Our Time Is Gone (72 page)

‘Thank God,' he said, and sat down, back leaning against a stake, which by some miracle or other did not give way. Perhaps he had finally passed through the area of rot and silence. Of decay and loneliness. He turned round and looked the way he had come. The house was lost to view, it had vanished as though the hungry earth had swallowed it up. Only the tree tips of the spinney could be seen. He had been descending all the time and had not realized it. He sat watching the water, heard its song as it trickled over the stones. He thought immediately of rods and fishing, thought as far back as the minnows of early days. And fugitive excursions with his brother Peter. There were fish in that stream. ‘Damn! Wish I'd a rod,' and to hold one in the hand, sitting quiet, watching, waiting to feel the electric throb shoot along the line and up the rod—why, that would wipe out everything. And he went on wishing he had a rod even while he removed tunic and later trousers to see the source of the itching, to examine the scratches.

‘My God,' he thought, ‘there's miles and miles of it!' This disturbed. He had not realized it, and now he began to think of Miss Fetch. Heard that door slam again. That was damned queer. Shutting him out, in fact. But what worried most was the fact that she had been anything but helpful. She knew he must get lost. ‘And by heavens I
am
lost!' he said.

It was almost a cry into the wilderness. He looked around him. Not a cow or a horse, not a sheep or a pig, not even a chicken. And not a human sound. Somewhere there were ordinary people. Somewhere there were trains, and trams and boats. And that was in the world. But this
wasn't
the world. It was simply hell. ‘My own blasted fault!' And then, addressing himself exclusively: ‘You damned greedy-minded bastard! You asked for it!' Of course. No harm in being curious, or ambitious; that, after all, was living. But this. The picture was quite different. The song of ten thousand trees, parks, lakes, streams—it had a different tune. The picture had a different look. And every day, every damned minute in fact, all this is growing, climbing, spreading out, and soon it'll bury the whole damn lot of them, and Mr. Downey meanwhile is busy with the ladies in London, and Master John is having an appalling time in the war! And Sheila——

He wished she were here now, the sight and feel of her would be enough. She was cosy. That was it. Being nice and cosy.

‘And this is the
devil
!'

He shouted this loudly, and it was wasted upon the air. He went to the edge of the stream, cupped his hands and took a long cool drink. ‘Um! That's good. By hell it is!' And he took another drink. He crossed this stream, clambered up the bank. He felt there was only one thing to do. Keep straight ahead. Couldn't go wrong if he kept straight ahead.

Two hours later he had reached desperation point. The horizon maddened him. The green grass smiled up at him. He felt he wanted to be sick. Here there were no corners, no ends, no beginnings. How the devil did they look after this?' And is
all
this theirs?' Why, it seemed like the whole of Ireland! He staggered past a copse, made a rapid descent, climbed a stile, passed through another spinney. He came out into an enormous field. There was a man standing there with a dog. He stood with his back to Desmond Fury. ‘A man! By God! At last! Another human being like myself.' He went up to him and made enquiries, mopping his forehead as he did so. The dog nosed round him, smelt, licked his hand. The man looked at the officer.

‘Sure, you're ten miles off the road, sir,' he said. ‘Now if you cross over there,' he began waving, pointing with his right hand, ‘and then cut across that field, then get through the fence at the east corner,' and so on and so on, to all of which the Captain replied with a prompt impatient:

‘Yes, yes—yes. Aye. I see! Yes—yes.' He noticed the man had a dead rabbit in his other hand. ‘Poacher,' he thought, ‘on their estate! H'm! The whole place is full of them, I suppose.'

‘Thank you! Thank you,' he said, so relieved, so overjoyed at finding anything like direction in this place, that he was half minded to give the fellow a shilling, and he clutched one in his pocket. But he changed his mind. Another ‘Thank you ‘sufficed, and then he strode on. ‘Thank the Lord,' he said to himself. ‘Will I be glad to see civilization? Will I!'

‘Powerful hot,' called the man, as the Captain moved off. ‘Powerful hot the day, sir,' but he received no reply from Desmond.

