Our Time Is Gone (5 page)

‘What's all that bloody tommy rot?' he said.

II

About half-past two that morning a policeman on his beat, passing the vicinity of Gelton gaol, saw a woman standing in the doorway. He stopped suddenly and watched her. Being in the shadow she could not see him. Her back was towards him. He flashed his lamp on her. But the woman seemed quite unaware of this. ‘This woman again,' thought the policeman. He had taken in everything. The dress, the height, the attitude of the woman. Yes. He had seen her before. Questioned her before. He remembered quite vividly. It was without doubt the same woman. He stood still, watching her.

She was as yet quite unconscious of his presence. Or was it indifference? Nevertheless he would watch her. One thing he did not want to do. He did not want to frighten her. It
was
the very same person. The woman he had found kneeling against the door, fingering the massive steel studs of it as though they were precious flowers. He nodded his head. He had seen also a dark object on the ground beside her. He knew well enough what that was. Hadn't he questioned her about it, opened it and found nothing inside but bundles of newspaper cuttings, reports of a trial a year old, photographs of a young man, rosary beads, a holy picture, an almost blackened handkerchief, and in the bottom of it two shillings, and a few coppers? He looked at her again. Would it be that she was actually asleep, standing like that? Not leaning against anything, just staring towards the door. No! If she was asleep she wouldn't be staring. He scratched his head.

How long had she been there? A fine place indeed to hang about on a cold November morning. He had called her mother, saying: ‘Now, Mother, what's all this about? Looking for a lodging for the night, or have you a date with the warder?' He had joked with her about it. She had shown no interest in his remarks. He had held her by one arm; she had flinched a little under his gaze, and he knew she was frightened. Why did she come here? Had she somebody in the prison? And even if she had, of what use was it for her to stand outside the door? No miracles happened there! She must go home.

He had seen her again some months later. This time he felt less sorry. He thought she was a nuisance. His slow-moving mind at last connected the contents of her bag with this vigil at the prison. But the mind rendered this up only after the greatest effort. She must go home. He became a little brusque with her, a brusqueness that grew from her silence. The woman said nothing, neither who she was, nor what she was. Where she belonged he did not know. Should he walk the woman the two miles to the station in order to find this out? Hardly. It didn't seem worth the effort.

‘You can't stand about here, lady,' he said. ‘You should be at home in your bed.'

No, she couldn't stand there. There was nothing there but a massive door and towering walls, and behind her a wilderness of brickfields. She had gone, and he had watched her go, her black bag held securely under one arm.

Now here was the woman again. Once more he flashed the light upon her, and now he thought he saw her give a sudden start, though she did not turn round, nor show any interest in where the flash of light came from.

Whoever she is, she's a poor creature, standing like a statue at this time of a winter's morning. What should he do? Put the same old question? Or saying nothing simply take her arm and walk her down to the station. Used to lonely night beats as he was, he had not always the reserve of nerve necessary for occasions like this. He thumbed his lamp again, strongly tempted as he was to flash the light again and this time hold it. What should he do? Tell her to clear to the devil or simply take her to the station. He didn't even have to make up his mind. For something happened so suddenly that quite unconsciously he flashed the light again. He knew what to do now, for the woman had suddenly fallen on her knees and began beating the door. And as she beat against it, she cried:

‘Peter! Peter!'

The policeman dashed up and gripped her by the arms: ‘Come, lady! What's all this about now? Just what's it all about?' and he tried to raise her from the ground. But she was stronger in this moment than he. She beat with two fists upon the door. The light was flashed in her face; he saw her face clearly. It was unmistakable. He struggled with her, she was violent. ‘Come! None of this! You can't go shouting here at this time of the night,' but she did shout, and with a wild abandon.

‘Peter! Peter!'

Her whole body seemed to throb. He put his arms right round her, and again had to raise her from the ground. Then he suddenly let go of her and ran to the bell. He rang. The woman had reached the other side of the door; she hammered on it. The policeman ran to her again. He appealed. Was gentle, then brusque, then finally angry. Once he felt in his pockets for his handcuffs. He heard feet in the courtyard beyond, heard a man swearing in the cold night air.

