Our Time Is Gone (44 page)

‘I'd rather not. I'm enjoying looking out. Why don't you read?'

But he didn't read. Instead he watched her. He enjoyed looking at her on the sly. When she wasn't looking. And how well she looked. Yes, she was a beautiful person. She was his, too. Wonderful! The world was fine. But how quiet she was. Why didn't she laugh and chat? Time to be happy.

‘Sheila?'

‘What?' She never turned from the window. ‘You are tiresome. Read your paper.' She felt his hand on her knee. She looked down at him. ‘What's the matter?'

‘I wish you'd talk. You
are
sad about something, I can tell, Sheila.'

She ran a gloved hand through his hair. ‘I'm not sad. I told you so.'

Truculently he replied: ‘But you are, what is it? I want you to be——'

‘You couldn't even understand. There, now. Go to the toilet and comb your hair. It'll be something to do,' and she turned to the window again. How
could
he understand that she loved Gelton. It was a new life, a new world to her. How could he understand that all its violence and colour and movement, even its filth—that all that was restful to her? Yes, Gelton was a restful city to her. Its violence was restful. She was far away from it now. How
could
he understand that? Simply think it funny.

Captain Fury ran his hand through his hair.

‘Des,' she said softly.

‘What?' He immediately sat down beside her.

She squeezed his hand. She had him. He was violence. He was Gelton. It wasn't too bad. He was life. She could almost feel the energy in him. She loved him for that.

‘Kiss me.'

‘Sheila,' he said. ‘Now you're talking!' and he embraced her passionately.

‘Go and tidy your hair,' she said, suddenly pushing him away. ‘People will be coming in to lunch soon. Run away now, there's a good boy.'

Laughing, he jumped up and went out. The sliding door opened and shut.

‘You
are
sad,' she said to herself, repeating her husband's words. Yes, she was. But though he said it, he knew nothing about it. What sadness was, she knew, she felt. It was a closed book to Desmond. But it didn't matter. Shared sadness was not lessened sadness. You had to hold the body of it to yourself. She
had
loved Gelton. It was her first break with living. The break from the old dead world. Why should he ever know what that dead world was? He would never understand. She didn't want him to. There was a lovely innocence in him. She wanted all that, untainted. And in the midst of these thoughts he returned to the car.

‘I'm feeling hungry,' he said, gripping his belt and rucking his tunic.

‘Splendid! Already I can smell mutton that is nearly burnt, and cabbage that has been cooked too well.'

‘So can I,' he said.

And these odours began to float into the dining-car; and presumably they rolled farther, right to the end of the train, a sort of grim warning that lunch on the Gelton express would soon be ready.

‘I always feel hungry,' he said, settling himself comfortably in his seat. The table in front of him was a constant irritation. Shining glass and cutlery. Why didn't they hurry? And why, instead of keeping a man waiting, why didn't they serve him as soon as he
was
hungry, instead of having to wait until everybody else was hungry?

‘I wish we had the whole car to ourselves,' he said. ‘Ah well, the sooner the food comes the better. You
will
eat something?'

‘You're such a big, strong, healthy person, darling,' she said. ‘Always hungry.'

‘Sometimes I wish I had a little more brain,' he said, and she detected a something almost sad in the way he said it. He wanted more brains.

‘I wish you wouldn't, then. Brains aren't everything. You're very fortunate.'

Then she looked out of the window again. So he wanted more brains? The silly man. He didn't know how fortunate he was. That was another kind of innocence. When she looked across at him, hearing a sharp noise of a metal button scraping on the glass, she found him looking out of the window. And the broad smile on his face made her ask quietly: ‘What are you smiling at?'

‘Come and look this side,' he said, ‘then you'll see.' He beckoned to her.

Outside a large gang of men were working on the line. She looked out.

‘I see,' she said. ‘I wondered what made you like the passing country so much.'

