Our Time Is Gone (49 page)

She got up to make tea for both of them. She kept looking at the man in the chair. Now what on earth could they want him for? Surely not for a soldier! Why the chap was too old. And in such a good job. Good heavens! She'd cry if he went. They were such friends, in fact she was as close to him as his own mother. She poured out tea and sat down again.

‘Anything to eat, Mr. Kilkey? There's some bacon and cheese. I did think of making something hot ready for you, but then when it went six and you hadn't come I thought——Well—no—I won't bother,' and she looked at him and felt that somehow she
was
this man's mother. Good Lord! What a nice home he had. And now, with one thing and another—but there it was. That's what life was. Ups and downs, and working all the time. ‘Do have something to eat?' she urged.

But he shook his head, saying: ‘No thanks! I had something out. Not a bit hungry.'

Later he said. ‘Oh! I see,' as though the significance of the soldiers' visit had only just dawned upon him. Well, he wasn't surprised. He could see it coming. That was all right. He could face that. He had made up his mind. He had seen the priest. He had been to his duties. He wasn't afraid of any soldier. Afraid of nothing. Only the bomb that might hit the convent.

Mrs. Ditchley leaned across the table. ‘I don't want to keep you up, Mr. Kilkey, but I'd like to know what happened. You see, Dermod and you—well, you know. Tell me about the little boy.'

‘He's at the Convent of the Mother of Sorrows. He's all right. He cried a bit; I would have felt queer if he hadn't. But he's a good little kid. It's pretty hard on a youngster, you know, Mrs. Ditchley,' he said. ‘I hated leaving him there. But I think it was wise. The way this war's going now. Well, no place seems safe, not even the house of good women like that. But the Mother Superior was a very understanding woman, and when I said that nothing but a bomb could get him now, she just smiled and said, ‘Bombs won't get your son, Mr. Kilkey. Be off home like a good man.' It quite cheered me up. D'you mind me having another cup of tea?'

‘Help yourself,' she said. ‘So he's in the convent. Well, you're a wise man, Mr. Kilkey. I'm not of your faith, mind you, but there's something about it that I like all the same. But what about these soldiers coming? I don't understand.'

‘You will to-morrow,' he replied, pushing away his empty cup. ‘You will to-morrow. Didn't you know I'd been called up for the war? I thought I'd told you. Hadn't expected it, of course. But there you are. Never know your luck. I thought what with my age, and being an expert stevedore and ships so important at this time—well, to tell you the truth I got a surprise when my papers came. Never expected them. But there they are. I've to go into the army, Mrs. Ditchley. That's the position. It's strange, but the morning they came I knew I'd have to make up my mind—about the little boy. Well, you see I did. That matter is settled.'

‘Did you see her?' she asked, almost with a trace of anxiety in her voice, though this was quite unnoticed by Joseph Kilkey. ‘Did you
see
her then?'

‘Yes, I saw her! The whole business was pretty cool. I surprised myself, but that's because I was worried over my papers, Mrs. Ditchley. Yet all the time I was hoping she'd say: ‘Joe—I'll come back.' I didn't much like the look of her. She's quite changed. And I saw the man——'

‘No! You
didn't
!' exclaimed Mrs. Ditchley. This was something hard to believe.

‘I did! And I didn't think much about him. You'd hardly credit it, but they had the kid farmed out or something. You know I've never yet been able to understand why she went off like that, and now I've seen the fellow, it's even harder to understand. Hardly looks like a man. Oh well! That's over. Dermod cried a bit, but not for long. I rather think she was ashamed. She just ran off down the street, never said so-long. Sort of pecked at Dermod—and ran off. And the journey! I don't suppose I'll ever make another journey like it. It was
awful
. Well, I must be off, Mrs. Ditchley. It was good of you to wait up like this, and have tea,' and suddenly laughing, as he rose to go, exclaimed: ‘I can see you as my housekeeper yet, Mrs. Ditchley,' and he picked up his hat, one arm outstretched towards the door-knob. The gas in the kitchen was beginning to burn low.

Mrs. Ditchley got up too, went to the door with him. It didn't open for nearly a quarter of an hour. They stood there talking about the war.

‘So you'll have to go then,' she said. ‘Isn't it terrible? All those men. Three from this street to-day. And old Mrs. Davies lost her son. Yes, they told her this afternoon. You can't do anything with her. The poor woman.'

