Winter Song (45 page)

“Begging,” he muttered, “that's it. I don't like the look of him.” He kept the two men in sight, and saw them stop outside the telephone kiosk. He watched the man go in, the railwayman holding the door. He heard the man speaking.

“Much obliged.”

The man shut himself in, the railwayman went off down the street. The policeman was outside the box in an instant, waiting. He saw the man inside do two things: he stared through each of the three windows, then he turned his back and picked up the large directory. This he slowly paged, his finger moving up and down. “Tilseys, that's T,” the man said, he turned to the T's again. “Must be here—no, might not have a telephone—damn and blast it. Where is this place? I know. D stands for damn, that's what it is. Damn!” he cried into the box, and then a sudden noise made him turn round. The door was open, the policeman's hand on the handle. His own trembled, and the directory crashed to the floor, and as he stooped to pick it up, he banged his head against the steel coin-box. He dropped it twice again before putting it back on the shelf.

“I was looking for the letter T,” he blurted out.

He left the box, stood to his full height. His cap fell off, the policeman noticed the head and said brusquely, “When?”

“This morning.”

“How long in?”

“Fifteen years and four days.”

“Oh! Come on out of that box and let's have a look at you.”

The man, who had suddenly backed into the doorway again, now came right forward. Two passers-by stopped, they were interested.

“Get along,” said the policeman. “None of your business. Be off.”

They went on, but continued to turn round. They wanted drama. They wanted to see the handcuffs put on. He had just come out, now he was going in again. Higher up the street they stopped. On a miserable winter morning a little drama could be exciting.

“Turn out your pockets. If I think everything's O.K., I'll let you go, if not, then I won't. See? I'm no bloodhound, mister, never was. Fair's fair.”

He watched the man draw the papers from his pocket, half of which clouded to the ground.

“H'm! I see,” said the policeman, stooping to pick them up. “Hands not too steady, eh?”

“I was standing outside when the car came up. I was just—trying to plan things, trying to—Prisoner's Aid—run you where you want to go.”

“He did, did he?”

“I said,' Leave me alone.' He gave me these two envelopes.
These
. One had five shillings in it.”

“It did, did it?”

“The other held this slip of paper. I'm looking for Tilseys. I was searching in the directory just now as you came up.”

It came out in a frenzied, frightened flood. “I was just looking under the T's, Tilseys, pub or café, I expect——”

“You were, were you?”

The policeman had gone mercilessly through the papers, then he made them into a tidy heap and returned them to the man.

“Thought you was begging, thought you might rifle the box.” His sudden loud chuckle surprised the man. “All right. I know. I understand. Tilseys.
I
know where Tilseys is. Write down the address for you.”

He tore a sheet from his notebook. “Now then,” he said, directing as he wrote. “Take a 19a at the top of this street, tell the conductor to drop you at the corner of Richmond Street, just walk up on your left, and there it is. Simple, isn't it? It's a tearooms for old women, run by old women, never seen a man in the place yet, a lot of old spinsters go there, got religion bad they say, I wouldn't know. But everything's as sweet as sweet. There,” watching the hand tremble, “I'm no bloodhound, never was.” He drew clear of the box and the man came away from it.

“Good luck, mate,” he said, and walked off down the street, then turned quickly and called, “and keep out of mischief, and you'll be all right.”

“At last. Tilseys. I've found it.”

“When one's just out then another's just in,” reflected the policeman.

The window was covered with steam. Through it he had a blurred vision, the outlines of chairs and tables, a sickly-looking yellow light. He pushed open the door. The loud clang of the bell made him jump. He saw a line of hats and heads, and the air was alive with the brightest kind of chatter. There was a strong smell of toast and scones, and clouds of steam when teapot lids were raised. He saw feminine fingers stirring vigorously at the contents. A girl came up to him.

“Is this Tilseys?” he asked, keeping the door open with his foot; he looked everywhere but at the girl.

