Winter Song (28 page)

‘I wonder.'

‘I loved the girl … I always did. I wonder if she ever thinks of us?'

‘I wonder.'

‘What a curious sort of man to fall in love with, and run away with.'

‘Strange.'

‘There was another chap, too, Kilkey heard he'd died up in the Halifax workhouse.'

‘So I gather.'

‘How old will Anthony's son be now?' he asked.

He had lain his head back, closed his eyes, the light penetrating the lids made them water.

‘I can't say exactly.'

His mind began to wander, it shot away everywhere, he seemed unaware of the curious, clipped answers to his questions, the voice that was getting lower and lower.

‘I can't get over that bit of news you told me about Peter being grey.'

There was no answer. He sat on, waiting for her to speak.

‘Are you listening?'

There was no reply. After a while he said, ‘It's nice to feel the sun on your face, but it does make my eyes water.'

He felt for his handkerchief. He sat up and, dabbing his eyes, said, ‘We'd better go back, Fanny.'

She was distressed, he got to his feet, caught the sleeve of her coat, ‘Come let's go back now.' They left the park, returned to the road.

‘You cry so easily,' he said.

‘Don't hurry—there's no need to hurry.'

Kilkey, sunning himself at the door, saw them coming. He rose to meet them. ‘You're just in time,' he said, ‘to-day, we all eat downstairs. Mrs Turner has laid for three.'

And as soon as she got into the kitchen she saw standing on the dresser the letter she had been waiting for, and at once she pounced on it, stuffed it into her pocket. ‘Came a few minutes ago,' said Kilkey casually, whilst the woman, her hand in her coat pocket, felt the letter, and a feeling of exhilaration shot through her. She sat down.

‘So you managed that far after all?' Kilkey said.

‘Yes,' the old man said, ‘we managed. It's not much of a park—the other one we used to go to was much bigger—there were only a few children playing there, and an old sailor on the tramp.'

‘Won't you take your things off?' Kilkey said.

He helped the man off with his overcoat.

‘You'll excuse me,' she said, and left the kitchen.

As soon as she reached her bedroom she tore open the letter.

‘Oh! How wonderful! I am thankful to that Delaney man,' she sat down and read the note, read again and again the permit to see her son.

‘That's what I've been waiting for all this time, and now it's come. We'll see Peter, and Denny, why—oh, it's splendid.'

She put the letter back in her pocket, hung her coat behind the door and went downstairs.

They had already commenced eating. She joined them, but she could not concentrate on her meal. She could not relax—and Kilkey saw her tension, somehow she wasn't there at all. When he spoke to her, she did not hear, when her husband asked a question, she replied yes or no in a high-pitched shaky voice.

‘Has something upset you?' asked Kilkey. ‘Come along, Fanny, do get on with the meal.'

‘I am.'

‘Denny, if I were you, I should turn in after dinner. You want a good lie down for the rest of the day.'

‘That's it. I was just going to tell him myself; how sensible you are, Kilkey, you
look
thin, Denny; doesn't he, Kilkey?'

‘You're excited about something,' Kilkey said, ‘something happened to-day?'

‘Fanny was a bit upset this morning, it's no more than that.'

The old man pushed his plate aside. ‘I think I'll go up now,' he said.

‘I'm coming,' she said.

Kilkey pushed her back into the chair. ‘Finish your meal, Fanny. Do you hear me?'

He took Mr Fury upstairs, undressed him, put him to bed.

‘What ails Fanny?'

‘I don't know, Joe. I couldn't say. Maybe something I said to her this morning.'

‘My God, you haven't started splitting hairs again over nothing?'

‘No, no. Nothing at all. Sure we weren't quarrelling or anything else.'

‘But she's so distrait—she was so calm when she went out.'

‘Ah, I don't know what it is. I'm tired, Kilkey, do please leave me alone, ask her yourself.'

‘All right. I'll ask her. But I don't want either of you to be upsetting youselves. I want you both in good condition for the journey. That's all. It really worries me, I've not seen her so strung up before.'

‘We are going then?'

‘Of course we are.'

It was not often that Kilkey lost his patience, but he lost it now. ‘If you go on like this you won't be fit for anything.'

‘Oh, go away, will you,' the old man said, he turned his back on Kilkey, who went out.

He found her seated near the window.

‘What's upset you, Fanny?'

