Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘It’s extraordinary that a man should turn up a whole year after a sinking,’ he said, he poured out coffee for both of them.

  ‘I’ve known men return after even three years, Delahane, and not only that, I’ve often thought of their mysterious, secret journeys in the hours they are lost to us.’

  ‘Just fancy those two young sailors getting drunk in Bahia, and staying drunk every bit of the way home.’

  ‘I’ll bet they’re sober now. And that old man upstairs whom they dragged after them, like any sack of potatoes—they’ve forgotten him, too. In two days they will have forgotten their hazardous voyage, the torpedo, the sudden madness, the sinking. In a week they will be on board again, moving seawards. Sailors and ships die many deaths.’

  Delahane, absorbed in his coffee, listening to the first move of a rising wind, had barely listened, nevertheless, he said—‘Indeed they do, Father.’

  ‘I’m tired, Delahane. You know, I think I’ll go up.’

  Father Twomey stood up, stretched, yawned, sighed—‘And as soon as Owen comes, you must get off yourself. I have a feeling that we shall not be rung to-night.’

  ‘What makes you think that, Father?’

  ‘I don’t know. Good-night, Delahane—sleep well.’

  ‘Good-night, Father.’

  Delahane helped himself to more coffee.

  ‘Imagine that old chap upstairs, talking about getting another ship, already! Why, he must be out of his mind entirely. I think I’ll have a fine big yawn myself.’ He put down the coffee mug. He lay back in the chair. ‘I hope Owen won’t be too long. Why, I’ve had as heavy a day as the priest himself.’ Coals fell from the fire. Outside the wind increased its velocity, the windows shook. Suddenly he heard a thud on the upper floor, and then the shouts. ‘Oh, Lord! He’s off again. That old chap’s having his nightmare. It would happen, just when I’m thinking of bed.’

  He heard the priest calling to him ‘You had better come up, Delahane.’

  ‘Coming,’ shouted Delahane, ‘coming. Why, that noise will wake the other men. It’s that fiery sea again, I’ll bet—and that lad Lenahan—I wonder what it means?’

  He dashed upstairs to the old man’s room. They found he had rolled out of the bed. They heard him say, ‘Up, son. Keep up, hold on, Lenahan.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Good-Morning,’ the white-robed nun said. ‘I see you are writing again.’

  ‘Only a letter.’

  ‘Another one?’

  There is no answer. The nun puts down the tray, goes quietly out. The woman continues writing. There is some steaming stew, bread, a glass of water. Her lunch. The small, white-walled room is quite silent, it accentuates the clock’s soft tick, the scratching of the pen nib. The walls are bare, except that there hangs over the mantelshelf a large metal crucifix. The cleanly-scrubbed floor boards are covered by two rugs, one alongside the small iron bed, the other in front of the fireplace. The fire smokes, it is heavy with slack coal. The woman is still writing. She stops suddenly and rises to her feet. As she does so, she glances out through the window, the sea is there. But she looks at it with indifferent eyes, an immense volume of water flowing for no particular reason. She turns her back on the window and approaches the table. She is tall, thin, grey-haired, the eyes seem too bright, the line of the mouth too hard, there is some exaggeration here.… She wears a long blue dress. Round her neck hangs a silver chain, from the chain a long silver crucifix. She sits down and begins her meal. Her long thin hands tremble as she eats. They carry the legacy of labour, discoloration of age. The features are without expression, there is something wooden, lifeless, it is the eyes that exaggerate—too bright, too lively. She talks to herself as she eats.

  ‘I will write to Anthony to-morrow.’

  ‘In two years he will be home from China.’