As though any bloody fool of a man didn't realize that! Of course it was hot. Strikingly hot, lousy with heat. And then he passed out of sight of the poacher and began to run down the hill. The man whistled to his dog, and went off into the spinney. The sun blazed, the stream sang. All the world was green.

When Desmond Fury reached the road he looked at his watch with great curiosity. Three hours. He had been three whole hours covering those few miles. It was with a sigh of relief that he saw a man coming down the road with a trap. He stopped it. Was the man going anywhere near Ballin. He had lost his way.

‘Jump in, sir,' the driver said.

The trap continued on its way. Captain Fury felt so relieved that he was almost on the point of embracing the old man, who periodically brought his whip across the cob's flanks, and cried: ‘Gerrup, sir! Gerrup.'

The country rolled past. Lanes shot by. A tiny shop, or stable, a smithy, that looked blue, and from the doorway of which a bare-footed girl with a flower hanging from her mouth smiled at the passing trap.

‘'Day, Brigid,' called the driver, and two rows of teeth met his eye. ‘A darling girl that!' he said, which made the Captain turn round quickly, but he was too late. The girl had gone back into the smithy. A post office whose chimney belched smoke like a battleship, two horses, heads resting on each other's necks, a lame duck in a lane, two women washing clothes by a stream—all rolled past, and the world was still green.

‘Far to Ballin?' asked Desmond, wondering what the fare would be. Or what he should tip the driver. The latter sat erect on his seat, a quiet reserved gentleman, who passed the time of day to this one and that one, and apparently indifferent to the officer and gentleman on the seat. ‘Another four miles, sir,' he replied. ‘Gerrup there,
you
,' he cried.

It was half-past five in the evening when they reached their destination, the driver accepted nothing but the Captain's thanks, and they parted. Captain Fury to the ‘Foxes,' the driver to Mr. Duffy the grocer.

Desmond ate a hearty meal. Sat back and smoked, thought of Sheila. He left at eight o'clock for London.

The green world had ended at last.

It was eight the next morning when he rang the bell of his flat. The door opened so quickly that it seemed as if Sheila had been standing behind it all the time, almost listening for his knock.

‘Darling,' she said, throwing her arms round him. ‘How are you? Oh!' And then they went in. ‘A telegram came for you from Gelton,' she said, and saw him redden, and then he said:

‘Oh yes! Of course. I was expecting that.' He collapsed into the chair, exclaimed: ‘Phew! I'm tired.'

‘Are you, Des? Who were you expecting it from?'

‘The King,' he said, laughing. ‘Sheila? Are you glad I'm back? Come here.'

She sat on his knee. He took the telegram from her, flung it into the fire. ‘Damn Gelton, damn Ireland, damn everything!'
This
was everything. Sitting here with Sheila. Blast the war! Blast everything!'

‘A lot of letters for you, darling. You look so tired. Why not go to bed?'

He smothered her in his arms. ‘If you come too,' he said, and rubbed his mouth over her hair. When you could sink into that—what mattered?

‘A lot of letters,' she said, making to get up and get them, but he held her tight.

Letters! To the devil with letters. ‘Sheila!' he said, ‘let's go to bed,' and the next minute he was out of the chair. ‘Make some breakfast and bring it up. Will you? I'm dead beat.' He crossed to his desk, picked up the letters, then went upstairs.

‘I've a faint idea,' he told himself, ‘that she's guessed something, I thought. Well, she looked queerly at me! But perhaps I imagine it. I've seen so much that's queer these two days that it must have affected me.'

He went into the room, flung the letters on the table, undressed and got into bed. ‘Ah!' he said. ‘Ah!' This was great. Another world. And soon she'd be up and they'd be together, and he didn't give a damn how much grass grew at Ram's Gate, nor how it went to rot!
This
was the world. Having a wife like Sheila to come home to. It was the wonderful thing. A nice cosy little world to sink into. To hell with everybody—to hell with everything! Ram's Gate, and its watcher, and that poor sad woman staring down at the rot, that was all a dream. A bad dream. He put his hand out for the letters. There were seven. ‘Ah!' he said, ‘I know this writing. Yes. I know this writing.' He dropped the letter. He dropped it as though it were a stone. From
him
.

