Our Time Is Gone (12 page)

Mr. Doogle stopped suddenly, half a dozen copies of ‘Inside the Nurse's Bedroom,' under his arm.

‘By the way, Slye Esquire, I found out about Trears too. Remember you saying you'd heard the name before? Well, you were right. He was defending solicitor in that murder case, you know. The Ragner case.'

Mr. Slye dropped his bundle on the floor. Then he laughed. Maureen came in. ‘Why of course! Trears. The Ragner case. Your ma was in that, wasn't she, chicks?'

Mr. Doogle went off with his bundle, now carefully wrapped up.

‘He's just been telling me, Maury, that the feller who's brought this case on is the same one as represented your ma! You know! That murder case. Your brother did her in.
You know.
' His voice appealed, it was sweet like honey. ‘
You
know,' he went on. ‘He did a job there! She
was
a bitch, that one was. Takes something to beat a bitch when she
is
nasty, eh, Maury?'

Then he rushed past her, carrying two portfolios of ‘alluring postures.'

They tramped to and fro for the best part of twenty minutes. At last it was done. Then Maureen poured out the tea. They both watched her do this; they watched her intently. She was a fine-looking girl, and, thought Mr. Slye, an excellent asset in the business. Why couldn't Mr. Doogle come in? The idea intrigued him. Doogle was a good man on that job. The three of them together would be excellent, and suddenly he looked at Doogle, who gulped tea with loud sucking sounds. He noticed how his hands trembled. But that was a habit.

‘I've been thinking lately, Doogle, I been thinking why we can't get together. How'd you like to come in with me, and Maury here doing the stuff?'

‘Doing the stuff,' thought Mr. Doogle, and then he showed a broad grin. What did he mean by that exactly? Not sharing Long-legs between them, surely. Mr. Doogle whispered, Mr. Slye smiled. They looked up at Maureen again.

‘That apart, Doogle, I think Blacksea is good ground. What would you say to this? D'you know there's more ornamental masons there than any other place in the whole country,' but Mr. Doogle hearing a shout suddenly rushed from the cellar. The man with the handcart said: ‘Where to? You never said where to?'

‘I did. I said Angles' Building, bottom floor. Go on! Get off with the stuff.'

Maureen was sitting on Mr. Slye's knee when he returned. But Mr. Doogle didn't mind. He rather liked it in fact though once or twice he took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes; they watered like those of a very old man. ‘See me at Mac's after half seven,' said he. ‘I'm going. Got a job to attend to. And take my advice and cut off out of it now. Soon's you like.' Then he went out, banging the door behind him. They heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

Mr. Slye ran a finger through the woman's hair. ‘Lovely hair you've got, me chicks. Lovely hair. Isn't Doogle funny? Funny old cod. He's got ideas, that feller has. It would be worth while his coming in with us. Don't you think so, Maury?'

Maury didn't know what to think. Maury couldn't think of anything. She was too worried. She didn't mind being stroked, even mauled, but she did object to being left in the lurch. She had given up a home to go to Dick. She began to tell him this. He cooled down a little, his amorousness froze.

‘I hate you always growling, me chick,' he said. ‘For Christ's sake chuck it! You're coming with me to Blacksea. And you can even bring the kid, see. But soon as ours is here you got to shift your other one. What's his name? Blast it! I never can think of it. Desmal or Dermod. That's it. What made you give him a name like that? Tell me, Maury, are you still happy? Still glad you came away from your old cobbler—or whatever he is? I haven't treated you bad. Have I now? Have I?'

This change of front heightened her bewilderment. What did he mean? She put a finger on each corner of his mouth and pressed.

‘What are you going to do?' she asked. Her tone of voice was no longer wheedling.

‘Take you away with me, duck. What d'you think? D'you suppose I could ever think of you with somebody else? Now let's be sensible. Let's begin to pack.'

At a quarter past four they left, carrying two bags. The child, just turned three, was in the woman's arms. They headed for the Central Station. The train would leave at five. To the woman this was adventure, living. This moving about all the time. The other had been like prison. The child chatted and prattled, pulled at her hair, jabbed at her mouth. Near Corniston Street, she stopped and asked him to put the bags down. Mr. Slye put them down, and the next moment found the child in his own arms.

