Winter Song (48 page)

“For a whole week your mother and a nurse sat by his bed. They did not expect him to recover. As to what he had been through, well nobody would ever know. It was a whole month before I saw them again, I'd been very busy at the ships, and I couldn't ever refuse what was thrown my way. When I went to see them he had quite calmed down, and from a glance at your mother I knew then who was master. She drew me aside, she had more news. Your Aunt Brigid was ill, very ill. You know of course that your grandfather died a year previous to that, and I suppose you know that your aunt found his money after all, nearly twelve hundred pounds. She was quite alone now. What did she want? She wanted your mother to go and live with her. She begged her to go. It would have been difficult for her to have refused. I believe that. It was natural, it was Christian. There was a little note in your aunt's hand at the bottom of the letter that had been written for her by a friend, and it was this little note that did the trick. ‘You know, Fanny,' she wrote, ‘It's your duty, and it's due to you, you must now come home.' Just those few words.

“Well, just a week later, they set off, and I went with them. Father Moynihan had begged me to take them across. It was very difficult, considering the condition of your father, and we were so afraid at the time that as he crossed from the quay to the gangway of the boat your mother threw a shawl over your father's head, for she had a queer idea that a sight of the sea might terribly upset him. But we managed it, and we made him comfortable in the little cabin. I thanked God to see them both there, at last, on their way home, for your mother, God rest her soul, she spent half a lifetime raving about going back there, and you began to wonder why she ever left it. But I never saw a happier woman, and I can see her now, as though it was only yesterday. Her hair was quite grey, her face all wrinkled up, but she was as straight as a guardsman, like she always was. I sat talking to her. Your father was very quiet and deep asleep. I thought of your mother going over to that miserable creature, so very selfish, but there it was, she was dangerously ill. Your mother cried. It was very human.”

Kilkey's head had fallen right back, and now he appeared to be staring up at the ceiling, a strained expression on his face, as though this act of remembering required some great physical endeavour, and not once during the long narration had he looked at the other in the chair.

“When the siren blew we both got up and left the cabin. We stood at the rail. The deck was crowded with passengers, and in the gathering darkness they seemed like shadows. I remember staring down into the dark, glistening water. There was a roar as the gangway came up. The hawsers came clear of the bitts, and the whole night was filled with shouts. Before we realized it, the old boat had turned her head seawards, and the first beat of her engines came clearly up to us as we stood there, not speaking, not moving. She blew three times. We were clear of the quay. A wind came up, and I advised your mother to get back to the cabin. I took her back and saw her comfortable before I went back on deck. I happened to know an engineer aboard her, and he'd kindly given me two blankets, so I bedded down against the old bulwark and was quite cosy. But I never slept. I could think of nothing except your mother going home, of that now useless man beside her, and of all the water that had poured under the bridges. I got up. I began pacing the deck. It began to rain. I saw the shore lights dim, and the engine noise was suddenly very loud. I knew we were well at sea, for I could hear the water mad at her bows, and the lights flashing in the distance.

“Suddenly your mother was beside me. I couldn't understand. At first I thought your father had had a relapse, but no, your mother had come out to talk. She left your father fast asleep, and came out to talk to me. I thought she would never stop, she talked a lifetime over, and back again, she talked and talked. She even laughed, and I think the skipper on the bridge must have wondered what was going on down on that dark foredeck. It rang out so loud and clear in the darkness. She travelled right through the family, and then her mother's family and then her father's. Somehow your mother seemed suddenly bright, and shining with living. It made me feel glad I'd come, though at first I hadn't wanted to. After a while she lay up against me, and we shared the blankets. This seemed the only thing to do, for she was quite determined to leave your father sleeping peacefully. She must have dropped off to sleep very suddenly, and I began to doze myself. I remember waking up and feeling terribly cold. It was growing light. I got up and joined a queue, and after nearly half an hour I managed to get some hot tea. Some men were singing in the saloon, and I supposed they'd been there most of the night. Then all of a sudden, there it was. Cork. A fine old place, and the loveliest little harbour I ever saw. And how clean the place was, like the whole city had been scrubbed white.

