Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  Finally they reached the kitchen and went in. He looked at Mr. Kilkey and knew he was afraid, but of what he didn’t know. Him of course. He was afraid of him. Anyhow, he looked like a rabbit. He noticed the brown cord, round the man’s neck and putting his finger underneath quickly zipped the scapulars into view.

  ‘Where I come from,’ he said, giving a pull on the cord, ‘we hang bastards like you on their scap-u-lars,’ and he sang the last word into Joseph Kilkey’s face. ‘Good old Belfast, mate! The place for you too.’

  Joseph Kilkey stood on one side of the table, the soldier on the other.

  ‘What have you come for?’ Kilkey asked, and he pressed his hands flat on the table.

  ‘Well, I like that! For you, of course. You scared pimp! And men dying in thousands. And you get your papers and don’t even report. By Christ mate, you take the biscuit!’

  ‘There’s a mistake been made. I’m a skilled worker at the docks,’ Mr. Kilkey said.

  ‘You don’t look skilled to me. The fact is you’re as scared as hell. Come on. Do it decent and not so much backchat out of you. Bloody coward!’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ said Mr. Kilkey, and immediately the soldier caught hold of his nose and pulled it.

  ‘Aren’t you? You’re a brave man! Come on! Where’s your clothes? I’ll get them.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get my own clothes. And don’t get excited. I’m coming. But I tell you, you’ve made a mistake and you’ll find it out soon enough.’

  ‘There’s no mistake! You got your bloody papers. We’ve been here four times for you. Who the hell d’you think you are, running the British Army off its feet? Come on! Standing there like a wet dream.’

  He rushed round the table, caught Mr. Kilkey by the neck of his shirt and by the trouser-tops.

  ‘You’re so bloody scared that I don’t believe you’d even be able to put your clothes on. Never mind. When you get to the drill hall you’ll find a brand-new uniform there, and you won’t even have to dress, mate. No,’ and then he pushed Mr. Kilkey headlong into the dark lobby.

  ‘No, mate. We always dress you fellows up. Saves you the trouble. Come on! Out you bloody well go,’ and then he shouted: ‘Open that door, you.’

  The door opened, and Mr. Kilkey shot into the street.

  A crowd collected.

  Mrs. Ditchley came up and ran up to the four men, her arms outspread.

  ‘Here!’ she said. ‘Where are you going, Mr. Kilkey?’ and then looking at the man holding him. ‘Where are you taking him? It’s a mistake! He’s an important worker. He’s excused. He has a wife and child. There’s a mistake, I tell you,’ and so frantically gesticulating she tried to convince the men.

  Joseph Kilkey looked at her and said: ‘Go back in, Mrs. Ditchley, I’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’ll be back here to-night. They’ve made a big mistake.’

  ‘Come on,’ said the soldier, and pushed the man ahead of him. ‘The army never makes mistakes. Never! Come, on you fellows. Get round him. He might try to do the bunk,’ and the whole procession moved off down Price Street.

  Children ran behind, shouting, laughing. The occupants of every house in the street had now appeared on their steps. There were cries of ‘Shame!’ and cries of ‘Serve him right!’ Cries of: ‘Why shouldn’t he fight?’ and a woman who had lost two sons, suddenly leaped from the step and ran after the procession. She came up to it as it was passing the little general shop. ‘Why shouldn’t you go, you old bastard?’ she screamed. ‘I lost two lovely lads.’

  She went right up to Mr. Kilkey and spat in his face. ‘Coward!’

  ‘Go on! Get back home, missus,’ cried one of the soldiers, ‘and don’t boast. You’re not the only one who’s lost two sons. Go on. Get back, I tell you!’

  The woman cried: ‘Dirty shirker! Rather fight for the Pope, you would!’ And then she walked slowly back to her step, apparently satisfied now that she had said her say, and she thought of her two ‘lovely lads.’

