Winter Song (38 page)

He passed behind a block of offices, came into a narrow alley, reached the end of this, passed between two tall buildings and emerged at Stage Head. Here he found an unoccupied bench and sat down. He saw old people dotted about on other benches. He saw the pigeons and the sea-gulls—saw the steamers pass him by. He pulled out his watch. ‘Ten minutes, Kilkey,' he said, ‘ten minutes only, and then you're off.'

‘I wonder if the Doctor's been—I wonder what he said. Now that this has happened to me there can be other alterations. Oh, yes, fine alterations. They can cancel going Saturday, they can wait till I come home with my wife. And later in the week they can go. In fact, if they want to they can stay on. I don't mind, everything's altered, the whole world's altered in a fine way this morning.'

He could see his wife, leaning on his arm, coming down the Bonim Road. He could see the old couple waiting on the step. His wife embracing them.

‘Oh! I'm happy all right—there's no more doubt of that at all.'

He glanced at his watch again. ‘A couple more minutes. Then back I go. I do hope that Denny will pull through. I'll not forget for many a day the look he gave me when I walked into that bedroom and saw them lying there. And the change, the powerful change in them both—in a matter of hours—like overnight they had grown really old—and terrible swift on them both—all of a sudden old. Maybe it was then she realized everything. Maybe it was then that she said to herself finish, and cried finish for him, too. I can remember them both when they came to my wedding, and I can see them now, happy and laughing both of them. But I never thought it would come to this. Never.'

He suddenly jumped up from the bench and with barely a glance at the person approaching to take his seat, he hurried off to the terminus and waited for the tram.

But as soon as the tram started to move off, his spirits fell. The sudden movements of his thoughts seemed to determine the very attitude of his body. He sat slumped in the seat. Looking through the window he saw the lively scene below in shadow-blurs. He remained seated thus for the rest of the journey. He felt depressed as he came into the road. There was something hesitant, undetermined in his slouching gait, he kept looking to the ground—and almost passed his own door. When he entered the house he saw Mrs Turner ironing some clothes.

‘There you are,' she said.

‘Here I am.' He sat down without removing coat or cap. He looked at the woman and asked, ‘Has he been?'

‘Yes. He's only just gone. He said it was some kind of collapse. He said he should never have been allowed to leave the house …'

‘I told her that in the first place. God knows she may have set the old man back by her action. How is she? Have they had anything to eat?'

‘The old chap took some rum and milk—a piece of biscuit. She won't touch anything.'

‘Oh dear! I'll have to see her. She can be very obstinate at times.'

‘You won't say anything to her, Mr Kilkey—I mean, you won't——?' Her sudden look of concern made him say quietly, ‘Heavens, no. I shan't say a thing to her. But I will make her eat something. She can't go on like that.'

‘I did my best.'

‘I'm sure of that.'

‘Is he coming again?' asked Kilkey. He got up and removed his coat and cap. ‘Did he leave any instructions—any medicine?'

‘On the dresser in front of you.'

He looked towards the dresser. ‘Only those same pills,' he said.

‘That's right,' Mrs Turner said, and began ironing clothes again.

Kilkey went out to the back kitchen. He took a drink of water, his mouth felt dry, he suddenly realized that he didn't want to go up to that room. He came back into the kitchen and sat by the fire.

‘You'll go up,' she said.

‘Directly,' he replied. He stared into the fire. I had a sudden feeling that … it doesn't matter,' and then he blurted out, ‘Mrs Turner—the most wonderful news to-day. I've found Maureen. She's alive and well. On this Tuesday coming she'll be home.'

‘Why, Mr Kilkey,' she said, dropped the iron and embraced him. Mr Kilkey had never been embraced so fiercely, and he had never felt so embarrassed.

‘I must go up to them now. I'll tell you when I come down, Mrs Turner.'

‘I
am
glad. I
am
glad.'

He went straight upstairs. He knocked gently on the bedroom door, he whispered, ‘It's me, Fanny.'

He thought quickly—‘I will tell her about Maureen later on,' opened the door and went in.

He found a bright fire burning in the grate. Before this, seated in two chairs, he saw them. Both were dressed. He expressed no surprise. He then sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘How are you, Denny?'

