Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  Certainly this accusing letter showed that he had neglected her. Had broken the promise he had made to his father. Here he was, just about to enjoy his lunch, and he had put his hand on the letter. ‘Return to sender, address unknown!’ What the hell’s happened, I wonder? He had sent it to the right place. General Hospital, Gelton. Well, that was where she was. No! They’d readdressed it: ‘17 Hey’s Alley.’ Damn curious! Returned from Hey’s Alley. Address unknown.

  As his wife turned away from the window he stuffed the letter back into his pocket. Goddam! What an ass I am! Should have seen mother. Instead, broke my promise and got drunk. And with that fellow, too. He was angry with himself.

  Sheila noticed it at once, but she said nothing. She was watching an old man take a seat at the table beside her, accompanying the action with any amount of choking and coughing.

  Captain Fury glared at the man, but the newcomer in his turn glared too, and so furiously that the Captain lowered his eyes and began to study the menu.

  ‘What are you having, Sheila? I’m going to have, let me see——’

  ‘Upstart!’ the newcomer’s furious stare seemed to say: ‘Upstart!’

  Two waiters were indulging in chants, hovering around them. ‘Yes, sir—no, sir. Boiled or baked, sir. Cabbage, sir. No? Yes? Anything to drink, sir?’

  Captain Fury listened, and he enjoyed it. What attention! What fussing! And what sir-ing! Worth being alive for, just to listen to it. And he said: ‘Yes—no—yes—a little more of that, please.’

  Captain Fury tucked in. Sheila pecked. The old man was sat beside her, and would keep staring at the Captain; once Desmond felt like shouting: ‘Go to hell!’ then refused everything offered to him. His ‘no ‘had the almost funereal notes of a fog-horn.

  ‘Bring me cold ham, pickles and stout.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir,’ and the waiter went off, clutching the dishes tightly.

  People were pouring in. And everybody looked as they passed. Captain Fury liked people to look. But not these people. These people were all eyes. It was bad enough having this ‘old swine ‘opposite you. Soon the dining-car would be full. Captain Fury was hungry, yet he wasn’t enjoying his meal. He looked at Sheila, ardently, passionately. He wanted to talk to her, now, this very minute, about the sudden discovery of that letter, and of how uncomfortable he was feeling about it. But he couldn’t talk.

  The whole car sang with the clatter of knives, forks and spoons, the popping of corks, the filling of glasses, and, threading its way through a stream of chatter, high and low, tit-bits of conversation on everything under the sun, the weather, the war, the government, the bravery of everybody.

  And they ate, and their jaws moved up and down. Even Sheila’s companion made loud noises as he ate, and periodically he emitted a slight grunt, a way of saying how pleased his stomach was, and what a wonderful thing a stomach was too. Desmond ate in silence. As he ate he tried to think not of the letter, but of the two officers who would meet him when he reached Paddington—what would they be like? Southerners he supposed. Well, a taste of Gelton wouldn’t do them any harm. Have to rake those London docks. Rake them out. They might make him a Colonel. More pay. More power. ‘Push on!’ his mind cried. Climb above the ‘mugs.’

  In the oddest way the letter shot back into his mind. It lay on his plate, it was on his fork, on the way to his mouth. He couldn’t dodge that letter. ‘Blast! I should have gone to see mother before I left, if only because she was ill. Blast it, I didn’t! I got drunk with John Downey, and I suppose——’

  Here thought stopped, for suddenly the old man had caught his eye. They held each other with their glances. Perhaps the old chap wanted to say something. Then why the hell didn’t he, instead of staring like that? Or was he just admiring the bulk and power behind the tunic?

  Mrs. Fury ate lazily, dreamily. The two men were quite lost to her. They were at the moment of no concern to her. She was thinking of her father in London. Suppose they met. He would hate her husband.

  The attendants were coming along again, hovering, whispering. ‘Pudding, sir? Tart? Yes. No. Cheese, sir? Coffee? Black or white, sir?’

  Desmond never even looked up. He was engaged with his meat.

  ‘Some cheese and biscuits. No coffee, thank you,’ he heard Sheila say.

