Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley Read Free Book Online

end, and here he was hurrying towards her. He was afraid of the darkness, the extreme cold, the length and shape of the street, the hooded houses, the hard cold stones on which he trod. He was afraid of moving one foot and then the other, getting nearer to where Fanny was. ‘Hold on! Hold on, oh Blessed Mother!’
    He turned out of the street. There he bumped into a policeman. He stammered, was angry; fear grew. The officer questioned him. Saw his condition. Where was he going? To the hospital. Which hospital? The General Hospital. What was the matter? It was his wife. ‘My wife, Fanny.’ Yes. That was where he was hurrying. But it wasn’t very far away, the officer said, and cleared his throat.
    â€˜Rotten sort of night.’
    â€˜Yes. No … Yes … However.’
    â€˜Take it easy, mister. Don’t get yourself worked up like that now.’ Again the officer cleared his throat.
    No. Yes. Of course! However! Oh yes. She was dying. Fanny was dying. He was certain of it. ‘Holy Mother of God! Hang on to my dear wife,’ and the officer gripped him by the arm.
    The policeman kept pace with the hurrying, bewildered man. Mr. Fury began talking to himself. ‘I was sleeping good then, and then suddenly I woke, hearing a knock. And Fanny wasn’t there!’ His voice broke, words tumbled out of his mouth.
    â€˜Here we are! This is a short cut to the hospital,’ the policeman said. ‘Handy to know.’
    They mounted the steps. ‘Fanny,’ whispered Mr. Fury. ‘Fanny.’ Well, here he was now.
    The door opened. ‘Fury! Dennis Fury. This way, please.’
    â€˜Keep your spirits up, old man,’ said the policeman, and then turning away he resumed his beat. The hospital door closed with hardly a sound.
    They led Mr. Fury into the ward. He heard the word screen in his ear. Screen. Screen! God! Now he knew! He knew that word. It ran round his head. Screen. Screen! It thrust downwards to the pit of his stomach, struck him between the eyes. Screen! Around Fanny! He looked up at the nurse, bewildered, a little afraid.
    â€˜Yes—no, Miss Nurse. What? Screen? Yes. I don’t mind. No thanks. Thank—you.’
    She gave a little smile, and drew the screen around the bed. Its noise, so slight, disturbed the woman. She moved. Opened her eyes. The nurse vanished, but some yards off stood silent, waiting. At the far end of the ward the clock ticked loudly.
    Mr. Fury leaned over the bed and watched, and he gripped the sheets very hard.
    â€˜Fanny! Me! Dear Fanny. It’s me, Denny! Fanny! Are you hurt bad, are you?’ He raised his hands and took one of hers between them. ‘God help you, tell me are you all right now? Fanny? Look at me! Here I am. Tell me, Fanny.’
    He gradually tightened his grip upon her hand. It was like his own, a hard hand. Not a woman’s hand at all. He watched her face. How she had aged! He looked at the quivering lips. Her head was quite sunk into the pillow.
    Yes. There she was. Fanny, and alive. Yes. There she was. The Fanny who had done things. Fanny with her pride. ‘The poor creature,’ he said at last, and then with a sudden vision of the emptiness of No. 17 Hey’s Alley, he said again: ‘The poor—poor creature.’ He wished he knew all the things that lay hidden behind that mask-like face. Yes. Here she was, still the same, but old. Getting really old.
    This was the third time. How long would it go on? Those awful dreams of hers, those cryings out, and then the steadfast silence. Like hard stone, no words spoken. Only the looks he got. The dread of that silence, lying by his side. His own sleep unsound, then deep. Then suddenly broken by this. Waking to find her gone. God knows where. And in spite of it all he had to be up and doing. Going far by sea—thinking of her—alone—going far, and then returning home. And finding this. And suddenly Mr. Fury laid his head on