Our Time Is Gone (84 page)

The sailor smiled stupidly and said, ‘No.… Father.'

‘Can you explain a little more? Won't you sit down?'

‘Rather stand. I want to go home.'

‘Of course. How long have you been away?'

‘Eighteen and a half months. We were in hospital at Bahia.'

‘All of you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Go on.'

‘He's ill, he's very ill,' the sailor said.

‘I can see that—you've already told me that. What happened to him?'

‘He was in the
Lucian
—she went down in the South Atlantic too. He was took aboard the
Oresenta
and he was in sick bay on her and then in three days he was in the sea again. See his head?'

‘What about his head?'

The sailor suddenly said ‘Nothing—see it.'

‘Tell me, are you Gelton men?'

‘Yes.'

‘Have the authorities informed your people.…?'

‘Don't know,' the sailor said. Suddenly he was sick.

‘This is a fine how d'ye do,' Father Twomey said, he rang the bell again, waited.

‘I want you to get both of these men upstairs, they're not in a fit condition for questioning. They are shipwrecked men. They have come from the other side of the world.'

He helped the man to get them out of the office.

‘Is the old man all right?'

‘He's fast asleep'—he stared at the two young men—‘poor devils,' he thought.

There was some difficulty in getting this dead weight to the upper floor, but they managed to put them into two beds in the same room.

‘They are all drunk, they had better sleep it off. It's really disgraceful the manner in which these derelict sailors are sent home—and after what must have been quite frightful experiences. A parcel in the post has more consideration.'

‘It's a shame,' the caretaker said—they went downstairs, they parted.

As the caretaker was shutting the door Father Twomey said ‘Whatever papers …'

‘All the papers found on them are already on your desk, Father. There were no papers on the old man. But he's a Catholic—he's a medal round his neck and he has some tattoo marks on him—they may help.'

‘Thank you, Delahane,' said the priest. He sat down to look through the papers.

They had dragged the old man with them half-across the world. The moment they were discharged in Bahia they got drunk. They got the old man drunk. They sailed for New York. They were drunk when they arrived there. In the West St Bethel the old man's screams upset everybody. They were drunk from New York to London. They dragged the old man behind them. They carried to the train enough liquor to keep them drunk and singing all through the five hours that the train lurched towards Gelton, and the three of them reeled from one side of the corridor to the other. For the last hour the old man had lain in a heap just outside the lavatory door and he was quite unconscious of the continuous movement, the continuous passage of bodies. Once or twice he screamed in his sleep, but this was almost unheard owing to the roar of the train and the loud singing of the two youths. They held whisky bottles in their hands, every passer-by was hailed loudly, truculently, was invited to have a drink. Finally, they slithered down to the floor, lay sprawled there, the empty bottles rolled from side to side, they slept deeply and did not wake until the train pulled into the main Gelton Station. Somehow they managed to drag themselves to their feet, somehow managed to support the shaking old man and together they lurched out of the station. A policeman stopped them. He questioned them. He gathered that they were looking for Father Twomey of the Apostleship of the Sea. They had travelled light, in only the clothes they stood in; he saw at once that they were shipwrecked sailors—he called a taxi and paid their fare. So they arrived, so they flung themselves into this quiet, white-walled room; they were home from the sea.

‘The old man is the problem here,' Father Twomey said to himself, ‘there is no name, no address. The other two only live a mile or so from here. I must question them again.'

Glancing at his watch he saw it was getting on to noon. He left the office and went upstairs. He went straight to the room where the two men lay. They were asleep. He shut the door, and went along to where the old man lay. When he went in he saw that the old man was awake, his eyes were wide open—he was staring up at the ceiling. Father Twomey pulled a chair after him and sat down by the bed.

‘Are you … you are awake?' he said.

There was no reply. The old man breathed heavily, he took a good look at him. A man of medium height, probably in the late sixties. Grey ashen features, greenish-grey eyes, the forehead was furrowed with deep lines. He looked at the hands lying helplessly on the coverlet. They were broken, misshapen, the nails smashed, he noticed a tattooed five-pointed star just below the back of the thumb. The neck was thin, he had obviously not shaved for some days. He saw then a great livid scar which ran from the back of his head down to the nape of his neck. It was so livid it reminded him of a raw wound.

