Our Time Is Gone (7 page)

‘Aye! Looks like more rain, and gosh, this nor'-easter. Why, it gets right through to me bones. Waiting on a ship are you, mate? May I ask?' Then he blew his nose. The handkerchief was voluminous, it billowed and blew. They both laughed.

‘No! I'm already in a ship,' replied Mr. Fury. ‘Sailing in ten days, so I am.'

‘Are you indeed? Well! Well! Indeed! H'm! Good. Lucky man. That's what you are.'

‘Aye! Suppose so. Trooping,' Mr. Fury said, and looked away from the busy street.

‘A dashed lucky man, sir,' said the other.

Mr. Fury never knew why, but he smiled suddenly at the old man.

‘Aye! You're not the only one who could tell me that, man. Not by a long chalk Mr.—er——'

‘Bowles, mate! That's me! Sam Bowles. Did my last trip in the old
Caliope
, sir. King's Navy, you know! Finest ship ever sailed the seas.'

Dennis Fury felt a warmth he had not experienced for a long time. He turned round now and looked into the old man's purplish red face.

‘Aye! I could tell you were a Navy man,' he said. ‘Like a chew of baccy?' His hand dived into his pocket at once.

The other waved it away. ‘No, sir! Thank
you
. I've enough. But thanks, old timer. Sailing ten days, eh? Wish I was meself. When you think of the times—ah—and the
Caliope
——'

Mr. Fury smiled again. A nice man this. He was certain Fanny would like him. ‘Well, I don't know,' he said, ‘a chap can't always be at sea. Now can he? Look at me! I've had just forty-six solid years of it, and I'm good yet.'

‘Just one less than meself,' put in the other. ‘Only one less than meself.'

‘Forty-six years, and now all I want is the pension and a quiet life.'

‘Then I hope it comes to you, mate,' said the ex-member of the
Caliope
. ‘All the same I do consider you're a lucky man. Yes, a dashed lucky man. These times, you know. Well—it's hard on the women. The devil's hardness, and a man hates looking at that sort of thing, mate. I do, anyhow. Still, we'll beat those bloody Germans.'

‘Perhaps. Perhaps we will. Well. I must be getting along,' said Mr. Fury,

‘Good day, sir, and the best of luck to you, if I may say so.'

He watched Mr. Fury go. Then he looked right and left and crossed the road.

The little conversation had quite cheered Mr. Fury. If he hadn't stood on the kerb for a minute or two, he might never have spoken to a soul. His gait was still slow, still aimless. He didn't quite know what to do with himself. Perhaps he had better go and see a priest. Should he go for Maureen? Maureen! Ah, where the hell was he going to find Maureen Kilkey? No. He stopped dead there. It was silly not to, but—but. No! It was too awkward, too——No! He'd go and see a priest. Right away. But supposing the hospital had done that already? They generally did when a patient was——He cut the thought off. It only made him feel more hopeless. He thought of Desmond. No! To the devil with everybody.

Fanny had
him
! ‘That's enough!' Just him. They had all cleared out. Let them. When he reached the road's end his mind was full of the priest again. Yes, he'd better see one. Who should he see? Names passed through his mind. He knew several. But they were all at the other end of the town. Perhaps he'd better go to the local chapel. He was a total stranger there, as he was to Hey's Alley. What a move! But what on earth had made Fanny come to such a place? He wished he knew! Why, to hide of course. That was it.

Poor woman! If only he had been home at the time. He could have done things different. Hide! Well she was hidden now, well hidden. No! He couldn't blame her for coming here, but it was a hole—a rotten hole. Hatfields was a palace compared with it. Suddenly he stopped and leaned against a hoarding, his hands behind his back. ‘Poor little Peter,' he said. ‘Poor simple lad.'

By heavens, Fanny was a strong woman to come through all that! The very thought inspired the man with hope. By heavens, she would come through … Yes. He was sure she would. ‘Good Lord,' he reflected, ‘how we fought and argued, and fell out, and smothered things over. What an ass I was then! Ah, but we're still together. Let the world go hang.' Fanny was a trump. He wouldn't hear a word said against her. His mood softened.

