Our Time Is Gone (32 page)

‘Well, I'm——The world's small all right! Jim Ferris!

How are you, man? Haven't seen you since I left the
Inca
. How's the world, Jim?'

Jim, who was tall, finely built, with sandy moustache and blue eyes, and carrying a three-day growth of stubble, with a handshake that made Mr. Fury wince, said that the world was bloody fine, and how the hell was he?

‘Not so bad,' said Mr. Fury. ‘Have a drink on me?' He called for drinks.

‘By God, Denny, I read about that there son of yours. I'm sorry about that. Very sorry.'

‘Ah! To hell with that! I don't want to talk about it. It's only a sheer accident, that's all, my lad, that's brought us together,' and with that Jim sat down.

Conversation was animated, punctuated by the necessary oaths, waves and swings of the hands and an eye on the spittoon at the appropriate moment.

‘You
are
a stranger round here, Fury,' said Jim. ‘Well, here's looking at you,' and raising his glass he half emptied it at one great gulp. ‘Dry,' he said.

‘You're right,' replied Mr. Fury, ‘I
am
a stranger round here, to-night—I mean.'

‘See Kilkey's called up,' Jim said, very casually, as though he'd said: ‘It's Thursday.'

‘Ah! Forget it,' said Mr. Fury. ‘Gerraway with you! Kilkey called up. Why, he's turned fifty-three now. He's—besides, why Jim, Joe'd never make a soldier.'

‘He's called up, anyhow,' said Jim. ‘Have one on me, Denny.' He called out, for more drinks. ‘And how's the world using you these days?'

‘Not too bad. Off to-morrow. Trooping now—under the Government. Never know where you are from one minute to another. I got the missus in hospital.'

‘Sorry about that, Fury! Hope she's not too bad. Well, here we go. Skin off your nose.'

They drank together. They looked at each other over their raised glasses.

‘Well, I'll be hanged! Fancy Kilkey joining! I thought there was something funny on,' continued Mr. Fury. ‘I called to see him this evening and damned if he wasn't in. He's always in round about eight, when he's on night shift. But I knocked and knocked, and then the woman next door said he'd gone off to Blacksea. Been gone all day too. I was hoping to see him before I sailed.'

‘Must have gone to camp, then,' said Jim. ‘He split with your daughter or something. I did hear something about it. Nice chap Joe was,' he wound up. And he said ‘was ‘as though he assumed that Mr. Kilkey, having been called up, had now automatically ceased to exist. ‘Have another?' he said.

‘Something like that. They just split. I know nothing about them,' Mr. Fury said.

‘All the same have another! Not often you meet old friends these days, bloody war and everything.'

And it seemed to Mr. Fury that Jim was
very
dry. He drank beer with what Denny Fury could only call, ‘the art of a bloody veteran,' though what this was, or meant exactly, Jim didn't know.

‘Anyhow, the bloody veteran's dry,' he said. ‘Have another?'

Even the licensee—his only barman had gone to the war, and his barmaid never came till half-past nine to wash up, even he was rather staggered by the ease with which Jim quaffed his pints. But by this time Mr. Fury had had enough. Another quick one and he might get drunk. He was a bit worried in case he might.

You never knew what you might do—especially when you had been stone sober for so long. Jim gulped, Mr. Fury sipped. They went on talking. Jim like a rattling machine-gun; Mr. Fury slow, easy, rather subdued. Funny how you always ran into somebody when you felt a bit low.

‘I can't get over Kilkey,' said Mr. Fury. ‘They've made a mistake. Joe's not cut out for a fighter. Never was. As a matter of fact Kilkey was a fool to leave Ireland. He's a born easy-going plodder, should have been a farmer, you know.'

‘Joe's the best stevedore in Gelton,' said Jim warmly. ‘The best they've seen.'

‘All the more reason why they shouldn't have called him up. It'll kill Joe.'

Confound all this talk. He was going. He preferred ghosts to remain ghosts, and at once he began shuffling one leg, then the other. Then he got up.

‘I'm going, Jim. Nice to have seen you. But I got a long way to go before I reach home. And I've got to be aboard at seven o'clock prompt. Prompt! No shinning up the hawsers in this ship. It's the bloody Navy.'

