Our Time Is Gone (65 page)

‘Lucky for her I'm on nights,' she observed, ‘or she would have had to see herself off. She looked rather nice I thought. A month ago you wouldn't have believed it was the same woman. She looked wretched when she first came. Well, here's your health, Mary,' she said, and took a sip of her mild ale.

‘Yes, she did, I suppose,' remarked Mrs. Post, ‘but somehow—oh, I don't know—she looks more like a man to me than a woman. There are some
queer
people in the world.'

‘There are indeed, and you're no exception, Mary! Nor am I. We're all queer.' Mrs. Gumbs took another sip and then continued: ‘Can't you imagine how excited that woman'll be on that train? Going to see her son after over two years. I never read about that case myself, did you?'

‘I never read nothing,' replied Mrs. Post, and she drank her beer. ‘Never.'

‘Do you know what a slave is? Ever seen one? A real one?' asked Mrs. Gumbs.

‘Slave! Slave!' muttered Mrs. Post. ‘Oh, you mean the Uncle Tom's Cabin ones?'

‘Slaves,' repeated Mrs. Gumbs. ‘White ones, not black.'

‘Oh!—well, no—I couldn't say I have,' replied Mrs. Post, wondering what the sudden mention of slaves could signify. She had read of black slaves, but not white ones. But she could trust Mrs. Gumbs. The woman knew everything.

‘Well, then, you saw one this morning,' replied Mrs. Gumbs. ‘That woman's a slave.'

‘What woman?'

‘The woman we saw off on the train. She's a slave. Slaved for a family that laughs at her now. There are white slaves as well as black, Mary. She's one if ever there was. Lord! You should have seen her the first week she came down to work with us. We had a hospital ship—at least I still think it was. Anyhow, she'd never been on any kind of a ship in her life. Now isn't
that
strange! A husband at sea all his life,
and
a son, and she's never stepped on a boat. But it
was
funny. She was so upset. Went and sicked herself in the'tween-deck, because one of the women found a man's leg. I ask you! A leg! A mere leg! Why I went to work on a ship that came in with troops from India, and when I went into the glory hole I found six of them dead. Aye! Stiff as Death makes them! Typhus. But a leg. An ordinary leg! Good heavens! She
was
upset. And yet you can expect only two things aboard a ship—especially while this terrible war's on. A surprise and a lot of hard work. D'you know, work's made two of her. Two of her. She reared a big family and she's no better off now,
really
, than when she started. I was sorry for her, mind you, but when she told me one thing and another—well, I said to her. “Mrs., you're a great big fool of a woman and that's all you are!” She's a nice woman though, and very
good
living. Every Friday off she goes to chapel. Sometimes I've envied her. She can look so peaceful—so contented, so happy.'

‘I've never been in a church in all my life,' remarked Mrs. Post. ‘When I was little, oh—probably about four—well, when I was about four my father came home one day in a temper, because something had happened at his work. I don't know what. But I do know that in the afternoon Mr. Swate, he was our minister, he came and tried to calm my father down. I wish I could remember what it was—but it doesn't matter anyway. But when Mr. Swate had gone there was only me and my father in the house. He said to me: “Mary! God's no gentleman, and I know it.” It was a strange thing to say and from that day he never would allow me to go to any chapel or church. And I never have. Not to this day.'

Here Mrs. Post finished off her glass of beer, and rose for imminent departure. Mrs. Gumbs drank off hers, got up too. They left the refreshment room and walked slowly down the platform. They walked slowly, almost aimlessly, like two people bent on no particular destination, and they nodded their heads and each talked and listened very attentively to what the other had to say. Life rolled past them and they were indifferent to it.

‘I suppose she's well on her way now,' said Mrs. Post.

‘Well on! Two months ago her son came home on leave from the Navy. Such a nice boy he was. Such a nice boy,' and there was something almost ominous about Mrs. Gumbs's concentration on the future tense. ‘Awfully nice he was. I felt sorry for
him
in a way. He talked to me a lot. My! He does think a lot of his mother! Such devotion, Mary! Such devotion. He and his girl took her out to the theatre. Really, if you'd seen her face when she came back—well,
really
, it would have made your heart go swish-swash like a jelly, you could tell how much the creature had loved it. You know how I mean, Mary. And some people who never expect such surprises always go to pieces. It's the kindness, I suppose. Well, I've seen kindness in my time, and I suppose you have too, but bless us, Mrs. Fury felt she was in heaven. His girl was so sweet to her, too. The woman cried like a baby the morning he went. But you could hardly blame her. It made me wish I had had a son like that. So nice, so decent.'