  Meanwhile the procession had turned into the King’s Road. Here the crowd increased, more children followed behind. Shoppers stopped to stare. Some looked on in silence. Others cried: ‘Good! Make him fight. Dirty coward!’ A man laughed as they passed a bootshop, seeing spittle running down Joe Kilkey’s cheek. He was well secured. Not only was the hold on neck and waist maintained, but one held his right arm, and wrist, another the left. The other soldier walked on ahead, apparently to keep the pathway clear. One could tell by the expressions upon their faces, how they were enjoying it. From time to time somebody called out. ‘Hello there, Tom! Not gone yet,’ and a woman shouted from a grocer’s shop: ‘Why, Andy, I thought you were in France.’

  Mr. Kilkey knew these men, slightly. They were all local men. The one who held him by the collar he knew as the drummer of the local ‘Death and Glory Boys,’ an ardent anti-Papist, and, like George Postlethwaite, a teamster.

  When they reached the next corner four women carrying baskets were standing talking. One held a shipping paper in her hand. When the procession came into view she gave a whoop like an Indian warrior, and shouted for the benefit of everybody in the vicinity: ‘Another of them damned conchies!’ With a few quick movements of her hands she had turned the newspaper into a hat. As Joseph Kilkey came by, this improvised soldier’s hat was jammed on his head.

  The procession moved on. The soldiers were quite indifferent, not only to the paper hat and the spit on the man’s face, but to the cat-calls, the cries of shame which themselves were furtive and cautious, as they had to be in the midst of such an ocean of patriotism. The drill hall was only a few streets farther off. This procession was an entertainment, a brief respite, in between the ‘Cheerios’ at the railway station, and the buff telegram under the door. It was something to look at, something to amuse. It was funny.

  A man with a paper hat on his head going off to the war. An ugly-looking man with the look of a frightened rabbit. A man who wouldn’t last a minute once he got into ‘them bloody trenches!’

  The object of this ridicule and the cause of the patriotic outburst looked neither to the right nor the left. He looked right ahead. He felt the hold on neck and arms, felt the spittle on his face, heard the shouts and laughter, and he said to himself: ‘Saint Christopher help me. Saint Francis keep me cool. Keep me cool.’

  He was going to the barracks, and he wasn’t the first. He knew this, as well as he knew the danger of not keeping cool. He had not seen as yet one friendly eye. And he had passed people who knew him. People whom he had worked with. Some looked, some did not. And some turned right round and looked the other way. Only a fellow going off to the war. Nothing strange about that, except perhaps the paper hat, and the fact that he was in his shirt-sleeves. Hundreds were going off to the war. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Millions. Nothing about a fellow going off with a paper hat. Just one of ‘them conchies.’

  The procession reached the middle of the King’s Road. Here Mr. Kilkey was pushed into the road itself and marched along it. The traffic was held up. Soldiers home on leave looked on, women shopping were amused, men working stopped to look. Conchie off to the war. Didn’t mean anything except that when you got to ‘them bloody trenches,’ they gave you a nice little bomb and sent you over the top to capture the whole German Army all by yourself.

  Joseph Kilkey passed through the neighbourhood that had known him for over twenty years, and he passed through it as a complete stranger.

  ‘Oh God! Help me to keep my temper. Saint Christopher help me to keep cool.’

  Passing through Gelton streets required it, as well as fortitude. Suddenly the procession stopped, and people gathered round it. There seemed no reason on earth for this abrupt halt, until the soldier in front, his face wreathed in smiles, cried to the world:

  ‘Have a good look at the tiger. Just come from the Price Street Zoo.’

  The soldier behind shook Mr. Kilkey’s head. The crowd laughed. It was so ‘bloody funny.’ Mr. Kilkey was pushed on. More and more childr
en formed up behind. Soldiers stood by, laughing. And one or two people ignored the whole display. The procession turned down Julep Street. Here, as though its coming had been mysteriously telegraphed to them, its inhabitants had now come out of their houses, and lined up to watch Joseph Kilkey pass.

  Two men on the pavement said: ‘Why, I know that chap. Works for Pattenson’s, the Master Porters and Stevedores,’ and hearing this Mr. Kilkey managed to turn his head a little and he looked at them. He knew those two men. But he did not speak. Looking at them was another man, and they looked back at him.

  ‘Hello there, Joe,’ said one. ‘Off to the blurry war, eh? Good for you.’

  The other was silent.

