Winter Song (52 page)

The ship's bell struck twice, a hand fastened a deadlight over the porthole against now climbing spray. Somebody laughed at a joke, a girl hummed a tune.

“I could never have gone to that office.
He
would have been there—he would have hated it.”

“Never wrote to me once in all those years.”

“Hardly looked in on old Kilkey.”

“Never thought of Maureen.”

“Only went to Cork because he
had
to.”

“Well, it's finished. He's right, he never was one of us.”

Doors in his mind opened, old days streamed in. Desmond working on the mugs, his father at sea, Father Moynihan calling on Sundays, his grandfather fastened to a chair, slobbering away his days. The christening party at his sister's house when Dermod was born. A woman with rings on every finger, a man with scented, plastered-down hair, furtive feet moving about in rope slippers, a smell of pickles, of bones.

“Lunch is being served, sir,” a steward said. The white coat flashed past the seated man, like a cloud, like the sail of a ship.

Aunt Brigid laughing, kissing him with her big, kind mouth, laughing again, like tumbling hills, a great roaring fire, giant pots of tea, a smell of oranges. The cloud returning, “Lunch is served now, sir.”

Peter looked up, confused, and he said automatically, “Yes, thanks—which way?” Yet he wanted to stay, to be quiet, lost in the newfound warmth. Seeing others rise and leave, he forced himself at last.

“This way, sir,” the steward said. He followed the man, and the memories rose and fell about him like waves. It was an onslaught, he seemed to stagger his way through the saloon, blindly following the man in the white coat.

“Where?”

“Step this way, sir.”

Moving closely behind him, Peter was suddenly assailed by smells. “Here, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, somewhat gruffly—still confused, still remembering, a name dancing in his head, warmth melting away the chill of his misery.

He sat bolt upright, watched the steward serve him, studying his clean, white hands, watching the next table, hearing a passenger remark, “The wind may hold us up. Strong head wind.”

Nervously, he began to eat, stopped, began again, and always watching. It was like a dream. “I won't believe it until I've seen it, and then I'll know it's true, and it won't matter very much—I wish to God it had never happened. But it has, it
has
. You can't do anything about it.”

The thousand strands of chaos pulled suddenly at his rocking thoughts.

“What can you do?”

“What are you, really?”

“What do you know?”

“What do you want?”

“Where are you going?”

“Why?”

The questions struck like knives.

“Coffee, sir?”

“No, thanks—yes,” calling after the silently retreating steward, “black, please.”

“Our family's finished. For good.”

He bought cigarettes, and smoked them furiously, asked for more coffee. He sat on, the dining-room gradually emptied, he was still there, thinking, watching, wondering. Crockery and cutlery rattled, the stewards were clearing up. And the
Green Star
rode on against a mounting head wind.

The scent of the sea rushed in as the door was opened, and the smell of engines was heavy in the air. He looked up at last. A steward was folding a tablecloth. “What time do we get in?”

“About nine, at least I hope so, but afraid well be late. Maybe midnight, may even be morning, very bad crossing.…”

“I see,” Peter said, not seeing. His mind was miles away. Then after a silence, he said, “Thanks,” and paid his bill, tipped the steward, rose and left the saloon.

He had sat on in the dining saloon long after the others had left, and only departed when the stewards began to lay tables for tea. He was restless everywhere. In the alleyways, at the rails, on the poop, on the fo'c'sle head. Eventually he returned to the saloon and sat down. He sat staring at people absorbed in newspapers, magazines, books. Then of a sudden he was smiling, and it came out of the very warmth that seemed to have grown about him in this dark corner of the saloon. It was still there, it had not deserted him. He shut his eyes. “She remembered. She never forgot.”

He played with the words, sent them ringing round his head. “If only Maureen had been there. She would have understood. It would have begun to seem like home. But she wasn't, only an ageing man, long deserted, living alone. Of what use to remain in Gelton? None at all.” After a while his head began to nod, he dozed, and finally fell fast asleep. The ship ploughed on towards a white harbour.