  Why didn’t she say something? Look as though she were his wife. And she was his wife, after all. Wake up. Look as if she were enjoying the journey. Then he sat back, looked at the top of the old man’s head, at the feather in his wife’s hat. The old man looked at Sheila and smiled. This amused the Captain. Perhaps he was trying to get off with her. How funny! He looked at everybody, looked at their hands, their mouths as they ate. It all interested, but he was worried about that letter. Now where on earth could his mother have got lost? And if he lost touch now, that ended everything. The rest were lost. His sister was gone, the ‘other fellow ‘was in gaol, and dad and Anthony were at sea. Well, ‘at sea’ meant lost, too. But he didn’t want to lose contacts. He wanted communication left open, a certain loyalty remained.

  ‘Blast it! That chap Trears? I could have written him, he’d be bound to know where mother has run off and hid herself.’ But no. Couldn’t, in fact he wouldn’t write. Returning his cheque—‘cannot undertake minor transactions of this nature!’ Who the devil did he think he was? ‘God perhaps!’ thought the Captain, as he watched the old man opposite fish about hopelessly on the plate for an elusive pickled onion.

  The train roared into another tunnel.

  Finally Captain Fury left his seat and went to the toilet, one hope in his mind, that when he returned the old man would be gone. He couldn’t stand the fellow! And smiling at her too! But he got half-way and then stopped. He leaned on the bar of the window and watched houses fly past. ‘As soon as I get to London I’ll set things rolling. She can’t be quite lost. And I don’t want her to think I’ve simply ignored her.’ Far from it. There was nothing between them much except this woman he had married, and she hadn’t made matters easy by messing about with his young brother. ‘I’ve never really got to the bottom of that,’ reflected Desmond. ‘Still, it’s too long ago now. Not worth bothering about. Yet I wish I had known.’

  People were pushing their way past him, and he endeavoured to make himself as small as possible for their benefit. Must be leaving the dining-car. Thank heavens for that. After this he would appreciate his wife more. She liked quietness, peace. After one or two more people had crushed past he decided to return to his seat.

  The car was empty, even that old man had gone. He found Sheila sitting back reading the Gelton Times. The tables had been cleared. He went and sat by her.

  ‘I like riding the way the train goes too. Enjoy your lunch, darling?’

  ‘Of course,’she said. ‘Wasn’t the old man funny? He talked to me about the war. Poor old chap. So proud of his son in it. Only child he has. I forgot he was silly after a while, and then I was sorry you hadn’t spoken to him instead of sitting there staring at him, as though he were going to eat you.’

  ‘If you’d been sitting where I was, you’d have hated him, only son or no only son! I’ve seen people whom one could call “bloody rude,” but I’ve seen nothing like that. Ah, well! The lunch wasn’t bad after all.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll ever understand people. I mean as you should, Des.’

  ‘Now what makes you think that, Sheila? Sometimes, when you don’t notice it, I catch you looking at me, and in such a funny way. I’ll tell you something, Sheila! I’m not so dull as you like to think I am. Of course, you may just enjoy thinking about it. But I’m not, and you’ll find out one day. So will that brother of yours. Not a bad sort of fellow.’

  She leaned against him. ‘What is this the prelude to, Des?’ she asked.

  She could generally tell when he had something on his mind. These preludes of his were well known. Would he say something nasty? He was quite capable of it. Perhaps he was angry with her for crying on Gelton Station. ‘You do
n’t like me calling you darling. I wish you did, Desmond.’ She leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘After all, you are a darling,’ and she said this aloud as a man passed through the car. But she didn’t mind that. Her husband was a darling! She was proud of him. ‘What’s worrying you?’ she asked, her cheek moving up to his. ‘What’s worrying you?’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ he said, entirely disinterested in her affectionate outburst.

  ‘Don’t be silly! Would it surprise you to know I’ve been worried too?’

  ‘You worried? What about? Just a minute. I want to light my cigarette.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, waiting for him to extract a cigarette, and then she leaned on him again. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot since we left Gelton.’

  ‘Thinking?’ he said, and by his surprise seemed to assume that ‘thinking’ was a hazardous and dangerous process. ‘What about, Sheila? Tell me.’

