Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And please God, they will both of them get stronger, and one day I’ll send them home to where they belong. I have already been in touch with your aunt.…’

  ‘Thank you, it is very good of you.’

  ‘And they will be comfortable there, and your dear mother, whose heart was always there, need worry no more. I am going to see your brother-in-law to-morrow, or perhaps you would like to see him yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps I should do that,’ Desmond said; he was trying hard to look at the priest, but his efforts failed. Now he could not look him in the eye. He lowered his head to answer the questions.

  ‘Well, that’s settled. Tell me about your father.’

  ‘I didn’t know him. It was like meeting a stranger. He’s a shell of a man now.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘He talked a bit, not very much. He didn’t quite know me at first, but I think he recognized my voice after a while, and then he talked more freely. But he’s very upset about the home going.’

  The priest was watching and waiting to catch that eye, he was on the point of saying, ‘And you, I’m sure, are upset too,’ but he suddenly smothered the words in his throat.

  ‘You could stay the night here, if you wished,’ Delahane said, ‘some men went out to-day.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better stay. I had thought of calling on my mother. But that can wait.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Father Moynihan, ‘I’ll be off.’ He rose, walked across the room. He stood looking down at Desmond Fury.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ he said—paused—‘about everything,’ and then he picked up his hat and stick, said ‘Goodnight,’ and was gone; but the man seated in the chair, who had not looked up at the priest, who had not moved, realized the kindness of those words. Some time after the door had closed, he looked up. Delahane was seated with his knees up, his toes toasting over the fire, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked round suddenly, Desmond Fury was standing behind him.

  ‘I think I’ll have that cup of coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ said Delahane, and went off at once to get it.

  ‘I wonder what makes me so awkward, so clumsy, I wonder why I was born a pig.’ Desmond Fury began pacing the office, but when the coffee came he sat down and drank it.

  ‘Quite extraordinary the way your father came back from the sea.’

  ‘Very extraordinary. I thought him dead. I had almost forgotten him.’

  ‘He was a mess when they brought him up. Terrible the way these young sailors drink to-day, terrible, though, mind you, I couldn’t blame them. They’d been in a nice fix; I expect they got drunk just to wash out the experiences. You know, Mr Fury, I’ve spent nearly the whole of my life with Father Twomey. I began when the Apostleship began, and I tell you that sailors are the oddest lot, all heart and no head the majority of them—simple, like a great wandering tribe of children, but not treated like children. No sir. If you could see the way some of these ship-wrecked men are pitched all over the place by the authorities, what are known as authorities, you’d be surprised. As Father Twomey was saying only yesterday, a package in the post has far more consideration. And another thing, Mr Fury, they’re such a fugitive lot, like gypsies really, always on the move—always moving. A strange lot of men!’

  ‘If you could show me to a bunk,’ said Desmond, ‘I’d be glad to lie down. I’ve been travelling most of the day. And thank you for the coffee.’

  He put the cup down—he was ready to go to bed.

  ‘Just come this way, I’ll fix you up.’

  ‘Father Moynihan offered me a bed for the night, but I didn’t want to trouble him.’

  ‘That’s a man you can’t trouble,’ was Delahane’s prompt reply, and he showed the other man out.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘I’ll slip in and see my father first,’ Desmond said.

  ‘Of course. You’ll find me at the end of this corridor. And don’t be too long. I want to get to bed myself before long. Father Twomey rises at six o’clock.’

  Desmond Fury went in to see his father. He was asleep and, watching him, Desmond saw how pale he was, as though the act of sleep had drained more blood away from him. The features were like marble.

  ‘That awful scar,’ he said to himself; he touched it, he followed its livid course with the tip of his forefinger. ‘Whatever struck him, struck his manhood from him.’

  He listened. His father’s breathing came almost imperceptibly soft, yet uneven, the breathing of a tired child.

  ‘Ireland for you, old man,’ Desmond said. ‘Ireland for you and no more working.’ It made him feel more comfortable saying it.

