Our Time Is Gone (40 page)

But she never went.

They were very quiet evenings. Like her new friend she liked her room, and the door shut of an evening. Beyond it the world brayed and yelled or got itself excited. But what did the world matter, anyhow? More than once Mrs. Gumbs felt that that immunity from the world, coupled with the beauty of Mrs. Fury's Friday evening pilgrimages, might make towards a perfection; and surely her goings and comings revealed it. She came back looking rested. There was a serenity about the woman. This new friend was something she had never met before. It astounded Mrs. Gumbs herself that this woman could make her think like this. In
her
world people did not go pilgrimages on Friday evenings. Now she felt she wanted to know this woman more.

Here she was on the bench beside her, and without a doubt she was thinking of her children and of her husband, of how through one weakness—or perhaps the wrong kind of strength even—she had suddenly lost hold on them. Mrs. Gumbs had been able to piece a picture from odd words, an occasional hint. She knew two were at sea, one a captain in the army, and two others lost to sight, so to speak. But then the world was full of such struggles, thought Mrs. Gumbs suddenly. She found herself saying:

‘What, most of all, above
all
things, would you like to have happen to you?' and her intimacy stretched a point and she put a hand on the other's arm. What would Mrs. like most to happen?

Instead Mrs. Fury said: ‘What about you, Mrs. Gumbs?'

‘Me!' laughed Mrs. Gumbs. ‘To tell you the truth—nothing. You see, you reach an age when nothing matters. Now what do they call it?—well, you rest on your oars, as the sailors say, and you don't want anything more to happen—because it doesn't matter. You're younger than me, Mrs., and things could still happen to you yet. Never fear that. Tell me, would you like to see all your family rise in the world, or would you like them to be all around you and knowing everyone had failed, not you, but themselves, which is worse? You see, Mrs., I've had an education and it wasn't the slightest use to me, just because I had no ambition of any kind. It's easier to watch the world moving round you, than it is to make it do the moving. Just wait till you get to know the people down there, Mrs., the sailors, the captains, the engineers. You'll see what I mean. I like being ordered about. That's funny, isn't it? But I
do,
' and here she became emphatic, suddenly bringing the flat of her hand down on Mrs. Fury's knee.

‘No responsibilities. That's the thing. That's why at sixty-eight I'm as strong as you and even more contented, Mrs. My mother thought she was doing me a good turn by sending me to college when I was young—but, like you saw, I did her a bad turn back. That's how it is. You'll go the way you have to go. No other! Look at the people I work with—and it
is
work, Mrs. Look at them. Some of them live in this very Court. Some of them can't write their names, some have children every five minutes. But they're happy. Because they don't worry about things. They just do their work.'

Twice Mrs. Fury smiled. This woman was clever. What on earth was she doing here in this place?—and that kind of work too. Well, perhaps she had run away from something worse, in spite of her talk. And as though the other woman had already divined her thoughts, she went on and at the same time drew nearer to Mrs. Fury.

‘You may smile, Mrs., but I'm right. I know I'm right. Just look at you. A whole lifetime in one street, doing one thing, hoping one thing. You've slaved for them till they grew up. Well, you get nothing from it, Mrs. Nothing, not even a cold stone, and you can't sit there and tell me so.'

‘I was happy, Mrs. Gumbs,' said Mrs. Fury, turning and looking into the other's eyes.

‘Nonsense, Mrs.! You can't tell me. I don't look at the back of people's hands. I know.'

Yes, she knew. Always did. Everything, and Mrs. Fury's smile broadened. But not at what her companion said, or thought. She smiled at greater knowledge. She was actually growing less lonely, her mind had ceased spinning, her spirit felt quietened, less lonely, her face cool. It was this woman. This curious, almost comical-looking Mrs. Gumbs. Even the name amused. An educated old woman without a doubt. But a curious idea about God. Yes, she did not forget that. A very curious idea of God.