‘More fool you! You should be working ashore, Fury. Surely to Christ you've had enough of the sea. Sure you won't have just one more drink, Fury?'

Mr. Fury was quite sure. ‘You may be right, Jim, or you may be wrong, but as I see it looks to me like the sea hasn't had enough of me yet.'

‘You surprise me,' said Jim, taking the ninth pint with a steady hand.

‘Surprise you?' said Denny, lost in admiration at this man's liquor capacity.

‘Yes, hanging on like that. God, you had a gob on you as long as an overcoat when I first came in, so I was surprised to see you laugh. Well, never mind, if we never had sailing days, Denny, then we'd never have docking days. Would we? Of course not.'

Mr. Fury now showed signs of moving. Jim finished his drink, and they bid good night to the licensee and went out.

It was raining again. A group of children were playing up against the window, swinging upon the brass rods that covered it. The frosted glass reflected a sickly light. The street was made up of pools of light, pools of darkness, houses clustered together as though for mutual protection from the sounds that deluged it. Crying, shouting children, stentorian voices of Salvation Army men singing in Praise of God, loutish youths who horseplayed on the corners and discussed in heated debate the various merits of the fighting armies.

An old woman crying ‘Chips, chips,' a man singing ‘Sweet Adeline,' in the private doorway of the ‘Boltons ‘public house at the other end, and a brawl between two soldiers near its convenience.

The street was a sea of sounds, washing backwards and forwards, and down it strolled Jim and Mr. Fury, the latter suffering the company of this chatterer for the sake of old ships and old times, and the offer to see him as far as the tram. He was too happy, too certain of everything, too easy to talk, too quick to drink. He was all there, and Mr. Fury would be glad when he was on that tram. He liked happy people—even quick drinkers like Jim. But frankly he wasn't in the mood. He was sad and he knew it, and because he was growing more and more aware of this sad feeling that would keep creeping up and trying to break the knots he had put in them—no! He wasn't in the mood. He hoped to the Lord that this man wouldn't further his generous spirit by offering to go as far as Hey's bloody Alley. No. Not that.

So at last they reached the terminus. They talked of many things. Ships, men, the war, women, the Government, out of natures quite unfitted for the major task of understanding either war or Governments. The war was ‘bloody,' the Government, well, it was like all governments—‘lousy.' Women were all right ‘in their places.' Some ships were good, some bad. Men. Oh, they knew men all right. A car came by, was neither seen nor heard. And another. Jim, taking advantage of the sudden animation in Mr. Fury's talk, suggested a sojourn—only a momentary one, however—to the snug of the ‘Boltons.' This, however, had the very opposite effect upon Mr. Fury, for he saw and heard the next tram coming down the road and was ready to board it even before it stopped. He stepped out into the road, still holding on to the other's hands, and Jim quite naturally followed him to the platform of the car that had now pulled up.

‘Well, so-long, Fury! Remember me to Devine and your missus. Take care of yourself, and if you hit a mine don't be scared. Good luck. So—long.'

The car moved off. Jim waving almost frantically at a Mr. Fury who could not see, for he climbed the iron staircase with heavy feet. Was it being sad at going, or was it the beer he had drunk? What did it matter either way? The tram roared along the road, rain blew in through a window that could not be shut either by the combined strength of Mr. Fury and the conductor, who whistled a tune furiously through his teeth as he tried, nor the efforts of a fat policeman and a boy scout.

Mr. Fury thereon changed his seat. ‘The bloody thing
won't
shut,' he said.

The sprawling town ahead, and twinkling fairy lights rushing past the rain-shattered windows. Dimmed lights of music halls, of public houses, glistening pavements, waves of smells coming up the hill, wind blowing over the river, carrying the smells higher and higher Getting near the centre of Gelton. The tram rocked, the brakes screeched, whistles blew, a bell rang. People came up and went down. Strangers. All strangers. Out of the darkness. Into the darkness. Nine-thirty! What would she—of course, she'd be fast asleep. Lights over there! Fanny asleep! God bless the woman, she'd done what she thought was best. Ah!——

‘I suppose everybody does that, anyhow. No bloody use living otherwise. What an empty day! Must write to Peter soon as he got clear. And Anthony. It's pretty lousy, him stuck away there. Ah well, here she comes,' and he got up from his seat. Looking out through the open window he espied the first of the huge, gaunt-looking cotton warehouses that informed him of the nearness of Hey's bloody Alley.

