Winter Song (11 page)

‘Here is the dress,' the Sister said, ‘shall we put it on?'

‘Yes,' the woman replied, and allowed the nun to dress her.

‘This suits you very well.'

‘Denny always liked me to look nice,' she said and, walking across the room, she stood looking at herself in the mirror. She put her hands to her hair.

‘I'm listening all the time for them wheels,' she said, ‘all the time. He'll be here soon.'

‘Here is Mother now,' the Sister said. ‘I shall leave you. May you have much joy in each other.'

The Mother Superior was standing behind Mrs Fury. The woman saw her reflection in the mirror. She turned away, flushed deeply, ‘I was just trying to look me best for his coming,' she said.

‘Come and sit down, dear,' the Mother Superior led her to the cane chair. ‘You're not frightened any more?'

‘No,' tremblingly.

‘That's right. I want you to take this brandy,' said the Mother Superior, ‘they will soon be here.'

The woman took the glass, sipped, she choked a little. ‘Thank you,' she said.

‘You've been very good to me all this time, and I thank you for it. And my husband will thank you for it. For now I know he'll take me away with him, and that's what I'm living for every moment since I heard. Away out of this.'

‘You could never have lived alone in that house, in the state you were in.'

‘There was that awful day I remember when I knocked at the door of this house and I asked you to let me in, and you let me in, and I said, “I don't want to go out anywhere any more.” D'you remember that, Mother?'

‘I do.'

‘And now I'm going away. I know I'm going, and I'm happy, and I'm sad, too—it has been so peaceful here—and powerful good to me.'

‘There! I think I hear something coming now.'

‘My son came here. He saw him—he said …'

‘What did he say, dear?'

She could not speak, her ears were full of the sound of wheels. ‘Don't leave me,' she cried.

‘I'm not leaving you. To-day there are friends everywhere. Father Moynihan is come with your husband—and to-morrow Mr Kilkey is coming to see you, too.'

‘Thank you, Mother.'

She gripped the Mother Superior's hand. ‘I can hear them. Are they carrying him then? Is he so ill?'

‘Just very tired, dear. Now you must pull yourself together. We are all doing our best for you. Your husband can stay here until he is better, which we hope will be very soon.'

‘Thank you, Mother. I hope it won't be long, for there's one thing I must do and that is to go north and take him with me, for I long to see my son.'

‘There is plenty of time for that. The last journey was too much for you. It will be very upsetting. Before I hear of any such thing, you must get well, and your husband too—you understand?'

‘I do. But I'm afraid—I'm afraid—God forgive me, I should be laughing.'

‘Sit quiet, dear, and think of nothing but him, coming now into this very house.'

She looked at the woman. ‘How you tremble. Cry dear, cry if you wish to. It will do you good. It will help you. I have never seen you cry. All this long year. You were brave then.'

The door had slowly opened and Father Moynihan was peeping in, frantically endeavouring to catch the Mother's eye. She got up and went to him. They spoke in whispers.

‘He is here?'

‘Yes. He is outside in the corridor. Where must he go?'

‘He must come in here. We are making arrangements for another bed. Bring him in now. How is he?'

‘Better than I've seen him yet. He is dressed, he is sitting on a stool with Twomey.'

‘I'll go out and bring him in myself,' she said.

She turned to the woman, ‘I shall be back in one moment, dear. Be quiet, it is quite all right.'

The woman stared back at the Mother Superior stupidly, uncomprehending. The nun went out. To the priest she said, ‘Use my sitting-rooom, and do not come in here unless I ring, This is going to be a difficult moment for us all—but not least for the old woman in there.'

She saw seated between the car driver and Father Twomey a little old man, thin, pale. She walked up to him. She looked down, she said softly, ‘You are home at last. Come.'

She took his arm, ‘Can you walk, dear?'

‘I can walk. Where is my wife?'

‘Come,' she said, and put her arm through his. ‘I am glad to take you to her, who has been waiting for you and praying for you so long.'

