Our Time Is Gone (23 page)

‘Don't you know?'

‘Afraid I don't, sir! Never even heard of the blinking place.'

‘Oh!' Where the devil was it? Must be some queer hole or other. ‘You ought to bloody well know,' he barked at the driver, who spat through his window into the street.

‘Well,
I
don't bloody well know. However, I'll find out.'

The car started. Yes. He would find it. The bloody old fool would drive him all the way round Gelton he supposed. He sat back in the seat. It was quite dark. The cab turned corners—pulled up, started again. The brakes screeched, the wheel was turned frantically. It careered on through pools of light, then darkness. It stopped again. The driver questioned a man. What was said Captain Fury could not hear. Damn this business! The bloody setbacks he'd had to-day. And her teasing hadn't improved his opinion of the world. However, to-morrow might be different. The cab rattled on. It seemed that at last the man was bent on taking Captain Fury to his destination.

The arrival caused a commotion. It was a rare occasion when a taxicab arrived in Hey's Alley. Desmond stared at the crowd of children who quickly surrounded it, when it pulled up at No. 17.

‘Ooh! Ah! It's a gentleman. It's a soldier. Ooh!' and the ‘oohs' and ‘ahs' eventually brought others to their doors. The inhabitants of Hey's Alley leaned against their doors, folded their arms and watched.

Finally Captain Fury climbed out. He told the driver to call back for him in exactly one hour. ‘And don't forget, will you?'

‘No, sir.'

That was reassuring, anyhow. The taxicab drove off through clouds of smoke. Desmond hardly glanced at Hey's Alley or its inhabitants. He knocked at the door. It was opened by his father.

‘Oh! It's you, is it?'

‘Yes. It looks like me.'

‘Better come in.'

The man drew back, Captain Fury entered. Then the door closed. And with it all the other doors in the Alley. Hey's Alley for the moment had gone to sleep. A captain. An army captain. They closed their doors, but there was wonder upon their faces. The Captain was not a man at all. Simply a
phenomenon
.

CHAPTER IV

I

‘How is mother? Have you seen her lately? What do the hospital people think about her, Dad?'

‘She's as bad as anybody could be. Yes, I saw her. I don't know
what
the hospital thinks.'

‘I'm really sorry about this. Where is Maureen these days?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Have you seen Joe Kilkey?'

‘No. I haven't seen Joe Kilkey either. Besides, I never think of Joe Kilkey or her either.'

‘Are you still on the same ship, Dad?'

‘No. I'm on a new one, worse luck. Might as well be in the bloody Navy! Same thing.'

‘When are you sailing?'

‘Quite soon.'

‘I suppose mother will come back here when she gets better. I'll go and see her to-morrow.'

‘I don't know what your mother'll do. No use asking me. I never did know what she'd be doing from one day's end to another day's end. But I know she is very ill and if she gets over it it'll be through God's goodness. I've never seen such a faithful woman in all the days I've been living. Aye! I'm proud of her.'

Desmond Fury looked round the room, and then he saw the little altar made up on the dresser. He smiled seeing it. It was like a triumphant flag, always at the masthead, always blowing in the breeze. He would have felt disappointed had it not been there. Then he looked at his father, who ever since he had come in had sat in the same position. Feet on the fender, hands crossed on his knees, head tilted as though all this time he had been staring up at the alarm clock on the mantelpiece. He carried on conversation in this way. Not once had he turned his head to look at the visitor. Nothing could have made Captain Fury more uncomfortable.

The room was strange, his father strange, everything was strange. Hatfields
was
home. Why didn't he get up off that chair, take one opposite his father? Like he did in the old days at Hatfields. No! The times had changed. He was a visitor, and judging by his father's terseness not even a welcome one. On the other hand he had not expected to be embraced and feted. This would only have embarrassed him. He kept his eyes on the back of Mr. Fury's head. There was something sad in sitting here, looking at his father in that way. The fire was nearly out, the hearth was littered with breadcrumbs, bones, egg-shells, the piled ashes remained; the table unswept, caps and vests hanging on the cupboard door. Looking at these things he could not but think of No.3 Hatfields, all polished and shining, a huge fire burning in the grate, through all seasons, an everlasting fire. And the grate shining. Yes. It was all changed.

