Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘Where’s Maureen? I’d like to see her. They’ll hang me.’

  ‘She isn’t here.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘Clear the Court.’

  The woman turned over on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. Her hands were through the rail. She shouted. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop hammering.’ She threw herself upon her back. She screamed: ‘I loved you too much! I’m a fool!’

  The body began its orgy again, orgy of twistings and turnings; she screamed: ‘Go away, the lot of you! Leave me alone! I’m sick of you all. Don’t touch me.’

  The movements grew in violence. The bed creaked. The very air became electric with it. She laughed now. ‘A priest! A priest! Let go of me.’

  But they did not, nor would not let go, for, rushing in, they found her half out of the bed. They dragged her back, held her down. They watched the face—the eyelids trembling, the froth at the mouth. They felt the roots of violence in clenched hands. They waited for others to come.

  ‘Money,’ he shouted. ‘Eat it, bite it, kiss it, suck it! Here’s your crying money!’

  One leaned over her, and the door opened, and he trailed behind him the sounds and movements and smells of the larger ward. The door banged.

  ‘If I could have believed in you. If all I did. I called your father a fool. He is not a fool. Leave me go, I tell you. Take your hands off, you——’

  ‘My name is Joseph Kilkey.’

  ‘Is it! I don’t care. Damn you and your name! They deceived me. All of them.’

  She hurled herself about the bed, but now another came, and whilst two held, another applied the straps. She was done. She was strapped and could not move. She sobbed.

  One said: ‘That is a good sign.’ All went away. At the door they turned, looking in on her. One said: ‘She’s in high delirium.’

  An hour later doors and windows were closed against the flood of blasphemies and oaths that streamed from her lips.

  One wrote:

  DEAR SIR,

  This is to advise you that the patient, F. Fury, will be removed from here on Friday morning next, and, owing to the nature of her illness, we shall be glad if you will call here at three-thirty to-morrow afternoon.

  L. DANKS.

  ‘It came this morning,’ Mr. Fury said. ‘Ah! I don’t know what to say about it.’ He folded the letter again and put it on the mantelpiece. Then he turned to Mr. Kilkey. ‘Well, Joe Kilkey. It’s nice to see you again. It was good of you to go in and see my old woman. What d’you think about her?’ he asked. He sat down opposite the visitor, who, hands flat on his knee, rocked gently to and fro.

  ‘I think she’s very ill, Mr. Fury, and she’ll want looking after.’

  ‘I see! Ah well, so you found us out all right. Hey’s bloody Alley! That’s it. You’re right in it, Mr. Kilkey. Lovely, bloody place, isn’t it? Just like home sweet home!’

  Mr. Kilkey took a quick glance round the place. ‘Hey’s bloody Alley!’ he echoed the words of Mr. Fury. Aye! It was a bit of a come-down. Hatfields hadn’t been bad, boneyard or no boneyard. To Joseph Kilkey it was a deep disappointment. It did seem the very last street on earth. The kitchen was small, the only article of furniture he recognized was the table. A Hatfields heirloom. When he looked at the fire he saw the result of Mr. Fury’s enforced bachelorhood. The range was littered with pots, pans, cups, some unclean plates. The hearth was a pile of ashes.

  And Mr. Fury noticed everything. At last he said jocularly: ‘Well, I’ve seen worse, Kilkey, if you haven’t.’

  ‘I had quite a job finding my way here, Denny,’ said Mr. Kilkey, taking out a pipe to fill.

  ‘You would! Fanny, she wrote me saying she was shifting. Then when I came up from the dock I had a bloody time of it, I can tell you! Took me an hour to find it, and me with a bag on my back. Still—what’s the use of grumbling? I’m fair worried about the missus, I can tell you. And what’s worse I have to sail to-morrow week, no matter what happens,’ and he looked long and earnestly at the visitor as though to say: ‘You can solve this.’

  ‘I heard about it,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘As a matter of fact I enquired about her on my way to work. They let me see her. Only a minute, though. Your wife is very ill, Mr. Fury. I’m awfully sorry about it. Awfully sorry.’

  It quite touched Mr. Fury. ‘Thank you for seeing my woman, Kilkey,’ he said.

  ‘D’you have to sail?’