Smile. He could afford to. Sitting in a first-class dining-car, and expecting a good lunch at any minute now, and seeing those ‘mugs' working on the permanent way. What did it mean to him now? The four and the six foot—the lengths of rail, the sacks of wedges, the piles of fish-plates. The swinging hammers. They didn't mean a thing except this. That but three years ago he had been ‘one of the mugs,' and now here he was, actually on his way to London, and leaving all the mugs behind, and he could say that literally—leaving the mugs far far behind him! It made one smile, the smile rose from a feeling of gorgeous, almost resplendent satisfaction. He had pushed up and out of it. He had won. But it wasn't the end. Far from it. There were many more roads to take, many more obstacles, but he would take them in his stride. He wasn't going to worry. He was happy, and when he looked at Sheila he could see his happiness lighted up in her face. ‘By God, I'm lucky!' he reflected.

‘Sure you won't have a cigarette, Sheila?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Chocolate, then?'

‘No, thank you.'

Well, that was definite enough, anyhow. It was a mood. She would get over it before they got to London. He wouldn't bother her any more. There were times for bothering and for not bothering. Leave her alone. Let her watch the ‘lovely bloody country.'

That was where she had come from. He knew now. Fourteen thousand acres—lakes, parks, etc. It was really amazing. Run away from that——Must have been plumb crazy. Well, all that could sink safely into a corner of his mind. It was safe there, and it gave one a nice feeling just knowing that it could be drawn up and thought about, again and again. Fourteen thousand trees. Wonderful! Run away from it all. Astounding! Wouldn't go back to it. Crazy! Wouldn't even talk about it. Stubbornness! Wouldn't even recognize, wouldn't—she didn't know she was born. Funny! Crying like that, leaving Gelton. But didn't she look marvellous to-day! Just wait till they started rolling into lunch. Make them stare! And at this moment two dining-car attendants passed through, carrying tickets in their hands, visible warning that the burnt mutton and the too-well-cooked cabbage were now ready,
and
the etceteras.

Captain Fury took a good look at them as they passed. Soon be entering. He put his case back in his pocket and his hand touched paper. Suddenly he pulled out a letter. He had quite forgotten about it. And as he stared at the ‘Return to sender, address unknown,' boldly printed on the envelope he experienced an uncomfortable feeling. A temporary annoyance. He looked at it and thought: ‘Blast! That's another thing. Hang it all, I should have gone to see mother. Yes, I
should
have done that.'

Certainly this accusing letter showed that he had neglected her. Had broken the promise he had made to his father. Here he was, just about to enjoy his lunch, and he had put his hand on the letter. ‘Return to sender, address unknown!' What the hell's happened, I wonder? He had sent it to the right place. General Hospital, Gelton.
Well
, that was where she was. No! They'd readdressed it: ‘17 Hey's Alley.' Damn curious! Returned from Hey's Alley. Address unknown.

As his wife turned away from the window he stuffed the letter back into his pocket. Goddam! What an ass I am! Should have seen mother. Instead, broke my promise and got drunk. And with
that
fellow, too. He was angry with himself.

Sheila noticed it at once, but she said nothing. She was watching an old man take a seat at the table beside her, accompanying the action with any amount of choking and coughing.

Captain Fury glared at the man, but the newcomer in his turn glared too, and so furiously that the Captain lowered his eyes and began to study the menu.

‘What are you having, Sheila? I'm going to have, let me see——'

‘Upstart!' the newcomer's furious stare seemed to say: ‘Upstart!'

Two waiters were indulging in chants, hovering around them. ‘Yes, sir—no, sir. Boiled or baked, sir. Cabbage, sir. No? Yes? Anything to drink, sir?'

Captain Fury listened, and he enjoyed it. What attention! What fussing! And what sir-ing! Worth being alive for, just to listen to it. And he said: ‘Yes—no—yes—a little more of that, please.'

Captain Fury tucked in. Sheila pecked. The old man was sat beside her, and
would
keep staring at the Captain; once Desmond felt like shouting: ‘Go to hell!' then refused everything offered to him. His ‘no ‘had the almost funereal notes of a fog-horn.

‘Bring me cold ham, pickles and stout.'

‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir,' and the waiter went off, clutching the dishes tightly.

