Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  The head began to fascinate the man. He forgot Desmond, the war, Mrs. Fury, his being called up, the coldness of Blacksea. The head lowered itself and somehow blotted them out. Fine red livid lines draped the head. They seemed like the frenzied clawings of some animal, some claws that had torn away the scalp. The sight of them made him feel sick, and her head was in such striking contrast to the face. At last he managed to speak.

  ‘Is Mrs. Fury in?’ he asked, dodging the woman’s sharp eyes, still interested in the top of that striped head. ‘Is Mrs. Fury in?’ he asked again, as though he had suddenly forgotten that he had already asked this.

  ‘Never heard of her,’ the woman said. ‘Who is she? Fury! Never heard that name.’

  ‘Oh!’ Joseph Kilkey now looked up and down the street.

  The woman smiled. ‘Was he sure he wanted Mrs. Fury, not Mrs.——’ And now the head was lowered still further, as if the woman were intent upon his seeing the whole of that head. She was smiling at him, though he hardly noticed it until he became aware of the teeth, the whole upper row of which now protruded from the mouth and grasped the flesh just under the lower lip. She retained this expression for a few seconds. She was waiting for him to speak.

  ‘She’s a friend of mine—as a matter of fact she’s my mother-in-law. It’s very strange. She was living here last time I called, a week or so ago.’

  ‘She’s not living here now, anyhow,’ said the woman, and the row of teeth suddenly flashed and disappeared inside the mouth. She then gave another smile and asked, as she swayed a little on the step. ‘Do I look like her?’

  Joseph Kilkey did not answer.

  The woman descended the step. She stood almost level with the man. She fastened her eyes on him.

  ‘Funny,’ she said, ‘you coming. Nobody ever comes here. Not to see me! Fancy you coming.’

  Was the woman drunk? Mr. Kilkey was telling himself that discoveries were becoming bywords in his life. What a strange woman was this. And Mrs. Fury wasn’t here. At last he stammered. ‘Oh! I thought she was. Anyhow, thank you. I’ll make enquiries next door.’

  ‘They wouldn’t know either,’ the woman went on. Suddenly she laughed and continued. ‘Funny you coming. I work in a bag works, but nobody comes to see me. Every time I move my home I say to myself, ‘Perhaps when I go to the new place somebody will come to see me.’ But they never do. Funny, isn’t it? See my head? That makes them laugh. I was getting married and then a girl pushed me and I fell on my machine, and all my hair came off and then the chap wouldn’t marry me, and I get my bit of compensation, and I move about—about, and nobody comes to see me. Not any place.’Cause I’m bald, I suppose. Funny, isn’t it?’

  Mr. Kilkey did not answer the woman. He looked up and down the street again, this time almost frantically. It was getting late. This woman was awkward. What a queer day it was. First Blacksea, then the convent, then the pub and now this. He made to go, but somehow he couldn’t; his foot wouldn’t move.

  ‘Fancy somebody coming to see me after all, and me moving and moving. I tried to get doctors to grow my hair. And they tried wigs on me, but I couldn’t wear them. How old d’you think I am, mister? Thirty-one! Funny, isn’t it? No wigs would do. Skin was ruined, they said. So I got the compensation. I came here. It was like the other places. Nobody wanted to come to see me. I was bald, you see. Funny, isn’t it? Gelton is a big city, isn’t it? You get lost in it. I like being lost. Do you, mister? I go out at night, and sometimes I get into the habit of going up one side of the street and down the other. But the police stopped that. You know what they are. My mother died about six months ago. It is funny you coming. Nobody ever comes. So you want Mrs. Fury. Sorry. I don’t know her. G’night, mister.’

  The door slammed violently on Joseph Kilkey.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said aloud.

  He tried the next door, and the next. He tried the four little shops that stood on the corners of Hey’s Alley. He met with shakes of the head, guarded ‘No’s’—indifferent: ‘Never heard of her. Who? Fury? Don’t know!’

  They didn’t know her. Who was she? Fury? H’m! Well, she wasn’t there, anyhow.

  All that journey for nothing. When had she gone—where? Why had she gone like that? Left the hospital. ‘I’m hanged,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘Nothing will alter my opinion now that that poor woman is wrong in her head. Well, it might have been sooner, God knows that.’ A wasted day. A long day with nothing in it to remember except that long ride back to Gelton with his son. Nearly eleven o’clock. He’d better go home. He suddenly leaned against the wall at the end of the street.