It was getting late now. But he didn't feel hungry. Suddenly he decided to ring the hospital again. It was no use walking about like this, and he hated everybody looking at him as they passed by. Perhaps she had woke up. Good God! He must'phone
now
.

Between eight and twelve he rang four times. The answer was as before. There was no change. He could ring any time. Yes. Call any time. But she was deeply unconscious. The poor woman. ‘I must go at once for the priest,' he said.

Hey's Alley was one of a series. Such names as Horse Alley, Fox Alley, Pickles' Alley were neighbours. Looking at them from the river they appeared as a series of funnels. They were dark, stuffy, smelly. Geltonians who never ventured beyond the tall grey warehouses that flanked them, were blissfully ignorant of their existence. A sort of mole-like existence was in being here. Each alley contained twenty houses in all. They were not uniform in style, but they all served the same purpose. They justified investment. There was one lavatory for each alley. There were many children. Queues at the lavatory and wash-house—they were in fact public, quite common. Most of the occupants followed the sea as a calling. This could be seen from the windows of the end houses.

A man was said to ‘fall into his ship.' It was true too that these people could go backwards and forwards to the sea, and live their lives unseen. They were well hidden away. In No. 17 Hey's Alley, which lay between Horse and Pickles', lived the Fury family. They had moved from Hatfields, situated in the north end of the city. At least the woman herself had moved and the man, home from sea rather sooner than expected, got something of a shock, but after the initial disappointment and surprise had passed, he had eventually, after a sort of bat-like exploration from north to south, discovered the area of alleys, and finally his home and his wife. That home-coming had pained him.

One son was at sea and had been away since the commencement of the war. He had been advised of the change. He was just as surprised. The former house had been their home for so long that it seemed impossible they could ever leave it. Another son now married was quite unaware of the change of address. The youngest son, the prime mover in the change of home was at present behind bars. The daughter who had married and eventually left her husband was considered lost. Nobody knew where she had gone: though they knew why. Her husband, however, still lived in the same street adjacent to Hatfields. Mr. Fury, on first catching sight of the alley, swore that he would never get used to it. He loathed it. To him it was a kind of defeat. But he kept back his opinions. His wife had done it, and she had done it for a good reason.

He accepted the situation, though time and time again he reflected with bitterness upon the forty-six years' struggle he had made, and now it had brought them to this. He hated the place and he hated the people. At the same time he was worried by certain other changes that were taking place. His wife's behaviour attracted attention. He understood the reason for it. But what he could never understand and never would understand was her reason for turning away from her door the best, the truest friend she had ever had. It made him sad. He tried to be as cheerful as he could. He kept his temper because he had to, for here was a woman more capable of losing it than he. At times he was afraid for her. She seemed so odd. There were occasions when they seemed like strangers to each other. But when early one morning he woke up to find her gone and then to discover she had been wandering about the streets, he realized something was wrong. What had happened this very morning was its culmination. When she went off like that there was always a crowd of curious people around the door to see her brought back.

Mr. Fury longed to fly from it. It didn't seem fair. All those years, all that toil, and just ended in this. It seemed cruel, and now there was not one child to whom he could turn. They had well scattered. He made a solemn vow that they would not remain in Hey's Alley for long. What exactly had made her come
here
of all places?

The more he asked himself why, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He felt fooled, frustrated. He wasn't exactly crying about it. Not he. But no man with a bit of decency in him could look twice at the place without asking himself what forty-six years of hard work meant.

He was a happy-go-lucky sort of man, who could be, and had been called a fool for every day of his sea life, but had swallowed it all good humouredly. He always said: ‘Fanny will grow out of that,' but his reckoning seemed quite disastrous, for she went on calling him a fool, to which he parried by saying that her silly ambition would get her nowhere. Their life was as full of wrangles, as it was of regrets. Why didn't he look to his family more? How could he? He never saw them. He was always at sea! Then why didn't he think of her more? He did! He loved her. The best woman in the world for him. Then lighter moments came. They went off to the country for an occasional walk. They went to the music hall. And then the man sailed away again. These diversions weren't quite enough, however. The woman complained by letter. He never answered them.

