Winter Song (6 page)

‘Yes. It's nice having this great window here, Sister Angelica, many an hour I have a fine time looking out. I can see them ships go moving down towards a far sea.'

‘Yes, it's nice to look out and see the river,' the nun says, all the time watching the woman, remembering her arrival here, the waiting, the hoping.

Each morning the same questions: ‘Any news, Sister Angelica?'

Gravely the young nun would shake her head. Weeks passed, months.

‘You ought not to worry so much, you must try not to worry, Mrs Fury. If he is to come he'll come.'

‘He was a good man.'

‘I'm sure he was.'

‘I might have done better by him.'

‘There's no use in going over that now.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘You are very lucky to be here,' says Sister Angelica, and the woman nods her head. She leans forward.

‘The priest was very nice about it. I try not to be in the way. I know what goes on outside this room.'

She has heard the sound of wheels grinding on the gravel path, she has seen the gentleman in black. Beyond the door she has heard the whispering, the occasional moan, the grace of life departing. Her residence here has been much disputed, but one afternoon the Mother Superior visits her, she is reassuring.

‘You can stay. It is most unusual, of course, but there did just happen to be this room. You are no trouble to us.'

‘Thank you, Mother.'

‘But you must try to get out more than you do. Now Thursday is the day the Sisters go out shopping. Sisters Philomena and Domenica go down to the town—you could go with them. It would do you good.'

‘I'm quite content, Mother, quite content.'

'All the same you must go out oftener than you do. It's not good for you to be in all the time.'

‘Yes, Mother,' the woman replies.

She will think about it. She goes out once, but is not asked again. She had not enjoyed it. ‘Seeing all those people hurrying by made me feel more lonely,' she says, ‘and besides I've walked many a mile and covered most stones in Gelton.'

They leave her alone.

But always at seven o'clock in the evening, she is ready to join the small congregation for the Benediction. Sometimes she has her supper in the great kitchen, this she looks on as a great privilege, sitting eating amongst the good people. They know she lies awake in her bed and does not sleep very well. Her children, though far away, are sometimes very near to her. Her love for the youngest often leaps to the cold north and over the high walls that separate him from her. She dreams of the husband who does not come back. She cries quietly, remembering him. A whole year gone and still there is silence. ‘It's too late now,' her old mouth trembling, ‘it should never have happened.'

She often thinks of the afternoon when the news came, ‘I put my hat and coat on and all the time I wasn't believing a word of what that telegram said and I went right out of that house, and I left the door wide open and I never went back to close it. Poor Denny, tossing about in the sea that day, and me going out after news of him and forgetting to close that front door, but perhaps something in me knew I wouldn't be going back there.'

Two days later Joseph Kilkey has called.

‘Why have you done this thing?'

‘I couldn't be bothered with anything any more. We had a lot of homes, one time and another. We shifted about. But one home is just like another one. I couldn't be bothered about anything any more, not after that, not after he was gone, and well gone, God help him, he was everything to me. I couldn't even be bothered to go back and shut the door. I thought why that office where the news lies is only across the road, I'll be out for a minute or two, and then I forgot all about that door till after I came in here, out of which place I don't want to go, being peaceful after all that noise and that shouting that hard afternoon. I didn't know how tired I was till they put me to bed.'

Joseph Kilkey is bewildered, saddened by this. He sees the Mother Superior.

‘I can't understand it,' he says, ‘a crazy thing for her to have done. Why she simply walked out of the house, leaving that door wide open for anybody to walk in and steal the few bits of things she has there.'

‘She won't go back. You had better see to the matter of her furniture.'

‘But I don't think you understand, Mother, if you'll pardon me. Why, she has a family of her own and her own place. That's a big thing to break up in a single afternoon.'

‘Nevertheless Mr Kilkey, I think you had better do something about the furniture. She won't make any more homes, I know that. Something has gone out of her life.'