His father looked terribly old, neglected. He had never seen him like that before. It seemed to increase his discomfiture. But worst of all, yes hardest of all, his father didn't seem interested any more. Perhaps his ‘What's all that bloody tommy-rot?' summed up the whole situation perfectly.

All tommy-rot! He had taken care to bring with him a bottle of brandy, and this lay in his pocket wrapped in brown paper. Continuously his fingers played about the bottle neck. He wanted to take it out, give it to his father. His feelings made him want to revel in a sheer orgy of giving. But he never pulled out the bottle. He sat there, disconsolate, conscious of a frustration, of a feeling that nothing could ever be right again. No. His father was through with him. Mr. Fury began filling his pipe. Quite casually he asked a question.

Where was he living? How was his missus? And Desmond's heart leapt. It almost seemed as though some warmth were stealing in from somewhere, a warmth rising. Feverishly whilst the answer was on his lips his fingers gripped the bottle neck. A little more warmth and
out
would come that bottle.

‘I'm living up in the south end of the city; Mrs. Fury is quite well, thanks.'

What a reply! How stiff. Not Sheila, but Mrs. Fury, and she was well.

Mr. Fury was silent again. Desmond wondered what time it was. He kept thinking of his wife. Now he wanted to go home. To Sheila! That was what being married to
her
meant. Every minute, every single second for her. It must be that way. This made him begin fidgeting about in his chair. Then to his great surprise Mr. Fury stood up, turned round and looked at his son. He stood in the middle of the coco-nut mat, shirt-sleeves undone, hands behind his back. He wore a pair of shiny serge trousers, a vest and a blue print shirt. This was open at the neck. Desmond thought he must be feeling cold. When his father looked right at him he lowered his eyes, squinted at his Sam Browne belt, had
another
look at his highly polished boots.

Mr. Fury spoke. He spoke in a tired voice. He was at the moment a man who didn't care very much about
anything
.

‘It doesn't impress me, lad,' he said.

What didn't impress him, wondered Desmond? His coming? His six foot two of strong Fury, or that dazzling spick-and-span uniform. That rise in the world, that came from the golden rules:
Push
—climb! He didn't know.

‘In a way I wish you hadn't come, Desmond,' went on Mr. Fury. ‘Might as well be frank with you. Always have been a frank man. You know that. I'm still on the same old job, still shovelling in the ship—all the same I know what's decent and what isn't! You were a good lad once. I remember, and you remember when your mother carried on like she did I took your side. I understand much more than any of my children think. Your mother had shortcomings. I had meself. Damn! It would be like drinking flat ale if we were all perfect. Well then, you dressed up and all that—but it doesn't impress me, lad. I admire your push and go. You were always a thruster. But I don't know why you came to see me now. I wouldn't begrudge saying it was nice of you. But sometimes it can be too late to be nice. Nothing you said about me would make a bit of difference—I always told your mother, ‘Don't depend on children.' She
did
. Look where she is. Mind you, I've been a foolish man. Your mother was too good for me. Should never have married me. I held her back because I'm just a harum-scarum fellow—always have been. Well, your mother
is
ill, and I expect you to go and see her. But don't go saying I told you to go. You must do things as you want to. You're no kid. I'll be quite satisfied so long as you see her. She's not a young woman now, you know. Anything could happen. Understand! There, that's all.'

Yes, that was all, his silence proclaimed as he rose up and down on his heels and looked his son up and down. All he would say to him. But there was something else and it was his own secret. He looked at his eldest son, only thirty-one years old. Tall, strong, full of push and go. Ambitious as the devil. But that was the mother, of course. Had this person ever really worked? Of course. But he didn't look like a working man any more. Yes, he held this pride, he
was
proud of his height and breadth and power and bearing and his
push
. He had all of what he himself lacked, all what his wife had forced on to him, out of her very blood. She had driven the lot of them. And here was one result. All the same he wished he would go. And suddenly he sat down again.

