Our Time Is Gone (57 page)

This phrase lit up in her mind and then she drowned it, swamped it, wanted to forget it. What nonsense! What nonsense! Talking like a dying woman. What nonsense! Anthony and Joan crept in and wiped all that nonsense out—that surrender. Why to-morrow—why, he'd only to say the word and she'd make a new home.

‘I would! Yes, I would,' she began saying to herself. ‘I know I would.'

She forgot the letter, forgot her husband, seeing only her son and the girl he had brought to see her. A nice girl. She hoped he would be happy. She laughed outright.

‘I say this, and I hate him going. I've hardly seen him, any of them! I shall hate him going. But I want him to be happy. That's all. I think he's good and sensible, and I think Joan is good for him too.'

She lay awake, going over in her mind the events in her life, the struggles and promises and hopes. She thought of her father and was certain he had passed away. Perhaps her sister too. ‘How strange people are,' she reflected, thinking of her only sister who had not written her a single line since she had taken Mr. Mangan back to Ireland. ‘Not a single line! Strange! Strange!' And all through those horrible days. No. Not a word! Of Peter. Herself. Of nobody. Quite forgotten. ‘I shall always re-remember that,' she told herself.

Denny returned, hovering in her thoughts. Scraps of conversation came into her mind. ‘You've been too soft, woman. Too bloody soft!'

‘I loved them all,' she said to herself. ‘He called me a fool! Well, I don't mind. I loved every one of them.'

In the midst of these reflections Anthony's key could be heard turning into the lock. The door closed. She smelt cigarette smoke. Heard him undress. Then all was quiet again. Suddenly she spoke.

‘Be careful with your cigarettes! I'm so afraid of fire,' she said quietly.

‘Good heavens! You awake yet, Mother! Can't you sleep or something? Why, it's gone half-eleven!'

She could hear him moving restlessly about in the bed. ‘That bed comfortable? You'll have a proper one to-morrow.'

‘Fine! Nothing wrong with it. You know, Mother, I'm glad you like Joan. You know we were talking about you a lot. Suppose next trip, or say the trip after that—suppose we got married and dad was still away. Wouldn't you come to live with us, Mother? We were saying that if we could …'

‘I wouldn't do that,' she said. ‘You see—well—oh.'

‘Why, Mother! Besides, think of Peter! He'll be out soon. I mean he
will
get out some time. I want you to come with us, Mother. Won't you think about it?'

‘No! I wouldn't do it. I love you, Anthony, but I couldn't do that. Wouldn't live on anybody. Besides, in spite of what you think I am content here. Just living nice and quiet, waiting for your father. That's all that matters. One time I would have said yes, to everything. But it's too late! You get tired trying.'

‘But only to-night, Mother—why,' and she could hear her son getting out of bed. ‘Why, you were saying …'

‘Yes, I know. But it's just my imagination! And I was so excited, Anthony; you were a dear child to bring the girl to see me. I hope you'll both be very happy. Sometimes I sit here thinking of the others. I'd like to see Maureen. I could never understand why she didn't like me,
and
Desmond. He's well away now, and only time to think of himself. But the woman. No! I couldn't meet her! I can hear you laughing to yourself,' she said. ‘I can hear you.'

‘Yes, I am laughing! But I was thinking of something. Go on, Mother, talk away.'

Suddenly he was by her side.

‘Remember that time I growled and swore about you sending Peter off. Remember. Well, I've often thought of that. And now I see you were right in spite of what the others said.'

‘I don't know what you mean.' She turned over on her side, and looked at him, reaching out a hand that stroked his head. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘You were better than him, because you meant well, and he didn't. I mean you were better than any of us. You were too good to the lot of us. I know it.' He paused. ‘I remember when I was called “the slob.” Remember that?'

They both laughed together; their laughter circled them like halos in the darkness.

‘Well, d'you suppose I haven't felt it, coming home and finding you in a room like this? I
have
! I hate the idea of you being here. I want you to get out of it. I'll help, at least till dad comes home. Only last month I wrote him a long letter, begging him to give up the sea. Surely to God he's had enough. Then you'll be together for good.'

