Winter Song (40 page)

Tell me, do your brothers write you regularly? I hope so, for I can't somehow think of them forgetting you. I wonder if your aunt writes. She must be very old now, about eighty-two. I hope she'll be nice to your father
—
I'm afraid she never
really
forgave your mother for marrying him. But they're all old, and it's time they mended things. There's one other bit of news, but that I'll tell later. I mean I'll wait and see what happens. But if it does really happen
—
I
'
ll write you at once. I'm afraid to tell you now just in case it didn't. Before I close, let me repeat again. Your mother, your father and I are taking the night boat Saturday for the North Wall. Your parents are going to stay with Anthony's wife for a few days before they move on to Cork. I hope it will be a nice crossing for them
—
and I hope your father won't mind seeing the sea again. Till the next time, then, Peter, and don't forget what I said. Outside in the world you have friends who are thinking of you, God bless you. I remain, Your affectionate brother, Joseph Kilkey
.

He blotted and folded the letter, sealed it, stamped it. He sat looking at it as he took out his pipe and lit it.

‘Why, that was a terrible message to send—I'm glad it was addressed to me and not his mother. He must have felt awful when he wrote it. I often wonder what he looks like now—his mother says he was greying and had lost his colour. I remember him as a big-built, black-haired youth of seventeen, with rosy cheeks—somehow I can't think of him greying, no, I
can not.
' Looking at his watch he saw that it had turned five o'clock. He decided to make tea. He cut up his own food for the night. He felt he had worried Mrs Turner enough. He took up some tea and bread and butter on a tray. When he went in he was surprised to find the woman, her spectacles on, reading aloud to the old man.

‘I should get him to bed, Fanny. He can't sit in that chair much longer.'

She put down the book. ‘Would you sit with him for ten minutes? I must get out for a little walk. I shan't be long.'

‘You mustn't. I must be away on the tram in three-quarters of an hour. I'm sorry I'm on this night shift all the time—I hate leaving you both alone every night.'

‘We'll soon be gone,' she said. ‘Give him a cup of tea.'

She left him sitting alone with the old man. As soon as she had gone he spoke.

‘Fanny looks sad to-day.'

‘Nonsense. You're imagining it. She looks happy to-day, Denny. You've been sleeping too much to-day. You miss a lot of things dozing away like that.'

‘I've been fair worried, Kilkey, fair worried. I mean about yesterday. I really couldn't do it. If you'd made me a king I couldn't have done it. D'you suppose the boy will be angry with us?'

‘Not at all. I've already written to Peter to explain.'

‘You know Fanny said to-day—she's the knack of remembering dates and days—she says, “I should have had a letter from Darnton to-day—it's over a month now—and as regularly as clock-work his letters come.” She depends so much on the letters she gets.'

‘I know that well enough. When she was in that Hospice she must have written to every relation she ever had. Fanny loves getting letters, I do agree. But I expect Peter was very upset at your not turning up yesterday.'

The old man looked straight at Kilkey—he put his hand on his shoulder.

‘You've always been a very honest sort of man as far as I know. Tell me then, Kilkey, do you really think I'm old—I'm finished?'

‘You want me to be quite honest with you?'

‘That's what I said.'

‘Yes. I think you're old, Denny. I think you've had enough. Whether you're finished or not is something I can't answer. Fanny is old, too. It's time you both realised it.'

‘All the same, if it hadn't been for a mishap I had last year—I mean the …'

‘Fifty years at sea is enough for anybody. For God's sake give up talking about those things. There she is back now and I must be away.' ‘It's nice out this evening,' Fanny said, coming in. ‘I wish you'd been able to come with me. You must find it awful shut up in the old room all the time.'

She began re-making the bed. Kilkey stood by the door.

‘You'll get all the fresh air you want to-morrow. Well, good-night to you both.'

‘Good-night, Kilkey.'

The door closed.

‘Denny, be a good man now and get back into bed. Please. You can't sit by that fire any longer. As soon as that woman has been in I'm going to bed myself. Rest, plenty of rest, Denny, and you'll be as right as the mail.'

