Winter Song (36 page)

‘What time does the train go back to Gelton Low Station?'

‘In about ten minutes,' he said.

She handed him back the mug, still half full of tea. There was something blind in her movements.

‘Then please help me to get my husband back in the carriage.'

‘Very well. But it's a great pity,' the porter said.

‘It cannot be helped,' she replied.

He lifted the old man up and carried him back to the same carriage. He laid him down and made a pillow for his head. Didn't she think she ought to have a doctor?

And at that moment a tall, angular station-master appeared, spick and span and dutiful.

‘What is the matter here, Simmons, I saw it from my office window.'

‘This gentlemen was taken ill on the train, sir; he fainted, I think, and he can't go any further.'

‘Is the lady on the seat with him?'

‘Yes sir, it seems they've come from Gelton. They were visitors for the prison.'

‘Oh—I see,' and he left the porter and approached the woman.

She sat huddled there, her whole body tightened as into an unfathomable knot. He spoke to her but she hardly heard what he said. Alone, on this wooden seat she confronted herself. ‘I daren't—no—I daren't,' she thought. ‘I must get him back—we might be caught here—something might happen here in this forsaken place—and I couldn't bear that. Denny must go back without a sight of him—and I'll go too.
That
is the sensible thing.'

‘Excuse me, madam, could I have your tickets?' the station-master said.

‘Kilkey was right after all. Madness—and so it was. But he tried—poor Denny tried his best. I'l leave him anywhere but here—we must go at once—that train will carry us back. I'll stand by him every minute of the way down. Now I mustn't think of it any more.'

‘Could I have your tickets, madam?'

She caught his eye at last. She said, ‘Tickets?' and he nodded, said, ‘Yes, please.'

She fumbled about in her pockets, and all the time she watched for the return of the porter. She found the tickets in the bag, and he took them, snipped them, handed them back again. ‘You're going back on this train?'

‘We are.'

‘Then I think you ought to get in,' he said. ‘I hope your husband will soon be better.'

He assisted her to her feet, picked up her bag. ‘Come, madam,' he said, and led her towards the open door.

‘There will probably be half-an-hour's delay at Dene St Junction,' he was saying. ‘The train is picking up a party of naval men from Glenstone Depot, travelling for Carlisle. Your train should reach Low St Station by seven o'clock at the latest.'

The words fell upon her ear—but it was like some fantastic geography lesson in which she could show no interest. They reached the door. The porter came out. He assisted Mrs Fury in, sat her down and made her as comfortable as he could. He thought what a great pity it was that just as they got to the end of the journey the old man should crock up. He thought he looked like a sailor—and seeing the long livid scar at the back of the head and neck, supposed he had been in the war.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

The station-master stared through the window at the old man. Then he said to the porter, ‘Simmons, you had better get on with the job you were doing.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The station-master came into the carriage. ‘Is there anything at all I could do, madam?'

‘Nothing, thank you very much.'

‘Any message I could take?' he said.

She shook her head. ‘It's unfortunate. My husband is a very sick man, and I couldn't take the risk of staying here any longer. There's nothing for me to do except wait for the train to start.'

For a moment the station-master reverted back to his own importance—and said as precisely as a robot, ‘The train leaves for Low Station at two-fifty-three.'

‘What is the time, please?'

She kept looking at her husband. She heard the man reply, ‘You've six minutes.'

She stood up, glanced through the window, ‘Did I collect everything?'

‘There's nothing there, he rose. ‘Now if you'll excuse me, good afternoon.'

‘Good afternoon.'

The door slammed, and the window shot down. She shut it. Then she settled herself in the corner. She spoke. ‘Denny,' she said, ‘there's nothing to worry about now. We're going home. Be easy, and never you fret. It's one of them things that happens, that's all.'

He was trying to turn to her, trying to look at her, to speak. She reached over to him. ‘No, no, don't—don't move—and don't speak to me—there's nothing I want to hear, and nothing for you to say. Be quiet and tidy there—at any moment the train will go.'

