Our Time Is Gone (42 page)

Meanwhile Mr. Kilkey and son supped their tea and ate their bread. A strong wind had come up and was squealing its way down the platform. The man rose to his feet and looked out of the window. The wind blew and the man on the opposite side still waited. Then Kilkey sat down again. The train couldn't be long now. From time to time he kissed Dermod, who began to get impatient.

‘Doh-ing home to mam?'

‘Yes, we're going home, son. Aren't you glad to be going home with dad?'

‘Doh-ing home! Where's mam?'

Mr. Kilkey felt a lump in his throat. Yes. Where was mam? Probably back with her wonderful man. And here he was with the child going off home without her.

‘Dad's going to buy you a new suit,' said Mr. Kilkey, ‘a nice suit with silver buttons on it. You wait till we get home.'

Aye! Just wait, he thought, I'll burn those damned clothes. Nor could he be happy until that child's practically bald head had grown boy's curls again. So that's what she'd done. The pair of them, he supposed. Got tired of the lad and then shoved him away. Well, he never thought he'd live to see this day. Never. Not that a good girl like Maureen—and she
had
been brought up by a good mother—no matter how impossible she was, would ever do such a thing. It upset Mr. Kilkey's conception of the world. It was hard to believe even now, that he was actually going back home without his wife. H'm! Well, she wouldn't think he was
soft
now! But perhaps I'm doing them both a good turn, he thought. No! It was hard to believe. He supposed she had forgotten all about God. Her duties, her faith. Of course. That went as soon as you started off in that fashion. It had upset him, it had smashed open that little door of his world. He couldn't marry again. Why should he? He loved Maureen. Yes, he did love that silly, flighty-headed girl.

Then he heard the distant rumble of a train. He finished his tea, and picking up the boy went out on to the platform. The noise of the train drew nearer. To board it he had to cross the bridge and descend a long flight of wooden stairs. The train roared in underneath them. ‘You're going home with dad, son,' he said, and taking a firmer grip on the boy he clattered down the few remaining stairs.

Two minutes later the train pulled slowly out of the station. They had a carriage to themselves. The child sat up to the window, and began banging his fists on the glass. Mr. Kilkey stood against the door looking out, as Blacksea slowly passed from sight. Not a soul to be seen. The train passed the platform and now it rat-tatted over the points. Suddenly the man made to let down the window. Was that somebody looking through the wooden palings that fenced the banking? For a moment he stared out at it. Then he went back to his seat. He wasn't quite certain, but he thought it was Maureen standing there watching the train pull out. His mind said: it was—it wasn't—it wasn't—it is—was—no, it couldn't be. A sudden blankness followed as the train chortled into the long tunnel. He put his hand through the belt on Dermod's coat and held it firmly. Well, he had him now and they were going home. To what Joseph Kilkey did not know. The train thundered out of the tunnel again, seemed to slacken speed, to dwindle down to almost funereal pace. Only then did it strike the man that they were
really
going to Gelton.

That funereal pace sealed the fact. So the train had come, so it would return. He lay his head back on the grimy and worn upholstery of the great railway company's ‘local.' He closed his eyes. The chatter of the boy was lost in the rhythmic rattle of the train. In a minute, he thought, I'll show him the country, but the country wasn't in sight yet. The ends, the drippings of Blacksea were still there. The rattle buzzed in Mr. Kilkey's ears, the boy shouted, banging the window again with his fists, but he hardly heard it. He was so intent at the moment in building up a position in his mind. The wooden palings, the woman behind them. Was it her? Yes. No! Yes. No! Wasn't it Maureen—was it? It might have been. No! Impossible. She had run off. Too ashamed to be anywhere really. And yet, it
might
have been. The journey home was made longer by this recurring thought, the idea of not being sure, of wondering and supposing. If he had shouted, waved a hand, called: ‘That you, Maureen?' No! It was just a face.

The train suddenly pulled up with a grinding of brakes. It sent columns of smoke belching into the cold air. He took Dermod on his knee, and talked to him. Then he rode him up and down on his knee, singing: ‘Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross.' The train started off again, something like an enormous sigh coming from its body. And then they were off again. The whistle shrieked. At that moment an express goods train thundered past. Mr. Kilkey's train had paused, waiting for tunnel clearance. Its pace as it passed into it was the same, funereal, jolting, almost languid. Yes. It
was
going to Gelton. He held the child tightly as they rode through the darkness, and here and there a pin-head of light shone brightly like eyes, eyes that bobbed to and fro in the mounting blackness. The whistle shrieked again. It seemed to shriek: ‘Gelton.'

