Winter Song (42 page)

He smiled and said nothing. They were both hungry and they finished the sandwiches.

‘There's more made up ready for us to take with us,' he said.

‘Thank you.'

‘Come down as soon as you're ready.'

‘Yes.'

The woman put on her husband's new overcoat, his grey hat, his scarf.

‘I'm glad I got you this coat the other day, it'll keep the warmth in you.'

‘It's a very nice coat,' he said.

He stood waiting for her. She had put on her long blue coat, and now before the small mirror she was arranging her hair.

He said suddenly, ‘I wonder where she is now, Fanny, this very minute?'

He was looking at his daughter's photograph, standing on the mantelpiece.

‘I wonder,' she said, she put on her hat. Then she opened the door and called Kilkey.

He came. He took the old man's arm. She followed after them. He took them into the front room. He went to a cupboard. ‘Each of you must drink this,' he said. They drank the brandy. Then he sat with them, waiting for the car to arrive. They heard it a few minutes later.

‘Here he is,' Kilkey said.

They all went out into the lobby. Kilkey opened the door. ‘Wait there,' he said, then went down the step to see the man in the car. He whispered something to him. The woman held tightly to the old man's arm. Kilkey came back.

‘All right,' he said. He helped the old man down the step. As she stepped clear of the house, the woman stopped, she turned round, stood looking up at the windows.

‘It's all very strange,' she said. ‘Very strange.'

Then they went to the car.

‘Are you quite comfortable there now?'

‘We are.'

‘Sure?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

The old man slumped back in his seat. She let go his arm. As the car moved off she again looked back at the house. ‘Yes, it's very strange indeed,' she said. The car turned the corner, the horn blew, the driver stepped on the accelerator.

In the front seat Kilkey was engaged in earnest conversation with the driver, he spoke rapidly, softly, in the other's ear.

‘You see, Mr O'Hara, old Mr Fury may be afraid to go up the gangway, so I was wondering if you'd just help me to see them on board. I had to take a cabin for them—they couldn't go steerage in his state. Once they're in that cabin I know they'll not move a hand's turn till the ship bangs the wall.'

‘That's all right. You can count on me,' the driver said.

‘Thank you.' He called behind him, ‘You people all right back there?'

A muffled voice replied ‘Yes'. He knew she was crying there—he had expected this. ‘One time,' he told himself, ‘she would have enjoyed this drive through a lighted city.'

The woman at the back never once raised her head, never once looked out. The car sped on. It turned in sharply. A gust of wind shot through the window. They were on the fringes of the sea.

‘We're nearly there now,' he said, but again there was silence.

The car turned another corner, then pulled up. The whole night was suddenly full of shouts. At the bottom of the roadway she saw at last the waiting boat. Kilkey came to the door and helped them out. Mr O'Hara then reversed his car, locked it, and followed behind them. It was dark—only patches of light shone where the bright clusters hung over gangway, over deck and hatch. O'Hara came up.

‘Mrs Fury,' he said, speaking low—‘Just follow up after us—Mr Kilkey and I will see your husband safely aboard. Have you the tickets ready?'

‘I have them,' Kilkey said.

They walked each side of the old man, supporting him.

‘Now he'll see the sea again,' she thought, ‘and the smell of a ship in his nostrils. I've a mind to fling this shawl over his head as we go up the gangway.'

They had already reached it. But without fuss she saw him go up, slowly, and she followed them.

‘Thank God for that,' she said.

At the gangway head, Kilkey handed in the tickets. They then went straight to the cabin.

‘Thank you, Mr O'Hara. I shall see you on Monday. Goodnight.'

‘Good-night,' the woman said.

‘Good-night, ma'am,' the driver said.

The cabin door shut. The woman heaved a sigh of relief, and said. ‘We've done it.' The old man lay back on the settee. ‘He's all right now, Fanny,' Kilkey said. ‘Come outside a moment', and she followed him out.

‘Come over here, Fanny,' he said.

They leaned on the rails, she stared down into the dark, murky waters.

‘Our travelling's almost done.'

