Our Time Is Gone (56 page)

‘Well!' she said. ‘Well——' paused, smiling first at her son, then at the photo. ‘Well! she
does
look a nice girl. How long has this been going on?'

‘Oh! we've been writing to each other for a long time now! You see, Mother, I wanted to bring her along to see you. I'm sure you'll like her,' he concluded.

‘I had a nice home once, and where Maureen and Desmond could have brought their people along. They wouldn't come. And now I've nothing, and you want to bring your girl, Anthony. I could—oh, I love you for that! You don't know how much. You're such a decent, honest son! I hope when you get married you'll be happy—happier than they are, Anthony. You
are
good. You are——'

‘She's got brown eyes, black hair, she's got—she's just like you, Mother.' He took the photo from her and put it back in the wallet. He looked at the clock. Eight.

‘And now,' he said, ‘I'm going out! I'll be back round eleven! And you can fix up my bed while I'm away. And don't be fussing over me. Will you? To-morrow I'll take you to the theatre.'

He put on his jumper, collar and lanyard, tidied his hair, asked if he looked clean, and then put on hat and oilskin. ‘How do I look?' he asked.

She embraced him at the open door. ‘It's wonderful,' she said. ‘Wonderful.'

The next minute he had gone, clattering down the steps. She shut the door. Her heart was full. She hadn't expected it. She hadn't realized how decent he was. She sat down at the table, exclaiming:

‘It's wonderful—wonderful.'

Anthony Fury, like his father, preferred to follow the sea. He liked the sea. When the war broke out he transferred to a ship chartered by the Government to work as an auxiliary cruiser. He was next to the youngest of his family. He was a medium-sized youth, very fair, with flaxen curly hair, a freckled face. He liked his job. This liking his job gave him a contentment and satisfaction, though to many workers it could only appear as odd. But for him it had its fascination. He loved ships, ropes, machines. He was born to go to sea. He had great respect for his parents, and though he had protested against his mother's foolish worship of his young brother, there was no core of selfishness behind it. He was concerned for his mother.

Now he stood at the bottom of the steps of Edcott Court, staring around in the darkness. Somewhere near him a cat meowed, filling the night air with its mournful sounds. To him it was a hole. Edcott Court was a hole. A dark hole. You didn't
walk
into this place, you fell into it. His feelings were mixed. He was happy when he thought of Joan and when he thought of his mother. Yes, it was a come-down. He was sorry for her. And then he thought of Joan.

He went off at a sharp pace, seeing Daniel's clothes shop, and Joan waiting outside it long before he reached it. And then he saw his mother making up the bed in the one room. He was a bit disappointed. And he was intrigued by the way they had met, and that dirty face filled him with suspicions. But he had learned to have sense. Therefore he forgot her tired look, her smudgy hot face and her old, old look. Instead he thought of Joan.

Passing the end of the Court two girls giggled after him, and one called ‘Hello!' and laughing, he called back: ‘Hello, yourself.' Then he was free of the court and hurrying along towards Daniel's.

She was there, she saw him coming, perhaps it was the swish of the oilskins, perhaps he threw out from his person the smell of the sea. But she saw him in the half darkness of the shop window and rushed forward.

‘Hello! Hello! Hello!' he cried, indifferent to a watching policeman, who rocked on his heels and smiled at this young sailor lifting the girl into the air, and executing three steps of a waltz with her as he cried: ‘Joan!
Here
we are! At last! How are you?' Then on terra firma again he flung his arms about her and began to count aloud as he kissed her. ‘One, two, three.'

Even an elderly couple stopped to smile. Then, apparently conscious at last of the amusement they were providing, they ran off down the road, hand in hand, like two shy, self-conscious children. At the corner of the next street they went into the shelter of a doorway and leaned against the window, holding hands. The policeman passed them.

‘I thought you were never coming, Anthony,' she said, running her fingers up and down the white cording of his lanyard, and he hugged her, whispered furiously ir her ear.

‘Listen, Jo! I'm—oh—it's lovely, isn't it? Listen! I want you to come and see my mother! Will you? You see it's too late to go any place now. Suppose we go back and we'll have a talk and then I'll go on home with you,' and suddenly cautionary, ‘Of course you don't
have
to, but I know she'd like to see you.'

