Winter Song (37 page)

‘Here are the things,' she said.

‘I presume the police put them together.'

‘Yes,' Miss Francis said. She darted a glance at the visitor in the chair. ‘The sergeant gave them to me half-an-hour ago.'

‘This is my secretary, Miss Francis,' said Mr Delaney, and at once Kilkey got up.

‘Mr Joseph Kilkey, a friend of mine,' he said.

They shook hands. Mr Kilkey resumed his seat.

He watched the parcel opened, the contents spread upon the desk. Out of it came a soiled handkerchief, a pair of scapulars, a cheap pair of spectacles without a case, two faded photographs, three silver coins, scissors, a small leather purse. This contained a half-penny stamp.

‘Where was she found?'

‘Behind an area, about one hundred yards away from the “Washington” hotel.'

‘I see.'

‘And she lives in Lawton St. What number?' Mr Delaney pulled a stub of pencil from his pocket.

‘Fifty-three,' Miss Francis said.

‘Thank you,' he wrote down the address.

Meanwhile Mr Kilkey was staring at the parcel's pathetic contents. They seemed to give off the very aura of the person who owned them, the very breath seemed contained in the handkerchief, a man's handkerchief, blue, covered with large white stars.

‘You see, Kilkey,' exclaimed Mr Delaney, and he held up the worn purse, ‘we really deal in human debris.'

‘All right, Miss Francis, two o'clock this afternoon at fifty-three Lawton St.'

Miss Francis turned. ‘Very well.' She looked at Kilkey—‘Good morning,' she said, and went out.

‘One of my best helpers, Kilkey,' said Cornelius. ‘What we glean from our work here is the very essence of the human situation. What we discover is not the excesses but the pathetic limitations. And you might be astonished, though we are not,
not
at the height to which the human creature can climb, but the depths to which he can sink. I say it in no admonishing terms at all. It's too tragic for censure.'

He suddenly got up, put his hands in his pockets, and made circles of the room. He kept looking at the man in the chair. Finally he sat down.

‘Tell me,' he said, ‘about those people. I heard all about the husband. An astounding thing indeed. It must have been a great shock to her. A great shock. They have gone to live with you——'

‘I was coming to that,' Mr Kilkey said. ‘When I came here to-day, I left those two people up in my room—quite done up. They were almost unable to speak to me. Yesterday against my strongest protest they went off to Darnton——'

‘I arranged that for them.'

‘Yes, I know, Mr Delaney,' Kilkey said, ‘but really they should never have gone, never. It's quite upset me. The old man collapsed. Imagine it. They went all that way there, and then he was unable to move—something happened to him, I'm sure. But it nearly killed his wife. She was dreadfully disappointed.'

‘I
am
sorry to hear about this, Kilkey.'

‘They could have put up somewhere for the night. She told me a porter there offered to help them—but she was mortally afraid I think that something would happen to Mr Fury. She had to make a decision in a moment of great anguish.'

‘You mean they came back all the way to Gelton without seeing their son?'

‘They did. And now I know why. I think some fear got into her mind there, some fear that she didn't want her husband to die in that place—hundreds of miles from anywhere—knowing nobody—and she had to think of her son waiting there, and had to make up her mind in a matter of minutes. So they never saw him after all, and they came back. The woman who does for me said she happened to be on her doorstep when the taxi drove up last evening. She did not know the old man at all. She got him upstairs somehow—both of them—she put them both to bed. They would neither eat nor drink. They asked her to go away and leave them. To shut the door, not to bother them. She tried her very best—but it was no use. They lay in that room the whole night. Not a sound from them. When I came in this morning the woman told me all about it. I went straight upstairs. There he was, lying there looking like a ghost—he may have been asleep, I don't know. But she was wide awake there—wide awake. I went into the room and shut the door.

‘“Fanny!” I said. “Good God, woman, whatever has happened?” She could hardly speak.

‘“It was no use,” she said.

‘“I'm sorry about that, Fanny,” I said. “You must have a doctor to Denny right away.”

‘“I suppose I must.”

‘“You haven't eaten a thing, either of you, Mrs. Turner told me.”

