Winter Song (18 page)

‘Mother Superior thinks …' the young nun began, but the woman swept past her. ‘Besides,' she continued, following silently after her, ‘it is nearly time for you for the Benediction.'

‘I am not going to the Benediction,' was the reply—she had not meant to do it, but quite involuntarily she slammed the door.

It woke the old man, but the young nun did not notice this, she had hurried after the angry old woman.

‘This is the first time I have ever seen Mrs Fury really angry. I must tell the Mother about this. The poor old man, she simply won't leave him alone. It upsets them both in the end. She's so impatient. Something has happened to her since we shifted him out of her room.'

She hurried to the woman's room, but found it empty. She searched the corridors. ‘I wonder where she could have gone?'

Later she found the woman in the church, alone, sitting in a back seat. She turned away.

‘She does, I'm afraid, make too much fuss of her husband,' thought Sister Angelica, as she returned to the house.

She had walked straight out into the garden, had sat on the wooden bench under the elm. ‘Not a ha'p'orth of harm was I doing, sitting there, quiet, just looking at him. “You must go now,” she says, and him never knowing I'm there at all. I hope Kilkey'll take us home.' Her heart brightened under the thought. ‘It won't be long and I'll be able to look after him myself. I'll get him well again—who knows him better than me who's been with those ages of days. I'll be there every minute, looking after the creature, it's me that knows him, nobody else.'

She got up, she walked towards the chapel. When she got inside she sat down.

‘The moment I come here, I feel different,' and she looked round, admiring the flowers, the burning candles.

She mumbled to herself … ‘Get up and go home and take him with you.'

She made her way to the top of the church and stood for a moment staring up at the stained-glass window. She knelt down.

‘Be kind to him, God,' she said, and her voice echoed in the silent church. She returned to her seat.

It was here the nun had found and left her.

Chapter 5

‘You make me sick,' she said; she seemed to fling the bread on the table, ‘you're always doing something for somebody, but I never hear of anybody doing anything for you. Get your breakfast, Kilkey.' She sat down and watched him start his breakfast. She had been looking after him and his home ever since his wife had left him. She admired him for his courage, but hated him for his softness.

‘There's always some day in the week when a note comes or somebody calls and up you get when, by rights, you should be earning your sleep. One of these days you'll go under yourself, but I can't think of anybody rushing to your aid, unless it's myself.'

He remained silent, he thought this sounded like one of Mrs Turner's lectures, and he didn't mind. She'd be gone in ten minutes. He liked Mrs Turner next door, almost like a mother to him. He often wondered what he would have done without her help. He liked to see her ample person coming through the door, her hair flying, a flush on her fat cheeks and the important air. Fussing round him like a hen. He liked it.

‘I suppose that man from the Religious Society—what a lot of Societies your religion has—suppose you've had no news of her.'

‘Afraid not—not yet,' Kilkey said.

Mrs Turner never mentioned her by name—it was always ‘her.'

‘But it is true, isn't it?' she said, and when he saw her fold her arms, he knew there was a lot more coming—he had better hurry up and get upstairs.

‘It's just to please the old couple—besides, they'll only be here a few days, and then they're travelling across the channel.'

‘They
are
going then?'

‘Yes, they
are
going.'

‘Well, thank God for that. Now you'll get a bit of peace, Kilkey.'

‘They won't be any trouble—I've asked them to keep to the room, they won't be in the way. It's the least I can do.'

‘And I suppose,' went on Mrs Turner, ‘they've asked you to take them back.'

‘That's quite correct, they have …'

‘What a door mat you are. Sometimes I think you're the biggest fool I ever met. The things those people have done on you—it's beyond me.'

‘You'll be old yourself, one day,' he said, as he pushed back his plate. He drew out his pipe and lighted it.

‘And so will you—at least I'll have a good husband to look after me. But what'll you have? Nothing.'

‘I've a good son,' he replied.

‘We all have got good sons, and daughters too, until they suddenly grow up and are off.'

‘Ah, well!' he sighed.

