Winter Song (50 page)

Like a white sail upon the water, the bared arms of the waitress at Tilsey's came up to meet him. He clutched in a dream. He clutched hundreds of arms, legs, bodies, called a thousand names, plunged into a burning, sulphurous sea. Then he woke. Somebody was banging on his door, somebody was shouting. “Left your light burning, put it out. Such waste.”

It was Mrs. Talon making her rounds. Mrs. Talon who never appeared to sleep, but was always moving about her big, rambling establishment, the huge bunch of keys slung by a chain at her waist, and they rattled in every corridor, and behind every door. She was
never
tired, as though, unlike others, she broke down the onslaughts of nature, defying them. She was wide awake now, at half-past four in the morning. Far below a number of late callers were having tea in the enormous kitchen, and some men on early shift were having their breakfast.

“Put out the light, it's not included to that extent.” The tired voice came to her through the door, and it said, with tremendous effort, “It's
out.
”

“And I should damn well think so. The very idea of it.”

“I must have left it on,” Peter thought, “fell asleep, been dreaming.”

His hand reached high above the bed, and as he took the switch between finger and thumb, he gave a quick glance about the room. The very look of it exhausted him. He turned out the light, and buried his head under the clothes. He dozed off, woke again, dozed. Early traffic rambled along the roads, a steam engine whistled, a ship's siren answered the minute hoot of a tug.

“Perhaps I'm ill, perhaps I'm ill, and I don't know it.” He pressed his head into the straw pillow.

“Perhaps I'm dreaming, just dreaming.”

“Somehow I can't believe—I mean—can't believe I'm no longer
there
, can't believe about mother, that
she's
no longer here, she was good—so was I—once.”

He fell asleep, and it was the striking of a church clock that eventually woke him. He counted the strokes. “Seven o'clock.” He opened his eyes under the blanket, the darkness there was warm, inviting. There were two hard kicks on the door. “Seven o'clock, number three.” At The Curving Light, nobody knocked on a door.

“All right,” faintly, muffled.

“Just telling you, that's all.” The voice was light, high-pitched, perhaps a girl, perhaps the voice of a boy.

Slowly he put out his head. A greyish light filled the room. He sat up. The first thing he saw was a cigarette lying on the floor. He stared at this as though he had never seen one before. He looked at the walls, the wash-basin, the photograph on the mantelpiece, the bricked-up grate. He looked upwards, and the brown patch was still there. Suddenly the room was clear, revealed. He watched the linoleum rise and fall from the draught under the door. He
felt
the room, every object in it touched him, from the dirty windows to the brown, damp patch. He shut his eyes, he felt it creeping towards him. Then he jumped from the bed. “I must get down below. I must move. I must hurry.”

He picked up his hat, coat, handkerchief, he almost ran down stairs. When he reached the kitchen the heat of the coke stove rushed out at him, and he drew back, leaning on the door. He thought he would faint.

“You all right?” Peter saw a red face, a dockgateman's hat, bright buttons.

“I'm all right,” he said.

He pushed his way into the kitchen, and took his place at the long wooden table. An arm came over his shoulder. “Breakfast.”

A mug of tea, a rasher of fat bacon, two slices of bread. “Hope you slept well, mister.”

He heard the keys rattling behind him, against the Talon thigh.

“And at any time,” Mrs. Talon said, “at any time, mister, if any of your friends want a room, just mention me. Talon's the name. Ma Talon. Just mention The Curving Light. Don't mind gaol-birds, don't mind nobody much, so long's they pay. Yes.”

“Yes,” Peter said, but he did not turn to look at her. He had seen her the previous evening, and once was enough.

But she was there again, closer, bent over him. “What'll you do, mister?”

“I don't know,” he said, more conscious of the weight, the height that towered above him.

“A pity,” Mrs. Talon said, and went away, and he heard the keys rattle all the way through the enormous kitchen.