Mrs. Gumbs continued: ‘Happy! Rot! I don't believe it. You're only a poor woman like myself. I like that. There's advantages in being poor. But when were you ever happy? Rot! How are you? It's all a long struggle. I know! I haven't experienced it, but I've seen it, and why shouldn't I know as much as you? Every day a struggle, every day a hope, Mrs., every day a plan, a wait, a wondering. Will this be right? Is this wrong? What will happen to him? Is she doing right? What will he think? What's the happiness? Years ago, Mrs., I knew a young girl who got married to a very nice young man. Her father didn't approve. The girl married in spite of that. She said she loved the young man. From that day the girl went to pieces. Believe it or don't—when you love things, happiness is over. Is that silly? Course not. It's not something like cake. If you had thought more of yourself than your children you wouldn't be sitting on that bench, listening to me. You don't know what being content is, Mrs., that's the truth.'

‘I'm not thinking of my children. What makes you think that? I'm just feeling quiet and rested. And, Mrs. Gumbs, I don't believe you. I mean—but then you are not what I am. I mean—but you know, I have my religion, I always had. It held me up. It still holds me up.' She took Mrs. Gumbs's arm and holding it tightly, as though she must
hold
the woman there, continued: ‘You're not happy yourself. I know. You don't believe in anything. But I do.'

She got up from the bench. It was getting cold, darkness seemed to have swallowed up Edcott Court. A strong wind from the west was blowing in over the river. Mrs. Gumbs got up too. Slowly they walked back to their rooms. Horns sounded on the river-front. Suddenly Mrs. Fury stopped dead.

‘Those horns sounding like that. It makes me think of my husband and my son far away on the sea, Mrs. Gumbs. And if I were a contented woman I would walk on, never hearing them blow. But I do hear them, because when those belonging to you are away, you have to think of them, and go on loving them. You would have made a fine wife, I'm sure,' and she started to laugh.

‘You know, Mrs., the first night you came here with your handcart of furniture, and the cart came into the yard, I was standing in my window watching you, and d'you know what I said. I'll tell you. I said: “I like that woman's face, there's something good in it.” And I said, “That woman looks ill.” I said, “There she is with her few sticks arriving from some other part of Gelton.” And the next day I heard what your name was and I remembered reading all about that case of your son. I knew then you had come here because you wanted to hide away, because you were disappointed, because things didn't happen as you hoped they would, and I watched you come to the stairs. I heard you climb up. Twice I saw you. I said I'd like to know that woman, because I like her face. That, Mrs., is the God's truth. Before you came I never spoke much to people. I used to go off on my own of an evening. I have no relations living now. They are all gone. I came here to live nearly a quarter of a century ago. Here I am still, and still going. But where you are different from me, Mrs., is this.
You
go to church. You
believe
. That makes you good. But in my family they had different ideas. And if I have funny ideas about God, what matter. Now I'm going in,' she concluded.

They had been on the bench a whole hour. Slowly they climbed the stairs. At Mrs. Fury's room they stopped. Would Mrs. Gumbs like—but the woman shook her head, said: ‘Good night,' and went on up to her room.

Mrs. Fury bolted her door. She made the bed, put the kettle on to make some tea. She felt cheered by the woman. She had never before talked to anybody like that. The only unacceptable part of Mrs. Gumbs was that which held those curious ideas about God.

After having some tea, she said her night prayers at the altar, named aloud every member of her family, named Mrs. Gumbs, and then, making a sign of the cross, she got up, undressed, and climbed into the bed. She had made up her mind. She would go to work with Mrs. Gumbs. She would write Denny in the morning. She would start all over again. It was worth it. Mrs. Gumbs was a woman who had had education. Something that she had never had. Nevertheless Mrs. Gumbs was wrong. God
was
good. She believed in God, and to-morrow would be different.

II

‘Well, here you are,' said Mr. Kilkey.

Yes, there she was with her new black coat and her imitation fur collar. ‘Rabbits,' thought Mr. Kilkey, though no expert in furs. And her mass of hair blowing triumphant in the Blacksea breeze …

There she was, and he hadn't seen her for God knows how long. Little changed except something about the Blacksea air seemed to have brought a hardening to her features. Her canary gloves and her new patent-leather shoes. Looking at him as though he had suddenly descended from the clouds, and not out of the grinding stuffy train. The Blacksea street in which they stood was no-man's land.

