Winter Song (12 page)

‘She plays me up like the devil, and she enjoys doing it. She knows I'm afraid of her, afraid she might suddenly go.'

He stumped into the lounge, rang the bell, ordered another drink. Even the lounge looked cold, bare, bereft of humanity. He ate lunch alone. He paid his bill, ordered a taxi. He asked to be driven to the Priest's House of St Sebastian's.

‘That's a long way out, sir,' the driver said.

Desmond ignored him. The taxi started off.

‘They could go out and live with Aunt Brigid.'

‘Or Anthony's wife in Dublin.'

‘I'm sure dad has some relatives in Mayo or Clare.'

‘They ought to go. There's nothing here but bitter memories.'

‘If anybody had told me I would be sitting in a taxi to-day, driving up to a priest's house, if anybody said that six months ago I would have called him a liar.'

The taxi drew up. He paid the driver, went up the path, pulled at the bell.

‘I wish to see Father Moynihan,' he told the housekeeper.

‘Is he expecting you?'

‘I don't think so, but if you give him my name I think he will see me.'

He gave her the name—she said ‘Come in,' not trusting him, she said ‘wait there.'

Desmond sat in the big room waiting, and he looked everywhere but at the fireplace. Somehow he could not face the big crucifix on the wall.

The priest came in. ‘You wished to see me.'

There was no smile, no proffered hand, no welcome.

‘Yes,' Desmond said. ‘I wanted to discuss some things with you about …'

‘About what?'

The priest's brusqueness was upsetting. ‘You still have your hat on; have you no manners at all, Mr Fury?'

‘I'm sorry, excuse me. I'm somewhat confused this morning.'

‘What do you wish to see me about? Am I to be another link for you? You are very clever at getting other people to do things for you, extending your kind heart from a long way off. I am afraid you will have some difficulty here.'

He had not asked the visitor to sit down. He stood just within the door. He gave the appearance of annoyance, a certain impatience, his expression seemed to say, ‘Say what you wish to say and then go. I am a very busy man.'

Even the door was wide open. Desmond Fury thought, ‘Even the housekeeper will hear.'

‘You are very anxious to get away, I'm sure of that. Back to your wife, I suppose.'

‘Please leave my wife out of this.'

‘I've nothing against her. Not in the least. The Hospice rang me up last night. They asked you to go. You upset your mother very much. You're a clumsy man, a very clumsy man. What do you want me to do?'

The visitor looked at the open door. ‘Would you mind shutting the door, Father?'

It was the first time he had called the priest by his rightful name.

The priest closed the door. ‘I can give you a few minutes.'

‘I want my parents to return to Ireland.'

‘They may not want to go.'

‘But I know they will. My mother has lived for this day. I
know
she wants to go. I know she is happy now. They are together. She will take him with her.'

‘Where do I come in?'

‘Well, Father,' he hesitated, and then he said—‘it is true about last night. We upset each other. It should never have happened. You think I'm hard, don't you, Father, but you're wrong. I only want to do the best for them. I've always wanted to. I couldn't once on a time—you see I had to fight to get where I am. Now I can help them. I wondered if you would give this envelope to my mother. I will tell you that I love my father better than my mother and that my mother always hid him away from us. I can't see my father again. I wanted to see him alone. It's too late, my mother will stand against me.'

‘What is this rigmarole? You have got on in the world and now you want to show your love for your parents by seeking every possible means of absolving yourself from your duty. You are, in fact, ashamed to travel back with them. Isn't that the truth?' He looked at Desmond: ‘You ask me if I will give your mother some money, and when I have taken it, you'll ask me if I will see that they get on to the boat safely and, if possible, see them home. You must be a very stupid man to think you can come here—that you can hide your meanness of spirit behind a few pound notes.'

‘You will not take this money, Father?'

‘Get out of my house.'