  ‘’Course! Under the Government now. Trooping, you know. Extra ten bob a month, danger money too. Aye! I have to sail, though I don’t mind telling you I don’t half like it. But then, things happen and you have to make the best of it.’ He leaned forward in the chair. ‘I’m glad you came! Honest I am. I haven’t seen anybody I know for years,’cept my shipmates, and I know them too well. Ah well! Let’s talk of something else. How you’re doing yourself? You look well. Plenty of work now, eh? Nothing like work to keep you from worrying, eh?’ He laughed softly. ‘You know, Fanny thinks sea life is one long holiday. I wish she really knew.’

  ‘It’s going to be awkward for Fanny. I mean when she comes out.’

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Kilkey, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Right! Look here. I brought a pint of ale in for you. I don’t go into pubs much, as you know, though I’m not narrow minded about it. I’ll even have a glass with you,’ and from his pocket he took a bottle of beer and unwrapped it. ‘How long since you had one, Mr. Fury?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a surprise. I haven’t had a pint—well—you know, I generally have a pint every night. But down here—I don’t know—everything’s different. You do miss faces, Kilkey. I suppose you’re still in Price Street.’ He poured the beer into clean cups. ‘Price Street, wasn’t a bad neighbourhood. Ever hear anything of Maureen?’

  ‘No! I’m completely on my own now. She came and took Dermod away.’

  ‘She what!’ Mr. Fury was on his feet instantly. ‘And you let her. Oh, you are a mug, Kilkey! How’d it happen?’ and to himself he said, ‘A mug. The bloody mug of mugs!’—‘How long ago was that?’ he added quietly.

  ‘Oh! Some weeks ago. Still, I saw her point. I couldn’t look after the kid. Mrs. Ditchley did her best. When he fell ill I thought it best to write Maureen. I’ve never seen him. She came. I thought she was going to stay. Forget everything. She cried just like a kid. But she took him.’

  ‘I’m damned!’ exclaimed Mr. Fury. ‘I never knew that. But now we’re on that point I’ll tell you something: I’m finished with the lot of them. Anthony’s the only decent one of the bunch and I haven’t seen him since the war began. I suppose you’ll be getting called up, too.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘They’re calling everybody up now.’

  ‘D’you think the Germans will win?’

  ‘I dunno! Won’t make much difference who wins, come to think of it.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Well, here’s your health, Denny, and wishing your wife a quick recovery.’

  ‘Here’s to you, Joe Kilkey, and the very best of luck, man.’ He banged down the cup. ‘Here’s a bit of news for you, Kilkey. The morning I had to rush to the General to see the old woman, I met Desmond. What d’you think of that? Quite strangers we were. But you could have knocked my head off. I got the surprise of my life. A bloody Captain. In the Army, mind you. I could have laughed! But I couldn’t then. And he’d come to see Fanny! He looked hale and hearty and all the rest of it. I only saw him a few minutes, though. He was in a fix. Didn’t know what to say, what to do. Suppose he was ashamed to see me. I dunno? All the same I said to him: ‘What’s all this bloody tommy-rot?’ but he didn’t say anything except he was sorry. No, Joe Kilkey, I’m through with the lot of them. From now on Fanny and me live our own lives. But I wish him luck just the same. He’s a clever lad, and he’s a pusher too. But to be honest I’ve come to agree with my old woman. Let them go to the devil! I said that years ago. But I was told to shut up. If I�
��d had my way I would have had them working like niggers.’Course I never saw them. Away all the time. She ran the whole bloomin’ show. See the thanks she got? She was a foolish woman, though mind you I wouldn’t stand for anything being said against her. No sir! She’s a real brick, that woman is.’

  Again he leaned forward, spoke in a low voice, as though none but this man should hear and know. ‘I’m making a little plan of me own for her. I’ve been saving up now for nine months, and I got almost her fare to Ireland and back,’sides a couple of quid! See! I planned it long ago. Never said a word to her. I went off to see a chap at the Catholic Truth Society, they arrange these trips. Now Fanny’ll be able, when she gets better I mean—she’ll be able to go to Mount Mellery for a whole fortnight and have a nice quiet rest there. With the monks to wait on her hand and foot. She’ll just love that, Fanny will. Remember that time you gave her the ticket for the charabanc trip? Well, she hasn’t been any place since then. This is strictly between you and me, Joe Kilkey.’

