Our Time Is Gone (67 page)

‘This way,' he said.

She followed him down the long corridor, turned, passed into a kind of tunnel, emerged into another corridor, so dark that the lights were on. They stopped at another green door. The man knocked, cocked an ear, listening.

‘Come in.'

The door opened.

‘A moment,' he said, leaving Mrs. Fury outside. He came back almost immediately, threw wide the door. ‘This way, please.'

She passed inside. The man went away, the door shut. She stood in the middle of the room. The walls were bare except for a chart that hung over the mantelpiece. A warm fire glowed in the big grate. The chairs were of mahogany and highly polished. The carpet was green, it felt like soft snow under her feet. The table was littered with papers. The bare parts of it shone from polish. It was like a mirror. She glimpsed the top of her head in it, and the blue toque turned a fantastic shape.

There was a man seated behind the table. Tall, slim, grey haired. Deep-set eyes, a stern face, but a kindly mouth. Hands on the table. They looked at each other. The woman's tongue rolled in her mouth, swelled up. In her hand was the letter which the warder had returned to her as he left the room. The man looked at her, raised his arm, shot it out, his hand said:

‘Give me that.'

She moved with leaden feet, grew afraid, felt lonely, insignificant. She handed him the papers.

‘Thank you.'

She watched him read, saw a beautiful signet ring on his little finger; a little red ruby shone in the middle. He dropped the papers, picked up a ‘phone at his elbow, spoke through it. A language that was foreign to her.

‘Fifty-five c. Section Three. Fury.' She understood that one word ‘Fury.'

He put down the ‘phone, pressed a button. Waited, looking out of the window at tufts of white cloud blowing across the sky, said: ‘Come in,' without turning from the window. The door closed.

‘Take this woman to the visitors' room. Remain for the interview.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The man at the desk raised his hand again, gave her back a personal letter that had nothing whatever to do with the granite world.

‘Thank you.'

The woman followed the warder out, confused, trembling, eager, yet hesitant, wondering, hoping, seeing. How could Anthony's letter have got into that envelope? Must have slipped it in on the train. They were in the corridor again.

She followed him farther into the depths of this astonishing world. Words were made of iron. Words were at a premium. Words were crimes against silence. Words belonged outside, to the more fanciful world.

‘Here,' the warder said.

A door flew open. She went in. He was there! Waiting. A man by his side.

‘Christ! My dear son.' She flung herself at him. ‘Oh, my dear, dear son!'

She collapsed on his shoulders, burst into tears, clung to him.

The warder who stood by left them. Went outside. The other was already seated upon his box just under the spy-hole through which he could watch, rove his eye, listen if required, be careful, count the iron words, and the words as warm as blood. He heard weeping. Turned his head, straddled his legs, looked at the wall in front. Thought of a newly ironed shirt hanging on the line in his room. And watched.

II

‘Dear Mother,' he said. ‘I
am
glad you came, I
am
! I've waited and waited and waited. How are you?' and he took her two hands and wrung them. ‘How are you, Mother?'

‘I'm all right,' she said, staring round the bare room, seeing a wooden form, one chair, a table, a fireless grate stuffed with brown paper, a curious smell of burnt string. ‘Can we sit down here, anywhere?' she asked him.

‘Yes. Come and sit here, Mother,' and he led her to the wooden form that stood against the wall. ‘They look in on you,' he whispered. ‘Sit this end.'

She sat down, still holding on to one hand. ‘How are you, son?' she said, and drawing back a little she looked at him from head to feet. ‘You've changed a bit, but not
very
much,' she remarked, and her lips parted. She was smiling at him. She fingered the coarse drab cloth of the jacket he wore. ‘They've cut all your lovely hair,' she said; and she ran her hand over his closely cropped head. ‘Are you quite well, Peter? I mean—oh, I don't know what I mean—I—I'm so happy I want to—I've been, crying and laughing every bit of the way, Peter. Did you know I was coming—did they tell you—could you
feel
me coming to you?' And then she put her arms round his neck. ‘This journey,' she said. ‘I never thought. Well, I mean …'

‘Neither did I, Mother! I know! I don't want to talk about that any more. Tell me all about yourself. What you do every day, what it's like in Gelton? I often lie in my bed at night—and I think of the time Aunt Brigid and dad got drunk!'