He drank the harsh, strong tea. He felt the thick, hot fluid stick in his throat. And then he was quietly studying the other occupants of the table. Nobody bothered, nobody noticed him. He was just
an
-other. What to do now? How to pass the time, kill it. Not outside, not another walk. He had had enough of that. He would go back to his room and stay there. He would stay there until it was time to go to the boat. One and another got up and left the cavernous room. He was alone at the table. He had better see Mrs. Talon, settle things. There was nothing to pack, nothing to carry. A very much simplified journey. He got up and walked across to the stove, and stood staring at its red glow. Looking about him he knew that he hated this place, but at least it had served its purpose. Another visit to The Curving Light would be quite impossible. It suddenly struck him as very odd that anybody should be singing at this hour of the day, one of the kitchen helps, and a very young voice at that. Looking the length of this room he saw daylight at its end. Walking towards it he arrived at the open front door. He leaned against this, taking in great gulps of the morning air. People passed in and out, and each time he moved his body slightly to allow them to pass. Nobody spoke to him. He might have been one of the doorposts.

“What
shall
I do until ten o'clock this evening?” He sat down on the step, and rested his head in his hands.

“See that man Delaney? Perhaps I'd better call. He seemed decent enough. No. I'll see Talon, then go back to my room.” Behind him, at the end of another dark passage, a light was shining in the tiny room whose window was never opened. This was
her
room. Mrs. Talon appeared the very instant he knocked, she might have been waiting for him.

“Well?”

“This room I've got, Mrs. Talon. May I have it for the day, I'm leaving around nine o'clock.”

She only half opened the door, she leaned out and spoke. “Welcome to it, mister. Nine and six. Pay on the dot. And don't you waste no damned light neither. The way people carry on in this house. Terrible, mister, terrible.”

Peter fished out the money and placed it in her large red hand.

“Thank you.”

“Well, that's that,” he said.

“Extras two shillings if wanted,” she said.

“Extras?”

“Curtain for the window, saucer for your ash, cup of hot for your shaving.”

“That room has a lock. Could I have a key?” he asked.

“No keys allowed. All doors open in this place, mister, none locked, never. Daren't do it. Sailors start bringing their women here, can't allow that, get in trouble with the cops. Nobody'll pinch anything of yours, mister. Not to worry. Leave any valuables in my safe, charge one shilling, paper and envelopes sixpence if you want any, write in my kitchen. But no keys for locks. Anything else, mister?”

“No thanks.”

Peter found his way back to the room. He sat down on the cane chair under the window. He watched the traffic below, the people passing by. He stared up at the clock of a neighbouring church. “Yes, I'll clear out of the place.”

It was the phrase that came easiest to his tongue, though he never knew to which place he really wanted to go.

He sat on, heard the clock strike eight, and nine. Then he lay on the bed and fell asleep. At ten o'clock somebody was calling his name. But there was no answer. The voice called again. The man who would answer it was deeply asleep.

Mrs. Talon was shaking him. “Wake up, somebody wants you,” she said.

Peter opened his eyes. “Who wants me?”

“Someone what says he's your brother.”

“Brother?”

“That's right, mister.”

“What's he want?”

“Ask him yourself, he's coming up now.”

When Desmond Fury came into the room and saw the man lying on the bed, he could not speak. Nor for a moment or two did he recognise him. He stood there, taking in the surroundings. It had been an awkward position for him. It still was. The door-knob, which was broken, fell to the floor as he closed the door. The man on the bed never turned his head, he seemed not to have noticed the man in the room. He stared upwards. He might be a man fast asleep with his eyes open. Desmond Fury approached the bed and looked at his brother. He held out a big hand. He thought quickly, “This is terrible, I can't smile.” “Hello,” he said, after fifteen years, then he sat down gingerly on the bed. He was speechless again.

A candle spluttered, the air was stale. He saw the barred window. The green carpet at his feet had a sickly shine to it. He looked at the ugly mahogany dressing-table, at which giant women must surely have sat. The top of it was a pattern of grease marks made by candles. There was the soapless soap tray, the towel-less rail, the wash-basin and the stone jug, both broken, both a riotous blue. The chair balanced on three legs. He saw the bricked-up grate, the faded photograph on the tiny green-painted mantelpiece. He looked closely at this, it was a diversion from the awkward moment. It showed a seated gentleman, a dog on his knee, doggy eyes staring up into a doggy face, a knowing face. He saw the five-year-old newspaper that had covered the window, and a heavy black headline attracted him. “Greatest heat wave in a quarter of a century. England swelters.”

Suddenly, quietly, almost without realizing it, he was looking at the man on the bed.

“I'm glad you're out,” he said, “that's over anyhow, thank heaven. Will you shake hands?”

Peter drew up his knees, he took the proffered hand, held it for a moment, then dropped it. He put his arms under the bedclothes. He stretched once more in the bed.