‘That ends it,' she said, ‘I can always tell you, Kilkey, that little sigh says “be off with you”, and I'm going,' she half rose and sat down again. ‘Is there anything you're wanting to-day, it's my marketing day?'

He got up and from a green vase on the mantelpiece took a piece of paper which he handed to her. ‘I've made a list out, Mrs Turner, thank you.'

‘When are these people going?'

‘Perhaps Sunday next, or Saturday. It seems the best time for everybody.'

‘Including you,' she shot back at him, quite unable to hide her annoyance, ‘a whole week—and gone when you should be resting up in your bed. Couldn't they go by themselves? They're not children.'

‘No, the old man is very weak. They must have somebody to take them back.'

‘What about that eldest son of hers? He doesn't seem to do anything much.'

‘He's in London now. But if he came down, she wouldn't want him. He did offer to take them, but she refused. She prefers me, that's all. I've worked it out anyhow. I'll have Saturday and Sunday free. I don't mind. I might even enjoy the trip. I've not been on the Irish boat for years now, and they tell me there are some powerful changes taking place over there. I may well get lost in Dublin.'

Mrs Turner moved off towards the door. ‘Have it your own way but I still think you're just a big softy. Ah, I've often looked in at the window of an evening when I've been passing, and there's a fine hard-working man sitting in his chair all by himself, he might be an old lost tramp or something. A house don't seem right without a woman in it. Ah well, but you're far too soft—
far
too soft.' She went off then, slamming the door behind her. She had had the last word. Having it, he supposed she was well content.

He stretched his arms, yawning, ‘Yes, I suppose I am a bit soft. She's not the only one who's told me that. Ah, it's the way you're made—you can't alter that. I'd better be off to bed now.' He climbed heavily upstairs, he'd be glad to lie down, stretch out, it had been a hard ten hours down that ship's hold. He paused at the top of the stairs. ‘I'll just have a look at their room,' he thought, and went to the room at the back of his own. He sat down on the bed, looking round. It gave him a shock to see standing on the small painted mantelpiece a photograph of his wife. This had been their room once, in the old times when they were first married, when they were happy. He had not entered the room since she had gone. Mrs Turner's presence was evident everywhere, from the polished dressing-table to the scrubbed floor, the shaken carpets, even the few flowers in the vase conveyed to him her competence—her understanding. He got up and went across the room, looked at the photograph of the woman who looked back at him with such a smiling mouth. ‘The poor foolish girl—my, she had such wonderful hair, red as a squirrel's—a great pity it broke up like it did. Perhaps I shouldn't have married at all.' He stared round him. Somehow it seemed just right, a dead room, even the strong draughts under the door, fluttering the rug, the fireless grate and the drawn curtains seemed in place here. The warmth had gone out of it.

He drew the curtains and light shot everywhere, ‘It's a damn shame,' he said, ‘and Dermod grown up into such a fine young man, and her away—gone.'

He fingered the bedclothes: ‘It'll look quite cheery with a fire. I think they'll be comfortable here, but, oh, I'm glad they're going, glad—every minute a misery, thinking of them, all of a sudden, they seem so terribly, terribly old to me—why, I can't believe it, when I think of that gay, laughing woman and that hard-drinking devil-may-care husband of hers. The years piled into one and hitting them hard and final. Not one of their children of use to them—no real love or affection, so many cheap little brats, and that awful creature, so ashamed of his simple parents. Yes, God help them, they're better out of it.'

He returned to the fireplace again—he ran his finger round the photograph. ‘Poor girl, I wonder where she is this minute. I wonder if she ever remembers.' A sadness came over him. He walked out of the room, shut and locked the door, then went to the small back room, undressed and got into bed.

In a few minutes he was fast asleep. In the quiet composure of sleep, the ugliness of this man seemed to rise and crown him. The relaxed figure, the slightly misshapen nose, the great bald head, that always sat so clumsy on his shoulders, the enormous hands, inert, stressed themselves. He looked like a hurt animal. The room resounded to his snoring.

