Winter Song (23 page)

Chapter 6

‘I think he could travel,' the doctor said, ‘let me see it's about nine hours sea voyage. Yes, I think it's all right.'

Kilkey, still in his working clothes, unwashed, had sat waiting for the doctor to come downstairs. He hadn't expected such an early visit.

‘Nothing organically wrong, exhaustion yes …'

‘He must have had a bad crack on his head,' said Kilkey.

‘I examined that. It's perfectly healed, quite naturally, from sea water.'

‘Thank you, doctor. I thought I'd better get you along to see him before I made any plans.'

‘Quite right. Could I see his wife?'

‘I'm afraid she's out. She left a few minutes ago,' replied Kilkey.

‘I would like to have seen her. Well, I must go.'

‘Could the old man get up? He's worried the life out of me about getting up.'

‘I think you could let him get up. But he mustn't leave his room. Tell his wife that I will send her the capsules to-day, and to remember the list of things I've written out.'

‘Yes, doctor.'

And then he had gone.

Kilkey went straight upstairs.

‘You can get up, Denny. I'll help you to dress. He said you mustn't go out. Understand. Look I'll shift this old armchair over by the window. It's a nice morning and a bit of sun up, so you could sit there and be quite comfortable.'

‘Where's Fanny?'

‘She slipped out a minute or two ago,' he said. ‘It quite surprised me. I asked her where she was off to—only for a little walk down the street. Come on, I'll help you.'

With some difficulty he helped the sick man into his clothes. ‘Try walking,' he said, ‘just across the room,' and with his arm through the old man's, they managed to make their way across to the door.

‘That's fine,' Kilkey cried, ‘Why, you'll be splendid in a week's time. Come over to the chair now. There now! Is that quite comfortable?'

‘Thank you,' the old man said, wearily stretching his legs, the light full upon his face.

‘He's very pale, but he always was on the pale side.' Kilkey sat on the bed.

‘You find it nice and warm with the sun on the window?' he asked.

‘It's very nice,' replied the old man, he felt the sun on his face, his eyes began to water. ‘Will she be very long?' he asked.

‘Only a few minutes, I expect. I think it's a good thing too, so long as she's able to do it. She was a long time in that place and never stirred beyond the garden there.'

‘Would you let me have a look at the morning paper?'

Kilkey said, ‘Why, of course,' and was delighted by this sudden request, the revival of interest in things which the old man had shown lately—he had come back at last from those wanderings. ‘It's nice to see you back again,' he said, he was bent down, looking into the man's face—‘rare nice to see you back again,' as though the old man had returned from a long voyage overnight. ‘I'll slip down and get you the paper.'

‘Just fancy her going off like that,' thought Mr Fury, ‘and never even said she was going.' He watched the activities in the street below, the playing children, the arrival and departure of tradesmen's vans, the roar of the traffic was in his ear.

‘I think I'm getting better, too. Oh, I wish things were different. I do wish they were. I wish we had our own little place in Ireland, and was not having to go and live with that sister of her's. We never got on then, and we won't get on now. I know Fanny's not
really
happy about it. I can tell. Whenever I look at her, I just know. But she's made up her mind at last. She talked enough about it. Ah, she must miss the family round her. I never thought I'd come home from sea to such changes—and all in a year. It saddened me to see it. Just think of me having a son in prison. Why, that's a terrible thing, terrible. I've never seen one in my life. I never thought I'd have to travel to one to see a son of mine. The things people do …' He went on muttering to himself, he ran his hands through his hair, then he said slowly and with raised voice ‘All the same I thank God I'm alive.'

Kilkey came in. ‘Here's the paper. I'll have to leave you now. I've things to do. Fanny will be back any minute now.' He left the old man holding the paper in his hands, which he was quite unable to read.

‘I wonder where she can have got to,' Kilkey thought.

And then he remembered her curious questioning of the night before. She had asked him in such a roundabout way about the numbers and routes of the trams, about the length of time it took them to get into the city.

