Winter Song (33 page)

‘Don't be thinking of it now. Let it come to you gradual. Don't rush forward meeting it with your mind before you meet it with your eyes. Why there's a man coming down the platform now.'

She looked up. ‘So there is. Maybe he's a passenger. Perhaps—he may be going to see somebody there, Denny. And I expect he thinks the same about us.'

They watched a short, fat man approach. Above the white collar they saw a face as purple as a turnip. He wore a skintight blue suit, bright brown shoes—a bowler hat. He had a gay swinging gait. He carried a raincoat on his arm. Hands in pockets he came by them, hardly noticed them, and went whistling past.
Nobody
had noticed these two people. They had passed through crowded streets, on to crowded platforms, somehow they did not seem to belong here—had never belonged—and now, seated on this bench, waiting for the Darnton train, they stood outside life—they were uprooted—they had no meaning. They had slipped out into a world, bewildering, strange—they peeped out from within the narrow circle of their linked lives.

‘Odd, the feeling that I get sitting here,' she said at length, her eyes still following the lone figure of the man in the blue suit, whose whistle came back to them—but they did not know the tune and it did not matter. ‘I've the feeling I've just stepped out of the dark—all this is new to me and I don't understand it. I had the same feeling on the tram the other day when I went into the city. We're very alone, us two, Denny.'

He looked at her. ‘I suppose when you've been used to having a family round your feet it feels that when they're all gone away.'

‘Maybe. Here's that man coming this way again. He must be going on our train. I wish it would come in. I hope it's not going to be very late—for I've made all the arrangements about coming home again with Kilkey.'

‘It'll be here soon,' he said, and when he spoke she looked at him curiously—somehow the voice had seemed to come to her as from a great distance.

‘You all right? Not cold or anything?'

‘I'm all right.'

It was always the same—the words seemed to lie in wait on his tongue—whenever she seemed anxious he had the answer folded up and ready for her.

But he had withdrawn from the station, the platform, the woman beside him, the pacing man. He had sunk into himself, his mind made great efforts to grasp things—in the fog of bewilderment he tried to drag clear the real meaning of this. This iron desert, and the smell in the air, the distant sounds as of thunder which from time to time reverberated through the great station. That they should be actually in lodgings, dependent upon the charity of a friend—that they should be so alone, not even the sound of a known voice in the air—it seemed strange to the old man—as he waited for the train that would carry him to a sight of his son. It was unbelievable that he should be there—that his wife should be seated like this—both of them waiting—waiting. It was like a dream. One morning he would really wake up.

‘Here's the train now, Denny,' she said, and her voice, quiet and gentle, yet shook him violently, and he gave a quick jerky movement, saying—‘Yes, yes. I see it coming.'

Meanwhile the other passenger had ceased to pace. He now stood watching the approaching train. Hands in pockets, belly stuck out, he rocked to and fro on his heels, and he never ceased to whistle. Somehow he had caught the morning song of the world, and somehow, too, he seemed to like it, for locked behind his teeth it sustained him—and judging by his inability to stop whistling, the song was endless. The driver of the train looked hard at this man as his cabin came by, he did not know the tune—but knew the whistler by sight, and hailed him.

‘Hello, Willie,' he cried.

A fat hand waved back to him—and the remorseless tune went on. Meanwhile the train had come to a halt.

‘Come along,' she said, and they got up and went towards the carriage. There was a sudden hesitancy in both their movements, as though each in that moment had divined the other's thoughts, and had said one to another—

‘
Shall
we go?…
shall
… we?'

She pulled open the heavy door and they got into the carriage. She made him take the corner seat opposite her. They sat down. She heaved a sigh, said, ‘What a queer old train.' He did not answer, his head sunk a little forward—she thought maybe he was nodding off to sleep. She would not disturb him. He
had
been up very early, she must not fuss—she must not be unkind. She was so glad he had come. And she sat looking at him, and admired his courage, and his good nature. In the quiet corner of this quite filthy railway carriage, all his virtues rose before her, like brightly flying flags, all the colours of rainbows to them, and she smiled and was glad. Glad he was alive, close—for ever.

‘He's been a fool, but so have I. One day he'll be a fine man again, please God.'

