Winter Song (15 page)

Suddenly the pen had dropped from her hand. She shut her eyes for a moment.

‘That's made me tired,' she said and sat staring at what she had written.

‘I must post this to-day,' she said to herself, ‘I must post this to-day.'

She picked up the pen.

Till I see you, Son, and Christ keep you
.

Your affectionate mother, F.F
.

She folded the letter, sealed and stamped it. She glanced at the clock. ‘He'll be here soon,' she said. She sat looking out through the window, watching, watching. How the minutes dragged when you were waiting like this. ‘But he shouldn't be long now—no, I'm sure he won't be long. I waited in the bad times and a good creature he was, killing his own sleep to come along here, every week without fail, just to sit and talk with me. God forgive me, the things I've said about him in my time and yet something told me from the very first that he was a staunch man. He kept his word. Oh, I feel miserable sometimes, thinking of the trouble I put him to.'

She fixed her eyes on the iron gate. She counted minutes, the clock ticked in her head. ‘There he is,' her mind cried, ‘there he is. Why, there is nothing like seeing a face you know so well.'

She stood up, watched the broad shouldered, serge-suited man cross the road and push open the gate. ‘Always the same—that man never wears anything different.'

There he was, through the gate, she turned from the window, ready to meet him—her ear listening for the bell. She heard the door open, heard voices, there he was.

‘How are you, Joe? I'm glad to see you to-day. Right glad to see you. Do sit down.'

She glanced at Sister Angelica who had brought him—she smiled a silent ‘thank you'.

‘Well, and how are you, Fanny?' Kilkey asked, his big hand encircling her own.

‘I'm fairly well, thank God, and you?'

‘Fair,' he said, ‘fair. It's nice out to-day. I wonder you wouldn't be out in the garden.'

He put his bowler hat on the chair—whenever he removed his hat, she always looked at the scar on his face, her eyes were drawn to it, ‘a pitiful thing to have treated a good man like that,' she thought, remembering the day they had taken him away from his home.

‘And how is Denny? Is he mending at all?'

She looked at the strong brown hands, the weather-beaten face. ‘He's much better now. Oh, I'm glad to say it. This morning he ate something, though the poor man was sick afterwards. But he's mending. Sure, all he wants is plenty of good food and a little kindness, and he doesn't wander so much in his mind. One time I'd be talking to him about why I was here and how sick I was of everything that day I came, and I'd be telling him about what we were going to do—and all the time he was away from me—miles and miles away from me.'

He noticed a pallor about her that he had not seen before, he noticed the shakiness of her voice.

‘But he's mending now? I can see him, I hope. There's things I want to say to Denny.'

‘In a minute they'll come and take you to him. Why, I didn't tell you, did I, how they took him away from me last night, because they said I was worrying him with too much talk? I felt hurt—sure it was a harmless bit of talk—only about old times.'

Kilkey looked down at the floor boards, ‘the old times. Oh dear! I can imagine what she talked about.'

When he looked up, he found her watching him, watching him closely. He said suddenly, ‘You seem nervy to-day, Fanny. Now, I do hope you're not worrying about anything. Don't. I advise you. Be thankful for the mercy shown you—and forget the old times. They are rotted away and finished. By the way, did I tell you, Cornelius Delaney came to see me to-day.'

She was all attention.

‘That Vincent de Paul gentleman, why he came once to see me—a real gentleman indeed—why it's him who arranges for me to see Peter. I wrote to him yesterday …'

‘There's nothing at all,' Kilkey said, and she saw the changed expression on his face, and as he spoke, she seemed to hear the words fall from his mouth, as heavy as stone, to shatter themselves against the walls of the room.

‘He had some men searching through Yorkshire, and they did give him a bit of news, that was that one of the men, not the one Maureen ran off with, but the older one, they had word he was dead—he died in a Yorkshire workhouse.'

‘And nothing of her at all?' she asked—the other meaning nothing to her, who was nothing—‘Nothing of her?'

Kilkey shook his head.

