Our Time Is Gone (31 page)

Denny had gone, who should never have had to go. That was one of the debts that faith and goodness paid. But he was right, the simple-hearted, loose-tongued creature was right. She had only him. She learned this at the age of sixty-three. You learned it after forty-five years of marriage. You learned it here on the flat of your back. No! She did not want to see Father Moynihan again. She liked him, he was good. But she wanted to go now. She wanted to rise up out of the bed, this very moment and hide.

Suddenly she turned over on her side and covered her head with the bedclothes. How had they found her? She was so sure she had finally lost herself. Well, as soon as she was able she would be on the move again. She would leave Hey's Alley. It was no home—never would be. She'd live quietly in her own way and wait for Denny. Oh! Why had he to go now—now—of all days?

Something made her put her hand under the pillow. She took out Anthony's letter. She unfolded it and began to read, but soon the words became blurs that danced to and fro across the page. What part of the world was he in? What would he be doing now? And a group of quick, fanciful pictures began to grow in her mind. And how was he getting on with life? She could see him standing at the end of her bed. He was always shy. The quiet one, this one said little or nothing, and made no fuss. The one without vice, the one good son she had, who went to work and didn't tell the whole world about it. Who went on quickly with his job. Who had fallen from the mast of a ship and laughed about it. Who only wanted a piano-accordion to make full his days.

Simple, good natured—that little growl of his about money being spent on Peter at college had been only a little accidental growl. He was the best of them all. She wondered what he would do for himself. Wondering this she fell asleep.

She did not wake till early the next morning. She felt better. She wanted to go. To be free, to go and hide. Didn't want to see anybody. She would have the few pounds, monthly from her husband. And suddenly she became a nuisance. She worried and badgered at the staff. She
was
better, she wanted to go. She knew she was better. She didn't want to lie here any more. Lying there and people coming to see you. She didn't want to see people. She had had enough of it. Day by day and hour by hour she worried them, and the more she worried them, the more confident she began to feel.

One morning they found her up, dressing herself. They called the doctor. He looked at her, this tall, thin woman with her long face and the curious mouth, the hard mouth, and he looked at her hands, hard, mishapen, red, coarse hands. She was deaf to all advice. They would not stop her. Did she feel better? She had nothing more to say. She had said it all. She completed dressing, then asked for her hat and coat. Did she realize that she left of her own free will, the responsibility would not lie on the hospital? She wasn't compelled to stay but they wanted to get her really better? She sailed down the ward carrying under her arm the black handbag packed with newspapers.

‘I understand everything now,' she said, as she was given her coat, hat and two newly washed handkerchiefs. ‘Thank you! You have been kind.'

They watched her go.

‘What a stubborn, fiercely independent woman,' the doctor said. There was something he admired about it.

When she had passed out of the door it was though a gust of wind had come and gone. Yes, she understood everything now. She would be gone out of Hey's Alley to-morrow. That became a determination. Nobody had come. Only Denny! Not one of the others. Father Moynihan had just
blown
through.

She walked slowly along the road, stopped to grip the railings, suddenly feeling weak. But that was only the lying there, lying there with nothing to do but think. Glad she was out of it. A few more yards and there was the tram. The conductor helped her on. The tram moved off. The tram's rhythm took up the words in her head and began to rock them:

‘Out of Hey's Alley! Out of Hey's Alley!'

‘Well,' thought Mr. Fury as he left the hospital that evening, ‘that was that!' He had got it over. It had been something of an ordeal. Still, he had managed it very nicely. He had held in his real feelings. Why? Because he
had
to. More, he had taken these feelings and throttled them. Because he had to. He daren't show them. He knew Fanny. He knew he would never sail, if he did. He didn't want to sail, to leave her like that. But he
had
to sail. And something in him, a sort of instinctive and irresistible hand had got hold of those feelings and held them safe. There she was.

How did he know how long he would be away? The things she might do, for he knew she was a stubborn, headlong creature. He had to go, knowing nothing but the old things. There were no new ones. Dreams—day-dreaming. Cottages in Ireland. Rubbish! You could see through all that. Just like a looking-glass. Words. Simply words. He
had
to sail, had to walk out of that hospital and leave her alone. Well, he had got through with it. One could hope for the best. That she would get over this illness, and that in a trip or two he'd be able to find other work, so that he would be with her for good. Shore work. That, one could think about.

