Our Time Is Gone (86 page)

‘Take these men to the canteen at once, Delahane. Then I want you to collect their papers. None I gather are Gelton men. They'll be travelling from all points of the compass.'

‘Right, Father. Follow me, men,' Delahane said. He turned to Father Twomey.

‘The doctor's been.'

‘What did he say?'

‘Says he ought to be got into hospital. Says the old chap is completely exhausted. You were right, Father, about that scar, but the doctor says it was caused by a piece of iron. He was with him for half an hour. He has left a note for you. Apparently there are blanks in the old chap's mind. There are some things he cannot remember.'

‘You had better come back here as soon as you have seen to a meal for those men.'

‘Father Moynihan came ten minutes ago,' Delahane said, ‘he's up there now.'

Then he went off with his charges.

‘Well,' thought Father Twomey, ‘that's one more the sea will never meet again.'

He hung up his hat, his umbrella, he glanced through the newly arrived mail. A boy brought in his evening meal on a tray.

‘Your supper, Father.'

‘Thank you, Owen,' he said.

Through the open door he could hear the noises from the canteen, the sound of clicking billiard balls, the sound of running water.

‘
Please
close the door like a good boy,' he said.

Father Twomey began his supper.

‘Where is my wife? She never came to see me,' the old man said.

Father Moynihan leaned over the bed. ‘You will see her very soon. The doctor tells me you will have to go into hospital for a little while. He says you'll be on the mend soon.'

‘Where is my wife?'

‘I've just said you will see her soon. Dennis Fury, you are a lucky man indeed to be lying breathing in this bed to-day. Are you too tired to talk now? Shall I come again? Could you tell me what happened?'

‘She went down fast.'

‘Yes, I know that.'

‘I swam.'

‘Yes.'

‘I was picked up. The boy was dead.'

‘What boy?'

‘His name was Lenahan. That day the sea was on fire.'

‘Did they take you to Bahia direct, Dennis?'

The old man paused, an utter weariness covered his face; after a while he began again.

‘I can't hear you—can you speak up?' the priest asked. He put his hand on the man's head.

‘They put me in sick bay on the
Turcoman
, after three days she was set on fire, it was very quick, they put me on a stretcher, lashed me down. There was no time, they dropped me in the sea again.'

He shut his eyes. ‘I'm tired. Why hasn't Fanny come? I want to go home. I'm tired. I want to go home.'

Father Moynihan got to his feet. Gently he lifted the old man's hands and put them under the sheet. ‘Sleep now. I'll come back and see you again,' and then the eyes opened and a flood of words broke across the old man's tongue, ‘Don't leave me here! Where am I? Who are you?'

‘My God,' thought the priest, ‘he has forgotten me again.'

He stood there, he felt unable to speak.

‘How on earth am I going to tell this man what has happened? How can I convey to him that there is nothing to expect?'

‘Take me home.'

‘Very soon,' said the priest, ‘very soon. I shall come and see you in the morning. Meanwhile you must try to sleep. You are a very tired old man.…'

‘I'm not old,' and it was the first real spark of life that Father Moynihan saw.

‘Good-bye now,' he said.

But the man in the bed did not answer, and Father Moynihan went out.

He felt sad and uncomfortable. ‘There is only me who can tell him, and he must be told. There is no home. His home is finished, his family are gone. What a homecoming! This man may not live and that would be merciful—against the terrible disappointment, the blow to his old heart. Everything is finished.'

He went downstairs and knocked at the door of Father Twomey's office. He was glad to sit there and share a cup of coffee with him.

‘I've seen the doctor,' he said.

‘Delahane told me. He must be shifted first thing in the morning.'

‘Then I must return again to-night, the sooner the man is told everything, the better. Apparently the scar is healed of itself, McClaren said, the sea water, I expect.'

‘I've just brought in eleven men,' said Twomey, he drank coffee, he ate toast.

‘You have wonderful patience, Joseph Twomey, you are a rather wonderful person.'

‘More coffee?'