  With this off his chest, Denny Fury sat back in the chair. He seemed cheered up by the visitor. He felt much happier, less afraid of having to go away to sea and leave Fanny alone. Mr. Kilkey would help. ‘Anyhow I’m going to tell her to-morrow when I go there.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘When is she going to go then?’

  ‘Soon’s she’s able, I suppose. Will you look in on her now and again while I’m away. You know the bastard of this war is this, I never know just how long the ship’ll be away. And I do want the woman to get that rest. It’ll do her good. She’ll be a new woman after it.’

  Mr. Kilkey, though deeply interested, did not show it to quite the same extent. Indeed, he was rather doubtful about it. It seemed too easy, too good to be true. As for seeing her now and again—well that was difficult. He hadn’t forgotten his treatment, treatment he could never understand.

  It wasn’t the taxi incident, when she had raged at him, and told him to go to the devil. He knew she was beside herself with worry and grief over her son. That incident had passed out of his head altogether. But on two occasions he had called to see her, and each time she had slammed the door on him. Why, he didn’t know. Perhaps Mr. Fury might know. But Mr. Fury was silent on the matter.

  The cups were refilled. Mr. Fury became expansive, reminiscent. Joe Kilkey listened with great patience. Let the man get it off his chest. The old things all over again—the things that got nobody anywhere.

  He looked out of the window, and into the grate. He looked up at the ceiling, under the table, and all the time Mr. Fury went on talking. Sometimes he seemed to be talking to himself, as though he, Kilkey, were not there at all. Forty years at sea and what had he got out of it? Well, what? Reared a family! What had they done for him—or their mother? Well what? And so it went on and Mr. Kilkey puffed at his pipe and was silent.

  There was one thing he could say. Rough, garrulous, even indifferent as Mr. Fury was, he was nevertheless a decent man, and a hard-working one too. If two cups of beer went to his head, simply because he had got out of the habit of holding a pint glass in his hand, well, what about it? Mr. Kilkey thought how lonely he must be without his wife. She had always mattered to him. They had rowed and argued many a time, but Mr. Fury always came back to the same thing. Fanny was a real brick. And if she was, he was too. A decent man. The woman had ruined the children. A daughter had run off, and a son had run off. And another had paid by fifteen years in gaol. Through having ideas put into their heads—through a foolish woman.

  At this point Mr. Kilkey showed signs of restlessness. Mr. Fury might talk on and on, but he himself was tired. He wanted to go home to bed. Twice he looked at Mr. Fury as though to say: ‘Well, I’m getting along,’ but each time there was something that held him in the chair. He hated to leave this man alone. The whole place depressed. What on earth could have made Mrs. Fury come and live in such a hole? But suddenly he had made up his mind and he was on his feet.

  Denny Fury got up too. ‘Sorry you have to go, Kilkey,’ he said. ‘Been just like old times, sitting here and talking. Ah well! I suppose you must go. Glad you came. I’ll walk as far as the corner with you, anyhow.’

  They left the house by the rear entrance, Mr. Fury leading. It was instinctive for him to leave a house by the back rather than the front entrance. To Mr. Kilkey, Hey’s Alley did not improve by a second look. The place was depressing. Surely there were plenty of places for two people to live besides this one. Hatfields was heaven compared with it.

  They passed the house where the singing was going on. It had now become more boisterous. Somebody shouted, a girl squealed, a crowd of children stood around the door waiting for bits of the wedding cake.

  Joseph Kilkey felt relieved when he got past this house, for he remembered, and not without a sense of humiliation, being dragged in there by a drunken soldier who had mistaken him for some long-lost friend, and had, eventually, emerged with his own cap jammed in his pocket and a red or pink paper hat on his head. He felt even more relieved when they got out of the alley. Again he said to Mr. Fury, ‘You know, Mr. Fury, this was the worst place to come to. I don’t know what Mrs. Fury could have been thinking of. It’s a horrible place. And dirty—dirty——’

  Mr. Fury’s hand slapped his shoulder. ‘Between you and me, Kilkey, if I’d known half the things Fanny was thinking of I wouldn’t be here on my own to-day.’

  They passed the ‘Turk’s Head.’ Mr. Kilkey said: ‘Have another drink,’ but Mr. Fury declined. He was sorry Joe Kilkey was going. What a pity he had to go to work, even to sleep! He would like to have Kilkey with him all the day.