‘Are you awake, Denny?' she asked.

He turned from the wall. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing. You must get up and dress.'

He looked at her with some consternation. ‘Get up?' he said.

‘Yes, we're going away, Denny, out of here. We mustn't stay here another hour.'

‘But …'

‘I'll help you,' she said, ‘you are better to-day, darling, I can see that. Oh, we must go. Now. We've been here too long.'

She helped him sit up, ‘Mr Kilkey is coming at nine o'clock prompt. It's all arranged, Denny. He's coming straight from the docks to take us with him.'

‘Where?' he asked, he was sitting up now, her arms round him: ‘Oh, try, Denny—here, try.'

She dressed him. ‘Can you stand up?' she asked.

He made an effort to rise, and sat down again.

‘Ah! Never fear. Joe'll help you, just you be quiet there now,' and she sat on the bed beside him.

She looked tired herself, she had not slept, she couldn't sleep, she could only think of getting away. She was seized by a terrible fear that if they did not go this morning, they would never go.

‘When we've gone—when we're out of this holy place,' she said, ‘I'll tell you everything.'

He sat silent, numbed, he was unable to understand it.

‘They've been good to me—and to you. I told them yesterday. I thanked them. Yes, they were good. But I told them, too, that we must go. You understand, Denny. I'll never feel I'm alone with you until we're away from this place.'

‘
Do
say something,' she said, ‘
do
say something. Don't sit there looking at me, saying nothing.'

‘I'm ready,' he said, low in his throat.

‘I've made all the plans. Everything is set now. You see, Denny, we
shouldn't
be here, not while Kilkey can give us a room. It's just for a time—after a while, we'll be well set.'

He took her hand. He said almost shyly, ‘Do I look very bad to-day, Fanny? I've been thinking all the time about how lonely it's been for you. I never forgot that, Fanny, but I couldn't say it before. It must have been
very
lonely with them children scattered away, and me away too. I'm happy now—I'll do anything you say.'

He saw her eyes light up, ‘Will you, Denny? But sure, there's nothing very much left to do now. Did you know what sort of place this is, darling? Well … no, I shall not say. Oh, I wish that man would hurry.'

‘Does the Mother here know I'm going?'

‘She does.'

‘And that doctor—he was nice to me?'

‘He knows, too.'

She kept watching the clock, ‘Hurry,' she thought—I can't get away quick enough. I wonder why I'm gone so mad impatient like this—as though I hated it, and I don't. But I can't forget that night they shut him away from me, and I was only rambling away about the old days.'

‘Mr Kilkey's bringing an overcoat and a big muffler for you. You'll be quite all right.'

She stroked his hands, waiting.

‘What is the matter?' she asked suddenly, struck by his restlessness.

‘Leave me be,' he said. ‘I want to see if I can stand up.'

‘Stand up, then. I'm by you,' she said.

She watched him stand—he was shaking in his whole frame. ‘Be kind to him, God,' she prayed. ‘Let him get well—for him and me.'

Hearing approaching footsteps she pushed him back into a sitting position. ‘If they saw him trembling like that, why they might not let me take him.'

It was only Sister Monica bringing their breakfast. Mrs Fury was pleased to see her. Above all others, she liked this one, the youngest nun, always smiling, always cheerful to her.

‘And how is Mr Fury this morning?' she asked—glanced at the woman—‘so you're really going away then? Why, I'll be sorry to see you gone, mother.'

‘Will you really, Sister?'

‘Fanny's taking me home.'

She looked at the man when he spoke. ‘You look better to-day, yesterday—well, it doesn't matter. I expect you're happy because you're going home. Now eat this breakfast, both of you. Mother will be here to see you before you go.'

She left them.

She made her husband eat, but she touched nothing herself.

‘I'll have a nice cup of tea at Kilkey's place. It'll be like old times again. Desmond was going to take us home, but I said no, I knew he didn't really want to, he's always been ashamed of being seen with us.'

‘Why, Fanny, that's not true—why the lad's all right, surely, is that really true he never likes to be seen with us?'