Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘My God,’ he thought, ‘there’s miles and miles of it!’ This disturbed. He had not realized it, and now he began to think of Miss Fetch. Heard that door slam again. That was damned queer. Shutting him out, in fact. But what worried most was the fact that she had been anything but helpful. She knew he must get lost. ‘And by heavens I am lost!’ he said.

  It was almost a cry into the wilderness. He looked around him. Not a cow or a horse, not a sheep or a pig, not even a chicken. And not a human sound. Somewhere there were ordinary people. Somewhere there were trains, and trams and boats. And that was in the world. But this wasn’t the world. It was simply hell. ‘My own blasted fault!’ And then, addressing himself exclusively: ‘You damned greedy-minded bastard! You asked for it!’ Of course. No harm in being curious, or ambitious; that, after all, was living. But this. The picture was quite different. The song of ten thousand trees, parks, lakes, streams—it had a different tune. The picture had a different look. And every day, every damned minute in fact, all this is growing, climbing, spreading out, and soon it’ll bury the whole damn lot of them, and Mr. Downey meanwhile is busy with the ladies in London, and Master John is having an appalling time in the war! And Sheila——

  He wished she were here now, the sight and feel of her would be enough. She was cosy. That was it. Being nice and cosy.

  ‘And this is the devil!’

  He shouted this loudly, and it was wasted upon the air. He went to the edge of the stream, cupped his hands and took a long cool drink. ‘Um! That’s good. By hell it is!’ And he took another drink. He crossed this stream, clambered up the bank. He felt there was only one thing to do. Keep straight ahead. Couldn’t go wrong if he kept straight ahead.

  Two hours later he had reached desperation point. The horizon maddened him. The green grass smiled up at him. He felt he wanted to be sick. Here there were no corners, no ends, no beginnings. How the devil did they look after this?’ And is all this theirs?’ Why, it seemed like the whole of Ireland! He staggered past a copse, made a rapid descent, climbed a stile, passed through another spinney. He came out into an enormous field. There was a man standing there with a dog. He stood with his back to Desmond Fury. ‘A man! By God! At last! Another human being like myself.’ He went up to him and made enquiries, mopping his forehead as he did so. The dog nosed round him, smelt, licked his hand. The man looked at the officer.

  ‘Sure, you’re ten miles off the road, sir,’ he said. ‘Now if you cross over there,’ he began waving, pointing with his right hand, ‘and then cut across that field, then get through the fence at the east corner,’ and so on and so on, to all of which the Captain replied with a prompt impatient:

  ‘Yes, yes—yes. Aye. I see! Yes—yes.’ He noticed the man had a dead rabbit in his other hand. ‘Poacher,’ he thought, ‘on their estate! H’m! The whole place is full of them, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you! Thank you,’ he said, so relieved, so overjoyed at finding anything like direction in this place, that he was half minded to give the fellow a shilling, and he clutched one in his pocket. But he changed his mind. Another ‘Thank you ‘sufficed, and then he strode on. ‘Thank the Lord,’ he said to himself. ‘Will I be glad to see civilization? Will I!’

  ‘Powerful hot,’ called the man, as the Captain moved off. ‘Powerful hot the day, sir,’ but he received no reply from Desmond.

  As though any bloody fool of a man didn’t realize that! Of course it was hot. Strikingly hot, lousy with heat. And then he passed out of sight of the poacher and began to run down the hill. The man whistled to his dog, and went off into the spinney. The sun blazed, the stream sang. All the world was green.

  When Desmond Fury reached the road he looked at his watch with great curiosity. Three hours. He had been three whole hours covering those few miles. It was with a sigh of relief that he saw a man coming down the road with a trap. He stopped it. Was the man going anywhere near Ballin. He had lost his way.

  ‘Jump in, sir,’ the driver said.

  The trap continued on its way. Captain Fury felt so relieved that he was almost on the point of embracing the old man, who periodically brought his whip across the cob’s flanks, and cried: ‘Gerrup, sir! Gerrup.’

  The country rolled past. Lanes shot by. A tiny shop, or stable, a smithy, that looked blue, and from the doorway of which a bare-footed girl with a flower hanging from her mouth smiled at the passing trap.

  ‘’Day, Brigid,’ called the driver, and two rows of teeth met his eye. ‘A darling girl that!’ he said, which made the Captain turn round quickly, but he was too late. The girl had gone back into the smithy. A post office whose chimney belched smoke like a battleship, two horses, heads resting on each other’s necks, a lame duck in a lane, two women washing clothes by a stream—all rolled past, and the world was still green.

