Winter Song (17 page)

Your poor dad's a wreck, but I know he'll pull round. He asks after you. There's a great old weariness on him but gradually he'll lose it, he'll rise up out of his bed and be the fine man he always was. Sure it was sad the way he had to come back to nothing much except me, sitting in a quiet little room that was nice and peaceful to me, but never a home to me the way I'd have it. You'll remember that, Son, the way the fire would be bright and the whole place shining there against him coming home in the evening. That was when he was working ashore. It seems a time ago. Sure the poor man was never happy in it at all, his old legs were more at home working on deck, and that's what the kitchen always was to him, just an old ship, the way he'd be wearing many an hour out, tramping up and down and up and down again, the way he wore out the carpets and all the time I was so stupid and selfish. I never knew he only wanted to break out and leave me alone since the sea had him by the neck and always did. Ah well, it had him by the neck for the last time and he'll carry the mark she gave him all his days
.

And so on and so on. As she wrote she warmed to her subject, she caught glimpses and flashes of days when they were all together, happy, being a family.

The priest child nearly did for me, but that's over. That, I suppose, should never have been begun
—
but I did hope
—
enough of that. Why I won't be worrying any more with the things. Now here's the place you'll write to
—
C/o your Aunt Brigid, and I hope you'll remember that her address is number
14
The Mall, Cork, and do be writing to your father, his heart'll thrill to a letter from you. I think he loved you all, though he saw so little of you. A good man, never lost his faith, always worked hard for you all
—
a simple harum-scarum creature with no ambition at all. I'll say to you now that there's not a single act of his life of which you would ever feel ashamed. The way we argued and fought many and many a time must have upset you all, but, all the same, after a long life your father and me are as close together as two people are ever likely to be in this life. I thank God he is spared to me, and to forgive me for some of the things I did
.

The other day Mr Kilkey came here to see me, and he was talking to the sister here and he told her that when I thought I was doing my best, I was only doing my worst. That was a hard thing to say, but now I see it is true, but why to the good nun and not to me myself? Ah well, I shan't worry you any more about that. You're a young man, you're out in the world and it's full of evil, I know. I think you're good
—
if you're kind to people, nothing else matters, 'cept only your faith. It brought your father back to me out of a driven death
.

Goodbye now, look after yourself and God bless you, your affectionate Mother
.

She shut the writing-pad and pressed her hand upon it.

‘I can't stop thinking all the same that it would be a grand thing if we were all together again.'

She thought of her first home—Hatfields—she thought of them all and named them, John, Desmond, Anthony, Peter, Maureen, her father—her husband.

‘What a tribe of them,' she thought, ‘and to-day never a one in sight.'

She picked up the day's paper, put on her spectacles and tried to read. But after a while she threw it down. She pottered about with the few books in the bookcase—the pamphlets. She took the
Life of St Therese
in her hand. She studied the photographs, she shut the book.

‘I can't settle—I can't be still at all to-day. I keep thinking of getting away—away.'

The Mother Superior had come quietly into the room, was standing behind her; a sudden movement made the woman jump: ‘Oh,' she exclaimed, ‘you frightened me.'

‘Come dear, there's somebody in my room who wishes to see you. Please come this way.'

‘Who?' Mrs Fury paused.

‘There's nothing whatever to be afraid of; only the doctor is there. He wishes to have a talk with you.'

‘About what?' she was still hesitant, and the Mother Superior went on, ‘I told him you were going away—both of you.…'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘You had better see him yourself. Do you remember that very dear old lady who was brought in here on Friday last. You remember. She joked with you about the cross-roads dances in Mayo.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘She passed away last night, poor old thing.'

‘Oh, I am sorry about that, indeed I am—such a nice lady she was.'

‘Come now, the doctor is waiting.'

‘He isn't going to say no, is he?' Mrs Fury gripped the nun's arm.

‘I can't answer you that,' she replied, and led the woman into the room.

‘Good morning,' the doctor said, ‘Please sit down.'

‘Thank you.'

