Our Time Is Gone (68 page)

‘A room! I thought it was a house, Mother,' he said.

She realized then. She saw the surprise, the concern. As though this were the time to be concerned.

‘A room! Does—has dad been home since you shifted?'

He began walking up and down the room, glancing at the door, and his eye fell upon that other eye, the sly, the watching eye.

‘I'm glad she came,' he thought. ‘I'm happy she came. Mother has altered. Everything is altered. She looks old—tired.' He felt like crying. A lump came into his throat. All that way! Three hundred miles. To see him! Who had let her down? Who had lied to her, who had been cowardly in his actions? Who had struck the woman with that knife? Poor mother! Happy. Peaceful. In her room. I'm the last. Anthony getting married. Good God! Everything was smashing up. She was alone. He wanted to shout—‘but it's not enough.' Where was Maureen? Where was Joe? Where was everybody? The little Hatfields world? Smashing up, without
being
anything, without meaning anything. Smashing up while he was stuck here—behind stone walls, the stone faces, shut mouths, silence and words of iron. Hatfields! Home!

‘Where's Maureen? Have you—did you ever hear anything of Aunt Brigid? I suppose Grand-dad's dead by now? Is Joe still at the docks?' and then he ran to her, cried: ‘Mother! I often think of the Lyric—dad and you—remember? Oh, Mother.' He threw his arms round her. ‘I know you love me, Mother—but you don't trust me. I know that. It's my own fault. Perhaps I
might
have been a priest. I don't know.'

‘
I
do! That sort of talk means nothing. Nothing! You never could. It takes more than goodness to be a priest. Courage! More than courage. Strength! No! I couldn't tell you a single thing about your sister. She says I rushed her into marriage. What lies? And now she's rushed out of it. Poor Mr. Kilkey. God only knows what's happened to him. I've never seen him. But then I've cut myself off from that place.'

‘Look at the door,' he whispered; ‘you'll see something there, something that I see every night in my cell. See it! It's watching us. Mother, sometimes I'm terribly afraid of that.'

The woman looked at the door. ‘I can't see anything,' she said under her breath.

‘Can't you see the eye?' he said breathlessly. ‘Look! It watches all the while. In case. Did they search you, Mother? They always do,' and he leaned his head on her shoulder.

‘I went to a room—a woman searched me. I thought it disgraceful. Why don't you talk about something else? What will you do with yourself if you get out?'

‘Yes, what will I do?' he asked himself. He hadn't even thought of that. When he got out—out! He looked at her, at her nose and tight mouth.

‘I don't know.'

‘There! Look at the time,' she said. ‘Peter, every morning, for a whole year, I went out. I went down to Mr. Trears's office. I asked him the same question every morning. Could I come? Is there any news? Every day he said no. He said he was sorry. And I believe he was. He was one of the finest gentlemen I've ever met. There are so few in the world, that when you meet one, well, it's just wonderful! Look at me,' and she put a hand on each cheek. ‘Look straight at me! That's right,' she said. ‘Now I am seeing you as I want to see you.'

No, she thought, there's little difference! He's—yes, he's my own son.

‘There,' she said, ‘there,' and she dropped her hands, glanced once more at the brass face of the clock, watched the racing hands. The same eyes, she said to herself, but they don't look at you in the same way. Not like Anthony, nor his father. No! They were not steady, they were frightened eyes. Was he still afraid of her? Did he hate this sort of thing? Was it just nonsense to him?

‘You haven't said much,' she said, a sudden sadness in her voice. ‘Peter, I love you very much, yes, in spite of everything. You were a foolish boy. Foolish! Have they a priest in the gaol? Do you ever go to mass? Will you tell me? I remember when you were a little boy. I remember how good you were at Latin. Do you still remember those days? What kind of priest is he?'

‘There's a priest here, and I go to mass when I can,' he said, and she saw his head lower, and somehow he glanced at her out of the tops of his eyes. ‘I'm not as bad as you think,' he said. ‘I remember that, Mother.'