‘Help me,' he said.

He talked to her as she undressed him. ‘To think that in only forty-eight hours' time we'll be landed there, and not a soul in the world will have the power to move you any more, or call you up—finished at last. Kilkey just told me I'm finished. Think of it, Fanny. That man says I'm old and finished.'

‘Well, aren't you an old man? You're not a young one,' she helped him into bed.

‘I can see that well enough—these days I'm just spending my time being helped out of one bed and into another—like a sort of child. And only six months ago I was a man, Fanny, stood up straight with the best of them—and strong as any.'

‘Stop that. Stop complaining. You're always at me because you say I'm never contented, and here's you with enough complaints—leave well alone. The doctor says you can work no more. The sooner that takes root in your doddery old head the better. The time for you not to be contented was years ago, not now.'

He paused, as she settled the pillow under his head, he gave her arm a pinch.

‘That's the last thing I ever thought you'd say to me.'

‘Well, it's true, isn't it? And it's the last thing I will ever say. Now please lie down and try and get a good long night's rest. We shall be on the move to-morrow.' He lay down.

‘I'm sorry I said that,' she said, but he did not answer her.

‘My tongue ran away with me then, and I know I've hurt him.'

She knelt down and said her prayers. ‘Give him strength for to-morrow,' she said.

She lit the night-light, climbed into bed.

‘To-morrow will come,' she said. ‘Good-night, Denny.'

‘Good-night.'

They were both asleep when the door opened and Mrs Turner came in. The noise of the tray woke Fanny. She called the woman across to her.

‘Take that away,' she said, ‘and thank you for your trouble. I told Mr Kilkey to tell you on the way out that we wouldn't be wanting any more to-night. We're away to the Communion in the morning and will eat nothing till then. Good-night to you.'

The man beside her did not stir. The woman drew the curtains, made up the fire.

‘Good-night.'

Her feet were heavy on the stairs, the front door banged. Suddenly against the window a driving rain.

Chapter 10

It was half-past eight. Through the windows of this long, low-ceilinged room streamed the sun. And in a pocket of bright light three persons were seated. The woman was looking with admiring glances at the lay-out of the table, the snow-white cloth, the delicate blue of the china, the gay-coloured cosy of the teapot—the shining cutlery. The old man was cruelly caught by this light, and Father Moynihan was looking at him. He thought the smile pathetic—the hands on the table-edge seemed for a moment like claws. But it was the head and features that held his attention. The greyness of skin, the dull, tired eyes, the pinched nose, and at the back of the head the scar, the tiger-like stripes. He could see here an endeavour of bone, as though at any moment it might pierce the skin and expose itself. It made him think of something sucked dry, empty.

He could not help looking at the old man, marvelling that he had lived. He supposed that somewhere in that frame was iron. Here before him was the root and flower of toil. Sometimes Mr Fury would catch his eye, whereon the priest would turn his attention to the woman. He had known her for many years. He did not think she had changed very much. She had a blackness of hair that seemed to have defied time—only here on the temples did he notice specks of grey. Her long face was set in quiet repose. She sat silently, as though she were waiting for somebody to come, something to happen. From time to time he glanced towards the door. They were all waiting for the house-keeper. The woman broke the silence at last. ‘
What
a beautiful room,' she said.

‘Yes, it is a nice room, isn't it?'

He saw her turn her head, look about her. There was nothing here in the way of ornamentation save a crucifix that hung upon the wall behind him. The walls were dead white. In one corner a small oak desk. In another a bookcase. On the mantelpiece a clock, but this had stopped. He saw her pick up a cup and hold it in her hand.

‘Imagine that, Father—you still have this lovely set. I remember seeing that china over ten years ago. You remember I once had tea with you in the vestry and you had this china out.'

‘I always have it out for special occasions. It was my mother's,' he said.

Again he glanced at the door. ‘I don't think she'll be very long now,' he said.