It would have been surprising if Anthony Fury's ears did not burn, aboard his ship, somewhere in the North Sea, at this catalogue of praises. But Mrs. Gumbs would say she had had so much experience in the world that she knew what was nice and what wasn't.

‘He struck me as genuine, Mary, and that's saying something in these days. Besides, I've always said that there are no short cuts to it. Never was, never will be …'

She blew her nose into a new white linen handkerchief. Mrs. Post and she had now reached the end of the platform.

‘Better turn down this way,' said Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Else you'll have to go along the fish platform, an awfully smelly place and
so
slippery. Yes, it made me curious about her other children. He was a fine-looking lad.'

‘I never knew she had a large family,' remarked Mrs. Post.

At this moment a burly-looking gentleman bumped into them, apologized profusely, but they passed on in silence.

‘Oh yes! They've a daughter—but it seems she ran off and left her husband. There was another lad. She often talked about him. It seems he was killed at the docks. Oh, years and years ago. John his name was. But she has two other sons. The one she's gone off to see. Only a child,
really
, about eighteen or nineteen. Then there's another son who's an officer or something in the New Army. But she never said much about him. Her husband is away all the time, though she says he's coming home soon. Well, every woman says that. Nothing like kidding yourself up, Mary. Look at all those poor lads getting killed and think of that nice lad out on the sea. Thinking of his mother and his girl, and not any war at all. Why, the whole world is just kidding itself. Her man mightn't be home for months, perhaps years. Never know. Can't tell! Wars are awful,
really
.'

‘I suppose they are—at least to us who don't fight in them,' Mrs. Post said.

They had reached the station entrance.

‘Had anything out of the way lately?' Mrs. Gumbs asked, as her eye followed the passing trams, her eye subconsciously searching for 12B. ‘I mean in the salvage line.'

‘Well, we had about a thousand bales of American cotton to work on last Tuesday. Curious how these fires are taking place on ships all the while. Them Germans, I suppose. They're dreadful, aren't they? And the things they do!'

Mrs. Gumbs said bluntly: ‘I don't know. Never met any Germans, except one or two on ships before this war started, and they seemed just ordinary people to me, like everybody else. Hadn't we better catch the tram? My! What an awful lot of soldiers and sailors are about. You hardly see a civilian.'

They caught the next tram, and were rocked, whirled and shaken back to Edcott Court. At Mrs. Gumbs's door they stopped.

‘I enjoyed the walk.'

‘So did I, Mary! Well, we must have another one soon. Thank you for coming.'

‘Welcome,' said Mary. ‘Ta-ta now,' and she went off down the steps.

Mrs. Gumbs went into her room. The clock showed ten minutes past eleven. Too late for a second breakfast, too early for dinner, but time for a cup of tea. And then a lay down till four, and she'd leave the dinner simmering on the hob, and have a sleep. And then she would feel more like work. How fortunate that she was on night work. She took off coat and hat and flung them on the horsehair sofa. She kicked off her shoes, and stretched her legs on the mat. The fire burned bright, and she listened to the kettle sing.

‘I'm sure something would have happened if I hadn't gone with her this morning,' she was telling herself. It was fortunate she was on night work this week. The woman was so highly strung, so difficult to deal with. ‘But I'd have been nothing but a stone wall or a dumb cow not to have gone with her.' Well, she was gone now, and before tea-time had passed she would have seen her son.

Mrs. Gumbs felt as pleased about this as if it had been her own son. And the excitement! The excitement! The whole thing was vivid in her mind. It had happened so unexpectedly. She had been cleaning upstairs, when her door was burst in and the excited woman waving a letter had cried out. ‘Mrs. Gumbs! Mrs. Gumbs! Look! Look! Mrs. Gumbs!'

She had looked. Read the letter. It was Mrs. Fury's miracle. It was from a Mr. Trears. She remembered every word of it. Almost like one of those advertisements you saw in the paper, saying: ‘And if Mrs. So-and-so will call at such a place, she will hear of something to her advantage.'

