Our Time Is Gone (10 page)

Nobody was more surprised than Maureen when her husband sent five shillings, then ten, and now he had been sending five shillings every week, payable to ‘Maureen Kilkey at the General Post Office, Gelton.' She handed this money over to Slye without a word. He didn't even thank her. Besides, the machinery necessary even for the extraction of a farthing was so intricate that by the time the cash was reckoned up there was no effort left except for the most curt thanks.

‘Comes in handy,' Mr. Slye said. ‘Trade's bad! Might have thought of it before.'

Trade indeed was bad. People weren't having the accidents they used to. Nobody, at least this past two months, had shown the slightest interest in ‘fine-art models' for students only, nor indeed was Mrs. Sloane effecting any business. In brief, business was at the ebb. The world was growing too good; either that or Slye's methods had been superseded by better ones. The weight of responsibility upon one who used his wits for a living was indeed heavy. Joseph Kilkey was a godsend. Mr. Slye set himself to find out all about Mr. Kilkey. Stevedore. Aged fifty. Personal appearance. Didn't matter. Regular work. As much as three pounds a week. Quiet liver. Teetotal, etc. etc. Maureen felt she had descended into the gutter at last. But it made no difference to her passionate love for Mr. Slye.

He ran a fat finger up and down the window-pane. Now the silly crying bitch had gone out. Her mother ill. As though the world wasn't full of mothers who were ill. A condition of humanity, a normal one and nothing to cry about. Well, if she wasn't back by one o'clock, then he didn't know—he didn't. ‘I don't know,' he cried into the empty room. In half an hour he'd have to go out and see that fellow Phils. He wished he hadn't to go.

A knock at the door below sent him rushing from the room. The seedy-looking man he admitted immediately began breathing heavily, sending stale breaths into an already stale room. He sat down at once. Looked at Mr. Slye.

‘What's happened?' asked Slye, tapping his fat hands and ample knees.

‘They're prosecuting all right. Denby told me! Case comes on at eleven. You'll be dragged in. Silly bastard of a woman! They roped Levin.'

‘Who's prosecuting solicitor?'

‘Trears.'

‘Who?' and Mr. Slye put a hand behind an ear, suddenly become very deaf.

‘Trears. Lawrence Trears and Badgers. They're always prosecuting some poor sod!'

‘Trears! By God I've heard that name somewhere.' Mr. Slye scratched his head. ‘Lawrence Trears.' Yes, he was certain he'd seen his name in the papers. In a big case. ‘Let me see. Trears! Lawrence Trears and Badgers.'

‘It looks bad,' said the seedy gentleman, his hand becoming a handkerchief.

‘How bad?' Mr. Slye was on his feet at once. Stamping about. ‘How bad?'

‘Just bad, I suppose. I'm not a prophet. How do I know how bloody bad it is?'

‘All right! Don't get your shirt out. Cool, man! Cool. How's business in the holy pictures?' he put his hand behind his back, and rocked to and fro upon his heels. His agitation had subsided. He seemed cooled and collected.

‘Oh, them! Sacred Heart doesn't sell so well as the Pope, and it's a fact!'

‘How's profits?'

‘So, so.'

‘Oh! I see! You know there's money in this tombstone business. It's a science. Look at Menton. Coining money. Have a drink?' Mr. Slye was generous to-day.

‘I don't mind,' said the visitor, ‘I've had a bloody morning of it. Chasing those fellers round. It's a job, I tell you. Working on people's emotions isn't what I'd call gilt-edged.'

His name was Doogle. He was turned forty-five, though he looked seventy. His waxed moustaches bristled, but they were the only things about him that did bristle. He had a dry-worn look. If one blew hard he might fall to pieces. Mr. Doogle had been running a strong line in emotions for years, but he couldn't show much for his pains. People's emotions had had the reverse effect upon him. They wore him out. Slye had suggested his going in with him. Together they might bring off a coup. Mr. Doogle's one dream was that he might bring off such a coup. Holy pictures at the moment were at par.

‘I may have to get out of here,' remarked Mr. Slye, as he handed a glass of sherry to his commercial confrere. ‘I'm afraid of this case. Bound to be dragged into it. Certain of it. And if I am they'll come here, and see what they'll find. Just see.'

Mr. Slye waved his arm about, which embraced everywhere at once. Mr. Doogle looked idly about the cellar and sipped his sherry. Aye, thought he, Look and see. Yes. What a collection! What a sight! Romance and mystery and sweetness and every kind of excitement for the asking. Photographs in hundreds. Books in bundles, queer little gummed boxes.

