Winter Song (16 page)

‘Is Desmond coming to see me again?'

‘I expect he will. Father Moynihan told me he's gone back to London. He's a very busy man.'

‘Is he very busy?'

‘Very, I should say. If he keeps on going as he is, he'll be an M.P. soon.'

‘A what?'

‘Nothing,' Kilkey said, ‘would you like me to get you a drink or anything?'

‘No thank you. How long will I be here? They took me away from Fanny last night.'

‘I know. They have their own reasons for doing things. Yes, you'll soon be out of here, thank God, and on your way,' he stopped—wondering where.

These two old people, all alone, what could one do for them, sighing for the old times, sighing for their children, ‘what can you do …? Nothing much,' he thought.

‘One day your dream will come true. The way one dreams. I used to have the oddest dreams myself, dream in bed, dream sitting in the chair—we all dream different things.'

‘Are you there?'

‘Still here,' Kilkey said, ‘but I must be off soon.'

‘Do you think Fanny dreams too much, Joe? She was a one for dreaming.'

‘Yes, I think she did,' he replied—he turned suddenly, saw the door open, ‘Well, I must be off now. Goodbye for the present. Keep your pecker up,' he said, ‘keep your pecker up, Denny.'

She was waiting for him when he came out, a letter in her hand.

‘Would you post this for me?' she walked with him to the front door, tugged on his arm, said in a fierce whisper, ‘You won't forget—you won't forget—you won't leave us here, will you, Joe?'

‘All right,' he said, ‘I'll see the letter away—no, I won't forget, Fanny, if you want it that way.'

‘Of course, I want it that way,' she said, he looked at her, thinking, ‘this is the old Fanny all right.' It pleased him to see her reassert herself—she was standing erect again after that long year. She had been so quiet, so afraid, so submissive. Something had changed her overnight.

‘Goodbye, now,' he said again.

She smiled, the door closed. ‘Now,' she thought, ‘I'll go and tell them. At last we can get away. At last.'

‘We are leaving here soon,' she said.

It was the first time she had ever visited the Mother Superior in her own room. She was struck by the absence of warmth. She noticed there was no fireplace in the room, but a small electric fire in the corner, a thin worn rug on polished boards. She stood before the desk and looked at the Mother. There was something in the calm expression which, for a moment, made her afraid.

‘Why are you leaving us? Are you unhappy?'

‘My son-in-law is going to make room for us at his own home.'

‘You are still angry because I separated you from your husband,' she said; she smiled; she could see Mrs Fury hesitating now—she said quickly, ‘Don't be afraid to tell me, dear. Don't be afraid.'

‘I was angry, but I'm sorry,' Mrs Fury said.

‘But you will eventually go to your sister—you won't remain in Gelton, will you?'

‘No, Mother—in the end we shall go.'

‘Then why not go from here? You don't think your husband could stand all this dragging about, surely. And the few days here has done him good. It's quiet he wants, lots of rest, not to be dragging about. You mustn't do it—you may lose him again.'

She could not answer that. After a while she said, pressing her fingers on the mahogany desk, ‘I wish to thank you for all you have done for us both. I was happy here. If my husband had not been spared to me I know I would have stayed. But now it's different.'

She did not interrupt, she let the woman go on.

‘It'll be a room—but it'll be with Mr Kilkey. It'll be more like home, Mother, always I was used to having my own house—and now somehow.…' she hesitated, then said quickly ‘I can't get close enough to my husband. I want to be very close to him now. He needs me. There is only us now. I realize it at last. I refused to. I thought somehow we can have the old things back. I thought of my two boys coming home. But now it's just silly, they're gone on me—they're lost. The other son who came here, he doesn't really love us, he helps, he always did, but somehow I've thought a little real affection would be nicer than any amount of money. He may come again, he may not. But I don't care, we don't care. He can go his own way. You understand, Mother?'

She saw the nun bow her head. After a silence she replied, ‘It is your responsibility.'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘You are quite determined to go?'