“This is Tilseys,” she replied, and was quite astonished when he turned his back on her, and went out again. He banged the door after him, and made off for the narrow alley that was flanked by high buildings.

“Keel Row,” he thought. “No, don't remember Keel Row.” Slowly he retraced his steps. He passed a moneylender's office, with heavy lettering on the bright, frosted glass. He passed a ship's chandler, a saddler's, a pawnshop, a draper. He opened the door again, and went inside. The air still hummed with conversation. The same girl came up again. He noticed her russet-coloured hair, her spotless linen apron.

He was nervous, afraid to look at her. He spoke quickly. “An appointment, gentleman waiting to see me. Don't know him. Begins with D.”

He stared at her so intently that she backed away.

“Yes?”

He had to bend down to speak. He whispered, “The name is Fury.”

“Oh! I see.” She paused, then said hurriedly, “Yes, I know. This way, sir.”

She piloted him along between the tables and chairs. People kept looking up, the tongues had ceased to wag, the atmosphere became conspiratorial. The man smelt the freshly-ground coffee.

“Now I'll know who D is. Wonder who? Hiding,” he thought. “You could hide here,” and under his breath he exclaimed, “Safe.”

“This way, please.” They went upstairs, soundlessly, the carpet was inches thick, a bright red. They stopped at a door, a dark corridor, but the smell of toast and scones was everywhere. The girl looked back at him.

“It's Mr. Delaney you want,” she said. “He's in there. I'll knock.”

Her smile dazzled him. “Thank you.”

“A Mr. Fury to see Mr. Delaney,” she said.

There was a croak from within. “Come in.”

They looked into the room. It was dark, stuffy, they saw nothing. “Mr. Delaney sees everybody here,” she whispered to the man.

“Delaney, Delaney, what does a man named Delaney want with me?”

“Go in now,” she said, and gave him a slight push.

The door closed behind him, he stepped into the darkness. The moment it closed on him he was seized with a frantic desire to get out, and he rushed back and began rattling at the knob. If only she had stayed. She had been so warm, friendly, smiling at him, piloting him so carefully past all those women in the café.

“Won't you sit down. I'll put on the light. I often sit in the dark, sometimes for half an hour at a time. Find it helps my eyes.” The light came on.

The visitor looked about him. He saw in a far corner, seated in a black, high-backed chair, behind an enormous mahogany desk, an old man. He croaked again. “Draw up your chair, sir.” The man picked up the chair and went forward.

“Sit down.”

The old man rose to his feet. Now he appeared taller than his tall visitor. He wore a huge Ulster, somewhat frayed, and worn away at cuff and elbow. The large head was covered with iron-grey hair. The small mouth seemed out of place in the long face. “I am glad you came.”

The mouth shut tight, and two bright, intelligent-looking eyes sized up the visitor. The man had seated himself, his hands resting idly on his knees. The pool of weak light now fully encircled the two men, the rest of the room was drowned in shadow. Somewhere in this room a clock struck loudly. The heavy curtains were drawn across the big bay windows.

“You may not have heard of me, but I have heard of you.” Mr. Delaney sat forward, hands on the desk, the contents of which were now being minutely noted by his visitor.

There were ledgers of various sizes, open and shut, printed pamphlets by the score, small white cardboard boxes, three prayer books, a rosary, a litter of unopened envelopes, all addressed to Mr. Cornelius Delaney. The handwriting was clear, unclear, blurred, tortured. Some were addressed in thick lead pencil, but those in ink seemed to have a character of their own, whirls and flourishes and ornamentations that reflected the vanity of the writers. Some letters were barely legible, but Mr. Delaney was used to a rich and varied correspondence. It was his temperature chart of humanity. On the fringe of this mass of correspondence there stood a single cup and saucer, half full of cold tea; a completely abandoned cup and saucer. There was a wild assortment of pens, most of their nibs rusty—he now used a fountain pen—an old-fashioned typewriter that suggested a miniature shipyard, a letter file containing nothing, a piece of ink-stained india-rubber, a large sheet of quite filthy-looking blotting paper. On this Mr. Delaney's clasped hands were now resting.