‘“Perhaps in a minute,” she said.

‘“What will you do?” I said …'

Kilkey paused—stared at Cornelius: ‘The moment I said it I knew it was a silly thing to say to two people at the end of their tether, and then she sat up, leaning on the bed post. “We shall go as arranged on Sunday. I will write to Peter. We must go. We have no more business in this place—I know that, moving about it now. We are finished with Gelton.”'

Mr Delaney was leaning forward in his chair. ‘An awful thing to happen. And think of the lad there, waiting for them to come. Just think of that, Kilkey.'

‘I know now that they should never have left the Hospice. There it was peaceful. Neither of them is fit any more to drag about this place. She is probably quite right. Gelton doesn't want them any more. It's finished with them. I thank God that they've a place to go to, which at least will have the warmth of home, for they're going to live with a good Christian woman—who sometimes wasn't appreciated as she might be.'

‘You mean her sister in Cork.'

‘I mean her sister in Cork,' replied Kilkey. ‘I wanted them to stay on with the nuns, who would have looked after them—who
knew
how to look after them.'

‘But surely,' said Mr Delaney, ‘they've a son in London. He is not without funds. I hear he has a good job up there. Surely he could have helped them.'

‘He has helped them—in the only way he can—with money. For the rest there is a great gulf between mother and son—ever since he left the Church. It's a pity, but it's waste of time to think they'll ever come together again as mother and son.'

‘Dear! Dear!'

‘That's the way it is. There's more sympathy between Desmond and his father. I certainly think he loves his father. Anyhow I asked this question and she said they would still go. Her mind was made up. All she wanted was Denny alive—beside her. Everything else falls away. I can understand that. She never mentioned Peter to me. And it surprised me. So there they are, waiting against the clock, huddled together into an old room, which ought to be better than it is, for them, after all their efforts.'

‘It's a good thing—I must say this—it's a good thing indeed that you were still in Gelton. You've been a rare friend to them, Kilkey, a rare friend, from what I hear from time to time, and I
do
hear things—you'd be surprised by some of the things I hear. Well, it's a good thing they've somewhere to go. A mercy.'

He began to gather the contents of the parcel together, he re-wrapped the parcel.

‘Well, I want you to take this message, direct from me to Mrs Fury. Tell her not to worry about her son. I myself will travel north next week and see the lad. Tell her I shall explain everything. Tell her he will write to her—and to his father. Perhaps I had better have the address to which they are going, Mr Kilkey.'

Kilkey sat up.

‘Miss Brigid Mangan—14, The Mall, Cork.'

‘Thank you,' Mr Delaney said. ‘Tell her that I myself will see to all things being done for her lad. That I shall again try for remission of sentence. That whatever happens, when he comes out I shall see to his welfare …'

‘It's nice of you to say that, Mr Delaney.'

‘Tch! Tch! Cornelius to a friend as old as you. Tell me, do you still look after the Young Men's Society at St Sebastian's?'

‘I do,' Kilkey replied. ‘I like Father Moynihan—who I may say has taken this matter rather badly—you know he knew the Fury family all his life. He baptized most of the children. He married the mother and father—and buried a son. Yes, he knows them very well. And he's glad they're going home. Very glad. The old woman has dreamed of nothing else all her life, but of going back home.'

‘There is some consolation in seeing the possibility of that. Who is travelling with them?'

‘I am taking them to Dublin. We are catching the night boat Saturday. They were going to go direct to Cork, but they've altered their plans. It seems she had a letter from her son Anthony, he's in the Navy, and he told them to go to Dublin first, and there to meet his wife and son—and that they were to stay there as long as they pleased. So it's the night boat for the Wall.'

‘I didn't know that son had married. They are not entirely without friends, then?'

‘No, that's true enough. It's here, on this side where the emptiness lies. They have really begun to hate it. It's a strange thing, Cornelius, but somehow or other you can see it there, as wide and true as your age, that there are a hell of a lot of people in this city who don't
care,
' his voice rose, and he repeated, ‘don't
care
. There's that woman, trapesing all over the city thinking that because her husband had been half a century with a shipping line he would get a pension. She wasted her precious energy, I'm afraid.'

