Our Time Is Gone: A Novel

By James Hanley

War has come to England, and the Furys soldier on

Desmond Fury calls himself a working man, but it has been years since he put in a full shift. A brutally arrogant union leader, he longs to escape the working class and sees World War II as his ticket to better things. He is at a banquet for war recruiters, savoring the atmosphere of refinement, when a call comes from the hospital that drags him right back into the mud.
 
His mother, the indomitable Mrs. Fury, has collapsed. After years of holding the family together—and making life hell for everyone in it—she lies in the hospital, near death. But Mrs. Fury is not finished yet. As Desmond fights for respectability and her other children wage battles of their own, Mrs. Fury will do what she can to keep her family intact—even if it kills her.
 
Our Time Is Gone is the third book of James Hanley’s acclaimed Furys Saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781497699878

James Hanley

James Hanley (1897–1985) was born in Liverpool, England, to an Irish Catholic family. He spent time in the merchant navy and served with the Canadian Infantry during World War I. From 1930 to 1981 Hanley published forty-eight books, including the novels Boy, The Furys, The Ocean, Another World, and Hollow Sea. He penned plays for radio, television, and theater and published a work of nonfiction, Grey Children, on the plight of coal miners. Hanley died in London but was buried in Wales, the setting for many of his works. 

Book preview

PART I

DREAMS

CHAPTER I

I

The crowds that surged round the doors of the Round House were good humoured, and full of spirit, and the bitingly cold wind of the November evening did not deter them. They pushed and swayed about the doors. They had been increasing in size for the past hour. As the first of the cars rolled up to the doors the crowd was forced back by the police, firmly, but not too firmly, as was usual when crowds gathered in such places. But this was no ordinary occasion and they could afford to be indulgent. At the sporadic outbursts of feeling, patriotic and otherwise, as well as the sometimes too manifest horseplay, they winked eyes. So long as good humour continued to permeate through the crowd they would remain indulgent. To them its only significance lay in sheer physical weight. But the Gelton Force had so often asserted itself against them, and in no unmistakable manner and authority, that they could this evening show a little indulgence. Society, at least that section of Gelton society that mattered, seemed quite safe.

To-night was a special occasion, and if Bumbledom trembled with pride, Geltonian crowds trembled too, upon the precipice of many anticipations. Here, then, was the first car. The crowd started to sway and push, hats were knocked off and feet trodden on, whilst somewhere in its midst a child’s wail rent the air. The police did their duty and in due course the first car door opened. There was a momentary silence. A low murmuring sound began, and then an excited member of the audience cried out:

‘Ooh! Why—it’s Sir Digby Dick!’

And it was Sir Digby Dick, a man of means, of large affairs, whose big red face had the bovine look of some of his own prize cattle. The crowd stood on its toes, leaned forward. Slowly, the gentleman moved towards the doors of the Hall. He smiled twice, hearing his name bandied about by the excited crowd.

The car rolled away and another took its place. A long black car, bearing the city’s crest on its windows and bonnet. The Lord Mayor. There were a few cheers then, and the Mayor passed inside. The excitement had now reached fever pitch, for the cars were rolling up in a steady stream. One dignitary after another got out and went into the Round House.

‘Plenty of money knocking about to-night.’

‘Think this idea’s a good one?’

‘Ah, a lot you’ll get out of the bloody war.’

‘Ooh! Just look at’er! Just look at her dress!’

‘There’s a smasher of a car for you. Know whose that is?’

‘A damned good stunt I call it.’

‘Here, you, you ought to be in the army, a great big lump like you!’

‘What for? Fighting for a big fat girl like you?’

‘Take a bet there’ll be a scrum to-night, mate.’

The remarks floated about on the night air. A line of cars stood, their engines silent, along the back area of the Round House, and in the front seats chauffeurs sat, as motionless as their charges, ciphers in livery. Some cheers burst forth, a few boos followed. A girl giggled, a man laughed. One rather important gentleman showed condescension. The crowd loved it.

The police looked on indifferently. When a battered-looking taxi drove up they knew that the last of the dignitaries had passed inside. Here then were the lesser fry, the not so important, the less picturesque.

Two men in tweeds and wearing immaculately white cutaway linen collars stepped out. Lanty and David. The crowd roared its hurrahs, the gentlemen smiled, and they, too, passed into the Round House. But to the general surprise a large Rolls car drove up, out of which stepped a number of army officers. When one of these, a tall burly looking man with a dark swarthy face got out, the crowd roared louder than ever.

Hurray! Hurray! Good old Fury.

Mr. Fury smiled, the other officers stood waiting. Then suddenly out of the car stepped a lady in black. The crowd saw her take Mr. Fury’s arm. The party then passed inside. When they had vanished from sight, tongues broke loose, opinions flew like hail. Some made themselves heard quite clearly above the crowd. A woman booed; a man spat, exclaiming: ‘Bloody turncoat! That’s what he is. Poshing it with the nobs now!’ The man spat again to show his contempt.

‘Yes, that was Mr. Desmond Fury all right, hob-nobbing with the great.’

‘Not Desmond Fury, surely?’

‘Course it is.’

‘Speaking on the platform with that lot? I thought he was against them all.’

‘So did I.’

‘He’s very fond of best butter on his bread. Three years ago he was nothing.’

‘They all turn, take it from me.’

‘A bloody, blustering patriot, eh! So that’s how it is. H’m! Lovely, isn’t it.’

The crowd listened to this latter comment in stony silence. This set the seal upon opinion, for good and all. A trade-union man hob-nobbing with the great. Unheard of. Unthinkable. But what could you expect, anyhow? The police listened, more patient. The world was at war. Let them have their little hour, their attitude seemed to say. Let them enjoy themselves. When crowds were good humoured, society, at least the best part of it, was safe. The high lights shone down on them and the wind continued to blow in wild gusts. Suddenly the public doors were opened and the fun began.

The crowd rushed forward, milled, stumbled, thrust, leaned, in fact it did all the things that healthy good-humoured crowds did; women shouted, girls giggled, youths thwacked off hats, old men breathed quickly, the pupils of hundreds of eyes became dilated. They were on the threshold at last. One fell and was trampled on. One lost a hat and laughed, one swore, one was silent. They poured in, and the air of the hall was electric. The air was full of words, the atmosphere tense. They could see that the dignified and important had already taken their seats, and some not so important sat quietly behind three solid rows of Bumbledom. Everybody talked. There was the platform, at present empty, its long deal table already covered with the Union Jack, and standing on it a number of water-bottles and glasses to come in handy during the perorations.