Desmond had come to see him and he had promised. But he had never gone near his mother. Then blast him! One might think one's mother was a plague, a devil. One kept finding out things about people all the time. Life was a sort of mess. It was nice sitting in there and talking to her, and even understanding the poor silly woman. ‘A poor silly woman.' No matter. She was his. And this coming outside. It was like entering an ice-field. There were two things, two more things he had to do. He would see Mr. Kilkey, and then, if he had time, Father Moynihan. That done he too was free. He could sail knowing that one or other of them would look to his wife.

He had walked on in the slight drizzle, his feelings, those bottled-up feelings, those knotted and buried feelings, now having the weight of lead. He heard cars roar and ships blow, and people went by, but the ships blew all the time. You had to listen to that. Being told that you hadn't to forget they were there—and waiting for
you
. Eventually he reached Price Street. He would catch Joe before he went off to work. It was only eight o'clock. And in the darkness familiar faces didn't count. That was good. And at number six he knocked, knocked twice, three times, but no door opened.

At first he was surprised, then disappointed. Surely he couldn't be out.
Impossible
. Joe was as sure as the sun. He
couldn't
be out. Too early for work. Repeated knockings brought the woman next door to the front step. She saw the man standing on the step. A stranger. She didn't know him.

‘Who are you looking for?' she called across to him, and he looked up, hearing the voice, saw the shadow, then the white face out of the darkness.

‘Mr. Kilkey,' he said, ‘I've been knocking here for five minutes,' and his tone of voice, his attitude, as she came off her step and stood close to him, was that of a person who felt that Joe Kilkey
should
be in, and in fact had no right to be out at all.

With folded arms, Mrs. Ditchley spoke. ‘He's not back yet.'

‘Not back! How long's he out?' Mr. Fury looked up and down the street.

‘He's been out all day,' Mrs. Ditchley said. ‘I can't tell you when he'll be back.'

‘Out where? But he's on nights, isn't he?' asked Mr. Fury with savage insistence.

‘What a funny man, a queer little man!' reflected Mrs. Ditchley. ‘Well, he
has
been out since ten o'clock this morning, and if you want to know he went off to Blacksea,' and she turned to go.

‘Blacksea! What the hell does he want there?' The man seemed quite bewildered. ‘Blacksea! All day. Funny to me! He never goes out.'

‘Funny to me, too!' she replied tartly. ‘What's seen him off regular to his work this year or so. But that's all I can tell you. I never interest myself in other people's business. He'll be back some time, I suppose.'

‘Oh! I see,' said Mr. Fury, ‘sorry to bother you. I
did
want to see him.'

‘Well, you can't if he's not here, can you?' exclaimed the other, and she walked off back to her door. Who was this grumbling man, anyhow?

‘No! I don't suppose I can! Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs.——'

‘Ditchley's my name,' she said. ‘What's yours?'

‘That doesn't matter to you, missus,' he said. ‘Sorry to bother you. Good night.'

He walked off down the street. Out! At Blacksea. Why, that was sixty miles away. Now what the hell was that fellow Kilkey doing in Blacksea? Dennis Fury turned corners, went down one street, up another. Familiar-looking places like ‘The Grapes' and ‘The Crow's Nest,' he skirted quickly past. He went straight to Saint Sebastian's chapel.

Was Father Moynihan in? Yes. Buthewasbusy instructing children in Latin. What was it? Who was he? Mr. Fury gave his name. He felt shyer than ever; he had an uncomfortable feeling that though he was going away to sea, and heaven only knew for how long and to what he was going, he was being pushed and thrust towards the sea, as if people were avoiding him. Desmond making a promise and never keeping it. Peter asking the impossible of him. Maureen lost—Anthony writing to his mother but never to him. These things flung together, became a waste of water that sapped at his spirit.

