Winter Song (29 page)

I am glad you have made up your mind to go, after all. Very glad. There isn't a single other thing you can do. I can see your coming days as clearly as I can see the sun shining out of the window to-day. You'll be one more old man sitting on the pier, staring out at that sea you crossed so often and, maybe, in your quiet hour wondering what it was all about. And mother'll sit with you. I'm glad of that. You two
are
together, always were
—
in spite of everything
.

I'm glad too that you had the good sense to see that there was nothing coming to you. That was courageous of you, dad, I like the way you took it. But of course I can guess that mother has been down already with all her armour on, storming those strong indifferent bloody walls that hold up the masters who own the ships and the seas and the ocean. I've often thought that mother was a sort of female Napoleon, always wanting to handle other people's lives
—
and she did, of course. She handled us all in her special way, but she never managed herself half as well as she managed others. Look what she's got for it. It's hard to say this, dad, but I must say that mother always had a sort of ingrained innocence, and though I could respect it, I always hated and distrusted it. In Gelton I've seen it, and I've seen it strangle whole generations of men
.…

Kilkey paused—looked at the old man, ‘Do you want me to go on?' he asked, as he now was asking himself if Mr Fury was really listening, could really hear, and understood all this.

‘Read the rest,' he said.

But enough of this, I'm afraid the politician is beginning to stick out. I hope you will be able to see Peter before you go back. I should think that, all being well, he will be out in two years and three months. And Anthony. I hope Anthony has written, but I feel sure he would. I'm sure that deep down inside you, you must have cried. I felt that when I saw you that first time at the Bethel
—
some people care very deep, deep down inside themselves, and one never sees it or ever will. I mean that the way you had to come back to Gelton, with not a stick or stitch to call your own was hard, very hard. I may be brusque
—
I may, as everybody seems fond of telling me, have no manners at all, and be a thoroughly clumsy person, but I can see some things, and I saw that I could have, would have helped, dad, believe that. It was silly of mother to give up everything and go into that Hospice
—
there was no necessity for it. And think, too, of the hundreds of women who had husbands missing. It wasn't fair on you, dad, by a long chalk. I could have made the beginning of a little home for you again and, in fact, many nice things could have happened. Even Sheila, who has a good heart, wanted to come and see mother, after she smashed everything up and went to the nuns. But no, mother's old pride again
.

Well, dad, I am enclosing for you a few pounds, and let me say that this money is for your own self. I have already sent mother some money
.

I'm glad that Kilkey is going to travel back with you
—
that's another thing
—
I told mother before I left that I would take you both back
—
but pride again
—
how stupid it all is, and
all
because she couldn't have her priest. I admire mother in many ways, but truly there are limits. Besides other more stirring things are happening, and the tide is beginning to run the right way at last. You may yet live to see, dad, sitting on that pier with your stick in your hand, and your old eyes staring at the sea, you may well see the passing of the iron age you were born in. It's because I know what the age of iron and the age of misery has done to man that I am where I am, and some of my friends have said that I care about nothing except myself, but I am indifferent to that
—
the ignorant often say such things of those cleverer than themselves
.

I hope you follow what I've been saying, for make no mistake, I believe every word of what I've written you
, and
I mean it. Be good, look after yourself, look after mother
—
you stout-hearted old warrior
.
I'll see you soon again, both of you. I don't want you to be in the Mall longer than is necessary. I shall find you a place
—
which
shall
be your own place, at long last
.

Remember me to mother who will, I'm sure toss her head indifferently. Believe me, dad, your affectionate son, Desmond
.

‘Well,' exclaimed Kilkey, ‘and what do you think of that? That's a letter all right. It must have been the longest letter any of your family has ever written.'

‘Fanny could beat him at writing letters. I'm glad he's written to me, and I'm touched he should have sent me some money for myself. There was always a soft spot in him for me. Fanny never liked it really, but no matter, I'll say he's good, no matter what he did or who he married. I'm proud of Desmond, and I hope he gets where he wants to.'

