Winter Song (25 page)

‘Here.'

He examined this. Handing it back he said, ‘Matter of two or three weeks—perhaps a month. We are snowed under with applications.' He picked up the form, rushed through the particulars—he got up.

‘You will hear from us in due course.'

‘Thank you.'

She did not rise at once, but sat on—he asked her if she would like a drink of water.

‘Thank you, no. I have another call to make, and I mustn't be late. Good morning.'

The young man returned whistling to the object of his flirtation. ‘This city seems to be full of old women,' he thought, then called, ‘Dulcie, Dulcie.'

‘That was very business-like,' she thought, ‘very helpful young man. He did remind me of Peter—it gave me a bit of a shock. I suddenly remembered where he was.'

She walked straight up to the door, found no difficulty in getting through, and in a moment or two was standing in the street.

It was near the lunch hour, crowds streamed out of the offices on the waterfront, the continuous passing of people made her feel dizzy.

‘I'd like to see, coming down this street, a face I knew, somebody I hadn't seen for a long time, and we met and we went away to have some tea, and I'd like to talk to this person, I'd feel better, I know—all these people—so many of them—rushing along, and I don't know a living soul. Oh, it's time we got out, the old feeling has gone. I don't know these places any more, even the trams are different. It's all gone, somehow. Oh, if he'd been a well man, and he had come down here, done what I have done—I daresay he'd feel it worse. Here we are, the two of us, lost in the place we knew.'

People kept pushing past her, and at last she began to move. She moved to the inside of the pavement—she looked at a kiosk, at the girl behind the counter, the look was returned and the woman went on. Through the narrow alley, if she wished to go that way, she would come out on to the broad front, she would see the river, the ships, she would be very close to them. She went down this narrow passage-way and peered out. She saw it all, the vivid panorama of this city's life and, even as she looked at it, she seemed to see it breaking and scattering in many thousand fragments, it held nothing any more—it was all different. They were out of it—finished. There was nothing he could do, he who had been so close to it—who belonged—and she always behind him, and all their days full of action, of doing things, and things had meaning, for him, for her—it was all melting away. ‘He is finished with the sea for ever, and never another night will I lie and think of him, twisting my old pillow and thinking hard about him on an old boat—far out, away—that's ended too. And the bright morning I'd go down there and see his boat again, thick with a sea smell, come over that skyline. And him waving, and me waving back. Oh, why do the things go that meant so much, and then they're nothing?'

She stood behind a green bench and looked out across the river. Suddenly, she turned away. ‘Somewhere in one of these passages, there's a tea-room—there used to be—I wonder if it's still there.' It was.

‘Just fancy, here it is,' and she stood looking at the window. Inside she saw small tables, crowded with people having coffee, shipping clerks mostly. The bright blue paint of the door and window sashes pleased her. ‘I remember this painted a very dull brown.' She went inside, a neat-looking waitress showed her to a place; she found herself sitting at a table, at which three young men were seated. They were engaged in animated conversation, the table was ringed by blue smoke from their cigarettes. She ordered a pot of tea, some sandwiches, and when they came she ate and drank indifferently, almost absent-mindedly. She found her interest suddenly drawn to these young men—her eyes wandered from one face to another ‘So fresh and so young,' she told herself. ‘Just think of these young men happy at their work, sitting here, having their coffee, talking about their jobs. They seem so contented. I wish my children had been like that. But no—' and her eyes looked up shyly, to one face, to another, seeing them smile, laugh, speaking at the top of their voices, about a big ship that was racing to catch the tide. Now one of them returned her look. She had to smile, and at once he returned it.

‘I'm sure that one has a nice home—a nice mother and father. I'm sure he goes home and tells them all about his day. How nice it is to be like that.' Now, they all looked at her, they seemed aware of her curious interest in them. Their voices fell.

‘Please don't mind me,' she said—‘I like to hear you talking about the ships.'

They acknowledged this interest in different ways. They could not have been more than eighteen years old. One asked her if she would like his cake—he didn't really want it—he picked up his plate, he was pressing it upon her; she didn't want it, yet she was charmed by his manner, and smilingly accepted it, ‘Thank you,' she said.