  ‘A big city,’ she had said.

  Yes, it was a big city. And this was hidden in it and he’d never known. Aye! It was a big city all right. ‘I’m off anyhow,’ he said, and slowly turned out of the street.

  But the bald-headed woman remained in his mind. Never went out except at night. Nobody came to see her. A girl knocked her across the machine. Whole scalp gone. Her young man wouldn’t marry. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ and he found himself repeating the woman’s words. Funny! Yes. It was! Well, the more I see the more I realize the truth of that saying, ‘Be lucky you’re born.’ Some people didn’t even know they were born.

  He travelled back on a car packed with night workers. The smell of beer was strong, of tobacco suffocating. Everybody on top talked. He had to listen. War! War! The bloody Germans! The square-headed swine! The cheap joke, the dirty joke, the bloodthirsty oaths. The tram rocked and ahead the lines shone, two long ribbons of cold silver, between avenues of brick and slate. A man sang. One talked of derricks. Another cried out: ‘I’d have told him to stick it up his——’

  The crowd laughed, and the tram lurched on towards the docks. Lights were dimmed, blinds drawn over the windows.

  ‘Pretty lousy on the West Front to-night, eh, lads?’

  The car stopped at the end of the King’s Road. Mr. Kilkey got off. Price Street was in darkness too, but No. 8 showed a glimmer of light. His clumsy walk sounded like thunder on the stones. Mrs. Ditchley’s door opened. She seemed to have been waiting for him.

  ‘Come in, Mr. Kilkey. I want to talk to you,’ she said, and he followed her into the house.

  ‘Anything wrong, Mrs. Ditchley?’ he asked. He stood by the kitchen door.

  ‘Yes, and no! I wouldn’t bother you except I’ve been worried about it. And you away the whole day. You look tired. And where’s the little lad?’

  He told her everything.

  ‘How awfully disappointing for you. Sit down. I’ve the kettle ready. Tea in a tick. You do look tired. I’ve been worried, Mr. Kilkey.’

  ‘I’m—well, what’s been worrying you?’ he asked. He lay his hat on the dresser.

  ‘Well, some soldier men came about eleven. I didn’t understand it,’ she began. ‘They knocked here too. Impudent lot they were. Quite a crowd gathered——’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And they were here again at seven, Mr. Kilkey. I’m quite worried about it. There were four of them this evening. Local lads I think, too. I never in all my life heard such talk. Whatever you’ve done, Mr. Kilkey—mind you, it’s none of my business—and I speak only as your friend—but whatever you’ve done, they’ve got their knife into you. They asked me when you’d be in. I said I didn’t know, that I only minded my own business. A foul-mouthed lot. But one of the men who came this morning was a sergeant or something. He seemed rather nice. Well, there it is. Now I’ll get that tea.’

  She got up to make tea for both of them. She kept looking at the man in the chair. Now what on earth could they want him for? Surely not for a soldier! Why the chap was too old. And in such a good job. Good heavens! She’d cry if he went. They were such friends, in fact she was as close to him as his own mother. She poured out tea and sat down again.

  ‘Anything to eat, Mr. Kilkey? There’s some bacon and cheese. I did think of making something hot ready for you, but then when it went six and you hadn’t come I thought——Well—no—I won’t bothe
r,’ and she looked at him and felt that somehow she was this man’s mother. Good Lord! What a nice home he had. And now, with one thing and another—but there it was. That’s what life was. Ups and downs, and working all the time. ‘Do have something to eat?’ she urged.

  But he shook his head, saying: ‘No thanks! I had something out. Not a bit hungry.’

  Later he said. ‘Oh! I see,’ as though the significance of the soldiers’ visit had only just dawned upon him. Well, he wasn’t surprised. He could see it coming. That was all right. He could face that. He had made up his mind. He had seen the priest. He had been to his duties. He wasn’t afraid of any soldier. Afraid of nothing. Only the bomb that might hit the convent.

  Mrs. Ditchley leaned across the table. ‘I don’t want to keep you up, Mr. Kilkey, but I’d like to know what happened. You see, Dermod and you—well, you know. Tell me about the little boy.’

