Our Time Is Gone (61 page)

Anthony heard nothing. He landed right and left on Slye, and as the man retreated, George put out a foot and tripped him up.

‘Sod!' Anthony said. ‘You're the swine who took her away. Well, now she's coming back with me.'

Behind the caravan Maureen was suddenly sick. That was how it was. Anthony was happy, and he was getting married. Joe had been taken for the army. Her mother was at last alone. Then where was Dermod?

George found her sobbing against the wooden door. ‘Here, Mrs. Kilkey! Don't get all upset. I thought you'd be happy seeing your brother after all this time. Aye! Rare lad, Anthony! Remember that time we used to play Lally Ho. Remember! Wouldn't think it was fourteen years ago, would you? Come on, Mrs. Kilkey, cheer up. He only gave the fellow what he deserved. As for that other feller in there—blasted cheat—I nearly had a go at him myself.'

They could hear the struggle of the two bodies in the mud.

‘There, you swine!' said Anthony, and got up, wiping the mud on to his handkerchief.

‘Maureen! Where are you, Maureen?'

At this moment Mr. Doogle emerged from the tent. He looked round. ‘Slye Esquire?' he called, and went over to where he heard the voices.

Anthony had gone round to his sister. ‘Come on,' he said, ‘I've given that bastard a hiding he won't forget. They're not men, Maury! Just worms. Come on home! Here, wipe your eyes. And don't be such a fool. You're no kid.'

George went and stood by the tent. He saw Slye Esquire on the ground, and over him leaned the Professor. And then he saw Maureen rush to them.

‘Dick! Oh, Dick!' she shouted, and began trying to lift him up.

‘All right, Long-legs,' said Mr. Doogle. ‘Keep cool! When you've been in this business as long as I have you'll know who are gents and who are not. I wouldn't expect anything else from a half-drunken sailor. There.'

He had managed to get his partner on his feet. Slye Esquire looked round blinking.

‘Maury! Where are you?'

Instead of Maureen he found Anthony in front of him.

‘Maureen is coming back with me. My name's Fury. Anthony Fury. She's my sister, and means damnall to you. And now you can clear to hell!
‘George?'

‘Hello! Not going to say you're moving, surely. This is a nice rumpus.'

‘Maureen!' called Anthony, and when she came, caught her arm. ‘For Christ's sake! Why don't you say something, instead of whimpering like a kid?' and when she looked at him he let go her arm.

Somehow it was no longer Maureen who was looking at him, but an utter stranger.

‘Are you coming, Maureen? You'll never see me again if you don't.'

George went up to her. ‘Mrs. Kilkey,' he said, ‘it's none of my business, but your ma's very ill, you know. You ought to go home.'

‘All right! All right!' Anthony said. Blast it! The whole world would know their business soon. He stood looking at his sister.

‘Maury, I know you're unhappy. And so is Joe and little Dermod! Come on! To hell with these people! They're only human rats. Ought to be in the army. Shake them up a bit.' He reached out his arm and caught her by the hands. ‘I'm going soon,' he said. ‘We have to catch that train back at six-fifteen.'

Slye Esquire, leaning heavily on Mr. Doogle's arm, was being led away slowly until they passed out of sight beyond the booths, beyond the caravan. They were in fact closing down for the day and seeking their own shelter. Those two louts would soon be gone. Mr. Doogle warned, admonished, but Slye put a hand to his eye, rubbed it, and said very shakily: ‘All right. Don't worry, Doogle, I expected something like this. But I'm not worrying.'

‘You will in a minute,' he said. ‘The whole evening's business is damned.'

‘Is it? What a pity? But to-morrow the Sacred Heart will recoup all losses.' And then he called: ‘Maury! Maury!'

The two men stopped. Mr. Slye put a hand on Doogle's shoulder. ‘Wait,' he said.

Back at the tent George Postlethwaite waited.

‘Walk on a bit,' Anthony said. ‘We'll follow up.'

‘Listen, Maureen,' continued Anthony. ‘I can tell by looking at you that you know it's rotten. I mean living like this. And I'll say you've never been to chapel since you left us. D'you know, Father Moynihan asked me about you when I was home last. You know, before all
that
happened, Maury. Don't stand there and tell me you're not sad over Peter, like all of us.'

