Winter Song (26 page)

‘Have you the form ready?'

‘Here is your form. I have not filled it in, and don't intend to. A terrible mistake has been made. I thought I had come about a sailor's pension …'

‘This is a sailor's pension—and if I may say so, many people have been glad of it.'

Mrs Fury pushed the form so violently across the counter that it slid to the floor.

‘This is only a charity,' she said, and walked out of the office.

The door quivered on its hinges after she had banged it shut.

‘All that time wasted for nothing. My God, I ought to have known the minute I saw the things on the wall. Hypocrites. I must take a tram, I must get home. I never felt so ashamed in my life. I thought it was an honourable thing.'

She hurried to the tram stop, and when the tram came, climbed in, but did not go on to the top deck. She took a seat near the door. She could hardly contain herself, she was livid with rage.

‘Imagine that!'

‘I'm glad I'm going.'

‘Never again.'

The words tore round and round in her mind. ‘So that's all that man could get—
after
all.'

‘I thought it was an honourable thing,' she repeated to herself, ‘an honourable thing.
Fancy
that man sending me to such a place.'

She was restless in her seat—it was impossible for her to conceal her anger—she glared at people—she stared stupidly through the window—she
thrust
the fare into the conductor's hand, saying snappily, ‘Bonim Road.'

But half-way home she got out. She had suddenly remembered something and, remembering it, her anger melted away at once—and she said to herself, ‘The coat for Denny. I
must
get that coat for Denny.'

Standing in front of the clothier's window, her spirits suddenly rose. Her eyes wandered about, studying hats, bright ties, overcoats. She carefully examined the contents of her purse, then entered the shop.

‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you?' the shopkeeper beamed, came forward.

She wanted an overcoat for a medium sized man, a slight man, not too cheap and not too dear, and it mustn't be too heavy. The shopkeeper showed her round, she examined the long line of overcoats, studied their texture, carried them to the light to inspect them. She rejected three offered to her by the shopkeeper. ‘They're all too loud. Something modest, perhaps a blue nap—but not too heavy.' Finally she found one to her liking, paid for it, put the coat over her arm and went out. She walked down the road, she stopped, looked carefully at her purchase. ‘This will do nicely. I'm glad I remembered that, the man has no coat at all. What a dreadful way to send a ship-wrecked man home to his own.' She caught the next tram.

‘It's been the strangest day to me. For the first time in my life I'm going back to a home that isn't mine, that I never made, and not the ghost of one of my family about save an old tired man. It makes me sad thinking of it.'

Suddenly her whole mood changed, she saw through the window of the car as through a mirror, the face of the pretty child, the faces of three young men looking down at her. ‘I enjoyed that cup of tea. Those boys were so happy, shouting and laughing out of them, it made me forget all that begrudging—but Mr Lake—that was very disappointing. I expected more from that gentleman. Imagine him saying he didn't remember the name. Ah well. I'm no worse for my little trip, and I know where the limit is now. But I did expect more. Denny was so good to that Company, he liked working for them, and now they don't even remember his name.'

‘I'll get off here,' she thought, ‘at the bottom of the road, I'll walk the rest of the way.' Seeing crowds of men hurrying by she realized for the first time how late it was.

‘He'll be gone out. I wish I could have got back earlier. He'll never forgive me for running off like that, and poor Denny worrying too.'

She was lost in the stream of people, she was one with them, moving forward with the tide, for these few fugitive minutes. She reached the house, she was glad to reach it, all of a sudden she was tired, she didn't knock, but waited for the door to open.

‘I've been out the whole day, the whole day.'

The woman saw her pass the window—now the door stood wide, the woman speaking.

‘Why, Mrs Fury, wherever did you get to? We've been terribly upset, we thought something had happened.'

‘Nothing happened,' the words fell as leaden pellets from her mouth, ‘nothing.'

‘But we've been so worried—and Mr Kilkey's gone off to work. He walked all this neighbourhood this afternoon. He thought you might have gone to the park and fallen asleep in the sun.'