She looked at the two priests, pointed in the direction of the sitting-room. Then she opened the door and slowly walked the old man into the room. Mrs Fury had risen, had come forward, then suddenly stood there, as though rooted to the ground. She saw this man, yet did not seem to know him—and did not move. The old man came on to her.

‘Oh Fanny,' he said.

She stared at the wizened figure. She did not call him by his name, she put her hands on his shoulders, she stared, she went on staring. She walked right round him. She put her hand on his head, she ran her finger down the scar on his neck.

‘Your poor old head,' she said, and seemed to fall forward, all her weight upon him. She cried bitterly, her mouth pressed against the blue serge of the coat, her fingers tracing the structure of his face, feeling his face, his eyes, his nose, his chin, her hand clasped round his neck.

‘Fanny,' he said.

‘You mustn't stand like this. You must sit down.'

They all three sat down on the bed.

‘Are you sure you'll be all right if I leave you for a moment?'

‘I'm all right now,' the woman said.

‘Your husband must go to bed again very soon. Please ring this bell when you are ready.'

‘I will.'

She watched the nun go out, the door close. She flung her arms around her husband.

‘We're so old,' she said.

‘Why, you're crying yourself,' she said, and gave a curious little laugh; her face was pressed against his own. ‘God help you, it's a crucial moment, Denny. We are here in this little room and that is all. This is my home.'

She felt his hard hand on her cheek. ‘It's you,' he said and saw her first smile.

‘It's me.'

‘You're my home,' he said, ‘but the poor little boy has none.'

‘What little boy?'

‘Him as went down fast.'

‘Who?'

‘His name was Lenahan. And all them tons and tons of water over his bright eyes.'

They held each other, they seemed to devour each other with their frenzied looks, they could not speak. Outside the bell did not ring and they were waiting.

‘I think you had better go in, Mother,' Father Twomey said, ‘surely that shock is over.'

‘I'll go in.'

Looking at them she thought of two trees, heavy against each other, snuggling in, huddled as though under some winter blast. She went to her sitting-room and told them.

‘I've seen nothing so touching,' the Mother Superior said.

Later they went in, they helped to make up the extra bed. They put the old man in one, the old woman in the other. They gave each a glass of warm milk containing brandy. In each they placed sleeping tablets.

‘I shall have Sister Angelica stay here with them,' she said.

Father Twomey said goodbye and returned to his office. Father Moynihan left half an hour later. The Mother Superior did not leave the room until both were sleeping.

Desmond walked straight out of the house and down the long road that fronted the sea. He felt frustrated, sad. He walked miles, then caught a tram back to the centre of the city. The people, the buildings, the ships and docks, all seemed strange to him—he was a stranger in Gelton.

‘I would have liked to talk with my father a little longer, and now it's too late. The old barrier is back again,' he could vision his mother standing in front of his father, dominating, protecting, shutting him off, as she had shut them all off.

‘I hardly know my father.'

He thought of the long absences, the quick-flying fugitive days at home, and his father bound and held fast to his mother.

‘Poor mother. There's only ever been one right for her. I could have brought Sheila down. I know she would have come—always she wanted to know mother, but no, the shadow was always there. This iron resolve of hers, this stern spiritual pride. That's what it always was. Pride. And, my God, it was ever married to stupidity and ignorance. Here I am, her eldest son, made my way out of the rut by sheer determination, ready to help them who could never do it before, and now she looks at me with a bitter smile: “You felt you had to come. That was very kind of you.” I'm sure she hated me then. But I know she hates me because now she sees I was right and she was wrong. Her old dream house with the priest sitting inside it was only made of straw, and the first gust of wind blew it to pieces. That poor kid is shut away to-day just because of one simply crazy idea. Ah well, there it is. We are back where we started.'

He walked the roads and streets, tired himself out. Finally, he walked back to the Anchor Hotel where he had booked a room.

