Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘Mr. Kilkey,’ he said, ‘I’ve been knocking here for five minutes,’ and his tone of voice, his attitude, as she came off her step and stood close to him, was that of a person who felt that Joe Kilkey should be in, and in fact had no right to be out at all.

  With folded arms, Mrs. Ditchley spoke. ‘He’s not back yet.’

  ‘Not back! How long’s he out?’ Mr. Fury looked up and down the street.

  ‘He’s been out all day,’ Mrs. Ditchley said. ‘I can’t tell you when he’ll be back.’

  ‘Out where? But he’s on nights, isn’t he?’ asked Mr. Fury with savage insistence.

  ‘What a funny man, a queer little man!’ reflected Mrs. Ditchley. ‘Well, he has been out since ten o’clock this morning, and if you want to know he went off to Blacksea,’ and she turned to go.

  ‘Blacksea! What the hell does he want there?’ The man seemed quite bewildered. ‘Blacksea! All day. Funny to me! He never goes out.’

  ‘Funny to me, too!’ she replied tartly. ‘What’s seen him off regular to his work this year or so. But that’s all I can tell you. I never interest myself in other people’s business. He’ll be back some time, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh! I see,’ said Mr. Fury, ‘sorry to bother you. I did want to see him.’

  ‘Well, you can’t if he’s not here, can you?’ exclaimed the other, and she walked off back to her door. Who was this grumbling man, anyhow?

  ‘No! I don’t suppose I can! Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs.——’

  ‘Ditchley’s my name,’ she said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to you, missus,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you. Good night.’

  He walked off down the street. Out! At Blacksea. Why, that was sixty miles away. Now what the hell was that fellow Kilkey doing in Blacksea? Dennis Fury turned corners, went down one street, up another. Familiar-looking places like ‘The Grapes’ and ‘The Crow’s Nest,’ he skirted quickly past. He went straight to Saint Sebastian’s chapel.

  Was Father Moynihan in? Yes. Buthewasbusy instructing children in Latin. What was it? Who was he? Mr. Fury gave his name. He felt shyer than ever; he had an uncomfortable feeling that though he was going away to sea, and heaven only knew for how long and to what he was going, he was being pushed and thrust towards the sea, as if people were avoiding him. Desmond making a promise and never keeping it. Peter asking the impossible of him. Maureen lost—Anthony writing to his mother but never to him. These things flung together, became a waste of water that sapped at his spirit.

  Well, here was Father Moyniham hurrying towards him. And what a hurry he was in! And wearing his surplice too. Mr. Fury wanted to go, enter a tram and get back to Hey’s bloody Alley. ‘Good evening, Father,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Father.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Fury. And what can I do for you?’ he asked, looking at Mr. Fury’s feet. What a hurry he seemed to be in. Now he didn’t know what to say. What had he meant to say? A damned nuisance that’s what he was.

  ‘I only just called, Father! Sorry you’re busy.’

  ‘Don’t stand there, man. Come in. Come in,’ and he opened the door wide.

  Mr. Fury slipped inside. He stood there, feeling a nuisance, awkward, swinging his cap, not knowing what to say. And he could see the priest was in a hurry over something. He stammered out something about Fanny.

  ‘Have to sail to-morrow. Just thought I’d see you, Father,’ he began. ‘I wondered if you could call and see Fanny now and again,’ and then he became apologetic, the nuisance in him had suddenly magnified itself. ‘’Course she’s getting better now, Father, I mean to say’—pause—yes he meant to say—this—that—the other—nobody had come—nobody was in—everybody was in a terrible hurry—he had to go—he was worried—‘I mean I’d be glad, Father, if you’d keep your eye on the woman.’

  ‘Of course! Of course! So you’re going to-morrow. Well! Well!’ and in his ears he could hear the raucous cries of those boys in the back of the vestry, to whom he was teaching Latin, and there they were carrying on as soon as he turned his back. ‘Yes. Well, I wish you’d called earlier, Mr. Fury. Best of luck to you. God bless you, my child. Good night.’

  Yes. Should have called earlier. But he had been at Price Street. Should have called earlier, but he was saying good-bye to his wife. Should—pity he hadn’t called earlier, but he was packing his bag, and feeling frightened and sad in No. 17 Hey’s bloody Alley.

  ‘Good-bye! Good-bye.’

  The door closed. He was out again. Out again in the ice-field. He stood looking back at the house. The light had been switched out. Yes. He was out all right. ‘And a bloody nuisance into the bargain. Blast it, I’ll have a drink!’ and he stamped off down Sebastian Place.