Exactly the same. ‘Well! Well! It makes me laugh,' she said aloud to the silent room. ‘The creature! And she had made so many journeys, day after day, week in, week out. It surprised Mrs. Gumbs that any solicitor could be so patient with a person like Fanny Fury. She recalled the conversation.

‘Well, dear, I
am
glad.
Really
. You've waited so long. Lord! I wish I had your faith, Mrs., but you Catholics—you Catholics … Well! Well! Well!'

Mrs. Fury had thrown her arms round her. Hugged her. ‘Isn't it wonderful?'

‘It is, dear! Wonderful! I'm as pleased about it as though he were my son too.'

The woman had cried and laughed over her shoulder. She had given her a tiny drop of brandy in a cup. Mrs. Fury's excitements were not ordinary ones, not like hers and Mary Post's.

‘Here! Drink this! And for heaven's sake sit down.' She had forced the woman into the chair. ‘I know you! Keep cool, Mrs.'

She had quietened down.

‘When are you going to see Mr. Trears?'

‘Now!'

‘Oh! I'll go with you if you like.'

‘No! It's all right, thank you, Mrs. Gumbs. I'd rather go by myself. Honestly.'

‘I understand,' replied Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Just please yourself. I know how you must be feeling. I'm glad, for ever since we've been friends I've been thinking of your boy all alone up there in the North. All the same, you
are
a changed woman. The work. It's the work. Nothing like it. I swear by it,' and her philosophizings were only cut short by the fact that Mrs. Fury was going
now
. She had gone, rushing downstairs with a lightness of step that astonished.

‘Wonderful heart that woman has,' reflected Mrs. Gumbs. Then she made her cup of tea, afterwards washed up. She had been without sleep since five the previous evening.

Somebody hammered at the door later, but went away disappointed. Mrs. Gumbs was soundly asleep. At seven she must be down to work again, work that was a ‘wonderful thing to do, and the sure cure for everybody, for the whole world.'

Meanwhile the Gelton express to Darton had now attained the astonishing speed of forty-five miles an hour, and the subject of Mrs. Gumbs's reflections was rocked to and fro, thrown from side to side of the carriage, and this between periodic bursts of crying and laughing. She was glad she was alone. She wanted to be alone
all
the way. She was happy and she was sad. Often she looked out of the window, at the winter landscape, the bare trees, the fallow fields, the wintry grass, and nothing moving on the landscape and sheep, sheep, sheep wherever she looked.

‘How good God is!' she said. ‘How good!' and she sat erect in her seat, as though a sudden thought had determined this movement of her body. ‘Mrs. Gumbs is right. I'm a lucky woman. I know, but only because God is good.'

She knew this, she believed this; it was a flag to wrap round herself, it was the hand to clutch, to feel, it was the goodness to look at.

‘I wonder what he's like! Poor Peter! His hair, his eyes like mine. Dear me! I wonder if he knows. But I think he must!'

And then she began to enjoy this feeling of being rocked, of being lulled into a state of perfect peace and content. It had come. It had happened. And so quickly. She wasn't thinking of it, nor hoping, nor remembering, she had lost sight of it altogether, for the moment had forgotten it. The air was so full of Anthony's voice. She saw so much of his face,
her
face.

‘Good heavens! He's the very one I thought wouldn't,' she mused. ‘What a sweet girl! How sensible. It's so easy to be clean and decent and respectable. Well! Well! I'd hardly expected it. Denny
will
laugh! Oh, Denny, you don't know how much I cling to you. You don't.'

She hoped it wasn't too late to cling. It was too late to grasp. Yes. She knew! Things were slipping away, the old things, old-time laughs, things done, slipping away. What a scatter! All gone! All gone! And then she cried a bit, wiped her eyes, laughed a bit. She wasn't hungry, wasn't cold, wasn't afraid.

‘I wonder what he'll be like? Dear God! You are so good! And Your Sweet Mother! Dear me! Dear me!'

Clattering sounds swelled into the air as the train cleared the points, the sudden cry of steel birds. She got up and shut down the window. Acid smoke and clinkers kept coming in. Over the seat in front of her, and in between pictorial advertisements of Cornwall and Brighton there was fixed a mirror, and she got up and stood in front of it.