‘It is that, thank God.'

There was a dull roar as the gangway was hauled clear. The hawsers came clear of the bitts and before they had realized it, the ship had slowly turned her head towards the sea. There was a furious ringing of telegraph bells.

‘At any moment,' he said, ‘that siren will blow. We had better go back to the cabin.'

‘Yes. Yes. I'm sure it would frighten the life out of him,' she said.

In the cabin they sat either side of him. Kilkey closed the port-hole. The siren blew three times.

‘He'll be all right there. I'll put him in the lower bunk, so you can stretch out on this settee,' he said.

She sat holding the old man's hand. ‘We're all right. All is settled now.'

‘You all right, Denny?' he asked.

‘I'm all right,' he croaked—then added—‘Ah, I hope I'm not seasick,' and Kilkey burst out laughing.

‘Where will you be?' she asked.

‘Just outside here,' he said.

‘Where?'

‘Just outside. Would you like anything? An extra blanket?'

‘There is nothing more we want,' she said. ‘Nothing.'

He left them holding hands. He went out on deck. He walked along to the alley-way, stood by the engine-room door. As the engineer came up the steel ladder, he had a grey blanket under his arm. He waved to Kilkey.

‘Here you are,' he said. ‘You got them aboard all right?'

‘Yes. They're fine.'

Kilkey knew this engineer well. There were few in Gelton who did not know him. He had lent him the blanket. Travelling steerage, there was only the saloon to go to—and he did not like to be so far away from the old people. He curled up on a coil of rope, flung the blanket round him like a cape. He lit his pipe. He looked at the night sky, suddenly reeling clouds.

‘It'll rain,' he thought.

He watched the lights of the shore grow dim.

‘I'm as warm as a kitten, snug under these old bulwarks.'

He stretched his legs, he shifted a little on the coil. The ship began to roll.

‘Hope they're all right there. I'd better see.'

And then he saw her. He sat up. It could be nobody else but her. The tall form passed him, the woman went and stood by the rails.

Kilkey dozed off. About the decks others were sleeping. Occasionally yawns were heard, coughing. He woke suddenly. She was still there.

‘I'll slip in and see if he's all right.' He found him flat on his back, fast asleep. As he opened the door to leave, she was there.

‘It's nice to feel the sea air on you, Kilkey,' and looking at her, her face caught in the light, he said, ‘It is indeed.'

She came into the cabin.

‘Why, Fanny,' he said, ‘you're all bright and shining with living again. It's good to see it.'

Then he left her and returned to his coiled bed. A wind had come up from the north. Kilkey wrapped the blanket closer about him.

‘I wouldn't have minded an old cabin myself.'

His pipe had gone out—he relit it, lay there smoking. He felt contented. The worst of it was over. In the morning they would wake up and find their wanderings over at last.

‘I hope Brigid will be nice to them. I do hope so. She can be a cantankerous old creature when she likes.'

From the saloon he heard the wayward, incoherent singing of drunken men. There were very few passengers on the boat. The ship laboured under a heavy swell. Once, above the steady hum of her engines, the bridge telegraph rang, reverberated over the ship, tore into the confined silence of cabins and fo'c'sles.

‘If I can get that boat back on the same day I'll be all right. When this is over I shall lie down on my bed and sleep a whole week. I must say everybody has been very helpful. Very helpful. It wasn't half so difficult as I thought it would be. This summer, God sparing us, Maureen and I will take a holiday over there. Just to see how they're liking it.'

Suddenly he threw off the blanket, shivered, got up, and began pacing the deck.

‘It wasn't very comfortable after all.' He went into the alley-way, walked past their cabin. Not a sound.

‘She's fallen off to sleep, too. That's good.'

He walked away aft. He leaned over the poop, he watched the ship's white wake snaking after her.

‘I'm rather surprised—I made sure I'd be seasick.'

A quartermaster came aft, and disappeared into the wheel-house. When he came out he saw Kilkey, bade him goodnight. They both leaned over the poop, they talked of sea matters, of ships, oceans, the stowing of holds, the tides, harbour dues … they talked and the night wore on.