  ‘Far to Ballin?’ asked Desmond, wondering what the fare would be. Or what he should tip the driver. The latter sat erect on his seat, a quiet reserved gentleman, who passed the time of day to this one and that one, and apparently indifferent to the officer and gentleman on the seat. ‘Another four miles, sir,’ he replied. ‘Gerrup there, you,’ he cried.

  It was half-past five in the evening when they reached their destination, the driver accepted nothing but the Captain’s thanks, and they parted. Captain Fury to the ‘Foxes,’ the driver to Mr. Duffy the grocer.

  Desmond ate a hearty meal. Sat back and smoked, thought of Sheila. He left at eight o’clock for London.

  The green world had ended at last.

  It was eight the next morning when he rang the bell of his flat. The door opened so quickly that it seemed as if Sheila had been standing behind it all the time, almost listening for his knock.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, throwing her arms round him. ‘How are you? Oh!’ And then they went in. ‘A telegram came for you from Gelton,’ she said, and saw him redden, and then he said:

  ‘Oh yes! Of course. I was expecting that.’ He collapsed into the chair, exclaimed: ‘Phew! I’m tired.’

  ‘Are you, Des? Who were you expecting it from?’

  ‘The King,’ he said, laughing. ‘Sheila? Are you glad I’m back? Come here.’

  She sat on his knee. He took the telegram from her, flung it into the fire. ‘Damn Gelton, damn Ireland, damn everything!’ This was everything. Sitting here with Sheila. Blast the war! Blast everything!’

  ‘A lot of letters for you, darling. You look so tired. Why not go to bed?’

  He smothered her in his arms. ‘If you come too,’ he said, and rubbed his mouth over her hair. When you could sink into that—what mattered?

  ‘A lot of letters,’ she said, making to get up and get them, but he held her tight.

  Letters! To the devil with letters. ‘Sheila!’ he said, ‘let’s go to bed,’ and the next minute he was out of the chair. ‘Make some breakfast and bring it up. Will you? I’m dead beat.’ He crossed to his desk, picked up the letters, then went upstairs.

  ‘I’ve a faint idea,’ he told himself, ‘that she’s guessed something, I thought. Well, she looked queerly at me! But perhaps I imagine it. I’ve seen so much that’s queer these two days that it must have affected me.’

  He went into the room, flung the letters on the table, undressed and got into bed. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Ah!’ This was great. Another world. And soon she’d be up and they’d be together, and he didn’t give a damn how much grass grew at Ram’s Gate, nor how it went to rot! This was the world. Having a wife like Sheila to come home to. It was the wonderful thing. A nice cosy little world to sink into. To hell with everybody—to hell with everything! Ram’s Gate, and its watcher, and that poor sad woman staring down at the rot, that was all a dream. A bad dream. He put his hand out for the letters. There were seven. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I know this writing. Yes. I know this writing.’ He dropped the letter. He dropped it as though it were a stone. From him.

  ‘Let it wait! What this?’ Opening it he found a letter from his brother Anthony. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he
said. ‘I’ll be damned!’ He put this on the table. He wanted to open them all. The great thing about getting letters was breaking the seal, and wondering who had sent it.

  A letter from his mother. ‘Well, I’ll be hanged!’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘Seems the whole family has suddenly fallen in love with me.’ A letter from Mr. Johns. Oh! A different matter! What was Mr. Johns going to do? Put him in Coventry? Expel him from the Union because he knew too much?’ Blast him!’ He leaned over the edge of the bed, picked up the letter from his mother. As he opened it a cheque dropped out. The letter was very short. A few lines.

  DEAR DESMOND,

  Thank you. I was very pleased to hear from you. But I wasn’t pleased about this cheque which you will find returned to you in this letter. I’d rather you had it back. I don’t want your money. I have always been an independent woman. I’d value your respect much more. Your father and brother are still at sea. I am still hoping to be allowed to see my other son. I trust you are well. I remain your fond mother,

  FANNY FURY.

  Whilst Captain Fury was reading this, he could almost feel a dirty hand pawing over his face. ‘Your fond mother,’ he repeated. He tore up cheque and letter.