‘Nothing.'

‘But …'

‘It's not upset I am—but delighted. I've the permit here for Denny and me to go to Northerton and see Peter. If you'd given me the moon, I couldn't be more pleased.'

She stood up, she looked down at her son-in-law, ‘But you're not pleased,' she said.

He said quietly ‘It's madness.'

‘To see my own son—for him to see his own father.'

‘It's madness.'

‘But Denny's
longing
to see him. And what about me—who love him more than anything in the world, who's waited and waited, and been patient, and waited and waited again?'

‘It's madness,' he repeated.

It enraged her. ‘Oh, Christ,' she said, ‘You make me say it, you make me say it, Kilkey, but you're like an old parrot. Oh, no, no—I'm sorry—I shouldn't never have said it. You've been so good to us. But do, for God's sake, understand it. Peter is our child. Here in my hand I've got the magic thing that will carry us to him.'

‘It's a long way …'

‘And that man Cornelius Delaney, why only for him we'd be sunk cold and never see him at all. Don't you understand? Don't you see Peter sitting there in that cold stone of a place, waiting for us, and counting them old leaden minutes on a clock,
don't
you?'

‘I do indeed, Fanny. And as I love you both, I say again, it's madness.'

‘That may be. All the same we're going on Friday morning, Denny
wants
to go. And go he shall.'

‘It's a five-hour journey, your husband is only back in this world by the skin of his teeth and though you think you're strong you're not. Don't I love your son as well as you? Haven't I written him regularly once a month since he went away? I'm only thinking of you two people. It is a mad thing to do, Fanny, it really is.'

‘You old parrot,' she cried, she could no longer conceal her annoyance, her impatience with him, and he knew that at any moment she might explode in real anger. He began to laugh, ‘Oh, all right,' he said, ‘do what you like—I don't care what you do.'

His reply so surprised her that she exclaimed, ‘Oh, be off with you. It's a railway journey of four hours there and the same back. How do I know if Denny will ever see his son again? You know how he is—I wonder why I ever bothered to mention it to you.'

‘It wouldn't have surprised me, not after yesterday,' he replied—he felt every bit as angry as she—but he did not show it, ‘the way you could go off and leave him like that the whole day.…'

‘You knew where I went.…'

‘I know why you went. I needn't say any more than that. I've never said this to your face, Fanny, but I think it ought to be said—I might have said it years ago—when you thought you were doing your best you were only doing your worst. Who knows better than me? You're bitten with an old pride in you that's like poison—you're headstrong and stupid.'

She looked at him for a moment, ‘Thank you for that,' she said, and left him sitting alone in the kitchen.

For some minutes she was unable to speak again. She sat staring at the man in the bed.

‘Denny!'

‘What?'

‘Am I a stupid woman?'

‘Who said you were?'

‘I'm asking you.'

‘I'm tired—why bother me? What's the matter, Fanny? I've never seen you so blazin' with something in you that's real anger. You haven't had a row with Kilkey?'

‘You want to come with me to-morrow?'

‘Of course! God, I've told you half a dozen times already. Of course I'm going. Isn't the poor lad waiting for us to go up? What ails you—you've been so queer this whole day?'

‘Nothing.'

‘And that means everything. Ah, I'll be glad when we're away, oh, away all together. I'm so heart sick of this old place—turn a stone or turn a corner, it's the same. We've sunk so deep into this place. We're below the roots. Come Sunday, I say, come Sunday. You've been arguing down there, I heard you. Kilkey's a harmless sort of man who I wouldn't like to offend. Now, will you leave me alone?'

‘I'll leave you alone,' she replied, and suddenly felt isolated. ‘Am I so stupid?' she kept asking herself, ‘Am I so stupid? That's the bitterest thing I've ever heard Kilkey say.'

The old man had fallen asleep.

‘I wish I could fall asleep as easy as that,' she said.

‘Kilkey's just told me I was a very stupid woman,' she said. ‘Headstrong and stupid, that when I was doing my best, it was only my worst. He said a terrible thing to me—he followed me to the stairs and he said it close to my ear, so that I could feel it burn, “Sometimes,” he said, “I feel you deserve to be lonely.” I'll never forgive him for that—not to the end of my days. I always thought him such a
good
man—that's why I wanted my daughter to marry him, and why at last she did. But somewhere there was dirt, somewhere about it lay a bit of old filth that got into them and ruined them all. I've been sorry for Kilkey in his clumsy old lonely life. I loved him, and now he can say a thing like that to me, never, never will I forgive him. The fools that I bore, running away, every one of them, from what they were, just ordinary children, silly ideas got into their heads—I saw it all coming—and only my husband was decent of them all. I wounded him many a time—God knows—and I'm ready to make up for everything wrong I ever did, but I don't want to be lonely any more, oh, God, I don't want that again.'