‘Oh dear me. I feel so ashamed that she should have done this. Tell me, Joe, why do you think she did it?'

She came over to him, she knelt down by his chair, ‘Why have they done these things? Everyone of them has run and left me.'

He said slowly, ‘I … don't know.'

He drew himself up. ‘Enough of that. How soon can I see Denny?' he asked.

He moved from side to side of the chair—she saw how impatient he was, something had upset him.

‘I won't talk about them things any more,' she said.

It seemed to quiet him. He then said, ‘I'm glad of that.'

She took his hand, ‘You've been the kindest creature, why the way I could rely on you, Joe Kilkey, you have been a good man to me, and will be still, I know, spite of the fact that the only daughter I had left you and spoiled your life, and I know you'll go on helping—but listen now—for I have to say this, and sound you—there'll be an end of it, yes—soon we'll bother you no more—Denny and me.'

He looked at her with great surprise, ‘What now, Fanny,' he said, ‘another plan?' and he laughed. He was glad when she, too, laughed.

‘Take us away from here,' she said, ‘that's all I want now, just for a while, just for a little while. Soon we'll bother nobody, but take us out of this—and right away—please help us.'

‘But I thought you were happy here.'

‘I was till to-day. But now I want to do things. I want to get out. I want to take my husband with me. No, don't look at me like that, Mr Kilkey, don't be afraid. I've made you that promise and I'll keep it. We'll go, soon enough. I had a letter from Brigid this day. She will let us live with her. One time I would have refused. I was always an independent woman …'

‘Too independent.'

‘But now, I've learned a lot all these months, and I'll know how to be thankful. I told you the last time you came that I would go and take him away with me.'

‘I'm glad to hear that,' he said. ‘Glad to hear it, Fanny.'

‘Well then, will you take us away, Denny and me—to your own place—just for a few little days, the while I make the plans for us?'

He sat looking at her, bewildered, he wondered what lay behind this sudden request, so sudden and, what surprised him, so urgent, so desperately urgent. He could only ask what had happened.

‘Nothing—nothing at all, but it just came to me, that's all. We mustn't stay here any more, not two of us. Oh, they've helped us, they've been goodness all over. It's just that I want to get out.'

‘Have you told Denny this? What'll he say? Besides they may not allow him to be moved.'

‘You won't help us then?' she said.

‘Now, I never said I wouldn't, but I must think of it, Fanny, I
must
. I want to help you. Why, don't I want you to get over there to your own place, the two of you, and end all the waiting and this hovelling about, and this awful talk of the old times which mean nothing any more. You see I live alone—it's true, I've a home of sorts, but only me in the house. What could I do? In bed all day, working all night.'

‘I could look after you both,' she said. ‘It's only for a few days. I can't get near Denny here, my own husband—they took him away 'cause of me tiring him with the talk …'

‘You've told me that already. Now listen—if you want to come with me, you can surely come, both of you, but you'll have to talk it over with the Mother Superior, with the doctor—and what about Denny? Why, he's so weary—that last time I came here …'

‘I'll see them. I'll see them this evening. I'll tell him, dear Joe,' she said and flung her arms round his neck.

‘Why,' he said, startled, not by the passionate, furious embrace, but by the hard fact of an old man, worn out, lying in the next room.

‘It might have a bad effect on him,' he said, ‘I'm sure you should wait a little.'

But he knew she would not—he saw the desperateness crying out of her as she held him. He freed himself at last.

‘All right,' he said, ‘let me do this. I'll see the Mother and the doctor.'

He wagged a finger at her, ‘And don't you go interfering and don't say anything. I know you, Fanny, you change your mind so quickly. By God, if you change your plans about Cork now,' he paused for a moment—‘why I'll finish with you. I'll never come again.' She knew he meant it.

Sister Angelica came in. ‘Mr Kilkey,' she said, ‘will you come along now, please.'

‘Thank you, Sister.'

He felt the powerful clutch on his hand as he got up. He looked at the woman.