Kilkey sat silent, he had no comment to make. Certain phrases from the letter stuck in his mind. ‘I can't begrudge him anything, not even a kind thought. There's some things I don't understand—no matter, he's open and honest, and that's something. But somehow.…' There was a slight mistrust in him—he looked at the old man.

‘Are you pleased?'

‘I
am
indeed, a nice letter. Very nice, but don't tell Fanny. Not yet. I wish I knew where she'd gone.'

‘Yes, I'm getting a bit worried myself, Denny. Will you be all right if I slip out for a minute or two, and see if I can find her? She can't have gone far.'

But he was worried, worried and miserable, ‘the futile argument,' he said to himself again and again, ‘the silly things we say when we lose control of ourselves.'

‘Go and see where the woman has got to, Joe,' Mr Fury said. ‘I'll be all right.'

‘All right.'

Kilkey went below—put on his coat and cap and left the house.

‘God, I wish I'd those spectacles. Never mind. I'll buy a pair to-morrow. Why that's the nicest thing that's happened to me for a long, long time. Somehow I felt he'd write. The way he talked to me that time he came to see me. Ah, he's not a bad son at all, come to think of it. Fanny always made such an old fuss about him marrying that girl. And mind her wanting to come and see us. Ah, why can't we all be friends anyhow? What's the use of all this silly hatred of them? It's only because she could never get her own way. I believe Desmond is right—he's cleverer than me—some of them things he says in his letter, why … if Fanny read them. But I shan't show her the letter—no, I shan't let her see it, and the money he sent I'll slip some of it into her bag and won't let on anything about it.'

The old man sat up in the bed, turning the page of the letter again and again, ‘A really nice letter. What a pity Fanny is so strict about religion.' He held the letter close to his face, he made frantic endeavours to read it—and then he gave it up. He put the letter back in the envelope, together with the notes, and then got out of bed. He put this letter in the bottom of the vase on the mantelshelf, and then got back to bed.

‘I hope we have a good night, both of us—for it's a long way to Northerton.' He lay on his back staring upwards.

‘Fancy me being like this, imagine it, me—who was always on the move, always doing something—here I am lying up like an old barnacled boat that can't sail because the sea's dried up. Oh, I wish I could get strong again—I wish I could. I hate being an invalid. Hate it! They tell me I'm lucky—perhaps I am—they come and say to me how brave you were—perhaps I was, they shake hands and they fuss and fuss, and I hate it all. The whole bloody lot of it. I'd like to be a man again—just that. God Almighty, that's all I want, to be a man again.'

The thoughts tearing through his mind engendered in him a sudden feeling of desperation, he
longed
, he could feel this longing stirring in his bones, to be able to get up and dress and go out, and walk upright—to be able to go down to the docks again, to see the Blue Peter flying at a foremast head, to hear the cry of the winches, as they swung the cargo into the holds, the hiss of steam from the piping, the shouts of men—he saw the whole thing so clearly—that was where he belonged, he had never belonged anywhere else, and never could again. This was all wrong, foreign to his nature—sheltering in rooms, locked in streets, helpless in bed, people leaning over him, asking him how he was—congratulating, sympathizing with him. ‘I know it's that letter that set me thinking. My God, fancy him saying a thing like that,
me
sitting on a pier looking out to sea—and an old walking stick in my hand. Why, it's awful to be trussed up here, like an old fowl. Ah, I wonder where she's gone off to now? I wonder what brought them words on? I know they had a row. I could hear them at it, yet Kilkey's never let on. What the
devil
am I doing here?'

He sat up again, he clenched his fists, he flung his arms above his head. ‘I hate it.' He struck the wall with his fists.

‘Oh, Christ,' he shouted, ‘give me back my strength, that's all I want! Give it me—let me be a man again!'

He got out of bed, he stood trembling in the middle of the room. He glanced through the window, suddenly he walked quietly towards it. He gripped the sash of the window, his eyes fastened on the blue funnel of a ship.