‘I won't be two minutes. I'm going to ring the hospital.'

‘Don't be more than two then,' he said. ‘We can't miss the train.'

She was gone. She rang up the General. Gave the name. How was her mother? She waited, heart thumping. She was conscious of a deadness, a numbness in her. She wanted to go. She hated to go. She loved her mother! Her mother had spoiled her life. She loved Desmond, and Anthony and Peter. Poor dad! She loved them all. But here she was standing in this telephone box and on the brink of an adventure the end of which she could not foresee. She didn't want to foresee anything. For her mind, now made up, was
everything
. The reply came: ‘Your mother was very poorly this afternoon. A Father Moynihan called.'

This in answer to her question about callers. It did seem strange that Joe of all people had not been to see her mother. All through he had been a staunch friend. The tears that came too easily, came again. She felt suddenly wretched. Was she really happy? Was this man Slye
everything
? The questions came, shot into her mind. She couldn't answer them. She hoped her mother would get better. It would kill dad if anything happened. Perhaps she had been mean and indifferent. Perhaps she——But she had better not think about that. Mr. Slye, Dick, would be waiting. He wouldn't love the child any better for having to nurse it in the public street. She hurried back to him.

He leaned over her, and said angrily, ‘Tears again! You best chuck it or I'm going by myself. That's all. Here, take the kid,' he said.

‘I'm worried to death!' she exclaimed as they entered the station.

‘You're not the only one, me chick, not by a long chalk,' he answered drily.

They had a quarter of an hour to wait for the train. They went and sat on an empty truck. It was quite dark. They sat silent, waiting. Gusts of wind blew down the platform, bits of paper blew all over the station, a stationary engine hissed steam. Maureen looked up. The station appalled by its height: there was something ghostly about the roofing. People went by talking, laughing, gesticulating. Mr. Slye sat composed, feeling safe, feeling lucky but not quite certain yet as to whether he was a fool or not. He was safe, anyhow. That was the main thing.

Only half an hour after they had left Adolphus Terrace the police had arrived and removed some parcels. But these were nothing more than a massive collection of cigarette cards of all the railway engines of the world, and for a special client, a widow of eighty, who sat on railway platforms to watch the trains simply because she loved them. It was a hard cash loss of three pounds. Curiously enough Mr. Slye had quite forgotten about it. Beyond that they found nothing. The gilt-edged stuff was now safe in Mr. Doogle's single room at Angles' Building.

The train came in. There was a rush of people. The carriages had a chill in them, as well as the staleness of the last occupants. They got on. Maureen felt hungry. This was unfortunate because Mr. Slye didn't. He only felt safe, and rested comfortably. Maureen laid Dermod down. He had fallen asleep in her arms. Looking at him now she wondered if that Mrs. Bolyer had been the best woman to look after him. Never mind! She would look after him herself now. He was growing more and more like his father. Suddenly she looked across at Slye, and out of a lazy eye he looked back at her, stretched himself and smiled.

‘Maury, duck,' he said.

‘Dick! I'm hungry. Couldn't we get something to eat? It's a long way.'

He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Here, get me a meat pie out of it.'

But just as he handed her the shilling, the whistle blew and the train started. It was too late. They would travel hungry to Blacksea, which was the first stop, for this was an express train. Mr. Slye fell asleep and later he filled the compartment with his snores. Maureen examined him minutely. Occasionally she looked down at the child. The train rattled on.

They were off, they were moving, going somewhere. And Dick was there. She loved Dick. But now something happened inside her, a feeling rose up, smothered her. She had been cruel to her mother. To Joe. She couldn't stand it any longer. That was what had made her sad the whole day. She felt isolated, cut off from them all. When she thought of Peter in prison she couldn't hold back any longer. She got up and left the carriage. Somehow it seemed wrong to cry in front of Slye Esquire, in front of Dick who snored, and on whose face there had now settled an expression of supreme contentment. No! She must hide. She shut the door behind her, quite forgetting she had left the sleeping child on the seat. Then she locked the lavatory door. She sat down and wept.