  ‘Your mother,’ she replied quietly. ‘I wish you had seen her, Desmond. Mind you, it had nothing to do with me. But I can see you’re worried, and I can see you are——’

  ‘Ssh! Here’s somebody coming. I wish you didn’t talk so loud, Sheila,’ he said. When the man had gone out of sight he spoke in a rush of words. ‘Why you should be worried about a matter that concerns only me, I don’t know. The fact is, I got drunk and made an exhibition of myself before your brother. Surely that isn’t worrying you. As for not seeing my mother, yes, I am a bit ashamed. I promised. Anyhow, as soon as we get to London I’ll write her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have got drunk. You ought to have seen her, since she is so ill. Don’t think I’m concerned, but only for you, Des. She is your mother.’

  ‘Oh yes. I know that. Christ! Don’t keep on harping at me. It couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘I thought you got a letter from her. At least Alice took it in, I saw it on the hall-stand.’

  Why the hell should she be worrying about it? Now she had dragged that out. ‘I didn’t have any letter.’ Then he blurted out: ‘I got mine back. Wasn’t delivered. I don’t know where she is. That’s why I’m worried. And you don’t help much sitting there hours on end admiring the bloody country!’

  ‘Des——’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You’ve hardly spoken two words to me since we left.’

  ‘But, darling, when I see you sad about something, I don’t come chattering over you like a monkey. I leave you alone. Can’t I be sad too? I am sad.’ she concluded. And she turned away from him to the window.

  He pulled her back. ‘Sheila! All this is about nothing. I break my promise and get drunk. I leave Gelton at a moment’s notice just to please you. But you cry because we leave. You’re right, and I don’t understand! Let’s leave it at that. In future we won’t talk about those things. Let’s forget it. Here! Do have a cigarette. I tell you what, let’s have a cup of tea. I’ll ring now, eh?’ and he pressed the button on the window-sash.

  She looked at his big hands. ‘Sometimes I know that you—well, I mean——Oh, Desmond, I’m always afraid something might happen. That we might lose each other. When I say you don’t understand—I don’t mean to hurt. It’s silly to think that. I mean that—well, suppose we left each other. Something happened. Say——’

  ‘Nothing can happen to us. We’re too happy. We didn’t meet like we did for nothing. You see! You think I’m indifferent, sometimes, in fact you think, to put it bluntly, that I’m a bit of a pig. Well, you wait, I’ll show you how true that is.’

  ‘Don’t talk childish. Anyhow here’s the man with the tea.’

  ‘Damn the man with the tea!’ he replied. ‘They all think I’m something of a pig, but they’re all wrong. I’m no pig. I’ll help all of them in good time. D’you think I enjoy knowing that at this moment I couldn’t lay hands on one of our family? Everybody should be happy, in this world, anyhow. I used to stand at street corners for years, doling out that advice. But it went down the drains. Mugs! Can’t do anything with them. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I don’t thank anybody for getting where I’ve got. There are people in this bloody world who’d like you to remain as big mugs as themselves. You know, I once dreamed of mother and you—oh, but that’s fairy-like. Let’s have tea,’ and he began sorting out the things on the tray.

  He handed her a cup. ‘What d’you think? D’you think I’m a pig?’ he asked.

  ‘Sometimes, darling When you snore! Don’t be so self-conscious. Here! More sugar.’

  ‘It’s just occurred to me,’ he began. ‘Funny I never thought of it before. Just suppose this bloody war stopped—why, it would mean the end of my work, wouldn’t it? I mean—well, I’ve just been thinking about it. You see, my position with the unions isn’t so easy now—unless, of course, they all line up with the same positions as the government. Just now as I was looking out of the window I said to myself: “Fury, you’re a lucky devil.” I mean watching those fellows doing the work I used to do. And now I’ve got this idea into my head, and if I saw another platelayer on the line it would—oh, I don’t know——I’d hate to go back to that. Ah well, here’s to a bloody good war!’ he concluded, raising the cup of tea in the air. ‘A bloody, good, long war!’

