Winter Song (47 page)

“That camp I was in fifteen years ago,” was all Kilkey said. They stood silently looking at each other.

“You wouldn't remember that. Never mind. But I've something ready for you. Knew you'd come, knew all along. Oh, I
am
glad. Sit down. Rest yourself. Fancy. Out at last.”

“Yes, perhaps I am, somehow it's hard to believe. I keep asking myself stupid questions. It's the backwash of the nightly confessions when the door closes in the evening, and they shut you in. Maureen! Where is Maureen?”

“Eh! What's that? Can't hear you. I told you, that camp did it, can't hear you—a bad clout, affected both ears. Shout.”

“
Where is Maureen?
”

“Don't know. I never know. Hear rumours. Last time somebody saw her in Halifax, of all places. That's Yorkshire.”

He took a pipe from his pocket, and began filling it. “You'll have something to eat directly. My Mrs. Turner will be here any minute now. She always gives me a midday meal.”

“I want clothes. Have you anything here that fits? I must get out of this. Christ! I can't believe I'm alive. Keep touching myself just to make sure. Just lying here, back on this sofa, quiet, the door fastened, no staring eye, you can't believe, you can't,” speaking at the top of his voice.

“I shan't disturb you,” said Kilkey, and left the kitchen. He went upstairs to his room. “Have to get him something to wear. Nothing here'll fit. He's changed greatly. like a stranger.”

Peter came into the room. “A woman has just come in,” he said. “I came up here. I'll wait. You better see her.”

“It's Mrs. Turner,” replied the old man. “When it's time to come down, I'll knock on the ceiling.”

From a top drawer of the dressing-table he took a box of cigarettes which he handed to his brother in law.

“Never smoke them. Keep them here just in case——” and he shuffled out of the room. The moment the door closed Peter stretched himself out on the bed.

“I'll get away to the States. I'll find Cavanagh. Delaney's quite right, it's no use thinking of yesterday, and there's nothing you can patch up. I'll go and see him in the morning. In a month I'll be in New York, it's hard to believe I can do it,” and he began staring round the room, noting every little object in it. Like the lower part of the house, everything was tidy, scrupulously clean. It was a bachelor's room, and it signalled to him the end of a chapter, a final resignation.

“She'll never come back. Wonder what he really thinks? Hell, it's sad, he's old, old, you can see that. And all on his own. Wonder what his son is like?”

Cigarette followed cigarette; the room was thick with smoke when the old man returned.

“All right, now. You can come down. She's gone. Hot meal ready. Come along, son.”

He followed the old man down. The table was laid for two.

“Make yourself comfortable, at home. At any time this is your home. You know that.” They began to eat.

“I'm going out at half-past five this evening. Night shift. Overhauling a beef boat, she's in the graving-dock.” Smiling, he added, “You see, I still work.”

Again Peter nodded, but he saw no ship, only the box-like kitchen, the small, yellow-stained ceiling, the clutter of familiar objects. They cried aloud to him that life was no bigger, and never would be. Here was an old man, still living in a box, after fifteen years.

“More cheese? Have some more tea. Don't know whether you take a drink, Peter, my housekeeper would have got you something,” but the visitor waved a hand, and went on eating.

“Seen anybody at all since you came out?”

“A Mr. Delaney.”

“A good man,” Kilkey said, “a very nice man, and sensible. Spent the whole of his life at that kind of work. More bread?”

“No, thanks. I'm finished,” Peter said, and pushed away his plate. “Mr. Delaney said you would tell me about mother,” he said. He got up, pushed his chair to the wall, and went and sat in a small rocker by the fire. “He told me to ask you.”

Kilkey went on eating. He had heard nothing.

“Old man
must
be deaf, stone deaf.” He went and stood behind him, he spoke very loudly in his ear, and Kilkey gave a little jump, he stopped eating.

“Delaney said you would tell me about my mother. I want to know,
now
,” he shouted.