She folded her hands, sank back in her seat to rest, into absolute silence. The old man had fallen asleep. The woman looked out of the window, at the empty truck, at the smeared and grimed waiting—room windows—at the posters on the walls, at the cold bare platform itself. Suddenly she got up and leaned out of the window. She had heard appoaching footsteps. Now she saw a porter come by.

‘Are we right for Darnton?' she asked.

‘I expect you are,' he replied casually, and went on his way.

Later she heard the loud hissing of steam. ‘We'll soon be off,' she thought. The whistle blew. She noticed now that it was a corridor train. She was somewhat disappointed by this. She liked a train without them—more private—she liked doors fast shut.

‘What a pity,' she said to herself.

It was a miserable-looking train, and certainly the dirtiest ever to pull out of that station. It was a tramp of a train—it didn't care much about anything really, there was no feeling of responsibility—it was already ten minutes behind time, but it didn't mind that—the carriage windows refused to shine by reason of a thick application of grease and steam. And when finally it pulled out from the station, there was something uncertain about its step. It might have had the strongest objection to going to such an outlandish place as Darnton—it might have objected to being always shuffled along from the same dead platform. But it managed to announce itself by a low whining whistle, and finally it shot clear of the station. It was at this point that the whistler made up his mind that he ought to go further along the train and find somebody to sit with. He hated being alone—and though the tune in his head could sometimes serve for company—it couldn't quite satisfy now—and he was aware that two coaches further up a lady and gentleman were seated. They might like his company and they might not—but certainly he would like theirs. Promptly he got up and came whistling along the corridor. Mrs Fury recognised the whistle. ‘That man,' she thought. He came to their carriage, he smiled at her through the glass, he pulled back the door with a crash, came whistling in; slammed the door shut again, sat down.

‘Lovely morning,' he said.

Everything—the carriage seemed to shiver at once. He lay his head back on the greasy upholstery, his lips formed for another tune—he shut his eyes, he began to whistle. From the corner seat the woman looked at his moving mouth.

‘It is a nice morning,' she said, and her very reply shut off his whistle, the morning song of the world had ended. She saw him cross fat legs, saw heavy thighs. At any moment the man might burst out of this blue suit.

‘Going up there?' he jerked a thumb in the north direction.

‘To Darnton.'

He laughed. ‘Same place,' he said, ‘up there that's all there is. Just Darnton—that place, see?'

He thought this somewhat funny, for he slapped his knee and laughed again, but somehow or other it had escaped her. It had not even approached her—or the thought that now began to circle round her. To her the man was simply a mouth—a sound.

‘Got somebody in?'

He looked at her closely, ‘Half asleep,' he thought—‘every time you speak you rouse her.'

‘A son,' she said.

He bent forward, ‘Can't hear—bit on the deaf side,' he glanced at the old man, ‘Who's he?'

This latter escaped the woman altogether.

‘I said a son—my son,'—she wished this man hadn't come into their carriage. She didn't want to talk—but she answered his question for civility's sake.

She saw that her husband had fallen fast asleep. His head had fallen towards the window—she realized that the man was not staring at her, but at the long scar on her husband's neck.

He said quite garrulously, ‘Had an accident?'

‘He was shipwrecked.'

‘Oh! I see! Sea, eh?—hm! Keep the bloody sea for me. I never even seen a sea. Never. Used to help drop 'em—up there—going up to see Charlie to-day. Job on.'

‘I didn't quite catch what you said.'

‘I said,' he voice rising, ‘used to help drop 'em—
drop
'em—you know, hanging.'

‘Oh!… I see.'

But she hadn't seen. This was a new language to her—she had no key to this. She saw the moving mouth, heard the sounds coming out. She ventured a question. Did he think the train would be late?

Willie almost collapsed—the reservoir opened up again. He burst out laughing.

‘Not her! Her won't be late—not a minute. Not a blinking moment even. Never is, days I go up to help Charlie drop 'em. Never late on them things. In the morning it is. Usual time. Fancy you thinking her'd be late. Not her. Never was, never is, never will be.

‘I wish you didn't talk so loud—my husband's asleep—he's been very ill.'