Desmond picked up his hat and walked out of the room. Father Moynihan followed. The moment the visitor reached the step, he slammed the door in his face. ‘The scamp. He thinks the money will excuse it all, the insults, and humiliations, and the lies, the lies, the horrible deceit of it all. All he wants now is to pack them off to Ireland out of the way, out of his sight, ashamed of his parents because they are simple people, because they are Catholics, because they
believe
in their religion. Now he will go to Kilkey. He will try to get that soft-hearted creature to do his work for him. He hates his parents, loves his father—the idea. I've known these people thirty years, and every living moment of them; from the day he could talk he has hated them and been ashamed of them, and now because he's married to some fine lady of a questionable family and has trampled on so many others to get his way, he thinks this filthy money will do tricks for him.'

‘Mrs Donaghue—you must never answer the door to that man again.'

‘No, Father. I didn't like the look of him when I first saw him.'

‘And a good many other people in this parish think like you. Please to get my hat and my umbrella. I am going out at once.'

‘Yes, Father.'

‘I shall be back at six o'clock.'

‘Very good, Father.'

Coming into the room quietly, seeing the old woman sitting on her husband's bed, they were holding hands, and she was mumbling—it might have been prayers, a very private language—the Mother Superior thought, ‘I wonder how long she has been sitting like that.' She looked at the old man, and he looked back at her, but without recognition.

‘You slept well—you had a good night?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘And you?' she asked—she looked at Mrs Fury. ‘You haven't been to bed. What time did you wake up?'

‘I was up an hour ago. I woke early and I felt I wanted to get up, and Denny was awake too. I could hear him talking to himself, so I thought “I'll go to him,” so we've been talking to each other.'

‘You know what the doctor told you?'

There was something so stern about the nun that the old woman stammered and got up.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, ‘but I've not seen him for so many long days.'

‘Yes, but you mustn't talk to him so much. He is not as strong as you, he requires rest.'

‘Yes, Mother, I know. But I'll not talk to him again for a bit.'

‘You've been up a long time—Sister Angelica heard you moving about, since five o'clock.'

‘I was …'

‘And now it's ten minutes to eight. Are you going to the first Mass?'

‘I am.'

Mrs Fury got up. She kept darting glances at her husband. He lay very still, he shut his eyes. She followed the woman to the end of the room. They carried on a whispered conversation.

‘If you sit at his bed like that again, Mrs Fury, I'll have to have you put into another room.'

‘I won't do it again. We were only talking about the old times, Mother.'

‘Well then, get ready now and off you go to the Mass—it's nearly eight o'clock. I shall be here when you come back. I hope your husband will be able to take something this morning. It worries the doctor, he eats so little. He wants building up.'

‘He does look a poor battered old man, lying in that bed. I didn't know him. Sometimes I look at him and I say to myself “Is it him? Is that Denny?”'

The old woman smiled. ‘This morning I knew it was him. You should have seen it. It was golden, Mother, the way he smiled, and I knew him then. Ah, but it was hard me having to tell him how things were. I felt so ashamed of myself.'

The Mother Superior put a finger to her mouth, ‘Ssh! Ssh! Get off now. You'll be late.'

The woman put on her coat, her hat, a gay coloured scarf. She turned to look at the man: ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have talked so much,' she said, ‘and yet he didn't mind, he really didn't. He didn't say anything, just lying there quiet, listening.'

‘Be off with you—there's the bell.'

The old woman went out. Immediately the door closed, she crossed to the bed.

‘Are you awake, Mr Fury?'

He looked at her

‘You are. I see your wife has been tiring you out. I caught her out when I came in. She said she has been sitting on your bed since five o'clock talking about the old days. I was angry with her. She mustn't go on like this—you are very weak. I hope you'll try and eat something this morning. The doctor says you want plenty of good food to build you up.'

‘Who was talking?' he said, she saw his parted lips, the teeth, his thin neck.

‘Your wife.'

‘When?'

She realized then. ‘You didn't hear her talking to you?'

‘I just woke up,' he said.

He raised his arm high in the air, then let it fall heavily to the bed. ‘Am I very ill, Sister?'

‘You have been.'

‘What hospital is this?'

‘This is St Stephen's Hospice.'

