Winter Song (7 page)

‘You mustn't say a thing like that, my child. You did marry and rear a family.'

‘They've gone. They've all gone. Left me. I did try. It was them who were wrong, not me. Pollution. That's what it was—pollution from the very beginning. I ought to have known. Peter killed me. I see my mistake now. He was never meant to be anything.'

‘You must not say such things, dear, it is wicked. One does one's best. That is all. You must try to be a little braver than that. Remember the promises you made. The things you said. You must try to think of other things—you are not really an old woman, Mrs Fury, you know you're not.'

‘Don't you think I am, Mother?'

‘I certainly don't, and you must break away from this corner you've led yourself to. We have all had our disappointments, you are no exception. Try to think of others more often, and not so much of yourself.'

‘You're quite right, I shouldn't. I'm sorry, but I felt so sad to-day. I was thinking of those long walks I used to make when my husband would be docking; it seems such a long time—such a long time. Everybody's kind to me—I know that, but it was a dreadful thing to happen to him. Many a time I wish I'd never set foot in this city.'

‘Sometimes,' said the Mother Superior, ‘strange things happen. The other day Father Twomey was telling me a queer story about a sailor who was given up for lost. He was lost for five whole years, think of it—he had lost his memory—he didn't know who he was and to where he belonged. Why only yesterday there came a man to his office, a man who was given up for dead over a year ago, a poor wreck of an old man who had sailed back to his own place from the other side of the world. A sick old man, a tired man. Father Twomey was telling your parish priest about it. A very strange thing indeed. They have him safe now, however, and soon they say they'll have him where he belongs and with his own. So you see one should go on hoping right up to the last. To have faith, that is the thing. I know you never talk of your husband, yet I know you've never really forgotten him.'

The woman half rose in her bed ‘You mean I should go on hoping. If that was ever to be, I'd know then how to value what was dear to me, and I'd have him and myself out of this place and far away—far away from everything. He was a good man—I misunderstood him—a harum-scarum sort of man he was, but oh, a good heart. I've been ashamed ever since when I think of how it was my tongue drove him out of my life. I'd give anything—anything, and how I've wished and wished and wished, many's the night I've hugged myself to myself and thought of him in some far sea for ever.'

The Mother Superior put an arm round the woman. ‘They say this man has had a cruel time of it—that he's so tired, but they think soon he'll get back his health and strength. Two drunken young men brought him all that way to Gelton. He couldn't speak. He just lay and lay. They had the doctor to him. They said he might have to go into hospital. After a while they asked him his name and he said Gelton. They stripped and bathed him. He was very thin and frail. They found a medal of St Christopher on his neck …'

‘Denny always wore that medal, Mother—all his life wore it to his neck.'

‘And they also found certain tattoo marks on him, a snake on his forearm, a blue five-pointed star under one of his thumbs.'

She felt the body in her grasp suddenly become tense—she looked down at the woman. Her mouth was partly open—she was endeavouring to speak, but only breath came out.

‘Do you remember, dear, how I said to you day after day, do not give up, never give up?'

The woman's hands suddenly clung to her, gripped hard, she leaned heavily against the Mother Superior, she cried, her body shook. Suddenly the candle in the room went out. They held each other in the darkness. Through the open window came a rush of salt-laden wind. They sat silent, motionless, she could feel the old woman's heart beating under her.

‘Poor creature, the poor woman. I believe she knows. There is no need to speak, to explain. She has felt him near her.' She moved, she leaned down and kissed the woman.

‘You will be brave,' she said.

There was no answer. After a while the old woman stammered—‘I knew.'

‘You knew. How did you know?'

‘I just knew. Oh God—take me to him. Take me to my husband. Last night I dreamed of him again, tossing in that same sea, redder than blood. Oh, Mother.'

‘You will see him in the morning,' the Mother Superior said quietly, ‘in the morning. You are tired. You must go to sleep. The candle's gone out. I never really noticed. Please lie down.'

