Our Time Is Gone (18 page)

Mr. Fury's hand slapped his shoulder. ‘Between you and me, Kilkey, if I'd known half the things Fanny was thinking of I wouldn't be here on my own to-day.'

They passed the ‘Turk's Head.' Mr. Kilkey said: ‘Have another drink,' but Mr. Fury declined. He
was
sorry Joe Kilkey was going. What a pity he had to go to work, even to sleep! He would like to have Kilkey with him all the day.

‘What ship are you working at, Joe?'

‘
Kensa.
'

‘That thing!'

‘Yes, that thing. And as good a ship as ever. Well, here's my tram coming.'

The two men stopped dead. Mr. Fury felt so sad at his going that Mr. Kilkey might just as well have said: ‘This is the end of things.'

‘Why don't you come up and see me, Mr. Fury?' he asked. They held hands.

‘I'd like to. I might. But—look here, Kilkey, I've been talking away all the time, and I never even said a word about you and Maureen. You know I hate the girl for treating you like that. I do, honestly. But let's hope everything will come right in the end. This bloody war's no joke.'

‘Yes. Aye! No——' Mr. Kilkey could hardly deal with two such dissimilar points of the compass. ‘I'll look you up again. I hope you find your wife much better. Give her my best regards. Take care of yourself. So-long.'

Mr. Kilkey waved. Mr. Fury waved. Then the tram was gone and Denny Fury was alone on the pavement.

Gelton sprawled, Gelton rose and fell and swam around him. What should he do? Go home? Go and have a drink? Slip up and see a friend? What friend? Where? Should he have a walk? Walk! Hadn't he walked and walked? He might even go to chapel. The things he might do were so numerous that they appalled. He didn't know what to do. Time hung on his hands. Why did it always hang on your hands? Make you glad to be aboard your ship, and off to sea again. He didn't know.

He experienced feelings he was quite unable to understand. It wasn't exactly sadness, or being alone. It wasn't hope, or happiness, or pride, or jealousy, or desire. It was just an emptiness. He felt empty, standing here washed up on the kerb by the rushing tide of Gelton. He thought of his wife behind walls and behind windows. Shut in. The Fanny who didn't know, who couldn't see him, who didn't understand how he was feeling now, standing by himself on the kerbstone—she yet seemed to put out an invisible hand and touch Mr. Fury. She might lie there, quiet, resting, thinking or not thinking of him. But she could pillage his spirit. She filled him with dread, the dread of being left, of having nothing, of being lost, just as he was lost on the kerb at this moment, wondering what to do. Trying to make up his mind. Perhaps it would have been better if that fellow Kilkey had not come. No! That wasn't a very nice thing to think. But he must move—he must go somewhere and do something. And the worry of Fanny—of going away, worrying how she would manage. In ‘Hey's bloody Alley,' all on her own. Straight out of a sick bed. She mightn't care to go to Mount Mellery. She could be so contrary. So contrary and stubborn.

Life rushed past him, whirled round him, Gelton roared and swept, and he was in the middle of it. Suddenly a car blew its horn, advancing at speed just as Mr. Fury stepped off the pavement. It blew its horn furiously then, and the man made a rush across the road. He got out of the way just in time.

That was Gelton! That was the city. ‘Look out! I'm coming! Make way there! Make way! To hell with everybody.'

Denny Fury decided to go back home. He entered by the same way he had left. He went upstairs, pottered about there. Came down again. He went and stood by the window, watching the children play, listening to the wild drunken singing from the house where the married soldier was. He went to the dresser and hung cap and muffler on the back of it. He sat down at the table and emptied the beer botttle He drank it but spat it out again. It didn't taste nice now. He got up and went to the chair by the fire. It burned low.

II

‘You are Mr. Fury?' said the doctor. ‘Please sit down,' and he took a good look at the man as he did so. ‘I want to have a little talk about your wife. Then you may go in to see her. She's much better, Mr. Fury, but don't be optimistic; she will want careful attention.'

Whilst the doctor said this Mr. Fury leaned forward, the cap swung pendulum-like past one knee, past the other. Twice he glanced up at the doctor, and looked beyond him at the immaculate walls, the polished furniture, the closed door.

