Winter Song (43 page)

‘I see,' he said—but didn't clearly—it hardly seemed a secret worth holding. They stared out over the sea.

‘I don't believe, somehow, that when we see the land, it will be Ireland.'

‘It'll be Ireland all right—have no fear of that.'

‘It will seem very strange at first,' and he noted a trace of uncertainty in the tone of her voice.

‘It won't be strange for long.'

‘I'll go back now and sit with him.'

‘I'll stay where I am. First sight of the land I get, I'll come and tell you.'

He watched her as she walked back into the alley-way.

‘I think she's really happy now,' he said to himself.

And suddenly, there it was, the land. Kilkey watched it rise out of the morning mist. A man had come near, was leaning on the rail. ‘We won't be long now,' he said.

‘Not long,' Kilkey said.

‘We'll be late all the same.'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘If we get in by nine or ten o'clock we'll be lucky.'

‘And I've to catch the next boat back.'

‘There's one leaves the Wall at four p.m.' the man replied.

‘I thought there was an earlier one.'

‘They knocked that off. 'Count of the trouble.'

‘Why, yes. Of course. The trouble. It never entered my head once,' Kilkey said.

‘Aye, the same bloody old trouble,' the man said, ‘some people are never happy,'—there was disgruntlement—even a little anger in the man's voice.

‘Do you cross often?' asked Kilkey.

‘Once a month. I'm travelling for Carroll's.'

‘Oh.'

Kilkey walked slowly away. ‘I forgot all about the troubles,' he said.

He went to see the old people. He sat down. He spoke seriously to them.

‘When the ship ties up, Fanny, don't move. Neither of you. Just sit quiet. Wait till I come for you. We shall be in in an hour, I believe. We've got the land. But don't be bothering to go and look at it. You'll see it soon enough. A stiff breeze has suddenly come up. You're both better where you are.'

‘We'll leave everything to you,' she said.

‘We can get a car on the quay. You'll be at Balls Road before you know where you are. And think of it, Fanny—home, and your travels over.'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘just think of it.'

She looked admiringly at the old man. ‘You hear what Kilkey says, Denny?'

‘I'm listening.'

‘We'll be having dinner with Anthony's wife. It's very exciting.'

Bells rang out. Later they heard the sound of the first bell-buoy. There was much movement outside. A winch had steam up. Kilkey got up and looked through the port. ‘Look, Fanny,' he said—‘Look.'

She looked out through the port-hole he had opened. She saw sluggish green water—a light-house.

She sat down. ‘It won't be very long now.'

‘Any minute,' said Kilkey, he stood gazing out at the approaching harbour. He looked down at them.

‘Don't you people be getting too excited now,' he said.

‘We shan't do that, we'll be very calm and collected, won't we, Denny?'

‘We'll be careful of ourselves,' he said.

The scream of the winch came through to their cabin. Another winch started up. Somebody was speaking through a megaphone on the bridge above them.

‘We're almost in,' Kilkey said, ‘I'll go and see,' he added.

The moment he reached the rails he saw two men pointing, gesticulating, they talked with raised voices. Kilkey stared at them.

‘There seems to be a crowd on the end of the quay, there's something going on in one of them back streets.'

‘There surely is.'

‘I wonder what it is at all.'

‘Ah—demonstrating again—sure they're always at it. I come over here once a week and I hear an old sailor saying the same old thing as he takes the bight of the rope in his hands—“They're still at it,” he says. And so they are. Them crowds are not down there for nothing.'

‘Maybe they're expecting a bit of prime British beef on this packet.'

‘Maybe.'

Kilkey walked away. He stood staring at the dark mass. ‘I wonder what it's all about.'

He went back to the cabin. ‘I'll wait with them till the gangway goes down,' he thought.

‘They'll have the gangway down in a few minutes. Just sit easy. You've your parcel with you?' he asked.

‘I'm quite ready now,' she said. She handed a small brown paper parcel to the old man.

‘Put that toy in your pocket,' she said.

‘There! She's in now,' said Kilkey. ‘We'd getter get up and be off.'

‘Why, yes,' she got up, she took her husband's arm. ‘Come now,' she said, ‘and when you come out on to the deck you'll see your own place at last.'

He saw them out of the cabin. He took the old man's hand.

‘You go ahead,' he said. ‘I'll follow.'

They went down the alley-way, reached the deck.

The woman turned. ‘There's a powerful lot of people down there, Kilkey, and somebody seems to be shouting.'

‘Probably a market-day,' he replied. ‘Just keep on, Fanny. Just follow the others.'

She went on. Other people were now descending the gangway. She took the first step, then turned to see if they were following. The old man had loosed his hold on Kilkey, and was moving along after his wife.

She stood waiting for him.

‘Take my arm, Kilkey is coming on behind.' The old man caught her arm. For a moment she stood there, looking down at him.

‘I believe you're happy now,' she said, and gave a pull on his arm. He did not answer her. They moved down the gangway.

Kilkey was suddenly behind them.

‘What a fine, shining morning to come home' he said, and stumbled on after them.

They did not hear him. At the foot of the gangway they paused again. Kilkey stopped dead.

‘You'd best be off the gangway, Fanny, others are waiting behind us.' ‘Of course,' and she stepped clear, the old man close beside her. She turned and looked back at the ship, and said quietly, ‘I can't believe it, somehow, I can't …'

‘This is Ireland, Kilkey,' the old man said.

‘This is Ireland,' he replied, not looking at Mr Fury, but staring intently at his wife.