‘So there is something in it after all,' she thought. She looked round the room again, looked at the priest again. ‘What a peaceful, beautiful place. What lovely linen he has.' She felt happy now, and looking at her husband she felt he was happy too. She was glad they had made the effort. Glad that her husband had made it. She was in the chapel again, she was listening to the high clear voice of the boy as he made the responses—she followed him—she had never quite forgotten her Latin. They had sat there. He had come down to them from the altar.

‘When the bell rings do not come to the rails, my child. I will come to you.'

She had knelt, her husband sat, quiet, curled up. The church was in semi-darkness. He was speaking suddenly, and then Mrs French appeared with the breakfast.

‘I shall be going home myself for a few weeks in the summer. To Waterford. I shall remember to come and see you. I hope I shall find you settled down at last.'

‘Yes, Father.'

‘I suppose your sister is now too old to carry on with her work.'

‘I'm afraid she is. She is eighty-two now.'

‘Beautiful embroidery she used to make. I have in the church an altar cloth she made.'

‘Yes—she was very clever with her fingers. She was a sensible woman, Father. She knew what she wanted, and got it. I somehow knew she would never marry.'

‘And now, after half a century, Fanny, she'll have your company.'

‘She will indeed. It'll seem strange coming back to the house I was born in.'

‘Thank you, Mrs French,' the priest said; the woman had finished laying out the breakfast.

‘Now begin,' he said, as the door closed.

‘Come along, Denny,' he said, ‘don't be shy.'

The old man gave him a weak smile. ‘Very well, Father.'

‘I don't want either of you to leave this city with a single regret. Do you understand?'

‘I do,' the woman said.

‘And do not worry about the youngest of them. I shall see to him.'

‘Thank you, Father.'

‘Just proceed home quietly, just as though you had been here a week and were going home again.'

She made no reply to that.

‘I think it's a miracle, Fanny, that your husband should be sitting here to-day.'

‘I have told myself that many times—and so has he.'

‘More tea,' he said, and to the old man, ‘More bread and butter.'

Their muttered thanks faded on the air. He saw they were nervous—he had seen it all along. He still wondered if it was wise of her to take the old man away so soon.

‘You don't think—' he began, and stopped—‘No, I had better not say anything.'

‘Think what, Father?' the woman was all attention.

‘Nothing really,' he suddenly got up. ‘Excuse me one moment. I just want to make an arrangement with O'Hara about the car to run you home,' and he went out.

‘Are you enjoying your breakfast, Denny?' she gave him a smile, though she had seen what the priest had seen, what the strong morning light had imprisoned—she saw it again now, and thought, ‘How strange to see him curled up and bent at last. And that day he sailed away on me—he was a splendid straight-up man. It's not age—it's that sea—I know it now. I can see it there, on his face, all over him—right down to his bone—what the sea can do to a man.'

‘It's very nice—now I'm glad we came. I'm glad we went to the Communion. I feel satisfied now. And I'm relieved you're contented in your mind, Fanny, at long last.'

She gripped his hand. ‘I
am
. We will never be away from each other ever again, and never a mean word will cross my lips, either.'

‘Nor mine.'

‘Ssh!' she said. ‘Here's the priest coming back.'

He came in and sat down. ‘O'Hara will take you back at nine o'clock.'

He saw they were finished.

‘I wondered, Fanny, if you'd like to see over the house? I don't believe you've ever seen anything of it, save the dining-room.'

‘I'd love to,' and got up immediately.

He went to the old man. ‘Come along—I'll put you in the arm-chair. We shan't be very long. I'm just going to show your wife over the house.'

‘Very well, Father.'

He allowed himself to be led to the chair.

‘Thank you,' he said, and they went out leaving him sitting in the sunshine. ‘How warm the sun is,' he said, ‘How warm.'

The priest led the way upstairs; the woman followed.

‘It's not a large house, you know. There's only the one extra bedroom for my visitors.'

He opened doors, she looked in, admiringly. ‘It's very peaceful here, Father.'