Somebody at the back of the hall cried audaciously:

‘Down with the bloody lot of them!’ and this was followed by a more final utterance that came from a gentleman a little drunk, who up to now had been ignored by everybody. ‘Down with every-bloody-body! That’s wass I say.’

Everybody laughed again. One cheered, one shouted. Hurrah! One clapped hands. Suddenly a woman screeched at the top of her voice: ‘Here they are! Don’t they look lovely!’

A man, quite unable to sense the satire behind the remark, promptly replied in a brusque-like voice: ‘They look fine. They’re grand. Three cheers, I say!’

The cheers that followed so half-heartedly were at once acknowledged by the ladies and gentlemen who had now filed in procession across the platform, there to take their seats and so look out upon a good assembly of Geltonian society.

A short man rose from the centre of this row and approached the table. He was dressed in the loudest brown suit imaginable, sported a violently red tie as well as a much-brilliantined head of greying hair. When he spoke he did so slowly, awkwardly, owing to a loose upper dental plate, but nobody took any notice of him. After all, he was nothing in particular. The secretary, the announcer, the organizer and arranger of these meetings. His red face bristled with importance.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Then a dignified pause. He was waiting for absolute silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. To-night as you know we have arranged this meeting because we feel that the time has now come to weigh in the balance …’ and here he stopped. Perhaps he had forgotten his speech. Or perhaps the dentist’s plate had proved more troublesome than he had anticipated.

‘Come on then, man. Weigh the balance, can’t you?’

‘I—er—as you know——’ Pause. ‘—Ladies and gentlemen, we have here this evening a representative body of opinion that cannot fail to have some influence upon you all. I’—he spoke quietly now; his voice had a kind of gobble in it, not unlike a turkey’s—‘I—we—we are at war! The hour has come’—pause—‘the time has gone by when we could——’

‘Ahem!’ This came from the man at the end of the row, Sir Digby Dick.

The audience watched the gentleman’s mouth, and watched his hands. They watched his feet under the table, and they watched the expanse of gold chain shake upon his waistcoat. And the bright light was like a halo over his brilliantined hair. Suddenly, to everybody’s surprise, he struck his fist upon the table and announced in a voice more controlled and dignified: ‘I now call upon his Worship the Mayor to address the meeting.’

Having said this, he retreated backwards and was guided to his seat by a hand that by good fortune alone had steered Mr. Dingley well clear of a lady’s lap.

The Mayor rose and approached the table. A short thin man in clerical grey, middle-aged, going bald, with an almost cadaverous-looking skin. He played with a pencil, occasionally hitting the table with it. The crowd sat up now. Silence reigned again. Here was the Mayor of Gelton. Having taken a good look at his audience he commenced to speak.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Now in this first year of a terrible war, it is my bounden duty to impress upon you the urgent need of every one of us to do our bit. The greatest and the least. This meeting has been called because we must impress you with the supreme importance of one thing. Our Duty.’

‘Hear! Hear!’

‘Hurrah!’

‘Three cheers for the Mayor!’

‘To-night there stands upon the platform representatives of the Army, of the Law and professions, as well as’—pause—‘ahem—as well as, I am proud to say, the elected representatives of the people—I mean the working people. And am I not right in saying that it is the workers who always suffer in war? Therefore I say we must get together’—pause—‘we must unite! You in this hall to-night, you mothers and sweethearts, you sons and brothers, all—all of you will pay a price so heavy, so’—pause—‘so great——’

‘Rubbish!’

‘Silence!’

‘Tommy rot!’

‘Why don’t you go and fight?’

‘Get off the bloody platform, and let somebody speak who can.’

‘Give him a chance.’

‘Shut up!’

‘Kick him out.’

When the momentary hubbub died down the Mayor continued, though one glance at the expression on his face showed that this could only be done under the greatest pain and stress.

‘I know we have to think carefully! This war might go on for years’—pause—‘for centuries—er—I mean——Ladies and gentlemen, as Mayor of this great city it was my duty to come and preside at this great meeting. This great drive for men and more men—this great drive for——’

‘And women too,’ announced a thin, cracked voice from the body of the hall.

‘This great drive, ladies and gentlemen, has brought here to-night those men who by experience know best what war means. I mean——’ The Mayor paused, looked round; the faces on the platform smiled up at him. ‘We must have men! More men! Our very existence is now threatened by the Huns. Our livelihood. Can we stand here and do nothing? Can we sit calmly here to-night and not visualize the horror through which our country is passing? We are a great country. For years and years …’ and here the Mayor felt a finger pushing into the small of his back, and the finger seemed to say: ‘What’s all this about? You were simply asked to get up and say a few words, a few introductory things about the men on the platform, who whether we like it or not have suddenly assumed an importance it would be suicidal to hold from them. That,’ the finger seemed to say, ‘is enough! Introduce the next speaker. Mr. Desmond Fury.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ went on the Mayor, ‘we are happy to have on our platform to-night one who can rightly say he is a worker. One who has the great cause of the workers at heart. And who has honoured us by electing to speak. I now call upon Captain Desmond Fury, whom we all know. One who has done much to improve the conditions of the workers, and who through his great organizing ability, has been honoured to lead a body of men whose loyalty is not, never was, in doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Desmond Fury.’

For a full minute the roars in the hall were deafening. Then Captain Fury rose.

‘Get down!’

‘Throw him out!’

‘Worker! He’s no worker!’

‘Silence.’

‘Chuck him out!’

‘Order! Order!’

‘Bloody turncoat! That’s what he is!’

‘Silence—please.’

Calmness returned. The big, swarthy-faced man approached the table. When he pressed his large, strong hands palm downwards upon the table and faced his audience, one realized at once that he would speak without pause, without fear, and in the face of all opposition. His powerful figure seemed to have had a most extraordinary effect upon the people on the platform. They looked up at him. A big man—a physical giant. The audience saw his powerful face, those behind him the strength of his back. They saw feet, firmly planted, feet that would not move until the last word had been said.