A smaller door set in the great door itself was opened, a head peered out. What was all this fuss and noise about? The policeman was standing before him. At that moment the woman collapsed. He had meant to say, angry as he was, that he wanted the door open, the large and the small,
all
doors, so that she could go inside and then that all doors should immediately close again. He was sick of the woman; she had been a real nuisance, not only to herself but to him. Instead he found himself saying, in an agitated voice: ‘Ring for an ambulance right away.'

The head disappeared, the door closed again, the policeman returned to the woman; she lay in a heap under the big door. He picked her up in his arms, and as he did so a number of lights appeared. Then he saw the gaol ambulance coming purring down the yard. The great door swung open. The ambulance drove out into the long deserted road.

‘Where is she?'

‘Here.'

‘Right-o. Get her in. Where to? Southern? General?'

The policeman, with the help of the warder, managed to get the woman inside. The warder closed and locked the door. The engine opened out.

‘No hospital except the nearest one,' he called through to the driver. ‘The woman is in a bad way.'

The ambulance moved off, gave a grunt or two, then purred gently away from the prison.

The policeman suddenly found that he had lost his lantern. He must have left it on the ground. How dark it was. Ought to have a light. Instead he struck a match and looked down at the woman on the stretcher. Was she looking at him or was it imagination on his part? ‘Poor old woman,' he said, then made himself more comfortable on the opposite seat.

The ambulance reached the populated area. They weren't far off. Before he realized it they had stopped dead. They had reached the hospital.

At five minutes past three the same morning a policeman on a bicycle jumped off at No. 17 Hey's Alley. He gave three loud bangs on the knocker, and in the long silent street its sound was thunderous. He heard feet on the stairs. When the door opened he flashed his light on the man, for the house was in complete darkness. ‘Name of Fury?'

These three words were followed by a torrent from the man at the door.

‘Yes! My Christ, man! What's the matter! I——Oh God, what's all this about? Yes, my name's Fury. Dennis Fury. Tell me——Oh, Fanny, Fanny! again,
again!' His voice broke.

The policeman switched off his light. It was kindness to do this. He leaned forward and put a hand on the man's shoulders. Mr. Fury had both hands to his face. He shivered. He stood in singlet and drawers. The shoulders continued to shake under the hands.

‘All right! Now don't you worry! It's nothing terrible. But you must go and get dressed right away. There's a good man. There's a woman lying at the General Hospital. You'd better hurry. You know the way? It's not far.'

‘Not far,' exclaimed the man, and his tone of voice seemed to proclaim that the distance was one million miles. ‘Not far!' he said. ‘Oh, Fanny! Fanny! I knew it. I knew it as soon as I woke. Twice you've done it. My God, they'll take you away, so they will. Oh, Fanny! Fanny! God's creature, where are you? Oh my—my …'

The policeman had gone. The door closed. The man climbed the stairs. He tripped on the landing, rushed into the wrong room, rushed out again. It never occurred to him to strike a match, to light lamp or candle. He dressed hurriedly in the darkness. He put his foot into the wrong leg of the trousers and had to put them on all over again. A ship's siren sounded out over the river, a sound he had heard so many times that its full meaning had become exhausted in his ears. Now, hearing it suddenly, a swift stab of sound, and then lengthening, and spreading over the night air, it made him shiver. He would have laughed one time at shivering like this. He talked to himself, as he dashed from bed to chair, chair to table. This getting dressed, this clothing oneself, it was all bits and pieces. Then his lips were moving and no sound came at all. He dashed out of the room. He hurried downstairs. The silence and darkness frightened him a little. His own feet sounded like great boulders being flung from top to bottom of the stairs. He dashed along the lobby, opened the front door, and stepped out. ‘Oh dear! Fanny!' He said this aloud as though she were at the street's end, and here he was hurrying towards her. He was afraid of the darkness, the extreme cold, the length and shape of the street, the hooded houses, the hard cold stones on which he trod. He was afraid of moving one foot and then the other, getting nearer to where Fanny was. ‘Hold on! Hold on, oh Blessed Mother!'