  ‘He’s at the Convent of the Mother of Sorrows. He’s all right. He cried a bit; I would have felt queer if he hadn’t. But he’s a good little kid. It’s pretty hard on a youngster, you know, Mrs. Ditchley,’ he said. ‘I hated leaving him there. But I think it was wise. The way this war’s going now. Well, no place seems safe, not even the house of good women like that. But the Mother Superior was a very understanding woman, and when I said that nothing but a bomb could get him now, she just smiled and said, ‘Bombs won’t get your son, Mr. Kilkey. Be off home like a good man.’ It quite cheered me up. D’you mind me having another cup of tea?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘So he’s in the convent. Well, you’re a wise man, Mr. Kilkey. I’m not of your faith, mind you, but there’s something about it that I like all the same. But what about these soldiers coming? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will to-morrow,’ he replied, pushing away his empty cup. ‘You will to-morrow. Didn’t you know I’d been called up for the war? I thought I’d told you. Hadn’t expected it, of course. But there you are. Never know your luck. I thought what with my age, and being an expert stevedore and ships so important at this time—well, to tell you the truth I got a surprise when my papers came. Never expected them. But there they are. I’ve to go into the army, Mrs. Ditchley. That’s the position. It’s strange, but the morning they came I knew I’d have to make up my mind—about the little boy. Well, you see I did. That matter is settled.’

  ‘Did you see her?’ she asked, almost with a trace of anxiety in her voice, though this was quite unnoticed by Joseph Kilkey. ‘Did you see her then?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her! The whole business was pretty cool. I surprised myself, but that’s because I was worried over my papers, Mrs. Ditchley. Yet all the time I was hoping she’d say: ‘Joe—I’ll come back.’ I didn’t much like the look of her. She’s quite changed. And I saw the man——’

  ‘No! You didn’t!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ditchley. This was something hard to believe.

  ‘I did! And I didn’t think much about him. You’d hardly credit it, but they had the kid farmed out or something. You know I’ve never yet been able to understand why she went off like that, and now I’ve seen the fellow, it’s even harder to understand. Hardly looks like a man. Oh well! That’s over. Dermod cried a bit, but not for long. I rather think she was ashamed. She just ran off down the street, never said so-long. Sort of pecked at Dermod—and ran off. And the journey! I don’t suppose I’ll ever make another journey like it. It was awful. Well, I must be off, Mrs. Ditchley. It was good of you to wait up like this, and have tea,’ and suddenly laughing, as he rose to go, exclaimed: ‘I can see you as my housekeeper yet, Mrs. Ditchley,’ and he picked up his hat, one arm outstretched towards the door-knob. The gas in the kitchen was beginning to burn low.

  Mrs. Ditchley got up too, went to the door with him. It didn’t open for nearly a quarter of an hour. They stood there talking about the war.

  ‘So you’ll have to go then,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it terrible? All those men. Three from this street to-day. And old Mrs. Davies lost her son. Yes, they told her this afternoon. You can’t do anything with her. The poor woman.’

  ‘They’ll probably come for me to-morrow, Mrs. Ditchley. By rights I should have reported more than four days ago. I knew this would happen. And there were one or two things I wanted to do. Look here, Mrs. Ditchley I don’t want to keep you up any longer, but d’you mind if I sit down? There’s one or two things I want to get off my mind.’

  The woman silently went back to her chair, and her attitude as she sat down and looked at Mr. Kilkey presupposed nothing short of a revelation. He sat down opposite her. He looked at her spread hands.

  ‘Mrs. Ditchley. A man simply doesn’t know where he is, these times. Now I’ll be taken away to-morrow. I’ll tell you why. I am against the war. I refuse to go to the war. I’m not frightened of being killed. I’ve just escaped that at work scores of times. No! The thing is, I refuse to kill anybody, and nothing they do will make me go to the war. That’s why I got Dermod away. I still love my wife, but all the same I couldn’t trust her with the boy. What I told you proves that. I made a nice home here, and she wasn’t satisfied. But I’m not going into that now. When I go I don’t know where I’ll be taken. But if I can I’ll write to you. There’s the wife’s mother. She’s been very poorly in hospital. Her husband and son are at sea. Now the man is anxious for me to see the woman off to Ireland. She badly needs a change. But I seem to be running into dark corners all the time. I can’t find her. Seems to have shifted. What I’d like you to do is this: I’ll give you her husband’s ship address, and the old one where she lived. If I’m not here after to-morrow, I want you to try and find her. I’ll give you a letter for her. The other thing is my wife. I don’t want to feel that it is the end. Now here’s her address——’ He pulled out a small pocket-book, with pencil attached, and wrote down the Blacksea address. ‘Just keep that handy for me. I’d like you to drop her a letter. Tell her where Dermod is. You never know. You see I’d still make a home for her—I mean when the war is over and all that. Now would you do that? You see, I’ll feel rested in my mind. I’m going to be what they call a conscientious objector and I don’t know what they do with you when you’re that. Now I am going.’