Captain Fury gave one studious look at the vast audience before him. Then he looked over their heads, looked above and beyond them. He commenced to speak. His voice rang through the hall like a great bell. His body leaned forward, shoulders arched themselves.

‘My Lord Mayor,’ he turned to bestow a smile upon the Mayor, and the rest of the assembly, not forgetting his wife. ‘My Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen. It is not my purpose here to-night to extol, to castigate, rather is it to appeal. I have done so much of the former’—here he paused to give way to the laughter and little hand-claps—‘but to-night I have felt it my duty to appeal to that body of men and women, whom I have had the honour of knowing, since, ladies and gentlemen, I am one of themselves——’

There was a chorus of cat-calls, but they sailed past Captain Fury’s ears.

‘There is no man in this hall to-night, whose cause has not been taken up by me. I have fought for and with them. To-night I appeal to them. They have suddenly become of the greatest importance: overnight as it were. I recognize that this war is a just one. It is one in which everybody is involved. Workers and employers. Lords and commoners. Kings and beggars. We are fighting for Right over Might. To-night I feel it my duty to appeal to the workers of this city to roll up in their thousands, and in their tens of thousands. In the past months I have organized as fine a body of men as the world could ever have. And I organized them because I realized that here lay an unused fund. A fund of energy—a fund whose usefulness was best shown by organization. This body of men has commanded the respect of the country; and so successful has this been that I am happy to say that in the near future I shall proceed to London, there to organize and perfect a body of labour whose importance cannot be estimated. I go further, ladies and gentlemen, and say from conviction and from that knowledge that only comes to one who has himself been a worker——’ here he paused again, and this time his ears opened wide to the cheering, the sounds those ears liked best.

He stood erect now, arms folded, always giving the impression that where all this came from, this worthiness or falsity, there was yet much more to come, ‘—one who himself has been and is a worker—and proud to lead such splendid men. I know, my Lord Mayor, that there have been occasions when we have differed, but——’

Pandemonium broke loose. This had only one effect upon Captain Desmond Fury. He stood rigid, fearless, determined. Suddenly he found himself shouting, then roaring, and then he had risen high above the din. Triumphant. Absolutely unassailable. Bumbledom cheered, one waved a tiny Union Jack, one stamped his feet loudly. Hands clapped. Half the audience had risen, some were making gestures that everybody excepting the speaker feared. He was not worried about demonstrations, about riots. He was too used to that sort of thing. It was easy. They were simply sheep. Nothing more, nothing less. He roared at them like a bull. Thumped his fist upon the table.

By this time a good part of the audience were lost to view, hidden behind the clouds of tobacco smoke that rose and hung in the air. He went on and on. He was like a turned-on tap. Compared with the efforts of the previous speaker it was shattering. People fidgeted in their seats, there were whispers amongst the people behind Captain Fury. Mr. Dingley looked at Mrs. Fury and forgot the importance of this occasion, so entranced was he by her charming smile. And how well she dressed.

A charming woman indeed, and what a smile. One of those smiles that meant much more than it really conveyed. And Mr. Dingley stared and stared. From time to time Mrs. Fury looked up at her husband. She was lost in admiration for him. These last months had been revealing ones for her without a doubt. Now she could say with perfect equanimity that she had taken the wisest of all possible courses. No, she could never regret it. She had learned a lot. She smiled up at her husband again, though there was nothing much to see beyond his broad back and towering height that had the effect of shutting off a good deal of the audience.

‘You men in this hall! I appeal to you to come forward and enrol. Be one of the members of this great battalion. I am forming these battalions of workers, all massed together, my friends, in a just cause. Because why?’ The table shook under the impact of the powerful fist. ‘Because I am convinced this war is a just war. If you should lose it I can well see the material conditions of the people going down, making a common level with the worst of all possible material conditions—the continental level! That is what it might mean. It would mean. Enrol to-night. I appeal to you to enrol. It is my intention to form battalions all over this country, to organize them for the good of this country.’ He paused. Was that a swelling of the chest as he added quietly: ‘And the Government are behind me? Yes, the Cause is your cause,’ and the word ‘your’ was literally flung into the audience’s face.

He was carried away, he went on and on, swimming in the flood of his oratory. Behind him Sir Digby whispered into Mr. Dingley’s ear. It looked as though he, Sir Digby, wouldn’t get a word in this evening. The man must stop soon. He stopped sooner than the worried knight had anticipated, and a most astonishing thing happened.

The audience, a goodly part of them, were rising, turning their backs upon the speaker and making for the doors. It pulled up Captain Fury in his magnificent stride. The audience were not listening, not booing or cheering, not questioning. They were simply moving out of the hall. Captain Fury watched, counted twenty, then thirty people passing out through the doors! This looked like collapse. And more than that. To him, Captain Desmond Fury, the worst of all possible insults. He roared out: ‘Close the doors! Close the doors!’ Almost in the same moment that a hand touched him and a voice said softly behind him: ‘Stop! Let Sir Digby speak! He can hold them.’

Not until Sir Digby stood beside him did Captain Fury retire to his seat. In that moment he was glad of the feel of his wife’s hand, and he was a delighted child when she smiled approval at him. He found the opportunity to whisper in her ear. ‘I’m more determined than ever now to get out of Gelton.’

‘Of course, darling.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Of course you do, darling. What a shame they wouldn’t listen to you! But then …’

‘Then what?’ asked Captain Fury.

‘Ssh! Sir Digby is speaking,’ she said. ‘Listen to what he has to say.’

And Desmond listened, though he kept thinking of the effect he had had upon the meeting. Um. It was obvious that they hadn’t forgotten! The murder case. The case of his brother. Damn the case and damn them. He hadn’t forgotten them either. He hadn’t forgotten their attitude during the strike. They remembered—but so did he. To hell with them. He was on the move. Nothing could stop him. That was the great thing. Moving. He slapped his knee with his broad hand. Well, here was a fact none could deny. He, Desmond Fury, Captain Desmond Fury, was on that platform with the best of them, in spite of them, in spite of everybody. By God he would show them that when he began there was no end. No. No end. Just going on and on and on. He’d get to London. Organize there. Organize, organize, organize. Great battalions of workers. He’d take command. There was nothing to stop a Colonelcy coming along. He looked at his wife. Her attention was entirely devoted to the speaker. Desmond sat back and listened too. Well one of the great things to-night had been just this. They had sat and listened to him. They had had to. It pleased him very much.