  All for nothing, a lot of tramping for nothing. He might have gone right back home. Been sleeping soundly instead of wandering around here. A place full of ghosts. But if he liked to step into the light the ghosts might talk. Instead he stepped into the bar of ‘The Pitch-Pine,’ and called for a pint of beer. He carried it to the far end of the room and sat down.

  ‘Thank the Lord I’m going. Somehow—some bloody how—spite of all that woman says, I do—yes I do feel happier when I’m off to sea. Just wasting my time. That’s all. People are good, but sometimes they’re not too bloody good.’

  That was it. And so far as he was concerned this applied to Father Moynihan and the rest. They were busy! H’m! And he wasn’t. No! He just strolled around and blinked at the world—aye! What some people thought would sink more than a ship.

  ‘Blast it!’

  He looked round the pub. Same old walls, same old shelves, same decorated ceiling, tall seats, shining mirrors. Aye! He had once got drunk here with his sister-in-law. But the faces were new. All strangers to him. No! It was like going off without even a handshake. He was in the road. Kilkey gone—Fanny still wanting him to do this and that. Go with him to Mount Mellery. Like going on a trip to Heaven. The priest was busy.

  Desmond gave him a drink and left a pound for him. To get drunk on he supposed.

  ‘Well, to hell with it. I’ll drink my own bloody health, anyhow!’

  Ah! To hell with everything! The whole world was very busy. Yes. Very busy! Too busy for him—too busy for Fanny! It was Desmond’s world, and Maureen’s and Anthony’s. It was Father Moynihan’s world. He raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to you, Fanny woman, and here’s to myself. Our time’s gone, Fanny. That’s what it is. Our time’s gone.’

  Yes. The whole world was in a terrible hurry, but they stood out of the reach of its feet. Yes. They had to hold together now, Fanny and he.

  ‘Here’s to you again, Fanny woman, here’s to—damn!’ he exclaimed, as the glass shook and his trousers became stained with beer.

  ‘Hello there!’ said the voice for the second time. ‘Well, I’ll be hanged. I’ll be hanged.’

  It was the first ‘Hello,’ that had made Mr. Fury’s hand shake. Now who could it be?

  ‘Well, I’m——The world’s small all right! Jim Ferris!

  How are you, man? Haven’t seen you since I left the Inca. How’s the world, Jim?’

  Jim, who was tall, finely built, with sandy moustache and blue eyes, and carrying a three-day growth of stubble, with a handshake that made Mr. Fury wince, said that the world was bloody fine, and how the hell was he?

  ‘Not so bad,’ said Mr. Fury. ‘Have a drink on me?’ He called for drinks.

  ‘By God, Denny, I read about that there son of yours. I’m sorry about that. Very sorry.’

  ‘Ah! To hell with that! I don’t want to talk about it. It’s only a sheer accident, that’s all, my lad, that’s brought us together,’ and with that Jim sat down.

  Conversation was animated, punctuated by the necessary oaths, waves and swings of the hands and an eye on the spittoon at the appropriate moment.

  ‘You are a stranger round here, Fury,’ said Jim. ‘Well, here’s looking at you,’ and raising his glass he half emptied it at on
e great gulp. ‘Dry,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Mr. Fury, ‘I am a stranger round here, to-night—I mean.’

  ‘See Kilkey’s called up,’ Jim said, very casually, as though he’d said: ‘It’s Thursday.’

  ‘Ah! Forget it,’ said Mr. Fury. ‘Gerraway with you! Kilkey called up. Why, he’s turned fifty-three now. He’s—besides, why Jim, Joe’d never make a soldier.’

  ‘He’s called up, anyhow,’ said Jim. ‘Have one on me, Denny.’ He called out, for more drinks. ‘And how’s the world using you these days?’

  ‘Not too bad. Off to-morrow. Trooping now—under the Government. Never know where you are from one minute to another. I got the missus in hospital.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Fury! Hope she’s not too bad. Well, here we go. Skin off your nose.’

  They drank together. They looked at each other over their raised glasses.

  ‘Well, I’ll be hanged! Fancy Kilkey joining! I thought there was something funny on,’ continued Mr. Fury. ‘I called to see him this evening and damned if he wasn’t in. He’s always in round about eight, when he’s on night shift. But I knocked and knocked, and then the woman next door said he’d gone off to Blacksea. Been gone all day too. I was hoping to see him before I sailed.’

