Free Winter Song by James Hanley Page A

and clinging to him a boy—but he was dead. He was flung into the sea again only four days later—the South Atlantic had a good many sinkings—a very dangerous place. You will find him very much altered. He reminded me of a baby of sorts. He seems to have grown even smaller—he was never very big. Even now there is a gap in his mind; for instance, at two o’clock yesterday afternoon he knew me, at six in the evening he asked me who I was. His nights are disturbing—he has nightmares. God knows he travels to strange places when he has them. That first night Father Twomey and Delahane had a difficult time with him. So far he knows the worst. I have told him. It was a very distressing moment. He has asked after you all. I know he will be very pleased to see you. Provided all the arrangements work out right, you would, I hope, take your parents across the channel?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Desmond replied, but wasn’t sure—he thought their going home an excellent idea, but he hadn’t been expecting this. He had thought of the mug, the old chap with the bald head, the pious dodderer. He had always come in handy in these awkward situations, and Desmond Fury had conjured up a good many of them in his lifetime.
    â€˜I’ll just get my cape and my hat,’ Father Moynihan said, and immediately left the room. For the first time the visitor looked round, studying his surroundings. He remembered this room, he had come here often as a boy. There they were, all the familiar objects, the oleograph of the Sacred Heart, the wooden crucifix over the fireplace, and there on the wall near the window the large picture of the hunt, the hounds in full cry, the red-coated huntsmen. How he had stared at that, fascinated—a world that existed thousands of miles away—and here the housekeeper’s sewing machine and on it the prayer book, the pamphlets, the Catholic magazines.
    Father Moynihan came in. ‘Ready?’
    â€˜I’m ready. Thank you for the supper.’
    The priest gave no reply but made for the door and Desmond followed him out.
    Walking the dark, wind-torn streets a flood of memories rushed over the visitor.
    â€˜Is it very far? I’ve forgotten my way around Gelton,’ he said.
    â€˜We catch a tram on the corner. You’ll have to walk back. Where are you staying?’
    â€˜I’m at an hotel in the city.’
    â€˜I could put you up.’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter, thank you. And thank you indeed for your kindness to my mother. I know you’ve been very good and will be to my father.’
    â€˜It is part of my work.’
    They walked on in silence. At the end of the road they boarded a tram, which rattled them towards the Bethel. When they arrived Delahane met them.
    â€˜Father Twomey has retired,’ he said. ‘He has had such a day, Father. Such a day.’
    â€˜Can we go up?’ asked the priest; he swung his hat in his hand.
    â€˜Yes, I’ll take you up. The old man slept most of the morning. He hasn’t eaten very much—he talked quite a lot this afternoon, and then fell off asleep again. He has these bouts, feverish, I’d call them, when he spills out all sorts of things, and no two phrases connect. He’s all over the place. But better, oh yes, the colour’s coming back.…’
    â€˜He never had any colour,’ said Desmond, ‘he was always pale. Stokers are.’
    â€˜Come,’ said the priest.
    The three men went upstairs. At the door Delahane was cautious.
    â€˜You go in first Father and see him. If he is asleep I cannot allow him to be disturbed. If not, then this man—you are the son, I believe,’ he glanced up at Desmond who nodded, ‘can go in. But prepare the old chap, prepare him.’
    Father Moynihan went in. Desmond Fury stood there, listening.
    â€˜A miracle, that’s what I think.’ Delahane said.
    â€˜Father Moynihan says he’s