Winter Song (21 page)

She turned away from the window, her face wreathed by a smile, and she had waved to some children playing outside. She went back to the chair and sat down, but she put the book away—her eye could not take in any more pictures—her mind was full of them.

‘It's a strange thing, but I hardly ever think of the woman I'm going to live with. I hardly think of her as my sister at all, but of a woman terribly quiet and wrapped around with sacred things. A strange life indeed, but she was content and I was not. I could have gone on that way, lived in the place of my father's house, but I didn't. And now she writes and cries “Come, come, Fanny—mine's a lonely life”.'

‘I suppose it is—I suppose it always was. Ah, well, it's nice to be asked to come, and the air there, and the quiet, why, it will be so good for Denny, it'll suck out all the dirt and horror in him, it'll make him a nice old man for me, quiet in the crook of my arm. I'm like him, I'm getting old—one time I would have hated the thought, but now I like it—and I'll like it for ever.'

Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and laughed into them.

‘Ah, I remember a day when she came to the wedding of my cousin, and poor Denny choked to death in a linen collar, choking out of him and ready to tear it from his neck—why the way that woman laughed and laughed out of her at my man prisoned up in the collar, I can hear it now, rolling all over the place—it takes a fat person to make a right good laugh.'

She picked up a poker, began picking at the coals stirring a flame.

‘She'll be altered, too. It'll be nice to see the Mall again, and get on the tram to Queenstown and go over to Rush-brook and Youghal and all them pretty places—Denny'll sprout under it all, why, he'll come alive again like he never was before—we'll see lots of things, and we'll be kept busy just staring and wondering. And everything as green as green and fair, and the fine air of the sea coming over it all.'

The poker slipped from her fingers, crashed into the grate. It made her jump. The sudden noise frightened her. She sat erect, listening. The snoring upstairs had ceased. Then she heard the heavy sound of boots on the floor and thought, Why I've waked the poor man up. What a shame!'

But Kilkey came into the kitchen, said it was twelve o'clock, that Mrs Turner would be here any moment now, and perhaps she ought to go up to Denny now.

‘He may have woke up—you'd better go up and see, Fanny. I'll be calling you soon.'

‘I'm afraid I woke you up,' she said.

Laughing, he said, ‘Didn't you hear the alarm clock going off. I always set it for twelve noon—perhaps you dozed off.'

She got up, stood looking at him, ‘What a fine strong man he is,' she thought, ‘such muscles on them arms.'

‘I must have fallen asleep in the chair,' she said, ‘but I did like seeing all the photos. Just fancy you keeping all those old pictures.'

She put a hand on his bare bicep—she felt the hardness, the firmness of muscle. ‘You're terribly strong,' she said, and they exchanged smiles.

‘Did you have a good night, Fanny?'

‘A quiet night, he never shouted or anything—he slept peaceful like a baby. Oh, it was a relief to me.'

Kilkey's hands clenched at the table edge—he looked up at her and asked, ‘When do you want to go?'

‘When I've just done a thing or two that I have to do, then we're gone.'

‘I'm so glad you're settled in your mind about that, so glad. Things won't seem half as bad once you're home and settled to it.'

‘I know that,' she replied.

‘And I'll promise you that the moment my Dermod's boat docks, he'll be coming over to see you both.'

‘I'll like that fine. It's
so
long since I saw him. Why, he's nearly a man, too.'

‘He is indeed.'

She moved to the door. Kilkey sat down, began fastening his boots.

‘If Denny's asleep, leave him be, and come down here again. I'll be washed in a tick.'

‘All right.'

‘Here's Mrs Turner now,' he said, and turned to meet the woman coming in through the door.

He slept deep, almost soundlessly, the quietness frightened her. ‘He seems changed all of a sudden,' she told herself, ‘no matter, that kind of sleeping can surely do you no harm.

She gently drew the sheet higher, smoothed his forehead—‘No sweating out of him. Why, I think all that stuff is away out of him for ever, and the sea tossing no more round him, and that poor little child sent down to it and still at last. Them first nights when he screamed out it went through me like knives.'

