Winter Song (44 page)

“Better make a move. God! It's damp around here. Can't get warm,” and then he shouted into the empty air, “can't get warm. I wonder if I'll ever feel warm again? Nobody came. It doesn't matter. They're all so old, even Kilkey. But he did write to me. I'll remember that. I'll go now.”

He walked slowly down the road, leaving behind him the wall, the door, the silence.

“I'd better find this Tilsey place. Pub, I expect. But
where?
And who is D? Who in hell is D? Somebody knew I was coming out. Who is this D?” He passed by the policeman, he kept his head erect, he walked towards the city.

“Good luck, mate,” said the policeman as he passed.

“Same to you.”

Wonder if Cavanagh is still in New York? Wonder where Maureen got to? Oh, Christ, I wonder when I'll get warm.

He stood still, shivering, he stamped his feet. “I'll find this Tilsey place. It
must
be a pub.”

His hand kept travelling towards his inside pocket, from which he would draw out a sheaf of papers, glance at them, then thrust them back again. “If I could get somewhere for ten minutes, just to get warm. I'd go through these papers. Nobody came at all. Odd. Is it? Oh, damn it, it's not, it's not even funny. Too long a time, perhaps they forgot, mightn't know. This road seems to go on and on.” He kept on walking. “Wonder where Anthony got off to?”

The road suddenly widened, it stretched for miles. “Don't remember this road at all.”

He heard footsteps behind him, and swung round. A man. He carried a small brief-case, and he appeared to be in a great hurry.

“Where does this road end?” The man stopped. Where was he going? Where did he want to get to? He asked this without looking at him.

“Want to get into Gelton, the city end.”

“Easy! Walk down this road for two miles, easy as winking. At the first turning, bear left. When you come to the end of that road you will see the tram terminus. Catch one, it'll take you all the way.”

“Thank you. This is a new road?”

“Looks new to me. Well—good morning.”

The man with the cap stopped again. He watched the other's figure grow smaller and smaller. Then it vanished. He moved on again. “Expect he's going into Gelton, too. Didn't want to talk.”

The road went endlessly on, and sometimes stretches of it were flanked by blackened trees.

“Wonder who this D contact is?” He turned sharply left, and saw the turning.

“Be warmer in the tram.”

Suddenly he was aware of a small group of people stood near the kerb. “This is it.” They were waiting for the incoming tram. He walked slowly towards them, but kept a clear distance between the people and himself. He was conscious of his suit, his cap, his head. It had never been warm since they cut his hair. And then he saw the man with the brief-case, a girl with red hair, an old woman wearing a shawl over her head. A youth with an enormous check cap, and a face covered with freckles, stared owlishly through steel-rimmed spectacles. A tall, middle-aged woman carried an enormous basket. “Market day,” he thought. He watched them very closely, and he kept fingering the two half-crowns. He thought of D. “Might have been the chap who wrote me about Anthony, can't quite remember, yes, it might have been. Is it a him? Might be a she. Good Lord! I never thought of that. Wouldn't be S, no, that's ended. Must track down old Kilkey—if he's alive. Letter every three months from him, never missed save the once. Then he suddenly stopped altogether. Wonder why? Oh, hell! Give up wondering. Your head will burst open. Get
warm,
” and he began rubbing his hands together, all the time watching the group of people. And he still felt the wall, and the door, and the silence behind him, heard a bell, smelt a mould from his clothes, and went on rubbing his hands. “Kilkey kept me alive.”

Somebody said in a throaty voice, “Here it is,” and he heard the roar of the oncoming tram. There was a rush for it as it pulled up, and the man wondered why, it was quite empty. Pulling down his cap, he waited until the group had climbed in, and then he followed. He went upstairs and found himself a back seat. The man with the brief-case was sitting just in front of him. He watched this man, studied his neck, his back, his head, the thinning, grey hair. And then he imagined that, that wall, and door, and silence, had followed behind him, tracked him down to this very tram, until the very air breathed the years he had left behind him. It was stale, strong in his nostrils, he was
there
again. Damp clothes, hot iron, a reek of bad breath, a smell of ammonia, sweat congealed under shirts. And just as suddenly it vanished. He was here, in a tram, breathing in tobacco fumes. Somebody was smoking a cigarette. The whole tram was wreathed in grey and blue smoke. The man with the brief-case was puffing like a chimney. The tram shook and rattled its way downhill. It stopped, passengers alighted and boarded it, the bell clanged, and it charged on down the hill. The man with the cap stood up, and as he leaned his weight on the seat in front of him, it moved and it shrieked, and the man in front turned round and looked at him.

