Winter Song (5 page)

The old man looked up at the priest. He did not speak and Father Moyniham was glad of that.

‘Try to sleep,' he said, covering him, ‘close your eyes now. Remember I will be here. I am here all the time. I shall not leave you.'

The old man turned over on his side. It was growing dark. Father Moynihan moved silently from the bed. He walked to the window. For a long time he stood there, looking out at the dark piled mass outside the window. Then he turned away and went out of the room.

‘There is really no need for me to stay any longer. The old man has fallen asleep. I have told him.'

‘How did he take it, Father Moynihan?'

‘It's hard to say, except for a moment he was quite unable to speak to me. It has been a blow for him. He is such a simple man—they take such blows, not like us, but somehow almost as one might imagine an animal takes a blow. We never know the effect. They never answer under it, nor yet do they wilt. Their hearts are strong. I found it difficult to tell a man, come as he has come out of some mad and mysterious sea, the most simple truth. I thought he might cry—but he did not.'

‘Delahane will get you a cup of strong coffee if you would like one.'

Father Moynihan declined and picked up his hat. ‘It is very late,' he said.

‘Near to midnight, and so you think this Mr Fury can be shifted to-morrow?'

‘Of course. He requires attention that he cannot get here. I will have him removed. I shall come about noon to-morrow. There is still the matter of his wife. I rang up the Hospice and explained roughly what had happened. The Mother Superior will do nothing till I see her. She is a most sensible and understanding woman. I think she can explain to the man's wife and prepare her. She will be shocked when she sees him. I have never seen a man so changed in so short a time—never. He is like a very old child. It quite upset me when he complained she had not come to meet him. Apparently she always went down to the ship to meet him when he came home from sea. He expected everything to be as it was before, his home, his family. Well, I must be off. Good-night, Twomey,' he said, he shook hands with the younger priest, ‘what time do you yourself retire?'

‘I stay here till two. Then I go to bed and Delahane calls me at six unless something has happened to make me rise earlier. Men pass in and out of here in a continuous stream. I sometimes wonder why at this house we have doors at all, for they are never shut. I should be tired, really, but I am not tired—I'm happy to-day. Twelve men out of the sea, Father Moynihan, my flock runs to thousands and thousands.' He smiled, he accompanied Father Moynihan to the door. They stood there talking for a few minutes, then the older man patted the younger's shoulder.

‘Good-night—God bless you.'

Father Twomey stood in the dark doorway watching him go. Soon he was lost to sight, and only the footsteps could be heard. Far out on the river a light blinked, the sound of a syren tore through the night air, and he knew ships moved oceanwards under the heavy sky, moved homewards and dropped anchor to await the morning light.

‘It was that tattooed star, that particular medal that got the old man home at last.' He withdrew into the passage. He heard footsteps, recognized them, Delahane was bringing in night coffee, he hummed the tune he always hummed.

‘It's extraordinary that a man should turn up a whole year after a sinking,' he said, he poured out coffee for both of them.

‘I've known men return after even three years, Delahane, and not only that, I've often thought of their mysterious, secret journeys in the hours they are lost to us.'

‘Just fancy those two young sailors getting drunk in Bahia, and staying drunk every bit of the way home.'

‘I'll bet they're sober now. And that old man upstairs whom they dragged after them, like any sack of potatoes—they've forgotten him, too. In two days they will have forgotten their hazardous voyage, the torpedo, the sudden madness, the sinking. In a week they will be on board again, moving seawards. Sailors and ships die many deaths.'

Delahane, absorbed in his coffee, listening to the first move of a rising wind, had barely listened, nevertheless, he said—‘Indeed they do, Father.'

‘I'm tired, Delahane. You know, I think I'll go up.'

Father Twomey stood up, stretched, yawned, sighed—‘And as soon as Owen comes, you must get off yourself. I have a feeling that we shall not be rung to-night.'

‘What makes you think that, Father?'

‘I don't know. Good-night, Delahane—sleep well.'

‘Good-night, Father.'

Delahane helped himself to more coffee.

