Winter Song (41 page)

‘Come this way,' he said.

She followed him into a small room. It had a small wooden bed, one chair. The floor was bare of carpets. It was highly polished. Father Moynihan sat down on the bed.

‘Sit down,' he said.

‘I wanted to see you by yourself,' he began. ‘It's the last time I shall see you in Gelton. I now repeat what I said to you below, Fanny. Go back without bitterness. You have spent a whole lifetime here—I married you both. I christened all your children. You have had a hard life in some ways—but there are always people who have had harder ones. I think it important to remember that you have had great disappointments. But you have reared a family and you have done your best for them. That is valuable, that is very valuable. You have made some mistakes—we all make them—and you have paid for them. You cannot pay twice over for mistakes. You have a good sister. I know she is a good woman and will look after you both. I am sure of that. So you'll promise me now that once you have left this place you will not look behind you any more? You have done your duty to your family as you thought right. Try to remember that. There is nothing more you can do.'

‘I promise you that.'

‘And you do now want to go.'

‘I do. I have always wanted to.'

‘There's nothing more to be said. Look after yourself—look after your husband.'

‘I will, Father.'

‘Shall we go down now?'

She got up and followed him downstairs. The car was already at the gate. He helped the old man up.

‘Well, Denny,' he said, ‘I'm glad you're both going back to where you came from——'

‘Back with nothing,' it came like a growl from the old man's lips, it surprised them both.

‘Denny! Please,' she said.

He looked up at the priest, his eyes watered from the light of the sun.

‘I'm sorry I said that, Father. But God—I wish I was a man again.'

She put an arm through his—she whispered fiercely in his ear—‘Denny, you promised me as I promised you, on the sacred moment, that you would never again say a mean thing, and I the same. Now let's go out of the good man's house.'

The tall, powerfully built priest followed them out to the gate. He paused a moment and let them go on. From where he stood he could see the sweep of the city.

‘There are no roses anywhere.'

He then hurried after them. O'Hara, terribly efficient, had already got them into the car.

‘Good-bye, Fanny. Good-bye, Denny.'

His big hands shot through the window.

‘Good-bye, Father—thank you—thank you.'

‘Good-bye,' the old man said, as he sank back in the seat.

He stood waving to them till the car reached the corner. Then he went back to the house.

There was nothing to do, nothing you wanted to do, except sit and wait, and watch a clock. Everything was rolled up, stripped, packed, put away. The hours dragging, dragged you with them. You sat in a chair, you looked at a wall, a fire, a picture. You both sat, silent, there was nothing to say. All had been said—you waited here in a small world. You thought of Darnton, high walls, China—men with pig-tails—you thought of New York, the thousand shouts on a quay, you thought of Ireland, sleepy under the fold of hills, you watched a man sleeping.

‘This has really been a nice morning,' she said.

She picked up a poker, she fidgeted at the coals. Below—the cries of children, playing in the sun.

‘Are you really asleep?'

He moved, ‘No,' he said, ‘I am not sleeping, only thinking.'

‘What about?'

‘Less than nothing,' he said.

‘Kilkey will be here any minute now. He's getting the tickets this morning.'

‘Yes.'

‘You won't mind seeing the sea—crossing it? I'll never ask you to go near a sea after this.'

‘I won't mind.'

‘You won't fall down on me, not like yesterday?'

‘I won't fall down.'

‘That's good. How loud that old clock ticks.'

‘What's that?' he opened his eyes and looked at her—said again, ‘What's that, Fanny?'

‘I said how loud a clock ticks when your mind's empty.'

‘It does tick awful loud. It's a cheap sort of clock. Kilkey probably likes it.'

‘I want to see a doctor about your ears,' she said.

‘I'm not deaf, really—it's only the sea washing about in my head.

‘Soon that sea will dry up.'

‘I was thinking this morning as I sat in the church, watching the little boy on the altar, I was thinking of a lovely little boy I once knew.'

