Free Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley Page A

alive. Fanny! Now he could see the priest and be easy in his mind. It was really splendid. Twice Mr. Fury stopped and said to himself, ‘Wonderful. Fanny’ll come out of this, I’m sure.’ He even laughed. ‘A real brick Fanny is!’
    When he came to a pub he stopped dead. Why, with this good news, shouldn’t he go in and have a pint? Fanny wouldn’t mind, anyhow! He hadn’t had a drink past his lips for days. Almost without realizing it he was pushing open the swing door. At the counter he called for a pint of Falstaff. Then he sat down, blew a little of the froth off and drank his wife’s health.
    The place oddly enough was empty. At this time of day it should be full. But it wasn’t. He looked at the licensee, an immense man with outjutting ears, a cast in his eye, an enormous collar round his neck, and a frontage like a mountain. All the same he didn’t know him. They threw each other superficial glances. Mr. Fury knocked out his pipe and filled it again. He sent clouds of smoke round the bar of ‘The Mariner’s Arms.’
    Ten minutes later he left and went slowly on. He hoped it would get dark soon. He didn’t want to be seen by anybody. One never knew. There was an old hag of a woman named Pettigrew! She might see him, at least if she was still alive. He remembered Miss Pettigrew and her jujubes. She had a general shop round the corner from Saint Sebastian’s church. Rather be dead than meet that old woman.
    He laughed, suddenly remembering a time he had got drunk and had almost fallen off the tram, and a lad had guided him to her shop of all places. Poor old woman. If he remembered rightly he had insulted her. Well, she was the type who wanted insulting. Taking Fanny’s sister as a lodger when she came over from Ireland, as though the house in Hatfields wasn’t good enough for her. Was she still alive? That sly devil of a sister of Fanny’s. The last he had heard of her was that she had dragged her father to Lourdes. He wondered now—and it amused him to think of it—he wondered how many times she had ducked old Mangan’s head under the famous waters. ‘The poor old man,’ he found himself saying: ‘The poor old, old man.’
    Why, here was Christmas Street, and Derby Street and Long Lane! Here were the old cotton warehouses and the hoists, and the streets full of the debris of the day. Bills of lading and newspapers and bits of cotton sticking to all the neighbouring walls. He couldn’t be very far off now. Suddenly he was tired. He crossed the road and sat down on a stone bitt outside the flour warehouse. He rested for a few minutes and then went on.
    He lowered his head at the approach of people. He simply did not want to be caught out. He’d see the priest, and then he’d get right back to Hey’s Alley. He longed for his bed. Hadn’t had a decent sleep since he’d been home. It was the devil having to sail away so soon! But nothing could be done about it. He’d signed for the duration; they were under the Government. No use troubling about it. He was sure the priest would help. He wished she could go to Mount Mellery before he sailed. But that was quite impossible.
    â€˜Ah well!’ he sighed, ‘we’ve got to do the best we can for her. That’s all.’
    When he reached Princess Street he turned into it and at the top found himself at the corner of Sebastian Place. He had walked down that Place hundreds, thousands of times, and though he wanted to avoid meeting people he knew, and though he hated that Pettigrew woman like the devil, he was tempted to go down to the end of Sebastian Place, stand on the opposite side and look across at the shop. When he saw the name ‘Guiness’ on the fanlight he received a shock. Not Pettigrew. Then she must be dead. Well! Poor old woman. Fanny would be surprised.
    How strange everything was. This had been a long, lonely journey.