit. But he
had
come and he was glad. To-morrow he would see his mother. Conscience would cool down, gracefully retire to the depths. Depths. The best place for consciences. He replenished his cup with brandy, held the bottle over that of his father, but the man waved it away.

‘No thanks! Had enough! To tell you the truth, I hardly ever see the stuff, and I don't drink much. Not like I used to. I am glad you're going to see your mother. She'll be glad too. I'm sure she will! That reminds me. I forgot about ringing up.'

He resumed the position on the chair, back to his son. Perhaps he had talked enough. Desmond showed by his attitude that he was only waiting to be off. Would he see his father again? This made Mr. Fury reply:

‘Maybe! Never know. Yes, I daresay. Suppose you'll find me here looking just the same, saying the same things, doing the same things.'

That sounded rather like the taxi-cab. Desmond got up to go. Mr. Fury did not stir.
Was
it the cab? He listened.

‘Well, Dad, I'll have to be going. It's getting late. I have to be up early in the morning. I have lots of things to do. Yes, lots of things.'

‘Well, I suppose it's a good thing having plenty to do. Keeps you out of mischief,' commented Mr. Fury. ‘Excuse me a sec,' he added, then got up and went outside.

Desmond took a pound note from his pocket and slipped it under the cup on the table. He put the brandy bottle in the cupboard and shut the door.

Mr. Fury came back. He shook hands with his son. He mightn't ever see him again. He might see him again. Sailors always shook hands like that, thinking like that. Every time you shook hands you tried to get, you got your bearings on Chance. Desmond held the hand. Then slowly he opened it, and looked down at the segged and cracked palm. The skin was tough like leather.

‘What do all those fellows you used to work with think about you?' asked Mr. Fury.

For the moment Desmond could only think of Mr. Tinks. Laughing he said; ‘I don't know, and I don't care. One mug less won't make any difference anyhow.'

There was the taxi man blowing the horn. Now he must really get off.

The bleating sound of the horn roused the inhabitants from enforced lethargy. Lately, beyond a wedding, nothing had happened in the alley at all, though it could boast twenty-five men at the ‘big war.' Nothing ever happened. This evening a swank had come to see a quiet old man, whom they didn't think much of anyhow, ‘too bloody quiet to be any good!' But there was the horn blowing and there was the taxi. Bedless children trooped out, revolved round the taxi. It was quite dark to the driver, and seemingly oblivious to everything but their raucous chatter, he cleared his throat in the midst of them. Wide-eyed, Hey's Alley waited for the door to open. And finally it did. Out stepped the tall ‘swank,' who stood on the step for a second or two talking to the quiet old man. Mr. Fury looked at them with a dead eye. Desmond Fury ignored them. He shook both his father's hands.

‘So glad I came, Dad.' For a moment he was tempted to put that twenty-five pound cheque into that horny hand—but only for a moment. ‘So-long, Dad, and the best of luck. Take care of yourself now. I'll be seeing you. Don't worry now, will you? Yes. I
will
write to Peter. And in the morning I'll go to see mother! Wish I could have stayed longer. Ah well!' and then he let go the hand, dashed off the step, turned quickly to wave towards his father, who was gradually disappearing behind the slowly closing door. Then he stepped into the taxi—gave the address to the driver, and the contraption of a cab started off with a pretentious overture of sounds, and then slowly chugged away into the darkness.

When it had finally vanished out of the street, Hey's Alley children scoured around outside the door of No. 17, just in case the gentleman ‘might have dropped something.' But he hadn't dropped a thing. A few minutes later they trooped back to their homes, one door after another shut with a loud bang—and Hey's Alley became silent and still.

Meanwhile Desmond Fury chugged on towards Repton Park Road. When finally he let himself in it was after eleven. Good heavens! Had he been all that time? The house was in darkness. Then she called to him from above:

‘That you, darling?' He could hear her shoes scraping the polished wooden floor. He called back.

‘It's
me
.'

Then he went into the sitting-room. There he found supper laid. There was beer.

Alice too had retired to bed. Alice. It was just a name to him. He hardly noticed her. He undid belt and tunic, flung them over a chair. Rolled up his sleeves, spread out his legs, dug his elbows into the table and began his supper. Good! He felt like a free man again.

The tunic was a bit tight, one felt trussed. But he would get used to feeling trussed. You didn't swing a hammer with a tunic on. That was the main thing. Then the door opened and Sheila came in and sat on an arm of his chair. She watched a tiny bead of sweat run down her husband's forehead as he ate.

‘See your father?' she asked.

With a mouthful of cheeses and bread it was difficult to answer. He would directly. She put up a little finger and lifted off the sweat-drop. How hot he was. It wasn't a hot day by any means. Perhaps it was simply the eating. It was a
process
without a doubt. Suddenly he looked her way and said:

‘Yes. Saw him! Saw everybody,' and his eyes ran up and down, circled round her. He felt as though he had put on a new skin. ‘Sit closer, while I eat,' he said, circling her body with one arm.

If she could read his mind, then he could read her body. That was where he had her. It sang to him, spoke to him, made eloquent gestures to him. Oh, yes he had her there all right. She could read his mind all right, but had she read right down at the bottom of it? Seen the thought lying there, the thought that she couldn't have been
anything
at all in that mysterious place or world from which she had flown or blown. The thought that she didn't even have a body until she came to him. He could go on thinking that, secretly, delighting in its secret. It was like a taste, he savoured it with his mind's tongue. Yes. He had her all right. He knew where and how. He leaned his head on her shoulder.

‘Sheila,' he said, ‘I shall be
so
glad when we leave here!'

‘Will you, darling?' and then: ‘Will you be long? It's awfully late.'

She got off the chair and he gripped the hem of her dressing-gown and suddenly swung it upwards and outwards.

‘Marvellous,' he thought. That was where he had her. She knew this too. But she wouldn't ever say what it was she loved best about him. That might spoil him. He was so—oh so simple. She liked him that way. And now she stood there whilst he looked, neither smiling nor frowning, saying not a word. It was dead serious to her. This looking of his. It was almost ritualistic. Then she ran off out of the room.

Desmond went on eating. Yes, he had her there! And the great thing about life was that you could swing open the gown of a beautiful woman. And you could love her so much that you didn't even care where she came from. And he sat there thinking of nothing except how he had her
there
, and could
hold
her there. He knew his power. It was rather fine being conscious of a force which only drew its real significance from an experience such as this. Butting one's head into another world, and flinging your arms in it and spreading your legs there. Yes, he knew what she liked in him. So that secret thought of his could remain quiet and undisturbed. Having finished his supper he drew away from the table and went upstairs. There she was lying, waiting for him. It was a fine world when always there was somebody waiting for you—especially Sheila. She stared up at the ceiling, hearing him undress.