‘No thanks. I must go. I've a service in ten minutes. You may rely on me to do all that's necessary with Mr Fury. There is still the wife to be told. However, she is a strong-hearted, courageous woman—she won't flinch. I know her of old. I've known many people in my time, Twomey, and I must say it gives me a great feeling to think that these old people are united again. I think they were always meant to be together in spite of all that has happened.'

Delahane came in. He glanced at Father Moynihan, ‘Good-evening, Father,' at which Father Moynihan got up.

‘In the morning, I must go and see that woman.…'

‘Doesn't she know—oughtn't she to know at once?' Father Twomey turned to Delahane.

‘Yes, just coming, are those men all right?'

‘Yes, Father. I've arranged for you to see them in the dining-room in half an hour. They are anxious to get away.'

‘Excuse me, Father Moynihan—you see how it is.'

‘I see how it is. I do wish I'd been able to say what I wanted to say to that old man upstairs.'

‘Come after the service.'

They both went out.

‘I hope he can be shifted to-morrow.'

‘Nothing can be done until his wife has seen him. She'll have to be brought here to-morrow.'

They parted without another word, Father Moynihan to his church, the other to arrange for transportation to the houses of the eleven newly arrived men. Thinking of this, he forgot all about Dennis Fury. He was only one, and there were always the others.

‘I want you to travel to the station and see these men off,' he informed Delahane.

‘I was intending that, Father. I suppose you know you have been on your feet since five this morning.'

‘Have I?' he said, laughing, ‘I'd quite forgotten.'

There were eleven quite different men waiting for him when he went into the dining-room. They rose as he came in, and some smiled: they had washed, they had eaten, they were ready to go.

‘Now your papers,' Father Twomey said, and each man handed him his papers.

‘We'll have you on the train inside an hour,' the priest said. He sat down at the table and began to examine the various documents. He made copies of all, which eventually he would forward to the Regional Ministry of Transport Office, in the case of Government chartered ships, otherwise to the various privately-run shipping lines.

‘Thank you,' he said, ‘thank you,' and to each man he gave back papers and a travel voucher for their destination.

‘You will not have long to wait, you will all be home with your loved ones in a matter of hours. Good-bye, God bless you.'

‘Good-bye, Father,' they said, rising as one man. Father Twomey went out.

‘Be ready when the bus arrives, men,' Delahane said, ‘I'll call you.'

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.'

‘Now try to sit up, Mr Fury, and drink this. I believe you had a nice little sleep after all.'

‘Where am I?'

‘You are with the Apostleship of the Sea. I am Father Twomey. I am making arrangements for you to go home to-morrow. Come along now, daddy,' he said, coaxing, ‘
come
along now, you must drink this milk and brandy.'

He looked at the quivering mouth—‘Steady,' he said. He held the old man tight and watched him drink ever so slowly.

‘Why hasn't Fanny come?' he said.

Father Twomey turned away his head, he was certain that the old man was quietly crying.

‘How long have I been here?'

‘A few hours. You were drunk. Those two men who brought you here were drunk. Did the agent at Bahia cable your wife?'

‘She never wrote back to me. I wrote twice. I don't understand. Isn't one of my children here?'

‘Perhaps,' the priest said, ‘the ship carrying your mail was sunk. But did the shipping agent cable your wife that you were safe?'

‘I remember now,' Dennis Fury said—he suddenly raised his head, ran his fingers down the back of his neck. ‘Is it very bad, Father, does it show much? It might be against me at the next signing.…'

‘You won't sign any more, daddy, not anywhere, not on anything—even a coal barge. No, sure it is not that bad after all. But now you must get well.'

‘It worries me.'

‘What worries you?'

‘Not signing anywhere. Not working. I've always done it. And Fanny'll be worried too. Before I went away on that ship
Ronsa
, I'd a terrible argument with Fanny, because she didn't want me to go away to sea any more. She said I was too old. I'm not too old, am I, Father? Are you Father Moynihan?'

‘No, I'm Father Twomey, Chaplain at the Gelton Apostleship of the Sea. But Father Moynihan
has
been and he's coming again. I know he wants to see you, to have a long talk with you.'