“What the devil am I standing up for? Like this?” He looked down at his threadbare suit; the cheap tweed suit that still appeared to carry in its shape and pattern the secrets of fugitive sleep. He stared back at the starer, who said quickly, “It's a nasty morning.”

“Yes—excuse me——” stumbling awkwardly in the passageway, “have you a cigarette you could spare me?”

A quick movement, a click, and the silver cigarette case was open. For a moment the big thumb and finger fumbled at the contents. He broke the first cigarette in two—“So sorry.” The man picked one out for him, but he dropped it on the floor. “Try again,” the smile seemed genuine enough.

“Thanks very much.” The seat back rattled again, and then the tram pulled up with a jerk. The man with the cap flung out his arms to save himself from falling.

“Ha! ha! Haven't yet got your sea legs, eh,” said the one with the brief-case. “Want sea legs on these quite cumbersome and antiquated relics from the dark days of transport. Light?”

He had struck a match, and was holding it up for the other. “Just out,” he thought, “poor swine,” and he watched the man's trembling mouth as he puffed the cigarette. “
There
we are,” he said.

“Thanks.” The man with the cap settled himself back in his seat. He felt hot, miserable, suddenly futile. It had been an ordeal, it was like living in another level of air. Looking through the window he saw the first houses looming up. The tram stopped again, more passengers boarded. He saw people on the road, people turning corners, passing into streets, standing in little groups, talking, and gradually the traffic thickened. He had a slight sensation of sickness, a sense of a sudden pressure, as he sat watching the life beyond the window. The passenger in front got up. “Morning,” he said, and rushed down the stairs at the next stop.

Two dock-gate men came up. They passed the man with the cap, they talked loudly about tides, and hardly noticed the face pressed against the window. He didn't exist. It was growing light, and the tweed suit stood out more clearly. The man kept glancing anxiously down at his trousers, their utter shapelessness confronted him like a threat. A woman came down the passageway and sat next to him. It distracted, he forgot about the suit, the cap, the slight odour, he even began to feel a little warm. Out of the corner of her eye the woman was looking at him. Been sleeping out overnight, she thought, perhaps a tramp. She was quick to note the cap pulled down over the eyes, and the one fist gripping the seat in front. She noticed the big hand. Abruptly she got up and found another seat elsewhere, went further down the deck. The man sat motionless. Strong tobacco from pipes got into his nostrils, his throat. He tried to push open the window, but his strength seemed unequal to it.

Cars tore past, and a great convoy of lorries hove into view. The roar deafened. He clutched his seat with the other hand, and the tram swayed more violently.

“God! When does the damn thing stop altogether?”

The bell clanged continuously.

“Wonder who this D is? Where is this place called Tilseys?”

“Fares, please.” The tram increased its speed.

“Your
fare
, please.”

The man jumped. “Oh yes—yes,” fumbling in his pockets, in all his pockets, and they were all empty. “Damn—damn!”

“Where to? asked the conductor, “where for?”

Still fumbling desperately, the man said, “Tilseys.”

“Where?”

“Tilseys.” He breathed heavily. “Got it,” he said, “there,” and the half-crown appeared in the first pocket he put his hand in. “There! Tilseys.”

“Where the hell would that be?” asked the conductor. “What is it? A road? A street?”

Almost shyly, the others said, “I don't know. It might be a pub.”

“And so it bloody-well might,” the conductor snapped back. “Better have a ticket all the way and take your chance at the end of the trip. Twopence.”