‘Let him lie in peace,' she said—she knew then who this boy was. Lenahan by name, he lived inside the man's brain—would always be there—she knew—he had told her. So she saw in this moment the bright eyes smothering under water, and the sun high, shining on that summer's day. ‘Poor child,' she said.

‘He's there, amongst the seaweed.'

‘Stop talking of that.'

‘I'll stop. He woke up in my head. It startled me. I said to myself, an old crock living and a young boy dying——'

‘Stop it, Denny.'

‘Didn't I say I would.'

‘Then for the love of Christ be silent.' And he was silent.

She joined her hands. Bending low her head, she stared at them. ‘Rise out of him now and for ever, all the suck and salt and weight and terror of mad seas—out of him for God's sake, and every cursed minute he was in it be smashed, and every sound of it in his ears be stopped, and every smell and feel and corner of it be blasted this bloody day—this sea-soaked creature sitting here, yapping out of an old head, yapping, yapping, bright eyes and tons of water, and great masts, and towering ships, washing about in his addled brain.'

He listened. ‘Are you saying your prayers again?' he asked.

‘I am indeed.'

There was a noise below, a heavy footstep. Kilkey came.

They heard him coming upstairs, he passed their room. They heard his door close. There were two thuds, and then silence.

‘Why, he never come in to say good-day,' the old man said.

‘He's away to his bed,' she replied, ‘he's been working the night long.'

‘I know that,' there was irritation in the old man's voice, ‘but he never come in all the same.'

‘Why, he always came in to say good-morning.'

‘But he hasn't now.'

‘Isn't that what I'm saying. I thought it strange.'

They sat on until Mrs Turner came in with the mid-day meal.

‘You must excuse Mr Kilkey,' she said, ‘he was so tired, he's gone to bed. He left work at eight this morning, and after he had some breakfast, he was away after your sailing tickets, and now you see it's noon, and he must rest. He wouldn't take anything himself. He just wants to sleep.'

‘Thank you. I understand. Why we don't mind at all, we're quite comfortable here.'

Mrs Turner bent over the old man. ‘And how are you to-day, Mr Fury? I suppose you're looking forward to the going away?'

‘What time is it?'

‘It's twelve o'clock just struck.'

She looked at Mrs Fury. ‘He does look a sight better than yesterday. But I fear it's going to be a long wait for you—and I suppose he's fair sick of sleeping and lying. You know, I think you both ought to get the fresh air.'

She went to the window and flung it up. ‘Powerful close to-day.'

‘How about yourself?' she asked. ‘Are you sure you wouldn't like a walk out for a bit of air.'

‘No. We're very comfortable,' she said. ‘Aren't we, Denny? Why, we'll be getting all the fresh air we want to-night.'

‘That's true enough. Well, I'll see you later on.'

And after she had gone, Fanny said, ‘Would you have liked to have gone the walk, to the bottom of the street?'

‘I'm quite content,' he said. ‘Just leave me be. I don't want to be talking any more.'

‘Very well.'

‘There's just the parcel with the few little things in it, and the little toy for Anthony's boy. Why we've only ourselves to carry to that boat, after all,' she thought.

There was nothing more to be done except to sit the hours out.

‘One o'clock,' she said.

From time to time she broke the silence with some remark. But he never replied to her.

‘It's a long time since I passed through Gelton in the nighttime. I can't help wishing somehow that we were going on the tram, after all. You can see everything in a tram, the shops and the lights, all those people bustling away places.'

‘I'm glad now,' she told herself, ‘that I never mentioned Maureen's coming back to Denny. There's time for that anyhow. Ah, I'm glad for that man, so I am. And I expect he's told the priest already. Though he never said a word to me. That was a good thing to happen anyway before we left. It'll be strange seeing her after all that time, then we had a home—everything—and she hers—a long road from that to this.'

There were times when she sat so still, so silent, that she seemed to have stopped breathing. And he sat stiff, uncomfortable in the chair, and she wished he would lie down on the bed. But now she was almost afraid to ask him. Occasionally she looked at the clock.

‘Two o'clock,' she said.

