Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  Mr. Johns said quietly: ‘I’m surprised by you, Fury. You used to be one of the best of the crowd. When somebody told me they’d seen you going about in that’—he meant it as purely derogatory—‘well, I could have kissed my behind and that’s a fact! To-day, though you may not know it, your name stinks among Gelton workers. Stinks, putting it mildly, Fury!’

  ‘I did quite a lot for them at one time or other,’ said the Captain slowly.

  ‘Perhaps you did. But it doesn’t count tuppence. We’re simply mugs to you. I was talking to a friend of yours the other day. I remember you used to call him a cod. But they called him up, and he wouldn’t go to that damned war. Which shows he’s not such a cod as you think. I wonder where you think you’re getting, Fury?’

  ‘Where I want to go to is the best answer to that,’ replied Desmond. ‘Why, Johns?’

  ‘Nothing! But strike me dead, when I saw you standing there among the nobs, you just made me bloody sick! A hell of a lot of thanks you’ll get for your kindness!’

  ‘I’m not expecting any from gentlemen. I don’t want their thanks. You made a big mistake, Johns. I set out to get somewhere, and I’m going there, and it won’t have to be through ranks of gentlemen. But I thought you wanted to say something. You made enough row about it in there,’ and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the conference room. ‘My idea stands.’

  ‘This is what I want to say, Fury. You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life setting yourself against the workers like this. They might pay you good money and give you a smart uniform. But it won’t last long, and when our time comes—and it will come, yes, you bastard!—you may stand there laughing and thinking you’re a hell of a fellow—but it will come, and we’ll know what to do with the likes of you. That shows I’m not scared, Mr. Bloody Fury, in spite of the fact that you make twice of me in bulk. Since you married that tart, you got ideas into your head, or she put them there for you. People like you, Fury, just amuse people like that. We’re not all thick. We see as far as our noses. That tart’s ruined you for good; you daren’t show yourself anywhere where Gelton workers hang out. By God, no! I believe in loyalty. Yes, sir, even if you have to live your life in a closet—up to your eyes in muck. I believe in loyalty, and like any working man it goes to my family, and then it goes to my workmates. That’s the only place it belongs. It doesn’t belong to the Government who don’t care two pins about you, or anybody else. It belongs to all of us who, if we win this war, will have to pay for it? See? And the only ones who won’t pay will be those who are killed.

  ‘You think you’re a marvel! You got a bloody swelled head! That’s all you’ve got. I was talking to Kilkey the other day. He told me you hadn’t been near one of your family since—oh, well, since you got on in the world. Well, to me a thing like that is lousy, and I’ll say it to your face. You are lousy, and a bloody turncoat into the bargain! Never mind. We know what to do now. We’ll fight your dirty scheme every bit of the way, even if we get gaol for it. The more I think of it, the more amazed I am.’

  Captain Fury remained in the same position. Not a muscle of his face moved. He rose on his heels, up and down, up and down, his hands behind his back, playing with the stick he carried People had passed through. Now the place was empty, and in the huge building Mr. Johns’ voice took on almost thunderous tones, rolling about like ominous waves, and in the midst of them stood the Captain, calm, unperturbed, even attentive, and seemingly very interested in Mr. Johns’s volubility. For a shy man, and he always remembered Johns as the shyest of men, he had developed enormously.

  ‘I came all the way from Gelton. I was delegated to come here, to fight against you, and the other so-called Labour leaders. Labour! It makes me want to puke with disgust! You say you’re getting somewhere. We’ll see! Wait till they’ve had the fun, had what they want. They’ll kick you back where you came from. That tart went to your head.’ He wanted to add ‘to your brother’s too,’ but he didn’t mention it.

  Now he looked the Captain up and down, sized him up. Six foot of arrogance. No more than that. And his old father sweating his guts out in a furnace room. Well! Well! There’s loyalty for you. Run off with a tart! And what a tart! He’d heard about her.

  ‘I gave up representing workers at the last big strike, Johns,’ said Desmond.

  ‘It’s nothing to compliment yourself about. You think you’re clever, Fury, but not half as clever as that tart you married. Not half as clever! You just wait. D’you suppose they come to Gelton to be educated, or to help anybody? Do they hell!’ Mr. Johns paused.