She threw her arms round his neck. ‘Tell me,' she said slowly; somehow the words were an effort, ‘tell me, do you really go to mass, Peter? Is this the truth? It's one of the things that makes me sad. Don't cheat me; you
did
before, but please, don't do it now. I'm getting old. It's not fair,' she cried. ‘Oh God!' she spluttered, ‘you're afraid of me—I can see it in your eyes. What have I done? Don't you—didn't you want me to come? I—I——'

‘Listen, Mother!' he said, and taking her hand in his own, he separated the index finger and placed it on her forehead. ‘I go to mass. And I am telling you the truth. I swear I am! I'm not afraid of you. Once I was. I—I can't explain. Listen now?
Eaonoman a
—
na
—
argus a vix, argus a spiritu nave
—
Amen
,' and as he said this he moved her finger to her breast, to the right and left shoulder. ‘There! Have I forgotten?' He was smiling now. ‘Is that the sign of the cross in Irish, or isn't it? And if you like I'll speak it in Latin. Mother, I loved you coming. Honest. I'm happy. I don't care how long I'm here. I'm happy.' He spoke with sudden fierceness. ‘You have come
all
this way, Mother! I love you for it. You are good, and now I know it. Mother, tell me something. Some little thing. Any little thing,' he spoke so quickly that splashes of spittle began to come with his words. His hands were pressed on the bench. ‘Tell me something I can take to bed with me to-night. To work to-morrow.'

He burst into tears.

‘Tell me about uncle piloting the first mail packet into Queenstown?' he said, and then he dropped his head on her shoulder.

But he did not think of the mail packet, or his uncle, or the coast of Ireland. He saw only the coast of Gelton, of Hatfields. The coast of struggle, of humiliations, of deceit, of every effort. She was talking now. Mumbling her words, they tumbled out of her mouth, fell into the room. They struck on the silence, against the face of the clock, they tossed in the air, clouted the eye through the door.

‘I remember that June day——'

‘Yes, Mother,' he said, not thinking of the June day, ‘yes, Mother …'

He saw only Gelton, his father carrying his bag, a brother falling down the mast, a brother striking a hammer on the railway line, Mr. Kilkey dancing Dermod on his knee, Desmond and he fishing for perch, Maureen singing in the choir at Saint Sebastian's, Father Moynihan laughing in the circle of women on the charabanc treat into the country, Mr. Corkran rubbing the rim of his bowler hat.

‘It was a beautiful morning, and the sun was up early then. It had been raining, that kind of rain you only get in Ireland, soft like dew. And then away beyond the white wall I saw the packet, and I saw the sail of your uncle's little boat—God rest him—and I stood on the wall-top waving. I was pretty then. Many the men ran after me those days. Ah! I think of those days. They were beautiful. Your uncle, why he'd a voice like thunder. He was shouting …'

‘Yes, Mother,' he said, and when he looked at her he knew she'd gone away. She wasn't there, the room was empty, the clock stopped, the eye behind the door closed, the words no longer in the air, but on the wall, the words she spoke running down the wall like water, sounding like music. She was gone. Gone away! He knew this, looking at her. His eyes were on her eyes, but she didn't see him.

‘What a fine nose mother has,' he said to himself. ‘She was fine those days. Fine! I love her. I love my mother!'

‘There was a man by the name of Clancy. John Clancy. And he'd a powerful job at the Bank of Ireland—a fine big man he was, and when the packet sailed in, why, he stepped out of it and he looked at me and said: “Why, you're a striking girl, sure, who are you?” and I said: “My name's Fanny, and it's my uncle's boat has brought you safe to harbour.” Ah! Those days, there were fine men about! Fine men! You'll never see them again. Those times are gone, but I thank God I lived then. They were beautiful.'

‘Yes, Mother.' He began playing with the ring on her finger. It was loose, and he ran it up and down the finger. She's gone thin, mother has, he thought.

The room was windowless, yet there might have been one in front of her, so intent, so far away the look in the woman's eyes. ‘Your father's family were not like mine——' she was saying. ‘Still'—and then she paused a moment. ‘Your uncle was a most respected man. He was liked by everybody. I wish sometimes you were all born there. It's so different, so different—so
very
different,' and her words took on funereal pace; there was something pretentious about them, like the overture of an opera; there was something else to come.

He listened, but he did not think of those things. He held her finger, and touched the cold of the ring, but somehow she wasn't there. She was gone searching after those days.

‘Yes, Mother! You often talked about Uncle Michael!'

‘I must have been mad. Mad! I stuffed money down that mouth. I spat on money and stuck it on that face. I was covered with muck. I must have been mad!'