  She has eaten her lunch. She sits staring at the empty tray. As she sits, she listens. She is always listening. The creaking of doors, the soft swish of a dress, the clock’s tick, a bell ringing somewhere behind the room, voices that die on the air, the sound of wheels on a gravel path. In the corner nearest the door there is a small shelf containing reading matter, some newspapers, magazines, a book or two. She has read the newspapers. They bring in messages from outside, from the world. At the door of this room the torrent of life beats in vain. The silence holds it—keeps it out. Later in the afternoon she will sit in the cane arm-chair by the fire, read The Life of St Thérèse. She will stare long, thoughtfully at the frontispiece, the picture of the Saint, not of this world, beyond humanity. She does not quite understand what it all means, but it is something to do. At four o’clock she will get up, put on her shawl, leave the room and join the small procession of priest and nuns down the white corridor, over soundless carpet, then across the lawn, over sour wintry grass. In the chapel she will kneel, but not pray. She has tried very hard, but cannot pray. But she kneels and listens and as the flute-like voices of the choir bursts upon the air, she smiles, the hard mouth softens. She loves to hear the small voices storming Heaven. At half-past four she will have tea. Sister Angelica will bring it, Sister Angelica will sit and talk to her, the room may break with a sudden laugh as memory stirs, but at five o’clock there is silence again. She is terribly alone, yet not lonely. She can stir things to life in the abyss of her mind. She can, if she wills it, descend to the depths of it, and travel far. Back to that long, wide, hollow and endless day when the storm broke and the ship was wrecked. The dream journey through turbulent streets, against many cries and through all the roar and scream of Gelton’s life, along the road where ships lie, and the air heavy with the odour of the five oceans and the seven seas, walking, always walking towards exhaustion, down the road, at first endless, but that had stopped here, in this great white house with its tall iron gates, by going beyond which you may walk into the sea. That is as far back as she can remember, and there is nothing else worth remembering. These journeys of memories are the cries upon tiredness returned from them. She may lie down on her bed and fashion sleep more easily. Not always are the journeys of memory successful. There are the pills in the bottle on her table. They often help.

  She writes many letters, and many letters are not posted.

  ‘I’ll write to Peter in the morning,’ she says, and then sits waiting for the door to open, the hand holding the letter come from behind the high walls in northern Corlston.

  She writes to New York, China, Dublin, Cork, London, Sometimes there are answers.

  There is a visitor once a week, the same one. She looks forward to these visits, the link with the old life. She remembers Thursdays, the figure of the short, stocky old man, who comes so heavy-footedly up the gravel path.

  ‘Old Ugly comes to-day,’ she tells herself, and smiles. She loves ‘old ugly’.

  ‘Poor Joe,’ she says, ‘oh, it’s so nice of you to come here and see me. How I look forward to these visits, and the hour’s wild scampering through the old days,’ and sits looking at him, this old man with the great bald head, and the weather-beaten face that holds in it the shine of wet leather and the good heart. She remembers that.

  ‘Oh! It’s nice to see you,’ wringing his hands, watching him grow older, week by week, month by month. ‘And you’re still working,’ she says.

  ‘Aye! Still at it,’ Mr Kilkey says, and notes the bright eyes and the too hard mouth, that curious curve of the upper lip. ‘And how are you to-day, Fanny?’

  ‘I’m well, thank God.’

  He sits with her for an hour, their hands are close together, they talk, news is exchanged.

  ‘And so Desmond’s packed up and left Gelton altogether.’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone.’

  ‘Did he come to see you?’

  ‘He called.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘No, she didn’t call—I wouldn’t have expected her to. Strange to think you are now the only one left in Gelton.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How’s Dermod?’

/>   ‘He’s fine.’ He visions Dermod for a moment, remembers his wife who deserted him.

  ‘I’m proud of Dermod.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ she says.

  There are invitations to go out occasionally, but she withdraws gracefully. She is not interested. Outside doesn’t matter any more.

  ‘A beautiful garden they have here,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, it is pretty and so big. Why you haven’t so far away to walk to get to the chapel.’

  ‘Just over the way.’

  ‘I suppose if everything had gone the way you wanted it, you would have packed up your things and sailed away home.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t look as tired as you used to.’

  ‘Oh, I’m better now. I was very tired once, very very tired. It’s peaceful here. I’m very happy. They’re all gone, the lot of them. One time it would have worried my heart sick, not now though. Not now. It’s the best I wanted. I don’t think I’d have the heart to start again.’