She did not appear to hear. Instead, she heard the faraway voice of Slye Esquire, and then it sounded nearer. She listened to him calling: ‘Maury! Maury.'

Anthony heard. He grasped Maureen round the waist and held her. ‘If you'd only forget everything,' he said, ‘and come back, everything would be fine. Maury! I've never asked you for anything. Nothing! Not a pennyworth of help. Mother hasn't got a soul except some curious woman called Gumbs. I ask you—
will
you come? Not for me. I don't care a hang what you do. I'm honest, see! I'm thinking of mother. Beginning to save up—fancy—save up, so her and dad can go home. Doesn't it make you laugh. Make you feel sorry—I—oh God, come on back to Gelton with me. I'll do anything, anything. I'll give you anything.'

‘Maury! Maury! Coming, Maury?' The voice sounded even nearer now.

Anthony shouted after George: ‘Coming! Coming now.' He was angry, he could not hide it any longer. Why
was
she such a fool? Suddenly he saw her fling the oilskin towards him, and it made a curious ripping sound in the wind.

‘Your coat,' she said. Her own coat was now unbuttoned, and its length blew about in the rising wind.

‘Maury! Maury!' called Slye, exactly where from it was impossible to tell, but Anthony heard it. Maureen heard it. George heard it.

‘Maureen! Are you coming?' shouted Anthony, his patience at an end.

‘All right! All right!' he roared after George. ‘I said I'm coming! Maureen, I mean well—we all do! Do come back with us to Gelton.'

‘Maury!' called Slye.

Maureen turned, and as she did so the wind got under her coat, and as she went forward, hobbling rather than walking through the sucking, squelching mud, the coat ballooned out at either side, and Anthony watched her go.

‘Coming, Maury?' called Slye.

Anthony watched her go forward, and heard the man call her names.

In the darkness it seemed no longer Maureen, no longer a woman, but some enormous black bird, with outspread wings, a monstrous crow hobbling away from him.

He did not call again, did not move. He let her go. He thought of Joan, and hurried after George.

II

Joseph Kilkey, on waking that morning to the sounds of heavy knocking upon his front door, realized at once who the knockers were, and he realized something else too, something instinctive that told him that he would need, not man's help, but God's, for he got quickly out of bed, and going to the dressing-table he took from the top-drawer a pair of brown scapulars. These he used only in attendance at the monthly service for the members of the Third Order of Saint Francis. He put them round his neck, then buttoned up his shirt. Always he carried inside his vest pocket a small medal of Saint Christopher, but now as he heard the hammering on the door he seemed to realize that he would want the help of more than one saint that day. He dressed hurriedly, then went downstairs.

It all happened very suddenly. He opened the door and the little lobby of No. 6 Price Street seemed full of soldiery. There were four of them, four strapping members of the Gelton Regiment. Red faced, red necked, they breathed the very essence of belligerency into the lobby. They were all speaking at once.

‘Get your things,' one said, scraping his feet on the linoleum on which he later spat. ‘Come on! Go and get your bloody clothes on!' he shouted.

‘Five minutes, and no more,' said another. ‘We know your game. You bloody coward!'

‘And never mind what's left of your hair, mate,' said a third. ‘We'll brush it for you.'

‘And this time we haven't knocked for a joke. What's this about being a blasted conchie?'

Joseph Kilkey stared at them, but he did not speak. One hand still clung to the knob of the door. Their very persons breathed violence, the incautious belligerency of the ignorant.

The last speaker walked right up to Mr. Kilkey and pulling his hand from the knob of the door banged it shut with his boot. Then he pushed him down the lobby towards the kitchen, saying to the others. ‘Wait there! Nothing to worry about. He won't bolt.'

Finally they reached the kitchen and went in. He looked at Mr. Kilkey and knew he was afraid, but of what he didn't know.
Him
of course. He was afraid of
him
. Anyhow, he looked like a rabbit. He noticed the brown cord, round the man's neck and putting his finger underneath quickly zipped the scapulars into view.

‘Where I come from,' he said, giving a pull on the cord, ‘we hang bastards like you on their scap-u-
lars
,' and he sang the last word into Joseph Kilkey's face. ‘Good old Belfast, mate! The place for you too.'

Joseph Kilkey stood on one side of the table, the soldier on the other.

‘What have you come for?' Kilkey asked, and he pressed his hands flat on the table.