‘Yes, Mother. Our minds are made up. Now I have my husband, it is my duty to do so.'

‘He agrees to this?'

She had not expected this question, but was ready with her answer. ‘I know he will when I tell him.'

‘Very well, dear, it's as you wish. But I think it very unwise for either of you to go at present.'

‘Thank you, Mother. I'll tell him. I'd like to thank all the other nuns, too,' she said. ‘Can I go and see my husband now?'

‘As you wish.' The Mother Superior got up, she caught the woman's arm and led her across to the window.

‘You will find all that very strange,' she said, she waved her hand, embracing view and sea, ships, tall buildings. ‘You will feel lost, both of you. Let me say again that I am sorry you have made this decision.'

‘I know.'

They walked back to the door, and as she showed the woman out, she said, ‘There is also the doctor.'

‘I know. I shall see him, too.'

‘He may disagree with you.'

She did not reply, but her mind sang out ‘I don't care. I don't care. We are going now.'

She had greatly admired this tall, dignified figure, she had really loved her, she had clung to her as to a rock. She had shared empty days with her, those long lonely nights when the desert expanded before her eyes and her whole family vanished over the horizon. She had given her hope. She had buoyed up the spirit. She thought of the nun as she turned away from the door. How kind she had been, even in moments of insult, when her eldest son had come there, with his horrible manners, making her ashamed of him—his hatred of these good people—she remembered that, and yet in a moment it was washed away by the single thought of what she had done the night before. She could not forget this, she seemed determined not to forget it. It had seemed so harmless and innocent to her, sitting there in the quiet of the night, talking to him in the old way. And now, as she went away she could not prevent herself from having the last word.

‘I was only talking to him about the old days,' she said, and went off down the corridor.

‘Denny.'

And he recognized the voice, opened his eyes, ‘You've come. I'm glad you've come. I'm glad, Fanny.'

‘They fussed—they kept me away from you last night because they said I was tiring you out. Did I tire you, Denny—with all my silly talk?—perhaps I did, but I do want to be with you now more than ever I wanted in my whole life. In your way you've done your best and were good to me. It's so nice sitting here, looking at you. I said to myself last night, “He's in there, he's alive, he's all right”.

‘You are all right, Denny—I mean, you will get better, you won't go and die on me again? I couldn't pray that old day—I couldn't, and I've been ashamed ever since—me what was always praying for the lot of you.'

‘You're all right,' he said, ‘you're all right. Stay here now. I'm better to-day. I know I am. The Mother said I am. I slept all the night.'

He looked at his wife—he smiled weakly, but she did not see that—only the man changed by the sea.

‘There's something you'll have to know,' he said, ‘maybe you know already—maybe them people have told you already …' he seemed suddenly shy, ‘perhaps you know already.'

‘Know what?'

‘The doctor said I can't work any more. It shocked me. What'll I do now, Fanny, I'm only sixty-eight? I didn't believe him—I said to meself, “Ah—that's what you think, but I will, I will”.'

‘No, dear, you won't—not ever again—you're finished with all that now, God help you.'

He looked at her helplessly, he stammered, ‘But what'll I do? I always worked, didn't I? What'll I do?'

‘Nothing,' she said, ‘nothing.'

‘You're crying.'

‘I'm not.'

‘You are, Fanny. Did I upset you saying that? I'm sorry, indeed I am. Sure it was a terrible thing for that man to say to me, he couldn't be knowing at all, the way I've always worked.'

‘You can't work for ever—what's got into your mad old head, Denny—it's not that awful sea again.' She gripped his arm, afraid, ‘you're not going off again, are you? But he said you're finished—and you're finished. Isn't that enough? Be easy, Denny, be easy. We won't want and I don't want to think about anything now 'cept you're alive and breathing, and saying my name again with your old voice.'

‘But what'll I do? Not working any more. You don't understand. Didn't I work all my life?'

‘Nothing,' she said, again, ‘nothing … Tell me—what did that creature say to you? That awful man who mocks at good people because they're good. What did Desmond say?'