‘Good Lord,' he exclaimed, ‘she can't have gone off there, surely not. Why, she's not used to it. She's not fit to be travelling about in trams. I believe she's up to something. I believe she had it planned in her mind all along and was afraid to mention it.'

He stood staring out of the window. Finally, he slipped out into the street, looking everywhere for a tall woman in a brown coat, a black felt hat. He went to the end of the road. Then he came back again.

‘That woman can be the biggest fool … I wonder where she's got to.'

It had surprised him, meeting her when he came in. There she was up and dressed to go out. He stared at her.

‘I say, where d'you think you're going? Do you know the time?'

She smiled back at him, saying, ‘I'm just going for a little walk to the end of the street and back. I felt I wanted to, and it's such a nice morning.'

‘Denny all right? Have a good night?'

‘We both slept very well. The little time here with you has done a lot of good. Always I was telling them people at the big house how, once you had had a home, no place was like it ever again. And this is as near home as I've ever been in a long year.'

‘Oh, I
am
glad. You know what I said. Just look on it as your own place.'

‘I'm going,' she said, slipping on her gloves.

‘Don't be away too long. You made yourselves some tea?'

She nodded, smiled and went out.

‘I'd like to know what it is that has taken her out to-day. It worries me, and him up there—I just can't be with them
all
the time. I've my own sleep to get, and my work to do.' He consoled himself with the thought that she would be back before noon. Now, having had his own breakfast, washed and changed, he thought, ‘I'll go up and read to the old chap for half an hour, and then I must turn in.'

He mounted the stairs.

‘It'll seem strange indeed when they've gone. Very strange. The last of them.'

He gave a little laugh as he reached the top of the stairs. ‘It'll seem very, very strange not being called on any meal, not being asked to do things for them. I'll be really lonely at last.'

Then he went into the room. He sat reading the news to the old man. At ten o'clock he said, ‘I'm going away to bed. Fanny'll be in directly. If there's anything you want just knock on the wall.'

The old man did not answer him. He stood a moment or two, waiting, but there was no reply, and he went out.

He called back, reassuringly—‘I'm in the next room, Denny,' then closed the door after him.

It had been as easy as that.

‘Where are you going?' he asked.

‘For a little walk to the end of the street,' she told him.

And here she was, sitting on a crowded tram, and repeating to herself, ‘I know he doesn't leave the house in the mornings. It's in the afternoons that he goes out for a bit of a walk. So I know he'll look to Denny, and now I'm on my way. I'm doing the things I used to do—I always liked to be doing them, being busy and thinking and planning all the while, so here I am, away off to see about that man's pension. Nobody else can do it save me. I'm his wife, he can't put foot to the ground, so why not. I expect Kilkey's just beginning to wonder.'

And the smile returned, the satisfaction of having got out of that house, free to do what she wanted to do—what must be done—this day and no other. Compensation for that man. She had hurried to the end of the road, then decided to turn the corner and walk on to the next stop. In this way, Kilkey, if he came out to look for her, would not find her. She sat tight in the seat. Climbing stairs had made her a little dizzy, and she had been glad to sit down. She told herself this was because she was not used to it. The top deck was crowded, she would never sit below—she liked to sit where men sat, smoking their pipes. Occasionally the tram bell rang and she would sit up in her seat, all attention, watching the heavy traffic ahead. She talked to herself. The chatter around her, the smoke-filled atmosphere, the busy come and go of the conductor, the shops flying by either side of her, suddenly induced in her a lightness of heart. The noise, the bustle, the continuous stream of traffic captivated, tore her away from thoughts that, all these months, had knotted themselves about her. Seated in front was a woman with a child, a baby girl, whose bright animated face looked up at the woman. Mrs Fury smiled at the child. She leaned forward in her seat. ‘That's a very pretty child,' she said.

The woman, not moving, smiled, and replied, ‘Yes, she is pretty, isn't she?' and, touched by this sudden compliment, added, ‘Isn't it a lovely morning. So nice to see the sun out again.'