Another asked ‘Are you a cleaner at the offices?' and looked steadily at her.

‘I'm afraid not,' the woman replied—and the third said, stirring vigorously at his coffee, ‘But I expect you work somewhere round here.'

She smiled, but said nothing. She had forgotten the letter in her pocket, she had forgotten her husband, Joseph Kilkey, Mr Lake, the liftman—they had passed over a horizon in her mind, her world had suddenly narrowed itself to this table, peopled by three young people, who smoked cigarette after cigarette, drank coffee, ate cake, and talked with enthusiasm of the varying achievements of ships. They all three worked in different companies. Suddenly, they rose as one, they smiled, one said, ‘Good-morning,' and they piled out into the road.

She picked up her tea, she looked at them through the window—they were laughing now and seemed to take up the whole of the road. Then they crossed over, went down the passage-way, and she knew where they were going, and what they would do. She had seen so many of them.

‘They were nice young fellows, I must say. How nice to be able to have a cup of tea in the morning and spend five minutes against the benches, looking out over the sea.' She stopped a passing waitress, paid her bill, got up and left. She stood for a moment or two in the middle of the crowded pavement. She asked a man the time. Without answering her, he pointed upwards. There was a huge clock. Half-past eleven.

‘Of course, I ought to have known,' she said, then hurriedly crossed the road.

Was this Britannic Building?

Yes, it was.

She went in, took the lift up, got out at the correct floor, found the room indicated on the envelope which she now carried in her hand, and read on the white door a printed notice, ‘Back at twelve-thirty.'

‘Oh, dear! That is a nuisance. I can't wait here all that time.'

Her husband had crossed the skyline—grew large in her mind, Joseph Kilkey rose behind him. ‘They'll be worrying.' She walked up and down the corridor, worried, indecisive. ‘If I go back I know I shan't come this way again. I shouldn't want to. There's nothing here, those journeys are over. I wonder! Should I wait? Get it over and done with. I think I'd better. I hope Denny's all right. Kilkey
will
be angry, but I'll explain. Oh dear, I've been quite carried away this morning. Yes, I will wait. I'll see these people. There may be something in it. I'll go out and wait.'

She went straight from the building to the Stage head, sat down, watched the ferry boats, the barges, the gulls wheel high and swoop, heard the horns blow. She shut her eyes. ‘It is strange, one seems to have lived ages in this place.'

‘Good afternoon.'

‘Good afternoon. What can I do for you?'

She was a short, wiry woman—she had not risen from her chair, a copy of
The Church Times
lay on her lap, Mrs Fury saw this at once, she read the bold black type. Behind the woman, hanging on the wall, was an oil painting of the most beautiful ship Mrs Fury had ever seen. It was white from stem to stern, flying proudly from its foremast head the house flag of a famous company. The ship was bathed in a sunlight so strong, and with a background so luxurious, that one could only suppose that she lay at anchor in some paradisal backwater. Even the caption was bronzed underneath this picture. Mrs Fury read ‘Sail East for the Sun.'

She now took the envelope from her pocket, the woman at last deigned to rise from pious meditations and, without a word, took the envelope, and promptly sat down again. There was an old leather-backed chair in front of the massive mahogany counter. Mrs Fury herself sat down and looked about her in the most leisurely way while the woman, having torn open the letter, now read the contents.

Mrs Fury saw a small filing cabinet, an office table, a covered object that could only have been a typewriter. The place was bare of documents, not a scrap of paper showed anywhere—the whole place was scrupulously clean—perhaps no one did any work here, beyond sit in a chair and read
The Church Times
. Looking up to the right of her, Mrs Fury was astonished to see a large framed text hanging on the red wall. She read
FOR THOSE WHO GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS, MERCY O
LORD
. She read this twice over, before turning to look at the other wall, and there on a wall, equally red, equally solid-looking, she read—
THE ANGEL FLYETH AFTER THEE, O LOST MEN TOSSED IN GREAT OCEANS
. She was so surprised at this that she muttered under her breath ‘Surely, I've come to the wrong place.'

