Our Time Is Gone (26 page)

Desmond Fury lay watching. He wasn't very much interested. One of her tantrums. How well he was getting to know her. One by one the keys were falling into his hand. He would get all the keys soon. She was
really
weak. It lay at the heart's core. He could touch it when he wanted.

‘Hadn't you better come to bed? All this nonsense about rushing off just because your brother called! My God! Is he all that important, that you have to act like this?' She did not answer him. It riled him. He shouted. ‘Get back to bed, Sheila.'

She never moved. If she stood like that much longer he would lose his temper. It wasn't the brother—
blast
the brother, it was her standing there not answering!

‘We'll leave on Saturday as arranged. I have many things to attend to.'

She never spoke. She leaned over the dressing-table studying her face. She saw him get out of bed. He was standing behind her. He was shaking her violently.

‘What's the matter with you? Have you lost your head? Such a bloody fuss!'

She turned round and looked at him. ‘Take me away to-morrow,' she said quietly. ‘I don't like my brother. I don't want to see him. Please take me out of this.'

He stood there looking at her. ‘Be sensible, darling. You know I love you. Come now.'

She drew back as he attempted to put his arms round her.

‘I am being sensible,' she said. ‘It is you who are so pig-headed. Are you going to take me out of this?'

‘Now you're being nasty.'

‘I'm not.'

He thought she was going to cry.

‘Please, Des, take me out of Gelton.'

It was that look—it was that sudden drawing back. He was giving in.

‘
I'll
see this brother of yours,' he said. ‘I
intend
to see him. I'll go right down in the morning. But it still seems silly to me to carry on as you are doing. Have you done something wrong, something you're afraid about now that he's turned up? Sheila, what in the name of hell has he got to do with us?… I think you're making a fuss. But I'll take you out of this to-morrow. Will that satisfy? We'll go on the night train. Come now, get back into bed, there's a good girl. I hate seeing you cry,' and he led her back to the bed.

‘Can't we go in the morning?' she asked as he switched out the light.

‘No! Haven't I said I'm seeing my mother to-morrow? I must see her. How do I know if I'll ever see her again? Sheila, don't be so aggravating.'

‘Desmond.' She threw her arms round him, held him tight. ‘Do you really love me?'

‘Sheila! Sheila! Do I love you! God! Do I love you.' He buried his head under the clothes, holding her tight, smothering. ‘I love you to distraction.'

‘Shall we go in the morning, Des?'

‘No! The night train. Don't let's talk about that any more. I'm tired. Got to sleep.'

He turned over, closed his eyes. He was soon asleep.

She lay awake. She was restless in the bed. He woke up, grunting. What the hell was wrong now? Somehow this woman had changed completely in a few hours. So tormenting, so irritable, so—what
was
behind this visit of her brother? He sat up in the bed.

‘What's the matter with you?' he asked irritably, switching on the light.

‘I've an awful headache, I can't sleep.'

She covered her face with her hand, running her fingers across her forehead. He got out of bed.

‘I'll get you a powder and some water.'

He went downstairs, making a terrible noise, nature having supplied him with feet that could make noises on the softest carpet. As he struck a match and lit a candle to go searching about for a glass, he asked himself if this sudden display of outright silliness wasn't just a ruse. He loved her deeply, but he had
never
been sure of her. Nor was he now. How could he forget Peter? How could he forget making her a promise that he would never probe into her past? What exactly was it? One long procession of men? What was it that made her afraid to see the brother? He returned with the glass.

Meanwhile Alice, who had been dreaming of riding on elephants, had now awakened, hearing the noise. She sat up in the darkness. When they talked she listened till four in the morning. It was all very exciting to her. Like a fairy tale in fact.

‘Here, Sheila! That'll cure your headache. Now I'm thoroughly awake. I've a good mind to go and make myself a cup of tea. I really think I will,' and he left her sipping from the glass.

Thoughts were buzzing about in his head. And somehow he couldn't think properly in that room. It was better down here in the kitchen. He sat waiting for the kettle to boil. Whilst he sat there a thought came, and the thought was that she was lying to him.