Suddenly he shook her violently and blurted out. ‘Mother! I feel ashamed. I
am
ashamed. I feel——Oh, Mother! I can't get the things out of my head,' and he put the tip of each finger gently under each of her eyes, as though he wanted to hold them still, to break the spell that held her. ‘Mother! It's getting near time,' he said, glancing at the clock.

In a few minutes she'd be gone. Gone! All the way back to Gelton! And then the man would say: ‘This way,' and she'd go out through the door.

And in the morning he would break stones, break down mountains.

‘It's getting near time,' he said, ‘near time. Look! Look!' and she was indifferent, his sudden agitation didn't seem to matter. She wasn't there.
He
wasn't there! They were walking together on the King's Road.

And then she returned to earth. ‘Don't be ashamed,' she said. ‘You are a lonely creature! Don't be ashamed. Listen! If I'm alive when you come out—well—Peter, I tell you that sometimes I think it would be wonderful if we could all be together again. Would it? Wouldn't it? I'll help your father. We'll have a nice home again. You see! God's good. Sometimes I long to do it. I like a nice home. Not Hatfields, not Hey's Alley, but a nice home. Looking after you all. I'll build it all up again. I will, Peter, you're only a boy. An innocent boy. You've all your long life in front of you. Think of that. Would you like to go to America? Just think of Anthony getting married,' and then she laughed.

Peter laughed. ‘Anthony married!' he said. ‘Oh, Mother! I can't believe it.'

‘Nor can I. God knows what your father will say! Everybody's running away from me. Well, she's a nice girl. I wish sometimes that Desmond had married a good Catholic girl. I've nothing against him but that.' She gripped his chin, raised it, looked down at him. ‘You think I talk like an old fool. It's not his marrying that woman. Let him marry who he likes. It's the disrespect. I expected better from him. But there!' She half rose, but he pulled her down to the bench again.

‘No, Mother! Not yet! Don't go! It's not time. Four minutes yet!'

‘You'll write to me,' she said. ‘Tell me how you get on.' Then she put her mouth to his ear. ‘And do be careful. Be careful. Remember your beautiful religion. And try, try! But I don't want you to go to the war. I've two in it, and that's enough. George Postlethwaite has gone to France and so's his father,' and she gave a little laugh, then raced on, knowing that time was flying, ‘I've been dreaming, son, and so have you. Yes, and a good many young men have gone from that neighbourhood and been killed. We've had riots too. Sure, your father's old ship—at least I believe it's your father's, he was on it once—was sunk by a torpedo or something. It's an awful war. Peter! Dear son! I don't want you to go and get killed. For God's sake don't do anything rash. In a minute now I'll be gone—and only the good God knows what may happen. Take care of yourself. Try to look to some future. Forget
all
that's gone by. It doesn't matter. I've seen so many things. If it's not the sea, it's the gutter, and if it's not the gutter, it's the sea. You can't be happy ever without God. I tell you, Peter, it's all, it's everything! Look at me! All my life I've kept my faith in God, and in His Sweet Mother, but it hasn't done anything but keep me up. Kept me alive—kept me——Oh, Peter, one day you'll see, you'll know what I mean. It's easy to be bad, but it's hard to be good. I remember those words, spoken to me by a man who thought much of you, and loved you when you were a little boy. Father Moynihan. D'you remember him? Well, he's been away in Ireland a whole year or more, and now he's back at Saint Sebastian's. Just the same as ever. Hardly a day older.'

‘D'you see him, Mother? D'you ever hear from Aunt Brigid?'

She was patting his hand, looking at the door, the walls, the clock. ‘No! I see nobody. And I never heard a word from Ireland. I don't even see Father Moynihan now. I go to Saint Augustine's chapel near where I live. I am content. All around me are strangers and I like that. This woman—she has a funny name, Gumbs her name is—she is my one good friend.'

‘When you see dad tell him I'm all right, and if you see Des, or Anthony, or Maureen, well, tell them I'm all right. I wrote to Joe Kilkey but heard nothing. Sometimes I write letters, hundreds of letters, in my mind, when I'm lying in bed at night, and I post them, and I dream of hundreds of replies. Oh, Mother, you don't know, you don't——' He stopped. ‘It's time,' he said. ‘Time, Mother!'