At the rear end of the train a single passenger had got in. Mail was being tossed into the guard's van. Sounds of shunting came to her ears, and after that silence, silence on the station, silence in the carriage. For a moment everything was suspended, everything still. There was a faint murmur from the engine—a first slow movement of wheels against the silence—then the whistle blew, she looked up. She saw the porter—he was standing there, watching as the carriages rumbled noisily past him. He saw the woman at the window, he smiled, he waved, but she did not smile and did not wave back, but she looked at him with great earnestness as she passed. Darnton was receding. Darnton was not important, was being left behind—the long journey began. She sat back, she looked at the tickets in her hand, minutely examined them, turned them over and over in her fingers. ‘Low Station,' she said, and repeated, ‘Low station!'

‘When we get there I'll get me a taxi and take him home. And Kilkey will be there and he'll look at us both, and Kilkey will be right. I'm a stupid woman if ever there was one. He can say what he will, and I'll say nothing more.'

The wheels rattled across points, the whistle shrieked, the train shot into a tunnel. At that moment she put out her hands, feeling for his own. She grasped them tight, and in the darkness murmured, ‘Be easy now—I'm with you. We're all right. We're on our way home after that long trample into nothing.'

The train shot into the light, increased its speed. ‘I'm here, Denny,' she said.

Chapter 9

‘A Mr Kilkey to see you, sir,' the girl said, and stood waiting just inside the open door. Behind her, in the stuffy little corridor sat Joseph Kilkey, his hat swinging in his hand, Kilkey excited, Kilkey unable to be still. Up from the café below there came to him the strong sweet smell of baking bread, the sweeter one of fresh scones. The girl came back. She could not see him very clearly in the half-light. ‘Wait here.'

‘Thank you,' he said.

She went away.

There was a croak from within. ‘Come in.'

Kilkey rose, approached the open door, looked into the room. It was dark, stuffy—he could see nothing.

The girl was behind him suddenly.

‘Go in now,' she said.

She gave him the slightest push, the door closed behind him. He was standing in darkness.

‘Won't you sit down, Kilkey,' a voice said, ‘I'll put on the light. I often sit in the dark—sometimes for half-an-hour at a time. It rests my eyes.'

The light came on. Kilkey found a chair and sat down. He looked about him, saw in a far corner, seated in a high-backed chair, behind an enormous desk, an elderly man. He now stood up. He was very tall, well built, distinguished-looking. He wore a huge Ulster, somewhat frayed, worn away at the sleeves and elbows. He had a large, but well-shaped head, thickly covered with iron-grey hair. The smallish mouth seemed out of place in the long face.

‘I am glad you came.'

The mouth shut tight again, he was watching Kilkey out of two bright, intelligent-looking eyes. He had sat down, placed his big hands on his knees.

The pool of light encircled them both, the rest of the room lay in shadow. Somewhere a clock struck loudly. The heavy brown curtains were drawn across barred windows.

‘So you see, Kilkey, something has happened at last,' he said.

‘I can't believe it,' Kilkey said, and the hand continued to swing the cap. This continuous pendulum-like movement irritated the man by the desk. He now put his hands on the desk, looked directly at his visitor.

‘Patience is rewarded,' he said, ‘it is a great pleasure indeed for me to give you this news.'

‘Thank you, Mr Delaney.'

Mr Kilkey's eyes had already taken note of the contents of this desk; the varied assortment of articles that lay upon it suggested chaos—an inability to deal with such a collection, which included ledgers of various sizes, open and shut. There were printed pamphlets by the score, small boxes of white cardboard, three prayer-books, a rosary, a litter of unopened letters. These letters were all addressed to Mr Cornelius Delaney, Secretary of the Society of St Vincent de Paul, the hand-writing clear, unclear, blurred, tortured. Often these letters were addressed in thick lead pencil. Those in ink had characters all their own, whirls and flourishes, ornamentations that reflected the vanity of the writers. Some letters were barely legible, but Mr Delaney was used to a rich and varied correspondence. It was his temperature chart of humanity. On the fringe of this chaos stood a single cup and saucer, half-full of cold tea—a completely abandoned cup and saucer. There was an assortment of pens, most of their nibs rusty; he now used a fountain pen. There was an old-fashioned typewriter that made one think of ship-building yards, a letter file containing nothing, a piece of ink-stained india-rubber, a large sheet of quite filthy blotting-paper. On this Mr Delaney's hands were resting. Mr Kilkey noticed a large ring on the small finger of the left hand, in which a ruby shone.