II

The man emerged from a small and narrow street, bricks festering space, and he left behind him the sour, acrid smell of stables. He was in the road. Its face shone. It was an endless road. Pavements and roadway carried a grease-film, water-puddles, the burden of debris from the life of that day. To right and left towering warehouses and sheds shrugged stone shoulders, and the dim lights below only increased their toppling height. He walked along at a steady pace, his hands clasped behind his back. His footsteps rang out on the deserted pavement. Goods-yard gates lay open, the yards gaped. In dark corners resting loco engines hissed, and distantly a light engine chugged over points. He passed through patches of dim light, then darkness. The road grew longer as he walked. Sometimes it was shaped for him when the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud. Sometimes it was shapeless.

He looked neither to right nor left, but pushed ahead, his destination known, seeing in the dim distance the tiny red light that hung over the ship's gangway. He crossed the road. He passed gate after gate outside of which a caped figure stood, or paced to and fro beside his wooden hut. The man passed a ‘good night' to one of these policemen, and at the same time he saw from the clock tower that it was getting on for nine o'clock. He increased his pace. ‘Didn't know it was so late as that,' he said aloud into the deserted road.

He was a man of medium height, well built, with powerful shoulders. He wore a reefer jacket and a jersey, a big peaked cap, and a pair of black serge trousers. The next dock-gate he passed told him that he would reach his ship on time. At the same time a figure emerged into the road, stepped close to him. They recognized each other and the new-comer called out, ‘'Night, Kilkey. What ship?'

Mr. Kilkey swung round as he passed. ‘
Fortunia,
' he called out. ‘'Night, Jack.'

They went on, one going towards the city, the other away from it.

‘A few minutes in hand,' reflected Mr. Kilkey, and his pace became leisurely. To any casual observer it might seem that the man was indulging in one of those nightly prowls, not uncommon on the dock roads of Gelton. But Mr. Kilkey was not interested in such phenomena. He wasn't interested in the road, the buildings, the noises, the shadows and shapes. They appeared before, and filled eyes already exhausted by them. The road, the look of the road, and the feel of it, the very aura that hung over it was nothing more than history. He wasn't curious about it. The night face of Gelton was just something to be walked over. The eyes that looked straight ahead now saw the red light grow less dim. He was going to his work, but he did not think of his work. He passed through a drab world made fantastic in the moonlight. But it meant nothing. His mind was on other things. The home he had just left. He thought of his wife who had left him, and of the child but lately gone. ‘Sometimes I get tired of all this,' he reflected. Not the world, not his work, not even the war that raged. These things neither concerned nor shaped his existence. It was ‘the accident.' He always called it the accident. Mr. Kilkey liked his home, but not at present. Something had invaded it, something like the cold blast of winter.
She
had gone, and now the child was gone too. The temperature of living had gone down. Work was different, living was different.

‘Just two years now. I wonder what'll become of Maureen, anyhow?' He did wonder. Young and foolish. Didn't know when she had a good home. Suddenly he stopped dead and drew back, as a huge lorry came out of a gateway. It was packed high with bales of wool, the wheels struck sparks, the horses' hooves struck sparks, and he heard the whip crack over their flanks as they made a super-effort and finally reached the level of the roadway. Mr. Kilkey went on. One or two men passed him by, passed unseeing, and he cried: ‘'Night, mate,' to which they replied, ‘'Night.'

Through the next dock-gate Joseph Kilkey disappeared. Great steel sheds, their open doors like mouths, loomed up as he went on. At the end of the line of sheds he turned to the left and came to the quay. Now he could see his ship, an enormous shape, masts spearing skywards, hull lost to view, and the red light over the gangway revealed a group of three men leaning over the bulwarks, in conversation. He stepped over the hawsers of stout rope, could now see the derricks rising like appealing arms, and the great blocks reeved. From the funnel wisps of steam spouted and were swallowed up in the night air. He reached the gangway and ascended. When he reached the top a chorus of voices greeted him. He still had a few minutes to spare.

‘Hello, Joe!' cried one. ‘Thought you'd gone to France.'

‘Aye,' exclaimed another, ‘somebody told me you'd joined the Lancers.'