‘Let it wait! What this?' Opening it he found a letter from his brother Anthony. ‘Well, I'll be damned,' he said. ‘I'll be damned!' He put this on the table. He wanted to open them all. The great thing about getting letters was breaking the seal, and wondering who had sent it.

A letter from his mother. ‘Well, I'll be hanged!' he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘Seems the whole family has suddenly fallen in love with me.' A letter from Mr. Johns. Oh! A different matter! What was Mr. Johns going to do? Put him in Coventry? Expel him from the Union because he knew too much?' Blast him!' He leaned over the edge of the bed, picked up the letter from his mother. As he opened it a cheque dropped out. The letter was very short. A few lines.

D
EAR
D
ESMOND
,

Thank you. I was very pleased to hear from you. But I wasn't pleased about this cheque which you will find returned to you in this letter. I'd rather you had it back. I don't want your money. I have always been an independent woman. I'd value your respect much more. Your father and brother are still at sea. I am still hoping to be allowed to see my other son. I trust you are well. I remain your fond mother,

F
ANNY
F
URY
.

Whilst Captain Fury was reading this, he could almost feel a dirty hand pawing over his face. ‘Your fond mother,' he repeated. He tore up cheque and letter.

‘Because I ran off and got married. Because all along I was against this tomfoolery of priesthood. Because I didn't see you at the hospital. All right.
Be
independent then!' He flung the fragments into the air, and they descended like snow in various parts of the room. After that, how could one read any more? And as for Johns's, but something tempted, something pushed his hand forward. He picked up Anthony's letter.

A
t
S
ea
,

July
11
th
.

D
EAR
D
ESMOND
,

Well, how the devil are you, and how's the world treating you? I've just been home, and now here I'm right in the middle of the——(censored), and I feel rather lousy. But you'll know what that word means as well as me. As I say, I've been home, and
that's
what's lousy. I think it's a damned disgrace. Nothing more, nothing less. You might have gone to see mother at least during the worst time of all. She's a very old, tired woman, mother is. I felt rotten sailing I can tell you, and dad away too. Oh well! I hear you're an officer or something. Well, I wish you the best of luck. Whatever the hell luck means! Lots of people have been writing me, wishing me the best of luck these past five weeks. I'm getting married in October. Fact. Nice girl too. I brought her to see mother, who likes her. Her name's Lynch. Joan Lynch. Her father's a solicitor, and came from the same part as dad, though they don't know each other. There'll only be Peter left then. D'you ever hear from him? I hope you write now and then. I feel very sorry for him, and I don't think any of us were quite fair. He told me a thing or two that opened my eyes. Anyhow, I just thought I'd drop you a line—don't seem to remember ever having written you before, never mind.

Here goes, and all the best as the ladies say when they're seeing you off. D'you think you'll be killed before I will? I wonder! This war's getting worse, isn't it? I wish mother would go home to Ireland. I've begged her to think it over. She says only dad matters, and that as soon as the war is over they're going back—though mind you I laughed—I mean she never thought of the money side of it. Just like mother really. Still, I hope dad and she do go. We've had long talks. She loves dad. I found that out lately. Dad's everything now. She says she doesn't care about anything except him. Cries sometimes over his being always away. But Peter—well, it's extraordinary. She has never changed there. She said if she thought that—I mean she wants to make a nice home again—it made me quite sad. It's so silly and impossible now. She's living in one room, and though dad knows she's shifted again, he hasn't seen the place, but I'll bet he'll swear like a trooper and a sailor together. The place seemed to be full of old women who do the scrubbing aboard ship. Well! I must now draw to a close. I've written my address at the bottom if you care to write, though you don't have to. You know what I mean. Well here goes. They're swinging out the cable. Believe me,

Your affectionate brother,

A
NTHONY
.

Captain Fury let this letter fall on to the bed. He gave a loud laugh. ‘You know what I mean.' He repeated the words, mumbling to himself. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘No! I'm damned if I do. And so I may write if I feel that way. Poor Anthony! Poor lad! I know what I mean! The fellow's cracked. What a letter! Full of dribblings. Christ! I must say I like that about who'll be dead first. The Navy seems to have upset him. Did he write to Peter? He hoped he did. H'm! And that's a letter from him.'