He looked across at the Mother Superior, who at once went out.

‘It is unwise for you to take your husband away at present. He is having excellent attention. He is improving. To take him away now would throw him right back. You might even lose him.'

The eyes behind the pince-nez seemed to have the full measure of this woman's determination. He knew her answer before she gave it. He looked serious.

‘Why do you wish to do this? Everybody here, as far as I know, has been kind to you both. Now they want you to be kind to your husband. Leave him be another month or so perhaps …' He came round to her, he watched her hand shaking, ‘It will be best for you also,' he said.

He sat down by her. ‘Your husband's heart has been weakened by strain. Even if he should rise from his bed, he will always carry a disability. There has been a tremendous strain on the heart. I gave him a thorough examination this morning, he will always be liable to lapse of memory. We can do nothing about that.'

She leaned and looked at him, thinking ‘how healthy he looks, those rosy cheeks, that fat face—the clear eyes, and how clean,' she stared at the immaculate white coat.

‘This is true?' she asked.

He bowed his head. ‘Think about it,' he said, ‘think very carefully about this. A miracle may have brought him back to you—there may not be another one.'

He saw her whole frame shudder. ‘You mean this, doctor?'

‘I do. Your husband will never work again. Never.'

‘Try not to upset yourself,' he said, ‘I am very sorry for you both. The Mother Superior has told me everything. It is very sad,' he took her hand and squeezed it.

She sat motionless in the chair. He got up, he went behind the desk again, he fiddled with papers, he walked away, stood by the window. He lit a cigarette. Then he came back to where she sat. He did not speak but stood there looking down at her. ‘Tragic.'

He went out of the room and left her sitting there. He looked up and down the corridor. He went in search of the Mother Superior, he found her in the kitchen and motioned her out.

‘I think, Mother, you had better go along now and attend to that woman. She is very upset.'

‘Of course, doctor; what did she say?'

‘Nothing. She seemed unable to say anything. I'm afraid what I told her gave her a shock.'

‘It was best. It's madness for those old people to want to leave. Madness. Thank you, doctor, I shall do my best.'

‘You'll realize, of course, that we cannot compel her to do anything. We have no authority to detain them if they want to go. In any case, where are they going?'

‘To her son-in-law. He has a home of his own—he lives alone—his son is at sea. They would have a room there.'

‘I see.'

‘But he cannot help them very much. He is on continuous night work at the docks, and part of the day he is sleeping. Of course, I know he would do his best. He is very helpful and has been. The woman relies so much on him now—it might be her blood son, they are so close. She leans heavily on him as a child might do.'

‘She has had a big family one time.'

‘Yes.'

‘I thought so. One can tell. Odd, isn't it. Looking at her a moment ago, I knew at once.'

‘She is not very strong herself, but is a woman of wonderful courage.'

‘It's sad when it breaks in such people. Goodbye, Mother. You won't forget to let me know?'

‘I shan't. Goodbye, doctor, and thank you. You saw the young girl in Room Seven?'

‘Yes. Nothing more can be done.'

They shook hands. The Mother Superior returned to her room. She found the woman seated at the desk. She had not moved, she stared straight ahead, her hands clasped upon the table. Sun came through into the room, it lighted up the dark corners, the table shone, the brass vase glittered like gold, the flowers within showed up their fragile life. The door clicked, and her feet sounded on the wooden boards. Mrs Fury did not move.

‘Well, dear,' said the Mother Superior.

Silence.

‘The doctor has gone now,' she said; she took her seat at the desk, she faced her, ‘You're crying.'

‘I'm not.'

‘But you are crying, child,' she repeated. She gave her a faint encouraging smile, ‘Come now.' She got up and went to the white cupboard. ‘I have something here that will warm you,' she said, ‘something very special that I keep for certain occasions. I gave your husband some that first evening they brought him here.'

She brought a glass and a bottle to the desk. ‘There,' she said, ‘please drink, all of it.'