  ‘I’m trying to be interested, Johns,’ said the Captain, ‘but you’re losing your temper. You were always such a cool man. But you seem to have changed. I admit I turned my back on them. Well, no law says I can’t. It’s a free country. I want to go my own road. Besides, you’re just talking nonsense about loyalty. Look at this morning. Who were the people who tried to bite each other’s heads off? The gentlemen as you call them? Not it. The bloody union men! Yes, Johns, you’re right. It’s a farce. I’m honest, anyhow. I’m out for myself, so far as I’m concerned I don’t give a damn for anybody. Nobody.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that, either,’ countered Mr. Johns dryly.

  ‘Well then, why hold up the bloody traffic? I’m in a hurry now, anyhow.’

  ‘You always were. Maybe you travel too fast. I won’t get in your way. But let me tell you this before I see the last of you, Fury. You’ll travel just as far as that tart wants you to go. You’re a fine specimen to look at, I’ll admit that. That’s what they like. Yes, Mr. Bloody Fury, you’ll travel where they want you to. And that won’t be any farther than under the bedclothes. That’s honest too. So now you have it!’ Mr. Johns spat contemptuously.

  Captain Fury gripped the other’s vest and shook him. His face was livid with rage. ‘I’d like to kill you, Johns,’ he said under his breath, and he continued to shake him.

  ‘You haven’t the guts!’ said Johns, who tore away from the Captain. ‘You haven’t the guts to kill anything. Well, there it is anyhow,’ and he turned his back on Desmond, and strode out, and down the steps.

  ‘At least I’ve told the sod what I think of him,’ thought Mr. Johns as he repaired to the nearest pub for refreshment.

  A few minutes later Desmond Fury was in a taxi and heading for home.

  ‘Life begins this morning,’ he said, ‘and it has!’

  II

  ‘Everything’s in a blasted mess!’ said Mr. Kilkey, and somehow he seemed to be addressing his own long reflection of himself as he went down the long stone corridor. A mess! Though the war beat everything. That was the worst mess of all. Half of Price Street empty now. Hundreds of his friends gone. Half of them dead. And they were still going. Take you with one leg even. Which showed the mess it was.

  ‘Well,’ he thought, as he went down the convent steps, ‘the kid’s safe anyhow! Poor little beggar! Still, nothing can get him there, unless it’s a bomb.’

  When he reached the street he heard a newsboy crying the paper. Big offensive on the Western Front! He bought one, and stood for a moment under the gas lamp to read. H’m! Another lost battle, I’ll bet. Hello! What’s this? Oh, Lord! Him again. H’m! In London now, eh! Getting on indeed! Well, perhaps there was something in it. Perhaps there is, and I’m too dull to see it. Desmond always said I was dull.

  However, he was at no pains to analyse what that something was. He had plenty to think of besides somebody else’s ambitions.

  “Soon as I got that paper I knew. I could see it coming. If I hadn’t gone to Blacksea I would never have seen that kid again. The girl’s like stone.”

  When he reached the end of the street he stopped. Oh yes, Mrs. Fury. Must see her! He’d promised Denny. Denny was in the war too. So was Anthony. Everybody was dragged into the rotten thing. A lot they’d get out of it. Ah well! No use thinking about it. But he went on thinking about it, even to juggling with the thought that there might be a mistake in his being call
ed up. Besides, so far as he knew he came in amongst the indispensables. Perhaps they’d find out. The chances were that they never would. That was the safer reflection.

  ‘Well, here she is,’ he exclaimed as the tram came in sight. ‘Suppose I’d better see the firm at the same time.’ Yes, might as well. They might see the mistake.

  Dermod never left his mind. Well, he couldn’t worry. Those nuns were good. He knew all about those people. Thoughts came at random, flashed like sparks, disappeared again. What a curious creature Maureen’s living with.

  Hello! What’s this? and he craned his neck to see over a woman’s hat. There was a commotion in the street below. When he looked out he saw a band passing, troops in column of four, singing, cheering, laughing, shouting. All working lads, I’ll bet! he thought, what a damned shame! Just listen to them!

  Where would they be to-morrow? You simply didn’t know. It was playing draughts, with a handkerchief round your eyes. The tram had stopped outside the Gelton General before he realized it. He hurried off and just cleared the platform in time, for the driver seemed in a great hurry and the tram clanged on again. He rang the bell, the porter opened the door, and he went in. The porter looked dubious, said: ‘Wait here,’ and went off.