Occasionally a light flashed from the bridge, high above stars seemed to come down, touch the truck top of the now reeling foremast. The quartermaster went away, and Kilkey returned to the alley-way. He looked at his watch. Early morning. Unless there was some delay the ship should be in by seven o'clock. Passing their cabin, he stopped—hearing voices. He stood listening.

‘They're both of them awake.'

He looked in. They were seated on the settee, whispering now as they saw him. They smiled at him. He shut the door.

‘They're all right now. I think I'll go along and see if I can't get a drink. Perhaps they'd like something.'

He looked in again.

‘Can I get you anything? A drink—some tea? I can easily manage it,' he said.

The woman shook her head.

‘We want nothing now,' she said.

‘Well, you were very good, Denny. You did everything well. And now we're on our way.'

‘We are indeed.'

‘Are you happy?'

‘I'm content,' he said.

‘That's the man.'

‘I've a nice bit of news for you, but I'll keep it till we get home.'

‘What news?'

‘You'll know soon enough—and it'll please you no end, Denny.'

He was smiling now. ‘But why can't you tell me now, Fanny? Here I am at last a contented man, and now's the time to tell me that bit of good news.'

‘I'd rather keep it,' she said. ‘Wait till we're home and settled. Ah, I can see you getting stronger and stronger every day—one morning you'll wake with your manhood back again.'

‘You really think I will?'

‘I'm sure of it,' she leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘If you had been your old self,' she said, ‘why I would have let you go off this minute and take a glass of Guinness with Kilkey.'

‘I don't want anything.'

‘Nor I.'

The bell rang. It was four o'clock. Leaning against each other, they fell asleep.

Kilkey woke to the light, but no sight of land. Some passengers were already up, those who had slept about the decks, now paced them, driving chill from their bones.

‘Are we going to be late?' asked Kilkey of an approaching sailor.

‘I'm afraid so. But I can't say why.'

‘We've had lovely weather,' said Kilkey, ‘a fine night, and nothing save a few puffs of wind and a slight swell.'

‘True enough,' said the sailor, ‘but that won't help you—I just couldn't say when we'll be in.'

Kilkey went to the saloon. Figures were sprawled everywhere. He managed to get some hot tea, and he immediately went to their cabin.

‘You haven't been sitting like that all the time, I hope,' he said.

‘Thank you for the tea—it's a welcome sight,' she said.

‘And how are you making it?' he asked the old man.

‘I'm quite comfortable.'

‘Here, take this tea. It will warm you up.'

‘Are we nearly there?' she asked.

‘Hardly. There'll be some delay, they say, I don't know what about. We've not the landfall yet. The sailor liked being mysterious, so it seemed to me.'

‘Shouldn't we be in around seven o'clock?' she asked.

‘We should—but now if what that chap says is correct, we won't. And they've reduced the speed. I can tell by the swing of the ship.'

They drank their tea. They did not want anything to eat.

‘Where did you sleep last night, Kilkey?'

‘Just outside. I was quite comfortable,' he replied. ‘I'd a comfortable shelter and I'd a blanket from a friend of mine. That reminds me, I must return it to him.'

‘What friend?'

‘Just one of the engineers I happened to know.'

‘I hope your coming along, Kilkey—and indeed it's been kind of you to do it—I hope your coming along won't upset you with your work.'

‘Oh—I've made my arrangements. I shall get the boat back to-day.'

‘I wished you could have come with us as far as Anthony's place.'

‘I couldn't do that, Fanny. I'm sorry. But I must have the boat back this day. It's just more than my job's worth to delay now. I'll be coming along to see you one fine morning—' He paused—he saw the woman put a finger to her lips, he understood—she did not want him to mention her daughter.

‘Let's go outside,' she said.

‘Do you want to come on deck, Denny?'

‘NO,' he said—nothing could have been more definite.

They went out.

‘I'm keeping Maureen a secret, Kilkey,' she said, ‘I want to have some nice news for him the first morning we come down to breakfast in our new home.'