‘Imagine that old chap upstairs, talking about getting another ship, already! Why, he must be out of his mind entirely. I think I'll have a fine big yawn myself.' He put down the coffee mug. He lay back in the chair. ‘I hope Owen won't be too long. Why, I've had as heavy a day as the priest himself.' Coals fell from the fire. Outside the wind increased its velocity, the windows shook. Suddenly he heard a thud on the upper floor, and then the shouts. ‘Oh, Lord! He's off again. That old chap's having his nightmare. It would happen, just when I'm thinking of bed.'

He heard the priest calling to him ‘You had better come up, Delahane.'

‘Coming,' shouted Delahane, ‘coming. Why, that noise will wake the other men. It's that fiery sea again, I'll bet—and that lad Lenahan—I wonder what it means?'

He dashed upstairs to the old man's room. They found he had rolled out of the bed. They heard him say, ‘Up, son. Keep up, hold on, Lenahan.'

Chapter 2

‘Good-Morning,' the white-robed nun said. ‘I see you are writing again.'

‘Only a letter.'

‘
Another
one?'

There is no answer. The nun puts down the tray, goes quietly out. The woman continues writing. There is some steaming stew, bread, a glass of water. Her lunch. The small, white-walled room is quite silent, it accentuates the clock's soft tick, the scratching of the pen nib. The walls are bare, except that there hangs over the mantelshelf a large metal crucifix. The cleanly-scrubbed floor boards are covered by two rugs, one alongside the small iron bed, the other in front of the fireplace. The fire smokes, it is heavy with slack coal. The woman is still writing. She stops suddenly and rises to her feet. As she does so, she glances out through the window, the sea is there. But she looks at it with indifferent eyes, an immense volume of water flowing for no particular reason. She turns her back on the window and approaches the table. She is tall, thin, grey-haired, the eyes seem too bright, the line of the mouth too hard, there is some exaggeration here.… She wears a long blue dress. Round her neck hangs a silver chain, from the chain a long silver crucifix. She sits down and begins her meal. Her long thin hands tremble as she eats. They carry the legacy of labour, discoloration of age. The features are without expression, there is something wooden, lifeless, it is the eyes that exaggerate—too bright, too lively. She talks to herself as she eats.

‘I will write to Anthony to-morrow.'

‘In two years he will be home from China.'

She has eaten her lunch. She sits staring at the empty tray. As she sits, she listens. She is always listening. The creaking of doors, the soft swish of a dress, the clock's tick, a bell ringing somewhere behind the room, voices that die on the air, the sound of wheels on a gravel path. In the corner nearest the door there is a small shelf containing reading matter, some newspapers, magazines, a book or two. She has read the newspapers. They bring in messages from outside, from the world. At the door of this room the torrent of life beats in vain. The silence holds it—keeps it out. Later in the afternoon she will sit in the cane arm-chair by the fire, read
The Life of St Thérèse
. She will stare long, thoughtfully at the frontispiece, the picture of the Saint, not of this world, beyond humanity. She does not
quite
understand what it all means, but it is something to do. At four o'clock she will get up, put on her shawl, leave the room and join the small procession of priest and nuns down the white corridor, over soundless carpet, then across the lawn, over sour wintry grass. In the chapel she will kneel, but not pray. She has tried very hard, but cannot pray. But she kneels and listens and as the flute-like voices of the choir bursts upon the air, she smiles, the hard mouth softens. She loves to hear the small voices storming Heaven. At half-past four she will have tea. Sister Angelica will bring it, Sister Angelica will sit and talk to her, the room may break with a sudden laugh as memory stirs, but at five o'clock there is silence again. She is terribly alone, yet not lonely. She can stir things to life in the abyss of her mind. She can, if she wills it, descend to the depths of it, and travel far. Back to that long, wide, hollow and endless day when the storm broke and the ship was wrecked. The dream journey through turbulent streets, against many cries and through all the roar and scream of Gelton's life, along the road where ships lie, and the air heavy with the odour of the five oceans and the seven seas, walking, always walking towards exhaustion, down the road, at first endless, but that had stopped here, in this great white house with its tall iron gates, by going beyond which you may walk into the sea. That is as far back as she can remember, and there is nothing else worth remembering. These journeys of memories are the cries upon tiredness returned from them. She may lie down on her bed and fashion sleep more easily. Not always are the journeys of memory successful. There are the pills in the bottle on her table. They often help.