‘The journey is over,' he said, and stepped down to the quay. She made no answer, she was filled with an awesome joy, quietly she cried. Kilkey stood motionless, watching her.

‘Many an ocean he's crossed, and many the turns of road I went, waiting for him, and here we are back where we started from, back to the beginning. Oh Christ, this is what I always wanted. I can look at him now and see a fine man come home.'

She looked at Kilkey. ‘Take his arm,' and she took the other one. ‘For all you did for us, down to this golden morning, I thank you, Kilkey.'

He smiled. ‘Let's be going,' he said, ‘we'll find a jarvey any minute now——'

They went slowly down the shed, touched the fringe of crowd, and soon were lost in it.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Furys Saga

1

There was the high wall, the great door, and the roads leading north and south. A drizzle had been falling for over an hour and the light was begrudging. The man stood quite still. He took off his cap, and after a few seconds became aware of the dampness of his hair. Some fifty yards away a policeman watched him, without interest. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a bell ringing. The policeman, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, thought, “another one”. He clasped hands behind his back and rocked gently to and fro upon his heels. The tall, broad-shouldered man had not moved. Only his eye roamed, following the blurred line of the roads, the one to the city, the other deeper into the country. The road to the city was direct, challenging, magnetic, but the other was only a path to the jungle, reached after much preliminary scouting. The growths varied. A series of enormous rubbish dumps, derelict brickworks, a lane formed by outworn and rusted ship's boilers, great mounds of ash, old tyres, papers, rags, old ropes, tins, boxes, upon all of which the drizzle continued to fall, forming a thin, shining film over the whole congealing mass. The man put on his cap, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

“I could go to New York, I've relatives there. Yes, I could go there.”

The policeman watched. And suddenly, out of the mist appeared a small Austin car. It drew up in front of the man. A passenger got out. A short, stockily built, florid-looking man. He wore a black coat, and striped trousers. Only the black bowler hat made him appear pompous and fussy, and he wore it with an air of great importance. He carried an umbrella, too tightly rolled up ever to be opened. He hardly noticed the drizzle. The driver was a woman, at whom the man with the cap began to stare. He stared very hard.

“A woman,” he exclaimed under his breath, “it's a woman.” He then looked across at the little man, who now announced very dramatically, “I'm late”. The man with the cap just went on staring. He could not take his eyes off the woman behind the wheel.

“My wife,” said the short man, “just learning to drive. You look cold. I've come along to meet you. Slight traffic hold up. A little late. Sorry! Come to help. We always do. Discharged Prisoners' Aid Society. Bound to have heard of it. Will you get into the car? Where do you want to go?”

The whole thing tripped off his tongue, easily, from ruthless habit. He talked as out of a dictaphone.

“Run you wherever you wish to go. Cup of tea first. Hope you've learned your lesson. What a miserable morning?”

The man remained motionless. “Perhaps I could look up Maureen,” he thought.

“Are you all right?” enquired the little man, only to receive another rude stare for his pains.

The woman leaned her head out of the window.

“
Do
hurry, Herbert,” she said. She had a warm, comfortable look, matronly; she appeared considerate, kind.

She looked up at the man whose eyes had never left her. “Are you coming or not?”

An ultimatum. The little man prodded the umbrella into the mud, the puddles. He mused. “It often happens that way. You get a person totally incapable of making up his mind. I've seen so many of them stand in this very place, looking quite helpless, bereft. It saddens one. Sometimes it seems as though they were quite unable to breathe the very air about them. What can
I
do?”

And suddenly looking at the man, asked, “What can I do?”

“Leave me alone.” The man with the cap turned his back to the other.

“One has to have a patience,” reflected the little man. “Just for a few minutes they seem quite lost.”

“Can't you leave me alone,” said the man with the cap, “
can't
you?”

The woman spoke. “We are only trying to help you.” And the man thought, “I'm just a pig.”

The woman leaned out of the car, she was closely watching the man.

“Take you anywhere you want to go,” her husband said, and he lifted the umbrella clear of the ground. “
Anywhere,
” he added, and there was a note of desperation in the voice. He cautioned himself to be patient.

“Just leave me alone,” the other said.

The little man had tucked the umbrella under his arm. From his overcoat pocket he withdrew two envelopes, and handed them to the man.

“Here! And
this,
” he said, waving one of the envelopes, “
this
, I was asked to give you. And now, good luck.”

He held out his hand, the other took it, and shook it warmly.

“I just wish to be left alone,” he said.

“And I can assure you, my good friend,” replied the little man, “that I quite understand—perfectly. Goodbye, and good luck.”

He stamped away towards the car. The woman started up the engine. It purred for a moment or two, then suddenly roared away into the morning stillness, but not before she had again put her head out of the window, and wished him a “good morning”.

Nothing could have been more definite, more final, than that single utterance. “Which way shall I go?”

The man held the envelopes in his fingers. Inside one of them there was something hard, and he opened it. Two half-crowns dropped into the palm of his hand.

“Christ!” He opened the other. It contained only a torn, half-sheet of paper. There was a pencilled message, and he read it, once, twice, then a third time, reading loudly, “Contact D at Tilseys.”

Tilseys? Where the hell was that? He had never heard of it.

“Who is D? Never knew anybody whose name began with a D. Is Tilseys a pub? A café? A hotel?” He stood quite still, the envelope dangling in his fingers.

“Wonder where they all are? Mother never wrote any more.” And slowly, almost unconsciously, he was tearing the envelopes into the tiniest shreds, and scattering them in the road.