Our Time Is Gone (6 page)

‘Of course, Fanny. Here! There now.'

He had found the black bag, for they had not yet taken her things away. It lay on the locker by her bed. He laid it near her hand, and he noticed how she clutched it.

‘There, Fanny.'

‘My bag,' she said, and somehow the voice seemed to rise from the bottom, from the very inside of the bed.

And again he was afraid. ‘Oh Great God this night,' he said, and suddenly sat up rigid. She was looking up at him, as though he were some stranger. She looked through and beyond him. He was a stranger to her.

‘I won't die,' she said.

He felt his arm gripped by her hand, then it slackened and fell away. The words sang their way around the man's brain. ‘Won't die! Won't die!'

Hearing a sound he turned; somebody was coming. He shifted his chair to the head of the bed, and as he moved he saw something that turned him cold.

‘They've bound my poor Fanny,' he said. He bent his head on his breast and sobbed. After a minute or two he was silent. The screen had moved then.

It was at this moment that Captain Desmond Fury had come. Father had not noticed son, the son had not noticed the father.

Now they were together, outside the hospital, the rain falling, and a slight mist shrouding the building from a grey, almost starless sky. And the father drew back and then looked up at his son. And Captain Fury looked down at him, and then up at the windows.

‘Well! What have you to say for yourself?' asked Mr. Fury.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the polished boots, then up at the collar and tie and uniform cap. What had he to say? Anything? So here he was.

‘Dad! I
am
sorry about this. It's hard all right! Look here, couldn't we go somewhere and talk? I mean——' Yes, what did he mean—exactly? Take his father home? Go home
with
his father? What? Which? The rain was falling heavily. ‘Listen, Dad?'

‘Well! I'm glad you went, anyhow! Though she didn't know anybody. I think it's the end of your poor mother! Only God this night can look to her.'

He looked away from his son. Desmond! The eldest! The first to fly and be free! ‘The pusher,' as he called him. Ran off with that woman. Married out of the church. Well, by heck, he had pushed somewhere now! An officer. A captain.

‘Listen, Dad, I'm
really
sorry about this. Look here! Would you like to come home with me—for the night, say? Besides, we can't stand here in the rain, can we?'

‘Maybe not. Well, you look well and fat and prosperous! But then you were always the healthiest in the family. Ah, well! You were always a pusher—a thruster! I tell you straight, your mother's fair beat. Fair beat—but she's been a sticker your mother has. A real sticker, and I'm proud of her.'

‘Listen, Dad,' and Desmond put a hand on his father's shoulder, ‘we can't just stand here like this. We're both getting drenched. Yes it's hard, Dad. There's nobody more sorry than I am, but be reasonable. Now will you …'

‘I've been reasonable all my bloody life, lad. And look where I am to-day.'

‘Yes, I
know
that, Dad. But still. Oh, Dad. I love mother as much as anybody.'

‘Do you?'

Captain Fury removed his hand. Drops of rain began to run down under his collar.

‘Well!' said Dennis Fury, ‘it's been nice to see you in a way. I'm glad you're getting on, anyhow! I never begrudged any of my children anything. Now I'm going home. And you go home too. It's no use me going with you nor you coming with me. But I suppose we'll see each other again at the hospital. I feel beat to-night. It's been a fair struggle with your mother. I'll tell you something too, case you don't know it. Your mother's going mad.'

‘Dad? Why——Oh——?'

‘Well, that's what they said. And that's all. Look here, Desmond. I'm going. I want to go. And I want to go off by myself. The other way is awkward. I can't do anything for your mother. Neither can you. But I'll pray anyhow! We'd only get talking about all the old things, and to tell you the truth, to tell you God's honest truth,' and here he gripped the Sam Browne belt again, ‘I'm sick of all them, all them things. Want to forget them.'

Desmond thought. ‘That's that.' No! It was a definite break. It would never be the same again. Never. He put two hands on Mr. Fury's shoulder. ‘Dad! You mightn't like it. I don't care. But I'm sorry,
sorry
for you and mother. Perhaps we could have been a better family. Besides——'

‘No! I said No. And God I mean
No
! I want to hear no more about families. Your mother and me are all right. We can look after each other! Don't you get fretting yourself over things that can never happen again. Now I'll shake hands with you, Desmond, and say good night,' and his voice softened. ‘You weren't a
bad
lad in a way, but perhaps you were a selfish, unthinking lad. Never mind. It can't be helped. Best of luck to you.'