‘It is hard,' Mr Delaney said.

Kilkey had said all he wanted to say. Now he got up to go. Mr Delaney rose.

Well, Kilkey, this has certainly been a lively and eventful morning. Now you really
must
excuse me. I've an engagement at the Police Court in half-an-hour. Don't forget Tuesday. And let me hear from you again. Perhaps I shall see you here together one day.'

‘We'll certainly come to see you,' Kilkey said.

Mr Delaney followed him to the door.

‘And don't forget my message for that woman. I hope her husband will get better. I hope they have a nice crossing—and that they will find some peaceful days yet.'

He shook hands with Kilkey. ‘Goodbye. Good luck!'

‘Goodbye, and thank you again.'

‘Tut! Tut!' Mr Delaney smiled, and waved him out.

Joseph Kilkey went slowly downstairs. He seemed to totter out into the daylight. He wondered if he were dreaming. For looming up, shutting out the old man and woman, seeming real before him he saw his wife.

‘Maureen,' he exclaimed under his breath. ‘At last. You're coming back. I'll send a message off to Dermod now.'

He stood falteringly at the edge of the kerb. He did not know which way to turn. He started off down the narrow court, and then retraced his steps. Finally he rushed into the nearest tea-rooms, sat down, called for a pot of tea.

‘It's hard to believe, and yet it's true. Oh God, I'm so happy about this.'

Sitting there, his pot of tea before him, he talked to himself. And as he talked he looked round the room. It was crowded. People were having coffee—tea—cocoa. The air was alive with chatter. Kilkey has chosen a small table near the wall. From behind it he had a good view of the long room. But when his thoughts loosened, when he talked to himself, all this disappeared. The room was quite empty, silent. He could only hear the sound of his own voice. He could see the café door, right at the far end, and he watched this very closely, as though at any moment his wife Maureen might walk in.

‘What a splendid man Cornelius is. The way he's always helping people. Always on the go. What a fine big man he is too. Comes from my county, hardly believe the age he is. What a time ago it is since the day Father Moynihan told me that if anybody could find anybody, or anything at all—it was Delaney. How right he was. A second Saint Anthony. I was so excited in that room I nearly told him that. I'll send that telegram directly. Dermod's boat is at Baltimore for three weeks so he'll get it all right.'

His face suddenly wreathed in smiles attracted the attention of another customer, who had sat watching this man for some minutes, and had thought him praying, so concentrated in his gaze, so absorbed, so lost from this room.

‘What'll I write? “Your mother home at last.” No.—“Found your mother at last. Coming home Tuesday” … “At last is has happened, your mother back home and well. Dad.” I expect I'll write something, anyhow. I'm so excited I won't be able to hold the pen.'

For some time he held his cup suspended in air—as though he had quite forgotten it, and it was this, as much as the moving lips that so held the nearby customer's attention.

‘Ah! Fanny'll be pleased. Wait till I go back and tell her that. Just wait. Poor old creatures. I'm sure it'll be a nibble of real joy to them. At first when Delaney told me the news, when I could see that girl'—he always spoke of his wife as ‘the girl', he had the fatherly sense towards her, rather than the husband's—‘rising in front of me—I didn't believe it, and then when I did—when I saw it was really
real
, I was ashamed of being so happy after what I left behind me this morning. Poor, silly woman—it was crazy—but who's going to blame a headlong heart? I shan't—but the disappointment for them both. Ah! How she has come to hate Gelton in these last days—hate it—pity she didn't feel like that years ago, when they were younger, and life bouncing in them so. Pity indeed. To-night I shall sit down and write a long letter to her son. Fancy him sitting there, waiting, and them never coming. He must have felt——' His hand gave a jerk, he splashed cold tea on his coat—he stared with some surprise at the cup in his hand—‘Good Lord! Look at me! I must look a fool.'

He drank off the tea, looked round for a waitress. When she came he paid her and went out.

‘It's an odd thing, but I've been coming down to work on this river for years and years, and never once have I sat down on a bench to look at it. To-day I'll sit down and look.'