He knew now that he was afraid, terribly afraid he would lose her. She might tire of him, run off at any moment. Hadn't he always been suspicious about her? He loved her, was married to her, but he
didn't
know her.

‘No! I don't really know her properly. But one day I will, and then she
can't
go.'

There
was
something different between them. Money couldn't bridge it, strength couldn't bridge it. She was different and he was different.

‘I'm worried now,' he said to himself; ‘she's getting tired! God! I think her wonderful, but that makes no difference. If she went I couldn't hold her. I'm weak. I don't
know
her.'

He heard her calling him and went back upstairs. He carried two cups of tea in his hands. She was lying back, eyes closed. Perhaps she
did
have a headache.

‘Sheila, here! Drink this. I'm afraid my sleep's spoiled, and yours too. This blasted brother of yours is making us fall out with each other.'

He put his tea down on the table. Then he leaned on the bed, watching her sip her tea. It was past two in the morning.

‘Honest! I always said that I'll do anything you ask me, Sheila! And I
will
. Very well then. To-morrow we get out of Gelton. But I remember one day your saying that there was something about Gelton that you liked. I often have wondered what that was. Would you tell me?'

‘Yes, Des.
You
are Gelton. Here, take this cup away. Come back into bed.'

And when he had got in: ‘Switch out the light. Hold me, darling, hold me.'

They slept thus till after eight o'clock. Alice knocked with tea.

‘Good morning, Alice.'

She had heard them quarrelling. Had been waked up from a dream in which she had been riding an elephant. Had heard Captain Fury pottering about below stairs, making a terrible noise, going up and down stairs. She went out, closing the door behind her.

Desmond looked out through the window. ‘What a dull morning!'

‘Yes, isn't it?' she said, not seeing the morning or thinking of the morning. Just remembering the man in mufti who had called yesterday afternoon. Who had so violently embraced her, smothering her in brotherly kisses, and asking her questions, questions, questions. And begging her to go home and see them.
Them
. And saying he would call to-morrow because there were such a number of things to talk about. He was
so
glad to have found her. A real stroke of luck indeed. A priest had told him. It was a miracle. And how was she—was she happy at last? and he'd like to see this husband of hers.

She had said did he know that … and he had smiled.

Yes. He knew all about that business, but it didn't interest him at all. It was so filthy, wasn't it? And as she recalled the surprise of his presence, he grew up slowly in her mind, piece by piece, like a most intricate jig-saw puzzle—pieces of her life here and there mixed. And then he was complete.

Tall and slender, pale faced, and such skin. Desmond would laugh at that. A woman's skin.
Wouldn't
she go back? It was time she did. It was important, was necessary. Things were so bad there. Things were going to rack and ruin under his eyes, at least he thought so. But what could he do? And he wanted that Miss Fetch out of the place altogether. A sly woman. He had never liked her. Never. And did she know that father now lived in London? And what had made her run off like that? Marry like that?

Smiling, he hinted that he knew one or two things. Still—but he would be up to-morrow. He'd like to see this husband of hers.

And she had made tea for him, saying what a pity, but her husband had gone out. Yes. He was a captain in the army.

‘Fancy!' he had said, just like a person who thinks that army captains are a rare species. She saw him smile, saw the old trick with the lower lip, how it could drop down just like a shutter, and that old look. Rather funny. He had eyes just like a snake. Could stare at you for such a long time, without blinking. Oh, and had she heard about Pickup? Yes, Pickup! Done the most amazing things in arboricultural research.

He had made more than one enquiry after her, Mr. Pickup had. She had listened to it all, the irresponsible chatter about the war—the pleading, the enquiries. She answered the questions. She seemed to have made a mess of her life.

She said she was very happy. He said he was glad, and he made it sound fine and dramatic. He puffed smoke from Turkish cigarettes, drank the tea with a hint that he was suspicious about
it
and her, and her husband, and the house. It all seemed wrong. Living in such a place. It looked as though it would come a cropper. Still, he would see her again, now he
had
found her.