‘Is that all?'

His voice made her jump.

‘You looked sleeping to me.'

‘Well, I wasn't. I was thinking how odd it was of Kilkey never sticking his head in to say good-morning.'

‘I told you why.'

‘I'm surprised.'

‘Denny, will you let me undress you and get you to bed? Just for a few hours. We'll have to be off by nine o'clock,—and it'll take it out of you. Be a good man and go to bed.'

‘All right.'

And when he was safely in she said, ‘I'm just going below for a few minutes.'

He heard her go downstairs.

‘Ah, I'm sick of this coming and going, sick of it—I never know where I am. I've been going for three months and no stopping. I wish I could just fall into the bloody old boat and be done with it. I wonder what she went downstairs for? Aye, and I wonder why she went upstairs this morning with the priest. Why, I'm afraid there are some things she doesn't tell me.'

She sat by the sitting-room window. She watched women passing with shopping baskets, children playing, cars and lorries roll by.

‘I think I'm tired of that place upstairs now.'

‘I think he is too.'

‘I couldn't sit there any longer. I could see he wanted to be quiet—he hated me talking, and what was I to do. I feel all tightened and choked this morning. I have to be talking about something. I'd read a book to him but he's gone so deaf—and just fancy him noticing Kilkey. Now he heard that step past the door. Yet he says he's deaf. Ah—I'll stay here now till five o'clock. I can't stand sitting there like that, hour after hour, just looking at him as he is. And yet never a bit of it's his fault. He was an active man—sure he hates being bound. But he'll just have to accept it, and that's all.'

After a while she went upstairs again. She knew herself restless. She knew herself sick of waiting. The day dragged longer and longer. Exhausted, she herself fell asleep in the chair. In the next room Kilkey snored. The slightest sound woke him, and he woke now, the click of a latch below. He went down, creeping softly in stockinged feet. He let the woman in.

‘There's no need for you to be here,' he said. ‘Nothing more is wanted now. I can do all myself. Thank you for all you've done whilst they have been here with me. I think they're glad—I think they're tired of waiting. I looked in. She was deeply asleep. Not a sound from him, he might be dead. So please don't bother. I'll take nothing up there—I can't go near them now till half-past eight. It'll be a disturbed night for them. My great worry is getting him aboard. I'm afraid of when he sees the sea. You know that time he was at the Hospice he screamed when he saw the water, and that was only the old river. And the silly doctor thought it was the sun in his eyes.'

‘You're sure now?' she asked.

‘I'm sure.'

‘I'll slip in to say good-bye to them when I see the taxi coming up.'

‘Very well.'

He prepared his own tea. He shaved and washed, changed into his best suit. He sat reading the evening paper. He thought of Maureen, his wife—of the boat, the crossing.

‘I know there's a boat leaves the North Wall around noon, and I believe there's another leaves around four o'clock. Either will get me back early Monday morning. So it won't interfere with my work. And will I be relieved when it's over! For their own sakes. But I'll be fair worried over that sea. I don't want him screaming out on that gangway. But no, I don't think he will—them old nightmares is gone now. Thank God. If we can get him on the boat—the rest is easy.'

He got up; and hands in pockets paced the kitchen. To Kilkey any floor was a deck, and any house a ship—and on ship-board one walked up and down and let one's thoughts wander where they would. Not a sound from above. At half-past eight he went up. He took two mugs of milk, some meat sandwiches. He had to shake them both—they were fast sleeping—the old man in a kind of torpor.

‘It's time, Fanny,' he said.

‘Don't I know. Come, Denny, pull yourself together. This is only one more old travel for you, and the last I'll ask you to do.'

‘I'm ready.'

Kilkey got him up; dressed him. He then sat and watched them eat.

‘The car will be here in twenty minutes. Have you got everything?'

‘Everything. There's just the old parcel there, and the little thing there for the boy.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘Not a thing.'

He had brought up two candles and now he lighted them.

‘Why you're all dressed and ready yourself. You look nice in that suit.'