‘Where's Long-legs?' asked Mr. Doogle, as he came down from his attic wearing an overcoat, not too long to hide the dangling braces behind.

Mr. Slye frowned. ‘I dunno,' he said, ‘she went out to Lamber's I think. See that fellow who came here. I offered him a drink. I had an idea who he was, though I said nothing, mind you—didn't even hint. It makes those kind of people feel too bloody important. He was looking for Maureen. I said: “Try Lamber's,” and I gave him the address. I said: “Have a drink,” but he went off, Poker-faced.'

‘Who was it?' asked Mr. Doogle, sitting down and spreading open his coat. ‘It's a real sod up there! I won't stay here long, Slye Esquire, if I can't get something better. Anyhow, I didn't come down just to enquire about your lady. There's a time when to me she's like a fly on the window. You just never notice it. Now about this Sacred Heart business. I have been making enquiries. It's good. Very good idea. But if you want to do well out of it you've got to have Long-legs round the houses too. Another thing, Slye Esquire. I've been looking carefully at this painting,' and he took an envelope from his pocket. ‘I have been looking at them, and it doesn't seem right to me. No, sir, not right.'

‘What's the matter with it?' said Mr. Slye, his mind at the moment slightly confused after the celebrations over the partnership, Slye and Doogle Limited. Very good. But Slye, Doogle and Slye?
That
sounded better! It completely enclosed ‘Doogle.' He would think that over anyhow.

‘What's the matter with it?'

‘Well,' said Mr. Doogle, ‘as an appreciator of art I don't think much of it. The fellow's no Angelo. No, sir! But speaking purely from the commercial viewpoint, the heart's not half red enough, and the drops hardly look like blood. Let me tell you, Slye Esquire, that blood is red and people like it to be red. This heart's too pale—it's dead—no life in it—no colour, no feeling. It won't do. I know. I've sold these sort of things door to door, and I know. It's not half red enough. It's no good. It simply won't do.'

‘It's a bad pull, that's all. Is that all you've come down about?' asked Slye.

‘Not exactly! To tell you the truth it's like being in an ice hell up there. Any objections to sitting at the fire to warm the cockles and tootsies?'

‘Don't be a bloody ass! Now about this print. The fellow's no artist, I know—still we can print a thousand for fifteen quid. That's cheap. A thousand at a bob is fifty, I believe. Not bad. I'll see that the colouring is made to suit you, though—right depths, everything. Don't worry. But I might as well tell you, Doogle, that I'm not having Maury going from door to door selling these prints. That's definite. Definite.'

‘Because it might—you mean——Oh, I know you said she was a Catholic.'

‘Got no eyes in your head, man?' said Mr. Slye.

‘That's all you worry about. Well, Long-legs isn't the first woman to be carrying a child, Slye Esquire. And what's more you know damn all. Why, when a woman's in that condition she wants exercise. Plenty of it. Doctors say so. They're right. Always are. I tell you, Slye Esquire, you're a fool to give in on this. She's the very person for this job. In fact, I don't doubt she'll sell more than the two of us put together. I know. Do you suppose I went through two huge directories for nothing, and the street census? And the Catholic's Handbook?'Course not. When you have to earn your living this way, you got to. And I'm better trained than you are. My father was in this business long before you were born. He sold comic postcards in this very seaside town.'

‘I don't give a damn what he sold. Maury's not going selling these.'

‘Then you seem to have forgotten the terms we agreed to work on. However, I'll talk about that later on. She is a long time, isn't she?' he concluded, as he drew up his chair to the fire, and banged down his feet on the fender. ‘You say she's gone to Lamber's. You know, Slye, you've been a mug all along with that woman. Dragging the kid out here with you. You want no kids in work like this.'

‘Mind your own bloody business! D'you know that that mug actually sent Maury money to keep the kid, and the dear girl just handed it to me. And what d'you think she said, Doogle? She said: “I don't want this, Dick. He was nice to me. I only want your love.” What a girl! What a woman! I tell you, Doogle, Maury's crazy about me. Sometimes I wonder why.'