Mr. Slye went to a corner of the room. At random he flung a pile of articles on to the table for Mr. Doogle's inspection. Books and pictures. Women in hundreds, standing, sitting, lying, jumping. Alluring poses, fascinating titles. Upon all this Mr. Doogle turned a cold fish-like eye. He waved a hand in the air, as though to dismiss them. Rubbish! That was all. He smiled at Slye. Well, it was a nice collection, but nice collections weren't like Shakespeare folios. You couldn't auction that lot of ‘rubbish.'

‘Never could see anything in that side, Slye. Never! You know, I always asked myself where you got this remarkable knack of yours for this business. Mind you, as a practical business man I can give you the benefit of years of hard work and experience. I never could see anything in that sort of stuff. Too risky. Besides, people are not like they used to be in Edward's time. Oh no, sir. They've improved. Yes, I'll admit that if the police called here this minute you'd be done. But if they came to see me they wouldn't find anything they could seize, see! Surprised you learned your trade in a jute factory. My father travelled in toilet papers and I began my working career mending umbrellas and selling pomade for grey hairs. Queer world, isn't it?' and Mr. Doogle sucked rather than sipped at his sherry. ‘Work on the right sort of emotions, Slye. You'll never go wrong. Now take that memorial card business. Best line you ever struck if I may say so. Tears pay. Always did. Always will. Well, I'd better be going. Just thought I'd let you know, Slye, how the world was moving. And you know—so help me, it's bloody funny, Slye, but these sort of mornings always make me look up at the sky, grey dull sky you know, and I says: “By gosh! I'll bet there's a hell of a do on the Western Front this morning,” and if there is, well sir, the market fluctuates. Holy pictures are good. Real good. How do you work it out? You know, by the look of it, I really think this war'll last for ages. Ages. Aye! Well, I'm off.'

‘Look here! I'm coming too! I can't sit in this place this morning. And that bloody woman's gone rushing off. There's a chance for you, Doogle. Her mother's a Catholic. They're a large family—plenty of trade. All the same I'll have to think over things. This territory is cleaned up. Gelton gets hot and cold in doses. Thought of making Blacksea. Looks all right. Plenty of soldiers. Plenty of business. Just half a minute,' and Mr. Slye dashed up the cellar step. When he had gone Mr. Doogle took a good look at the array of females.

‘Um!' he said. ‘Not much in the line really. See one and you've seen the lot. They're all built the same. Even humanity has its limitations. No, sir. I wouldn't touch that stuff if I was paid a fortune. Gets you a bad name.'

Mr. Slye returned. He was ready for the street. He looked what Mr. Doogle called real flourishing. ‘Like your hat, Slye! Where'd you pick it up?'

‘A woman gave it me,' said Mr. Slye. ‘Shall we go front or back way? It looks lousy outside. I've got to be back here at one, too. That bitch has gone running off just on the very morning I wanted her. I'm a bit scared, Doogle.'

Being scared didn't interest Mr. Doogle at all. ‘What bitch?' he asked, and then Mr. Slye put a hand in the small of his back and said: ‘Oh, you know.'

They found themselves in the rear area of the terrace. They set off at a sharp pace and did not slacken speed till they reached the end of the street. They halted. ‘Well, I don't know,' said Doogle emphatically. ‘Is it a new one?'

‘No! It isn't! Never mind her. Anyhow, the like of you talking of bitches! It's a real bastard this is. I don't know what'll happen if this case comes off.'

‘She'll leave you, I suppose,' replied Mr. Doogle. He pulled out a cheroot from a packet and lit it. And as he puffed he looked into Mr. Slye's small eyes.

‘Me! Not her! I may be nabbed. Look here! We can't just say good day and then calmly disappear. Though we're different in business, we can help each other. Suppose we met at Mac's. Say after seven this evening, I'd know how things stood, and you might keep your ears open,' he concluded excitedly.

Mr. Doogle said: ‘All right! That's fixed. Suppose you have to clear. Taking the wife?' Mr. Doogle smiled broadly, it was a slow cold sort of smile. ‘But that kid? You have a kid too. Taking it too?'