She glanced towards the window and suddenly her expression softened.

‘Such a lovely morning, I thank God I could get that man to walk to the park with me. I was often looking at him, sitting on that old bench, and I knew his heart was as tight as a knot and thumping with pleasure at being alive, and the sun shining. Why should it have been spoiled? Here I am sitting up here, and him down there, numbed with this feeling of misery between us. Oh, I'm sure it was never meant. I can't believe Kilkey meant what he said—I just can't.'

‘Denny, will you wake up, the way you lie there, all lost and away, do wake up, Denny. I hate being here—I feel lonely like I've never been. Denny, please wake up.'

She shook him, he opened his eyes, heavy with exhaustion. ‘What on earth's the matter with you?'

‘Nothing,'

She leaned over him, ‘You do forgive me for all them foolish things—for trying to make my child a priest of God, for everything that happened through me?'

He sighed, he leaned on his elbow, ‘What
is
the matter. Fanny? Be easy … I'm so tired.'

‘Don't I know that. But this moment's like cold stone to me—you don't understand, him and me, we said awful things to each other.'

‘
What
things, what's upset you?' he pulled on her arm.

‘Our time's gone, Denny,' she said, ‘and everything's too late.'

‘What the hell are you chattering about?' he said.

‘We must get
out,
' she replied.

He turned his back on her, after a while, he said, ‘I'm gone all deaf. I can't hear the half of what you're saying. Ever since I had that blow on the head. Sometimes you're talking to me and it's just a buzz in my ear. Please leave me alone.'

‘I'll leave you alone,' she replied.

She picked up her coat and hat and went downstairs.

Kilkey was seated at the table, his arms stretched across it. He did not look up as she passed him, but he heard the loud slamming of the door.

‘I should never have said the things I did. It was wrong.'

He wondered where she had gone—he wanted to get up and follow her, but he could not move.

The post brought a letter for the old man. He took it, he recognized the handwriting. ‘From the fellow in London,' he exclaimed, and at once went upstairs.

The old man lay on his back, he was wide awake.

‘A letter for you, Denny,' Kilkey said, advancing noisily into the room. ‘Here it is.'

‘Where's Fanny gone?'

He sat up, staring round the room. ‘I don't know whether I've been asleep or dreaming, or what, but I'm sure she was sitting in that easy chair a moment ago.'

‘I expect she's just gone out for a breath of air. It's close to-day and somehow the fresh air doesn't seem to get into these houses—it only comes half-way in. I think the letter's from Desmond—I recognized the handwriting.'

His face lighted up, ‘D'you think so, Joe? Well! Well! Nobody ever wrote me letters much, you know, fancy a letter for me.'

He turned the envelope over and over in his hands. ‘I can't read it. I've no glasses. Will you read it?' He handed the letter to Kilkey.

‘Sure you want me to? What about Fanny? Maybe she'd like to read it to you.'

‘It's
my
letter. Read it.'

‘Very well.'

My dear Father
,

This is the first opportunity I've had of sitting down to write anybody a letter. At the moment I'm a bachelor, for Sheila's away down to Devon to-day to take her father back to Rath Na. He's very ill, and now wants to go back to the home he left twenty years ago. But that wouldn't interest you. Well, dad, I hope this letter finds you on the mend after your terrible experiences. I would have stayed longer that time but somehow I felt the atmosphere was against it. I can
never
see eye to eye with mother. The first thing she does when she sees me is to dig into her old bag of memories which, God help her, seem to be the only real possession she has. But these memories only stifle me, and nothing is gained by them. It would have begun all over again. The terrible thing I'd done by renouncing my religion
—
the effect on the others, and so on and so on, frankly, Dad, I'm sick of it. If mother would only try to be logical sometimes
—
to be sensible. I know she's done her best, but so have a lot of other people. Well. I won't dig into the old bag myself, so that's enough of that
.