‘Oh, don't drop my special glass, child,' she put her hand under it. It made Mrs Fury cough and choke—she looked bewilderingly at the Mother Superior, ‘What is it?'

‘It is a brandy that is two hundred years old, and it is made by the monks.'

Mrs Fury put down the glass. ‘Thank you.'

She got to her feet and made for the door. The Mother Superior got there before her. ‘Tell me, dear, what did the doctor say?'

‘Nothing,' the words fell cold from her lips.

‘And you—what will you do. Did you tell him?'

‘I told him nothing.'

‘But he asked you if you had made up your mind.'

‘I have,' she said.

‘I am going to my husband,' she said, and went away.

‘It
has
upset her, I'm afraid. I shall speak to her when she has calmed down again.' She rang a bell and when Sister Angelica came, said, ‘Follow Mrs Fury to her husband's room. Stay with them. She has had rather upsetting news and may now go and disturb her husband. You understand Sister?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

To lie like this for hours on end, to watch the room swim round, to be motionless. To be far away, to be lost. She sat without saying a word, as motionless as he. He had given her a weak smile as she came in to him, a look of reassurance, of great satisfaction as she sat down and, as she watched, the doctor's words moved slow as tumbrels in her brain, ‘changed man—great strain … never work again … might not', but the words froze, the tumbrel ceased to drag, her thoughts were numbed. She put her hand across her eyes, as though shielding them from a hot sun, a powerful light, but it was only this silent ache of seeing him, felled, she thought, like a tree, flat, prone, hurt, forgotten for months, hopelessly lost. She saw him erect, sturdy, his great white bag upon his back, moving to the sea, she beside him. She heard his laugh, felt the strong grip of his hand. How patient he had been, uncomplaining, had never asked anything much of life. She saw him an upright, God-fearing man.

‘He smiled light into many a dark day.'

One ship after another, sea following sea—the horizon never still, a man, working.

‘Always thought of me, I know—loved his home—the simple good things.'

Stiff, like a board, the old heart heaving on him, the tired, finished man. Not a child near him, save one, not a line or note, not a laugh, nor the hand's warmth, all that way away, seas and deserts away. The same things every day, the same things and always the engine's thud, the moving water. Washed up now, wrecked, finished. A whole man gone.

‘His poor old head. The frightened eyes, the laugh gone out of them. Christ Jesus, I would he could sweat his horror out.'

She caught hold of the sheets, clutched, pressed finger to finger, bone to bone, the giant endeavour to take him out of this dead room, dead hour—who was with her only by flash—by sight of eye, feel of hand—any moment sinking, down to that reckless sea.

‘Old sailor,' her heart cried out of her, ‘old sailor, I'm proud of you, your trembling, bewildered self, stripped and hammered and cast up on me like this.'

Shutting her eyes, she felt near to him, close and deep as the heart's throb, closer than flesh.

‘You may die, they said,' she thought, ‘you may go off and no miracle save you then.' She lifted his hand, how soft gone the hand, the power struck away from it, let it fall, watched it fall heavily to the sheet again.

She said low in her throat ‘Denny, I wish you'd smile for me,' but he did not answer, he was asleep; she had not noticed this, she was there, eavesdropper to his helplessness.

‘I'll sit as quiet as a mouse, I'll not stir—I won't speak one living word. I'm happy here, just looking—he's there—no, he'll live. I'll make him live. I won't let him die on me.'

She was seated like this, like stone, like the high arch of silence itself, when the young nun came in. She heard her speak and did not answer her, heard the soft rustle of the gown as she came across the room.

‘You must go now, dear,' Sister Angelica said, ‘you see, he's asleep.'

Mrs Fury got up, her hands were thrust into the spacious sleeves of her coat, she was taller than this nun, and now as she drew herself to full height, towered above her. She looked down and the sister saw the angry flash in her eyes.

‘I was not moving, and not talking—I was sat quiet, doing no harm. Am I never to be alone with my husband—not even for this little silent time that tells me so much and maybe him, too, for all I know? What harm have I done sitting as close as ever I shall be?'