An empty day. A day that made you tired; just doing nothing. The trams rolled on, leaving him islanded in a puddle of water. The lights were bad, it was difficult to see. One
groped
to Hey's Alley, never walked. This time to-morrow night he'd be out of it. Far from her, from Jim, from the ‘Boltons' and ‘The Pitch-Pine,' and the ship would be busy, and the sea would be busy.

‘Here we are,' he muttered, ‘here we are.'

Dead street! Shut doors. Soundless save for falling rain. Dampness hanging in the air like a cloud.

‘Home,' he said. ‘Home.'

He lit the gas as soon as he got in. Nothing to say to anybody. Nothing much to do. Bag gone. Make a cup of tea? Not worth it. Turn in to bed. Soon. Think of the morning. Of course. Have to. Things to do to-morrow! That world moved, his feet were in it. But he wished he had seen Joe. Yes. He wished he had been able to see Joe.

He went up to bed. Said his prayers and lay down. Yes, what a pity he had missed Joe.

II

Joseph Kilkey had no grudge against the world. Once he had occasion to proclaim this much against his will. If he had no grudge against it, there was no need to let all the world know about it. But he had told Desmond Fury this on one occasion, which brought the reply that that was the very thing which was wrong with him. In Desmond Fury's opinion one should have a grudge against it. Joseph Kilkey was a working man.

‘All the more reason why you should kick. A worker should start to kick against things the very day he is born.' Such was Desmond's contention.

Mr. Kilkey, however, might now say that Desmond was kicking the other way, using his heel instead of his toe. Joe had his dislikes. He disliked people like Desmond. He, Joseph Kilkey, was in the world. He had a regular job in it. He liked his work. He had liked his home; with a wife and child he felt content. He liked to mind his own business. He had what his wife called three vices. He smoked too much tobacco, played billiards far too often at Sebastian's Hall, knew he was old enough to be his wife's father. He knew, up to a point, he was dull. Knew he was hardly nice looking. He knew she didn't love him. And she knew it too late. But he hoped she would in time. One could lock that hope away securely. Carry on with one's work. He worked hard, turned up regular money. He was a worker. He liked other workers, believed in them. He paid his union regularly. He was a pious man and attended to his religious duties.

His nature was a simple nature. He had no ambitions. He put great trust in friends and strangers alike. He liked to come home of an evening, and after his meal sit down and read his paper with a good pull of Bruno's tobacco in his pipe. The great thing about home to Joseph Kilkey was that he could shut the doors. He always thought it a fine thing to be able to go into his room and shut the door, for by shutting it he shut out the world, and could be private—left entirely secure in his own small world.

His wife admired her youth, her hair and her prettiness. Mr. Kilkey liked his child. Three times a year he took them out in a wagonette for a drive to the country. He was looked upon as indispensible by the congregation of Saint Sebastian's. He organized treats, drives, meetings, pilgrimages and retreats. He collected from door to door for the Saint Vincent de Paul Society. He visited sick members of the congregation, he helped Father Moynihan and Father Tierney.

They liked Joseph Kilkey. He was a patient man. He listened to his wife's hopes, desires, appeals. He listened to his child's prattling, he listened to all that family with which by marriage he had become associated. Indeed, there were times when he could truly say he had married the lot of them. He liked Maureen's mother. He liked the two youngest sons. Though he liked Dennis Fury he always felt he might have done better for himself. He helped them all when he could. When he couldn't he said so.

He was supremely honest, one felt that he would never lie even to save himself, or his wife or child. And after a year Mr. Kilkey's hope stole out of its secret hiding-place. It suddenly split into fragments. He must be impossible—Desmond
must
be right. He
must
be an ass, must be grown uglier, more soft, for that woman who looked into the glass and liked her youth and figure, suddenly left him. She might well have sealed this sudden disappointment, this loss of hope, this sudden dropping of a tiny stone into his well of belief, by striking him across the face when she left. But she did not. She went after a few words. Where she was going she would not say. Why, she was young, she proceeded to explain in a burst of violently surprising language. She had made a mistake. Had been a fool. Dermod cried; Joseph Kilkey looked at her.