Read Online Winter Song by James Hanley - Free Book Online Page B

your wife?’
    â€˜Why should you be interested in my wife?’
    â€˜No family yet?’
    â€˜Mind your own business. I shall find my father myself.’
    â€˜They will not let you see him. Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee, indeed I’m just going to have supper.’
    â€˜I would like a drink, but I doubt if you could supply that.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said—‘I wish you health,’ he said.
    The priest ignored this.
    â€˜Well, my supper is waiting. Would you care to join me? You’ve had a long journey.’
    â€˜Why are you talking like this,’ the visitor said. ‘Why should you? There is absolutely nothing between us.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I shall look forward to seeing dad,’ he was telling himself, making great play with the knife and fork, to little effect.
    â€˜You’re not eating.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, I am,’ he replied.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Desmond. ‘When can I see him?’ he asked, pushing away his plate.
    â€˜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.’
    Father Moynihan went out. Desmond sat listening to him talking at the telephone, and then as for the first time he realized how terribly true it was. He hadn’t believed it at first. The journey had simply been a dream journey. It seemed impossible to believe. Lost for a year.
    â€˜Poor old dad,’ he said, ‘poor old dad! Well, I’ll do my best for them. I know I’ve been lousy. I know I’ve been ashamed of them—yes, I know that well enough—but I’ll try to make their remaining days happy. They have tried hard for us. If only mother hadn’t been bitten by that priest idea, and nothing came of it, except one humiliation after another. That awful bloody moneylender—what was her name?—it doesn’t matter anyhow—it’s long ago, but it was awful, and now the half-priest is sitting somewhere where he never expected to be sitting. Mother’s beautiful dream. Yes. She did