Our Time Is Gone (33 page)

‘You're not the first,' he said.

‘I've been a fool. Rushed into this through my mother.'

‘You're not the first fool, Maureen,' he said.

Nevertheless she had gone.

The temperature of living went down—the house became cold, dead. But there was the child. He could love the child. He carried on with his living as though nothing had happened. Neighbours were sorry for him, they respected him, though later they were wont to admonish.

‘He was soft.'

Admonition fell on deaf ears. He told himself that she was young. He would forgive her if she came back. Foolish girl. But more than that. Mean. He disliked her more for turning on her mother. She had been gone months. He had heard nothing. Mrs. Fury commiserated with him. Mr. Fury said it was disgraceful.

Desmond: ‘You deserved it, you bloody soft cod!'

Peter: ‘Maureen's made the biggest mistake she ever made.'

Anthony: ‘Doesn't mean anything to me. I never liked Maureen. Sorry for Joe, though.'

So the various members of the family had registered opinion.

Time went on. Maureen Kilkey might never have existed. People forgot about her. A new neighbour arrived at No. 8 Price Street. The woman decided for a few shillings a week to look after Mr. Kilkey's child.

He was somewhat disappointed that Mrs. Fury had not offered to take him. Later he realized she had her hands full, and was past the age for looking after young children. Mrs. Ditchley also, but she happened to be the only one he could find. Somehow he was receding inch by inch from the family. He visited them less. He had an idea they didn't want him, all except Dennis Fury, and he was always at sea. A short spell ashore and then off he went again.

Though they lived within a stone's throw of each other he hardly saw them. He had an idea things were not going too well, and when things ‘were not going too well,' it meant money troubles. In Mr. Kilkey's opinion all workers suffered from money troubles. All others were minor ones. ‘Financial difficulties ‘remained major.

Well, they were serious. Time they did something about it. He heard of Mrs. Fury's troubles with a moneylender even before Maureen left him. To help her he offered his furniture as surety. It was all he had. The son broke faith with his mother's hope, and then the family began to scatter. One went to sea, one deserted him. Another ran off and married—out to climb to the stars. The mother was left to herself. He tried to convince her that she had been a silly woman. He tried to get them to be a little more considerate. Nothing happened. Life went on.

Dermod grew bigger, began calling him ‘da.' What little time he now had he spent with him. Maureen was gone. No word. No sound. He knew where. But he did nothing. Either he was right or he was wrong. He would wait and see.

Suddenly she wrote from ‘nowhere ‘asking for money. Still hoping, he complied. Later still she took Dermod. He let him go. During these times he looked upon Father Moynihan as his friend and adviser. Sometimes he would go round to the vestry in the evening. They talked also of other things. Desmond's marriage, his climb out of the rut. Peter's trial and imprisonment. But when Father Moynihan, hearing about the child's going, at last called Mr. Kilkey ‘a foolish man,' Joe knew he had been wrong.

Perhaps after all he had been
too
soft. The war was raging, half of Price Street had emptied itself, half had been killed, two were blind. One mad. The war, for Price Street, had at first a terrifying magnificence. Later it became tawdry, finally it was covered in filth.

War meant more ships, more cargoes, and Joseph Kilkey found himself earning twice as much money. Work lay in abundance. He carried on. The ships were stowed. The ships sailed. The whole of Gelton seemed to tremble under the terrible energy of work—work—work. And Gelton flung men and more men into the war. Joe Kilkey carried on. He saw thirty of the congregation of Saint Sebastian's go off to France.

France. That was a strange world to Mr. Kilkey. He saw Mr. Postlethwaite and son go, neighbours of the Furys when they lived in Hatfields. The city seemed to be emptying itself.

And then one morning he came home from work. The ship had been loaded, battened down, had sailed. To-morrow she might explode, burn, be smashed to pieces. The war was raging. He went home. Whilst he was having his breakfast the post came. This was unusual to a man who had never received more than half a dozen letters in his lifetime. When he opened the buff, impersonal letter, and read its contents, he said: ‘Oh!——'

The letter that seemed to have been touched by no human hand but his own fell to the floor. He was called up. There must be some mistake. ‘
Me
called up?' It said: ‘go!' It did not say: ‘come,' but' go.' He would go to France, to this war. That was what the letter meant. Who had sent this letter? Who knew about him, where he lived, knew his troubles? Who found him out? Why did they want him? What for? Fight? What for? Who? Germans? He hadn't seen any Germans. He picked up the letter, folded it and put it in his pocket. Then he went on with his breakfast.