  ‘Good-night,’ he said to the fast sleeping man. He then went out.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ he said to Delahane. ‘I’ll send a donation to the office as soon as I get back to London. I’ve heard a lot of what the Apostleship of the Sea does for sailors.…’

  ‘Of all denominations,’ said Delahane, ‘all colours.’

  ‘And now I’ve seen it, thank you again. Please call me at seven o’clock.’

  ‘Very good. Good-night to you.’

  Desmond undressed and got into the little iron bed. His feet stretched far beyond it, it was decidedly uncomfortable. He tried curling up, he drew his knees up and down, he turned from side to side, but he could not settle himself. Finally, he removed the bed and made it on the floor. He lay more comfortable there.

  ‘It must have been …, but I’d better not think about it.’

  Instead he thought of London, his wife, his flat, his conference to-morrow, the interview with Hughes—the nomination—and then the whole picture melted away, his wife, his plans, further than he could reach. He shut his eyes. He tried to sleep. ‘I’ll see mother first thing in the morning. I’ll make all the arrangements. In a month I hope they’ll be gone, both of them. We are too scattered ever to come together again—and now it doesn’t matter.’

  He kept opening and shutting his eyes, a brown stain on the ceiling began to irritate him. He got up and switched off the light.

  ‘I expect he knows all about Peter.’

  ‘And Maureen.’

  ‘And old Joe.’

  ‘And that awful bitch Ragner.’

  ‘I expect he knows everything and perhaps will not, will never say anything. Poor dad. Just a nice, simple, hardworking, good-hearted man. Mother led him a dance all right. Ah, but it’s no use travelling old roads, they’re too long and at the end of them, there’s your brick wall. What’s done is done. I hope, some way or other they’ll be able to see Peter before they go. That reminds me, I ought to write him a letter.’ He tossed and turned over on his bed. ‘For some people there’s a lot of effort, and it’s all quite futile in the end. Yes, in the end there’s only yourself, just yourself, lonely as a bloody whale is lonely.’

  He lay quite still, ‘Ah, I’ll start counting the sheep. That’ll send me off to sleep.’ He counted ten, twenty, a hundred—he looked out at the darkness melting over the room, was suddenly aware of the liquid-like light filling the room. ‘I hope he does call me at seven o’clock.’

  But he was called much earlier than that by his father’s screams.

  Chapter 3

  The moment he saw the tall man pass the window, Joseph Kilkey was on his feet and fumbling somewhat clumsily with the catch of the door. This he opened wide and the visitor came in. He towered over Kilkey. He stood in the centre of the kitchen, he stared about him. This was the first time he had ever visited the man’s home. He looked closely at Kilkey, still silent. At last he sat down.

  ‘It was good of you to come all this way to see me,’ Mr Kilkey said.

  The other gave a grunt. ‘You have come to see me many times, Kilkey,’ he replied, ‘think of it, once a month for nearly twenty years, and if I may say so, as regular as the clock.’ He now removed his cap. The large well-shaped head was thickly covered with grey hair. The huge Ulster in which he sat was fraye
d at the sleeves and elbows. He had a small mouth, it seemed somewhat out of place in the long face.

  ‘I am glad you came. You have heard the news. Father Moynihan has just told me. It was a surprise!’

  ‘Nothing surprises me, Cornelius Delaney, Secretary of the St Vincent de Paul Society, and if you had had the thirty years’ experience I have had, nothing would surprise you either. I’ve spent most of a lifetime dealing with human desperation. But I am glad to see you, Kilkey, though I must confess all this,’ here he waved his hand which seemed to embrace the entire kitchen, ‘but all this … dear me—you have been reduced. How lonely it must be for you, which brings me to the point, at least one of the points—the other,’ he indicated a tin collecting box which stood on the dresser, ‘I’ll empty that box and take the contents back with me. I was sorry to hear you had been laid up with such a bad cold—and it shows how much I think of you Kilkey, that I, a very busy man, have come these miles out to see you. But oh, to what a pass you have come. I say it distresses me—Ah, there’s no doubt you sailed into a sea of trouble when you married that Fury girl. You seem to have married the whole family, Kilkey, and that’s a fact.’

