Our Time Is Gone (83 page)

I am so sad to tell you that your poor father, God have mercy on him, has gone. But maybe you yourself have heard about it by this time. His ship was torpedoed somewhere in the Mediterranean I think, and sank without a soul being saved. It is impossible to tell you how I feel, I feel just dead. Just dead. Three times I went to the shipping office, always hoping and praying it would be wrong. But it was only too right. Your dad's gone, and you simply don't know what it means. Pray for him, for he loved you all. I know it. I feel just tired with it all. He was so built up with this idea of our going home, and God knows I was, for I worked towards this end myself. I never told him, of course. He would have been wild. And now it doesn't matter, does it? I was looking forward to his coming home, something kept telling me he would be home soon. But now he'll never come. I only begin to realize now how decent he was, how clean and faithful all through his life. And he worked so hard,
so
hard. Many a time I've looked at him, and I could see it in his face, all over him, the work. God give him peace this day, he offended nobody. Many a time we had rows—I used to think he was so indifferent to you all, but now I see I was wrong. It's taken a lifetime for me to learn how much he meant to me, and now it doesn't matter. When I think of some of the things I've done and said to your father, I could cry about it. I thought I did my best for the lot of you, and your father did, and there you are.

I trust you are well. Now I am going away. I just feel tired, that's all. Oh, Anthony, if you had seen those poor crying creatures standing in the offices, and one could cry to the moon. To the moon. It was all—oh—well. Tell me, are you still as happy? I hope so. That's a nice girl you have. I hope you will both be very happy. After you are married you must both come and see me. I'll be at St. Mary Magdalene's Hospice. I'll see you both. God willing. You have been a kind, thoughtful son, so you have, and I love you for it. And now I want you to do something. Just for me—I mean for your own, for Joan's good. I want you to go away to America! Will you think of that? It's a great country, your father always said so, but I could
never never
get that man to go there.

One wants so little, and it seems such a lot. But I hope you will go. I've spent a lifetime in the black hole I was brought to from Ireland, and it's never changed and it's no good. I know! I've seen too much of it. Now I must close. I've written the address of the place on the back of the sheet. Don't worry about me. I shall be all right and very happy. Don't forget to pray for your father. I'm sure he was brave. He always was. God keep you.

Your affectionate mother,

F
ANNY
F
URY
.

Mrs. Fury addressed this letter to her son, sealed it, and put it in her pocket. She started to clean the room. She cleared the table and stood it back against the wall. Dusted the mantelpiece and swept the floor. From the cupboard she took down the box and emptied the contents. A number of newspapers she rolled up and burnt. She gathered letters and photographs together and tied them with string. The black bag she took from the chair. From this she took some papers, a lot of newspaper cuttings that contained snapshots of her son Peter. She flung them into the fire. She put the letters and photographs into the black bag. From the dresser she took two unopened letters.

‘Doesn't matter,' she said, and threw them unopened into the fire.

She drew the curtains across the window and then began to tidy herself. She washed herself, tidied her hair, rubbed her boots with the brush. Then she put on her hat, and took the bag from the chair. Upstairs she heard noises. Perhaps Mrs. Gumbs had returned, perhaps she hadn't. She closed the door silently behind her and went downstairs.

All the morning there had been showers of rain. The sun was out, and the wet pavements were drying. She walked down the street, and two people said: ‘Good morning. Beautiful to-day after the rain.'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘A lovely day,' turned the corner and was free of the Court.

She saw the same man selling newspapers, the same children playing. The same shop windows, same people behind the counters. She crossed the road. Many soldiers on leave passed her, a group of naval men came along singing lustily. All were drunk. The trams carried posters: ‘Join now! Join now.' Somehow as the woman read the wording it seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Join now! Join now! A man played a violin in the gutter. A poster outside a shop announced in black. ‘End of War in Sight?' The huge question-mark was in bright red. She seemed to sail along now, oblivious of her surroundings, the black bag clutched tightly under her arm. She boarded a tram. As she sat down she saw herself in a small mirror affixed to the wood, beneath which was a strip for striking matches. She looked into this glass.

‘I feel old,' she thought. ‘I am old.'

And he was speaking into her ear now, and speaking to her out of a letter. ‘Our time's going, woman.' Is it? Perhaps it was. ‘I feel old. I am old!'

The tram rattled along, flashes of blue darted viciously from under its wheels, the driver rang his bell, stamped, began to shout, ready to apply the brakes. Motors hooted, horses scraped hooves. Ahead the line was blocked by sheep.

‘These bloomin' sheep,' a man said.

The tram-line cleared, the vehicle went on. Came to a halt, as the conductor saw the woman emerging from the top deck.

‘Dickson Place,' he said, an impatient finger waiting to press the bell. ‘Dickson Place.'

She came slowly downstairs, and he helped her off. It made her smile. She was on the sidewalk. The tram clattered out of sight.

‘I look old. I
am
old.'

She turned up Dickson Place. There it was. The Hospice of Saint Mary Magdalene. The door was tall, painted blue. ‘Our Lady's Blue,' she said, and stood for a moment on the steps. There was a brass bell, and she meant to ring it, but as she put her hand on the door it opened. She pushed it farther back. ‘The same place,' she said. ‘The same place.'

She stood in the doorway and looked down a hall with blue tiling and cream walls, and on her right a picture of Our Lady. At the end she saw a desk, and at the desk the nun was writing. Mrs. Fury went slowly down the hall, through which passed a shaft of light from the sun.

