Free Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley

was on strike. It brought a Mr. Postlethwaite into mind. How was that fellow getting along? And George the son. In the army by now, no doubt. Those Orangemen were loyal. And poor Mrs. Postlethwaite. Lord! It seemed like a dream. Why, it must have been five years since he had seen the place. Was it as long as that?
    Suddenly he exclaimed under his breath: ‘Damn me! Look at it. Still standing. Well, just fancy that! The old Lyric. Good Lord!’ Many a time he and Fanny went there. Ah! It was hard thinking of her laid low—but all the same—and here the man was strongly tempted to spit, and only the warning in front of him held it back. Yes. Here were the old things and the old times. All swimming back, a whole flood of them. What a pity these things had happened. Well! You never knew, simply never knew! Yes. It hadn’t been easy for Fanny. Suddenly thrust back from Hey’s Alley to Hatfields made him understand. Aye! He supposed he would have done the same as her. Run away and hid himself.
    The matronly lady never budged, the giggling girls having finished eating their chocolate giggled louder, and their giggles rose and fell in waves, shot forward and backwards, made arcs in the tram. But Mr. Fury pulled hard at his pipe. Once he slapped his knee. Yes. Better go right to the end of the journey.
    He paid the extra twopence fare. The gigglers got off. and some shipworkers came aboard. The tram rattled on. He would get off there and walk back. Just get him to the King’s Road by the time darkness fell. He felt ashamed to go about in broad daylight. He was well known in the district. He didn’t want talk; he’d had enough of that. No time for it. Got to see a priest, any priest, one preferably who knew Fanny. No matter what happened then, he would feel rested in his mind. He thought of her every minute, every second, and wondered and hoped, and remembered, and felt miserable, then happy, then bewildered. She was all he had now. Home two days. Lord! He had never expected this.
    The tram had climbed all the way. A long hill. Mr. Fury turned in his seat and looked back. What a hill, and that hill made Hey’s Alley a greater hole. What a hole! Never mind. Something good would come. No! If anything happened to her now—it couldn’t—no, it wouldn’t be fair. The tram pulled up with a jerk, the conductor crying: ‘Terminus! Terminus!’
    He went slowly down the stairs, stepped down into the street. He stood there looking about him. He felt like a child who has suddenly emerged from a dark room after being shut in for a long time. Right opposite him stood the ‘Glow-worm,’ tall, solid, violently red, bright brasses, ornate decorations. ‘Imagine the “Glow-worm” still standing,’ he said to himself, and he looked at it almost with devotion, as though it were a century and not just nearly two years since he had stood in front of it. Here were all the old sights. Now he must look about him. He smiled at the thought. Watch without being watched. For old faces, old signs. The world seemed suddenly alive again. Crowds of workmen, poured past him coming out of the docks, the roads were jammed by inward and outward dock traffic. Cars hooted, horses struck hoofs and sparks flew, voices hailed, a brake screeched, trams clanged. Mr. Fury now decided to move.
    Should he go back by the top road? He might meet friends the other way. Nothing would be so awkward as explaining things, trying to be cheerful. Refusing a drink, having a drink. Talking about old ships, old trips. No! All that was done with. This wasn’t the time for dreaming. He rang the hospital from the first telephone box. Better news. He wanted to shout out his relief. Fanny was awake. Awake! She was taking nourishment. Thank God!
    Passing St. Peter’s chapel he stopped, then went in. He knelt down and said a prayer for his wife. His step was light when he came out. Thank God! She was still