Winter Song (32 page)

She had risen promptly when the alarm sounded, had dressed and washed, and helped the old man on with his clothes. She had left him fully dressed and feeling somewhat uncomfortably smothered by his clothing, while she went off downstairs, and made their little breakfast. She had planned everything, she had left nothing out. And as soon as they were finished, she made him kneel with her and she prayed for a good journey. Then they went downstairs. He sat in the leather-backed armchair whilst she made up the parcel of sandwiches, and got out from the dresser drawer the flask of brandy. She then asked him if he had on his scapulars, and he said he had. Already the sound of hurrying feet came to their ears, the sounds broke the last link with the darkness and grey light came over roofs, and in through windows. Voices were raised, thinned away as figures passed beyond the window. The old man, cooped in the chair, heard the noises, the feet, the voices, and periodically the sound of hooter and siren—and they slowly pierced a way into his mind, and he remembered other mornings, other days. Doors banged, windows were raised and lowered, clocks continued to ring. Mrs Fury was in the back part of the house, she was putting the finishing touches to herself in front of the shaving-mirror, putting back wandering hairs, adjusting her hat, peering the length of her person for final approval, brushing down her coat, then slowly putting on her black cotton gloves. There was a dignity in her bearing, a feeling of confidence surging in her, and when finally she came into the front room and saw him seated there, waiting, patient, silent, like a child about to be taken for a walk, she had with her a sudden vision of him in his old strength.

‘I'm ready now, Denny,' she said, and came over to him.

‘That's good,' he said and half-made to get up, but she pushed him down again.

‘A minute,' she said, ‘I must just look through my bag. I just wanted to see them papers were safe,' and she opened and began to empty her bag. Without realizing it, she had pulled out and sat on the table the money her husband had placed there the night before. For a moment he was afraid—he thought she'd mention it, and if she did, then she would drag out of him the story of how it got there, and in the end she would get that letter, and read it. But to his surprise she did not say anything. She was so taken up with the journey, so delighted to hold in her hand the pass which Mr Delaney had sent her, that she barely noticed the money. And she threw the notes back into the bag as though they had always been there.

‘Ready now,' she said. She caught his hand, held it as he got up.

‘There's nothing more to do now,' she said, ‘there's the little note for that man when he gets back—there's the fire made up ready for that woman when she comes in. Come along.'

They stepped out into the street. They seemed to steal away from the house, eyes might be watching them, and then the thunder of feet was loud around them. Bands of men came past them, hurrying, talking animatedly as they went, sweeping on before these old people, with an almost animal-like ferocity of movement, a ruthless liveliness, as though bone and flesh were challenging the first light of this sluggish morning, the slowly waking city. The old people kept close to the wall, arm in arm. The old man moved only because she moved, only because this arm in his arm pulled always with a gentle forward movement, whilst she, her eyes staring ahead, seemed to have pierced the face of the morning and could see nothing ahead save those northern mists, as if each climbing minute pulled after it a slow-moving apprehension, the arm communicated to this man the feeling of something desperate.

He ventured to say in a half-frightened whisper as they reached the end of the road, that he was sure there was plenty of time—and why was she hurrying so? She slackened her pace at once. ‘I was just thinking,' she said, ‘just thinking.'

Young women and boys now crowded the roads, came on as an army, but she hardly noticed them. Sight itself seemed held in reserve to flood some brighter moment of that day. She was conscious of her feet moving, carrying her body along, of her arm holding and shielding this trembling life beside her. And on her lips, over and over again, ‘Give him strength to see his son—let him be well this living day.'

‘Are you all right, Denny?'

‘I'm all right.'

‘Are you happy?'

‘I'm happy.'

‘Your head's not hurting you?'

‘No.'

He never once looked up, he kept his eyes to the ground. Like a blind man led, he felt himself turning a corner. ‘Her heart's so full at this moment,' he thought, ‘the way she loved him, like one mad, mad—Oh, the sadness of him there.'

‘Where are we?'