  ‘Nor the strength, my good woman,’ Joseph Kilkey warns.

  ‘There’s four striking,’ he says, ‘I must be off,’ and rises to his feet. She rises too, goes with him to the door.

  ‘You’ll come again?’

  ‘Of course. God bless you—look after yourself,’ they shake hands—he is gone.

  The door closes. She hurries over to the window to watch this man go down the drive, this man with his bowler hat and his drab, unlovely serge suit. At the gate he turns, he sees her smile, the wave of the hand, he waves back to her—the great gate clangs, he’s gone, lost in the world.

  ‘Poor Joe,’ she says, ‘poor faithful old Ugly.’

  She will sometimes follow him with her mind’s eye, back through the maze of streets to his home.

  ‘How often he must have loneliness with him,’ and she thinks of her daughter, his wife, lost somewhere in the jungle of Gelton.

  ‘She was a poor creature with no heart,’ and smiled suddenly, remembering his son.

  ‘He thinks that boy beautiful, I suppose he really is.’

  The door opens, Sister Angelica brings in the tea, sits down and shares it with the woman.

  ‘Well, mother, did you have a letter to-day?’ She pours out tea, serves toast.

  ‘No! But I’m sure there will be one to-morrow. Did you post the others for me?’

  ‘I did, mother,’ always she addresses her as mother. She thinks it strange that one should live here in the midst of death.

  ‘Are you happy, mother?’ And watches the features soften, hears her begin to talk.

  ‘Yes. It’s nice having this great window here, Sister Angelica, many an hour I have a fine time looking out. I can see them ships go moving down towards a far sea.’

  ‘Yes, it’s nice to look out and see the river,’ the nun says, all the time watching the woman, remembering her arrival here, the waiting, the hoping.

  Each morning the same questions: ‘Any news, Sister Angelica?’

  Gravely the young nun would shake her head. Weeks passed, months.

  ‘You ought not to worry so much, you must try not to worry, Mrs Fury. If he is to come he’ll come.’

  ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’

  ‘I might have done better by him.’

  ‘There’s no use in going over that now.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘You are very lucky to be here,’ says Sister Angelica, and the woman nods her head. She leans forward.

  ‘The priest was very nice about it. I try not to be in the way. I know what goes on outside this room.’

  She has heard the sound of wheels grinding on the gravel path, she has seen the gentleman in black. Beyond the door she has heard the whispering, the occasional moan, the grace of life departing. Her residence here has been much disputed, but one afternoon the Mother Superior visits her, she is reassuring.

  ‘You can stay. It is most unusual, of course, but there did just happen to be this room. You are no trouble to us.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  ‘But you must try to get out more than you do. Now Thursday is the day the Sisters go out shopping. Sisters Philomena and Domenica go down to the town—you could go with them. It would do you good.’

  ‘I’m quite content, Mother, quite content.’

  ‘All the same you must go out oftener than you do. It’s not good for you to be in all the time.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ the woman replies.

  She will think about it. She goes out once, but is not asked again. She had not enjoyed it. ‘Seeing all those people hurrying by made me feel more lonely,’ she says, ‘and besides I’ve walked many a mile and covered most stones in Gelton.’

  They leave her alone.

  But always at seven o’clock in the evening, she is ready to join the small congregation for the Benediction. Sometimes she has her supper in the great kitchen, this she looks on as a great privilege, sitting eating amongst the good people. They know she lies awake in her bed and does not sleep very well. Her children, though far away, are sometimes very near to her. Her love for the youngest often leaps to the cold north and over the high walls that separate him from her. She dreams of the husband who does not come back. She cries quietly, remembering him. A whole year gone and still there is silence. ‘It’s too late now,’ her old mouth trembling, ‘it should never have happened.’

  She often thinks of the afternoon when the news came, ‘I put my hat and coat on and all the time I wasn’t believing a word of what that telegram said and I went right out of that house, and I left the door wide open and I never went back to close it. Poor Denny, tossing about in the sea that day, and me going out after news of him and forgetting to close that front door, but perhaps something in me knew I wouldn’t be going back there.’