She obeyed like a child. She lay with wide open eyes, staring fixedly into the darkness. She spoke, but so softly that the other had to put her ear to her mouth to catch the words.

I knew when you said that mark. I never doubted. It would have been cruel to doubt.'

‘I will ring the bell for one of the Sisters.'

The Mother Superior got to her feet. She went to the door and pressed the bell push.

‘Bring candles please. Bring stimulants.'

‘Yes, Mother,' the white robed figure looked ghostly in the darkness.

Then she went back to the bed and sat there and watched. The candles came and were lighted. The Mother Superior took the young nun aside. She whispered to her.

‘I want you to bring in the camp bed, Sister Angelica. I want you to spend the night here with Mrs Fury. Something has happened. She has had a shock. It is she more than him of whom I'm afraid.'

‘Him, Mother.'

‘Her husband, missing for so long, given up as lost by the authorities, by the shipping company, returned to this country yesterday. He is ill and at present at the Apostleship of the Sea. They must see each other to-morrow.'

‘Very well, Mother. Indeed, and that's glorious news.'

‘I'll take those,' she said, and took the tumbler, the brandy, the sleeping tablets.

‘I will wait with her until you return.'

The nun went out.

‘To-morrow they'll both be happy. Extraordinary. I'd never seen her cry until to-day. There is no hardness there. I thought she would never melt, I thought she would never break. Thank God, this has happened—that heart knotted all these months, those feelings bottled up, strangling the creature. The falsity of the indifference. I don't really think she ever gave up hope.'

The camp bed came in. She helped to make it up. Then she crossed over to the bed.

‘Mrs Fury,' she said.

‘The brandy, Sister—the old woman has collapsed. I thought so. She held on so long.'

They poured the brandy between the dry, parted lips.

‘A great shock.'

‘I'm sure, Mother. But a beautiful one.'

‘I think she'll sleep. She dreams, she has these tossings and turnings, you can hear them all over the house. Be careful with her. She looks strong, but is not. It has been a long wait for her.'

Sister Angelica made up her bed.

‘Just watch, quietly.'

‘Yes, Mother. Good-night, Mother.'

‘God bless you,' she replied. She went quietly out. Sister Angelica sat on her camp bed, as quiet as a mouse, and she watched. There was no sound, save the wind from the sea, the clock's tick, and pulsating between them, the steady laboured breathing of the woman. Sister Angelica went across to the bed. She wiped the woman's forehead, her lips, she put her hands under the bedclothes. She knelt down and prayed.

Father Moynihan was sitting in his study reading the evening paper when his housekeeper brought him the news. He looked up at her, he let the newspaper fall from his hands, he said:

‘Show him in.'

‘Yes, Father, of course.'

He rose to meet the visitor. Father Moynihan was a tall man, but the man in the Ulster coat dwarfed him at once. He was a big, burly man, red-faced; when he removed his hat, it revealed thick black curled hair, greying at the temples. There was something at once arrogant, at once uncouth, in his manner of approach, in a reluctance to take the outstretched hand of the priest.

‘How are you, Desmond Fury? It is some years since we met. You've just got in?'

‘Yes. And I must go back to-morrow afternoon. I have a most important conference. Where is my father? This is wonderful news indeed. I had given him up as lost for good.'

‘Won't you sit down.'

‘Thank you.'

The loud voice, the animal-like ferocity seemed to shake the room and everything in it.

‘Your father is not fit to be seen as yet. The news has been broken to your mother. The sad thing about all this, Mr Fury, is that the poor old things are quite unfit to meet each other at present. It's hard. But that's what Dr McClaren has told me. We went into a conference about them this evening, Father Twomey, the doctor and myself. They cannot possibly see each other for a few days. You will understand, I'm sure.'

‘But this is awful!' Mr Fury said; he was guarded in his manner of address, he was most careful not to use the word ‘Father.' He had always hated the word, and the cloth more, as all good revolutionaries must. They had been so harmful, they had held
him
back so long—they had made
such
a fool of his mother and ruined his younger brother. He was certain in his mind that these black crows, as he called them, were on the side of the devil.