Kilkey rose, and he did not look at the man. He began to clear the table. He shuffled in and out of the kitchen; he made a pretence of tidying things on the dresser, he crossed to the pipe rack, tried the stems, put the pipes back again. He searched in a drawer for nothing in particular, and Peter was always watching him. Suddenly he took a seat beside Peter, leaned forward.

“You ask
me
?”

“Why not?”

“I can't tell you. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you.”

“Where did it happen? In the home?”

Kilkey smoked his pipe, he hardly appeared to have noticed the question. He saw the man rise up, he felt his weight against him, heard him furiously shout. “Did she die in the home? Can't you hear what I'm saying? All you've said to me since I called here is that America is a fine country, and I ought to get out to it. Damn America! But I want to know things, I must know, I have a right to know. For fifteen years.…”

He returned to his chair and sat down. He did not speak. When the old man came and stood before him, he suddenly hated himself.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Kilkey, I'm sorry. I forgot myself. Sorry I shouted, I mean it,” gripping the other's arm, holding his hands, shaking them. “You are deaf. I know it now,” and in a sudden fierce whisper, “I only wanted to know about her. She was my mother, wasn't she? I don't care about the rest.”

He paused. Kilkey's eyes were full upon him. “I won't press you. Let's forget it.”

He sat back, but a second later he was on his feet. “Can you get me some clothes? At once? I must go. I want to get away from here.
Can
you?” jabbering into the old man's face, and the words were frenzied. “Can you? Do SAY. I should never have come here. I can see that. Get me clothes. My God, look at this,” and his hand ran the suit's length, “do something now, before you go out, I want to get out of Gelton for good.”

Kilkey's hands were waving to and fro in front of him. “Stop! Stop! Keep calm. What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad?” He pressed the other back to the chair.

“Always knew you would come here, and I would have felt it deeply if you hadn't. Night after night I've lain in bed, and I've thought of all the questions you'd ask me, until I knew them all by heart. I could recite the whole thing from the beginning to end. Been living here seven years now, and I'm settled to it. Dermod is a fine lad, I'm proud of him. Perhaps one day you'll see him, I say perhaps——” He emphasised the word. “As for Maureen, I've never quite given her up I mean—yes, I can see you laughing there, but I tell you that for a long time I've had a feeling she'll walk in here one fine day. I'm an old man, and you may think me an old fool. Maureen's no girl, either. Is she? I manage a bit of a job now and again. Thank God I can still do it. That's always on the top of my mind. And by the way I'll give you Anthony's address. You know he's on the China station, seems to have settled to that sort of life. They've a little girl, must be ten now. Oonagh. Father Moynihan's still at the same church, old now, very grey, but still a charming man. You already know about Desmond. He's never stopped getting on, you can imagine anything about him except laziness. Lives in Ralston Park now, I think.”

He watched the big man in the chair, watched for signs, but as he listened Peter's expression remained wooden, but behind this lay the dominant thought, the single thought, “Get out.”

“And mother?” asked Peter suddenly, and it came like a shock to Kilkey.

How he would persist in shouting at the top of his voice. “I'm not as deaf as that,” Kilkey said.

“Well?”

“I'd rather not, Peter, please don't ask me.”

“Tell me about her,” Peter replied, and there was something in the tone of his voice that now genuinely frightened the old man.

Kilkey got up and went across to the window. “Thought I heard a knock,” he said, drawing aside a curtain, peeping out.

“Nobody knocked. Why can't you tell me?”

“I'm an old man,” Kilkey said. “Listen! What good can it do you? She's at rest. And it's hardly fair on me. That's the sort of thing you should hear from Father Moynihan, he could better explain it. I've nothing to hide,” he added, his voice was full of protest. “Can't you be satisfied with that? You know what happened, I wrote and told you. After she left your father——”

“She told me that herself.”

In a loud, protesting voice, one hand waving in the air, Kilkey cried, “Why do you ask me this?”

“Delaney said you would tell me.”

“He told you
that?
”

“Yes.”

“He might have spared my feelings. I always admired your mother.”