She writes many letters, and many letters are not posted.

‘I'll write to Peter in the morning,' she says, and then sits waiting for the door to open, the hand holding the letter come from behind the high walls in northern Corlston.

She writes to New York, China, Dublin, Cork, London, Sometimes there are answers.

There is a visitor once a week, the same one. She looks forward to these visits, the link with the old life. She remembers Thursdays, the figure of the short, stocky old man, who comes so heavy-footedly up the gravel path.

‘Old Ugly comes to-day,' she tells herself, and smiles. She loves ‘old ugly'.

‘Poor Joe,' she says, ‘oh, it's so nice of you to come here and see me. How I look forward to these visits, and the hour's wild scampering through the old days,' and sits looking at him, this old man with the great bald head, and the weather-beaten face that holds in it the shine of wet leather and the good heart. She remembers that.

‘Oh! It's nice to see you,' wringing his hands, watching him grow older, week by week, month by month. ‘And you're still working,' she says.

‘Aye! Still at it,' Mr Kilkey says, and notes the bright eyes and the too hard mouth, that curious curve of the upper lip. ‘And how are you to-day, Fanny?'

‘I'm well, thank God.'

He sits with her for an hour, their hands are close together, they talk, news is exchanged.

‘And so Desmond's packed up and left Gelton altogether.'

‘Yes, he's gone.'

‘Did he come to see you?'

‘He called.'

‘Did she?'

‘No, she didn't call—I wouldn't have expected her to. Strange to think you are now the only one left in Gelton.'

‘Aye.'

‘How's Dermod?'

‘He's fine.' He visions Dermod for a moment, remembers his wife who deserted him.

‘I'm proud of Dermod.'

‘I'm sure you are,' she says.

There are invitations to go out occasionally, but she withdraws gracefully. She is not interested. Outside doesn't matter any more.

‘A beautiful garden they have here,' she says.

‘Yes, it is pretty and so big. Why you haven't so far away to walk to get to the chapel.'

‘Just over the way.'

‘I suppose if everything had gone the way you wanted it, you would have packed up your things and sailed away home.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘You don't look as tired as you used to.'

‘Oh, I'm better now. I was
very
tired once, very very tired. It's peaceful here. I'm very happy. They're all gone, the lot of them. One time it would have worried my heart sick, not now though. Not now. It's the best I wanted. I don't think I'd have the heart to start again.'

‘Nor the strength, my good woman,' Joseph Kilkey warns.

‘There's four striking,' he says, ‘I must be off,' and rises to his feet. She rises too, goes with him to the door.

‘You'll come again?'

‘Of course. God bless you—look after yourself,' they shake hands—he is gone.

The door closes. She hurries over to the window to watch this man go down the drive, this man with his bowler hat and his drab, unlovely serge suit. At the gate he turns, he sees her smile, the wave of the hand, he waves back to her—the great gate clangs, he's gone, lost in the world.

‘Poor Joe,' she says, ‘poor faithful old Ugly.'

She will sometimes follow him with her mind's eye, back through the maze of streets to his home.

‘How often he must have loneliness with him,' and she thinks of her daughter, his wife, lost somewhere in the jungle of Gelton.

‘She was a poor creature with no heart,' and smiled suddenly, remembering his son.

‘He thinks that boy beautiful, I suppose he really is.'

The door opens, Sister Angelica brings in the tea, sits down and shares it with the woman.

‘Well, mother, did you have a letter to-day?' She pours out tea, serves toast.

‘No! But I'm sure there will be one to-morrow. Did you post the others for me?'

‘I did, mother,' always she addresses her as mother. She thinks it strange that one should live here in the midst of death.

‘Are you happy, mother?' And watches the features soften, hears her begin to talk.