‘I don't know! Don't worry me. I said I don't know! Look at the time. There's Cain whom I
must
see. I don't like this Trears fellow! Heard that silly bloody name somewhere, and I've been trying to think where I heard it. Read it somewhere, I'm sure,' and now Mr. Slye removed his hat and scratched.

‘It's just another bit of mankind to me, another name, that's all,' said Mr. Doogle. ‘Well, we'll leave it at that! See you at Mac's after seven. Best of luck,' and shaking hands with Slye he added: ‘If anything happens—in a hole or anything, just ring Denton eight-double—oh, you know the number. So long,' and Mr. Doogle dashed off, leaving Mr. Slye islanded in the middle of the street.

He stood there watching, and only when Mr. Doogle vanished round the corner did Mr. Slye pull himself together, remember the awkward predicament, and finally dash off to call up Mr. Wayne. He hoped that Maureen would return prompt on time. He hoped she'd get rid of the kid. That was an obstacle. All kids were.

In Mr. Slye's profession the word fly really meant
Fly
. Yes. Either that or—well. ‘Oh, sod the swine who split,' he growled. ‘It's her. That Sloane bitch!' He knew! Well, she'd have to look out. Gelton wasn't much, but it was a kind of home. He hated the thought of having to go.

It worried Mr. Slye all the way across town, right up to Mr. Wayne's office door. When he reached the office, Mr. Wayne met him, gave him a look that read
Danger
.

‘You mustn't talk too much. I'll call you in ten minutes,' said the nurse to Maureen, as she led her up the ward. They stopped at the bed. It was still screened off. The nurse put a finger to her lips. ‘Not too long you know! She's very weak. Ten minutes. Your mother was brought here early on Tuesday morning. She had been wandering and had collapsed in the street. Her nerves are almost gone. She has terrible nightmares. We had to strap her down. But not now. She's far too weak at present.'

Then she went away. Maureen stood at the bedside. ‘Poor mother! Like this.' She said it aloud, whilst at the same time she thought: ‘I'm afraid, afraid.' Not of death, nor her mother. Only of Mr. Slye whom she loved. She was worried about it. Worried at this moment at the bedside.

‘Hello, Mother,' she said. The woman in the bed did not move. ‘Hello, Mother,' and she spoke softly in her ear.

The woman opened her eyes, looked at her for some moments, then said: ‘You there?'

‘Yes, it's me, Mother! It's awful. Are you feeling better now, Mother?' She bent down and kissed her. Then
s
he
s
at on the chair and watched her.

The woman moved restlessly in the bed, her long face was drawn, her mouth hung loose. And suddenly she appeared to be staring at her daughter out of only one eye. She was very restless. Maureen fixed the pillow behind her.

‘You never came to see me when they took Peter away,' said the woman, and the accusation came so sudden that Maureen lowered her head. She shook it slowly. No. She had never come near. She felt deeply ashamed.

‘Your father came yesterday.'

‘Did he, Mother! Poor dad! Oh, Mother, I
am
sorry to see you like this, Mother.' She lifted the woman's hand and held it to her face. She began to cry.

‘Are you?' the woman said. ‘How's the little boy?'

‘He's very well, Mother. Very well.' The blood rose to Maureen's forehead.

‘Are you still with this man, Maureen?'

Maureen bowed her head. Yes. She was still with her man. It was her man who had sent the blood mounting in her. It was hard to think of her mother. But it was hard, it was something worse; it was dreadful to think of Dick going away.

The woman had placed her hand on the sleeve of Maureen's coat. ‘I had a letter from Peter! Poor boy. He thought he was doing something for me.'

Maureen could say nothing. A lump came into her throat. The mother talked on. Beyond the screen a nurse looked at her watch. The minutes ticked away.

‘Desmond's been.'

‘Desmond? Been!'

‘They told me. Your father saw him. Oh, I'm so tired,' she said and closed her eyes.

‘Dear Mother,' said Maureen, and could hold back her feelings no longer. Now she wanted to stay. But the watch ticked the minutes away. So Desmond and dad had been. Where was Anthony? Had Joe been? She wanted to ask the questions that couldn't be answered now. The woman had fallen asleep.

Maureen sat up. She wanted to grasp her mother and hold her. But now the nurse approached. It was time to go. She had barely seen her mother, and that was all.

When she left the hospital she waited for a tram back home. There were none in sight. She walked slowly along. People looked twice at her, not at her mass of red-gold hair—she never wore hats now—nor at her new sky-blue dress, latest present from Mr. Slye. They looked at her in another way.