  Suddenly, he asked: ‘D’you mind me talking about your brother, I mean about the things he told me?’ and without waiting for an answer he asked bluntly: ‘Would you go back to Ireland, say if—well, suppose things got pretty bad there, and you had to go? Say something went wrong. Your brother says everything’s wrong there. But your mother, for instance? Suppose——’

  ‘I couldn’t go back there,’ she said.

  Her coolness shocked him. ‘But suppose everything was going to rot—ruin?’

  ‘That would be the best thing that could happen. The trees there never grow. They just fall. Why are you talking like this? Besides, I thought we had agreed not to. I won’t like you any better for it. Am I to be continually telling you that there are things you’ll never understand? If we’re happy, why talk about dead things? And I wish you would think of some other future than a bloody long war! It’s not like you to say that, Desmond, and I’m a bit surprised. When will you be satisfied? I wonder?’

  ‘All I can say is that it amazes me to hear you talk the way you do. Those people of yours must be poisonous or something. But that is a thing one could find out for oneself. Well, you don’t want to talk about it. All right. Leave it at that. It’s not a very pleasant journey, is it?’

  ‘It is. People don’t want to be talking all the time, you silly!’

  ‘I’ll be practical. What kind of place is it we’re going to?’ he asked.

  ‘A flat near Westminster, darling. That ought to please you immensely.’

  ‘It does. A minute ago you asked me when I’d be satisfied. Not yet, Sheila. Not for a long, long time,’ and to himself he was saying: ‘When I really feel sure about you, and when I’ve got where I want to go, then I can help everybody.’

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ he asked, putting an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘I’m happy when you’re happy,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think living is hard. I mean living honestly. It’s terribly difficult to be honest. Look at your people. And mine. I’m satisfied now, where I was never satisfied before. The difference is the thing you don’t understand, darling.’

  ‘D’you know people in London?’ he enquired.

  This roused her curiosity. ‘I used to know some. D’you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. Well, I know one or two Union officials, but only slightly.’

  ‘Oh! But why d’you want to be knowing people all the time, darling? I think one can know too many. But you’ll find that out. Just wait. I don’t want to know anybody. My world is you, Des. Don’t you realize that?’

  He drew her hand to his mouth, and kissed it. ‘’Course I do, Sheila. But living—well, you have to move about. You have to know people. I’ve always been quite honest with you. At least I hope I have. I’ve hidden nothing—nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not i
nterested in where you came from. But I was curious. That’s all. Your brother—well, he told me such a curious story. But I won’t talk about that any more. I know you don’t like it. I know this much about myself, that all the time I must keep reminding myself of where I began. That keeps me going. Understand? My plan is a simple one. I want to push as high as I can. I want that kind of living. When you’ve rubbed your nose on the stone for a long time, everything above it——’

  ‘Tickets please?’ droned the voice of the inspector as he came into the car.

  Captain Fury took out his tickets, and this time they were not returned to him. They were near the end of the journey. Thank heaven for that.

  Half an hour later they were speeding in a taxi towards their Westminster flat.

  There was a telegram summoning the Captain to a conference at Newton Buildings for ten o’clock the following morning. Captain Fury beamed. That meant that the Gelton efforts had impressed. Just wait! In a few weeks time he’d show them how to organize labour and use it for the successful prosecution of this ‘bloody war.’

  And then Sheila retired to bed. Desmond stood at the window looking out on the darkened city. Westminster! The very atmosphere smelt of power. Fine! Splendid! Wonderful! A damned Colonel soon! And that wouldn’t be the end. Far from it. He went upstairs, to his wife. He was all smiles. The Gelton dirt was gone. What a fine flat it was! He complimented Sheila on her cleverness.

  But she didn’t want to be complimented. She merely wanted to sleep.

  He kissed her, said he wouldn’t be up for an hour. He had some letters to write. Then he went downstairs. He did not write them, however, for some time. Instead he put on a pair of slippers and stood by the open window again looking out. London. Wonderful! Westminster. Marvellous! It just showed. War did good things as well as bad. Then he wandered through the four rooms, admiring the furniture, the wallpaper. Finally he sat down to write.

  12A DANTON PLACE, LONDON,

  9th.