‘Sorry! What's he in for? Long job? I mean your lad. Is he in for long?'

‘Two years, I think.'

‘Oh!—that's nothing. I seen 'em up at that place in for ten—twenty—lifers, too.'

‘Imagine that,' she said.

She was relieved when, quite unconsciously, he started to whistle again. It was better than hearing him talk—he shouted so—and some of the words he used were quite beyond her. She turned away towards the window, she watched telegraph poles, the train passed them drunkenly—she saw flying cows, a collapsed mare under a haystack, a grunting pig. The world was swimming by. The train seemed to her quite still—rooted in air—only the world moved, staggering past her window. Suddenly she leaned over, ‘You all right, Denny?'

The man answered for her. He said, ‘He's all right, missus, he's well away.'

‘One time he used to be such a light sleeper—now he seems to fall asleep any old time he wants …'

‘Like that when you're old, missus—you look sad—if you'll excuse me. I know. I seen 'em going up, going in at that place—seen 'em coming out—empty. It's tough, but lots of things are tough. Droppin' 'em's tough, too—but they asks for it.'

She was quite unable to answer. She couldn't grasp the line of conversation at all, the thin thread had snapped, it was like the end of a conversation, dying away in a high wind. And she wanted to think. She wanted to hug herself to herself, to be private, wrapped up—shut off. But there was the man in front of her—who stared so impudently, who shouted when he spoke, who said her husband was well away, who was going up to that place to see a man named Charlie. She looked across at him.

‘Who's Charlie?' and she regretted her question—though she learned much.

‘Told you already, missus—he drops 'em up there—came last night. I'm going up to help him. Always do. One day expect I'll have his job. Follow me, we're stringing a chap up in the morning.' He wasn't quite sure even yet if she understood—to him she was like a person walking the edge of a dream. He said with great emphasis, ‘Charlie
hangs
people—and I help him hang 'em.'

She understood. She shut her eyes. She did not answer him. She had suddenly seen her son—he had come in through the window—he was standing before her—and she involuntarily cried, ‘Peter', but when she put out her hand to touch him he had gone.

‘Lumme!' he said, ‘she's off too. They're both asleep. Just fancy that.'

He whistled again for company. He hated being lonely—being silent, he had come here to sit with them—especially to talk—it was the same old thing every time. Every time he travelled to Darnton. People seemed to know him—but they dodged him—they avoided speaking to him—they didn't like him. Even the railwaymen who christened him ‘Whistling Willie' couldn't
quite
understand how a man going to work like that could even talk to people—let alone whistle. He stared glumly before him. The whistle died away in his throat, he kept looking from the one to the other. He thought them old—knew them old—had a son in there, had they, probably respectable people after all. Well he'd know soon enough, know everything. Find out their names. It was easy. ‘Looks like an old salt to me.'

The old man had moved, wakened quietly, was looking across at him. And for some minutes Willie had not noticed, nor felt those eyes upon him. Well, Darnton was a long way yet, and he couldn't sit here all the time, just like a mummy. He smiled broadly—caught the eye. ‘Hello,' he said, ‘you woke up? Had a nice little doze?'

The old man stared on.

‘Lovely day,' said Willie.

And then Mr Fury realized the man was there—that he was speaking to him.

‘Are we nearly there?' he asked—he wondered how this man had got into the carriage. Who was he? He looked towards his wife, and saw her head sunk in sleep.

‘Good Lord no—we're not nearly there. Not by a long chalk. Hear you're going up to see your lad.'

‘We are that.'

‘Hope you find him well.'

‘Thank you, sir,' the old man replied, ‘Have you a son there too?'

‘Ha! Ha! Well, I like that, I must say. I haven't got no son and I don't want no son. I'm quite happy as I am—thank you all the same. And anyhow I wouldn't be seen dead in there—and I wouldn't have no son of mine in that place. Ah! I know 'em. Know 'em all. Them warders, for instance. Lousy job. And of course when you've been on a droppin' job, like I have—and like I'll be to-morrow, well you get what comes up full out of them warders after he's dropped—if you follow me. Behind the hard stuff you get what they think private like. I know 'em. How long's your kid in for? What did he do?'