Suppose he
had
to go? Yes. Just suppose? And the buff letter in his pocket came out again. He spread it out on his knees. The wording changed into pictures. He saw no words, but he saw his son looking at him from the paper. And behind him he saw his wife. She had come alive again, and Dermod looked—and he saw the word ‘go ‘and the word ‘come.'

After breakfast he washed, shaved, dressed and went out. The street seemed curiously impersonal to him. And as he went quickly towards Saint Sebastian's vestry he was filled with a fear. A fear he had never experienced before. He was afraid of what he did not know. He knew not why. He was just afraid. His hand trembled as he rang the bell. He hoped he had not come too soon—nor too late. The door opened. The girl knew him well. She simply smiled; opened wide the door. No word need be spoken, the door was wide. He had only to come right in, her smile said.

‘Finished mass yet, Clara?'

She shook her head. No. Father Moynihan had not come into the vestry yet. ‘Come along, Mr. Kilkey, you can wait in his changing-room.'

‘Thanks, Clara,' he said. ‘Heard from Bob lately?' and he followed her down the corridor.

‘No, not lately,' she said, visioning Bob in the midst of battles. Bob charging at ‘those awful Germans.' Bob dying in a hole. ‘Thank you! I don't think he'd mind you smoking here, Mr. Kilkey,' she added in a quite confidential tone of voice. Then she closed the door and left him.

His fear had grown. A letter could come, an impersonal voice say ‘come'—‘go,' could break in upon him—right into his life, say ‘go.' He was afraid.

He couldn't sit still. He walked up and down, seated himself, rose again. Anything might happen.
Anything
. ‘I must see Dermod,' he told himself. He sang the phrase in his mind. ‘Must see Dermod. Must see Dermod.'

Yes. Anything might happen. And if he didn't go? Yes, this very day, this very morning something might happen. ‘I'll go to Adolphus Terrace.'

Father Moynihan came in, cassock and surplice swinging. ‘Why, Joseph!' he said.

‘'Morning, Father,' Mr. Kilkey said, his voice trembling. ‘'Morning, Father,' he repeated.

‘Anything wrong?' asked the priest, as he swung surplice over his head. ‘You're early, Joseph. You look worried too. I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Fury isn't——'

‘No, Father,' he said, and now he was on his feet, and restlessness grew.

‘Then what
is
wrong, Joseph?' asked the priest. ‘C ome along and have a bite of breakfast with me.' He put a hand on his shoulder, led him out of the changing-room. ‘Good heavens, man, you're shaking. Why, this is awful. Sure, I've never seen you like this. Half-past eight in the morning too!'

‘I've been called up, Father,' said Mr. Kilkey. Having said this it made a ripple in his fear. ‘I just got this letter, Father,' he added, and pulled the letter from his pocket.

They had reached the dining-room. Clara was waiting for them.

‘All ready, Father!' and seeing Mr. Kilkey, added: ‘Extra cup and plate, Father?'

‘Yes, Clara, please. Now, Joseph, sit down like a good man and control yourself. That's right now. Take everything easy, coolly. I know you can do that, Joseph.'

Father Moynihan, after making himself comfortable, watched the girl pour out the tea. When she had gone he shared his breakfast with Mr. Kilkey. They began to talk.

‘What exactly is it, Joseph, that you came to see me about?' asked the priest, as he stirred his tea, and watched the other's face. He had never seen Mr. Kilkey like this.

‘Well, Father, I'll tell you. But I also want to tell you, Father, that I've made up my mind. I would like your advice on what I've decided to do, Father?'

‘And what is that, Joseph?'

‘May I ask you a question, Father, if you really don't mind? I hope you'll excuse my coming in on you like this. But I'm worried a bit. A good many men have gone to the war, Father. I mean from the congregation, haven't they?'

Father Moynihan nodded his head, and dipped a square of bread in the gravy.

‘Well, Father, did they ever ask your advice? I mean, I mean—well——'

‘Some did! Some didn't, Joseph. You mean about going to the war. Well, I have simply said “Act on your conscience.” And now I know why you came, Joseph.'

‘I am not going to the war, Father,' said Mr. Kilkey quietly. ‘I made up my mind.'

‘To you as to the others, Joseph, I say the same. “On your own conscience.”'

‘Mine is clear, Father Moynihan——' It was the first time he had given the priest his full name. ‘Mine is clear.'