He turned out of the street. There he bumped into a policeman. He stammered, was angry; fear grew. The officer questioned him. Saw his condition. Where was he going? To the hospital. Which hospital? The General Hospital. What was the matter? It was his wife. ‘My wife, Fanny.' Yes. That was where he was hurrying. But it wasn't very far away, the officer said, and cleared his throat.

‘Rotten sort of night.'

‘Yes. No … Yes … However.'

‘Take it easy, mister. Don't get yourself worked up like that now.' Again the officer cleared his throat.

No. Yes. Of course! However! Oh yes. She was dying. Fanny was dying. He was certain of it. ‘Holy Mother of God! Hang on to my dear wife,' and the officer gripped him by the arm.

The policeman kept pace with the hurrying, bewildered man. Mr. Fury began talking to himself. ‘I was sleeping good then, and then suddenly I woke, hearing a knock. And Fanny wasn't there!' His voice broke, words tumbled out of his mouth.

‘Here we are! This is a short cut to the hospital,' the policeman said. ‘Handy to know.'

They mounted the steps. ‘Fanny,' whispered Mr. Fury. ‘Fanny.' Well, here he was now.

The door opened. ‘Fury! Dennis Fury. This way, please.'

‘Keep your spirits up, old man,' said the policeman, and then turning away he resumed his beat. The hospital door closed with hardly a sound.

They led Mr. Fury into the ward. He heard the word screen in his ear. Screen. Screen! God! Now he knew! He knew that word. It ran round his head. Screen. Screen! It thrust downwards to the pit of his stomach, struck him between the eyes. Screen! Around Fanny! He looked up at the nurse, bewildered, a little afraid.

‘Yes—no, Miss Nurse. What? Screen? Yes. I don't mind. No thanks. Thank—you.'

She gave a little smile, and drew the screen around the bed. Its noise, so slight, disturbed the woman. She moved. Opened her eyes. The nurse vanished, but some yards off stood silent, waiting. At the far end of the ward the clock ticked loudly.

Mr. Fury leaned over the bed and watched, and he gripped the sheets very hard.

‘Fanny! Me! Dear Fanny. It's me, Denny! Fanny! Are you hurt bad, are you?' He raised his hands and took one of hers between them. ‘God help you, tell me are you all right now? Fanny? Look at me! Here I am. Tell me, Fanny.'

He gradually tightened his grip upon her hand. It was like his own, a hard hand. Not a woman's hand at all. He watched her face. How she had aged! He looked at the quivering lips. Her head was quite sunk into the pillow.

Yes. There she was. Fanny, and alive. Yes. There she was. The Fanny who had done things. Fanny with her pride. ‘The poor creature,' he said at last, and then with a sudden vision of the emptiness of No. 17 Hey's Alley, he said again: ‘The poor—poor creature.' He wished he knew all the things that lay hidden behind that mask-like face. Yes. Here she was, still the same, but old. Getting really old.

This was the third time. How long would it go on? Those awful dreams of hers, those cryings out, and then the steadfast silence. Like hard stone, no words spoken. Only the looks he got. The dread of that silence, lying by his side. His own sleep unsound, then deep. Then suddenly broken by this. Waking to find her gone. God knows where. And in spite of it all he had to be up and doing. Going far by sea—thinking of her—alone—going far, and then returning home. And finding this. And suddenly Mr. Fury laid his head on the edge of the bed.

He lay quite still, though his mind was choked and smothering under a flood of memories that no move of the hand, no wish and no thought could wipe away. Something made him raise his head. The woman had opened her eyes. She was looking full at him, and he held her look. He clasped her hand, let it go, clasped it again, hoping, wondering. Was she really dying? Or just ill? Very tired, or——But what was she doing here? In this place on this early morning, and the rain pouring outside and a wind breaking over the roofs. He shut his eyes, opened them again. Was she really looking at him? His wife? Fanny?

‘Fanny! Dear, dear Fanny. Sure God help you, woman, I … How are you now?'

‘My bag?'

‘Your bag, Fanny. Why, I don't——' and then he smiled, remembering. ‘Why, of course. Your bag. Your own bag. D'you want it, Fanny?'

‘My bag,' she said.

‘Yes, yes. I—here—what is this, it—I wonder——Fanny, are you dying? Oh God!'

‘My bag.'