The old man did not hear him. He lay with his head right back, his fingers were spread over his eyes. Kilkey was struck at once by this anxious attitude, it reminded him of a person who has been struck suddenly and has fallen back and covered his face for protection. He noticed the thinness of the fingers, he noticed the burn marks, the callouses. He looked at the woman. She was sitting bolt upright. She sat stiffly and her hands did not lie idly on her knees, but clutched them, with some tension. She did not look into the fire, her head was a little raised, she stared only at blankness of wall. Kilkey said again, ‘How are you, Denny?'

Still receiving no answer he looked at her. ‘How is he, Fanny?'

‘A little better now, thank God. The doctor came. He was very helpful.'

She never moved, did not look at Kilkey when she replied. Kilkey sat there, astounded. It was as though these were two carved figures, he might not be in this room at all. He was sitting here beside these people, and he might have been stick or stone—a piece of the furniture in the room.

He felt so disturbed by this, and the attitude of the old man, that he got up and crossed over—he put his hands on the woman's head, slowly turned it round. She did not even look at him, but raised her eyes, looked over his head, beyond him.

‘Say nothing, Fanny, God help you, and I'll say nothing. Be easy there. I'll not disturb you, but tell me this. How is Denny?'

She replied, ‘I told you. I'm miserable to-day—I'm ashamed to-day.'

He smiled. He said, ‘Smile, Fanny.' He kept his hands on her head. ‘Is he asleep?'

‘He is. That man has found some way of resting his neck. It pained him this morning, and he likes to cover his old eyes, so he does that when he is asleep at night.'

‘You must eat something, Fanny. You must.'

‘When you eat.'

‘You
will.
'

‘All right. Will you eat up here with us, Joseph? I'd like you to be with us now.'

‘That's the spirit,' he said. ‘I'll call Mrs Turner now.'

He went to the top of the stairs. ‘Mrs Turner! Are you there?'

The woman came to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Mrs Fury will take a bite of something now,' he called, ‘and will you bring my dinner up, too? Thank you.'

As soon as he sat down she said, ‘Father Moynihan came while you were out. I
was
pleased to see him. He told me not to worry about Denny, he'll be all right.'

‘Of course he will.'

‘I tried to keep him in bed—but he wanted to be up and dressed. It took me nearly an hour to do it, and get him into the chair. A child's whim—I couldn't say no. There he is. As soon as he got near the fire he was off asleep.'

‘That'll do him good.'

‘Yes. We're going to St Sebastian's Saturday morning to receive the Holy Communion. It'll be the last time we'll see that old church together. But I'll enjoy going, and so he will, too. I told Father Moynihan that we both wanted to receive the Sacrament before he went away. And he was pleased about that, and on Saturday morning he's coming in a taxi himself to take us to the early Mass. And we're to have breakfast with him afterwards, in his own house. It's a pleasure to see a jolly, happy man. It made me feel much better just talking to him. Of course, it'll have to be the early Mass, for I don't want to be meeting anybody I used to know. Not now.'

‘I understand. I'm glad you had a cheerful visitor this morning.'

Mrs Turner came up with the tray. The old man never moved. The woman laid out the things. Mr Kilkey and the woman ate round the sleeping man.

‘Nonsense! Nonsense!'

‘I'd a job to do in the town. I only just got back.'

‘When we've gone, Kilkey, you'll be able to get a real day's rest in bed. We've been upsetting this house.'

‘Nonsense! Nonsense!

‘I wonder,' he thought, ‘I wonder if I should tell her now? Or shall I wait? No, maybe I'd better tell her. Such news should lift their hearts.'

She was watching him, he had paused in his eating. She said suddenly, ‘You're not angry about yesterday, Kilkey? I was mad to do it.'

‘I've forgotten all about that. Content yourself.'

He leaned towards her, ‘Fanny—what would you say to me if I told you that this morning there came to me a man carrying the best news I've heard for many a day?'

‘I should say it was a nice thing to happen to anybody.'

‘You may not believe it,' he said.

‘What are you telling me?'

He could hold back no longer. ‘I've found Maureen and she is coming home.'