‘Ah, I know, it's hard indeed,' says Kilkey, ‘very hard.'

‘Well then?'

But Kilkey has nothing to say, he remains silent.

‘And yet it's too early to give up hope. Anything may happen.'

‘She feels he's gone—in her very bones she feels it, they were married fifty years almost.'

‘A lifetime.'

‘Yes,' Kilkey says, ‘a whole lifetime to come to this. Headstrong woman she was and, God forgive me, but when she thought she was doing her best, she was doing her worst. If she'd looked after her husband better than she did, it might have been a different tale. She drove all her children away. I married her only daughter, I know. She was stupid. She's raving about her husband now he's gone, and might have done better by him when she had him …'

‘I think you had better go, too,' the Mother Superior says, and Mr. Kilkey goes at once.

But during the long journey home in the tram he remembers the things he has said, and cannot forgive himself.

‘I should never have said it—it was cruel.'

But back at the White House, the woman has already forgotten him, here where nothing begins and everything ends.

‘It is true then,' the Mother Superior said, and she saw Father Moynihan nod his head.

‘It's a miracle,' she said, ‘a miracle—the old creature had given him up. Where is he now?'

‘He is with Father Twomey at the Bethel. May I use your telephone?' he asked.

‘Of course.'

‘How strange,' she thought, ‘how strange. It was the last thing I ever expected. Now I think that woman will go.'

She could hear the priest speaking, he seemed somewhat agitated.

‘But you can keep him twenty-four hours,' Father Moynihan said, and the other replied ‘He ought to go into hospital to-day.'

‘Not without his wife's consent! Please leave him there for the present. I will arrange for his removal.'

‘Very well. Men are waiting for beds.'

‘I know. I've told you I'll have him removed to-morrow. But his wife must see him.' He came back to the sparsely furnished sitting-room.

‘I let those people have a piece of my mind this morning. Perfectly disgusting. It seems
nobody
heard of this man's rescue—
nobody
was told anything—
nobody
knew he was arriving here, and then that awful journey with those drunken sailors. Father Twomey thought the old man drunk at first, but he was just ill, very ill.'

‘You recognized him?'

‘Of course. He is disfigured, he is a changed man—he's gone
very
old—a child. He'll never see the sea again. It seems he was torpedoed on two occasions within ten days. A strange experience. But you realize that the moment you look at him. It was most difficult. Sometimes he becomes quite incoherent, he can follow you for a while, then he loses all contact, his mind is chaos, and yet he talked of home. He mentioned her. He wanted her. He was dreadfully disappointed that she had not come. What was he doing there, he wanted to go home. That was the hardest part. Telling him there was no longer a home in existence. He blanched—he couldn't believe it. He broke down altogether. I came away. It was pitiful. Have you told her yet?'

‘I shall tell her in an hour, immediately after the Service.'

‘Good! Good. I think it is better that you should do so, Mother, rather than me.'

‘I shall manage her. It'll shock—but I'll be happy giving her the news.'

‘I have already telegraphed to the one available son who is in London. No doubt he will arrive to-morrow. Although he could never stand his mother, he loved his father, and always stood by him. A curious thing, old Fury remembered the day of his going, he said even on that day, sailing away God knows where, his wife and he had had high argument over something or other, one of the children, of course. They were always fighting like cats over their children. I shall write to the youngest boy. Tell me, when did the old woman last see him?'

‘It must be six months ago,' said the Mother Superior. ‘It was very upsetting for her, and after what Sister Monica told me, I did not allow her to go again. It wasn't so much the long journey as the shock of seeing him there.'