He punched a ticket, pushed it into the man's hand, counted the change. “Never heard of the place,” he said.

“Boozin',” he thought, “that's what's wrong with him. Been sleeping out with the bloody cats, 'spect.”

He came rushing back down the passage, and barked, “Call you.”

“What's that?” But the conductor and his indigestion had already clattered down to the lower deck.

At that moment a tall, heavily built woman came up and took the first available seat in sight, next to the man. The tram was now full, and it ignored the next stopping place. The air was one great cloud of smoke, and people talked loudly against the continuous rattling of the vehicle. The man drew away from the woman, he pressed to the window again, and looked out. He crouched, as though from some hidden fear. His expression was a mixture of helplessness and bewilderment. He glanced sideways at her. She sat very erect, staring straight ahead, and her bright red face smelt strongly of rude soap, contrasting strongly with the pallor of the man. Her face was as polished as an apple, it shone from under the shawl she wore. It beamed out upon the world. From time to time he glanced shyly towards her. The face attracted him, the ample bosom, and suddenly he realized he had seen that kind of woman before. She was a woman from the markets.

When he was a child he had often stared after them, marveiling at their strength, their beautiful sense of balance. This woman was on her way to work.

“Nasty morning,” she exclaimed suddenly, without moving her head.

“Yes, it is,” the man said, and moved a little further away. He had a horror of being drawn into conversation, and she talked so loudly.

“My man said it was going to be a lovely fine day, and now look at it, the man's a bloody fool,” announced the woman, then burst into a violent fit of laughter. The other cringed in his seat.

People turned to look, some smiled. They saw the healthy, boisterous, laughing woman, the man beside her.

“If
that's
your husband, missus, then no bloody wonder it rained,” and every eye was focused on the man against the window.

“I must get off, I must get away from this, I must get off
now,
” struggling to his feet, jerking the cap down on his head.

“Excuse,” he said, and began to move.

“Oh Lord,” the fat woman said, and stood up to let him pass.

The whole tram watched the man leave his seat.

“Thank you,” forcing his way down the passage. His face burned, he kept his head lowered, he found the stairway, he put a foot on the first step and held on. The conductor saw him.

“This isn't the terminus.”

There was something about this morose-looking passenger that he began to hate, though he did not quite know why.

“I know it isn't.”

“Well?”

“Stop this tram.”

The conductor rang the bell. The tram drew up, the man jumped off, and ran across to the sidewalk. The passengers stared down at him.

“Where the hell am I?” The tram had gone, he knew that he was lost.

“Should have gone with the man in the car. He would have known Tilseys. I'm a fool. Might have known who D was. Should have asked him, but I couldn't, I hated him then, silly, I suppose, but I did, I
hated
him. Who is this D? I'll ask. Somebody'll know.”

The pavements were crowded, this was the city centre. He stood waiting, watching, hand to the stubble of his chin; he felt dirty, hot, terribly confused. The smell of damp clothes never left him. “The razor was no good, the razor was rotten.”

“I say,” he said, almost walking into the oncoming postman, “do you know where I can find a place called Tilseys?”

“Never heard of it,” the postman said, and looked sharply at the man, noticing a difference at once. “Couldn't say.” This enquiry seemed like an affront. “Sorry,” he said, and walked on.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where I could find Tilseys?” The accosted man noticed two things; the stubble on the chin, and a slight odour.

“Sorry,” he said, “but there's a policeman over there, he'll know.”

“A policeman? Where the hell am I? I don't know this place any more.”

“Excuse me—yes—it might be a pub—Tilseys, maybe a café—do you—no—it must be a pub—perhaps a——”

The railwayman was kind. “Never heard of it,” he said, “but I'll tell you what. They're bound to have a telephone. Go into the nearest box and look in the directory, bound to find it. Going that way myself.”

The two men went down the narrow street. The man stopped, turned round, looked back.

“Much obliged to you,” he said, and then he saw the policeman begin to move, he was coming his way. The policeman watched, his eye was good, even on a dreary February morning. He had seen the man alight from the tram, seen him accosting people. He hadn't stopped any women, girls.