  ‘Because I ran off and got married. Because all along I was against this tomfoolery of priesthood. Because I didn’t see you at the hospital. All right. Be independent then!’ He flung the fragments into the air, and they descended like snow in various parts of the room. After that, how could one read any more? And as for Johns’s, but something tempted, something pushed his hand forward. He picked up Anthony’s letter.

  At Sea,

  July 11th.

  DEAR DESMOND,

  Well, how the devil are you, and how’s the world treating you? I’ve just been home, and now here I’m right in the middle of the——(censored), and I feel rather lousy. But you’ll know what that word means as well as me. As I say, I’ve been home, and that’s what’s lousy. I think it’s a damned disgrace. Nothing more, nothing less. You might have gone to see mother at least during the worst time of all. She’s a very old, tired woman, mother is. I felt rotten sailing I can tell you, and dad away too. Oh well! I hear you’re an officer or something. Well, I wish you the best of luck. Whatever the hell luck means! Lots of people have been writing me, wishing me the best of luck these past five weeks. I’m getting married in October. Fact. Nice girl too. I brought her to see mother, who likes her. Her name’s Lynch. Joan Lynch. Her father’s a solicitor, and came from the same part as dad, though they don’t know each other. There’ll only be Peter left then. D’you ever hear from him? I hope you write now and then. I feel very sorry for him, and I don’t think any of us were quite fair. He told me a thing or two that opened my eyes. Anyhow, I just thought I’d drop you a line—don’t seem to remember ever having written you before, never mind.

  Here goes, and all the best as the ladies say when they’re seeing you off. D’you think you’ll be killed before I will? I wonder! This war’s getting worse, isn’t it? I wish mother would go home to Ireland. I’ve begged her to think it over. She says only dad matters, and that as soon as the war is over they’re going back—though mind you I laughed—I mean she never thought of the money side of it. Just like mother really. Still, I hope dad and she do go. We’ve had long talks. She loves dad. I found that out lately. Dad’s everything now. She says she doesn’t care about anything except him. Cries sometimes over his being always away. But Peter—well, it’s extraordinary. She has never changed there. She said if she thought that—I mean she wants to make a nice home again—it made me quite sad. It’s so silly and impossible now. She’s living in one room, and though dad knows she’s shifted again, he hasn’t seen the place, but I’ll bet he’ll swear like a trooper and a sailor together. The place seemed to be full of old women who do the scrubbing aboard ship. Well! I must now draw to a close. I’ve written my address at the bottom if you care to write, though you don’t have to. You know what I mean. Well here goes. They’re swinging out the cable. Believe me,

  Your affectionate brother,

  ANTHONY.

  Captain Fury let this letter fall on to the bed. He gave a loud laugh. ‘You know what I mean.’ He repeated the words, mumbling to himself. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No! I’m damned if I do. And so I may write if I feel that way. Poor Anthony! Poor lad! I know what I mean! The fellow’s cracked. What a letter! Full of dribblings. Christ! I must say I like that about who’ll be dead first. The Navy seems to have upset him. Did he write to Peter? He hoped he did. H’m! And that’s a letter from him.’

  Yes. That was the most surprising of the surprises. A letter from Peter. ‘But I won’t read it now.’ He leaped out of bed, went to the door, called: ‘Sheila?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘Oh God! Those darlings make me sick,’ he said under his breath. ‘Are you coming up? What are you doing down there? Is breakfast nearly ready?’

  She came into the room. ‘You’ve returned a very irritated Des!’ she said. She carried a large tray. ‘Make a place for it,’ she said. ‘I’ve done you two eggs.’

  ‘A minute,’ he said, and swept letters and envelopes off the bed. ‘There.’

  ‘Now we can begin,’ she said. ‘And I want you to tell me all about what you did in Gelton, who you saw in Gelton, what you said in Gelton.’ Leaning over the bed she gave him a quick darting kiss, then began pouring out tea. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Matter? Nothing! You’re coming to bed too, aren’t you? You look as if you’d been up all night, anyway. Come on! We can eat in bed just as well as out of it,’ and he began to move the tray to the table.

  ‘I wonder,’ he thought, ‘if she’s guessed something. She looks—well, I don’t know—but she——Oh, I don’t like her look,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Nothing matters,’ he said. ‘Come on! To hell with Gelton! To hell with everybody! Sheila! Sometimes I don’t think you realize how much I love you. Nothing matters to me but that,’ and then his eye caught sight of the other letters on the table. ‘Nothing,’ he said again. ‘Only you, darling,’ and with a sweep of his hand he cleared the letters. They blew about the floor under the draught from the door. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  And he sat there, hungry and not hungry, trying to eat and not wanting to eat. Suddenly he moved the tray to the table, caught his wife by one arm and pulled her across him. ‘Nothing matters but you.’