‘Can't I be taken to my father? Or must I go myself?'

‘I have told you that neither parent is in a fit condition to be seen. If you cannot wait, you cannot wait. That is neither here nor there. But I had wished to see you to discuss certain matters.…'

‘What matters?'

‘The question of a home for your parents, Mr Fury … I have been thinking that it would be a good thing if they went back to Ireland, as soon as your father is fit to make the journey.'

‘That would be a good thing—besides my mother has always wished to do that. She told me so when I last saw her.'

‘Very convenient for you.'

‘I did not come here to be insulted.'

‘You have been a callous brute to your parents all the same,' the priest said.

‘I do my best.'

‘Everybody does his best, I'm sure. I know you think I harbour something against you, you think I disapprove of your marriage out of the Church. Indeed not, quite the reverse. The Church is healthier without you, and certainly my parish is, Mr Fury, but we are wandering from the point. Let us begin with facts. You have no wish and no intention to make a home for them.…'

‘I have just said that I'll look after them. I promise you they'll not want.'

‘You
want
them to go back?'

‘I do. Why should they stay? What did they ever find here except unhappiness?'

‘There were some happy days—remember? Remember I baptised all you Fury children. Do you ever hear from your sister?'

‘No.'

‘Or Peter?'

‘Once a month.'

‘You write to him?'

‘Of course.'

‘And Anthony …?'

‘Sometimes—he's so far away.'

‘And your wife?'

‘Why should you be interested in my wife?'

‘No family yet?'

‘Mind your own business. I shall find my father myself.'

‘They will not let you see him. Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee, indeed I'm just going to have supper.'

‘I would like a drink, but I doubt if you could supply that.'

‘You are too clever, Mr Fury. I will get you a drink. I have half a bottle of Jamieson's in my cupboard. I do wish you would remove your coat. You look very uncomfortable. Try to compose yourself. You're so tensed up, so touchy.'

He leaned forward, put a hand on the man's ample knee. ‘Why should I hate you? I hate no one. That is the truth. Now I will go and get you a drink.'

Desmond Fury watched the priest go out.

‘Sly! Sly isn't the word. You can
never
tell. So sly, so oily. I wouldn't trust a priest as far as I'd throw him. No sir!'

He half rose, smiled and accepted the glass of whisky from the priest's hands.

‘Thank you,' he said—‘I wish you health,' he said.

The priest ignored this.

‘Well, my supper is waiting. Would you care to join me? You've had a long journey.'

‘Why are you talking like this,' the visitor said. ‘Why should you? There is absolutely
nothing
between us.'

‘Am I as bad as all that?' Father Moynihan said. ‘What a conceit you have. What a high and mighty opinion you have of yourself. Do come down from the heights. Be ordinary. I am only another creature like yourself. Why be so touchy, so suspicious? I only wired you to come here because I want something done for your parents. They have worked hard for you, they have made sacrifices. Something is owed to them in their old age. Come along now, share the meal. My housekeeper won't eat you—I can assure you of that.'

The visitor rose to his feet and followed the priest into the dining-room.

Desmond Fury had been shaken by the news about his father, but he did not show it. He had an affection for him, which he had never shared with his mother and now, as he sat somewhat glum, tongue-tied, feeling closer to the Church than he had been for years, and feeling awkward about it too, he watched Father Moynihan eat his supper, yet would not eat any himself.

‘I shall look forward to seeing dad,' he was telling himself, making great play with the knife and fork, to little effect.

‘You're not eating.'

‘Oh, yes, I am,' he replied.

‘You look so uncomfortable, Mr Fury,' the priest smiled at him.

Suddenly he tapped the man's shoulder, ‘All the same, I'm very glad you came. Very glad.'

‘Thank you,' said Desmond. ‘When can I see him?' he asked, pushing away his plate.

‘I daresay you could see him to-night. I'll ring up Father Twomey. He's lying in a berth at the Apostleship of the Sea. Just a moment, I'll see.'