‘You did not come last night, sir,' the manager said, ‘and we were expecting you.'

‘I'm sorry—things held me up. Can I have a drink?'

‘Of course. And there's a telegram for you, sir.'

‘Thank you.'

He sat down, opened the telegram. It didn't surprise him, he always got one. It was from his wife. ‘I knew this would come,' he thought as he read it.

‘Meet you at half-past two at Paddington, love, Sheila.'

And he would go trotting back like a little dog. This did not surprise either. He always trotted back to her. He was always on the leash.

‘You had better go, dear,' she had said, in her new flat, on her new arty divan, smiling at him. She had only to look out of her window and there it was, Big Ben, the great House, how near he was to it now.

‘I could come with you, but you know there will never be anything between your mother and me. It's silly, I've always thought it silly, she loves being a Catholic far too much.'

‘There you have hit the nail on the head.'

‘Do you ever think that mothers can be jealous of their children?' she had said.

‘That's for another time. I must go, you know that, Sheila; just think of it, my father found.'

‘Perhaps I would have liked him. And you won't stay away
too
long, dear, will you? I'll be waiting every minute.'

He had gone with the words ringing in his ears. On the train he thought of the telegram she would send, and there it was.

‘She can do almost anything with me, and I let her—and I can't help it, I don't even care, I'm so afraid I might lose her.'

In such circumstances the leash was not too irritating and not distasteful.

‘If only mother would relent a little. She thinks the sun shines out of Anthony's backside, yet, he's no different to the rest of us. He married to get away from her.'

‘Your drink, sir.'

‘Thank you. Can I have lunch? I am leaving directly.'

‘Certainly, sir.'

He sat looking at his drink, which he could not touch. The old man had come between.

‘He'll never be the same again. Never. I'll never talk to him again for I shan't be able to see him—my mother will smother him.'

He suddenly realized the drink was standing idle, he picked up the glass and drank.

‘I must see that priest fellow before I go.'

He called to the receptionist. ‘Have you a telephone here? I want to make a call.'

The receptionist showed him the way, he shut himself in the red box and removed the receiver. ‘Trunks, please.'

Whilst he waited he looked out through the window. He got a smile from the receptionist, he liked her halo of russet-coloured hair, her laughing, gay mouth. He returned her smile. The manager passed by, the porter, a chambermaid. They all looked in. Though he did not know it, he was the only visitor in the Anchor Hotel. Then the bell rang. He turned his back on the receptionist, straddled over the receiver.

‘Sheila!… Good! It's me, Desmond. I'm here, yes, I've seen him. It upset me. I scarcely knew him, he looks ill and very much changed. Look here, dear, I can't possibly make it for half-past two—it's
quite
impossible. I've a number of things to do. I must see them both to-day. I must see this parish priest chap, and I'm afraid I'll have to go along and see this man Kilkey. You do understand.'

He listened—he called ‘Can you hear me? You heard what I said, dear?'

And then he heard it. ‘Oh,
Des,
' she said. ‘
Must
you stay?
Can't
you come back to-day? I've made plans and everything.'

He felt so angry that he shouted into the receiver ‘No, I can't. I just can't.' He wanted to say ‘I won't,' but somehow he could not make the effort. The old fear was back again, the same murdering uncertainty. It came again, it filled his ears, ‘Oh Desmond,' she said, ‘darling' It was always the same. She could twist him round her little finger, and it gave her pleasure in doing so.

‘I'm only teasing you, darling,' she said later.

But he could see nothing funny about it.

‘I'll get back as soon as ever I can, you know that. But I must see my father and mother.'

‘I'm glad, dear, for them both. You know I am. I'd say give them my love, but I know that would upset them. What are they going to do now?'

The question came to him right out of the blue. He was on the point of explaining when he heard another voice say, ‘Six minutes.…'

When he came out of the box he felt exhausted. And there was the receptionist with her bright smile, but it did not melt his sullenness, and she said casually, ‘You've left your hat in the box, sir.'