She shut her eyes, she wanted to think, it helped, closing the eyes and sitting still.

‘There's that first thing I must surely do, and nobody but meself can manage the half of it, and I'll do it, but I know I'll be worried about him all the while I'm away. I wonder now if Kilkey would keep an eye on him whilst I went off on this bit of business. I must ask him. He'll say “no”—I know he'll say “no, let me do this”, but he can't do it, a great lot of things he could do, but not this. I must tell him what is in my mind.' She seemed to have been waiting for it, the soft tap on the door, the whisper from him,

‘Are you there, Fanny?'

She got up and opened the door—she said with muffled tones, ‘He's so deep asleep, Mr Kilkey, it quite frightens me to look at him. Will you come in now and just look.'

They stood together, watching the rise and fall of the old man's breast.

‘I think he's breaking into it now—that very thing he wanted, the long easy sleep that children have with their minds as clear as water.'

‘Do you think so?' He noted the nervousness behind the words.

‘If that were my own father, I wouldn't be worrying at all. Drawing in strength with every breath. That's what he's wanted all these days. A good long sleep. I did think of calling my own doctor to slip in and see him—just to make sure like, and then I thought maybe it would frighten you. But be easy in your mind, Fanny. That man is happily asleep now—come on now, come downstairs and have some dinner with me. Mrs Turner has gone off again. That woman flies through the tasks.'

He drew the door to, noiselessly turned the knob, ‘Come on, now,' he said, taking her arm.

‘What a fine strong woman this used to be,' he was thinking, ‘so tall and fine-looking, and a fine air too, and as straight up and down as an old Grenadier.'

‘Careful here,' he said, ‘these old stairs,' and they went down slowly to the kitchen.

‘All the stairs I ever went up or down were somehow on the dark side, d'you mind that, Mr Kilkey? Them three houses I was in, you'd remember—something queer like the light would never get to them, and you couldn't get clear a face that was coming down or going up to you.'

‘They are on the dark side,' he replied, ‘a good many houses in Gelton are on the dark side.'

‘Ah, them powerful walls rising up on you everywhere you turned. My, don't I remember the day I first stepped off a boat, my eyes drunk at the height of them, and there they were all over the place—the walls and walls and walls, like a prison and everyone shut in. That's why I used to enjoy them long rides on the tram of a Sunday when Denny would be hard bound. That time I kept him off the ships and he went off into the rail yards to work—why every Sunday we were away out to the country.'

They were seated, he saying, ‘This is a nice bit of stew, you'll enjoy this,' helping her, making sure she was comfortable, piling her food, asking if she'd like him to slip out and bring back a pint of porter, ‘It would do you a powerful lot of good. You want building up yourself.'

‘No thank you, I'm fine. There's something I wanted to say to you, Joseph—and I'll say it now, with him peaceful. There's something I want to do, and I intend to do this week.'

‘What may that be?'

‘Well, if fair's fair, that creature upstairs has some due coming to him, first by the fact that he's a lost sailor-man and owning nothing but what he lies in, and by what he stands in, through the mercy of God, but all them things that
were
his were scattered in the sea. Now he should get the compensation for that.'

Joseph Kilkey looked up, he stopped eating. ‘I'm glad you mention that, because I have been making enquiries myself and now I can tell you, honest as you sit there, that he's worth no more than twenty pounds standing alive, to this government and to this land.'

‘Twenty pounds. And him going through them murdering seas for it, and tossed into two oceans in the same week, and flung about and smashed as he is—and him trying to save that poor child, making his first trip upon the sea, and gone down far for good.'

The look of utter consternation upon her face made Mr Kilkey feel, by turns, ashamed, uncomfortable, he saw in that changed expression the surprise, the hurt, confounding, she stared at him and said again, ‘Is that all then?'

And he said, ‘Twenty pounds for the total loss of all his sea bag contained, that's a man alive, mind you—them dead and lost gets a little more for them that belongs to them. So you'll get that, and anyhow it's twenty pounds—and isn't it better than nothing?'

‘Them's the government men then—it's them that shapes their thanks to twenty fine pounds for what a man done for them.'