‘No, I didn't go to the park. I'm sorry, I'm upset. Let me go up to my husband.'

Mrs Turner stood aside to let her pass upstairs. When she opened the bedroom door, her husband was standing up behind it, waiting, he had heard her come in.

‘Fanny! I thought you'd got lost. I was so … where on earth did you go to? Poor Joe is nearly off his head.'

‘Imagine you standing up there, waiting for me.'

She threw her arms round the old man's neck. ‘You're better, Denny. I can see you are, at last. Oh, I'm so glad, God help you, why to see you standing there, to see you out of that bed at last,' and she held him fast.

‘There!' she said, ‘sit down. Look! I got you an overcoat. You'll want an overcoat for the journey. Do try it on now …'

He waved his hand, ‘No, no—in a minute. Sit down, Fanny, you're tired. We'll have a cup of tea. Mrs Turner said she'd bring one up the moment you came in. Oh, I'm so glad you're back. I imagined all sorts of things. The postman came this afternoon. There are two letters for you, Fanny.'

Mrs Turner came in, ‘I've brought you your tea.'

She fussed round the old people, she seemed excited, she talked scrappily, rushing from one subject to another. What a nice day it had been. And the post coming like that, with those two letters, she hoped they had good news in them. And what did she think? Mr Fury had actually walked downstairs with Mr Kilkey this afternoon.

‘Denny.'

He smiled. ‘I did, but it was a time before I got up again, wasn't it, Mrs Turner?'

‘There you are. Now I'll leave you alone. I'll come in at ten o'clock. Bye-bye.'

She was gone. Mrs Fury put the overcoat over the rail of the bed. They commenced tea. The old man looked at her ‘Where
did
you go, Fanny?' he asked, he dropped his spoon, he dropped tea on his vest, he kept his eyes fixed upon her—‘I say where
did
you go, Fanny?'

‘A little walk,' she said, lowered her eyes, seemed suddenly occupied with her own tea, ‘and on the way back, it came suddenly into my head about that overcoat, so I stopped at the first shop I saw and went in, and bought that coat. It's a nice coat. I hope you like it, Denny.'

‘It's a very nice coat, thank you, Fanny. I knew the first minute you got out, you'd be up to something. But you went for more than a walk. Kilkey kept going out and coming back and coming upstairs and going down again—I thought the man would go off his head.'

She sensed here a curiosity that she did not want to grow, so turning aside she exclaimed excitedly, ‘The letters!'

‘Oh, yes,' he said, ‘open them, Fanny.'

She tore the envelopes across, her face lit up, ‘A letter from Anthony—something told me he would write,' she held it high in the air, suddenly dropped it, ‘and one from poor Peter.'

‘No! From Peter? Ah, do read his letter first,' the old man put down his cup, he reached his hand out, took the letter, ‘Well, well, that's delightful …' he handed it back to her. ‘Read it.'

‘In a moment,' she said, she leaned down to pick up the other letter, her hand shook so violently that twice it fell. Then she picked it up, squeezed it tight—‘I knew Anthony would write after Desmond sent him the telegram.'

‘Read the letter.'

D
ARNTON
P
RISON
, N
ORTHERTON
.

Tuesday.

My dear Mother
,

I got your wonderful letter and I couldn't sleep that whole night for thinking of dad back home with you at last. Oh, mother, I
am
glad. Tell me about him
—
tell me everything when you write. And tell him next time I can write, it shall be one for him specially. I'm sure everybody is glad, it's so wonderful
—
so wonderful. Mother, you say you are coming here to see me
.…

‘What's that?' interrupted the old man, but she put up her hand for silence and read on; she skipped whole passages—she did not read out to him:

but though I would love dearly to see you both, I do not wish you to come. I could not see dad, especially him, no I couldn't, mother, believe that. Go back, as you say you will. The day will come when I shall see you both
—
I shall not forget
—
they say in two years and some days if.… I might
.…

her eye ran amuck through the written words, she burst into tears, she said quietly, ‘Oh Denny, please don't ask me to read it now.' And when she looked at him she saw before her a frightened man.