  Five minutes later a sister came down. Joseph Kilkey said. ‘Evening, nurse.’

  ‘’Ning,’ the sister said. She clipped all her words. Mrs. Fury? She wasn’t there. She had left—oh, nearly a month ago. Mr. Kilkey looked more puzzled. She had gone on her own responsibility. ‘Where, we don’t know. Home, we presume.’

  Mr. Kilkey looked at the floor, then at the nurse. ‘Thank you, sorry! Oh, d’you know her address, please?’

  It came quicker than he expected. The porter had written it on a sheet of paper. Hey’s Alley, No. 17. Now where was that?

  ‘Thanks.’

  Then he hurried out. Not there at all. Gone home. I’ll be hanged!

  Outside he bumped into two workmates. ‘Hello, Joe,’ they said. ‘Not gone yet? Good Lord! War’ll be lost if you don’t go!’ All three of them laughed. ‘Come and have a drink, Joe. Do you good. Buck you up!’

  All three went along the road.

  ‘Fancy me forgetting that address, and the old man pressed it on to me so hard. Hey’s Alley. Why of course. I know.’

  They stopped outside the pub.

  ‘You fellers know I don’t like drink.’

  ‘Never mind,’ one said. ‘Have one with us now. When you’ve gone we’ll probably come after you. Mightn’t meet again. That sort of thing. You know. Soldiers as common as turds. Hardly miss them when they get killed. Come on!’

  The other man was forcing Mr. Kilkey towards the swing-door of the pub. But there was no need to, for Mr. Kilkey opened the door himself and led the way in. They grouped round the counter. It was slack period, the place was almost empty.

  ‘What you having, Joe?’ they asked in unison.

  ‘Never mind what I’m having,’ he replied. ‘It’s what are you having? This is on me, mates. I’ll tell you what. Have a good one while you’re at it. I’m good for a couple of bob. You never know, do you? It’s God’s truth. Mightn’t ever see you chaps again,’ and without even waiting to hear what they wanted, he rambled on about his child. ‘Just left the little lad in the convent. It’s damned hard, you know. This war doesn’t know the harm it’s doing. I feel all in bits myself. Anything for a quiet life. That’s my motto. What you having, chums?’

  ‘I’ll have a pint mixed, Joe.’

  ‘I’ll have a large mild.’

  ‘And I’ll have a glass of stout,’ said Mr. Kilkey, as he signalled to the barman, and his two friends went back and sat on the form under the window. They spat a lot into the sawdust. They were very dry, very hot, and very dirty. The ship they had loaded was already blowing loud in the river.

  Mr. Kilkey carried the drinks to them. Then he brought his own and sat down.

  ‘Well, boys, here’s all the best of luck to you, and for the sake of all the ships we loaded and unloaded and the one we sank. Remember that one, mates?’

  ‘Aye! We do that! Here’s the skin off your nose, Joe, and all the best till we meet again.’

  The other man followed with a similar toast. Then they settled down to animated conversation. How long was this confounded war going on? What a war it was too!

  ‘You know, Joe, when you come to think of it, we workers could stop this war.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’ said Mr. Kilkey. It came almost like an ultimatum.

  ‘How the hell can you stop anything?’ said the other. ‘When’re you off, Joe?’

  ‘Me?’ Mr. Kilkey laughed. Was this the first effect of the glass of stout upon a teetotal anatomy? ‘Me?’ said Joe Kilkey. ‘They’ve made a mistake. If they think I’m going to their war they’re crazy. I’m not. That’s all.’

  ‘But you’ll have to, Joe. You can’t do anything about it. You can’t even go back on your job. They know. When are you really going, Kilkey. Tell us?’ He leaned over Mr. Kilkey and said in his ear: ‘We won’t tell anybody, Joe.’

  ‘Yes, Joe. Are you going in the lancers or in the lifeguards?’