‘Well, I like that! For you, of course. You scared pimp! And men dying in thousands. And you get your papers and don't even report.
By Christ mate
, you take the biscuit!'

‘There's a mistake been made. I'm a skilled worker at the docks,' Mr. Kilkey said.

‘You don't look skilled to me. The fact is you're as scared as hell. Come on. Do it decent and not so much backchat out of you. Bloody coward!'

‘I'm not afraid of you,' said Mr. Kilkey, and immediately the soldier caught hold of his nose and pulled it.

‘Aren't you? You're a brave man! Come on! Where's your clothes? I'll get them.'

‘Thank you. I'll get my own clothes. And don't get excited. I'm coming. But I tell you, you've made a mistake and you'll find it out soon enough.'

‘There's no mistake! You got your bloody papers. We've been here four times for you. Who the hell d'you think you are, running the British Army off its feet? Come on! Standing there like a wet dream.'

He rushed round the table, caught Mr. Kilkey by the neck of his shirt and by the trouser-tops.

‘You're so bloody scared that I don't believe you'd even be able to put your clothes on. Never mind. When you get to the drill hall you'll find a brand-new uniform there, and you won't even have to dress, mate. No,' and then he pushed Mr. Kilkey headlong into the dark lobby.

‘No, mate. We always dress you fellows up. Saves you the trouble. Come on! Out you bloody well go,' and then he shouted: ‘Open that door, you.'

The door opened, and Mr. Kilkey shot into the street.

A crowd collected.

Mrs. Ditchley came up and ran up to the four men, her arms outspread.

‘Here!' she said. ‘Where are you going, Mr. Kilkey?' and then looking at the man holding him. ‘Where are you taking him? It's a mistake! He's an important worker. He's excused. He has a wife and child. There's a mistake, I tell you,' and so frantically gesticulating she tried to convince the men.

Joseph Kilkey looked at her and said: ‘Go back in, Mrs. Ditchley, I'll be all right. You'll see. I'll be back here to-night. They've made a big mistake.'

‘Come on,' said the soldier, and pushed the man ahead of him. ‘The army never makes mistakes. Never! Come, on you fellows. Get round him. He might try to do the bunk,' and the whole procession moved off down Price Street.

Children ran behind, shouting, laughing. The occupants of every house in the street had now appeared on their steps. There were cries of ‘Shame!' and cries of ‘Serve him right!' Cries of: ‘Why shouldn't he fight?' and a woman who had lost two sons, suddenly leaped from the step and ran after the procession. She came up to it as it was passing the little general shop. ‘Why shouldn't you go, you old bastard?' she screamed. ‘I lost two lovely lads.'

She went right up to Mr. Kilkey and spat in his face. ‘Coward!'

‘Go on! Get back home, missus,' cried one of the soldiers, ‘and don't boast. You're not the only one who's lost two sons. Go on. Get back, I tell you!'

The woman cried: ‘Dirty shirker! Rather fight for the Pope, you would!' And then she walked slowly back to her step, apparently satisfied now that she had said her say, and she thought of her two ‘lovely lads.'

Meanwhile the procession had turned into the King's Road. Here the crowd increased, more children followed behind. Shoppers stopped to stare. Some looked on in silence. Others cried: ‘Good!
Make
him fight. Dirty coward!' A man laughed as they passed a bootshop, seeing spittle running down Joe Kilkey's cheek. He was well secured. Not only was the hold on neck and waist maintained, but one held his right arm, and wrist, another the left. The other soldier walked on ahead, apparently to keep the pathway clear. One could tell by the expressions upon their faces, how they were enjoying it. From time to time somebody called out. ‘Hello there, Tom! Not gone yet,' and a woman shouted from a grocer's shop: ‘Why, Andy, I thought you were in France.'

Mr. Kilkey knew these men, slightly. They were all local men. The one who held him by the collar he knew as the drummer of the local ‘Death and Glory Boys,' an ardent anti-Papist, and, like George Postlethwaite, a teamster.

When they reached the next corner four women carrying baskets were standing talking. One held a shipping paper in her hand. When the procession came into view she gave a whoop like an Indian warrior, and shouted for the benefit of everybody in the vicinity: ‘Another of them damned conchies!' With a few quick movements of her hands she had turned the newspaper into a hat. As Joseph Kilkey came by, this improvised soldier's hat was jammed on his head.