‘Yes,' said Mr. Fury. ‘Thank you, doctor. I am glad she is getting better,' and the doctor was silent, watching those shaky hands, watching the man's face.

‘We have had a lot of trouble with your wife. She should never have been brought here in the first place. We are removing her in a few days. Tell me something about her—about yourself. She seems to be suffering from a kind of phobia about something. It would help us, you know.'

‘Phobia,' echoed in Mr. Fury's mind. ‘Tell us about yourself' had a most convivial meaning to the man. Something like talking to a chap as a pal. The doctor looked a nice man, too. About forty, he supposed. How clean and fresh looking these doctor fellows looked, and Mr. Fury thought of the hundreds of times he had stood naked before Dr. Sampson, the company's doctor.

Mr. Fury hesitated.

The doctor looked at him again. ‘She has a strong heart,' he said, and said this by way of encouragement. Somehow the man seemed as wrought up as the woman. He added quickly, ‘You look as though a rest wouldn't do
you
any harm, either, Mr. Fury.'

This made him laugh. It certainly opened his mouth. ‘Oh, I'm all right, doctor, really,' he said, with quiet assurance. ‘'Course I'm a sailor, and naturally, doctor. I sleep better at sea than when I'm home. About my missus, I'm not surprised seeing her like she is. She's had a hard life, doctor,' and quickly, as though anxious to cover the point, ‘no fault of hers, of course. I've not been a very good husband.'Course I've spent my whole lifetime at sea. We had a big family, doctor. And you know how it is. I said one thing, she said another. She didn't want them to do this, I didn't want them to do that. Anyhow, the children cleared out of it. They're all on their own. In a way I'm glad. For the wife's sake.'

‘I see. Your wife has had some great trouble lately. I happened to read about it'—in an apologetic tone—‘of course I hardly ever read the papers—haven't the time. But the name on the chart struck me—I remembered it then. I'm awfully sorry about that, Mr. Fury. Still we mustn't get off the main point——' and he changed the subject. ‘We're going to send your wife to a good hospital where they can treat her for her nerves. She was in a very collapsed state when she was brought here. We had a good deal of information from the police. Now, Mr. Fury, you mustn't worry. As I said she is a wonderfully strong woman—the heart is so sound that——'

‘She
is
a brick, doctor,' broke from Mr. Fury, but the doctor did not appear to notice the interruption.

‘With a strong heart like that we have a chance of getting her better! How often do you sail, monthly or——'

‘I have to sail in a few days, doctor, which is what worries me, because, as we are on Government service, we never know how long we'll be away on any particular trip. And between you and me, doctor'—as his earnestness grew and shyness melted away, the man leaned farther and farther forward in the chair until his head was now almost level with the doctor's knee—‘well, I'm worried. Suppose she comes out of this place while I was at sea? You see, I couldn't lay hands on my son or daughter at the moment. But I have a friend—as a matter of fact he is my son-in-law, and he'd be handy—and I know …'

‘Don't worry yourself on that point, Mr. Fury. Your wife won't be better for a long, long time. She must have months and months of rest. Plenty of good food, quietness, fresh air. I shouldn't worry on that matter, and may I offer you a word of advice before you go in to see her? I don't want you to talk about anything that will excite her. This family trouble of yours, for instance. Cut that right out. Talk about something to cheer her up, and if she begins to talk about those things you must try to get her to talk of something else—let me see—talk about your ship, your life at sea, you know,' and here the doctor got up and Mr. Fury followed.

‘You really think the woman will get better?' asked Mr. Fury. He had been waiting to ask this question, ever since he had arrived. He looked the doctor square in the face. Yes. This was a matter of anxiety—of honesty. Best to know now, good or bad, hopeful or hopeless. It had been dragging on his mind for days, weeks: ‘Will she—I mean …'

‘Your wife will get better. But, mind you, only because she is strong, physically.'

‘Fanny's got—I mean my wife has spirit, doctor—always had.'

‘Spirit can be the reverse of good sometimes,' the other said, though he did not seem inclined to explain this to the now impatient man.