‘What's the matter, Fanny?' his hand clutching her arm, ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.'

‘But there must be …'

‘I don't know. Leave be. Leave be.'

In the sudden silence he heard the rasping of the paper in her clenched fingers.

‘I understand,' he said, ‘it's all right. Would you read the other one, Fanny?'

‘In a moment.'

She searched frantically in her skirt pocket for the handkerchief, and then took his own.

‘I'm sorry I upset you, darling. I didn't mean to—I can see I really frightened you to-day. Be easy in your mind, Denny. I'll read you Anthony's, shall I?', knowing that finally he would say to her, ‘I know where you went.'

H.M.S.
Corvent
.

March 9th.

Dear Mother
,

I got your telegram. Hurrah! This is only a rushed line, we are going out on manoeuvres at ten o'clock to-night. I haven't got the time to write you a long letter, but I'll write you a long one on Sunday. How is Dad? Tell me all about him when next you write. I shan't see either of you for two whole years, but they'll fly
—
I know they'll fly. I'm happy you're leaving Gelton at last. All the years you've been promising yourself your journey home
—
to your own land. At last. Hurrah! Hurrah! When you get off the boat at Dublin, you must take the tram away up to Balls Road
—
one hundred and ninety-nine
—
don't forget, Mother, and they'll be waiting for you, my own
—
they'll be happy to see you
—
and you'll see the little grandson too. Oh Mother, it would be nice if we were all together, for one grand old time, the whole lot of us. I'm happy, I like this life. I've learned lots of things, but I'll be glad to get out of the Service just the same. Must stop. Love from your affectionate son, Anthony
.

She sat up, put the letter on the table. ‘Isn't it nice?' she said, in her husky broken voice. He opened his mouth to reply but only air came out. He held her hand tightly, she his, they stared at each other in silence that might have been moments, and might have been hours. She leaned over the table, over the untouched food, the un-drunken tea. ‘Some nice things have happened to-day.'

He nodded in reply. He wanted to ask her where she had been but now he could not. There rose in front of him a picture of his two sons whose letters lay upon the table. He saw them with violent suddenness, with a blistering vividness and he did not speak for seeing the expression upon his wife's face, he knew she was very close to them, close and fierce and warm as blood. She seemed to be holding them both in her arms. They sat on, they might have been hewn figures, neither stirred. The light began to fall. He wanted to get up, he felt cramped, but somehow he knew he dare not, he must wait a while—wait till these moments had passed. He knew she was gone from that room, that only the worn body sat on—she was miles away—in some fantastic dream.

And he was quietly smiling, holding her hand, this wreck from the sea.

Darkness came. The light of the fire threw grotesque shadows upon the wall. After a while he moved. She let go his hand he rose, he went over to the window, looked out, saw nothing save the darkness piled high without, and beyond the red reflection upon the sky—the great yards over the river, building, building ships, always more and more ships. He turned. She was still sitting there, as stone, somehow cold, he hardly heard her breathe. He came over.

‘Mrs Turner will be up at ten, and I like to be in my bed when she comes. Shall we say our prayers now?'

‘All right.'

They went to the bed, knelt.

Below, the front door had silently opened, a foot creaked upon the stairs. Mrs Turner stood without the door. Within she heard the sounds rising and falling, she could not understand them, she had heard them before, yet it seemed to her like a language she had never heard, rising and falling rhythmically, their voices as one.

‘Poor dears. It's so hard for them, having to end their days alone like this. They seem very lonely, very lost, they don't belong to these places any more. I do hope they have happy days to come.'

She knocked gently at the door. She listened. After a while she recognized the woman's faint ‘Come in.' They were both in bed. She lit a night-light for them. He could not read without spectacles, and she did not read at night at all. Mrs Turner put a glass of water on the table, the bottle with the sleeping tablets for the old man. She bent over them, they seemed to her as children.

‘I hope you'll have a good night, dears. Good-night, now, God bless you.'