To Desmond this was defeat. Utter defeat. He felt miserable, helpless. He could do nothing. How long was it since he had seen his father? He couldn't remember. A long time surely.
And
his mother! Perhaps he ought to have—Suddenly he gripped his father's hand and held it.

‘Where's Anthony?'

‘In the Navy. He hasn't been home once since the war broke out.'

‘And Maureen?'

‘Never see her.'

‘What about Mr. Kilkey?'

Mr. Fury freed his hand. This was getting awkward. He only wanted to go. To go home and sit down and think and hope and remember Fanny. This was ridiculous. Standing in the rain holding hands. He drew back again.

‘Oh, I don't know! I don't know. Why d'you ask me these questions, anyhow? I'm away all the time. And every time I think of that man Joe Kilkey I feel sad and sick. The
only
friend your mother
ever
had. Yet she refused to open the door to him, time and time again. But as I told you, your mother's gone queer in the head. That boy. Oh, that dear, foolish lad. It's finished your mother. Christ! Now,' and his voice became angry, ‘now, I'm going. I can't stand this. I can't stand this sort of thing. I—I—there's your mother unconscious in there, a creature who never harmed a soul in the world. Ah! Sure, will you go? I'm off.'Night to you, lad. God keep you!'

Without another word Dennis Fury walked away.

Captain Fury did not move. He stood there with lowered head, his mind a cloud, and he watched his father go. After a few seconds he too turned on his heel and went off. The darkness swallowed up one and then the other. A siren screamed over the misty river.

Half an hour later Mr. Fury let himself into the house. There was something so cold, so empty about this return that the man gave an involuntary shudder as he went down the dark lobby. In the kitchen he gripped the dresser where the little red light burned.

‘God hold dear Fanny this night. Hold her for me! Poor dear Fanny.'

Then he flopped down on the sofa and remained there staring up at the window. He could sit there for days. The slightest movement wearied him. He closed his eyes, opened them again. He got up and lit the gas and looked round the place. What a small box-like place it was. The big table looked out of place there. He had often wondered how it had been got in. He drew back the cloth and ran his finger over the cracks in it, over the scratchings. Aye! There they were! All the names. He felt so miserable; he threw back the cloth again, and then commenced walking up and down the matting in front of the fireplace. The fire was almost out. Perhaps he ought to make himself a cup of tea. Yes. He would. Warm him up. Cheer him up. Something to do. Should he light the fire? Perhaps he'd better.

He filled a kettle and put it on the stove outside. Then he lit the fire. Useless to lie down. Useless to sleep. His nerves were on edge. It had been a shock. He went from corner to corner and back again, aimlessly wandering. He went twice round the table. Damn it! He couldn't get Fanny out of his mind. As for Captain Fury, the old man might never have met him, so completely had he forgotten him. Seeing his wife there, stretched out, bound down to the bed. It seemed so wrong, so terribly wrong! ‘God be with her this very night.' Unconscious. Found outside that place. Again. Again! It was dreadful, and he had been hoping, hoping. Yes, they'd even talked about that trip to Mount Mellery and the quietness of God's air there, waiting, waiting for her. To rest herself. To forget, and then if God spared them, then one fine day he'd be home. Finished with the sea for good. The sea could dry up, ships rust. He'd be through. It was about time. He had travelled enough. And now she was
there
, silent, unconscious. The thoughts rose like a wild flight of birds, circled him, swooped, clung. They fenced with each other. But he could not drive them away.

The kettle was boiling, boiling fast away, but he sat on the sofa again and did not move, the tea-pot dangling in his hand. He thought suddenly of her bag. Fanny's black bag, that cursed black bag, that cursed devil's tune. That bag of misery and empty words. Faded cuttings of newspapers, cheap scent, a holy picture. A bagful of nothing but bitter memories. Carrying it about with her wherever she went. Sleeping on it. He wished he could lay hold of it now and burn it. That damned black bag of hers! Nothing good in it, nothing hopeful—a bagful of madness. The devil's madness, and all her humbled pride.