  He looked at Kilkey, he got what he wanted, a smile. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  ‘Won’t you take off your coat, Mr Delaney?’ Joseph Kilkey came forward.

  ‘No, no,’ he waved Kilkey away, ‘I’m not stopping long enough for that. When I got your note, I thought, “I’ve a good mind to treat myself to a long tram ride and see Mr Kilkey. I can also pick up the collecting box he can’t deliver and I can give him up-to-date news about this other little matter.”’ He suddenly looked across at Kilkey. ‘And it is a little matter, Kilkey, I make bold to say. Try not to think me hard, but really I’m afraid it’s hopeless. Consider. My agents in five towns have checked up everywhere, and yesterday there came one item of news which was not very helpful. You recall a man, Doogle by name, who used to travel about with this Richard Slye? Well, I have it authentically that he died in the Halifax Workhouse two months ago. Apparently he was left there and the other two went on. This man Slye and your wife. That kind of person is hard to pin down, they are always on the move. No, Kilkey, I’m afraid you ought to make up your mind for the worst. I think you’ve seen the last of Maureen Kilkey.’

  Mr Delaney put a hand on Kilkey’s arm, ‘You still love her?’

  For a moment Kilkey was unable to speak, a lump rose in his throat, he splathered: ‘Yes—always—I believe one day she’ll come back.’

  ‘I admire you for it, Kilkey, but I would be lying to you if I said to you now I think she will. I can’t believe it, but you have your son, that is some consolation. How is Dermod, by the way?’ He drew out a cigarette, lighted it, sent smoke rings everywhere.

  ‘He’s very well, thank you, very well.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Even so, you must find it lonely out here. A great pity. How that family made use of you, Kilkey. I had written you a letter the moment I got the news from Halifax, but I tore it up, so here I am. I hope you’ll soon be better. There’s a lot of ’flu about. I suppose you are still interested in all the things you do?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kilkey said, ‘yes … sometimes no—yes, I do feel lonely at times. I wish we could get back the old feeling. I wish everything would come right again.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of night work, it must be monotonous?’

  ‘Sometimes I do. Of course I always tell myself I’m lucky to have work at all.’

  ‘Of course. Things are very bad in Gelton. Very bad. I know that well enough.’

  ‘I sometimes go to the schoolroom and have a game of billiards, and then a lot of my time is taken up helping Father Moynihan with things for the parish.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘I’ve never been an ambitious man—that’s one of the things Maureen hated about me, because I was contented. I remember one evening when I came home from work, I was dead tired, all I wanted was to sit down in the chair and be quiet, and I said to her “It’s a wonderful thing to be able to come home of an evening, shut your door, sit down in a chair by the fire and read your newspaper in peace.” She laughed at that—I know she was angry. I know she hated me for saying it, but that’s the kind of man I am, I’m afraid. I have a job and do my work as best I can, and I look forward to coming home in the evening.’

  Mr Delaney looked at him but said nothing.

  After a while he asked ‘You’ve lived alone here a year. You have a woman to come in and do for you?’

  ‘Yes, she’s very good. When Dermod’s home from sea, we do it together. But enough about me.’

  He crossed the floor, picked up the collecting box and gave it to Mr Delaney.

  ‘You might just check the amount,’ he said.

  ‘I will.’

  Mr Delaney took a key from his pocket, opened the box, tossed the coins out and counted.

  ‘Nearly four pounds. That’s your best effort yet,’ and he tossed the heap of coins into a capacious pocket. ‘Tell me, have you seen the man yet?’

  ‘Denny, you mean? No, not yet. But I may see him in the morning. I hear Desmond came down from London yesterday—Father Moynihan wired him. I didn’t think he’d come.…’

  ‘Under such circumstances,’ said Mr Delaney.

  ‘Anyway, he’s come. And he stayed all night with his father. The poor man has been very ill, they say. It’s a miracle, really, they had given him up for dead.’