‘They'll probably come for me to-morrow, Mrs. Ditchley. By rights I should have reported more than four days ago. I knew this would happen. And there were one or two things I wanted to do. Look here, Mrs. Ditchley I don't want to keep you up any longer, but d'you mind if I sit down? There's one or two things I want to get off my mind.'

The woman silently went back to her chair, and her attitude as she sat down and looked at Mr. Kilkey presupposed nothing short of a revelation. He sat down opposite her. He looked at her spread hands.

‘Mrs. Ditchley. A man simply doesn't know where he is, these times. Now I'll be taken away to-morrow. I'll tell you why. I am against the war. I refuse to go to the war. I'm not frightened of being killed. I've just escaped that at work scores of times. No! The thing is, I refuse to kill anybody, and nothing they do will make me go to the war. That's why I got Dermod away. I still love my wife, but all the same I couldn't trust her with the boy. What I told you proves that. I made a nice home here, and she wasn't satisfied. But I'm not going into that now. When I go I don't know where I'll be taken. But if I can I'll write to you. There's the wife's mother. She's been very poorly in hospital. Her husband and son are at sea. Now the man is anxious for me to see the woman off to Ireland. She badly needs a change. But I seem to be running into dark corners all the time. I can't find her. Seems to have shifted. What I'd like you to do is this: I'll give you her husband's ship address, and the old one where she lived. If I'm not here after to-morrow, I want you to try and find her. I'll give you a letter for her. The other thing is my wife. I don't want to feel that it
is
the end. Now here's her address——' He pulled out a small pocket-book, with pencil attached, and wrote down the Blacksea address. ‘Just keep that handy for me. I'd like you to drop her a letter. Tell her where Dermod is. You never know. You see I'd still make a home for her—I mean when the war is over and all that. Now would you do that? You see, I'll feel rested in my mind. I'm going to be what they call a conscientious objector and I don't know what they do with you when you're
that
. Now I am going.'

He held out his hand. ‘And just in case,' he said, and the next moment he was gone, as though some other hand had already pushed through the door and dragged him out.

Mrs. Ditchley said, ‘G'night, G'night,' and stood there, almost bewildered. Mr. Kilkey had never talked so much before. ‘Dear me! Whatever are things coming to, I wonder?'

She wondered as she put out the gas, as she banked the fire for morning, as she climbed the stairs, undressed and went to bed. She lay wide awake and wondered why Joseph Kilkey should have to go to the war.

At the same time that Mr. Kilkey was enquiring as to the whereabouts of Fanny Fury, she herself was seated in the snug of ‘The Maiden,' and Mrs. Gumbs was with her. It was near closing time. They had called in on their way back from work. Mrs. Fury had now finally settled in. She was glad of the work, glad of the friendship of Mrs. Gumbs.

‘I like my glass and I don't mind saying so,' remarked Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Does you good.'

‘I often took a glass of stout with Denny,' said Mrs. Fury. ‘But only when he was home.'

Mrs. Gumbs nodded. ‘And in this kind of work, Mrs., you want a good drink. Don't you think so? Some people think it queer to see women sitting in a pub drinking but they don't know what kind of work we've been doing, eh?' She winked at Mrs. Fury. ‘I've just been thinking: Why, a month or so back I wouldn't have dreamed of meeting you. Never even knew you existed, and here we are, old friends. It just shows. I suppose that's what makes life so interesting, bumping into people.'

Mrs. Fury nodded. ‘You can bump into too many sometimes,' she said. ‘I used to have to bump into people my husband wouldn't meet. Even his employers more than once.'

‘Must have been a very frightened man, your husband,' replied Mrs. Gumbs.

‘Not at all. He was always shy. Not frightened. I wish he
had
been frightened sometimes. Would have done him good.' Then she picked her glass of stout up from the table.

‘Ah, now! Now! Careful, woman. Careful what you say. He may be frightened too soon. There's a war on, you know, and he's on that sea—you know you shouldn't say a thing like that.
I
wouldn't, not about
my
husband,' she said.

Mrs. Fury laughed. ‘Oh, I didn't mean it like that,
really
. I meant it the other way. I mean, supposing he'd been frightened of what might happen to his family. But of course he never was. He would have been in America to-day, and so could I if he'd been sensible. Well, it's time to go, by the look of it.'