  ‘Must have gone to camp, then,’ said Jim. ‘He split with your daughter or something. I did hear something about it. Nice chap Joe was,’ he wound up. And he said ‘was ‘as though he assumed that Mr. Kilkey, having been called up, had now automatically ceased to exist. ‘Have another?’ he said.

  ‘Something like that. They just split. I know nothing about them,’ Mr. Fury said.

  ‘All the same have another! Not often you meet old friends these days, bloody war and everything.’

  And it seemed to Mr. Fury that Jim was very dry. He drank beer with what Denny Fury could only call, ‘the art of a bloody veteran,’ though what this was, or meant exactly, Jim didn’t know.

  ‘Anyhow, the bloody veteran’s dry,’ he said. ‘Have another?’

  Even the licensee—his only barman had gone to the war, and his barmaid never came till half-past nine to wash up, even he was rather staggered by the ease with which Jim quaffed his pints. But by this time Mr. Fury had had enough. Another quick one and he might get drunk. He was a bit worried in case he might.

  You never knew what you might do—especially when you had been stone sober for so long. Jim gulped, Mr. Fury sipped. They went on talking. Jim like a rattling machine-gun; Mr. Fury slow, easy, rather subdued. Funny how you always ran into somebody when you felt a bit low.

  ‘I can’t get over Kilkey,’ said Mr. Fury. ‘They’ve made a mistake. Joe’s not cut out for a fighter. Never was. As a matter of fact Kilkey was a fool to leave Ireland. He’s a born easy-going plodder, should have been a farmer, you know.’

  ‘Joe’s the best stevedore in Gelton,’ said Jim warmly. ‘The best they’ve seen.’

  ‘All the more reason why they shouldn’t have called him up. It’ll kill Joe.’

  Confound all this talk. He was going. He preferred ghosts to remain ghosts, and at once he began shuffling one leg, then the other. Then he got up.

  ‘I’m going, Jim. Nice to have seen you. But I got a long way to go before I reach home. And I’ve got to be aboard at seven o’clock prompt. Prompt! No shinning up the hawsers in this ship. It’s the bloody Navy.’

  ‘More fool you! You should be working ashore, Fury. Surely to Christ you’ve had enough of the sea. Sure you won’t have just one more drink, Fury?’

  Mr. Fury was quite sure. ‘You may be right, Jim, or you may be wrong, but as I see it looks to me like the sea hasn’t had enough of me yet.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Jim, taking the ninth pint with a steady hand.

  ‘Surprise you?’ said Denny, lost in admiration at this man’s liquor capacity.

  ‘Yes, hanging on like that. God, you had a gob on you as long as an overcoat when I first came in, so I was surprised to see you laugh. Well, never mind, if we never had sailing days, Denny, then we’d never have docking days. Would we? Of course not.’

  Mr. Fury now showed signs of moving. Jim finished his drink, and they bid good night to the licensee and went out.

  It was raining again. A group of children were playing up against the window, swinging upon the brass rods that covered it. The frosted glass reflected a sickly light. The street was made up of pools of light, pools of darkness, houses clustered together as though for mutual protection from the sounds that deluged it. Crying, shouting children, stentorian voices of Salvation Army men singing in Praise of God, loutish youths who horseplayed on the corners and discussed in heated debate the various merits of the fighting armies.

  An old woman crying ‘Chips, chips,’ a man singing ‘Sweet Adeline,’ in the private doorway of the ‘Boltons ‘public house at the other end, and a brawl between two soldiers near its convenience.

  The street was a sea of sounds, washing backwards and forwards, and down it strolled Jim and Mr. Fury, the latter suffering the company of this chatterer for the sake of old ships and old times, and the offer to see him as far as the tram. He was too happy, too certain of everything, too easy to talk, too quick to drink. He was all there, and Mr. Fury would be glad when he was on that tram. He liked happy people—even quick drinkers like Jim. But frankly he wasn’t in the mood. He was sad and he knew it, and because he was growing more and more aware of this sad feeling that would keep creeping up and trying to break the knots he had put in them—no! He wasn’t in the mood. He hoped to the Lord that this man wouldn’t further his generous spirit by offering to go as far as Hey’s bloody Alley. No. Not that.