‘I expect it is,' Kilkey said, he looked away, feeling sick, he saw the bitter disappointment and could not lessen it by a single drop, and could not help. ‘There it is,' he said. ‘Come now, Fanny, do eat. I wish you'd mentioned this little matter after your dinner. Come on now, eat up.'

He slipped away from the table, ‘Just slipping upstairs.'

‘Twenty pounds,' she muttered again and again and then he came back and continued with his meal.

‘You know, I could do that for you. Give me any papers you have,' he said, ‘and I'll see to it.'

‘Father Twomey came to see me for one half-hour at that Hospice, and he says all I have to do is to go down to that place in the city and give them the note he wrote out. He was very helpful. I was so glad he came and told me so, for these days, ever since Denny came back to me, my mind's been spinning threads of plans for us both, so that things will be easy for him. Ah, these two days that man's crying out of him because he can't work any more. So I've been putting two and two together, and I thought there'll be some compensation for Denny, and then I expect the line he was with so long, fifty-one years, the
Torsa
boats, they'll pension him off, then there's the pound a month that Anthony sends me, and Desmond's little bit every month—why it'll build into something to make us independent again. So I've made up my mind now, to go down there to-morrow or the next day. I want to do this myself because after all, I should while I'm able to walk. I'm his wife, aren't I? Well, all I wanted to find out from you, Joseph, is, would you mind keeping an eye on that man whilst I'm away? I don't know how long I'll be gone. I haven't done this sort of thing for a long time—it'll seem strange at first. You know I used to be so afraid of them great glass doors, the way they swung round after you and before you, they could make you dizzy. It'll be all right, you needn't worry. I know all the trams in this city. I know every route of them. So would you do that, then?

‘Of course,' he said, afraid to say no, yet afraid for her journey.

‘You're not as strong as you used to be, Fanny. I'd be very careful. And do you know the office to go to when you get down there?'

‘Why, of course, of course! Well, thank you, Joseph. My mind's easy now. I'll go to-morrow.'

‘All right. Now take this cup of tea. Denny is still asleep.'

‘I think he ought to be woke up. I don't like him sleeping all this time. I'll go up.'

He held her down, he was suddenly firm, authoritative—‘Get your tea, dear,' he said.

‘I'll take the tea,' she said quietly, and then forgot him, forgot he was there, sitting opposite, watching.

She was thinking of the other thing, the journey north. ‘I must get there and him, too,' but this was secret to her alone, she would speak no word of it to Joseph Kilkey. She knew his answers already. It was too far, Denny would not be well enough to travel, the weather might change, ‘such a long journey for you old people,' she could hear him saying it, his voice was inside her mind, his voice saying ‘No.'

‘No matter. We shall go. A whole day—we'll be back in the night time. If that letter comes and it's got the permission in it, we'll go.'

She had already written to Cornelius Delaney, the secretary of St Vincent de Paul Society, asking him to arrange everything. She thought of him as the magic hand, spiriting down the walls, turning keys in locks, sliding doors back.

‘I'm sure he'll fix it. He did the other times. I must watch for the postman. Why I'm sure it'll lighten Denny's heart, and even make him strong for the journey, thinking on seeing that lad—he loved him the same as me, and always did, thinking of him nearer by every turn of them wheels, oh, I feel we'll do it. I feel it will all come right. I feel I must see him now—I can't stop feeling that.'—‘I think Denny's woke up,' Kilkey said, and it lifted her clear, clear of the long journey her mind had already begun to make.

‘Let's go up to him. I've kept something hot in the oven against his wanting something.'

There were times when she paused before a stair, and stood, rigid, before a door, she would have a sudden presentment of the person at the stairs' top, or behind the door. Now she followed Kilkey up the stairs, and paused outside the door.

‘I hope he's safe,' she thought. ‘I hope he's the same as I left him. I don't think I could stand them hours again, reaching out to him to heed him on the verge of falling into the sea again—having them dreams—clutching like mad at his old hands, holding him up, and keeping him off that water—his old head full of it, washing about, washing about, that's what it was.'