They both got up and left the pub, walking slowly towards home. Both women were tired after the long day. They had been scrubbing ships.

‘You know, Mrs. Gumbs, I feel more and more content. I wish I'd always worked like this, instead of bringing up a family.'

‘What nonsense you talk sometimes,' said the other. ‘You shouldn't be working at all. You should be sitting in your big chair and your children round you.'

They walked into Edcott Court, both silent until they climbed the stairs, and then Mrs. Gumbs said:

‘Good night. Don't forget now. Seven in the morning. You'll have to get an alarm clock. Good night,' and she went on up to her room.

Mrs. Fury closed the door and took off her things. She found a letter from her husband. She read it through twice and then got into bed. He might be home sooner than expected. Why had she shifted again? What was the idea? It was hardly fair on the one lad who was still living with them. A grumbling, growling letter. How the man changed once he was on his ship. Perhaps the sea did something to him.

‘He does hope I'm better,' she said aloud.

Well, she was. And content. She wasn't bothered by things. Why shouldn't she shift when she liked? She'd shift again to-morrow if she wanted to. Why shouldn't she get away from people—and talking, and be quiet for a while?

Had she seen anything of Mr. Kilkey? No, she hadn't seen anything of him.

You know, Fanny, I went to a lot of trouble, and remember you promised me. I thought you'd have been gone by now. Do go! It'll do you good, and please me very much. I want you to get strong. Now, Kilkey is the only man I know who is ready to do me a good turn. So if he does come don't turn him away like you did before.

She picked up the letter again to read.

I hope for once anyway, that you'll take my advice, you never have, you know. And you were always wanting to go over there. So take your chance while you've got it. We've got to look after ourselves, me and you. I could have told you this years ago—but then you would have bit my head off. All the same, woman, I was right and you were wrong. But enough of this. This ship is the hottest I've ever been on.

Then the letter became wild and highly belligerent. The Germans were a bloody lot of so and so's, and so on …

‘Perhaps I
should
go to Mount Mellery,' she told herself. ‘And the ticket's lying there and everything. But I can't make up my mind somehow.'

Mr. Kilkey lit a candle and went upstairs to bed. Now he had his own world. Other people's didn't concern him any more. He'd be gone to-morrow. He knew he'd be gone. They'd come to-morrow all right. They'd have him. Well, let them come! Nothing to stop them coming, even now. Dragging you out of bed. That's how it is. Everybody was on edge, the damned war was doing nothing save kill men, day after day. Perhaps he'd better write that letter now? Mightn't get the chance to-morrow. Might be here first thing in the morning. He wrote in pencil, pausing every now and then to nibble the lead.

6 P
RICE
S
TREET
, G
ELTON
.

D
EAR
M
RS
. F
URY
,

I got a surprise this evening when I called to see how you were getting on. They told me you'd gone long ago. I hope this means you are now getting better. Denny told me you'd been very ill. I said I'd call to see you as I happen to pass the hospital on my way to work. I went to your house and they said you'd left. As I don't know where you are, I am asking Mrs. Ditchley, next door, to give it you if she should come across you any time. She often goes to town marketing, though not much now owing to the queues. Anyhow, as I thought your husband would be bound to tell you, and in case you wondered why I didn't turn up, well I might say the day I
really
meant to I had to go away on some business. I thought you might like to know how the little boy is. He is quite well. He is now back in Gelton. I saw Maureen but nothing came of it. Still, I haven't given up hope, I'd like her back to-morrow. They'd left Gelton a while back, her and Dermod. I ought to tell you too, Mrs. Fury, though you may not like to hear it, that I took my child away and put him in charge of the nuns. He is at the Convent of the Mother of Sorrows in Tivine Street, so you could go there any time to see him. I have been called up for the war—it was a bit of a shock to me of course—and I'll probably be off to-morrow, maybe sooner. Anyhow, I thought I'd write you a line or two. I was very sorry about your being in hospital. We haven't seen much of each other since all that trouble, Mrs. Fury, but I understand how you felt, and I know you were probably wise to leave Hatfields. But don't get lost altogether, Mrs. Fury. Denny thinks the world of you. And I know he'll soon give up the sea, and you'll be happy together.