‘Do you? Do you want me to pay you compliments, Slye Esquire? You got a bloody way with you. And you're not bad looking, and you're young as young goes. Mind you, she's no chicken. Not sweet sixteen. I don't doubt that she loves you. All the same, Slye Esquire, when you love one you love the bloody lot. But I wish sometimes you didn't think so much of your love. We got to live. In this business. There's always risks. Look at that “
do
” in Gelton. Now that showed how risky the business is. Didn't it?'

‘What “do,”' asked Mr. Slye, and he poured some gin from a fresh bottle. ‘Have one, Doogle. I've had five this morning, I had such a headache. Yes, that business in “The Mare,”' and he made to pour out a glass.

‘I don't want no drink. Unlike you, Slye Esquire, I keep me head. You have to have a sense of proportion in business. “
Do!
” The Gelton “
do
” … You remember that ship due to sail out of the Rinton Dock. She blew up. Hundreds of the crew killed. All from Gelton. You wrote a poem on the disaster, didn't you? What was it? “Mourn for the Brave,” or something. Well, you didn't do bad with it. A lot of people bought them. It's bloody funny, you know. But humanity loves to see its name in nice glossy print. You were clever there, Slye Esquire, getting the names from the newspaper. I suppose they framed the cards and hung them up. But I'm getting off the point. The police came in on it. Called it fraud—false pretences. Preying on the bereaved. Mind you, in any other business one could have beat the police. However, to come to the point. You got this woman here—you and me are in partnership. You'll have to use Maury on the Sacred Heart business. Catholics appeal to Catholics. I
know.
'

Here Mr. Doogle accepted a' Cheerio ‘from Slye Esquire and lit up.

Mr. Slye got up and went to the door. Where had that girl got to? Out more than half an hour. He looked at Mr. Doogle. ‘I hope she won't be long. The shops are shut, to-day. There's nothing to see. She shouldn't be all this time at Lamber's. I wish she'd come back, that's all.'

‘Getting worried?' enquired Doogle. ‘Don't. I
know
. Don't worry. She'll be back, don't you fret. She knows what's best for her. Weren't supposing your caller
was
her husband, and that she'd done a bunk with him back to Gelton? Nonsense, Slye Esquire. When you get women into a certain position—position, not condition—you've a curious bloody mind, Slye Esquire; when you get them into a certain position they can't do bunks. Even if they wanted to. Now Long-legs is too nice a girl to bunk. She loves you. I
know.
'

‘I've just been thinking,' said Slye Esquire. ‘That fellow—he
was
her husband. One look convinced me——He might have come to get the kid. Never know.'

‘All the better,' said Doogle, and he got up and went over to his partner.

‘Perhaps you're right, Doogle. Perhaps she
ought
to be doing something. Helping. Women'll do a lot for love. Keep her out of mischief. I'll think about it, anyhow. You've a better mind than me,
really
, Doogle. In some ways you're fortunate. Your mind's not clouded by love, for instance.'

‘Correct,' said Doogle. ‘I advise you that if she isn't back here in ten minutes, I advise you to skidaddle and bring her back, Slye Esquire,' he concluded, slapping the other on the shoulder. ‘You can love a woman, they all like love, but all the same don't let them get their heads.'

‘I see,' said Mr. Slye, now walking up and down the room, throwing fugitive glances at the clock. ‘Gone an hour or more. I'll swear.'

‘Why!' exclaimed Mr. Doogle, ‘just listen, Slye Esquire, somebody's coming.'

Mr. Slye's countenance lit up, expanded. He heard the door-handle turn. Maureen came in.

‘Why, chick, hello, hello, hello,' exclaimed Slye, rushing forward to clasp her in his arms—if Maureen only went to the kitchen, she returned to be embraced by Mr. Slye, as though she had travelled, not ten yards, but ten thousand miles. ‘Maury, me chucks, come to my arms, chucks.'

‘Oh! For Christ's sake,' she said, and pushed him from her. She had been crying. He could see that, Mr. Doogle could see it. They stared at Maureen.

‘Here, Doogle, off you get. Back to your hole, man. Maury's sad.'