‘I hardly know how to thank you,' said Kilkey.

The bright eyes looked up. ‘Bring your chair closer, Kilkey—bring it to the fire.'

Kilkey rose, took his chair across the room. The big man towered over him. He shook hands.

‘Congratulations, Kilkey. All has come about as you wished. What could anybody want?'

‘I still can't believe it.'

‘Do sit down. Now I will tell you about your wife. She is at this moment working in a public house called “The Cross Threads”, in Leeds. Leeds of all places. My great friend there, Father Meehan, has a man with him who can ferret out anything. He made enquiries. He went to the workhouse at Halifax. He worked on from there. I shan't go into details here. But the moment I got this news, which I had every reason to believe was true, I myself packed a bag and went off there. It is all true, I have met your wife.'

‘You met her?' exclaimed Kilkey.

‘Yes—I met her and I talked with her. I think she has learned a lesson in the hardest way it is possible to learn a lesson, Kilkey, through cruel knowledge. But she is well. She is a little changed——'

‘Tell me,' Kilkey said haltingly, ‘is her hair the same? It was such a lovely head of hair, so brown——'

‘You are in for some disappointment there. Nevertheless she looked to me a quite charming person—she looks—she
is
older. And I had better tell you also, Kilkey, that she has a little girl of two, by that man Slye. He has gone. He left her seven months ago. She was too afraid, too ashamed to write. She spoke sweetly of you—that is the only word I can use here. She asked after her son.'

‘And now,' began Kilkey—

‘Well—I have made arrangements for you that you must keep. Make no mistake about this—she will come home to you. But you must yourself go and bring her back. And say nothing, Kilkey, not a word about her going off—
nothing
, do you understand me? Just call and welcome her—well—as though she had just returned from a long journey. She broke down when I told her about her mother. I also told her of Peter. I gave her all the news. So there you have it, Kilkey—that is over. And I think we might share a drink together on that. Do you like wine?'

‘Wine,' said Kilkey—he could hardly speak—‘Wine?…'

‘I said wine. I keep always in my desk here a fine, soft, sweet wine—a Graves, in fact, that pleases me like no other sort of wine. I never drink beer—and I never touch spirits.'

Mr Delaney took two wine-glasses from a cupboard, he opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle. He filled the glasses, and handed one to the astonished visitor.

‘Drink it. To your health, Kilkey.'

He could not help noting the clumsy way in which Kilkey held his glass. He put his own down on the desk.

‘I appreciate your feelings, Kilkey. Explain nothing. I can understand your loneliness this past year or more. Our Society is very well acquainted with it, indeed we deal with many forms of human desperation. All is known and all is now forgotten. Go to Leeds on Tuesday and bring your wife back. That is all.' He then sat down.

‘I'm sure I'm terribly grateful to you, Cornelius,' began Kilkey, he put his own glass down; he had been unable to finish his wine. ‘I can't tell you how happy I am about it all. Just think of it. Maureen coming home——' he paused.

Mr Delaney watched him—he did not speak. ‘A simple, harmless creature,' he thought, ‘he does not know what to say.'

‘I will only say this,' he said, looking down at Kilkey, ‘your wife regrets everything that has happened. Leave it like that. Don't touch it any more. Be wise and never refer to it again.'

‘I shall not mention it, be sure of that. I'll welcome her home like a queen.'

There was a knock on the door.

‘It's only my secretary,' Mr Delaney said, ‘don't go.' He called out, ‘Come in, Miss Francis.' The door opened and a pretty middle-aged woman came in. She had a brown paper parcel under her arm. She was soberly dressed in grey. There was something demure, secretive here. Mr Kilkey watched her put down the parcel, which Mr Delaney began to open.