Our Time Is Gone (41 page)

‘This way,' she said, and now she was on the verge of tears. Once she looked at him, but for the remainder of the way she counted the number of stone flags she walked on. She cried, not because shame had at last enveloped her, but because he had come here and she had been caught out. He had looked at her, and she had felt weak, ashamed. She could not look at him now.

‘It's just there,' Maureen said, and pointed to a small detached house, that had white muslin curtains in the window.

‘I think you're a foolish girl. But there, I could go on saying that to the end of my days, and you'd call me a fool. But
you're
no fool. You're—well, it doesn't matter, anyhow. You may love this fellow. I don't know. And you may be lying. I don't know which. But I won't say another word about it. You look no better or worse since you went off. Your mother's very ill. Very, very ill in hospital. And she's ill because she did far too much for every one of you. It went to her head, and it went to yours. Only the other day Father Moynihan and me were talking about the same thing. He said something about you being extraordinary, but I said no. You had every right to go off and get married, it was an ordinary thing to do. Same with Desmond. I can't see anything extraordinary about it, but perhaps he meant the woman Desmond married. Ah! your mother's finding it all out now.'

‘Here's the house,' Maureen said. ‘You wait on the corner.'

Joseph Kilkey watched her go. Suddenly he felt he ought to go after her. There was something about the way she walked off, a something pathetic that just for a moment touched him. But in a minute or two she was back, and Dermod was with her. She walked him by the hand. The child's corduroy trousers were far too big, the boots too heavy and clumsy for a child. His hair was cut short. The face wanted washing; altogether his appearance displeased Mr. Kilkey. But now he lowered himself, and squatting on his feels, he held out his arms.

‘Hello, big feller,' he said, ‘don't you know your dad?' and he put a hand under Dermod's chin, and holding the face looked at it, and suddenly he looked up at his wife. ‘Well! Well!' he said.

‘Da—d—da—ad!' exclaimed Dermod, and breaking free of his mother ran into his father's arms, where Mr. Kilkey clutched him tightly, resting the closely cropped head on his shoulder.

‘Well! Well!' he said, as though he were addressing the stones at his feet. ‘You're dad's dear son! Look at your dad.'

Maureen stood there, silent, watching the scene. Mr. Kilkey holding the child's face again, then he kissed him.

‘Don't you know your dad, Dermod?' he asked. He rose to his feet. The boy was on his shoulder. Maureen did not move. Then he walked up to her. She could not see Dermod's face, for Mr. Kilkey had him looking down the street, his head almost disappearing over the broad shoulder.

‘Well,' he said, ‘nothing seems to concern you. Neither me, nor your little lad. You must be very happy. I have nothing to say beyond this. That one day you'll be sorry about this, and not only this, but for the way you've treated your mother. To have actually left Gelton when she was so ill! Have you no heart in you at all? Perhaps you haven't. I'll tell you this. I never expected this child to be let out on people just like you do dogs and cats. I'm going to put Dermod where he'll be looked after as he should. To-day I had to come. Things have happened to me, and so here I am, and this lad is going back to Gelton with me. You'll be able to see him every time you remember he's your son. God knows how often that'll be. But you'll never be able to take him, Maureen, not again. You'll have to go through every police court in England before I'll let him go. I'm going to see your mother to-morrow, and what's more I'm going to see her off for Ireland. Then—well, that doesn't matter.

‘Dermod, say ta-ta to your mam,' and he turned the boy round so that he faced his mother.

She was crying.

Joseph Kilkey remained quite unmoved. He had seen that sort of thing before. He had been fooled by it too many times. No, he thought, she's crying there now, but as soon as I'm gone, she'll be off to that fellow before I'm out of the street. ‘Don't you want to kiss the lad?' he asked, exasperated at last.

But she never spoke.

‘Here, lad, kiss your mam, there's a good lad,' and he held the child's face forward.

At the same time a near-by door opened, and a cold winter face looked out, and then the man stood watching them. He watched the Kilkey family with great interest, leaning against his door with his hands in his pockets.

‘Say ta-ta, son,' urged Mr. Kilkey, and somehow the now completely bewildered child touched his mother's mouth. Maureen remained statue-like. Mr. Kilkey's voice softened. ‘It's no use, Maureen. Not a bit. We'd never get on again. Never. I'm too easygoing. You want somebody who'll—oh, well——'

Suddenly she threw her arms round the child's neck. ‘Dermod!' she said, and then looking at Kilkey exclaimed: ‘Joe!'