“Christ man, why can't you say something, what are you hiding?” Peter could no longer control his rage. There was something antagonizing about this doddering old man, his deafness, his meandering, his waving arms, it seemed hard to believe that it was really Joseph Kilkey. How changed he was. He felt an irritation, a sense of frustration. “Delaney could have told me anyhow,” he thought, “why don't I get out of here?”

“What's wrong with you? What's taken possession of you, Peter? I never wanted to tell you, but you drag it out of me, and it won't help anybody, least of all you. Sit down. Cool yourself,” and he went back to his chair and sat down. He felt a sudden extraordinary calm. He reached out for the pipe, lit it, and relaxed in the chair.

“You remember Father Moynihan?”

“I do.”

“About three years after your mother went to the nuns, something happened. She went there of her own free will. I tried to persuade her to live with me, but she wouldn't, and I never pressed her. She wanted peace and quiet, and she got it. I used to visit her. She seemed contented. She enquired after you all, there was never a feeling of resentment, never. It was a beautiful place, and the food was good. The family was scattered for good, and she realized that. But often she cried about your father. Still she was calm, she was
happy
. It was a great relief to me to see her so contented, and after a while she ceased to mention her family, only your father. Yes, he was the only person she ever spoke about. She changed, she
looked
different. All her storming was over. Well, as I was saying, about three years after she went there I had a letter from Father Moynihan. A young woman brought me the letter, it was just before I left the old house. Father Moynihan asked me to go and see him. I went. A nice man, I always liked him, and he thought a lot of your father and mother. The news he had for me I did not at first believe, and looking back on it now, I suppose it's the only time I ever saw a miracle fall out of a man's mouth. ‘Denis Fury,' he said, ‘is not dead. He's alive, he's here. A wreck, and his memory has gone'.”

Kilkey paused to relight his pipe. “A battered old man, indeed, long thought to be drowned, who for over two years had been lying in a seaman's hospital at a place called Bahia. An old man who had travelled all the way back by ship with two other survivors, I still could not believe it. But it was true enough. The next morning I saw your father. He didn't know me, he recognised nobody. The news had to be broken to your mother. It
was
broken to her, in the simplest way. They let him walk into the room where your mother was standing, and they closed the door on them. She had to be warned what to expect, and she expected it. Actually she was re-united to a child. The first few days were terrible. The shock, the sight of him, and he was so helpless, so very useless. He could do little or nothing for himself. Your mother sent for me, and I went to see them. I was very moved when I saw him, but as I say he didn't know me, he never knew me any more. A bundle of rags and bones. No more than that. He was full of a mystery that couldn't be solved. He was a broken man. And yet he was alive, behind the rags, behind the mystery of him. He'd been picked up after being in the sea nearly five days, and they could do nothing with the boy they found in his arms, a young sailor lad who had been making his first trip in the
Ronsa
. Slowly, oh very slowly indeed, he mended, bit by bit, inch by inch you might say. He began to eat. And then the real terror began, so that you thought this man was only safe when he was starving, as though the food and drink had some effect upon him. He cried in the night, he screamed, he roared. The nightmares were so bad that they had to keep shifting him from one part of the building to another. Finally they allowed your mother to be with him altogether. He quietened, he sank back into a sort of coma, he became very ill. Your mother never left him, night or day, never complained, never uttered a word. Father Moynihan said your father was saved by her silence. After a while they went out walks together. Then one day, God knows it was an unlucky day indeed, for the thought came into your mother's head to travel north. But you already know what happened. I told you in a letter. They went all the way to visit you, and on the very step, so to speak, your father collapsed, and they came all the way back again. It was a stupid thing to do, but a brave thing. One night your father went quite mad and tried to throw himself out of the window. He had by some accident or other got hold of a small mirror that your mother had hidden away from him, and he saw himself for the first time. It may have been the great scar that ran right across his head and half way down his neck. It may have been a sight of it, I don't know, but it took your mother and two nuns all their time to hold him down. Long after that she told me it was not the scar, but something else. He had come to her one dark afternoon when she was reading, and had said to her, ‘I'm useless. I'm finished.' Nothing your mother said would change his mind. And he cried out, ‘I can't work any more, what'll I do. I can't work.'