He beckoned to her. She took her chair nearer, he still beckoned, she leaned over him. ‘What is it?'

‘I thought of Fanny all that time I was swimming. Did she think of me?'

She smiled, saying, ‘Yes, she always thought of you. She was very ill, too. Very ill.'

‘Is she ill now?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘You know about my little lad?'

‘Which little lad?' She smiled again. ‘You have so many.

‘Peter.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Is it on account of him she broke up my home and now I come back all this way and I haven't any?'

‘You will have again.'

‘Do you think so, Sister?'

‘I'm sure you will.'

‘Always Fanny came to meet me, but this time she never came.'

‘She didn't expect you. I was with her when the grand news came. You should have seen her smile.'

‘She really smiled.'

‘She did.'

‘I'm so glad. She was never a one for smiling much.'

‘I think you'll be better soon. When you are on your feet again a number of people want to see you, the Authorities, for instance.'

‘What about?'

‘You have to make a report to them of what happened to you.'

‘Nothing happened.'

Outside a telephone was ringing. ‘Will you eat something to-day?'

‘I was dreaming of Lenahan. He's dead now,' the old man said.

‘You mustn't speak of that.'

A nun came in. The Mother Superior was wanted on the telephone.

‘Who is it?'

‘The man who came yesterday, Mrs Fury's son. He asks if he can come and see his father.'

‘When?'

‘To-day.'

‘I'm not sure that anybody can see the old man to-day,' the Mother Superior said; she went to the door.

‘He wants to see his father alone.'

‘Tell him to come at four o'clock.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

She returned to the bedside. ‘You will eat something this morning, father, for me?'

‘I'll try.'

‘Just fancy,' she said to herself, ‘talking to him since five o'clock this morning and he never heard a word. I think the woman is, like him, just wandering in her mind.'

She went out, crossed the garden to the chapel. She knelt in the back seat, she saw the old woman then, right up in front, watched her rise for the Last Gospel.

She met her coming out. ‘Your husband seems much better to-day. We had a little chat.'

‘Oh, that makes me happy. Mother; sometimes I've thought he doesn't listen to me, as though he didn't care—he cared always in the old days. He always listened to me. The poor man. I'm afraid that blow on the head affected him. This morning I prayed so hard, thinking that if only he'd get a well man again, an upright man—he was always an upright man, but sometimes I didn't notice it when I should have done.'

‘Come along. I've told you before about talking like that. You must forget all those old times, you must look forward to the future now.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘And you won't go worrying your husband with fairy tales?'

‘Fairy tales?'

‘Yes, your fairy tales. You must brace yourself up now and stop moping. You must help get your husband ready for life again.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘Really,' she thought, ‘it's just like talking to two children.'

And they went back to the house.

‘There's your breakfast going in now,' she said. ‘Do make your husband eat. He's so thin.'

‘I will.'

‘That's right.'

They parted, the Mother Superior to the kitchen, Mrs Fury back to the silent room.

‘I've heard a lot about you,' she said, ‘please sit down.'

‘I'm sure you have,' he replied, and sat down.

‘You can see your father for twenty minutes, no longer. These last two days have been too much for him, and your mother tires him out with her chatter. We have had to separate them. It is not good for him. Yesterday I found her seated at his bed, talking—I don't think she had gone to bed at all. What she talked about hardly matters, since your father never heard a word of it.'

‘It is very good of you to let me see him alone. There are things I must say to him which my mother must not hear. I am sure you will understand. No doubt you have heard hard things said about me. The fact is my mother and I never got on together. My marriage displeased her. She wanted to plan everybody's life and everybody got out. Even my father ran away to sea again to get away from her. She did all the wrong things with the best intentions. She ruined my youngest brother. She drove my sister into the arms of a man much older than herself and whom she never loved. We were all glad to get away from her. I've always been sorry for her because I know she worked hard, did her best, but she made many mistakes, and often life was uncomfortable for my father. To-day they are in the same position as they were fifty years ago. There was never any reason for her to do what she did.…'