Mr. Fury thought the doctor was very nice, the interview hadn't been half so bad as he expected, but now he wanted to go in and see his wife. This was more than a surprise. She must
really
be getting better. So now he'd see her. He'd be able to talk to her. For a moment he saw her unconscious, and indifferent to the world. For a moment he saw her staring at him vacant-eyed, not knowing him, nor understanding. The doctor saw this impatience too. And by way of signifying that the interview was at an end, he said quietly, slowly, as he stepped forward and opened the door. ‘But it is a pity you have to sail so soon, Mr. Fury. Yet I suppose it can't be helped.'

‘I'm going to get a shore job soon, doctor,' he was saying, but the doctor was no longer there, and the door had closed.

Mr. Fury leaned against the wall. He waited for the nurse who was to take him to see his wife. At last she came.

‘To see Mrs. Fury? This way, please,' and straight away she led him to where she lay. ‘Until half-past three.'

‘Thank you, nurse.'

She saw him coming, approaching the bed, and she tried to sit up. Tried to smile.

‘Fanny!' he said. ‘How are you, Fanny?' He was standing over her, smiling, trembling, excited, looking at her, up at the clock, turning to glance at the closed door.

‘Denny! You came! Oh! How are you, Denny?'

He was seated by her, a hand on her shoulder, stammering: ‘So glad! So glad!'

He didn't want to say another single word. Just wanted to sit there looking at her, alive, eyes open, looking at him and knowing him—knowing him, Denny!

‘Are you getting better?' he asked, worried now at asking, afraid to hear her talking.

Mustn't excite! Mustn't talk of those things. That was what he said. Well, he wouldn't talk then. It was nice sitting here—seeing her—better—still living—Fanny.

She was thin, pale, grown longer in the bed somehow, her eyes sunken, cheeks drawn, hair grown greyer—but she was still Fanny. He wanted to embrace her, but he was afraid of that too. She took his hand in hers. Looked hard at him.

How had he been managing? Had he looked after himself properly? Got his food? Kept the place tidy? What did he do with himself? He answered in whispers. And then suddenly she said: ‘Maureen came.'

‘The doctor said not to——' He paused, then said—‘Maureen—when? I didn't know.'

‘I didn't see her! I don't know. I was tired. I fell asleep,' she said breathlessly.

Damn Maureen! Damn everybody! He looked at her again. ‘You look better, woman.'

‘And Desmond came! They told me! It made me happy! That time—you know—Peter. I—he sent me money. Desmond was——' she stopped, lay further down in the bed. ‘I never saw him! They told me! He's a captain or something. My uncles and grandfathers were all captains—you know, Denny. You used to laugh.'

Damn Desmond! Damn the lot of them! He thought that was finished with.

‘They say they're going to shift you on Friday, Fanny. Said you're getting better. And the doctor said——'

‘Did they?'

‘Fanny, Fanny! Aren't you glad to see me? I'm so glad to see
you,
' he said.

Was she getting better? Was she really awake? and suddenly he hoped they had taken away her black bag. Her cursed black bag!

‘Fanny! I want to tell you something.'

He sat up, leaned back, watching her. Would she smile? Could she smile? Show interest.

‘I've been saving up for you to go to Mount Mellery, Fanny! And soon, please God, you will. I've nearly got it now. Fanny, it will be lovely for you there, quiet, peace, the beautiful God's air there, the monks—the peace—the peace.'

‘Will you come?' she said, and suddenly gripped his fingers.

Would he come?

‘How can I, woman? Lord, wouldn't I just love to! But how can I, woman? Sure, I've got my work to be doing. I don't think I could, Fanny. You see——'

‘It would be lovely,' she said, and her head leaned towards him. ‘Lovely.'

Maybe. But how in hell's name could he go? He shouldn't have said it. Now she'd get all excited. Ask him to do the impossible. Fanny all over. She was like a child in some things. When
would
she realize what the world was really like?

‘Fanny, woman, it's impossible. I've to sail as you know. It's war-time! Sure if I lost my job what would I do? Have to go to the war or something. I'll see you off there, woman, but I can't go! I wish——Ah, what's the use of talking! I shouldn't have mentioned it. The doctor said——' He paused—yes, he knew what the doctor said.

‘It would be the first holiday we've ever had together, Denny. It would be beautiful, I'm sure. The lovely Mount Mellery place—the—oh——' Suddenly her head moved to one side of the pillow, she shut her eyes, lay still.