  ‘His wife has a room at St Stephen’s Hospice, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she went in there that terrible day—ah, it was a day. I’ll never forget it. It was like something exploded in poor Fanny’s head.’

  ‘Mrs Fury?’ said Mr Delaney.

  ‘She left her home that day and never went back. An extraordinary thing to do. I begged her to come and make a home with me, but I’m afraid she’d made up her mind. She wasn’t making any more homes for anybody.…’

  ‘Poor creature. And now, thank God, her husband is restored to her. I agree with you, Kilkey, a miracle. I wonder what they’ll do.’

  ‘I don’t really know. But I don’t think the family will ever come together again.’

  ‘I have been trying for some time now to get some remission of sentence for her son, so far, without success. But now that this has happened, something may be done.’

  ‘She certainly idolized that son, though he broke her heart, and turned the others against her.’

  ‘I’ll try again. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Would you like to see Mrs Fury?’ asked Kilkey. ‘I know she would be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Not at the moment, definitely not. But I shall remember the boy.’

  ‘I’ve written him regular since he was taken away.’

  ‘Do the others write to him?’ asked Delaney.

  ‘I don’t know. I think Anthony would. I know he corresponds regularly with his mother. He was really angry with her when he heard she had broken up the home. It’s a big thing, Mr Delaney, to break up a home after all them years.’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  Mr Delaney got up. ‘Now I must go. Miss Francis will be waiting for me.’

  ‘I hope Miss Francis is well.’

  ‘Miss Francis, thanks be to God, is never ill.’

  Mr Delaney shook his huge frame like a dog. He picked up his hat.

  ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the tram stop,’ and Mr Kilkey put on coat and cap. They left the house.

  ‘The Hospice won’t keep two people,’ said Mr Delaney, ‘I wonder what they’ll do.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m hoping they’ll do what they always wanted to—go back to Ireland.’

  ‘That would be a very good thing. The woman ought to see the sense of it. I do hope she’ll be sensible and go. They have blood relatives there, I’m sure.’

  ‘She has, I know. I feel it would make them very happy,’ Kilkey said.

  They had reached the end of the road, and stood waiting fo
r the tram.

  ‘Don’t wait, Joseph, you shouldn’t be out really. Get home to bed now. If there should be any news, I’ll not fail to report immediately, but don’t hope too much, will you?’ He looked earnestly at the man, ‘People are quite incalculable. I’ve got a temperature chart of humanity on my desk, Kilkey, and you ought to see it, up and down it goes, up and down. And here’s the tram. Goodbye now, look after yourself. And let me know any time if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘There’s one thing, Mr Delaney, I’d like you to persuade these old people to go back.’

  ‘I’ll think about that,’ he called back, then waved a hand as the tram moved off.

  Kilkey watched it go. Then he walked slowly home. It was eleven o’clock. He ought to be in bed, ‘Should have turned in long ago,’ he told himself; ‘fancy that man coming out to see me, all that way. My, that was a very good collection.’

  Returned home, he banked up the fire, he scribbled a note for the woman next door, left it on the table. Then he went upstairs, undressed and climbed into bed. He was soon asleep. At five o’clock that evening he would be up again, out, treading northwards, dockwards.

  ‘You have seen your father,’ she said, and he said, ‘Yes, I have seen him, mother.’

  ‘Alive,’ she said and he nodded his head; he sat there watching her, she cried quietly, he watched her old hands shake, her shoulders heave—the light from the window fell upon her face—he could not bear this, this looking; he got up and went to the window, ‘The sun is so strong this morning,’ he said out of a dry mouth; slowly he drew the curtains, shut out sight of the river, the sea.

  ‘Glory be to God,’ she said, he caught her arm, he said ‘Be brave, mother.’

  ‘He is coming—here?’

  ‘They are bringing him.’

  He felt himself caught and held, his arms pinioned by her own, felt her eyes never leave, they seemed to burn his face, ‘Tell me about your father. What is he like? Has the sea broken him much? Oh, your poor father. Tell me, did he speak to you—did he smile, did he know you …?’ She cried suddenly—‘I wonder if he could laugh.’