Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley

move. He stood there with lowered head, his mind a cloud, and he watched his father go. After a few seconds he too turned on his heel and went off. The darkness swallowed up one and then the other. A siren screamed over the misty river.
    Half an hour later Mr. Fury let himself into the house. There was something so cold, so empty about this return that the man gave an involuntary shudder as he went down the dark lobby. In the kitchen he gripped the dresser where the little red light burned.
    â€˜God hold dear Fanny this night. Hold her for me! Poor dear Fanny.’
    Then he flopped down on the sofa and remained there staring up at the window. He could sit there for days. The slightest movement wearied him. He closed his eyes, opened them again. He got up and lit the gas and looked round the place. What a small box-like place it was. The big table looked out of place there. He had often wondered how it had been got in. He drew back the cloth and ran his finger over the cracks in it, over the scratchings. Aye! There they were! All the names. He felt so miserable; he threw back the cloth again, and then commenced walking up and down the matting in front of the fireplace. The fire was almost out. Perhaps he ought to make himself a cup of tea. Yes. He would. Warm him up. Cheer him up. Something to do. Should he light the fire? Perhaps he’d better.
    He filled a kettle and put it on the stove outside. Then he lit the fire. Useless to lie down. Useless to sleep. His nerves were on edge. It had been a shock. He went from corner to corner and back again, aimlessly wandering. He went twice round the table. Damn it! He couldn’t get Fanny out of his mind. As for Captain Fury, the old man might never have met him, so completely had he forgotten him. Seeing his wife there, stretched out, bound down to the bed. It seemed so wrong, so terribly wrong! ‘God be with her this very night.’ Unconscious. Found outside that place. Again. Again! It was dreadful, and he had been hoping, hoping. Yes, they’d even talked about that trip to Mount Mellery and the quietness of God’s air there, waiting, waiting for her. To rest herself. To forget, and then if God spared them, then one fine day he’d be home. Finished with the sea for good. The sea could dry up, ships rust. He’d be through. It was about time. He had travelled enough. And now she was there , silent, unconscious. The thoughts rose like a wild flight of birds, circled him, swooped, clung. They fenced with each other. But he could not drive them away.
    The kettle was boiling, boiling fast away, but he sat on the sofa again and did not move, the tea-pot dangling in his hand. He thought suddenly of her bag. Fanny’s black bag, that cursed black bag, that cursed devil’s tune. That bag of misery and empty words. Faded cuttings of newspapers, cheap scent, a holy picture. A bagful of nothing but bitter memories. Carrying it about with her wherever she went. Sleeping on it. He wished he could lay hold of it now and burn it. That damned black bag of hers! Nothing good in it, nothing hopeful—a bagful of madness. The devil’s madness, and all her humbled pride.
    â€˜Poor Fanny,’ he found himself saying. ‘Poor foolish woman.’ Well, there it was. There it was. The whole family scattered and her pride gone. Everything gone. Never mind, they had each other. Poor foolish, secret, proud Fanny. She had him . He never dreamed that bringing her from Ireland meant this. All this.
    He made some tea, drinking it greedily. The fire was burning up now, and he was glad he had lit it. The place looked a bit more cheerful anyway. With each cup his thirst grew. He made more tea. He had never before drank so much tea.
    He took his boots off and settled himself down in the chair. He was soon asleep, but about seven he was rudely wakened by a commotion next door. The sound of shouting came to him then. It was a woman’s voice. Looking through the