‘It was that child who split the family asunder. The mother was so determined to possess one utterly, the poor lad simply hadn't the vocation, nor had she the means to do it. It was disastrous. It involved so much. The husband's savings went up like smoke, stolen by her—they were never the same again. The little money meant so much to him and he had to work so hard for it. This fanatical favouritism drove the others away. She got tied up with moneylenders—she involved her son-in-law in legal proceedings—she married the daughter to him, not because he was handsome or clever or had money, but simply because he was, in her eyes, a good man. For once she was right. But after a few months the daughter ran away from him. As you know she has never been heard of since. Then the eldest son ran off and left her: they all
hated
the mother in her insane ambition. He married out of the Church and gloated about it. Some quite unknown family from across the water. I've never heard of the people myself, except that I understand they were well respected where they lived. The other son went into the Navy. This woman was truly caught, hand and foot, heart and soul. She was quite carried away by her iron determination to have her way. Finally, it drove the old man back to sea—a thing she had always dreaded—she had a horror of the sea. Her father had been a sea captain at one time. She made this journey towards her goal in perfect secrecy, she communicated to no one. What one expected happened. The boy ran away from the seminary, to which he should never have been sent. The eldest son kept clear, he
never
came near her—I think he was really afraid of her. Almost everything she put her hand to crumbled to pieces. Her husband was living at home, doing nothing—he was, to some extent, worthless, he had no discipline and little character. But she got him away to sea—she couldn't bear the sight of him after the disappointment. She climbed a mountain of debt, all with the same secrecy. Nobody knew. But a time for a settlement came, and when it did come she found herself without a husband behind her, her three children gone, indifferent and not caring. The rest, you know.'

‘It seems to have been a struggle for nothing, after all.'

‘Waste,' Father Moynihan said—‘waste.'

‘But they will be together again. That is all that matters,' the Mother Superior said.

‘Yes, that's true. Tell me, Mother, who has been keeping her here all this long year?'

‘Her eldest son. He is generous with money, but not with affection. I found him rather amusing on the only occasion he ever came. He was so—shall I say, out of place—he was so clumsy, hardly any manners, boorish, and that steel-like determination you find in ignorance. He was vilely antireligious—it really horrified me.'

‘She was to blame for that, the foolish woman. Well, I must be away. I shall have to tell this man Kilkey to-night. Meanwhile, you will give her the news. This having no home does make it awkward. You know, Mother, I would if I were you, try to persuade her to get in touch with her only sister. She lives alone in that big house in the Mall. I am sure she would make a home for them. Mr Fury has no living relations in Mayo now. Indeed, I think it would be an excellent idea if you wrote to her yourself. You have her address?'

‘A Miss Mangan. Yes, I have it, Father Moynihan,' she got up and accompanied him out.

At the door she said ‘You have been very good indeed.'

‘Thank you, Mother. Good-night to you.'

‘Good-night.'

She did not waste any time. And she found Mrs Fury in her bed. She was awake, looking up at the ceiling, she seemed hardly to notice the woman in the room, who now sat down.

‘Good-evening to you,' she said, smiling, ‘and what kind of a day have you had to-day?'

The woman turned her head. ‘Oh,' she said, ‘I'm so glad you've come. I was afraid.'

The Mother Superior sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Afraid of what, dear?'

‘I don't know. Just afraid. I expect. I was dreaming. I went to bed early, I couldn't eat any supper. I felt I couldn't eat it. I must have dozed off to sleep. Sometimes I'm afraid to fall asleep, Mother—the dreams. I have such awful dreams.'

‘What do you dream, dear?' She removed stray wisps of hair from off the woman's eyes.

There was no answer.

‘Perhaps you were dreaming of him, my child,' the Mother Superior said.

‘No, not him. God keep him. I used to—I used to night after night. But not now.'

‘Are you unhappy about something, then?'

‘I'm so lonely,' the woman said—‘nobody comes.'

It was the first time she had heard the woman complain.

‘But you have friends, dear—you should not feel like that. That man Kilkey comes once a week and last Sunday Father Moynihan came. And I know Sister Angelica always has tea with you on Wednesdays.…'

The woman's hand had stolen from under the bedclothes; it sought and found the other's hands.

‘I've lived a long time for nothing.'