She looked over at the woman—‘You
are
Miss Biddulph?' and received a prompt, brusque reply:

‘I am,' she said, and looked back at the visitor as though to say ‘why should you doubt that I am—why should you doubt that I'm
not
?'

Mrs Fury got up. She said, ‘Excuse me,' in a low voice, ‘I am afraid I've come to the wrong place.'

‘You have
not.
'

The words shot through the air as clipped and brisk as bullets.

She had read the written note long since—she had been quietly watching Mrs Fury sitting there, staring round the place. It was as quiet as a tomb, it was warm, it was dustless, nothing seemed to have been disturbed for years. A bluebottle sat buzzing on the window pane.

The woman rose, came forward, leaned against the counter. Mrs Fury got up, came closer.

‘Do not be under any misapprehension, madam—you have come to the right place. You
are
Mrs Fury?'

‘I am.'

‘I see.'

The short arm, the doll-like head disappeared under the counter—Mrs Fury heard a drawer open and shut. On to the counter the woman placed a form—a long white document, as clean and white as the ship on the wall. She handed this across the counter.

‘Perhaps you will fill in this form,' the little woman said; the sharp eyes studied Mrs Fury. She wore a black skirt, a print blouse, she had tiny gold ear-rings in her ears, a gold chain round her neck, a crucifix attached. She smelt strongly of bath salts, of hair lotion.

‘Perhaps you will take it with you and bring it back when filled in.'

Mrs Fury said quickly, ‘Could I fill it in here? I'm sorry I can't get down again, my husband is rather ill. I …'

‘Very well. Perhaps you had better read it through. It is very important that
all
the questions should be truthfully answered. One has to be
so
careful,
so
careful, so many shady people about—it's most disheartening to the good ladies, most disheartening. Now, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes. Here is a pen. You may fill it in now, and I will see the Committee have it for Friday …'

Mrs Fury said ‘Thank you' into the empty air, for the little lady had vanished through an inner door.

‘Surely Mr Lake has made some mistake.' She glanced at the texts again, frowned, then settling herself in the chair, she opened the long form and began to read. After a cursory glance, she put on her spectacles, made herself comfortable, and read.

‘Name of Applicant.

‘Age.

‘State if in receipt of Old Age Pension.

‘How long were you at sea?

‘State capacity—state whether deck or engine-room rating.

‘Give full details of any other pensions, compensatory sums, insurances, gratuities, or any financial presentations made on retirement.

‘State number of dependents.

‘Number of children. Give age and sex of each.

‘State any sums earned, and how, by any working member of your family.

‘Give details of last three ships worked in—name of Company.

‘Give name of Divisional Superintendent.

‘Your sea-book must accompany this application form.

‘If not in possession of Board of Trade book and you are in receipt of paper discharges, then forty discharge papers must accompany this application.

‘Two references will be required from persons of standing who know you.

‘Please state religious denomination.

‘State if at present in employment.

‘If not employed, and you are capable of light work, state if such work has been offered you.'

In block letters she now read:

IT IS IMPORTANT THAT ALL THE INFORMATION GIVEN ON THIS FORM SHOULD BE TRUTHFUL. IT IS IMPORTANT TO POINT OUT TO ALL APPLICANTS FOR THE DOTHWELL PENSION SCHEME THAT THESE MONIES COME FROM WELL DISPOSED PERSONS—NAMELY, MISS ANNIE DOTHWELL AND MISS ELIZA DOTHWELL
.

MANY FALSE APPLICATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE, SO THAT IT MUST BE UNDERSTOOD THAT ALL THE INFORMATION SUPPLIED WILL BE LATER VERIFIED
.

THE PENSION IS OF FIVE SHILLINGS PER WEEK, AND IS AT THE DISPOSAL OF ALL OLD SEAMEN
.

At the bottom of the page the astonished woman now read:
LIFE IS HARD BUT GOD IS WITH US
.

She dropped the form to the counter. ‘This is all wrong,' she thought, ‘Why should Mr Lake send me here?' and at that moment the little woman came back.