‘Poor old man,' he thought, ‘I wonder what he's been through? Far too old for the hazards of the sea, and in wartime. Far too old.'

His glance came back to the eyes again and again, too bright, too staring.

‘Can you hear me?' said the priest, and then the old man's head slowly turned, he looked at the priest.

‘You have no papers. Please tell me your name.'

The eyes closed—after a momentary silence, he heard the old man say, ‘Gelton.'

‘Gelton! You mean you belong to Gelton. What is your name?'

There was another pause.

‘Fury,' … and then … ‘Dennis.'

‘I see. How long have you been away?' he asked gently—he put a hand lightly upon one of the ugly hands on the coverlet.

‘I don't know.'

‘Don't you remember?'

‘Don't know.'

‘What was your ship, Mr Fury?'

‘I don't care. Where is my wife—her name's Fanny?'

‘All in good time. I see you have been in hospital.'

‘Yes,' almost sullenly.

‘You are very ill,' said the priest.

There was no answer.

He put his fingers on the man's forehead, he stroked the forehead, then he wiped the sweat on his handkerchief. ‘Rest,' he said, then he turned away and went quietly out.

He sent for Delahane as soon as he reached his office.

‘When those young fellows have slept off their drunkenness, you may return these papers to them, and then see them off the premises.' He handed the collection of documents to Delahane.

‘I have got the old man's name. He has just told me. I'm afraid that old man has been dragged everywhere imaginable by those two sailors. They would seem to have entirely forgotten that they had had given into their charge a very sick old man. They seem to have drunk their way home. I'm not surprised and I do not blame them, but they are all of them lucky men. Now, I want you to go through the Missing List, if this man's name isn't there, it's bound to be amongst
KNOWN LOST
. Will you do that, Delahane? The lists are in the top drawer of the bureau in the next room.'

‘I know, sir. I will go and examine them.'

‘His memory must have been affected. He must have had a blow on the head, an ugly wound.'

Delahane returned after a few minutes.

‘Here are the particulars you want, Father. I think we've got our man safely home.' He began to read:

‘Dennis Fury, stoker. Aged sixty-seven.
H.M.T. Ronsa
…'

‘The address. Is there any address given?' asked Father Twomey, impatiently.

‘Yes, Hey's Alley.'

‘Hey's Alley. Let me see now. What parish is that, Delahane?'

‘Saint Sebastian's,' replied Delahane.

‘Good. We are nearly there. I shall ring up the parish priest. If they lived in Hey's Alley, then they belong to St Sebastian's.'

‘Yes, Father! That's right. Father Moynihan.'

‘Yes, Richard Moynihan. Get me his number, Delahane.'

‘Yes, Father.'

‘Then go up and see if those men are still asleep. If they are in any decent shape, you had better take them to the canteen for a meal. It will shut down in an hour.'

‘Your call, Father.'

‘Thank you.'

He waited till the caretaker had gone out.

‘Hello, Father Moynihan?'

‘I'm very sorry,' replied the voice at the other end, ‘but Father Moynihan has just been called out.'

‘Is that his housekeeper?'

‘Speaking.'

‘Please give Father Moynihan this message. It is urgent. Ask him will he please call here—the office of the Apostleship of the Sea. This is the chaplain speaking, Father Twomey.'

‘Very well, Father, I'll surely do that.'

‘Thank you.'

Father Twomey smiled as he put down the receiver. ‘He'll be home soon now, very soon. Poor old chap. I wonder what on earth he's doing on the wide oceans at his time of life? Imagine those young fools getting him drunk like that, what a journey it must have been! But I don't think that man will ever put foot on shipboard again.'

He got up, took his hat and umbrella and went out to lunch.

At three o'clock he was back again. He sat in the chair before the fire, his legs sprawled, he filled a pipe and smoked. He waited for Father Moynihan.

‘In twelve months,' he thought, ‘four hundred good men have gone from my parish and two hundred and twenty-two have found the bed of the sea. God help their very own! From one street alone fifteen of my parishioners are missing. If this war goes on much longer I'll have no parish at all.' He suddenly sat up, ‘Yes?' he called out.

‘Father Moynihan, Father.'

Father Twomey jumped up and opened the door.