  He held out his hand. ‘And just in case,’ he said, and the next moment he was gone, as though some other hand had already pushed through the door and dragged him out.

  Mrs. Ditchley said, ‘G’night, G’night,’ and stood there, almost bewildered. Mr. Kilkey had never talked so much before. ‘Dear me! Whatever are things coming to, I wonder?’

  She wondered as she put out the gas, as she banked the fire for morning, as she climbed the stairs, undressed and went to bed. She lay wide awake and wondered why Joseph Kilkey should have to go to the war.

  At the same time that Mr. Kilkey was enquiring as to the whereabouts of Fanny Fury, she herself was seated in the snug of ‘The Maiden,’ and Mrs. Gumbs was with her. It was near closing time. They had called in on their way back from work. Mrs. Fury had now finally settled in. She was glad of the work, glad of the friendship of Mrs. Gumbs.

  ‘I like my glass and I don’t mind saying so,’ remarked Mrs. Gumbs. ‘Does you good.’

  ‘I often took a glass of stout with Denny,’ said Mrs. Fury. ‘But only when he was home.’

  Mrs. Gumbs nodded. ‘And in this kind of work, Mrs., you want a good drink. Don’t you think so? Some people think it queer to see women sitting in a pub drinking but they don’t know what kind of work we’ve been doing, eh?’ She winked at Mrs. Fury. ‘I’ve just been thinking: Why, a month or so back I wouldn’t have dreamed of meeting you. Never even knew you existed, and here we are, old friends. It just shows. I suppose that’s what makes life so interesting, bumping into people.’

  Mrs. Fury nodded. ‘You can bump into too many sometimes,’ she said. ‘I used to have to bump into people my husband wouldn’t meet. Even his employers more than once.’

  ‘Must have been a very frightened man, your husband,’ replied Mrs. Gumbs.

  ‘Not a
t all. He was always shy. Not frightened. I wish he had been frightened sometimes. Would have done him good.’ Then she picked her glass of stout up from the table.

  ‘Ah, now! Now! Careful, woman. Careful what you say. He may be frightened too soon. There’s a war on, you know, and he’s on that sea—you know you shouldn’t say a thing like that. I wouldn’t, not about my husband,’ she said.

  Mrs. Fury laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, really. I meant it the other way. I mean, supposing he’d been frightened of what might happen to his family. But of course he never was. He would have been in America to-day, and so could I if he’d been sensible. Well, it’s time to go, by the look of it.’

  They both got up and left the pub, walking slowly towards home. Both women were tired after the long day. They had been scrubbing ships.

  ‘You know, Mrs. Gumbs, I feel more and more content. I wish I’d always worked like this, instead of bringing up a family.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk sometimes,’ said the other. ‘You shouldn’t be working at all. You should be sitting in your big chair and your children round you.’

  They walked into Edcott Court, both silent until they climbed the stairs, and then Mrs. Gumbs said:

  ‘Good night. Don’t forget now. Seven in the morning. You’ll have to get an alarm clock. Good night,’ and she went on up to her room.

  Mrs. Fury closed the door and took off her things. She found a letter from her husband. She read it through twice and then got into bed. He might be home sooner than expected. Why had she shifted again? What was the idea? It was hardly fair on the one lad who was still living with them. A grumbling, growling letter. How the man changed once he was on his ship. Perhaps the sea did something to him.

  ‘He does hope I’m better,’ she said aloud.

  Well, she was. And content. She wasn’t bothered by things. Why shouldn’t she shift when she liked? She’d shift again to-morrow if she wanted to. Why shouldn’t she get away from people—and talking, and be quiet for a while?