  So at last they reached the terminus. They talked of many things. Ships, men, the war, women, the Government, out of natures quite unfitted for the major task of understanding either war or Governments. The war was ‘bloody,’ the Government, well, it was like all governments—‘lousy.’ Women were all right ‘in their places.’ Some ships were good, some bad. Men. Oh, they knew men all right. A car came by, was neither seen nor heard. And another. Jim, taking advantage of the sudden animation in Mr. Fury’s talk, suggested a sojourn—only a momentary one, however—to the snug of the ‘Boltons.’ This, however, had the very opposite effect upon Mr. Fury, for he saw and heard the next tram coming down the road and was ready to board it even before it stopped. He stepped out into the road, still holding on to the other’s hands, and Jim quite naturally followed him to the platform of the car that had now pulled up.

  ‘Well, so-long, Fury! Remember me to Devine and your missus. Take care of yourself, and if you hit a mine don’t be scared. Good luck. So—long.’

  The car moved off. Jim waving almost frantically at a Mr. Fury who could not see, for he climbed the iron staircase with heavy feet. Was it being sad at going, or was it the beer he had drunk? What did it matter either way? The tram roared along the road, rain blew in through a window that could not be shut either by the combined strength of Mr. Fury and the conductor, who whistled a tune furiously through his teeth as he tried, nor the efforts of a fat policeman and a boy scout.

  Mr. Fury thereon changed his seat. ‘The bloody thing won’t shut,’ he said.

  The sprawling town ahead, and twinkling fairy lights rushing past the rain-shattered windows. Dimmed lights of music halls, of public houses, glistening pavements, waves of smells coming up the hill, wind blowing over the river, carrying the smells higher and higher Getting near the centre of Gelton. The tram rocked, the brakes screeched, whistles blew, a bell rang. People came up and went down. Strangers. All strangers. Out of the darkness. Into the darkness. Nine-thirty! What would she—of course, she’d be fast asleep. Lights over there! Fanny asleep! God bless the woman, she’d done what she thought was best. Ah!——

  ‘I suppose everybody does that, anyhow. No bloody use living otherwise. What an empty day! Must write to Peter soon as he got clear. And Anthony. It’s pretty lousy, him stuck away there. Ah well, here she comes,’
and he got up from his seat. Looking out through the open window he espied the first of the huge, gaunt-looking cotton warehouses that informed him of the nearness of Hey’s bloody Alley.

  An empty day. A day that made you tired; just doing nothing. The trams rolled on, leaving him islanded in a puddle of water. The lights were bad, it was difficult to see. One groped to Hey’s Alley, never walked. This time to-morrow night he’d be out of it. Far from her, from Jim, from the ‘Boltons’ and ‘The Pitch-Pine,’ and the ship would be busy, and the sea would be busy.

  ‘Here we are,’ he muttered, ‘here we are.’

  Dead street! Shut doors. Soundless save for falling rain. Dampness hanging in the air like a cloud.

  ‘Home,’ he said. ‘Home.’

  He lit the gas as soon as he got in. Nothing to say to anybody. Nothing much to do. Bag gone. Make a cup of tea? Not worth it. Turn in to bed. Soon. Think of the morning. Of course. Have to. Things to do to-morrow! That world moved, his feet were in it. But he wished he had seen Joe. Yes. He wished he had been able to see Joe.

  He went up to bed. Said his prayers and lay down. Yes, what a pity he had missed Joe.

  II

  Joseph Kilkey had no grudge against the world. Once he had occasion to proclaim this much against his will. If he had no grudge against it, there was no need to let all the world know about it. But he had told Desmond Fury this on one occasion, which brought the reply that that was the very thing which was wrong with him. In Desmond Fury’s opinion one should have a grudge against it. Joseph Kilkey was a working man.

  ‘All the more reason why you should kick. A worker should start to kick against things the very day he is born.’ Such was Desmond’s contention.

  Mr. Kilkey, however, might now say that Desmond was kicking the other way, using his heel instead of his toe. Joe had his dislikes. He disliked people like Desmond. He, Joseph Kilkey, was in the world. He had a regular job in it. He liked his work. He had liked his home; with a wife and child he felt content. He liked to mind his own business. He had what his wife called three vices. He smoked too much tobacco, played billiards far too often at Sebastian’s Hall, knew he was old enough to be his wife’s father. He knew, up to a point, he was dull. Knew he was hardly nice looking. He knew she didn’t love him. And she knew it too late. But he hoped she would in time. One could lock that hope away securely. Carry on with one’s work. He worked hard, turned up regular money. He was a worker. He liked other workers, believed in them. He paid his union regularly. He was a pious man and attended to his religious duties.