  They passed along the street. A boy flung a handful of horse manure at Joe Kilkey’s head. And then by way of encouragement the soldiers behind him said: ‘Not far to go now, mate. You’ll be all right at the drill-hall,’ and the one in front turned and exclaimed loudly: ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t come proper before the day’s out, you see. You can’t do a bloody thing, so why not make the best of it, mate.’

  Mr. Kilkey could not have made a reply even if he wished, for the soldier immediately behind had somehow got his hand round the man’s neck.

  ‘Not far to go,’ he whispered. ‘Not far, mate. Hope your uniform fits you.’

  They reached the end of this street. As they turned the corner a remarkably pretty girl no more than eighteen ran up to Mr. Kilkey and a stream of abuse and oaths issued from her lips. She scratched her hand down one side of his face.

  ‘Here you, missy! You can spit but not scratch,’ said the soldier behind Kilkey, and then he put his hand in the small of her back and tickling her, whispered: ‘What about seeing you to-night, eh? Outside the Drill Hall,’ and then he added quickly: ‘But I can’t!’Course I can’t.’

  The girl meanwhile trotted along at his side.

  ‘We’re leaving in an hour. Coming?’

  She could see the livid marks she had made on Joseph Kilkey’s face. And there was nobody to prevent and everything to encourage her. Gelton’s thousands were bloodthirsty, and it was Gelton’s day out. A little licence here and there was not out of place, for wasn’t the Gelton Regiment moving off to camp?

  ‘Who is he?’ asked the girl, and she began giggling as the soldier put an arm round her waist, though he never loosened his hold on Mr. Kilkey.

  ‘One of them bloody conchies. How’d you like his blinkin’ hat?’

  ‘It’s sweet, isn’t it? And he looks such a darling. Such a darling,’ and she watched the tiny trickle of blood run down the man’s cheek. ‘Coward!’ she said.

  ‘What would you give me if I came with you?’ she asked, now beginning to enjoy the feel of the soldier’s hand. ‘Say if I came with you to Garside.’

  ‘Now, let me see,’ said the soldier, and looked up into the air, as though somewhere above lay the answer to her question. Then the little procession halted. There was a traffic hold-up.

  ‘I’ll give you five bob and if you’re as nice as I think you are, I’ll give you six.’

  She put a hand on his arm.

  Lorries were roaring down this narrow street, splashing mud caused by the overnight rain. The soldier in front suddenly turned as a huge wagon loaded with barrels of treacle came thundering down. They were now in the roadway. Suddenly the soldier pushed Kilkey right into the road, and a woman screamed: ‘Ooh! Ooh!’ thinking for a moment that the man with the paper hat would go under the wheels. But the soldiers laughed, and the one in front exclaimed under his breath, as he stood to the left of Kilkey: ‘Men to the right, shit to the left.’

  The wagon passed, and the man with the paper hat received the splashings of mud.

  ‘Come on,’ said the one behind, and now the procession increased its pace.

  It was near the end of its journey. Already they could see the drill hall in the distance, into and out of which soldiers passed. This street was not so crowded, for one side of it was taken up by warehouses and stables. The crowd behind having had their entertainment began to dwindle away, all except a dozen children who enjoyed it immensely.

  They had now reached the barrack gate.

  ‘In you go.’

  The four soldiers cried this in chorus. ‘In you bloody well go!’

  Joseph Kilkey was pushed through crowds of troops all busy assembling their kit in the yard. Men were packing bags, polishing buttons, fastening up packs and haversacks, inspecting holdalls. Some ignored the procession.

  They reached a long stone corridor. There was a wooden form here.

  ‘You can sit down, mate,’ and then the weight went from Joe Kilkey’s neck.

  ‘Hang on to this beggar,’ he said to the other soldiers. ‘I’ve got to report to the orderly officer about this man,’ and then he turned right and vanished through a green door marked: ‘Orderly room.’

  Three men, two or three officers in the corridor. The soldiers talked about France, about their girls. They stood round Kilkey with their backs to him. A head peeped out through the orderly-room door.

  ‘Bring him in.’

  ‘Come in,’ one said, and gripped the man by the shoulder. ‘They want to see you.’