Well, here was Father Moyniham hurrying towards him. And what a hurry he was in! And wearing his surplice too. Mr. Fury wanted to go, enter a tram and get back to Hey's bloody Alley. ‘Good evening, Father,' he said. ‘Good evening, Father.'

‘Good evening, Mr. Fury. And what can I do for you?' he asked, looking at Mr. Fury's feet. What a hurry he seemed to be in. Now he didn't know what to say. What had he meant to say? A damned nuisance that's what he was.

‘I only just called, Father! Sorry you're busy.'

‘Don't stand there, man. Come in. Come in,' and he opened the door wide.

Mr. Fury slipped inside. He stood there, feeling a nuisance, awkward, swinging his cap, not knowing what to say. And he could see the priest was in a hurry over something. He stammered out something about Fanny.

‘Have to sail to-morrow. Just thought I'd see you, Father,' he began. ‘I wondered if you could call and see Fanny now and again,' and then he became apologetic, the nuisance in him had suddenly magnified itself. ‘'Course she's getting better now, Father, I mean to say'—pause—yes he meant to say—this—that—the other—nobody had come—nobody was in—everybody was in a terrible hurry—he had to go—he was worried—‘I mean I'd be glad, Father, if you'd keep your eye on the woman.'

‘Of course! Of course! So you're going to-morrow. Well! Well!' and in his ears he could hear the raucous cries of those boys in the back of the vestry, to whom he was teaching Latin, and there they were carrying on as soon as he turned his back. ‘Yes. Well, I wish you'd called earlier, Mr. Fury. Best of luck to you. God bless you, my child. Good night.'

Yes. Should have called earlier. But he had been at Price Street. Should have called earlier, but he was saying good-bye to his wife. Should—pity he hadn't called earlier, but he was packing his bag, and feeling frightened and sad in No. 17 Hey's bloody Alley.

‘Good-bye! Good-bye.'

The door closed. He was out again. Out again in the ice-field. He stood looking back at the house. The light had been switched out. Yes. He was out all right. ‘And a bloody nuisance into the bargain. Blast it, I'll have a drink!' and he stamped off down Sebastian Place.

All for nothing, a lot of tramping for nothing. He might have gone right back home. Been sleeping soundly instead of wandering around here. A place full of ghosts. But if he liked to step into the light the ghosts might talk. Instead he stepped into the bar of ‘The Pitch-Pine,' and called for a pint of beer. He carried it to the far end of the room and sat down.

‘Thank the Lord I'm going. Somehow—some bloody how—spite of all that woman says, I do—yes I do feel happier when I'm off to sea. Just wasting my time. That's all. People are good, but sometimes they're not too bloody good.'

That was it. And so far as he was concerned this applied to Father Moynihan and the rest. They were busy! H'm! And he wasn't. No! He just strolled around and blinked at the world—aye! What
some
people thought would sink more than a ship.

‘Blast it!'

He looked round the pub. Same old walls, same old shelves, same decorated ceiling, tall seats, shining mirrors. Aye! He had once got drunk here with his sister-in-law. But the faces were new. All strangers to him. No! It was like going off without even a handshake. He was in the road. Kilkey gone—Fanny still wanting him to do
this
and that. Go with him to Mount Mellery. Like going on a trip to Heaven. The priest was busy.

Desmond gave him a drink and left a pound for him. To get drunk on he supposed.

‘Well, to hell with it. I'll drink my own bloody health, anyhow!'

Ah! To hell with everything! The whole world was very busy. Yes. Very busy! Too busy for him—too busy for Fanny! It was Desmond's world, and Maureen's and Anthony's. It was Father Moynihan's world. He raised his glass.

‘Here's to you, Fanny woman, and here's to myself. Our time's gone, Fanny. That's what it is. Our time's gone.'

Yes. The whole world was in a terrible hurry, but
they
stood out of the reach of its feet. Yes. They had to hold together now, Fanny and he.

‘Here's to you again, Fanny woman, here's to—damn!' he exclaimed, as the glass shook and his trousers became stained with beer.

‘Hello there!' said the voice for the second time. ‘Well, I'll be hanged. I'll
be
hanged.'

It was the first ‘Hello,' that had made Mr. Fury's hand shake. Now who could it be?