  ‘You fellers think I’m joking. Well, you’ve made a big mistake. If you want to know, I should have reported three days ago. But I didn’t. And I won’t. And I’ll tell you why I won’t, mates, while you’re still alive to hear it——’

  ‘Here, half a mo’ there, Kilkey, half a mo’. You’re not the undertaker, you know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go to their war because I don’t see I’ve done anybody any harm. I haven’t. I can speak honest there. And what’s more, I’ve no more intention than the moon. I never interfered with Germans. Never seen one’cept Blumer, and he’s a decent chap. I mean he was. You know, the pork butcher. They have no right to drag you out of your home and fling you into their dirty battles. They are dirty, they’re filthy, and it’s a disgrace! Every day you open the paper you see thousands more killed. No! I refuse that.’

  ‘Well, I am surprised, Kilkey. I never expected that from you. But suppose we lost this war? How’d you like Germans coming over bossing you, eh?’

  Mr. Kilkey swigged his beer. ‘Wouldn’t be any worse than some English that I’ve seen in my time. I’m speaking as an Irishman now, mind you.’

  ‘Ah! That’s it! I see,’ and the other seemed to echo his words. They saw. It was because he was Irish and the Irish always hated the English.

  Joseph Kilkey became suddenly serious. ‘Listen, chums, you’re wrong. It’s not because I’m Irish at all. I’m just like you, and you.’ Here he dug his finger into their chests. ‘Just the same as you. We’re workers. I’m not clever. Never let on to be—but I’m not that much of a mug. And I know workers never got anything out of a war. You won’t—and you won’t.’ He jabbed his finger into their chests again, then struck his own. ‘And I won’t.’

  Mr. Kilkey was becoming really excited about it. Perhaps it was the beer, their good-natured smiles seemed to say.

  ‘Here, not so loud! It doesn’t pay. Shouting all over the house. Good job none of them women are here whose husbands were lost on the Z nineteen.’

  ‘That’s the sad thing,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘Still, what I said I mean. I’m not going. I’m not the only one. Better men than me by a long shot have refused to go. I wouldn’t kill a German for a fortune. They’re as good as you or me.’

  ‘Well, you’re a mystery,’ said one. ‘A bloody mystery, Joe! I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Nor I. All the same, I wouldn’t mind having a smack at them.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Joe Kilkey, ‘They’ll smack at you in turn. It’s all a farce. Well, I’d better be off now. So I’ll say so-long. We don’t agree, mates. But never mind. We are mates. Best of luck, Andy, best of luck, George,’ and he took a hand in each of his own and shook them warmly, as he looked at one, and then the other.

  Much younger than he, mere lads. What a world!

  They all went out into the stre
et. They made their way slowly down the road. It was dark, and the darkness itself heightened by the dead weight of a silence that hung over the long dock road. When they halted, they looked about, looked anywhere but at each other, so that at first glance one took them for three men hopelessly lost on the five-mile length of road.

  The night air was raw, the mass of tall warehouses bulky in shadow, a greyish moon riding about their tips; and between streets and alleys, shafts of silver light upon the walls like many great scratches of pencil, and above it all the many odours and scents, sweet and sour, putrid and acrid. No traffic moved. Only a lone ship blew in the river.

  ‘Must have passed up this here road hundreds of thousands of times, Joe.’

  ‘Yes, and if everybody had damned common sense they’d go up and down it still—till God’s good time, anyhow. Well, chums, I have to skip. So-long.’

  They parted, Mr. Kilkey for Hey’s Alley, the two men for home. And all the way down the long road those two men talked of Joseph Kilkey.

  It was after ten when Mr. Kilkey reached Hey’s Alley. Instinctively he went down the street on the right-hand side, for he had not lost his vivid memory of the episode of the paper cap and the glass of whisky. It had often made him laugh. The street was silent. Its doors shut, curtains and blinds drawn. A bleak wind began to blow from the north. Papers blew about in the gutters; light from the gas lamp seemed to trickle down with the rubbish.

  Mr. Kilkey stood outside No. 17. In the darkness he had failed to notice the absence of curtains on its windows. At last he knocked. The door opened. A sickly-looking light dribbled out of the open kitchen door, and pitted the long narrow lobby with grotesque strips. He then saw by the light from the neighbouring lamp the oddest-looking woman he had ever seen.

  Joseph Kilkey’s first impulse was to laugh. The woman was completely bald. She was no more than fifty, and her face was red, clean, and had even in that light the look of an apple that lies in the greengrocer’s window.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, clutching her hands together over her apron and stared at the visitor. As she spoke she lowered her head.