Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley Page A

window he saw a cyclist going off, and was able to discover the shape of the hat he wore. A telegram boy.
    â€˜My God,’ he said, ‘here I am mewling and moaning out of me, and that poor woman next door has had the most awful news. Her son? Her husband? Her brother?’ And here he was, alive and well, crying out his misery. And Fanny was still alive. He went back to his chair again.
    â€˜This bloody old war,’ he muttered, and that’s what it meant. Being woke up like that by such sounds and the heart’s emptiness for some poor creature.
    Hearing a tug-boat hooting, Mr. Fury got up and at once shaved and washed. Then he went upstairs to change his clothes. At eight o’clock he went out and rang up the General Hospital from the local post office. How was she? His wife. Trembling all over, he gave particulars.
    â€˜No change,’ they said. They did not add, ‘Delirium.’
    The receiver dropped from Mr. Fury’s hand, ‘No change! No change!’
    He left the post office and went back home. Life was emptiness. Lonely. ‘Poor me,’ he said; ‘poor you,’ as he turned the key and let himself into the house. A moment later he was out again. For the second time the door banged. He went back to the post office. What a fool he’d been! He rang up again.
    Could he come in to see his wife? ‘Yes. Fury the name. Should have asked before.’ At the other end they heard his voice stammering, blubbering, and they said: ‘Hold the line.’ He waited.
    â€˜Unfortunately, no. The patient was in a deep sleep. Resting,’ the voice concluded.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He heaved a sigh of relief, put down the receiver and went out.
    He felt utterly lost. He went off slowly down the road, the steps of an aimless and still bewildered man. This medium-sized person dressed in his blue serge suit, black muffler and grey cap attracted no attention. He was a standard type—Hey’s Alley as well as Hatfields knew it well. The stooped shoulders, the shallow features, the old bruises, the blackness under the eyes. They knew all this. It was their world. The man dragged along, occasionally looking gutterwards. People passed him by. He looked into shop windows, glanced at passing trams, heard in his ears all the cries and sounds of the new day. He looked ill, felt lonely. He longed for Fanny home again. Nobody noticed. He was one. There were many others. Eyes looked, mouths opened and closed. Women watched Mr. Fury. A Mr. Dennis Fury. Wife in hospital. Unconscious. What was that? Nothing. The world about Hey’s Alley moved. He had reared a family, loved them all. What about it? He had seen them scatter. He was old, worn. Nearing finish. What matter? Hey’s Alley lived, moved, breathed. And somewhere the war was on, and ignorance and innocence joined hands like brothers in affection. Hey’s Alley became a large cat that watched, an eye that waited. A large ear that listened. One came riding furiously and a knocker banged and then one heard. The war was on, still on, and ignorance and innocence paid. Who was Mr. Fury? Nobody. Who was Fanny? Never heard of her. The little man walked on and Hey’s Alley swamped him.
    As he neared a large bootshop Dennis Fury moved out a little towards the kerb. The world rolled by and he watched it roll, and somehow Fanny was watching it too. Stood beside him, arm through his. They were together. The traffic was rushing past. They were simply waiting in order to cross the road.
    One much older than Mr. Fury, scenting a reason for his being isolated on the kerbside, went up and spoke to him. Mr. Fury at once knew he was an old sailor. He could tell a sailor anywhere. The old man came close up to him.
    â€˜Good morning,’ he said. ‘Looks like being one of them miserable days, sir.’
    Mr. Fury scraped a foot on the stone. ‘You said it,’ he replied quickly, his voice