The speaker who carried on his talk with a spectacular use of the hands had a low musical voice. Desmond Fury was not five minutes listening before he was troubled by an uncomfortable thought. This thought conveyed to him in no uncertain manner, in all its shattering finality, the conviction that between them a gulf was fixed. Like the gulf between Sheila and himself. Yet they were happy, ideally so, they loved each other. But that insufferable gulf remained. What was this gulf? Captain Fury, cursed with the awkwardness that one associates only with the adolescent, would have found it hard to explain. He was intensely conscious of the enormity of that gulf. He was forced to use the word enormous, simply because it had an effect upon him that was more physical than spiritual or mental. It was indeed a habit of his, more noticeable than ever since he had started his ‘climb,’ of mentally stimulating himself with the thought that he was as good as she was. As good as they were. He saw it clearly. Others saw it in his actions.

If this difference between Sheila and himself, between Sir Digby even, was something one could tread on and crush he would have crushed it long ago, or something one could whisk away, then he would have swept it away. But it only remained a murdering thought. Yes. She was different. So was Sir Digby. There was something about even an old fool like Sir Digby that Desmond was jealous of. He couldn’t say what it was exactly. Perhaps it was the difference of awkward adolescence and the lucidity of the mature. It worried him! He was even jealous at times. He lost himself in his thoughts, unmindful of the fact that Sir Digby had indeed ‘stopped the rot.’ No audience, at least what remained of it, could have been more peaceful and contented.

Mrs. Fury leaned towards Desmond. ‘You’re tired,’ she said, and he felt her gloved hand in his own.

‘Tired!’ He smiled. ‘Hungry, you mean, darling. I could eat a horse.’

Captain Fury thought of the Alpacia restaurant towards which the dignitaries would adjourn, to enjoy a dinner at the expense of the mellow, and thoroughly good-humoured Sir Digby Dick. That of course would be the high-light of the occasion. Captain Fury was not only elated, he was proud. His sharp eye took in Mr. Dingley’s admiring glances, the worshipful Mayor’s sly looks, the Lady Digby’s tilted chin and the pale blue eyes that looked at Sheila and then at him, full of curiosity. It pleased him immensely. And on the strength of this sudden elation he squeezed his wife’s hand, saying:

‘Darling, will I be sorry when we can get out of this? I mean out of Gelton altogether? I don’t feel I’ll ever change until I do. I want a whole new break with living.’

She smiled lovingly at him. This desire to leave Gelton had two meanings. She wished indeed that her Desmond would always be honest. Why didn’t he say now that because he loved her, he was a little afraid for her, of her?

But Desmond gave no sign.

Sir Digby had had a most miraculous effect upon his audience. And half an hour later, when the party on the platform had adjourned and made themselves comfortable at the Alpacia, it became the subject of much conversation. Sir Digby was complimented left and right.

Captain Fury listened to it with one ear, whilst with the other he listened to the periodic comments upon the assembly that his wife was pleased to make. He felt very proud of her. She was so assured where he himself was inclined to be awkwardly shy, so quiet and dignified where he was only blustering and suspicious. Yes. There was a difference in their natures. There it was. It couldn’t be helped. He must live up to her. Not she down to him. He would be glad to shake the Gelton dust from his feet. He was worth it. He had worked. It had been a long, hard, bitter struggle. But he had got out of it, and now he was staying out.

‘Pay attention,’ Sheila was saying, ‘people are looking at you,’ at which remark Captain Fury blushed like a schoolboy just found pilfering in the larder. And at that moment he wanted to get up and go out. He felt if he could be alone for just five minutes he’d be all right. He was hot and flustered. He watched the others, finally he excused himself at a most opportune moment. As he rose, a tall dark-haired man left the table and went to the toilet. In his wake followed Captain Fury. He little knew how opportune it was for the gentleman. They could not help but meet. Their attitude was cordial, at least the thin gentleman’s was, and Captain Fury a little taken aback by the easy familiarity, did his best to be accommodating. He hadn’t wanted to speak to the fellow at all. He knew the name, but only slightly. Lawrence Trears. A solicitor or something.

The two men looked at each other over the white marble slab. ‘Cigarette?’ said Mr. Trears, offering a gold case to Desmond.

‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ replied Captain Fury, and the solicitor had a good look at the finger and thumb that gripped the cigarette from his case. Quite unmistakable, you could tell them anywhere! They never paused—considered. A tendency to respond more than willingly, a tendency to grab indeed. And then he looked Captain Fury straight in the face.

‘Captain Fury?’ he said, smiling, revealing beautiful teeth that amazed Desmond, for they were really Mr. Trears’s own.

‘Yes, that’s me! Captain Fury! Desmond Fury.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I liked the few words you spoke to-night. I confess to being intrigued by the name. Nothing extraordinary, of course. Purely a professional curiosity. You wouldn’t be the …’ and then he saw Captain Fury blush. He stopped suddenly. Should he have said that? And then the complete, the outright honesty of the Captain, disarmed him. Put him at his ease.

‘Yes,’ said Captain Fury. ‘I belong—or belonged—to that filthy business.’

‘Filthy,’ thought the lawyer, looking away from the Captain. He lit a cigar. ‘Curious,’ he said, ‘it’s only a week ago that I had a visit from Mrs. Fury.’

‘My mother.’

‘Yes. That’s right, of course! I assure you, Captain Fury, that I did my very best for your brother. I am very sorry. I am glad to have met you.’

‘Thank you.’

It surprised by its coldness. But the lawyer had learned how to be courageous. He had begun. He would finish. There was something about this tall, powerful man that he liked. So this was the son. He had not put in any appearance at the trial. Not that it mattered or would have made much difference. He had heard of Desmond Fury before, but under less distressing circumstances. But fancy bumping into him now.

‘Your wife is charming,’ he said, and again there burst from those thick lips the cold, staccato:

‘Thank you.’

‘I won’t talk, Captain. Perhaps we’d better get back to our table.’

Captain Fury put a restraining hand upon Mr. Trears’s arm as he made to open the door.