‘You
are
funny about your mother, An,' she said, pulling his face down and rubbing it with her lips. ‘Let's go now then. D'you think she'll like me?' she asked.

She clung tightly to his arm. Without waiting to know whether she was liked or not, she chatted on, exhausting one subject after another.

‘I'll be glad when this awful war's over, won't you? Remember Willie Demson? He's gone.'

‘Has he? Good Lord! Ah! I don't know when it'll be over. But to hell with the war! I'm happy, Jo, having you like this, and all to-morrow and all the next day.'

‘Are you?
Really?
' Her eyes bright, her fingers stroking his cheek, her mouth trembling.

‘'Course I am,' and this time her face was pressed against the cold of his coat.

‘Wait,' he said, ‘I want to say something first. Remember what I told you, Jo. Remember what I wrote. You know all about us, about that murder, my brother. Everything. You'd still like to come——' And with almost frenzied utterance, ‘She
would
love you to come and see her. You see she's all on her own now. Everybody gone. Dad, my eldest brother, Peter, the whole bang lot.' He was leaning over her shoulder. ‘Funny,' he said, ‘this evening I stepped off the gangway, and hang it all, I bumped right into her. Didn't even know she was there. And how she knew we were docking I don't know. But I've been sad about her lately. You know! When you've had a large family like we had—and then they go off——Well, it's lonely, I suppose. I felt sad seeing her this evening. It'll be awfully nice, Jo, if you come.'

She poked her finger into his ribs, shook his arm. ‘Don't be silly, Anthony!'

They hurried now. The streets were deserted. Somehow this part of the world was dead. So it seemed to them both. No lights, no shouts, no voices. No laughing.

‘It's full of old women,' Anthony said. ‘Queerest place I ever saw. But she has a nice room. We're going to move soon. In a few months now dad will be home for good. So he says. And we'll shift then. We
did
have a nice home, and then that thing happened. Ah well! Anyhow, here we are. This is it. Edcott Court. It is a queer spot.'

‘I've never even heard of the place,' she said, ‘though I was born in Gelton.'

At the bottom of the stone steps a faint trickle of sickly light shone down on them. They paused, held each other, kissed again, and then Anthony led the way.

‘I do hope you'll like each other,' he was saying as they went up through the darkness. ‘One thing I don't like about this place is the dampness.' He began feeling for the iron banister, on which to guide his hand. ‘Keep close to the wall, Jo,' he said. ‘Grab the banister.'

‘It does smell a
little
bit, doesn't it?' was the only comment she made, until they found themselves outside his mother's door. She put a finger to her lips to indicate silence, then standing on tip-toe said into his ear. ‘D'you think she'll like me?' and felt herself hugged with one hand as the other rapped upon the door, and when it opened, they seemed to bounce in, he still holding her round the waist.

‘Here she is,' he cried. ‘Here she is, Mother,' swinging the girl in front of him. ‘Joan Lynch.'

‘Well! This
is
nice, coming to see me. How are you, Miss Lynch?'

‘Joan, Mother,
Joan,
' exclaimed Anthony, flinging cap and oilskins to the floor.

‘How are you, Joan?' said Mrs. Fury, extending her hand.

She saw a girl, only half her size, with a head of unruly hair, the colour of pitch, that bounced about as she talked, and saw the shining white teeth between the thick red lips.

‘Why, you've brown eyes,' said Mrs. Fury.

‘Mother loves anybody with brown eyes, Jo. Funny that, isn't it?'

But Joan made no answer. Instead she took the chair his mother put by the fire and sat down. Was she sure Mrs. Fury didn't want it, she enquired?

‘I'm quite all right, where I am,' replied the woman. ‘Anthony, son, will you take the other chair?' and looked from one to the other, seemingly a little agitated and excited by it all. ‘Well, this is nice.'

‘I'm fine here,' he said, and swung himself down on the mat in front of the fire. ‘Joan's going to have her photograph taken to-morrow. The two of us together! We'll have one framed for you, Mother.'

He kept his eye on Joan, watched her as she talked to his mother, listened with rapt attention to every word that fell from her lips.