She listened to him, loved him more and more, smiled inwardly, called them ‘rambling thoughts,' but she listened on, and when he stopped, said. ‘Go on, son. Say it all! Get it off your chest. You're being sorry for me. Well, don't. I hate it! I've always loathed that kind of thing, and what's
much
worse, people being sorry for themselves. Your father was.'

‘Perhaps,' thought Anthony, ‘I'd better get back to bed. She's changed and there's nothing more to say. Now she's really beat. She's old. Old.'

‘Good night,' he said, and went back to his bed.

She was beat now! He lay awake too, thinking of Joan, and of to-morrow, and the next day. But not beyond that. He didn't want to. He knew she was still awake. Lord! The years it had gone on! Right back—oh, how long! Yes, when he was a boy and he slept in the same room, and dad was away. How often he had watched her, lying awake. Thinking! Thinking!' Still awake, Mother?' he asked, and struck a match, lit another cigarette.

‘I am.'

‘Who d'you think I'm seeing to-morrow? Give you three guesses?'

‘Who? I couldn't guess. Well, Joan, of course.'

‘Postlethwaite! You know George! He's home on leave. But I told you, of course. I wrote and told you he was in the Fusiliers. Yes, we're meeting in town. His father's a sergeant in the railway corps. Imagine it?'

‘Desmond's a captain,' she remarked softly. ‘A captain! I never believed it till somebody showed me his picture. He does look a swell. He came to see me. I wasn't very well.'

‘Did he? Desmond did? You never said,' exclaimed Anthony, and the portly figure of George Postlethwaite disintegrated at once. ‘Well I never! When?'

‘Maureen came too! It
is
surprising. I wasn't at all well at the time, and I've even forgotten how it happened. I must have been very ill, I think, because they told me I hadn't known them. But I'm sure I did. I shook hands with both of them. I'm certain! Your father was there too. Good Lord! It came into my mind just like that,' she concluded. ‘Just—like—that.'

There was dead silence, broken only by the metallic click of the alarm clock.

‘Mr. Kilkey was the only one who didn't. I thought it strange at
first,
' she said.

‘Why, he's the very one you'd think would come,' remarked Anthony. ‘But, Mother, what about Peter? You see you're awake and I'm awake! And we both knew we had to talk about these things. What about him? I wrote him months and months ago. Poor Peter. It must have been awful for you, Mother?'

‘It was, in a way,' she said. ‘He writes, but only two or three times a year. Mr. Trears is very good. Very good. He always reminds me of the gentleman who took me up into the lift when I went down to see Mr. Lake about your money, that time you fell off the mast. A gentle sort of man. And so considerate,
so
considerate! I
do
like that in people. You know they're decent as soon as you look at them. Lord! The times I've been to that office. I've worried that man to death. Sometimes it all seems so hopeless; so hopeless. But I know that if anything did come along he'd let me know. He was a good friend to me in all that trouble! A good friend, and God must bless him many and many a time. Peter's well and works hard. But, oh, Anthony, it makes me cry reading his letters. Last time your father read it aloud. The poor simple, foolish child. Just like his mother! Foolish! Foolish!'

‘Let's not talk any more, Mother. Shall we? Let's go to sleep,' he said.

He heard the break in her voice, in his voice. He couldn't think of Joan. Peter supplanted her.

‘Am I selfish?' he asked himself, Peter used often to give me things. I think he liked me, even though I was the slob of the lot. And here he was thinking of Joan, and to-morrow and George, and that trip to the fair and the theatre at night. Thinking this and feeling Joan's arms about him, their warmth as loving now as when they had embraced outside her home only half an hour ago. Poor Peter!' I'd like to see him. I'd like to see everybody, Maury, Joe—Desmond. Yes, even Sheila!' At that moment a kind of icy film descended over his world, his warm, pulsating world, full of to-morrows. But there was Peter! and the others! They were in the world too. He sat up in the bed.

‘Mother! It would be great if we
were
all together again. Don't you think so? All round the table, you know! Oh—ah well——' and he said no more.

He listened. She must have fallen asleep! At last! He lay there peeping from behind his curtain. And then he heard the gentle snore, the deep breaths. She was asleep. He got up out of bed, and crept over to where she lay. He stood there watching her.
Was
she asleep? or was she just pretending? Or was she thinking like she used to do when he was a boy. Lying awake half the night. He crept nearer. Yes, she was fast asleep.