  He stared into her eyes. He wanted to say. ‘I believe I know why you cried when we were leaving Gelton, and didn’t cry when you were leaving that world of rot and waste, and——’ But all he said was:

  ‘Sheila, darling! You are the only one who matters. Let all the rest of the world go hang!’ And he crushed her down upon the bed.

  The pieces of paper, the envelopes made whispering, shuffling sounds as they blew about near the door.

  She said: ‘I am the only one that matters?’ and she caught hold of his ears with her fingers, smiled into his face. ‘I wonder where he’s really been,’ she thought.

  ‘You are,’ he said.

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘Before everything?’

  ‘Yes. You are everything,’ he said. ‘Nothing else counts.’

  He forced her head on his chest and she could feel the thumping of his heart.

  ‘It beats like a hammer,’ she said, ‘your heart. Oh, Des! Des.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a strong heart, Sheila. It always has been. But I made it strong myself. You have to. Everything counts on yourself. People can’t give you strong hearts, they can’t even make you live. You do all those things yourself. I’m only young. You wait! I’ll show you. And when the time comes I’ll tell you something that will surprise you. D’you ever regret running away and marrying me?’

  She did not answer. He ran his fingers through her hair.

  ‘Do you?’ This was it. This was better than the whole world. This was what
he loved. Coming back to her, and sinking back into the cosy world. And how warm and cosy the world was when she was with him.

  ‘You haven’t answered me,’ he said.

  She looked at him, gave a little smile—nodded.

  ‘Darling—you are funny,’ she said, and burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER XII

  I

  ‘You are being transferred to-morrow,’ answered the sergeant. ‘You’ll be going a long way, but you needn’t worry yourself, conchie. You’re not going to the bloody trenches.’

  Joseph Kilkey looked up at the sergeant. He was seated in a wooden hut, peeling potatoes. He did not make any answer. He seemed to be deaf. The sergeant shouted in his ear.

  ‘You’re being transferred to-morrow! Don’t you understand, you deaf bastard?’

  ‘I quite understand you,’ replied Mr. Kilkey. ‘Where am I going to?’ He dropped the knife to the floor, rubbed his hands on his trousers and stood up.

  ‘Find out,’ said the sergeant, turned on his heel and went out.

  When he had gone the man picked up the knife again and resumed his task. If he looked out of the door he saw a wide stretch of mud, churned by feet into a paste. If he looked through the window he saw the same thing. He was surrounded by mud.

  ‘Transferring me to-morrow,’ he said to himself. ‘Where, I wonder?’

  He had now been here for seven months. He had seen practically the worst of the winter. It was early August, and for the past fortnight the camp had seen nothing but showers of rain, lightning, thunderstorms. Hence the mud. But the sun was shining to-day. ‘Transferred to-morrow! But where?’

  He had arrived here with the draft of the Gelton Regiment. They had tried in every way to make him follow the crowd. They had tried to break him. On parade he became a joke. A sergeant struck him twice just to see what he was made of. Not much, he thought. Never be a soldier. Still, there were things one could do and Joseph Kilkey did them. He peeled potatoes, carried water, cleaned the lavatories, washed greasy dishes, carried stores. He filled buckets of water with a thimble. He walked a quarter mile with an empty sandbag, filled it with sand, carried it a quarter mile back again, emptied it, filled it again, returned to the place he had got it from. He did this on Tuesdays. On Thursdays he emptied a large tank by the thimbleful, carried the bucket eight hundred yards, carried it back again, emptied it, filled it again. On Saturdays, he went about the camp with a stick, nail attached and gathered the warriors’ rubbish. He worked to their plan. When soldiers saw him approach they flung every kind of rubbish through their windows, but only after he had already cleaned that particular area. A few liked him—the rest hated him. They made deliberate nuisances in lavatories so that he might be fully occupied. When night came there were other tasks. Getting out of his bed to clean it of the remains of food thrown into it. In this way he passed his seven months at Calton. On Sundays he asked to go to mass. This meant an eight miles walk to the only Catholic chapel that existed. This was not allowed excepting on rare occasions.