  ‘What ship are you working at, Joe?’

  ‘Kensa.’

  ‘That thing!’

  ‘Yes, that thing. And as good a ship as ever. Well, here’s my tram coming.’

  The two men stopped dead. Mr. Fury felt so sad at his going that Mr. Kilkey might just as well have said: ‘This is the end of things.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up and see me, Mr. Fury?’ he asked. They held hands.

  ‘I’d like to. I might. But—look here, Kilkey, I’ve been talking away all the time, and I never even said a word about you and Maureen. You know I hate the girl for treating you like that. I do, honestly. But let’s hope everything will come right in the end. This bloody war’s no joke.’

  ‘Yes. Aye! No——’ Mr. Kilkey could hardly deal with two such dissimilar points of the compass. ‘I’ll look you up again. I hope you find your wife much better. Give her my best regards. Take care of yourself. So-long.’

  Mr. Kilkey waved. Mr. Fury waved. Then the tram was gone and Denny Fury was alone on the pavement.

  Gelton sprawled, Gelton rose and fell and swam around him. What should he do? Go home? Go and have a drink? Slip up and see a friend? What friend? Where? Should he have a walk? Walk! Hadn’t he walked and walked? He might even go to chapel. The things he might do were so numerous that they appalled. He didn’t know what to do. Time hung on his hands. Why did it always hang on your hands? Make you glad to be aboard your ship, and off to sea again. He didn’t know.

  He experienced feelings he was quite unable to understand. It wasn’t exactly sadness, or being alone. It wasn’t hope, or happiness, or pride, or jealousy, or desire. It was just an emptiness. He felt empty, standing here washed up on the kerb by the rushing tide of Gelton. He thought of his wife behind walls and behind windows. Shut in. The Fanny who didn’t know, who couldn’t see him, who didn’t understand how he was feeling now, standing by himself on the kerbstone—she yet seemed to put out an invisible hand and touch Mr. Fury. She might lie there, quiet, resting, thinking or not thinking of him. But she could pillage his spirit. She filled him with dread, the dread of being left, of having nothing, of being lost, just as he was lost on the kerb at this moment, wondering what to do. Trying to make up his mind. Perhaps it would have been better if that fellow Kilkey had not come. No! That wasn’t a very nice thing to think. But he must move—he must go som
ewhere and do something. And the worry of Fanny—of going away, worrying how she would manage. In ‘Hey’s bloody Alley,’ all on her own. Straight out of a sick bed. She mightn’t care to go to Mount Mellery. She could be so contrary. So contrary and stubborn.

  Life rushed past him, whirled round him, Gelton roared and swept, and he was in the middle of it. Suddenly a car blew its horn, advancing at speed just as Mr. Fury stepped off the pavement. It blew its horn furiously then, and the man made a rush across the road. He got out of the way just in time.

  That was Gelton! That was the city. ‘Look out! I’m coming! Make way there! Make way! To hell with everybody.’

  Denny Fury decided to go back home. He entered by the same way he had left. He went upstairs, pottered about there. Came down again. He went and stood by the window, watching the children play, listening to the wild drunken singing from the house where the married soldier was. He went to the dresser and hung cap and muffler on the back of it. He sat down at the table and emptied the beer botttle He drank it but spat it out again. It didn’t taste nice now. He got up and went to the chair by the fire. It burned low.

  II

  ‘You are Mr. Fury?’ said the doctor. ‘Please sit down,’ and he took a good look at the man as he did so. ‘I want to have a little talk about your wife. Then you may go in to see her. She’s much better, Mr. Fury, but don’t be optimistic; she will want careful attention.’

  Whilst the doctor said this Mr. Fury leaned forward, the cap swung pendulum-like past one knee, past the other. Twice he glanced up at the doctor, and looked beyond him at the immaculate walls, the polished furniture, the closed door.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Fury. ‘Thank you, doctor. I am glad she is getting better,’ and the doctor was silent, watching those shaky hands, watching the man’s face.

  ‘We have had a lot of trouble with your wife. She should never have been brought here in the first place. We are removing her in a few days. Tell me something about her—about yourself. She seems to be suffering from a kind of phobia about something. It would help us, you know.’