Joseph Kilkey supped tea into a dry mouth, and almost parched tongue. Well! That was out. That was done with. But not quite. One did not come to decisions without thinking and though deep thinking of any kind was alien to Mr. Kilkey—it could give him a bit of a headache—he knew he had thought right in this matter, and he proceeded to explain, to elaborate, to repeat himself, to stammer and be awkward; but the priest listened, and knew that beneath it all there lay the root of a rare genuineness.

‘Yes, go on, Joseph! Don't be afraid.'

‘I'm an easy-going man, Father. I'm not clever! I believe in God and I believe that it's wrong to harm people who haven't harmed you, Father. I've done nobody any harm, except my own wife, and my harm was that I was too old, and a dashed ugly man. But I loved her all the same,' he paused. ‘Excuse me, Father, I'm getting away from the point. It has nothing to do with her. What I mean, Father, is that the people we're fighting, never harmed me. I won't harm them. So I made up my mind. I can't go. I had my job, I was quite happy doing my job.'

People he'd never seen, who didn't care a hang really, had sent him a letter saying ‘Go?'

‘Well, there it is, Father. Do you think I'm right or wrong, Father?' he asked.

‘You're right, Joseph. Right in every way. You're an honest man; morally, spiritually, in every way you're right. What is more I shall stand by you.'

‘I haven't the heart to kill anybody, Father,' Mr. Kilkey said.

Father Moynihan, having finished his breakfast, sat back in the chair, which he had now swung round to the fire. He told Mr. Kilkey to draw his chair in too. To Joseph this was a privilege, having breakfast with the priest. When he was offered a pipeful of tobacco from Father Moynihan's shiny leather pouch he felt himself the highly privileged guest.

The priest spoke. ‘Never for a moment, mind you, did I think you would
have
to go. I mean the nature of your work, your age and all that. Well! Well! How long this cruel war will last no man can tell, Joseph. Have you heard anything about your wife or child since I last discussed the matter with you? Here! Light your pipe. I think you'll like this tobacco.'

‘No, Father! I haven't. But I meant to talk about that too, Father. But I don't want to be holding up your work,' he concluded.

‘Never fear! When that bell rings I go, Joseph. Now get it off your chest.'

‘Well, Father! I'm going to go and see Maureen. I want my son for good.'

The priest's ears opened wide. He leaned forward in his chair and asked: ‘You know where they are, then?'

‘Not exactly, Father. But I've a good idea, Father. I'm going this morning too.'

Yes. He must go this morning. Anything might happen if he didn't. The world split in two—the sun burst. He
must
go. He had made up his mind.

‘This is a surprise, Joseph. You're going to try and get them back, then?'

‘Dermod, Father, yes. Maureen, no! I'm quite clear in my mind on that point, Father. I
have
been too soft. She's made a fool of me. I only want Dermod. That's all. She is free to do as she wishes. And that is that, Father.'

But was this the right thing to do? Was it right to be good with your right hand, and the next moment bad with your left? Was it
wise
?

‘Father Moynihan, I've surprised myself. I don't want Maureen back because I know now that we'd never get on. I've done everything, but she cheated me every time. Even living with that man, she got money out of me.'

‘Yes, Joseph! I know! I know! But remember this, and I say it as your friend as well as your priest. She hasn't got your goodness out of you. And that's what counts, Joseph. We must be generous with our goodness. Generous. Do you understand, Joseph? Generous. Pour it out till the last drop. Goodness is for that. Like that. To be poured out and given away, Joseph. No! I don't think you are
quite
right, my friend, I know you have done a lot for her—have been generous and a most patient and trusting man. I even know that there are people, Joseph, in this world at any rate, who would suck goodness up wherever they found it. But that's no use. They don't get what is most precious in it. You have to pour it out. Think over this, Joseph—Maureen is a foolish girl, I know. But she
is
younger than you, and for all her youth and her nice face, and her intelligence, she is not half as sensible as you. Take my advice. Only a few days ago I went to anoint poor Mrs. Fury, and found her, well, able to speak to me. But—of what did she speak, Joseph? Of her
misguided
goodness? Oh no? She talked of her children and talked too late. And what I said to her I now say to you, Joseph. Be reasonable! Forget all that has happened. Don't utter a word about things that have been done. There are times to talk and times to be silent, and sometimes, Joseph, to keep silence, to hold the tongue, is to bend and break those very words that would be our ruin, and not only our ruin, but an expanding and growing weight upon our conscience. Think good of her still—and I know you can do that.'