“Then suddenly everybody was crowding the rails. I took your mother across, and we stopped there watching the old boat draw nearer and nearer to the quay. She whispered in my ear, ‘I was born here.' The gangway came aboard, everybody was suddenly on the move. We went back to the cabin for your father, and we waited till the other's had all gone. Then we started off with your father. It seemed hours before we got him to the bottom of that gangway. People were kind though, very kind, and I think every jarvey in the place was ready to run them up the Mall. On the quay your mother suddenly stopped and stared about her, saying never a word. I had one arm through that of your father, she the other.”

Peter Fury sat motionless. He did not once glance at Kilkey, and indeed he gave the impression that he had not even been listening. So still and silent did he sit that the old man might well have been addressing himself, and now that he had finished speaking the silence of the room seemed heightened. In the house next door a child could be heard crying, a big lorry tumbled past the window, coals clattered to the hearth.

“What else?” But the other did not answer.

“What else, Mr. Kilkey?” There was something cold and ruthless in this demanding voice.

“You know,” protested the old man. “I told you. I wrote and told you.”

“I know nothing.”

“Your aunt came through her long illness,” said Kilkey, “she is now eighty-three.”

“And mother?” Peter said.

“I will tell you no more,” Kilkey said.

“You won't?”

“No.”

Peter Fury got up and stood looking down at the old man, waiting.

“It was an accident—an accident——” Kilkey said.

“Please tell me.”

“I can't—I'm an old man, I can't be bothered, I'm tired, leave me alone. I can't tell you.”

Peter Fury picked up his cap, and without another word he left the house.

2

He regretted his action the moment he heard the door close behind him. He had half a mind to go back, to knock, to apologise to the old man. He walked quickly down the street, and stood on the corner, looking towards the city. Gelton stretched out before him as wide as the ocean. Gelton was noisy, tumultuous, lost in the tumbling rounds of its own energy. He suddenly remembered the two people who had met him outside the gate. A man with an umbrella, a woman in a car. They had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Gelton had swallowed them up. As he stood there, staring aimlessly about him, he had a sudden feeling that he did not belong here any more. He felt like a ghost. He seemed hardly aware that he had begun to move, that he was following his feet, southwards.

“What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Perhaps it was too early even to think. The noise appalled. People fascinated him, and often he would stop and look after someone or other, and once or twice as he stood staring at a woman, passers-by eyed him suspiciously. He kept close to the kerb. It seemed the safest place. Here one was left alone. He walked street after street, road upon road, he was filled with unflagging energy on this aimless walk. He knew that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the city. Then he stopped dead. He thought of taking a tram, a bus, even a taxi, and looked about him. A tram stopped conveniently enough, he made to board it, but suddenly withdrew, and hurried to the kerb again. He went up to the bus stop and waited for the one that he would never take. Perhaps he would stop a passing taxi. Yes, that was the best thing to do. He would be private again, shut in, away from people. He approached the gates of a public park. He saw a taxi, but he could not make up his mind. His hand went up into the air, and quickly down again. He went into the park. This was as silent as the sea. He passed by a few old men on benches, a girl reading a book, and coming to an empty bench at the end of the path he sat down. The moment he did so he felt relieved. “I shouldn't have got mad with the old man,” he thought. “No, I shouldn't have done that. Perhaps I'll go back there later to-day.”

He sat on this bench a whole hour, motionless, staring fixedly at his feet. And then, in a moment he gave in, he could no longer hold back his tears. He cried as he sat, staring downwards, his hands pressed deep into his pockets. He felt he could not look upwards, he must wait, he must be patient. After a while it would be all over. He heard footsteps go by, heard a child laughing in the distance, a mother calling, a barking dog. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”

Furtively he raised his head, looked right and left. The park was once more drowned in its own silence. “I must go over there,” he told himself, “yes, I must go over to Ireland.”