‘I don’t mind,’ he said; ‘you say my mother called.’

‘Yes. It is the eighteenth time in only thirteen months. I had to send her away as I had done on all the other occasions. I was very sorry for her.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She wanted me to do the impossible, Captain Fury. I shall tell you something. There is something really beautiful about your mother. I mean she has an innocence in her, a——’

‘What exactly did she want?’ asked Captain Fury. ‘I’d like to know very much.’

‘She wants me to approach the Home Secretary! Even the King. It’s quite useless. Only a masterful defence saved your brother from the rope. Of course, I pointed out to your mother that later I would try. But not now! I presume you see little of her, Captain. Well—I think I’d better be getting back.’

‘Same here,’ said Desmond, which really meant: ‘Not interested.’ He followed behind the other. Sheila looked at them as they approached.

Seated at table again they began their dinner, joined in the conversation, listened to each other’s arguments and each hoped he was admired for his cleverness, whilst the ladies were content entirely with their looks. Sir Digby’s wife and Sheila found enough to be interested in without dragging upon the things that had been the subject of the entire meeting. War! War! War! Every kind of war was discussed at the dinner-table. Only Captain Fury amongst the male assembly looked on in silence. He wanted to go. Take Sheila home. Get up and apologize. He wanted indeed to get out of Gelton! Mr. Trears’s was only the first; there would be others!

So his mother had called. And Mr. Trears had told her how impossible it was. Captain Fury’s state of mind was one that could allow itself, even in spite of his own worries, suddenly to think of his brother. Poor Peter! But he had simply asked for it. Walked right into the thing, so to speak. One had to think of Peter whole, and Peter whole meant much more than the murder of a moneylender! When he, Captain Fury, came to think about it he thought he had been, if not quite decent, then calm and controlled. And after all it was Peter who had been playing with Sheila behind his back. A bit of a kid. He, Desmond, hadn’t murdered anybody, though he certainly had the greatest right to. But what was the use of going over all that again. Yes, what was the use? And at this point thinking ceased. Captain Fury’s mind simply shut down its door.

He looked at Sheila! It was wonderful. If those people only knew how much he enjoyed their glances, admiring and covetous, questioning and curious. She was a beautiful woman. People simply had to take notice of that fact; she was young, beautiful, intelligent, and he was her husband. Captain Fury basked in their looks. That Trears fellow! A year ago he meant nothing to Trears. Small fry then. But to-night he told him how charming his wife was. But more than that. Really wonderful. He felt that the lawyer had been too reserved.

‘Captain Fury?’

Desmond looked up. Sir Digby met his look, smiled, said slowly, very seriously, and with much drumming of fingers upon the table. ‘Captain Fury. How long do you suppose it would take you to raise say two battalions of workers? I mean in the transport section. I thought your Gelton work very fine. Very fine indeed. The idea was so good, so new. So …’

Captain Fury beamed. ‘Oh,’ he said, drawling, ‘just three months. No more.’

He sat back in his chair, a big hand round his wine-glass. A slight pressure and it seemed the glass would shatter to fragments. The hand seemed to interest Sir Digby very much. Lawyer Trears looked at Sheila, but she was engaged in deep conversation with Lady Digby. Smoke, and of a most fragrant tobacco, curled up towards the ceiling of the Alpacia, and a yard away a somewhat bored waiter followed its movement across the room. There was a leisurely contented air about the place. One could not imagine the real cause of this dinner to be one of celebrating the quickest and easiest way to prosecute a war. Blood seemed so far away. It might have been a vicar’s party. It was jolly.

Everybody smiled, enjoyed the food, and only the most vulgar asked himself why this Sir Digby should have so much money. Mrs. Fury listened to two people at once. To her husband’s garrulous talk through a trained ear and to the curious self-conscious chit-chat of Lady Digby. Mr. Dingley and my Lord Mayor had drawn their chairs closer together, and seemed islanded all by themselves as they talked about whether Geltonians should have music in the park on Sundays. The more serious business in helping on the prosecution of a war was one for people like Captain Fury, and Mr. Dingley was secretly pleased that the Colonel and Adjutant of the Geltonian Regiment had not elected to join in.

‘I think,’ said Sir Digby, as he endeavoured to strike a tune from the rim of his wine-glass, ‘I think it was a splendid idea organizing them on purely military lines. It does mitigate the possibilities of strikes, of unrest, and of course the power vested in the Government would hold them down to a plan, a set plan of campaign. For instance …’

Here Sir Digby had to stop, in fact everybody stopped talking at once and looked up as a waiter approached the table. He looked directly at Desmond Fury.

‘Captain Fury, sir?’

‘That’s me,’ said Desmond, and began adjusting his belt, and arranging his tie.

‘You’re wanted on the’phone, sir. At once! It’s very urgent.’

‘Yes. Right!’ and the Captain got up, saying almost shamefacedly: ‘Excuse me.’

Sheila watched him go out. Sir Digby watched Sheila, waiting for a chance to speak.

He had been waiting for a long time. It amused him to think that he was intrigued by her. Suddenly the waiter came to the table, bent over Sheila, and whispered: ‘Madam, Captain Fury has been called away on a matter of great urgency, and he asks me to say that he thinks you should go on home.’

The woman went suddenly pale, looked at everybody, half rose, then said quietly: ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen—I——’ and she was on her feet at once.

The waiter approached to get her coat and gloves. But Mr. Trears had got them already. He came round the table. ‘Allow me, Mrs. Fury! So sorry you have to rush away like this. I do hope it’s nothing serious. So pleased to have met your husband.’ His eyes were right on her now, the fingers of his right hand whisked away imaginary dust from the sleeve of her coat. ‘By the way, if you wish, I could run you home. I’ve the car here and it’s no trouble, no trouble at all.’

She was already moving away, and Mr. Trears was following behind her. The remainder of the party began to pull themselves together. Departure en masse seemed inevitable. And in the smoke-room just beyond the dining-room Mrs. Fury was questioning the waiter. He replied to her question with the correct amount of deference. One so well trained as he could see at once that this was a real lady. He ‘Yes madamed’ and ‘No madamed’ whilst Mr. Trears respectfully stood away. Where was the call from? Who was it? The War Office or the Transport Union, or what? How long would he be? Had he left no other message beyond advising her to go home?