‘I brought a drink, Dad,' said Desmond.

That warmth had gone. How he wished it would return. It made his mind rigid like his body. He felt tied. He wanted to swing his arms, cross his legs, pour out that brandy, bang a fist on the table, drink the father's health, wish him the best of luck and good health and then go. Instead he said quickly. ‘I'll go and see mother to-morrow, I think.'

‘You think! You'll have to go. Only decent thing you can do now,' replied Mr. Fury.

‘Oh yes, I know—I know——' he said, sounding aggrieved a little too agitated in reply.

‘You wonder why I'm so cool! Well, you wouldn't expect me to be like hot coal. You see, all things apart, I mean running off like you did and marrying a woman nobody knows anything about. I mean—well, you could have gone to see your mother after all that bloody business was over. Listen to me! I didn't intend to say a word. But there, it's out now. I think you were pretty lousy, you know.'

The silence was painful. That bottle of brandy suddenly increased its weight, seemed to sink farther down into the uniform pocket. Desmond rested his head on his hands, looked at his father's frayed trouser bottoms. Perhaps he
had
been lousy. And the thing was bloody, of course. His own brother running around after Sheila! Of course it was bloody. Hadn't he been very well controlled? Might have killed Peter. What good could he have done seeing her then. None! She'd hate the sight of him. He thought he had been very wise.

‘All that's so rotten that I don't want to think about it. That's the truth.'

‘Maybe! But I'll tell you this, lad, and don't mind plain speaking, either. But if I had been in your place, and I was up to my neck in stink, it wouldn't have stopped me going to see my own mother! Humble pie, me lad. Humble pie.'

‘I can now see that you didn't want me to come. All right! But whether you like it or not, Dad, whether you believe it or not, I came to see you because I—well, you are my father—that's all. And I know you've been a decent one to us all—and a good hard-working man. I
wish
you'd believe what I say. I agree I'm different. I don't believe like mother and you—and I don't hope either—I see different—I feel different. I've not the slightest intention of living in any ruts or gutters. I'm happily married. I intend to get on. I
have
got on. The world isn't covered with one great deep pile carpet, Dad. You don't stroll about the world. Strolling times are over. You stamp over it. I'm not ashamed of anything I've done. When I was a kid I went out to work and turned up good money until I was nearly thirty. I decided to get out of it. I decided to get married and I decided that sweating on the railway was not for me! I know mother doesn't like me, I don't expect her to. But d'you suppose I liked my own brother coming in between my wife and me? To hell with it! I'm not going to say
any
more. I'm sorry about mother. I love her just the same as I always did. But I don't agree with her on some things, you didn't yourself one time—you're getting on and all the birds have flown. It's rotten I know,' and here Desmond Fury went up to his father and put a hand on his shoulder, ‘but if we hadn't flown out of one window, then we would have gone out of another.'

‘I don't begrudge you anything,' Mr. Fury said. ‘Go your own road. I knew you would. The whole bloody lot of you. I told your mother that. When she can't rule she's not much good. That's why when she married me she married a flop.'

‘Don't talk like that, Dad.'

‘I don't want to talk any more,' he said. He wished his son would go now.

‘Look! I brought a drink in, Dad. Have this drink with me, please.'

And out came the bottle of brandy. At last. He tore the paper off.

‘I'll get a couple of cups,' said Mr. Fury. ‘I don't see any glasses about.'

They now sat facing each other across the table. Desmond touched his father's cup with his own.

‘Well, Dad, here's all the best of luck and good health and let's hope mother gets better. You know, Dad, when I was a kid I had one great ambition. To make a lot of money and buy mother and you a castle in Ireland. And—well, you never know, do you now? And castles are cheap these days.'

‘Good health, lad and good luck, you're a bloody pusher you are. Wish I'd been.'

They sipped their brandy. Mr. Fury suddenly said: ‘Your mother
is
very bad.'

And suddenly the warmth went out of the room. Desmond put down his cup.

‘Cheer up, Dad,' he said. ‘She'll get better. You'll see.'