A long way, a lone way, but at last he was here. This was what he had come for. And here it was. The beginning and the end. It was under a tree, a wind-blown ash whose winter branches were as white and lean as bone, and they caught the pale light of the morning sun. But for directions he would never have found it. The Sacristan had given him the number, 214. Now he stood looking down at it, a heap of earth, tufts of sour, wintry grass, nameless. He was quite alone. It was half-past ten o'clock.

He had put up at a small hotel. After a wash and change he began to feel better. But for long hours he had thought of this, and now he realized that he should never have come. Looking down at this grave he saw the mountain of struggle that had been laid in it, the hope, and the great shield of courage. On this day it seemed meaningless to him. He stared down, numbed, unable to move, and for some minutes unable to think. The secret and sacred dialogue that gave life to memories could no longer sustain him. He felt imprisoned by the inscrutable silence. And at last, and with a great effort, he exclaimed, “So this is it.”

He turned away his head, looked stupidly down the long narrow path that ended at a white gate. “I'd better go,” not going, not moving, unable to move. “I can't even cry. One time I would have cried. I know I would. Now I can't.”

A woman holding a child by the hand had passed him by, but he did not notice her, though the path was so narrow they practically rubbed shoulders. But the child glanced back at him, and cried, “Mummy. Look at that funny man.”

A hand pulled the child forward. “Come along, dear.” And it was the woman's voice that startled him. He swung round. Then he hurried away from the place, walked slowly back towards the hotel.

“Those long, grey days,” he thought. “Those happy evenings. That man Mulcare. Perhaps I could go on to Dublin, see Anthony's wife, the children. Yes, I might even walk as far as Aunt Brigid's place. Why not. I wonder what she looks like now? Very old, of course, she must be. She was so fat, the way she used to laugh. How Dad used to loathe her.”

Suddenly he turned and looked back at the white gate, the church. “No. No. No. I'm glad I came, yes, I'm glad I came. I would have always been unhappy if I had not. But it
is
over.” He knew he must hurry away out of it, and that he must never go back. Already he sensed a weight falling away from him. It meant nothing any more. He had tried so hard to remember, to hold and treasure some fragment of that life, a look, a sigh, a movement, a gesture, a word, a feel of the patient, blind, and willing hand. “It's finished.” The words turned in his mind like keys. He was clear, he was out. “Yes, back to the hotel.”

When he reached his room he sat down on the bed, then carefully counted his remaining money. He had seven pounds. At this time of the year the hotel was empty. He was its sole guest. He went down to the tiny bar, dark, warm, comfortable. He got himself a drink and carried it towards the fire. The garrulous, talkative barman was soon sitting beside him. This quite shapeless man draped the seat, and he indulged in a series of unwanted, unlistened to, colourful, and humorous reminiscences of former guests. He was an observant man, he remembered incidents in a vivid way, he stored away in his mind the oddities of people. Now it all poured out, presumably for the stranger's benefit. But the guest was an iceberg, and he made no response. Defeated, the man returned behind his counter, sang himself a ditty, and got busy washing and wiping the glasses. He indulged in whispered conversations with himself. Now and again he looked at the man, but he could get no change out of him.

Peter Fury was thinking of a woman and child walking a path, of an envelope he had received at the gangway head, the short note from his brother. The disappointment in this brother was like a knife in him. He might have gone to Ralston Park with him. But what would he have done there? What would he have said? And she would be there. The one who remembered.

“I was about seventeen at the time, and it was the first time. She was beautiful, and it was the happiest moment in my whole life. Such a warm heart. How he hated me for it. A jealous swine.” And the few shining words of Sheila's note came clear.

“Well! And why not? Why shouldn't I go there. I remember
he
went there a few years ago. And I've often wondered what the Downey house is really like. I've heard enough about it, God knows. I wonder where it is exactly, and how far?”

“What's that, sir?” asked the barman.

“Did I say something?”