He drew back a little. ‘Listen, Maureen. Nothing's ever too late. You—won't you——'

‘No,' she said. ‘No! I couldn't do that,' and giving Dermod a passionate hug she suddenly let go of him again, and, turning on her heel, ran out of the street.

Joseph Kilkey had expected a scene, but not this kind of one. Well, she'd gone—ran off. Maybe she'd cry her heart out, maybe she would not. At any rate he couldn't stand here, with the child now crying, and moving about restlessly on his shoulder.

The man in the doorway suddenly went in. The door banged. He was no longer interested. Just a family tiff. Well, they were as ‘common as muck.'

Joseph Kilkey went off down the street. It was a wilderness to him. Blacksea was a wintry desert, and he was lost. Best get to the railway station. Then he'd have tea and a bite to eat. Cup of milk and a cake for Dermod. Somehow he felt shy, Dermod clung to him saying: ‘Dad—Dad,' being audible enough to make the occasional passer-by glance with interest at man and boy. It wasn't just a child being suddenly affectionate, that ‘Dad—da—d ‘was simply the echo of something they had not heard or seen. It was the tail of an episode.

But now they had reached a quieter street, a quiet, almost deserted street, amongst the houses of which, squat and ugly looking, Joseph Kilkey counted seven that were empty. Suddenly he stopped. He felt that for the first time he was alone, alone with his own child, and he pressed Dermod to him, placing the child's arms around his neck. Somewhere below him he heard the roar of the sea, and great gusts of wind rattled slates and chimney pots.

But there was the station. Thank heavens for that. This, like the streets of Blacksea, was deserted, save for one solitary gentleman, gladstone bag in hand, who paced to and fro upon the down platform and whistled and chirruped as back and forth he went, head bent, eyes to the ground. The whole station had that air of tragic isolation, the look and feel of a place from which life had been blasted rather than blown, as though some sudden cataclysm had overwhelmed it. The hoardings and notice-boards seemed to confirm this, for no hand could have swept them so clean leaving the modest film of the announcements behind. The booking-office door and window were shut, shut fast, probably against some further violent disturbance.

Warmth, any kind of warmth, did not belong here. Even the refreshment room to which Mr. Kilkey made his way had that winter, that frozen look. And for something like half a minute Joseph Kilkey fumbled with the knob of the heavy door, a sullen door, and the knob revolved but nothing happened. By no dexterity of the wrist or hand could this door be made to respond. This made Mr. Kilkey glance through the window. Dermod glanced too.

He saw the marble-topped counter, on which rested in major comfort a large ginger cat, one paw of which touched the tall glass case that held—his eyes were not deceiving him—a plate with an ancient cake on it, and apparently supported by some green foliage. These later were found to be artificial flowers. From the large urn he watched for a suggestion of steam. But there was none. He put the child down on the platform and concentrated on the door. Whilst the chirruping gentleman, still waiting for the down train to come, stood and watched his stout efforts with the door, he was suddenly alarmed to hear a voice call out: ‘That's the wrong door. That's shut in the winter.'

Mr. Kilkey looked up.

A middle-aged woman, stout, her person lost behind a large print apron was looking at man and boy as though they had suddenly arrived from another planet. ‘This way,' she said, beckoning to them, and they followed. Passing through a side door they found themselves behind the counter and at their approach the ginger cat rose and gracefully arching its back looked at the child. Dermod cried.

‘'E won't touch you,' the woman said.

‘Now what d'you want, mister? That there door's never open in the winter. Will you go to the other side please? Thank you.'

‘I want a cup of tea and a cup of milk and some sandwiches and cake.'

He sat down on a chair, the child opposite him, staring, still bewildered by the sudden change in his life.

‘Aven't got no cake, nor no milk,' the woman said.

‘Have you a pie then?' asked Mr. Kilkey, and he glanced quickly at the counter and at the shelves behind. Dermod turned round and stared at the woman.

‘Aven't got no pies. We never get asked for them in the winter. Only two trains a day in the winter here,' she went on as she struck a match with the greatest effort. Then she lighted the gas under the urn. ‘Never have nothing hot here in the winter,' she said. ‘Nobody here now,' she said, and her voice struck the man as sad.