‘Not much,' the old man said.

‘He may come here again, he may, but we'll be gone. Think of it, Denny. Away, you and me together, very close at last.'

‘Where are we going? To some fine home you built for me last night?'

‘We're going very soon now. Don't ask me where—you'll see—you'll see, and before long we'll be moving along. I'll be taking you to see Peter. Just think of that!'

‘When I heard about that, I simply cried—I never did much. I don't suppose I've cried once in my whole life.'

‘Never fear—what you save up will be there one fine day when the need comes—remember that.'

He looked at her, out of that ashen-grey, drawn face. ‘I don't understand.'

‘All the better. Just think of this. We're going away. That's all. We had bad times, but we had good ones, and we'll have them again, you poor battered old creature. I'll make up to you for everything. I'll get you better. I'll
make
you well,' she had put her arms round him, had heaved him up, and now stared down into the hollow cheeks, the too bright eyes. ‘I'll do everything now, every little thing, every hand's turn will be for you; the way I think of you tossin' in that sea—and my name in your mouth as a living breath that was touching at me all the time—ah, it was good of you to remember me then. I don't care nothing now—nothing about anything 'cept you. The children are gone—let me go. We'll live our lives without them, and I'll make some happy days again. Sure I never thought you'd be here,
never
, and you coming on the tip of the moment like that, and me not meeting you, and the place all dusty and gone, and never a door for you to walk into, after all that journey across the world, back to me again. Why I could see every year of your fifty rising like these walls, high over the sea that nearly took you.'

She hugged him close. ‘Don't mind me crying,' she said, ‘don't mind nothing at all. Be done, be close, you poor shaky creature of a man. There! There! We'll be happy again, please God.'

‘Did the children ever ask after me?' he asked.

‘What a silly thing to say, of course they did. They always did—though Desmond never seemed to care what happened to anybody except himself.'

‘You're very bitter, Fanny. You always were from the day he ran off and got married. See where it has got you,' and he looked at her as though to say ‘and where it has got us all.'

She was so surprised by this that she was unable to answer. She realized now that something was happening, that this frail creature on the bed was beginning to assert himself.

‘You should not have said that, even though I own to it. No, that was not a nice thing to say to me, Denny, when there's only us now. Don't you see?'

She switched to more practical subjects. ‘Won't you be getting a pension from them people?'

‘What people?'

‘Why, the shipping people, who else?'

‘I might—I might not. I don't expect anything. Let me alone now. I want to lie down.'

‘There!' she said, arranging pillows under his head.

‘Leave me be,' he said, ‘just leave me be.' She went out of the room and thought to herself how true his words were—he was right—‘I've been bitter all along, and yet for all he knows of it, he might have done better for himself than living in a fo'csle all his life. Oh, God,' she sighed, ‘I be trying to break away from all the old things—I do try to forget, thinking of him just as he is, but I know he'll never forgive me for not having a little place to come back to—why fancy him thinking so hard on a little thing like that, me coming down to the docks to meet him off the ship. Oh, but I wish he were stronger, I wish to God he were an upright man again. I'd forgive him everything. I'd even forgive the days when he thought of nothing except himself and many an hour drunk away on folly.'

Back in the room, she stood by the door, long after it had closed behind her. She felt caged, unable to move. She told herself nothing would come right until they were out of here, until they were alone together and nothing would move. She could see the nuns fussing around his bed, watching her door at night—how determined they were that they should not be together—how unkind it was, why her being there helped him—she understood him, nobody else did.

‘We'll have our own little room with Kilkey, we'll be alone—shut away, left alone, safe at last.'

She braced up under the thought and sat down and wrote to her son in China. They were going back to Ireland, after the long years away. His aunt who had always liked him better than any of the children had made a place for them. Perhaps they would be able to travel down to Dublin and see his wife, and that pretty child. She hoped he wrote regularly to his brother at Northerton, she hoped he attended to his religious duties. She hoped he was well and being a good naval man. He would certainly get a good job when he came out.…