‘I'm lucky,' he was telling himself. ‘Lucky! Just my own age, and her father a very respectable man. Yes. I'm lucky, luckier than any of the others. The others!' he thought. Good God! The others! He hadn't even seen them! Didn't know. They were strangers. But then it was just like his father. At sea all the time. Yes, it was quite different to working ashore, living on the land. Parents and brothers and sisters were more than words. They were really alive.

The girl caught the expression on his face, slipped down from her chair, put her arms round his neck, and said softly: ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing!' he said. ‘Nothing,' and then somewhat brusquely, seeing the surprise on his mother's face. ‘Mother's coming with us to-morrow night, Jo. Yes—after all.'

‘Me?' exclaimed Mrs. Fury, ‘going with you. Where? What's all this about?'

The girl went and sat by her on the sofa. ‘You're coming to the Empire with us, Mrs. Fury. We arranged it long ago—I mean this evening. You shouldn't be sitting by yourself all the time! You
will
come. We've got the tickets. You'll have to.'

‘But—I—oh—I couldn't go with you, Miss—I mean Joan. Good Lord, no! Sure, you young people want to be by yourselves. And I don't do such things now. I used to go with his father, but that's long ago. I'm too old for theatres now. Be off with you! I'm quite contented seeing you both together. It
was
nice of you to come! And d'you know you're the first girl that any child of mine has brought to see me. Think of that! No! No!' she had risen to her feet. ‘You really mustn't. Besides, I never go out at nights. Never! I like to sit by the fire reading and thinking of things, d'you know.'

‘Don't be silly, Mother!' said Anthony, dragging himself up from the mat. ‘'Course you're coming! Who'll ever take you
anywhere
unless I do?'

‘And me, please,' said Joan. She was on her feet too. It was time to go.

‘Already! Why, I've hardly seen you! Do come and see me again, Miss——'

‘Joan!' the girl said.

‘Yes, Mother. Joan,
not
Miss. We're going now. I'll see Jo home and be back here round eleven. And no getting stuff ready for me,' he said, shaking a finger in her face, ‘and no fussing. I don't want it. Just leave the bed made up. That's all.'

Then he helped the girl on with her coat.

‘Good night,' Joan said, making for the door.

‘Won't be long, Mother,' Anthony said, ‘so-long,' and he went out.

But as she prepared to make up her bed the son came back, leaving the girl to find her way down the stairs. Came bustling into the room and saying excitedly: ‘D'you like her, Mother? D'you think she's nice?'

‘I think she's very nice. A very nice decent girl. You're lucky.'

‘Good! Good!'Course I'm lucky. I
know
I'm lucky. Well. So-long now.'

Then he was off again and Mrs. Fury stood at the open door listening to the noisy clatter of his feet as he dashed down the stairs, heard him call: ‘Jo! Wait, Jo.'

She shut the door and stood behind it, still holding the knob. Above she could hear Mrs. Gumbs moving about. ‘I'll go to bed,' she thought, ‘he'll be all right. He has the key.'

She thought how nice it was for him to bring his girl, to interest her in Joan. None of the others had done it. Now Anthony was going too. Well! Well! There was only that young boy left. Kneeling in front of the fire she raked it out, spreading the hot ashes to cool upon the hearth. This was not Hatfields and she had developed a morbid dread of fires.

She said her prayers in front of the altar and then began to make up her son's bed. She drew a curtain across from cupboard to window. Then she went to bed.

Lying back she thought of Joan and Anthony, seeing them married. All going! There was only Denny. He grew large in her mind. He was the one anchor now. She didn't mind if the others forgot, didn't write. Denny was there! Now if Anthony married to-morrow, Denny was there at her shoulder. More and more her thoughts turned towards him. She had written him yesterday. A letter full of explanation. Saying Mr. Kilkey hadn't come as he had promised. Saying that she had been down to the Catholic Guild and got the five pounds back. She didn't want to go to Mount Mellery. It was only a fancy. She liked where she was. Nobody bothered her at all. She was feeling rested, she was getting better. She had the money. She would save it. Perhaps when this cruel war was over all the children would be gone. They would be left to themselves at last.

‘You know, Denny, you think I'm a hard woman, as well as being a foolish one, which shows that forty years together means no more than a day to you. We don't know each other yet. I've done my best for the lot of them. And now I'm just tired.'