‘I won't forget, Fanny,' he said. ‘I'll get you out, both of you, if that'll make you happy.' He left her staring, holding on to the chair—her words floated after him.

‘Thank you, Joe.'

They had drawn the curtains so that he could not distinguish the figure in the bed, and he was further surprised to find the old man in a half-sitting position. He was watching them both, he had been expecting this visitor. He wondered why Joseph Kilkey had not at once crossed to his bed. He saw him standing by the nun, but he could not hear what they were saying.

‘The curtains, Sister,' Mr Kilkey said, ‘I can barely see the old man.'

‘We drew them because he screamed when he saw the sea. We could not understand at first, the doctor thought it was just the light in his eyes, but now we know better,' she replied.

She left him and closed the door quietly after her.

‘Is that Kilkey?'

It startled him. He hurried over, taking a chair with him. He said softly, ‘It's me.'

‘They let me sit up,' he said. ‘I asked them and they let me sit up, but they shut the curtains.'

‘They know best. How are you to-day?' asked Mr Kilkey. He saw the shape of the face in a half light.

‘I'm getting better. I sometimes wake them up at night. I can't see you.'

‘I'm here all right,' Kilkey said, the old man's hand in his own. ‘You're getting better.'

‘Is Fanny all right?'

‘She's all right.'

‘She didn't come last night. I was waiting for her. The sister said she was asleep.'

‘Pathetic,' thought Kilkey.

‘They know best. They want you both to get all the rest you can. Fanny is tired, too, just like you.'

‘Is she really?'

‘Yes, very tired. She can't believe it yet—she keeps saying to me, “he's in there—Denny's in there”.'

‘Poor Fanny,' the old man said. ‘Did you see my son?'

Kilkey smiled—he wondered for a moment whether Mr Fury could see him smiling.

‘Which one, you've so many?' he asked.

‘Desmond. He came. He's a big man, isn't he, biggish?'

‘He was always a big man—in every way.'

‘He was nice to me. I wish his mother liked him more. He's a good simple man, like me. He knows what he wants. I never did.'

‘No, no, Denny, you're quite wrong. It was Fanny who never knew what she wanted.'

‘Didn't she know?'

‘I don't think so. She does now. I've just seen her. She pleased me. She's getting to be her old self again. She worries a lot.'

‘It was sad about little Peter. They told me.'

‘It was indeed.'

‘I'm going to see him.'

‘Of course you are, and he'll be so pleased to see you. I write him once a month. He can write one letter each month, sometimes he writes to me.'

‘I expect he's altered a lot.'

‘I expect he has.'

‘I'd like to see all them children again.'

‘You will.'

He always felt uncomfortable sitting like this, talking, answering the old man's questions. He wondered if he was tiring the old man out. ‘But no, in any case they'll come along and pull me out.'

‘Denny.'

He saw the head move, the old man's eyes on him.

‘You'll soon be out of this,' Kilkey said, ‘very soon. You'll be fine and strong again, and Fanny and you'll be happy again, never fear.'

‘D'you think so?'

‘I do indeed.'

‘Really.'

‘
Really,
' he said, thinking, ‘like talking to a tiny little boy.'

‘Do you think I done my best by them all?'

‘You did your best, you can do no more. Tell me when you want me to go. I don't want to tire you.'

The old man did not answer.

‘There were a lot of things one time I didn't like, and then after a bit I thought, “they're little things, it doesn't matter,” and so I forgot them, bits of things Fanny done on me, you know, Joe.'

‘I know,' Kilkey said, without knowing.

‘'Cept the one thing—you remember them savings I had hid away, and then she took them for the boy to keep him at the college …'

‘I don't remember all that,' said Kilkey, remembering with a blistering vividness.

‘Soon I'll forget that too.'

‘You've forgot it already, Denny. I was hoping the sea had washed all that old stuff away.'

‘Will you tell her I want her? When you go out, will you tell her I want her?'

‘Of course I will. Now listen,' Kilkey said—but suddenly he was silent.

‘No, I'd better not talk about it. I'll leave her to explain it all.'