He saw the colour drain from the woman's face. ‘What is that?'

‘Maureen has been found at last. By Mr Delaney of the St Vincent de Paul.'

‘Maureen,' she said. ‘Maureen.'

He could not look at her—he turned his head away—a lump came into his throat.

‘My girl,' he said.

‘Denny,' she called.

‘Ssh!' Kilkey said. ‘Ssh! Come out of here. Come into my room. Let us talk there.'

She got up and followed him out. The moment she came into the room, she exclaimed, ‘Is
this
your room?'

‘My girl,' he said.

‘It looks like a cold cell to me. Have you always been like this, Kilkey?'

‘Since she went away. I got that way—I didn't care—but now,' he said.

They sat together on the small iron bedstead. ‘Now I can tell you,' he said.

‘Yes. Tell me about my girl,' she said.

He was struck by the calmness in her voice—this calmness suddenly annoyed him. He expected nothing less than joy here—and all he heard was the calm repeating voice. ‘Tell me about my girl.'

‘For months now Cornelius Delaney has been in touch with all the northern branches of the St Vincent de Paul Society. They in turn were in touch with the police, the institutions, with cheap hotels—with people who can tell you at any moment who is on the road and who isn't. Anyhow a month or so ago, Mr Delaney learned that the old chap who was with Maureen and this man had died in the Halifax workhouse. After that they seemed to think they could find out things. And they did and I don't want to go into details about it—some of it is not very nice, Fanny—but anyhow one fine evening they found my wife. Found her working in a public house called the “Cross Threads”. Mr Delaney only told me this morning. He himself travelled up to the place. He has seen her, talked with her. She is not very much changed. She is sorry for everything. She is coming back to me. Think of that, Fanny, coming back. This very Tuesday I am going up there to bring her home. It cannot be done before that. Mr Delaney knows best. I've to go Tuesday and bring her home. Fanny, I'm a happy man to-day.'

The woman kept looking at him—somehow she could not think of her daughter at all—but only of this man, so cruelly treated.

‘It was a wicked thing to do on you, Kilkey, who never harmed a fly.'

‘I shall never think of that again,' he said.

‘That's the remark of a strange man,' she replied. ‘It's almost unnatural.'

‘Well, Fanny, here is what I wanted to say,'—and suddenly his thoughts scattered into fragments—he was bewildered by the woman's calmness. It upset him. If only she had smiled, if only she had cried out, ‘I'm glad. I'm glad.'

But she had not and he was unable to understand it. Her own daughter. The only girl she had, the spirit and image of herself.

‘What ails you?' he asked. ‘Aren't you glad, Fanny? I thought you'd be delighted at this news.'

She put a hand over his own. ‘I am so glad for you, Kilkey, for you suffered and not she. That is what I think of now. You, stuck in this house, this old house—all alone, months and months on end. Never complaining, never giving up hope. Bringing up your son from the age of two years, from a baby to a boy, and a fine young man he is, for I saw them photos the other day as you know. A lad you can be proud of.'

‘But I must say what I want to say,' he said. ‘And it's this. This thing happening has made all the difference to everything. Now I want you to think this over careful in your mind. You can, both of you, stay on here as long as you like. This can be your home, and Maureen will be here. Don't you understand what I mean?'

‘I thank you for that, Kilkey. But my mind is made up. And so is Denny's. We shall go on Saturday night, back to Ireland. You've been watching me there. I could see you, and perhaps you thought I would stay at this news. But I couldn't—I couldn't. Right at the top of my mind there lies one thought, and that thought is—“We are finished for ever with Gelton.” I learned that in one single hour as I trod the old road down to them offices. No, we shan't stay. It's my duty to get that man out of this place—and I shall do that. My sister is ready and waiting for us both, and I've told her we shall be there Sunday morning. When Maureen comes home to you, you will explain this to her. You see, everything is done. And I've told Peter, and Anthony already. My duty is to Denny, and no-one else. You won't know, Kilkey, what went tearing through me yesterday, when that man broke before my eyes. I knew then that I had to get him back. I didn't want him to end his days in that northern place—and no more do I want him to end his days in Gelton. You understand that, Kilkey?'