People were pouring in. And everybody looked as they passed. Captain Fury liked people to look. But not these people. These people were
all
eyes. It was bad enough having this ‘old swine ‘opposite you. Soon the dining-car would be full. Captain Fury was hungry, yet he wasn't enjoying his meal. He looked at Sheila, ardently, passionately. He wanted to talk to her, now, this very minute, about the sudden discovery of that letter, and of how uncomfortable he was feeling about it. But he couldn't talk.

The whole car sang with the clatter of knives, forks and spoons, the popping of corks, the filling of glasses, and, threading its way through a stream of chatter, high and low, tit-bits of conversation on everything under the sun, the weather, the war, the government, the bravery of everybody.

And they ate, and their jaws moved up and down. Even Sheila's companion made loud noises as he ate, and periodically he emitted a slight grunt, a way of saying how pleased his stomach was, and what a wonderful thing a stomach was too. Desmond ate in silence. As he ate he tried to think not of the letter, but of the two officers who would meet him when he reached Paddington—what would they be like? Southerners he supposed. Well, a taste of Gelton wouldn't do them any harm. Have to rake those London docks. Rake them out. They might make him a Colonel. More pay. More power. ‘Push on!' his mind cried. Climb above the ‘mugs.'

In the oddest way the letter shot back into his mind. It lay on his plate, it was on his fork, on the way to his mouth. He couldn't dodge that letter. ‘Blast! I should have gone to see mother before I left, if only because she was ill. Blast it, I didn't! I got drunk with John Downey, and I suppose——'

Here thought stopped, for suddenly the old man had caught his eye. They held each other with their glances. Perhaps the old chap wanted to say something. Then why the hell didn't he, instead of staring like that? Or was he just admiring the bulk and power behind the tunic?

Mrs. Fury ate lazily, dreamily. The two men were quite lost to her. They were at the moment of no concern to her. She was thinking of her father in London. Suppose they met. He would
hate
her husband.

The attendants were coming along again, hovering, whispering. ‘Pudding, sir? Tart? Yes. No. Cheese, sir? Coffee? Black or white, sir?'

Desmond never even looked up. He was engaged with his meat.

‘Some cheese and biscuits. No coffee, thank you,' he heard Sheila say.

Why didn't she say something? Look as though she were his wife. And she
was
his wife, after all. Wake up. Look as if she were enjoying the journey. Then he sat back, looked at the top of the old man's head, at the feather in his wife's hat. The old man looked at Sheila and smiled. This amused the Captain. Perhaps he was trying to get off with her. How funny! He looked at everybody, looked at their hands, their mouths as they ate. It all interested, but he was worried about that letter. Now where on earth could his mother have got lost? And if he lost touch now, that ended everything. The rest were lost. His sister was gone, the ‘other fellow ‘was in gaol, and dad and Anthony were at sea. Well, ‘at sea' meant lost, too. But he didn't want to lose contacts. He wanted communication left open, a certain loyalty remained.

‘Blast it! That chap Trears? I could have written him, he'd be bound to know where mother has run off and hid herself.' But no. Couldn't, in fact he
wouldn't
write. Returning his cheque—‘cannot undertake minor transactions of this nature!' Who the devil did he think he was? ‘God perhaps!' thought the Captain, as he watched the old man opposite fish about hopelessly on the plate for an elusive pickled onion.

The train roared into another tunnel.

Finally Captain Fury left his seat and went to the toilet, one hope in his mind, that when he returned the old man would be gone. He couldn't
stand
the fellow! And smiling at her too! But he got half-way and then stopped. He leaned on the bar of the window and watched houses fly past. ‘As soon as I get to London I'll set things rolling. She can't be
quite
lost. And I don't want her to think I've simply ignored her.' Far from it. There was nothing between them much except this woman he had married, and she hadn't made matters easy by messing about with his young brother. ‘I've never really got to the bottom of that,' reflected Desmond. ‘Still, it's too long ago now. Not worth bothering about. Yet I wish I had known.'

People were pushing their way past him, and he endeavoured to make himself as small as possible for their benefit. Must be leaving the dining-car. Thank heavens for that. After this he would appreciate his wife more. She liked quietness, peace. After one or two more people had crushed past he decided to return to his seat.

The car was empty, even that old man had gone. He found Sheila sitting back reading the
Gelton Times
. The tables had been cleared. He went and sat by her.