  Mr. Kilkey was marched into the orderly room. The corporal who had laid such a firm hold on him was now standing by the table. Having delivered the ‘conchie’ before him, he said roughly: ‘Dismiss.’

  There were now only the corporal, Mr. Kilkey and the orderly officer. The last named, looking across the table, saw a well-built, bald-headed man—the paper hat had been removed. He saw beads of sweat on the man’s forehead, smears of mud, spittle, horse manure on his face. He saw a thin blood line from underneath the right eye to the jaw. He looked at the orderly.

  ‘Seems to be having a jolly time. Dismiss, Corporal. Wait outside.’

  The man went out. The door closed. The orderly officer began to speak. ‘Your name is Joseph Kilkey?’ He sat back in the chair twiddling his thumbs.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr. Kilkey said, and he fixed his eyes boldly on the officer’s face. ‘I have been brought here like a criminal—I have——’

  ‘But you are a criminal. You disobey the orders. You are, in fact, a deserter, and I could punish you, though I won’t. You seem to have paid for your stubbornness. What is your name again?’ He sat up to the table, rested his elbows on it, and looked the man up and down. ‘I didn’t catch the name.’

  ‘No,’ thought the man. ‘He didn’t catch it, but he was able to tell me my name.’

  ‘My name is Joseph Kilkey. I am a stevedore at the docks, and I have worked there all my life. I have been dragged out of my home and I wish to protest because a mistake has been made. I protest,’ he cried, and it seemed to have been wrung from the very depths of his soul. ‘I protest,’ and it seemed, though only for a moment, as though the tiny light of moral indignation had risen above the vast waters of ignorance, colossal, and in that moment terrifying, and somehow Joseph Kilkey knew that this very moment he must cry out, this protest.

  ‘I protest! I have been insulted. I have been made a fool of, I have—I tell you a mistake has been made. I’m not—I tell you——’

  He stopped suddenly as though the expression upon the officer’s face had robbed him of further effort. His tongue rolled about in his mouth, it framed words, but he could not speak.

  The officer now looked at a pile of papers on the table, ran his fingers through them, took out two long oblong buff sheets, and, said, without looking up: ‘If any mistake has been made it will be rectified. No mistakes are being made in France where brave men are dying for their country. The full particulars here—now——’

  ‘But—but—I have a family. I don’t believe—I—I protest. A mistake has been made. It’s not fair—I——’

  ‘I have said that if that is so, it will be rectified.’ He looked up at Kilkey.

  ‘When?’ asked the man.

  ‘When yo
u are in France,’ replied the officer, and he lowered his head, began reading the buff forms before him. ‘You are a conscientious objector?’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘On these grounds. I don’t believe in killing people I haven’t the heart to kill.’

  ‘You had better find some better excuse than that before we march to Garside,’ replied the officer. He pressed a button, and the bell in the corridor rang.

  The corporal appeared as though by magic.

  ‘Remove this man. Take him away to the quartermaster and have him fitted out with a full complement.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He saluted, fell back one pace.

  ‘Right turn! Quick march.’

  Joseph Kilkey, though he may not have fully realized it, was already in the army.

  ‘Here you are, mate,’ he said, opening another green door at the end of the corridor, and as he pushed him into the room: ‘You’ll feel a better man soon’s you get the King’s uniform on. Quartermaster! Lieutenant Gill says complete rig-out for our friend here.’ Then he turned on his heel and left Joseph Kilkey with the quartermaster.

  The quartermaster took a good look at the man, called ‘Clarke! Clarke!’ and a door at the end of the room opened.

  Five minutes later Joseph Kilkey found a full rig-out at his feet. He looked at it but did not move. He had not spoken a single word since entering.

  ‘Well! Aren’t going to stand there all day, are you?’

  ‘I protest! There’s been a mistake. I don’t believe in war. I—there’s a——’

  ‘Take the bastard over to A platoon, and tell them to see this man’s ready to leave at half-past eleven with the Battalion.’ Then he went on reading his book.

  The soldier went up to Kilkey. He was the tailor, and attached to the quartermaster’s office as well.

  ‘Pick your things up. What’s your name? Where’d you come from? Who are you?’