The man at the fire looked round, and immediately the barman was free of his counter. “You asked me how far some place was,” he asked.

“I did? Did I?”

“You did indeed, sir. Which place would you be wantin' now?”

“A place they call The Ram's Gate, it's got an Irish name, too, but I can't remember it. People by the name of Downey.”

“Downey, Downey. Sure there's a powerful lot of people in this country by that name. Now there's Peter Downey the jarvey, and Old Tom Downey used to take the boats out of Cork, and then there's Sean who used to be with the old Globe Insurance people.…”

“A place named The Ram's Gate,” Peter said.

“Ah! Now I have you, sir. You mean the queer lot? I'll tell you about that. The old man's been gone away for years now, and the old lady died, and they've a brother away in China, I think, and they've a daughter what run away with an English feller that was on holiday once in these parts. You mean them people, sir?”

“That's right.”

Peter sat listening for the first time. And when he had heard it all, he said quietly, “I'll be leaving this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Bring me another drink. Then have the bill made out. How far is The Mall? I used to know, but it's years since I was in these parts.”

He gave the barman a drink.

“No more than fifteen minutes away from this hotel, sir. Was you looking for somebody there, too?”

“Get me the drink.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Fifteen minutes away,” thought Peter. “Fancy that. Aunt Brigid. Eighty-four years of age. Just think of that. Extraordinary.” It startled him when he heard it from Kilkey's lips, and it startled him now. He even resented it, her great age, her very survival. She had beaten his parents to it, even his slobbering grandfather. “She is my aunt, after all. Yes, I'd better call and see her. One of the family.”

Maureen crept into his mind again. He wished he had seen her, if only he knew where she was. Gone off with that queer man Slye. What a pity. And how strange that she should go off with such a person.

“I always liked her. I still do, whatever she did. Desmond might have made some effort, if only for old Kilkey's sake. I wonder if she even knows about mother.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, taking the drink. She was back again. God! He couldn't stop thinking about her.

“To go home at last, and to a place you never wanted to leave. To go back with a full life behind her, her old heart swimming with hope—and then to fall to an Irish bullet.”

“Cruel,” he cried in his mind, “bloody cruel,” unaware that he had shouted it into the empty air. “Meaningless.”

“You called, sir?”

“I said nothing.”

“I
wish
I could have seen Maureen. But I will. I'll find her, I'm certain I will.”

The mysterious shut-away, locked-in house amongst the hills began to attract him. Why go there? Why not go there? And he concentrated his thinking on The Ram's Gate. He imagined a great white house, lost in woods, warm in a fold of the hills. He thought of a single room in it, a high up, quiet room, a warm room, safe. “God! How I'll sleep. How I'll sleep once I get into it.”

The house moved with him as he made his way towards The Mall. The aged occupant of a three-storied, red-brick house was far from his mind. The Ram's Gate had always seemed to him a kind of fairy castle. He had heard so much about it from his brother Desmond. A silent house, in a more silent countryside. “The housekeeper's even getting ready a room there. She must have written her about me. I wonder what she said. Perhaps she even wrote before I got out. I never even thought about that. Yes, why shouldn't I go? I'd love to see the place. I could be alone for a while.”

He leaned heavily towards this haven, he drew back; he still wasn't quite sure.

“Why did she want me to go there?” He hadn't the answer to that one.

“What a difference there is here,” he exclaimed, “the air so different, even the road is clean.”

And there was The Mall. He hurried on. He knew the house well, he would recognise it, he would go to the door, ring the bell.

“I suppose it's all right, coming like this, without a moment's warning. I wonder?”

Here was the house. And surely they were the same curtains, on the same windows. That garden, that red door. He went up the step and pulled at the bell. He waited, listening, watching the front window. There was no sound. Was she in? Was she gone away? He rang again. He stood there for a full minute, beginning to doubt. It was a long, long time. Would his aunt know him? Would he recognise her?

The door opened. A short, slight woman stood looking at him. “Yes, sir?”