The children were growing up. He hardly knew them, nor they him. The woman ruled the house. Living was a struggle. She kept on saying this with monotonous regularity. But what could he do? Nothing more than he was doing already. Working hard and earning money. Yes. But look at the lost opportunities. Look at the chances he had lost through not staying in America. After all it was a wonderful country, and the foster home of the Irish. Familiarity bred contempt. Mr. Fury shut his mouth and kept it shut. He sailed away and came home again. The children went on growing. What a father? Well, if he couldn't show ambition she
would
. She would make a priest of one. She knew who. He said: ‘Fantastic, can't afford it.' She laughed, she went on, quite determined. The other children hated her for showing favouritism, for offering things they had been denied themselves. They decided to get out of the place. The eldest married and never returned to see them. The daughter flung herself into a marriage which she had broken asunder only a year after it had taken place. The treasured favourite failed. It was the end. Now she didn't care very much; she had been fooled all along the line; she had kept her father for years, for nothing, and had received little thanks. What bit of money he had saved went elsewhere. Not to his daughter, who had endeavoured to make the last years of his affliction as easy as possible for him. She had piled debt upon debt about herself in order to satisfy her pride. It had been struggle all along the line. It had ended in murder. Only a masterly defence had saved her treasured son from the rope. This was a cup she had to drink, overflowing with gall.

Here in Hey's Alley she knew nobody and spoke to nobody. The spaciousness and greater freedom of the Hatfields district did not exist here. Here it was much darker, though there was at least no odour thrown up by bone-yards. Here the air smelt of rope and of the sea, and the people who lived in it.

‘Fanny, woman,' Mr. Fury had said, ‘surely, surely there were hundreds and hundreds of places to come to besides this? Surely?'

Well! she preferred this. It suited her. She wanted to hear no more about it.

Then Anthony. He wouldn't like it, a young man like him——Well!

That couldn't be helped either! She was satisfied here. It was a step down. All the better! She could hide. Besides, in this place people weren't so curious.

Mr. Fury made no more comment. But he thought a lot. He thought it was sad to see this hard-working, good-living woman stuck in a hole like this. No doubt he would be blamed for that too. His own foolishness again. Let her talk. There was nothing more to be said, need be said. Down and not up. Into a hole to hide. Well! Well! So it had come to that.

Having made up his mind, Mr. Fury went back to the house. He had been wandering around since eight o'clock and now it was near midday. Again he rang up the hospital. This time they told him the woman was unconscious, but he could come any time now.

Before the altar on the kitchen dresser Mr. Fury knelt down and prayed. He hoped, hoped,
hoped
Fanny would get well. For suddenly there came into his mind the thought of all she meant to him, of the happy times they had had, they could still have. Lots of things to do for her. Just he and she on their own. Five years ago they might have been. But she had said ‘No.' Well, it couldn't be helped.

He had something to eat, a slice of cold ham and bread and butter. He made more tea. He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but somehow could not endure the thought of going into a pub whilst she was lying so ill; no, he couldn't do that.

Later he went upstairs. He put on a collar and tie, one of his son's collars, and laughed when he found it was much too big. Better than none at all. He put on his tie, his bowler hat, then left the house. The thought of going to the priest, of having made up his mind, of actually being on his way, lightened his step. Please God, everything would come right. He went straight ahead till he came to the tram stop. There he stood deliberating.

There was Father Jolly. Yes. But, well—no. He'd always been after him to sign the pledge. Why, of course, there was Father Moynihan and then his heart sank again. Father Moynihan was no longer in Hatfields. In fact he was actually in Ireland—had been for some time now. With Father Moynihan off the list, Denny Fury began to feel that he was alone in the world. No matter. He'd go to Saint Sebastian's. He'd find Father Tierney. Two priests couldn't be in Ireland.

When the tram came he went to board it, hesitated, finally let it go. It had just occurred to him that as soon as he got off the tram at the King's Road there would be people who would recognize him. And they'd ask questions and in the end there would be nothing but talk. He didn't want to talk. He was sick of talk. He boarded the next tram.