‘The call was from a hospital, madam. I understood it was urgent. But I don’t know what hospital exactly. He seemed worried, madam. He said you were to go straight home, madam. He didn’t know how long he would be, but he would get back as soon as possible, and that was all he could tell me, madam.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked across at Mr. Trears smilingly and exclaimed: ‘If you don’t mind, Mr. Trears. I’d be grateful. It’s a long way from here, and I’ve a bad headache.’

She slipped something into the waiter’s hand. ‘Thank you, madam.’

‘Certainly, certainly, Mrs. Fury. Only too happy to oblige. Repton Court Road. I know it. Actually I pass it. I am sorry about your headache. I hope nothing is wrong,’ and Mr. Trears led the woman out of the hotel at a leisurely pace, and anybody seeing this pair emerge from the front door of the Alpacia could not help but think that the world was rather a nice place to live in. A moment later the gentle purr of a car grew into a sort of muffled roar and Mr. Trears and Mrs. Fury had vanished. A light rain like dust made a film on the windows. The wind was beginning to drive in from the east. The night was cold and a pale moon made fantastic what in the light of day was drab. The clutter of deserted streets.

‘Are you Captain Fury?’ came the voice over the line; and Desmond gripped the receiver hard.

‘I am.’

‘Are you Captain Desmond Fury?’ asked the same monotonous voice, and then the speaker coughed.

‘Yes. Of course I am,’ he growled, and it was on the tip of his tongue to follow up with: ‘Who the hell are you?’ Why hadn’t he gone home as soon as the meal was over?

‘This is the General Hospital speaking. There is a Mrs. Fanny Fury here. Just brought in. Are you her son?’

‘Yes. Yes. Who are you? What is wrong?’

Captain Fury fidgeted violently. People were passing and re-passing. Their footsteps were unheard upon the thick pile carpet of the Alpacia, nevertheless they seemed to now stamp into that other ear. And then the voice droned on. Then he was to come at once? Yes? Urgent? His mother! Where? How? What had happened? To his own complete astonishment he exclaimed, ‘Poor mother!’

‘No,’ went on the voice. ‘Not that. Complete collapse.’ And he was to hurry now.

Captain Fury let the receiver drop with a crash. Then he called a waiter, gave him a message. He left at once, hailed a taxi, directed it to the Gelton General Hospital. The taxi sped away on wheels that had been hungry all day.

So his mother had collapsed! Good Lord! He hadn’t seen her for a long time. Hadn’t seen any of the family for that matter. Now he supposed he would see them all. Everybody. His father. ‘Poor dad.’ But was he home? Perhaps he wasn’t. And Kilkey. Joe Kilkey. ‘Completely a bachelor by now,’ and Maureen. Yes, Maureen! Even that old faggot from Cork. My heavens, he hoped not. And only twenty minutes ago he was seated at the table enjoying himself. Yes, it was enjoyment, no doubt about that. Life had taught him one thing anyhow. How to enjoy himself. He enjoyed this evening. And Sheila there! And everybody admiring her. The right sort of people too. It warmed far more than the wine he had drunk. What a rich bug that Dick fellow was. Rotten with money. Stinking with money. Always had had it. Even while he, Captain Fury, had been hammering wedges into the permanent way. All that time. Just imagine. Funny seeing that lawyer fellow to-night. Poor mother! Still hoping to get Peter out! Damn it, he must write Peter a letter. Poor lad! Wonder what he thought of himself now? Fooling about with women at his age, and not content with girls of his own age. Oh no! Must have other men’s wives. Silly lad! But you can’t blame him. No! He had argued against all that rot without avail, and somehow the word rot made him think of his mother again. Poor mother! Her idea! And now she was in …

‘Did you say General, sir?’ called the driver through the window.

‘Course I said General! Hurry, will you! Hurry, blast you!’

‘Very good, sir,’ and the taxi seemed to shoot forward at a bound. The General Hospital! Now where was this exactly? ‘The Gelton General. Let me see,’ and he named the half-dozen hospitals of Gelton. The General must be a new one, or had changed its name.

‘Gelton General Hospital, sir.’ The taxi pulled up with a jerk and Captain Fury stepped out. The gentle drizzle had now turned into fine rain.

‘How much?’

‘Three and three, sir.’

‘Here!’

‘Thank you, sir.’Night, sir.’

Desmond stood watching the taxi roll away into the darkness. And now he looked up at the tall building and a hundred lighted windows winked down at him. Somewhere behind one of those twinkling lights she lay. He said again: ‘Poor mother.’ Then he looked higher, wondering if he had seen this hospital before. There was the tower, the big black-faced clock with its dull brass hands. There were the tall iron railings, the low sandstone wall. No! For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Must indeed be new.

His hands gripped his belt. For some reason or other he looked right and left before he entered the gates. Then he walked quickly up the drive. He rang the bell and waited. The most uncomfortable feelings assailed him as the door opened and the beam of light picked him out, shining down on his uniform, showing up his powerful figure, his big and fleshy, though far from repulsive features. ‘Thank you,’ he said and stepped inside. A horrible smell of disinfectant.

The porter asked him for particulars, gave a curt: ‘Thank you. Wait here, please,’ and having seen the Captain seated, went off down the long corridor to vanish at length through a green swing door.

Desmond leaned his head against the wall, stared up at the clean white ceiling, the white walls—a white world. The silence of the place touched the heights of awe. The atmosphere made Captain Fury feel more uncomfortable than ever. He scraped his foot impatiently and a wave of hollow sound flooded the silence. He sat quiet, listening. How long would they be? Was it——? No, it wasn’t! It couldn’t be. He gripped his belt again. The flesh of the hand showed whiter.

When the swing door opened it revealed a nurse. She approached him on feet that seemed to make no sound at all. Captain Fury rose. He towered over the five foot two of the young nurse. He suddenly opened his mouth. He talked. He gave the nurse a number of particulars she enquired for. He asked countless questions. A mind into which was already stealing broken fragments of a past time, had suddenly become confused. He wondered how she looked. His mother. Poor mother. Was she … no … couldn’t be—oh dear … Yes. He had sent her five shillings a week for a long time and a postal order for a pound during the week of the trial. But she had not written to thank him, for the simple reason that he wanted no thanks, and besides he had made it impossible by giving her no address to which to write. He had read the whole case. He had been there! Had been called as a witness. But he had always managed to avoid her. Was she lying still now? How? Where?