‘I wish Fanny'd come. I don't understand. She always came before. Always met me off the ship. Oh, that poor little lad!' he exclaimed, he made a violent movement in the bed; for a moment Father Twomey thought he was going to leap through the window, he restrained him.

‘What little lad?'

After a pause, the old man said ‘I don't know.'

‘His mind is completely bewildered, and there are great blanks in it too.' Father Twomey thought; he said,

‘I must go now, Dennis Fury. I have many things to do. Just have a little more of this milk and brandy before I go—just to please me,' he said, and he was pleased when the old man's hand reached out for the cup.

‘There.'

‘Will you tell Fanny I'm here. I know she'll be worried. Oh Christ, that time I fell I thought I'll not see Fanny again.…'

‘What time you fell?'

‘The first time.'

‘The first time, where?'

Again the pause, again the same answer, ‘I don't know,' and ‘why didn't she come? It's unlike her,' the two hands gripped the hem of the priest's coat—‘why can't I go home?'

‘I've told you. You'll be home to-morrow. Lie back now like a good man and don't distress yourself. Fanny will see you very soon. Is Fanny your wife's name? It's a nice name.'

The man had fallen back on the pillows, the conversation had exhausted him.

‘Yes, the sooner he is out of here the better. I can't understand why his wife wasn't brought up here at once.'

The telephone was ringing. He hurried from the room and went below. Delahane, he knew, was out. ‘And there's the bus, too,' he exclaimed.

‘Hello, oh, it's you.…'

‘You have seen his wife?…'

‘You are coming round now.…'

Somebody was hammering on the door.

‘Yes, of course. This time you had better stay. There's no accounting for the old man. One minute he remembers something, the next he has forgotten it. Yes, do explain that his wife is coming.'

He dropped the receiver.

‘What is all this?' he asked, opening the door.

‘Just saying good-bye, Father,' the man said.

‘Why, of course, I've a difficult case upstairs, sorry I had to rush away and leave you. Let's go,' and he went down the corridor with the lumbering men.

Outside, Delahane was waiting. He stood by the door as each man climbed into the bus.

‘You have your voucher, your sandwiches, cigarettes?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

Father Twomey stood watching them go. They smiled and waved through the window, they cried good-byes into the cold night air and, watching them as the bus revved up and finally moved, he felt a lifting of the heart, yet wondered on that hateful sea—and thought of the ocean that might claim them. A final wave of the hand and he went in.

‘Go right up, Father Moynihan,' he said, as soon as the other priest arrived.

‘Thank you.'

He heard the heavy feet climbing the stairs. Later he fell fast asleep in the office chair.

‘My name is Richard Moynihan and I am your parish priest. You know me, Dennis Fury?'

The old man nodded his head.

‘Take your time, take it easy, and try to be brave,' the priest said, he clasped the other's hand in his own.

‘Yes, Father,' falteringly.

‘I have seen Fanny.'

He watched the expression suddenly change in Dennis Fury's face, the gentle knowledge.

‘Why hasn't she come? I want her.'

‘You will see her in the morning.'

‘I want to go home. Who brought me here? I want to go back to my home.'

‘You will soon be home.'

He paused.

‘There is something I must tell you …' he paused again, ‘when Fanny comes, you must just be glad that you are together again. She will tell you everything.'

‘What has she done?'

He evaded this—‘You know about your youngest boy.'

‘She wrote and told me,' the old man said. ‘Ah, it's hard, the poor little lad.'

‘He may get out in two years if he behaves himself.'

‘Where are the others? Where are my children? Nobody has come to see me, nobody.'

‘Everything will right itself. Remember you are a lucky old man to be here to-day. Think of that. Think of your wife waiting for you.'

‘Where is she?'

‘Waiting until the morning. In the morning everything will settle itself. I do not want you to say anything if it tires you, but I must give you news of your children. Anthony. Anthony is still in the Navy, but will be discharged in eighteen months. Desmond has left Gelton. He is working at Trade Union headquarters in London. He left a year ago. Your daughter—I cannot say—she has disappeared somewhere.…'