That was the great thing. He loved her just the same as ever. Why shouldn't he worry? Only sister he had. He hadn't forgotten when he was a boy, and she was kind when others had been unkind, mentioning his father, and ‘that other awful woman.' What people mother
did
put up with!

He had gone on and on, just like a large gramophone record, and she had listened and loathed, remembered and hoped. It was like a sudden cloud coming over the house. When she glanced out of the window to avoid the snake-like stare she saw not Gelton, but farther than that. She saw London. She wished for Desmond to come. Now, whilst this brother was here. But he hadn't come. Nevertheless he would come. They would meet to-morrow. And he would see something strange, though, to her, wonderful. He would measure the difference between two worlds. She saw it all, it remained vivid in her mind. She was utterly lost in contemplation, until Desmond brought her to her senses by exclaiming loudly:

‘Sheila! I can't find that confounded tie of mine anywhere. Do help me look for it, darling. Don't sit dreaming in bed at this hour of the morning. There's a lot of things to be done to-day. Come on,' he said, and half dragged, half lifted her out of the bed, and he gave her a sudden slap on the behind as she reached the floor. ‘Come on,' he said, ‘I've to be out at nine.'

She left him still dressing and went downstairs. Fully booted and spurred, spick and span, and slapping his thighs he went down to breakfast.

‘Where are you going first? You will be back at three? You
are
going?'

‘First I'm going to see this brother of yours, and as there is only one destroyer in the dock he won't be difficult to find. Save him the trouble of calling. Then I'm—in any case I'll be back round about three.'Bye, Sheila.'

And then he was gone, strutting down the drive, and telling himself that he was ‘as good as those other bastards, any time.' This occasioned discomfiture for a time, but was then quickly forgotten. But he did wish he hadn't to be continually applying this mental spur to himself. Continually reminding himself that he
was
as good as the other bastards.

Meanwhile Sheila finished her own breakfast and continued to help Alice pack. At half-past ten she went upstairs to lie down. She wasn't tired. She simply wanted to do some quiet thinking.

II

‘It's a Mr. Doogie, or Dogall, to see you, sir.'

Slye Esquire looked up. Since his arrival at Blacksea Mr. Slye had developed a new hate. This new hate now peeped round the door, and looked at the short ‘sweating' gentleman. Her name was Jinnie. That was all Slye Esquire knew. There it was, and what a face! It was thin, long, ashen in colour. It had a cold look. The snub nose always wanted a handkerchief. The reddened eyelids suggested protracted grief.

He thought the effect most odd when she smiled. He thought the whole visage rather resembled a large onion, waterlogged. It was briefly a wet face, and a bitter face. He never called her Jinnie. He called her ‘love.'

‘Well, love,' he said, thumbing a vividly illustrated Aristotle. ‘Well, love?'

‘A Mr. Doogie or something,' she said, and ‘something ‘made him smile.

‘Tell Mr. Doogle to come right in,' he said.

He relaxed on the horsehair sofa. His background seemed perfect. A warm orientalism about the wallpaper and curtains. Gigantic ferns, warm violets, outrageous pansies. A frustrated Van Gogh. Contrasted with this the remainder of the furnishings had a pallid look. There was even something pallid in Slye Esquire to synchronize with this.

The carpet shone from wear, the grate was huge, the fire burning within like a pinhead of light in a crucible. The furniture had attitudes. The bed swayed at a touch. The ideal bed for flirts but not for Slye. There had been some early haggling over this bed. Nothing had come of it.

‘Hello there!' said Mr. Doogle, coming round the door. ‘Brick bloody Row, eh?'

‘That's it. Take a seat. Have a cheroot. Just discovered them. “Cheerios” they're called.'

‘Thanks,' said Mr. Doogle who, having lighted up, reported upon events like a company secretary. Well, he had got that lot quit. O.K.? Slye Esquire nodded.

That lot. Splendid. But explain. This Mr. Doogle did after applying a second match to his ‘Cheerio.'

‘H'm! Nothing to bloat about,' he said. ‘Anyhow, I'll tell you exactly what happened. Remember those two portfolios of French tarts. Sold them for seventeen quid, and——'