‘A grand morning. Tell me, I suppose this tram does go right down to Stage Head.' The woman turned to look at her—‘Yes, you're all right on this tram, there's no change, you go right to the terminus.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Welcome,' the woman ran one finger through the child's curls, saying, ‘you're a good girl, aren't you?'

‘What a lot of men there are about doing nothing,' she remarked.

‘An awful lot of men,' replied Mrs Fury, she had noticed them all the way along, little knots of men at every corner.

‘Always the same, after a war,' the woman said. She got up holding the child tight in her arms—the tram had screeched itself to a sudden stop. ‘Good-morning,' she said. She gave the woman a smile and went off.

‘Good-morning.' Mrs Fury leaned closely against the window. ‘Why it's just like yesterday. Denny might be away on his ship, and I'm going down to draw his money.'

From time to time people crushed past her and sat down. She now saw that her journey was almost over. Already, beyond the roof tops she glimpsed the forest of masts, and dotted here and there and flying gaily over the tall buildings, the house flags of the various companies. And on through the open window and up the street came the old sea smell. She looked down, here pavements were more crowded, she could hear the rattle of the trains tearing through the air, high over the street, and ahead the traffic thickened. After the long silence, the loneliness, this vivid panorama, this continuous movement, wakened something in her. She wanted to go down to mingle with the crowds, to move with them, to be lost in them. That had been her life, those twice weekly journeys into the heart of the city.

‘It's wonderful,' she exclaimed suddenly, hardly aware that she had spoken aloud, so that a man on the opposite seat looked across at her—the sudden exclamation made him stare. He wondered, as he looked down on the busy road, what was wonderful. She gripped her seat instinctively as the tram swung round the corner. She knew this corner of old.

‘Well, fancy, I never forgot that,' she told herself. She was smiling.

‘Well,' thought the man, still watching her, ‘somebody's happy anyhow,' and he got up and went out. The tram had come to a stop.

The woman heard the conductor calling ‘Terminus,' but she sat on. She looked round, the tram was empty. She got up and walked slowly towards the stairs, her hands trembled on the iron rail. The conductor saw her coming, he stood aside as she reached the bottom. He had noticed the shaky hand, the dead white face. He put his hand on her arm as she reached the platform.

‘You all right, mother?' he asked.

‘Quite, thank you,' she said, and although she did not like it, she allowed the conductor to help her off the platform.

‘Thank you very much.'

But he was not content with that. He took her across the road, and left her safely on the kerb. ‘Sure you're all right?' he asked her. She smiled back, ‘Thank you,' she said. She stood watching him as he walked back to his tram. Then she saw it move away out of sight.

‘Some people are very kind,' she thought, and stood, islanded amongst people, people rushing to and fro, people who gave the impression of having all the world's business on their backs.

‘I must go,' she said to herself. ‘I must get this thing done. Denny will worry if I am out too long, and I know Kilkey will be angry too. But in the end he'll know I had to do this thing myself, and I can do it and I will do it. Something will happen, something will come out of this. I don't want to be dependent on anybody if I can help it. I only want what is rightly due to a man. Now I must get along.'

She drew herself up, she walked quietly along, her eyes were everywhere, taking everything in, the air seemed full of words, disjointed phrases, laughs, they fell upon her ear like rain.

‘Ah, if it
was
the old times—but it's not, you only pretend to yourself that it is, but if they were, why, I'd know what to do. I really would.'

She stopped at the edge of another crowded pavement. People were jammed together, waiting for the traffic block to clear—and when it did so, she hesitated, and did not cross with the people. She was suddenly frightened of all this traffic. The policeman saw her and came over, he took her across the road.

‘I'm much obliged,' she said.

Something about her, an uncertainty, made him say, ‘Are you looking for some place or other?'

‘Yes, I am. I used to know these places very well. I want to find the offices of the
Torsa
line.'