‘How are you, Richard?' his hand outstretched. ‘I haven't seen you since five years ago at Maynooth.'

‘How are you, Joseph Twomey?' said the tall, grey-haired priest. ‘How are you getting along?' His voice was grave, quiet, he took the proffered chair and sat down.

‘Your housekeeper …'

‘I believe I have one of your parishioners upstairs—I hope I have. The name is Fury.'

‘I know the name. I knew the family of that name.'

‘This is an old man, very old, very sick, very tired,' continued Father Twomey.

‘The husband was posted missing from a transport a year ago,' said Father Moynihan. ‘A sad thing indeed. It struck the wife a bitter blow. What makes you think this man named Fury might be …,' he paused—‘Where is he? Is he here? I believe I should know him. Could I see him?'

‘In a moment, yes, but first I would like you to run your eye over these particulars, Richard.' He handed a long typewritten list to the priest.

‘I know the man indicated here. I know him very well. But I'm doubtful that you have the living man upstairs, Father Twomey, this man was definitely reported lost a year ago. There were no survivors from the
Ronsa.
'

‘Perhaps you had better come upstairs.'

Father Twomey knocked out his pipe and pocketed it. Father Moynihan followed him out. They went upstairs.

‘He may be asleep.'

‘Even so,' replied Father Moynihan, and followed the other to the end of the corridor.

‘In here.'

Father Twomey opened the door, stood aside for the other to pass, then closed it. He did not follow Father Moynihan to the bedside, but stood and waited. He saw the other bend low over the bed, then the hand was raised, a finger beckoned.

‘This poor creature,' said Father Moynihan ‘is Dennis Fury. I know. I know that face though the man has altered—dreadfully so—I know those tattoo marks on hand and wrists. And this,' he said pointing, ‘how terrible.'

He stared at the scar, ‘The old man must have been struck by something, a spar or the like.'

‘Probably. It is quite healed—and yet it looks always a fresh wound.'

‘The miracle to me,' said Father Moynihan ‘is that this man is here—lying in this bed, alive—warm—breathing. It is indeed a terrible home-coming, for there is no home to come to.'

He turned away from the bed, then on the point of leaving the room, he once more turned to look down at the old man. ‘He is deeply asleep,' he said.

‘I sat him in a chair this morning and he fell out of it. He was brought here by two young men, quite drunk. They said they were in charge of him, that they had to deliver him here, he might have been a sack of potatoes. They had got
him
drunk.'

‘Disgraceful. No matter, I think we had better go downstairs. There are things that I must do now.'

The two priests sat opposite each other in the office.

‘You know the man?' asked Father Twomey, offering his tobacco pouch to the other.

‘Thank you, Twomey. Yes, that man is Dennis Fury all right. I have known him for over twenty years. But there is a great change in him. He looks like a very old child. How astounding—he was not only given up as dead, but registered as such. I'm afraid this is going to be a terrible shock for the old woman.…'

‘His wife?'

‘Yes.'

‘He cannot be moved at present. And I think a doctor should see him this evening. I shall not forget to let the Marine authorities have a bit of my mind. To have sent that old man back in that state, dragged half-across the world by a couple of drunks …'

‘I myself would hold nothing against such men for getting drunk. Imagine what they may have been through,' said Father Moynihan.

‘I have been dealing with seamen for fifteen years,' Father Twomey protested.

‘Then you should have known better, Twomey.'

‘If you had seen the old man when they dragged him in here. However, the main thing is to get him home.'

‘It will be sad for him to learn that there is no home,' Father Moynihan said. ‘His wife has a room at St Stephen's Hospice, and has been there these past twelve months. She arrived there one very hot afternoon last July and asked for a room. She looked very tired and exhausted, and they took her in. She may not have known it at the time, but St Stephen's, as you know, is a hospice for the dying. Anyway, she has been there ever since. Her son, who is a trade union worker, and now in London, pays for her keep. But she does not know this. I'm afraid it's going to be a great disappointment to Dennis Fury, a man who has worked so hard all his life, and made one home after another for his family, the children of which are now scattered. I doubt very much whether the old woman has any heart left, certainly there can be no question of starting a home again. She has one other son in the Navy, at present stationed on the China coast—the youngest is in prison, and may be expected to get out in three years, all being well.…'