The fire had gone out, and through the small window there trickled the tiniest streak of light, reflected from the lamp that stood in the back area. He went up and stood over her. Now he was seeing her for the first time. Still, stretched out, off guard. The match-box in his hand crackled. He took one out, lit it quietly and held it over the sleeping woman. How thin she looked! How white, and her hands!

‘Good Lord!' he said. ‘Good Lord.'

Her hair was greying fast. This brought a lump into his throat. He hadn't noticed it. There she was before him, who had done so much for them all. Gone old! Old! And would make a nice home to-morrow for him—for them all. Still loved them! After all that! Waiting for his father! Living quiet here, and happy. In this little world of old women.

‘Poor mother!' he said, ‘I never knew till now. Never knew!' and he bent over the bed and looked into her face. And suddenly without knowing it, he had said it aloud into the silent room. ‘Never knew.'

‘Never knew what, son?' she said, eyelids fluttering, the voice seeming to rise up from the very depths of the bed. ‘I just dozed off. Never knew what, son?'

‘Nothing! Nothing,' he said, and rushed back to his bed on the floor.

‘Nothing. Nothing,' his mind echoed. ‘Nothing! Nothing!' and he buried his face in the pillow. ‘She's terribly, terribly old,' he was saying to himself over and over again. ‘Old—old. I never knew! Never thought!'

‘Go to sleep, son,' she said into the silence. ‘It's very late, you know. Very late.'

Then the clock's tick seemed much louder.

CHAPTER IX

I

‘It's the only decent fair outside of Gelton. Everybody always comes to Blacksea. Aye! Come and we'll have a wet. And I'll tell you something too. You can get tarts here—a penny each!
You
will, anyhow. Sailors go down here, mate. But not soldiers. Come on. Let's go in.'

The speaker, spick and span in his uniform, and breathing the very essence of Fusilier, caught Anthony by the arm, and with the other pushed open the swing-door of ‘The Mare.' The place was crowded, being fair day. People from outlying towns and villages had come in, and a steady trickle from Gelton was arriving. Blacksea and Sanger's Circus were in the news. Soldier and sailor stood at the counter.

‘What are you having?' asked the Fusilier. ‘I'm having a good brown ale.'

‘I think I'll have the same,' said Anthony, adding, ‘and
only
one, by the way.'

‘Lumme! Haven't you learned how to drink yet? Fury, you suit them clothes. You know, I'm real sorry you wouldn't come and see me ma. She would have liked to have seen you. She was very fond of your ma. Very fond of her. Here he is, anyhow. Thank you, sirree! Thank you.'

They went over and found two places at a corner table. One woman, then another glanced at the young sailor and soldier. A girl, no more than thirteen years of age, winked at Anthony Fury. The Fusilier winked back for him.

‘Well, George, it's nice seeing you again,' said Anthony. ‘When are you going off to France? And is your dad gone yet? How does he look with his stripes?'

Now he caught the eye of the thirteen-year-old child.

‘Go when they say, I suppose,' said the Fusilier. ‘Dad's gone long ago. Making railways in France. Got a cushy job, so he says in his letters home. Nothing to do but boss a whole platoon of bloody Chinks.'

The speaker was short and stocky, fair like Anthony. But there was a coarseness of feature that stood in violent contrast to the sailor. George Postlethwaite had been a teamster. Now he was feeling very proud and important since he had joined the Fusiliers, and his head began to swell the moment he put on his uniform. He began to feel that the forces in France were waiting for
him
. Nightly he conducted raids and charges. When he got there he'd show them, the dirty beggars!

‘How's your ma? I heard she'd been ill in hospital,' remarked George in between gulps at his ale. ‘Aye! I was surprised to hear about it. Funny how the news gets round. Thought your ma was dead. Never heard a word about her after she left. Aye! She didn't half make a quick go of it.'

‘In hospital! I never heard about
that,
' Anthony said. ‘Knew she'd been ill.'

‘Aye! Well, I heard it, so did Mrs. Ditchley, oh, a lot of people. Ah well, here's to the good old, bloody old war, mate, and the skin off your nose!'