Immediately he got up and walked out of the park. He would walk towards the docks; he had a feeling that once he saw the ship he could make up his mind. It stirred a kind of resolve in him, quickened his steps, and suddenly in the distance he saw the mast of the first ship. Out in the river a tug hooted, a great siren blew. As he drew nearer the docks he felt imprisoned again. Everywhere he looked people were hurrying. They filled the pavements, they crowded the buses, they hurried to the trains. From this maze of energy he stepped quickly into a small court. Except for a single cotton-laden lorry, the place was deserted. At the bottom he beheld more masts, and now very suddenly the funnels of half a dozen ships. He noted the funnel markings, now he knew where to go. Resolve strengthened. Perhaps after a while he would feel like those hurrying people, there would be a sense of direction, he would know what he really wanted to do. He slipped quietly through a dock gate and stared up at the first ship he saw. Yes, this was the dock, the self-same dock. It had not changed in all that time. There was a small wooden hut to the left of this gate and he went up to it and glanced in through the open door. A man wearing a blue serge suit was seated at a desk. He spoke to him. The man got up and came to the door.

“Sorry, no jobs,” he said, after a swift glance at his visitor.

“When is the next sailing?”

“To where?”

“Cork.”

“Ten o'clock to-morrow night.”

“Thank you.” Peter turned on his heel and continued down the quay.

“Yes. I'll do that. I'll go over there to-morrow night.”

Sat on a bollard, he watched a ship being loaded, saw a seaman coming down the gangway, walk his way. He put out a hand and stopped him. “Excuse me,” he said. Were there any small hotels locally that he knew of and could recommend? He only wanted a bed for the night. The seaman looked down at him.

“Hotel?” His brow furrowed, his hand went to his head, he scratched it, and he looked at Peter. Perhaps he had never heard the word hotel before. “Bed for the night?” he asked.

“That's it.”

“Only place about here is a boarding shop called The Curving Light. Any use. Body name of Talon runs it. She might fix you up. Try her.”

“Thanks.”

He watched the seaman go. “I'll try that,” he thought, “it's just for the one night.”

He left the dock and walked on into the city. He stopped at the first hotel he saw. Taxis pulled up, passengers got out, luggage was carried up the steps. Too big, he thought, too crowded. No. He just wanted a small place, a quiet little room. Nothing more. He walked on. He went into the first pub he saw, called for a drink and some sandwiches. He carried it to the nearest table and sat down. The place was crowded. He was glad to find an empty corner table. Here, as he ate, he examined the entire contents of his pockets. He counted his money. Enough for the room, enough for the fare across, and still something left. Through a haze of smoke he saw the crowded counter. The long, low-ceilinged room blazed with a fire, the air itself rocked with the chatter. This smoke cloud, this torrent of talk was the shield behind which he could quietly sit, eating his sandwiches, drinking his ale, refusing to listen. Nobody had joined his table, nobody had noticed him. He sat on, unconscious of passing time, lost in his own reflections. He gave a jump when a hand touched his shoulder.

“Gone time, sir,” the voice said, and Peter looked up.

The bar was empty. It was turned three o'clock. He heard doors being slammed, bolts shot back. He finished his drink and left. More noise, more traffic, more hurrying people. He sat on a bench by the sailor's church, he watched them pass. All going somewhere, all doing something, an urgency, a meaning in their hurrying footsteps.

“I've seen thousands of faces this morning,” he thought, “and yet not a single one that I know. Hurry on morning, hurry on boat, and take me out of it.”

He began walking again, wandering again, turning into this road, that street. He heard a distant clock striking four, and now from time to time he kept meeting bands of happy, laughing children. The schools were closing. When a church came suddenly into view he stopped. Leaning against the railings he stared down the gravelled path. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. It was like meeting a friend. He recognised it at once. This was the path down which he had often walked, that door he had many times passed through. “I'm near Hatfields,” he thought. “Now which way is it from here?”