This refreshment room was like the end of the world. Mr. Kilkey got up and went to the counter. There must be something to eat, somewhere, and then he caught sight of the cake in the glass case. Well, at least he could get that for Dermod, and automatically his hand went to his pocket. ‘Haven't a sandwich then? Anything'll do; meat, cheese, anything. I'll take that cake, please.' He saw the woman smile.

‘It's a false one, mister. ‘Undreds of people ‘ave asked for that,' and she gave a little titter. ‘It's a dummy tart, mister. Aren't no cakes here.'

‘A false cake,' said Mr. Kilkey and to satisfy him she took the lid from the glass and lifted out the plate. He then saw a curious arrangement of artificial flowers beneath and they seemed to be growing up the sides of the case.

‘Look, mister,' she said, and she dropped the tart down. To make sure Mr. Kilkey felt it. He thought it was made of rubber. He handed it back, with a smile.

‘What about a cup of hot milk?' he said, and he turned to glance at the child, who now sat open mouthed and seemed to see nothing in the woman except unusual phenomena.

‘'Aven't got none, silly,' she said, laughing. ‘I've just told you. ‘Aven't none. Nobody comes here in the winter ‘cept a traveller and he just has beer and bread. But we ‘ave no bread fresh to-day. Will you ‘ave a cup of tea and some bread and a cup for the kiddy?'

‘Oh, all right,' he said, disgruntled. If only he'd known. Might have brought something with him from Gelton. He was more worried about Dermod than himself, visioning the long dreary journey back home.

Maureen for the moment was quite forgotten. He might never have seen her. He was wholly absorbed in this matter of getting tea and something to eat. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to wait.

‘Will the tea be long?' he asked, as he went back to the table and sat down.

‘Nearly ready now, mister. Cold to-day, isn't it? Awful cold to-day,' and then she was lost to sight behind the enormous tea urn in the depths of which lay Mr. Kilkey's tea.

He began talking to the boy, bending over the table, picking up one hand, then the other, clutching the child's chin, and closely examining the face. He gave the appearance of being unsatisfied, as though he were endeavouring to make certain that it
was
his child, and not somebody else's. Beyond a few spontaneous, ‘Da—d's,' the boy had been silent. It was his silence that sent Mr. Kilkey's mind flying back to Maureen.

He felt sad going back to Gelton like this. If only Maureen had been sensible. How happy they could have been. It was such a little thing to ask, so simple, so—oh, so easy. But no. She had made up her mind, and nothing would alter it. Mr. Slye had not impressed him at all, and fortunately, Mr. Slye Esquire, still celebrating the beginning of his partnership with Mr. Doogle, had been in the delightful state which is occasioned by glasses of gin and beer, and a large port. Mr. Kilkey found him most obliging. Asked no questions. He had said he wanted to see Maureen Kilkey.

‘Oh! Maury. She's gone to Miss Lamber's,' and he gave the address.

That was all Joseph Kilkey saw of the man who had usurped his happiness. So that was him, he kept saying to himself as he went off to Miss Lamber's. That's the fellow! H'm! Well, he wouldn't wipe his boots on him.

He now had the boy on his knee, and for a moment he seemed quite unaware that Dermod was chatting merrily to the lady who had emerged from behind the counter carrying plates and two large cups of watery, and too sweet tea. Blacksea seemed generous. The crockery was made for giants. Dermod couldn't hold the cup. Even Mr. Kilkey found it bulky. It was filled to the top with tea.

‘'Ere's your refreshment,' she said, as she put one cup before the boy, and one before Mr. Kilkey. The plate containing a round of thick stale bread cut in quarters she banged down in the centre of the table.

‘That'll be fivepence, mister,' she said.

Mr. Kilkey gave her the money, and she went behind the counter again. Then she went out through a glass door, and Mr. Kilkey saw no more of her. The cat, however, which had gone on an expedition, returned, and springing on the counter again settled down to its old position. Even mice were scarce in winter, at least in Blacksea. Not a sound could be heard outside on the platform. No porter had shown himself, the booking-hall echoed to no voice, no click of coin, no sound of the ticket punch. And across the way the gentleman with the gladstone had ceased to whistle and chirrup, and now sat despondent looking on a truck, legs spread, bag between them. Waiting for the down train, surrounded by silence he seemed like the last actor waiting for his call in a Greek tragedy. For the moment at any rate he carried the tragic air of a lost man.