His mind became flooded by the very weight of these fragments. There followed only a mist. He thought of nothing. He simply followed the nurse, his eyes fastened upon those tiny fairy feet, the attraction of them a momentary relief. And he was fascinated by the way they skipped over the parquet flooring. Twice he had nearly slipped and she had turned, saying softly: ‘Ssh! Quiet please. Careful! Careful!’ At that point Captain Fury had decided to remove his hat. He swung it in his hand.

They had passed through the green doors, and were now climbing white steps. He suddenly put out a hand and touched the nurse’s shoulder. ‘Please,’ he said. She turned and looked him full in the face. The eyes were full open upon her. Big eyes. The face was rather frightening to her, but the eyes were honest.

‘I’m rather frightened,’ he stammered, and she knew this set the seal upon his honesty. He swung his hat more violently, pulled continuously at his belt.

‘Of what, sir?’ she asked; and turning on her heel beckoned him on. There was something imperious, authoritative, something dignified, trusting and consoling in her very attitude. She heard him following. They stopped at a door. Was this it? His mother! He wondered, but it wasn’t, and they ascended yet another flight of steps. At this height even the breathing sounded cavernous below. He stopped again. The nurse went on. He called to her in a low voice.

‘This way, please.’

Her voice was cold, impersonal. She ignored his frightened humanity. And then there came yet another white door. This was it. So it seemed to Desmond, for she had now put a hand on the brightly polished knob.

‘Is she—it’s my mother! D’you think she——Was she … I … Is it——’

‘Quietly. This way, please.’ She turned the knob, swung back the door, stepped aside for the Captain to enter. She stared down at the floor, looking at his big feet as he passed. A big man. Well, here big men were no better than little men. And captains no better than beggars. And fear no better than shame. Here all things were levelled and cries as well as laughs made the arches under which the hours, slow or swift, moved on like the waters of a river.

Desmond Fury looked down into a long dimly lit ward. At first sight it gave him the impression of a railway tunnel, but a very queer railway tunnel. There were long lines of beds on either side. And in the centre a great stove, tables, many flowers. Bare walls, excepting for the charts of patients, and over each bed the now extinguished lights under their cupped hoods. He looked up. Enormous height, and three lights glimmering down. The air alive with breathings. The very air itself seemed to have a voice, burdened as it was by these monotonous breaths. Then a hand touched his arm.

‘This way, please.’

When he looked down he saw that the first nurse had gone. This one looked like a sister, or was it the matron? They had gone about three yards down the ward, he on tiptoe and finding it difficult without making a deal of noise, the nurse in front with finger raised. It seemed the occupants of the ward were all asleep. She spoke softly to him.

‘Your mother is seriously ill. I think you should know.’

‘They told me on the’phone,’ he said, and his words were leaden, falling so from a tongue that was now swelling inside his mouth. He felt it was choking him.

‘Seriously ill. I thought you had better know.’ These words went round and round the Captain’s mind. Poor mother! It was a long time since he had seen her. When he felt shame creeping over him like some repulsive unwanted skin, he balanced himself, he balanced the scales evenly by reflecting now that it was she who had made them, and not only made them, but driven them from her, and from each other! When at last the nurse stopped he saw, and realized at last.

The bed was screened. Captain Fury stopped dead. He looked at the nurse. Was he simply imagining all this? Was it the effects of all that wine? That high chatter, that … and then the same hand touched him again and the voice said: ‘This way. Very quietly.’ She led him round the screen and at last he saw her.

‘Mother! Poor mother!’ he said.

The nurse vanished He knelt down at the bed and looked into her face. When he placed his hands on the bed he realized something else.

His mother was strapped down to the bed. And in the far corner, almost half behind and half in front of the screen, a figure sat, head in hands, and was motionless But Captain Fury had not noticed. He saw nothing at this moment except the prone figure in the bed. The white face, the closed and sunken eyes, the slightly fallen chin, the fine nose, the lined forehead, the straggling unruly hair, now greying fast.

For a long time he looked into her face. Then he raised his hand to touch her cheek. She must be deeply asleep, he thought. ‘Oh poor, poor mother.’

Collapsed! Where? Where? How? He wanted to stroke her face. But suddenly he withdrew his hand as though the face were flame, for soft spoken words came round the screen and Captain Fury gave a little jump and looked up at once.

‘Don’t touch, please!’ the voice said.

Captain Fury rested his head on the sheets. So this was his mother. Strapped to the bed. He should have seen her more often. He should have done more. He should have tried to be——‘Good God!’ he muttered under his breath. He touched her hand. He ran his finger up and down upon her fingers. Then he lowered his head. He really wanted to cry. He felt unutterably sad.

When he looked up again he stared not at the screen, not at his mother, but into the eyes of his father; for that silent huddled figure had sat up, had moved nearer to the bed. They looked at each other in silence. Captain Fury could not speak. Not across that figure in the bed. He rose to his feet, went round to the other side of the bed, gripped his father’s hand.

‘Dad!’ then he paused, ‘I’m so sorry.’

The man’s hand hung loosely in his own. The hard gnarled hand he knew so well, the tattooed hand, the hand that had worked for them all, and sometimes cuffed. He said again: ‘Dad! I’m so sorry. I——’

‘Are you?’

A silence followed. Suddenly the nurse was speaking over the screen top. They must go now.

‘Yes,’ she said, coming round to them, ‘you must go now.’

Desmond Fury did not move, did not hear. He just went on staring into his father’s face. How white and drawn, how terribly, terribly old he looked. He saw the lips tremble, the hands, the clumsy hands pulling continuously and distractedly at the seams of his trousers, then pulling at his vest. Poor mother! Poor dad! And whilst he stared he wondered about the others. Had they been? Anthony? Was he home? Had Maureen been? And Mr. Kilkey? Perhaps. But did they know? Lord! How frail she looked in the bed. How sorry he was for his father! Peter would never know. Should he tell Sheila? Had his father told Aunt Brigid? Had there been a priest?