‘I have a room and I'm very comfortable. Very comfortable, and I've a nice friend. But this awful war—the awful war. D'you think you'll have to go to it?'

‘I don't know, Mother, I don't think so, I'm too young. But if they asked me I would. I'd be free then. They are letting some men go, you know, Mother. But I told you.'

‘You'd go to fight to kill those Germans! Well!—dear me! War's awful. Round where I live quite a lot have been killed. An awful lot. It's dreadful. Dreadful.'

‘I don't want to talk about the war at all, Mother, but about you. You don't say anything. You've shifted again. It made me laugh at first. Three places in three months!'

‘Did it?'

She ran her hands up and down his arms, across his face, touched his eyes with the tips of her fingers—she had removed her gloves. She was touching him, fingering the bones of a vain hope. It could never be now. It was too late.

‘Peter, you've never lost your look. You know, son, you had a look that was different from any of the others. I don't know how to say it. You've grown, haven't you?' Suddenly she fiercely embraced him. ‘My dear son,' she said.

With his face pressed against her coat, he could hear her heart thumping, he began to speak.

‘Mother! Listen! I've been here two years, and I'll be here till I'm past thirty. That's if I don't go to this war. I've had all that time to think. I've felt sorry many and many a time. I've felt sick. I've remembered everything. Mother, when I come out, I'll get a job. You see! I've learned my lesson! I'll do something for you, Mother. Honest. I swear on it, really. We'll have a nice home again. I'll help you,' and he began to sob upon her coat.

She raised her head, lifted his own, looked into his brown eyes. ‘Don't talk a lot of nonsense,' she said coldly, and the coldness stabbed not him, but her own self—she couldn't believe she had spoken. ‘I don't want anything from anybody. I can look after myself. I never did want anything from you, never. For heaven's sake, lad, forget it. Stop dreaming.
I
have!' she concluded, and there was the breath of a deadly finality about it.

She looked across at the clock upon the wall, its brass face, heard its tick in the silent room. It was gigantic.

‘Oh, Peter! You don't know, you don't know how happy I am to-day! It's God's goodness to me—but you don't believe in anything like that,' she added quickly, as though with an endeavour to smother the earlier words, to excuse her own mounting spirit, which spread inside her, fluttering like wings.

He made no answer. He was looking at her hat. ‘Take it off, Mother, just for a bit.'

‘Nonsense,' she said, laughing, but he made her take it off.

‘Now I can see you better.'

‘Well, and how do I look?' she asked. ‘Just as you expected me to, or what?'

She saw his teeth when he smiled, saying: ‘You've changed a little, Mother. But you still look like my mother when we were at Hatfields. Listen! I can't help it. I have to say it. It must have been dreadful—terrible for you.'

‘It was, but I got over it, like I got over everything else. For God's sake don't start talking about
that
! You're paying for it worse than I. Let's forget all about
that
.'

He dropped on his knees, put his hands on either side of her on the form. ‘It's
my
fault! Believe me, Mother. I
am
sorry—
really
, I mean that. And I want to help you when I come out. I mean so that we could have things like—oh, well——' He paused, the remainder of the words would not come.

She spoke them for him. ‘You want to help me. Don't! Look after yourself. I've never depended on any of my children. Never! I won't now. Peter, hasn't two years of prison taught you anything? You can't deceive me any more. There! Let's forget all that,' and she dashed her hands across her eyes. ‘Yes. Forget all that. How loudly that clock ticks! Does it always tick like that?'

He sat beside her again, looked across at the clock. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘and we've only twenty minutes left, Mother. Just think. Ten gone already.'