“He's changed. I don't really know him. Hard to believe he's my brother. Fifteen years is a long time. And all the way here I told myself there would be lots of things to say, many things to discuss, and now I can't find two words to put together.” The old saying leapt up again. “It's awkward.”

He was shocked to notice the grey in his brother's hair, the lined face, the sunken cheeks, the pallor, the unhealthy look.

The man on the bed looked straight at him. “You never came.”

“I know. I'm damned sorry about that, Peter, damned sorry. So many things to think of. It hasn't been easy for me, sometimes——”

“You never wrote.”

“I know—I hate myself for that, God's truth I do——”

“Kilkey wrote.”

“I admit that. Yes, I'm really sorry about it,” Desmond said, “but you know me, never any good at letters,” and he stopped quickly as he saw the other's head turn towards the window.

“Did you go to Mother's funeral?”

“I did.”

He was glad to be able to say it, he felt warmer already, as though the sun had shone through the dirty window, melted the room's frozen look.

“You don't mind these questions?”

“Mind? Good Lord. No, Peter, why should you think that?”

“Do you ever see Kilkey?”

“Sometimes——” Desmond looked away to the door.

“This is a grown man,” he told himself, “I am talking to a stranger.”

“Ever hear anything of Maureen?”

“No. Afraid not, I'm sorry to say. Pity about her. A great pity.”

Desmond leaned across the bed, and he rested a hand on either side of Peter's head. “You know I'm sorry the way things went.” Only now was he aware that the man was sleeping in his clothes.

“I want to help you in any way I can,” Desmond said. “As you know there was a suggestion that you might go to America. We can get you the passage across all right.” He paused. He wanted to cry out, “Stop staring at the bloody ceiling,” but he couldn't say it, and he wasn't quite certain, even now, about
anything
. Fifteen years. It was a hell of a long time. He wanted to say, “When I last saw you, you were a fine healthy lad,” instead of which he remained tongue-tied, staring stupidly at the foot of the bed. “He has changed, terribly, I can't believe it. I knew this would be awkward, and by God, it is.”

“I can't say any more than that, Peter. I'm sorry about the way things went, always have been. I know you've had a lousy time. But take my advice, get out of Gelton. There's nothing in it, it's finished. And I myself won't be here much longer. London is my next move.”

“You haven't changed,” Peter said.

“Not much.”

A silence fell between them. Peter noted the carefully brushed black hair, the grey suit and the white collar, the tie, the gloves, the overcoat, the hat. The heavy, fleshy face, the same Desmond. No change.

“What are you going to do?”

“What d'you think I'll do?” asked Peter.

“I don't know.” A pause, and then a silence.

Desmond lost control and shouted into the stale air, “Can't you say something. God! I know it's been a lousy deal, I know it, but can't you say something? Instead of lying there staring at nothing.”

“I'm glad you went across to Ireland that time,” Peter said. “It makes you believe in something. Yesterday morning, at eight o'clock, I came out and was met by a little man with an umbrella. He gave me five shillings and his hand, and he wished me well. All I wanted to do was to get warm. I still want to get warm, because I haven't felt that way for a long time. I moved off. But all the time I felt I was being followed, somebody peeping over my shoulder, a door banging, keys turning in locks, walls moving up at you. I met an old man named Delaney. I liked him. Should have seen him this morning, at nine o'clock. I wouldn't go. Should have seen you, didn't turn up. I asked myself why I should turn up anywhere. Knew you'd be there, waiting, your wife, that solicitor. Didn't turn up. I went to Kilkey. His kindness frightened me, He asked me to stay with him, he's lonely now, his son at sea. When I heard that it didn't make me feel any younger. He begged me to stay, the old chap cried. But I said no, and I came away. Can't believe his son's twenty now. Dermod when I last saw him was around four or five years old, a kid. Funny. I can't believe anything much, dreaming all the time, drowsy, falling asleep, frightened when I hear a door close, can't get my breath, feel I'm choking, dreaming here all night, thinking about it this morning. Is it real? Dream about Mother, Dad, wake up, wonder what I'll do, how I'll do it, after all that time, head full of clocks, all striking together, looking through a window, spitting dust out of my mouth. Wondering what it's all for. This woman's name is Talon, seemed to know me as soon as I asked for a room. Her keys rattled, I couldn't speak a word to her. I never thought you'd find me. Now you have. Now you've seen me.”