His mind rocked under the thoughts that tossed and sank and rose again and finally left him sick, bewildered, afraid and wondering. Wondering. Here it was staring him in the face. The end of things when all he had been thinking of this last hour or so had been the beginning, the hopes, the desires, the urging, compelling desire to leave Gelton! To finish with it for good. He had always hated it, hated it still! It was dreadful. This seeing her here, like that, and dad standing there helpless, afraid like himself. He turned and looked at her again. She lay quite still, breathing deeply. They had strapped her down. His mother! Helpless. Like that. Why …?

‘Please! You must go now. This way, please! You can come again any time. Or ring.’

That was final. And father and son went off down the ward and when they came to the door both looked back, and Captain Fury looked hard at the screen and the quietness about him, the loneliness and desolation of the place chilled him. The nurse was gone. They found themselves standing facing each other in the long cool corridor. A nurse passed. A door opened. A doctor came out, and passing quickly hardly glanced at them. A porter whistled somewhere in the depths. They both wondered why. The place seemed to grow around them, rise higher, spread out and out, until suddenly it was pressing upon them both, smothering them.

‘Come, Dad.’

Captain Fury put an arm through his father’s. The old man said no word. Like a child he allowed himself to be led out of the hospital. When they got outside it was pouring rain. Desmond could feel his father trembling. ‘Hell!’ he said to himself. ‘Hell! It’s just rotten! Rotten! Lousy! Lousy!’

Where did his father live? In the same house, of course! By himself now. But he, Captain Fury, lived in Repton Park Road, and Sheila had gone on home and would be waiting for him. Should he take his father home? Should he go with him. Or——They must do something. Get Maureen. But Mr. Kilkey. Yes. He was the one. Dad could go there! Just the place. Mr. Fury all this time was staring up at his son. Not at his face, not into his eyes, but at his uniform, his belt, his leggings, his polished boots. And then to the son’s surprise the old man took hold of his coat and felt the texture of it. Then he ran his hand down the cloth from shoulder to hip. The action amazed Desmond. He was trying to make up his mind too. But it was so funny to see his father doing this sort of thing. Mr. Fury gripped the belt, the brightly polished Sam Browne belt, and pulled at it, then suddenly let it go.

‘What’s all that bloody tommy rot?’ he said.

II

About half-past two that morning a policeman on his beat, passing the vicinity of Gelton gaol, saw a woman standing in the doorway. He stopped suddenly and watched her. Being in the shadow she could not see him. Her back was towards him. He flashed his lamp on her. But the woman seemed quite unaware of this. ‘This woman again,’ thought the policeman. He had taken in everything. The dress, the height, the attitude of the woman. Yes. He had seen her before. Questioned her before. He remembered quite vividly. It was without doubt the same woman. He stood still, watching her.

She was as yet quite unconscious of his presence. Or was it indifference? Nevertheless he would watch her. One thing he did not want to do. He did not want to frighten her. It was the very same person. The woman he had found kneeling against the door, fingering the massive steel studs of it as though they were precious flowers. He nodded his head. He had seen also a dark object on the ground beside her. He knew well enough what that was. Hadn’t he questioned her about it, opened it and found nothing inside but bundles of newspaper cuttings, reports of a trial a year old, photographs of a young man, rosary beads, a holy picture, an almost blackened handkerchief, and in the bottom of it two shillings, and a few coppers? He looked at her again. Would it be that she was actually asleep, standing like that? Not leaning against anything, just staring towards the door. No! If she was asleep she wouldn’t be staring. He scratched his head.

How long had she been there? A fine place indeed to hang about on a cold November morning. He had called her mother, saying: ‘Now, Mother, what’s all this about? Looking for a lodging for the night, or have you a date with the warder?’ He had joked with her about it. She had shown no interest in his remarks. He had held her by one arm; she had flinched a little under his gaze, and he knew she was frightened. Why did she come here? Had she somebody in the prison? And even if she had, of what use was it for her to stand outside the door? No miracles happened there! She must go home.

He had seen her again some months later. This time he felt less sorry. He thought she was a nuisance. His slow-moving mind at last connected the contents of her bag with this vigil at the prison. But the mind rendered this up only after the greatest effort. She must go home. He became a little brusque with her, a brusqueness that grew from her silence. The woman said nothing, neither who she was, nor what she was. Where she belonged he did not know. Should he walk the woman the two miles to the station in order to find this out? Hardly. It didn’t seem worth the effort.

‘You can’t stand about here, lady,’ he said. ‘You should be at home in your bed.’

No, she couldn’t stand there. There was nothing there but a massive door and towering walls, and behind her a wilderness of brickfields. She had gone, and he had watched her go, her black bag held securely under one arm.

Now here was the woman again. Once more he flashed the light upon her, and now he thought he saw her give a sudden start, though she did not turn round, nor show any interest in where the flash of light came from.

Whoever she is, she’s a poor creature, standing like a statue at this time of a winter’s morning. What should he do? Put the same old question? Or saying nothing simply take her arm and walk her down to the station. Used to lonely night beats as he was, he had not always the reserve of nerve necessary for occasions like this. He thumbed his lamp again, strongly tempted as he was to flash the light again and this time hold it. What should he do? Tell her to clear to the devil or simply take her to the station. He didn’t even have to make up his mind. For something happened so suddenly that quite unconsciously he flashed the light again. He knew what to do now, for the woman had suddenly fallen on her knees and began beating the door. And as she beat against it, she cried:

‘Peter! Peter!’

The policeman dashed up and gripped her by the arms: ‘Come, lady! What’s all this about

Reviews for Our Time Is Gone

[scarequotes · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Koestenbaum veers wildly from incredible insight on Warhol's life, work, and career to tedious intellectual wankery -- often two or three times in the course of a page. Sometimes it's fascinating, and sometimes you can do nothing but roll your eyes.

Definitely worth reading, but I'd highly recommend reading Bockris' Warhol bio first. That one supplies the facts; this one emphasizes theory (and Koestenbaum's personal reaction to Warhol). Don't turn to this first as a comprehensive (or even brief but complete) Warhol bio.

[michaelbartley · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I know almost nothing about Andy Warhol, only that he was a major artist of the 60's and later. I wanted to learn more, unfortunely this bio didn't really tell me much more. It is more of an outline of his life and work. I still want to know more.