The visitor noticed a large ring on his left hand, in which shone a bright red ruby. But always his eye was drawn to the pile of articles on the desk. It suggested chaos, an inability to deal with such a collection.

“What do you wish to see me about?” asked the man, looking directly at the other. “I want to be getting on.”

The bright eyes looked up from the blotting paper.

“Getting on where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Don't be stupid. I will tell you who I am. I am Cornelius Delaney, and I am secretary of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. I knew you were coming out to-day, since I know when everybody is coming out, or going in. I know how you feel, and I fully understand your resentment, your initial horror and fear, the shame. Yes, I understand how lost you feel. Loneliness is my business. I often deal with human desperation. Now I want to help you. Explain nothing. There is nothing to explain. All is known, and what is important for you, all is forgotten. In a world teeming with evil, one crime is easily forgotten. I have various kinds of news for you. Some bad, some good. If there is anything you wish to ask me, ask it, if not, be silent. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“You were in for the full time?”

“I was.”

“Every three months you had letters, I believe. You were not entirely ignored, you had some friends in the world. I believe I wrote you myself, twice, in my professional capacity.”

“I cannot remember.”

“A Mr. Joseph Kilkey wrote you regularly. He has been for some years a member of this society.”

“Where can I find him?”

“First things first. I gather he told you about your mother.”

Mr. Delaney got up, and it was then that the visitor noticed that he walked with a limp. He pressed a bell in the wall, then returned to his seat again.

“The girl will bring in some fresh tea, and some hot toast, you must be hungry. Would you like anything else?”

“No, thank you, sir. Just tea, hot tea.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“Mr. Kilkey told me my mother had died. That was a long time ago.”

“Did he tell you the nature and manner of her death?”

The visitor looked away; he studied the shadows on the wall behind him. “I don't require to know more than that,” he said. Then he added sharply, “I want to go.”

“Here is the girl with the tea,” the old man said, as the door opened, and the girl who had shown him in brought over the tray. The visitor stared at the girl's bare arms. Their softness seemed accentuated by the quality of the light. The arms fascinated him, he wanted to reach out, touch them with his fingers. Mr. Delaney watched him. The girl went out. The door closed silently. The man did not notice her hair, her eyes, her smile, he only remembered the arms.

“Begin! Eat—drink.” In a commanding voice Mr. Delaney said, “Take off that cap, it's hideous.”

The man removed his cap and placed it on the chair beside him. He began to eat. He was for the first time hearing the noise and chatter beyond this room, and, listening intently, he noted that the voices were those of women. The clatter of crockery continued, pierced periodically by the strident tones of the door bell. Mr. Delaney had not failed to notice, how, each time this bell rang, the man moved uncomfortably in his chair. He sat quietly there, he watched the man enjoying the tea and toast. Secretly he hoped that his visitor would talk. He noticed that since the removal of the cap, the man had lowered his head, and it remained lowered throughout the interview. Its removal had been an effort. Without it, he felt stripped, naked. On two occasions he had picked it up and put it on again.

“Leave the horrible thing there, will you. I will get you a
hat
.”

“What is it you want?” asked the man.

“Want? Me? I want nothing, Mr. Fury. It's you. What do you want?”

“Nothing. I want to get out.”

“Don't be
stupid
, I wish to help you. Don't be boorish. What do you think I want? Why have I asked you here? Because you have done fifteen years, and have just been released? You misjudge me. I have things far more important to think about. Our society never thinks in terms of the past. It destroys the past. I wish to hear nothing of your prison experiences. I know all about it. I have been at it too long, too many people like you. You're no different from other people. Let me assure you of that at once. I have news for you, and you may have it. If you do not wish to hear it, then there are just the bare essentials.” He waved his hand in the air. “Have you any money?”

“Five shillings.”

“Is there any particular kind of work you can do?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Perhaps your best plan would be to leave the country.”