‘Poor Fanny,' he found himself saying. ‘Poor foolish woman.' Well, there it was. There it was. The whole family scattered and her pride gone. Everything gone. Never mind, they had each other. Poor foolish, secret, proud Fanny. She had
him
. He never dreamed that bringing her from Ireland meant this. All this.

He made some tea, drinking it greedily. The fire was burning up now, and he was glad he had lit it. The place looked a bit more cheerful anyway. With each cup his thirst grew. He made more tea. He had never before drank so much tea.

He took his boots off and settled himself down in the chair. He was soon asleep, but about seven he was rudely wakened by a commotion next door. The sound of shouting came to him then. It was a woman's voice. Looking through the window he saw a cyclist going off, and was able to discover the shape of the hat he wore. A telegram boy.

‘My God,' he said, ‘here I am mewling and moaning out of me, and that poor woman next door has had the most awful news. Her son? Her husband? Her brother?' And here he was, alive and well, crying out his misery. And Fanny was still alive. He went back to his chair again.

‘This bloody old war,' he muttered, and that's what it meant. Being woke up like that by such sounds and the heart's emptiness for some poor creature.

Hearing a tug-boat hooting, Mr. Fury got up and at once shaved and washed. Then he went upstairs to change his clothes. At eight o'clock he went out and rang up the General Hospital from the local post office. How was she? His wife. Trembling all over, he gave particulars.

‘No change,' they said. They did not add, ‘Delirium.'

The receiver dropped from Mr. Fury's hand, ‘No change! No change!'

He left the post office and went back home. Life was emptiness. Lonely. ‘Poor me,' he said; ‘poor you,' as he turned the key and let himself into the house. A moment later he was out again. For the second time the door banged. He went back to the post office. What a fool he'd been! He rang up again.

Could he come in to see his wife? ‘Yes. Fury the name. Should have asked before.' At the other end they heard his voice stammering, blubbering, and they said: ‘Hold the line.' He waited.

‘Unfortunately, no. The patient was in a deep sleep. Resting,' the voice concluded.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘Thank you.' He heaved a sigh of relief, put down the receiver and went out.

He felt utterly lost. He went off slowly down the road, the steps of an aimless and still bewildered man. This medium-sized person dressed in his blue serge suit, black muffler and grey cap attracted no attention. He was a standard type—Hey's Alley as well as Hatfields knew it well. The stooped shoulders, the shallow features, the old bruises, the blackness under the eyes. They knew all this. It was their world. The man dragged along, occasionally looking gutterwards. People passed him by. He looked into shop windows, glanced at passing trams, heard in his ears all the cries and sounds of the new day. He looked ill, felt lonely. He longed for Fanny home again. Nobody noticed. He was one. There were many others. Eyes looked, mouths opened and closed. Women watched Mr. Fury. A Mr. Dennis Fury. Wife in hospital. Unconscious. What was that? Nothing. The world about Hey's Alley moved. He had reared a family, loved them all. What about it? He had seen them scatter. He was old, worn. Nearing finish. What matter? Hey's Alley lived, moved, breathed. And somewhere the war was on, and ignorance and innocence joined hands like brothers in affection. Hey's Alley became a large cat that watched, an eye that waited. A large ear that listened. One came riding furiously and a knocker banged and then one heard. The war was on, still on, and ignorance and innocence paid. Who was Mr. Fury? Nobody. Who was Fanny? Never heard of her. The little man walked on and Hey's Alley swamped him.

As he neared a large bootshop Dennis Fury moved out a little towards the kerb. The world rolled by and he watched it roll, and somehow Fanny was watching it too. Stood beside him, arm through his. They were together. The traffic was rushing past. They were simply waiting in order to cross the road.

One much older than Mr. Fury, scenting a reason for his being isolated on the kerbside, went up and spoke to him. Mr. Fury at once knew he was an old sailor. He could tell a sailor anywhere. The old man came close up to him.

‘Good morning,' he said. ‘Looks like being one of them miserable days, sir.'

Mr. Fury scraped a foot on the stone. ‘You said it,' he replied quickly, his voice thick.