It was a bit of a shock to bump into your husband just as you were leaving Miss Lamber's to go back to Brick Row, and all that Brick Row meant. And when your husband had been so far, far away, lost in the dim vastness of the mind, it
was
a shock. So that beyond the staccato ‘Joe! Hello!' she had not uttered a word, but just stood there staring at him, and Joseph Kilkey's temper was not improved. This temper was really a foreign body, no part of Mr. Kilkey's make up. It was pressed so deep down that he had almost forgotten he had it, and now he had to flog it into action. He knew he had one, but it rarely troubled him. Now it rose, and he mustn't let it get too far. Somehow he heard its first mutterings in the long train journey which had been the worst journey he had ever made. Still, he was determined not to lose his temper. He could feel it roaming about inside him.

‘I haven't come all this way just for a joke, Maureen,' he said. ‘Nor have I the time to be hanging round here. I've to get back to Gelton by half-past seven. I have my work to go to. If you've nothing to say, that's all right. But I have, you know!' he concluded, laying emphasis on the two final words, as he shifted from one side of Mrs. Kilkey to the other. ‘And don't stare at me as though you'd never seen me!'

‘What did you come for?' she found herself asking, at the same time wishing the encounter wasn't so public. If only it was dark, but it wasn't; and there they stood, right in the centre of one of Blacksea's clean, wide,
too
clean streets, with its spick and span asphalt, grey stone and granite. A cold street, a winter street. Silent houses, shut doors. The winter hunger of Blacksea.

‘Well, for heaven's sake say something,' he said.

‘I did. I asked what you came for? Joe, don't you understand, I can't——'

‘I don't want you to,' he replied coldly. ‘I never came about you. I came for Dermod.'

‘Oh!' and she was silent. She looked away down the street. A lump came into her throat. She couldn't speak. She hadn't
quite
expected that. Her mind was so trained to the opposite in this man. But somehow, overnight as it were, he had changed.

‘I found out where you'd come to,' said Mr. Kilkey, ‘I went to your old address. And only by sheer accident did I get this address. Anyhow, here I am. I saw a man at Brick Row. I suppose it's
him
. Where I work they wouldn't call him a man. Anyhow, that's none of my business. He didn't know who I was. He told me you'd gone to a Miss Lamber. Where is Dermod?' he asked.

‘He's there,' she said.

She felt weak, ashamed; he never once took his eyes off her. Yet this very sense of weakness and shame sealed the roots of a stubborn determination in her. How he stared at her! She noticed he was growing a moustache.

‘
Who's
there?'

‘Dermod is,' she said, and at last she was free of those eyes. ‘At Miss Lamber's.'

‘What's he doing there?' he asked. His manner was becoming truculent.

‘Well, he stays there when I can't have him,' she replied.

‘Oh! What do
you
do when you can't have him?' he said, and stared at her shoes.

‘Well—oh, why have you come here now? What do you want, anyhow?'

‘Nothing from you. You'd best come along with me to see this woman,' he said.

Now it was Joseph Kilkey's turn to feel surprised, for Maureen turned round and went slowly ahead of him towards the Lambers' house. It was this something, sheep-like, that surprised. For a moment he felt uncomfortable. Then he caught up with her, walked at her side.

‘The next street but one,' she said.

‘Look here, Maureen', he began, and at the same time he was reflecting upon the long boring journey back to Gelton. ‘Look here, you needn't think I've come up here to make a bother. If you do, you're mistaken. I came up here for one reason only. Dermod is coming back with me. I've been a fool all along, and I should never have let him go. But, like you always did, you played on me, and in the end you got him. In a way I was glad. I wasn't able to look after him. And it's unfair to keep any child from his mother. But I know somebody who can be a better mother than Miss Lamber. That's who's mothering him. You don't care a damn really so long as you can get what you want. And by the look of you you've got it,' he said. ‘The trouble with you all along is that your head was too big. Even if you did make a mistake, though I believe you lie about it—still, it doesn't stop me from telling you that that's what's wrong with you. Head full of nonsense. You're pretty and all that. Well, Maureen, I've seen hundreds like you. Hundreds. I——'