‘I came in here, through doors, past rooms—I saw three people. I went down four corridors. Nobody spoke. Don't they speak at all?' she asked. ‘I came on the train here, and one or two people spoke to me. There are good people in this world, son. Good people. I don't want a single thing off you. I thought I was serving you, helping you—it was a silly mistake. I think of your father, at his age, still sailing, still working. The man should be in his armchair at home. I knew too much about my children. I knew far too little about
him
. He has been a wonderful husband to me. I used to rave at him—he was careless and indifferent sometimes. But I wouldn't do it now. If I could turn my fingers into ropes this minute I'd fling them into the sea and pull your father back. I have
him
, and I
know
I have him, and I thank God for it. Don't be worrying and crying over me. I'm all right.' And she drew his head down to her and kissed his mouth. ‘Listen, Peter, if you ever come out, I suppose you will, you must face the world yourself. But like I always said, time and time again, be honest, clean, be decent. The world's not so bad then. I've found it out through living in it. Tell me, d'you ever hear from
her
?'

He went pale, his hands dropped to his knees. Her? Who? Oh yes. Of course!
Her
.

‘No, Mother.'

‘Truly?'

‘On my oath.'

‘You said that before,' she said, a quite unconscious coldness in her utterance.

‘I haven't heard, Mother, don't you believe
anything
I tell you? Don't you? God! Mother, please believe something. Will you? Soon you'll have to go!'

How sad he looks, she thought. How ugly in those clothes. That awful bare head.

‘Nothing ever happened between you?' she asked, and looking at the expression upon her face he knew he could do none other than speak the truth. Her look searched him out.

‘No, Mother! Nothing! I liked her. She was nice. I wish you had met her. She
was
nice.'

‘Have I come three hundred miles to hear that? Listen to me! She's your brother's wife. Even that should have warned you. Well—let's talk of something else. Do you write regularly to your dad? Does Anthony ever write?
There's
what I call a good lad. A good son. He's getting married. And to an Irish girl into the bargain.'

‘Married, Mother? Anthony! Getting married! When? How long has this happened?'

‘What matter! He's going, and then there's only you. Your father doesn't know, and he needn't care. Or be afraid. Anthony has his head screwed on.' She gripped his hand. ‘You're sad. I know you're sad. I shouldn't be talking like this. I may not be here when you come out again. I don't know, only God knows. But if I'm not, and you get clear of this war without getting killed or wounded or anything, then I advise you to go off to America. That's the country for the young people, and you'll never feel a stranger, for half of Ireland's children are there. You're old enough to know what's right and what's wrong. I beg of you to do what I ask. To have character to be afraid of nothing—to be clean and decent. As for the other—well, I have nothing to say. But it will always seem strange to me. Yet one of these days, Peter, you'll learn what being a good Catholic really means. I don't know it and you don't know it. Never mind. There is a meaning in it and something beautiful in it.'

Her eyes watched the clock, the racing minutes.

‘Here's a strange thing! Where I live there's a woman who is a friend of mine—she seems to have been of a good family, and to have been educated. She works at the dirtiest job and she's jealous of me. And of what? You'd never guess, son, because clever though you are, you haven't the spirit to see it. She's jealous of me because every Friday I get dressed and smartened up to go to my duties. Jealous of me going to church. It made me think.'

‘D'you ever hear from Desmond, Mother?' he asked, and he too watched the clock.

‘Desmond! Well, he wrote me one or two letters. One of them had money in it, but I sent it back. I don't want his money. He's getting on, you know he's an officer or something in the army. My God! Am I glad to hide? I am! Wherever I go I'm a stranger, not known. I like that. I've never felt more content, more free. I wish sometimes that I'd done it long ago. Such waste! Waste! But Desmond! As I say, men whom he used to work with curse him. He's a traitor, and heaven knows what else. Some of the men wrote letters in the
Gelton Times
. A lot that will do! Desmond is a headstrong man, and I'm sure he doesn't care what anybody thinks. He was always like that. I never think of him at all now. Why should I? I have lots to do, lots of things to occupy me. Perhaps if God spares me and I see you out, well, I'll show you my room, and you'll see how nice and quiet it is.'