‘We're at the tram stop—nearly.'

‘Are we really, Fanny?'

‘Yes, and you've been very good, very good. I wish that miserable old doctor could see you now. His hat would fall off with the surprise of it. It's good to see you stepping along.'

And then they had reached the tram station. There were a number of people waiting. They looked at these two, out in the early morning, looked twice, it was not often that one saw such a sight at half-past seven on a Gelton morning. And they looked on with great curiosity.

‘There ought to be a bench or something for people like that to sit on,' said one.

‘There should, indeed,' said another, and then the tram came noisily down the road. There was a rush for it as it came to a standstill.

‘No crushing—easy there,' and the blue-faced conductor pushed his way through the throng.

‘Half a minute,' he shouted. He threw up his head, ‘Half a minute,' he cried. He had seen Mrs Fury and her husband standing on the pavement.

‘Are you for this tram, mother?' he asked; he called her ‘mother'.

‘We are,' the woman said.

‘All right, mother,' he said, ‘you're all right,' and when he said it one felt one would be safe with this man, through all wars, and floods, and revolutions. ‘Come along, dad.' The men fell back—they looked sympathetically at the old man as he was helped on to the platform.

‘They're up early for their pensions,' a man said.

The conductor found them a seat on the bottom deck. He collected their fares, before the expected rush began. The feet on the stairs rang out like shots. The last one jumped to the platform, the conductor rang the bell, and the clumsy, rattling vehicle started off towards the city. The conductor began his tune again, began where he had left off. The tram gathered speed, and the bell clanged. Mrs Fury said softly, ‘You all right.'

‘I'm all right.'

So now seated in this crowded tram, tearing towards the heart of Gelton, the woman enjoyed her triumphant moment. ‘I can't believe I'm on my way. I never dreamt it could be done.'

But she had only to glance at her husband, and there was the answer. ‘He's done it. Ah, we'll be all right on the train. I hope there's not too many people about. I don't like them crowded trains. I wish we could have a compartment all to ourselves.'

He had been speaking to her, but she had not heard him above the noise of the tram. Now he pulled her arm. She sat up abruptly, roused from her thoughts.

‘What's the matter?'

She had to lean well over to catch his words. ‘What is it, Denny?'

‘I wish I could have brought him some little thing,' he said.

‘Well, you can't do that, I told you so last night. The manner of men up at that place wouldn't allow of such a thing. But why worry? What's nicer for him than to bring your own good self? Many a time I wanted to do the same. Indeed, on two occasions I'd made a little present for him, but I had to take it home again. Don't let that worry you to-day, Denny—that's the tiniest thing indeed and no matter at all. Sit easy now, and don't be tormenting yourself, for you can't do anything about it. I'm sure we'll be at that station soon.'

‘That's good,' he said, ‘I'll be glad to get out of it. That old smoke makes me cough. It gets into me eyes.'

‘You're imagining that, surely—why there's nothing here save a deck full of good people going off on their own business—though I'll admit the air has the staleness in it. It's the air, Denny. Never mind, I'm sure we're nearly there.'

Each time the tram stopped to put down and take up fresh passengers, the woman stared through the window, watched people come and go with lively interest. At last the conductor called—‘Low Station,' and the tram pulled up with a screech.

‘Here we are, Denny.' She got up, then sat down as she saw half a dozen men hurrying down the gangway, ‘We'll wait till they've gone.'

The conductor was behind them. He said, ‘Are you folk catching a train?'

‘We are,' she replied, ‘come along Denny.' She looked up at the conductor, ‘The half-past eight train for Darnton.'

‘Half-past eight,' he scratched his head. ‘You're up far too early. You'll have to wait at least half-an-hour.'

‘I couldn't get up early enough for that train, young man,' she said.

She followed him down the gangway, her husband holding the sleeve of her coat. When he set them down in the surging tide of traffic, he might well have dropped them into the middle of the wide ocean. They held on to each other before the advancing waves. The tram vanished round the corner.

