Winter Song Read Free

here.’
    Father Twomey opened the door, stood aside for the other to pass, then closed it. He did not follow Father Moynihan to the bedside, but stood and waited. He saw the other bend low over the bed, then the hand was raised, a finger beckoned.
    â€˜This poor creature,’ said Father Moynihan ‘is Dennis Fury. I know. I know that face though the man has altered—dreadfully so—I know those tattoo marks on hand and wrists. And this,’ he said pointing, ‘how terrible.’
    He stared at the scar, ‘The old man must have been struck by something, a spar or the like.’
    â€˜Probably. It is quite healed—and yet it looks always a fresh wound.’
    â€˜The miracle to me,’ said Father Moynihan ‘is that this man is here—lying in this bed, alive—warm—breathing. It is indeed a terrible home-coming, for there is no home to come to.’
    He turned away from the bed, then on the point of leaving the room, he once more turned to look down at the old man. ‘He is deeply asleep,’ he said.
    â€˜I sat him in a chair this morning and he fell out of it. He was brought here by two young men, quite drunk. They said they were in charge of him, that they had to deliver him here, he might have been a sack of potatoes. They had got him drunk.’
    â€˜Disgraceful. No matter, I think we had better go downstairs. There are things that I must do now.’
    The two priests sat opposite each other in the office.
    â€˜You know the man?’ asked Father Twomey, offering his tobacco pouch to the other.
    â€˜Thank you, Twomey. Yes, that man is Dennis Fury all right. I have known him for over twenty years. But there is a great change in him. He looks like a very old child. How astounding—he was not only given up as dead, but registered as such. I’m afraid this is going to be a terrible shock for the old woman.…’
    â€˜His wife?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜He cannot be moved at present. And I think a doctor should see him this evening. I shall not forget to let the Marine authorities have a bit of my mind. To have sent that old man back in that state, dragged half-across the world by a couple of drunks …’
    â€˜I myself would hold nothing against such men for getting drunk. Imagine what they may have been through,’ said Father Moynihan.
    â€˜I have been dealing with seamen for fifteen years,’ Father Twomey protested.
    â€˜Then you should have known better, Twomey.’
    â€˜If you had seen the old man when they dragged him in here. However, the main thing is to get him home.’
    â€˜It will be sad for him to learn that there is no home,’ Father Moynihan said. ‘His wife has a room at St Stephen’s Hospice, and has been there these past twelve months. She arrived there one very hot afternoon last July and asked for a room. She looked very tired and exhausted, and they took her in. She may not have known it at the time, but St Stephen’s, as you know, is a hospice for the dying. Anyway, she has been there ever since. Her son, who is a trade union worker, and now in London, pays for her keep. But she does not know this. I’m afraid it’s going to be a great disappointment to Dennis Fury, a man who has worked so hard all his life, and made one home after another for his family, the children of which are now scattered. I doubt very much whether the old woman has any heart left, certainly there can be no question of starting a home again. She has one other son in the Navy, at present stationed on the China coast—the youngest is in prison, and may be expected to get out in three years, all being well.…’
    â€˜Oh! Those Furys—why I remember that case,’ Father Twomey exclaimed.
    â€˜I shall of course write to the children and tell them what has happened. This indeed is a return from the dead.…’
    â€˜I’ve known cases of men turning up after two