‘It's not the sea that kills you, after all. Now I can see as plainly as I can see that child below—with her yellow hair, and that green frock she wears.'

He turned away, walked slowly across to the fireplace, stood looking at the photograph of Kilkey's wife.

‘Maureen,' he said, ‘they're trying to make an old man of me. I don't want to be an old man. They won't let me work any more—and that's all I can do.

‘Look at me, standing in this old stuffy room—me that's always stood in the middle of decks and the fine air blowing round me—they've locked me in—here I am, stuck behind an old iron bedstead. Kilkey worries, your mother worries—they won't let me alone,' he shouted, ‘they
won't
. They say I'm finished—me—look what they're doing to me.'

She was real, she had moved out of the photograph. There she was standing before him, her red hair blowing in the wind, her eyes shining, her face upturned, as though she sought the stars. So the old man saw her, this one girl of his family, and he talked to her and went on talking, sometimes he raised his voice—sometimes only a bubble of incoherent sounds issued from his lips.

‘I could have gone on swimming that time, Maureen, I know I could, and I could swim again. They've got me, I'm hard-bound—your mother likes it that way. I saw myself this morning in the looking glass, but it was never me, it isn't me—I'm not like that. Just fancy me, girl, stuck here, like an old chicken. Why should I be here smothering to death——and why should Lenahan be moving under
all
that weight of water, that bright little lad moving with the tide and back again, and always will, for nothing?'

His voice broke. He took the photograph in his hands. ‘Get me out of this,' he said, ‘Oh, do get me out. Out and away while they're gone. Help me, Maureen—you can help me.'

He sat down on the bed. ‘Why, I haven't me bag. It's gone. That big white bag, with all me clothes inside. It's gone. It's where Lenahan is—I never thought of that—I've not even a bag. I've nothing. Fanny's bought me the loveliest blue coat you ever saw, but now I don't want it. They'll get me into it and give me an old walking stick. They're planning it—Desmond knows—yes, he knows. Sit on the pier, he says, stare at the sea, he says.'

He went on mumbling. Suddenly he gripped his knees, the knuckle bones showed white, and he sat there staring at them. His whole body seemed to heave as under the great effort of the thought that came to him.

‘Oh, if I could heave something into these old bones—God, I've gone then. I saw it this morning in that old mirror, and the back of me neck clawed like an old wolf had got at me.
Oh
God, give me back my strength, give me your great endeavour under my shoulder. I don't want to be in this room or any room—let me go.'

He got to his feet again—he lifted his boot from the floor, and hurled it forward. There was a shattering of glass, ‘Let me get out.'

They found him fully dressed, the photograph of his daughter fast in his hand. They undressed and got him back into bed. It was around five o'clock. A few minutes later Kilkey had left the house for his work. The woman from the next house, hearing the bedroom window break, had come up. She sat with Mrs Fury now, and together they watched the man in the bed. And Mrs Fury, looking at him, could only think how far away he was now—‘further from me than he's ever been. Poor Denny. He must have had one of them bad dreams. Oh, I'd thought that horror well sucked out of him by loving care, or else he fainted, or something came into his mind too sudden. Oh, Denny, Denny.'

They sat on in the fast fading light.

He had an idea that she would make for the nearby park, and was not wrong in this, for he came upon her sitting on a bench there, alone—there was not another person in the place. He had felt sad and miserable—he told himself he should never have spoken as he did. ‘I'm afraid I lost control of myself that time—but she is a headstrong creature, and so touchy, and she
does
jump to conclusions when she shouldn't. Oh, I suppose I'm wrong. I'm sorry about it. I really am.'

He came up slowly, shyly—thinking, ‘I should be sleeping, really. I …'

He saw her then. She sat with folded hands, she did not move when she heard the sound of feet on the gravel, and she did not speak when, from a distance he called, ‘Fanny'.

She looked into the blank expanse before her—the sea of roofs beyond the grass patches, the few miserable trees, the pretentious bushes.