‘Wait,' she said. ‘Wait—there's no hurry at all now,' and she held tightly to his arm. Streams of workpeople kept pouring in and out of the station. Loaded lorries tore out through the gates. A succession of trams drove up, discharging more and more people. To the woman watching all this, it seemed that the whole of Gelton had decided on travelling this morning. She found herself captivated by the very animation—the continuous sounds in the air, and within the gates the tooting of train whistles and the close-throttled cries of escaping steam. She looked up and down the road. Then, seeing her opportunity she moved forward. They reached the gates and passed inside. For a moment they found themselves caught in a tide of rushing people—they were locked in—unable to move. They stood quite still. After a while the rush ceased, and they moved on to the platform. Porters came by with trucks, people carrying bags continuously came and stood in front of the indicator, then dashed off to various platforms. All along, the benches were filled with waiting people. The two old people came on, they seemed to sail through the bustle as if on air, nobody had noticed them. They went on, right to the end of the platform. When she found she could get no further, she stopped. She looked round. Not a seat anywhere. But espying an empty trolley lying near the porters' room, she drew him towards it. They sat down. She looked at the big clock overhead.

‘You stay here,' she said. ‘I'm just going to make enquiries. Don't move from there.'

The old man saw two women look at him as his wife spoke, and he replied, ‘I won't run away.' He saw her go.

‘If I was my own self, I wouldn't have any of this being led round like a baby. I saw them women stare so when Fanny spoke. I wish she'd remember sometimes that I'm a grown man, even though I'm a doddering one now. And why can't the woman talk to me in a natural way—instead of giving me orders like a hospital matron?'

The women's staring eyes had incensed him. He wanted to get up and walk after his wife, but looking in the direction she had gone, into the living whirlpool, he knew it was fatal to move.

‘Hope she won't be long. I'll tell her I don't like being spoken to like that in a crowded place.'

At length he saw her—she was coming slowly towards him, and he saw a group of people moving with her. He was suddenly filled with pride—he saw his wife, so tall, so erect, towering over the others.

‘Fanny could always carry herself well, no doubt of that at all.'

‘It's the next platform,' she said, and at once he got up and took her arm. He was still conscious of those staring eyes, he could feel them on his back as they walked away.

‘Fanny.'

‘What?'

‘When you're talking to me I wish you wouldn't talk so loudly—maybe it's your natural way, but I don't like being talked at as though I was a child—especially in public. I
am
a man.'

‘Tut! Tut!'

When they reached the platform from which the Darnton train was due, they were surprised to see that the place was deserted. Not a soul in sight, empty. Not even the train at the platform.

‘How odd,' she said, ‘I hope this
is
the platform.

A passing porter reassured her. ‘Thank you,' she said.

‘I never saw a platform so deserted as this,' he said. ‘It is our platform, Fanny?'

‘It is. Would you like me to slip off and get you a hot cup of tea, Denny?'

‘No, thanks. I'm all right really.'

‘I'll tell you what, take a little sip from this flask'; she handed him the flask. ‘It'll set you up.'

‘I think it will.'

‘There doesn't seem to be anyone going to Darnton except us.'

He returned the flask. ‘When the train comes into the platform, somebody'll turn up.'

She sat silent, surveying the scene. Compared with those crowded platforms, those lively people, the rushing porters, the noisy trucks, platform No. 10 was like a desert. It was as though those people knew where this train was going, that perhaps Darnton was some place in the Arctic Circle, or some outpost on a corridor of the moon. Certainly it seemed shut away from all that sprawling life. The woman stared up and down the platform. She felt here a greyness—a coldness, and her mind moved forward, further and further north.

‘Not many people go to that place, Denny, and I'm not surprised. But I remember it well. It's a tiny station—I remember the station-master was Scotch—a nice little man—very considerate, very helpful, that first time I went he took me into his house—it was a cold afternoon, and he made me take a cup of tea. And then I came out, and I saw that place, towering up on a rock—that place, Denny.'