  Two days later Joseph Kilkey has called.

  ‘Why have you done this thing?’

  ‘I couldn’t be bothered with anything any more. We had a lot of homes, one time and another. We shifted about. But one home is just like another one. I couldn’t be bothered about anything any more, not after that, not after he was gone, and well gone, God help him, he was everything to me. I couldn’t even be bothered to go back and shut the door. I thought why that office where the news lies is only across the road, I’ll be out for a minute or two, and then I forgot all about that door till after I came in here, out of which place I don’t want to go, being peaceful after all that noise and that shouting that hard afternoon. I didn’t know how tired I was till they put me to bed.’

  Joseph Kilkey is bewildered, saddened by this. He sees the Mother Superior.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ he says, ‘a crazy thing for her to have done. Why she simply walked out of the house, leaving that door wide open for anybody to walk in and steal the few bits of things she has there.’

  ‘She won’t go back. You had better see to the matter of her furniture.’

  ‘But I don’t think you understand, Mother, if you’ll pardon me. Why, she has a family of her own and her own place. That’s a big thing to break up in a single afternoon.’

  ‘Nevertheless Mr Kilkey, I think you had better do something about the furniture. She won’t make any more homes, I know that. Something has gone out of her life.’

  ‘Ah, I know, it’s hard indeed,’ says Kilkey, ‘very hard.’

  ‘Well then?’

  But Kilkey has nothing to say, he remains silent.

  ‘And yet it’s too early to give up hope. Anything may happen.’

  ‘She feels he’s gone—in her very bones she feels it, they were married fifty years almost.’

  ‘A lifetime.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kilkey says, ‘a whole lifetime to come to this. Headstrong woman she was and, God forgive me, but when she thought she was doing her best, she was doing her worst. If she’d looked after her husband better than she did, it might have been a different tale. She drove all her children away. I married her only
daughter, I know. She was stupid. She’s raving about her husband now he’s gone, and might have done better by him when she had him …’

  ‘I think you had better go, too,’ the Mother Superior says, and Mr. Kilkey goes at once.

  But during the long journey home in the tram he remembers the things he has said, and cannot forgive himself.

  ‘I should never have said it—it was cruel.’

  But back at the White House, the woman has already forgotten him, here where nothing begins and everything ends.

  ‘It is true then,’ the Mother Superior said, and she saw Father Moynihan nod his head.

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ she said, ‘a miracle—the old creature had given him up. Where is he now?’

  ‘He is with Father Twomey at the Bethel. May I use your telephone?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How strange,’ she thought, ‘how strange. It was the last thing I ever expected. Now I think that woman will go.’

  She could hear the priest speaking, he seemed somewhat agitated.

  ‘But you can keep him twenty-four hours,’ Father Moynihan said, and the other replied ‘He ought to go into hospital to-day.’

  ‘Not without his wife’s consent! Please leave him there for the present. I will arrange for his removal.’

  ‘Very well. Men are waiting for beds.’

  ‘I know. I’ve told you I’ll have him removed to-morrow. But his wife must see him.’ He came back to the sparsely furnished sitting-room.

  ‘I let those people have a piece of my mind this morning. Perfectly disgusting. It seems nobody heard of this man’s rescue—nobody was told anything—nobody knew he was arriving here, and then that awful journey with those drunken sailors. Father Twomey thought the old man drunk at first, but he was just ill, very ill.’

  ‘You recognized him?’

  ‘Of course. He is disfigured, he is a changed man—he’s gone very old—a child. He’ll never see the sea again. It seems he was torpedoed on two occasions within ten days. A strange experience. But you realize that the moment you look at him. It was most difficult. Sometimes he becomes quite incoherent, he can follow you for a while, then he loses all contact, his mind is chaos, and yet he talked of home. He mentioned her. He wanted her. He was dreadfully disappointed that she had not come. What was he doing there, he wanted to go home. That was the hardest part. Telling him there was no longer a home in existence. He blanched—he couldn’t believe it. He broke down altogether. I came away. It was pitiful. Have you told her yet?’