Then she halted, turned and went back. She closed the door. Its click made the nun look up. The woman was coming towards her. An old woman. A tall old woman. She rose in her seat, hands resting on the desk. Her hands were very brown, and her small round face the same. A nut brown in colour, she looked at the woman in front of her.

‘Good morning,' she said.

‘Good morning, sister,' Mrs. Fury said, and she gave a little bow as she said it.

The sister smiled. ‘A tired creature,' she told herself. ‘Please sit down.'

There was a chair behind her. She sat down, held the black bag on her knee.

‘A bright morning,' the sister said.

‘A lovely morning, sister,' Mrs. Fury replied, her eyes towards the window, fully open, and looking through it she saw the branches of a tree, and through them the blue of sky. To her right she saw an oak sliding door.

‘From the top window you can see the sea,' the sister said, seating herself again.

‘Yes, sister.'

‘Yes—well?' the sister said, and studied the woman's face as she looked out through the window. A quite handsome woman when she was young.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘I've come in,' Mrs. Fury said, ‘and I don't want to go out again.'

She lowered her head, and as she did so the sister turned and looked through the window. Somewhere in the building women's voices were heard singing.

‘Yes, I see,' the sister said. ‘Now let me see. Your name, child.'

‘Fanny Fury.'

‘Yes …'

The pen scratched. Mrs. Fury watched the hand move, circled by its pure white linen cuff. The sister spoke again, leaning forward, smiling a little.

Mrs. Fury looked up.

‘Yes, sister? No, sister! Yes, sister.'

‘I see,' the sister said.

She rose, came from behind her desk, went up to Mrs. Fury, lightly placed her finger-tips on the woman's arms, looked closely at the resolute features. The woman rose at the touch, stood taller than the nun.

‘I see,' the sister said, and looking into the woman's eyes, asked quietly: ‘And have you anybody to claim you in case of death?'

She saw the eyes move, peer over her shoulders, look out through the window.

And through this window Mrs. Fury saw the sea and in it Denny Fury was plunging. She seemed to stiffen a little as she stood there.

The sister went back to the desk, and picked up her pen. She pressed a button and a bell rang. She looked at the woman.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘No!—not now,' Mrs. Fury said.

The sliding door opened and she passed inside.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Furys Saga

Chapter 1

There was nothing to be heard in the small office save the clock's tick and the scratching nib. Once or twice Father Twomey had paused to look up, to listen. He thought he had heard heavy lumbering footsteps outside the door, but the sounds had died on the air. He went on writing. Suddenly the door was flung rudely open, and three sailors staggered into the room. The priest swung round and exclaimed somewhat angrily:

‘What is the meaning of this? Couldn't you have knocked first?'

He stared at the three men, one of whom, the tallest, promptly collapsed and lay sprawled in the middle of the room.

‘You're hurt,' he said, rising to his feet. He stood looking down at them, he was a very tall man.

‘S'Apostleship sea?'

‘This is the office of the Apostleship of the Sea.' He studied the men.

They were looking stupidly at him. He saw that two of them were little more than youths—the other was a white-faced trembling old man and, seeing this, he at once pushed a chair forward and said to him, ‘Sit down.'

‘I say sit down,' the priest said, he stood close to him—he thought he must be deaf. He pushed him into the chair.

‘There,' he said, but the old man made no reply.

‘Where have you come from?'

‘Bahia.' This was stuttered out by the tallest one who had now got into a sitting position on the floor.

‘Bahia?' said Father Twomey.

He was a fair-haired youth, no more than twenty, he wore blue dungaree trousers, a jersey and reefer jacket, he was without a hat.

At that moment the old man fell out of the chair. Father Twomey exclaimed: ‘He's drunk, too.'

‘He's sick,' the man on the floor said—‘s'Apostleship sea—?'

The priest pressed a button on his desk.

‘You had better take this old man upstairs,' he said as the caretaker opened the door, ‘he's ill.'

‘Yes, Father.'

The man lifted the old man up and led him out.

‘There's one vacant bunk on the top floor,' called the priest as the door closed.

‘Get up off that floor.' He bent down and dragged the youth to his feet. ‘Come along now, stand up.'

He looked at the other.

‘We stood in the train all night,' this one said; he looked directly at the priest.

‘Where have you come from?'

‘I said where—Bahia.'

‘I'm speaking of the train—and who are you?'

‘We're going home.'

Father Twomey had meanwhile seated the other in the chair.

He sat looking at them for a long time without speaking. He was not unused to this sort of thing. The oceans yielded up all types, all colours, all manner of men. ‘These,' he thought, ‘are derelict.'

Two cups of tea had been brought to them. They drank thirstily.

‘When you have collected yourself,' said the priest, ‘you may offer some explanation.'

The sound of snoring came to his ears; when he glanced round, he found the man in the chair fast asleep.

‘We were in the train all night.'

‘I see.'

‘We came off at King George's.'

‘Of course. Your ship docked at King George the Fifth Dock in London. You came direct from Bahia.'

‘No.'

‘Well then …'

‘He's sick—he's very sick.'

‘Who? The old man?'

‘Yes—he was in the sea twice.'

‘Were you in the sea?'

‘Yes, but only once.'

‘What happened?'

‘Torpedoed.'

‘What is the name of your ship?'

‘It was the
Winifredia.
'

‘Where was she sunk?'

‘South Atlantic.'

‘And this one,' Father Twomey jerked a thumb towards the sleeping sailor.

‘Same ship as me.'

‘You're not so drunk,' the priest said.