Winter Song by James Hanley

strange. It was the last thing I ever expected. Now I think that woman will go.’
    She could hear the priest speaking, he seemed somewhat agitated.
    â€˜But you can keep him twenty-four hours,’ Father Moynihan said, and the other replied ‘He ought to go into hospital to-day.’
    â€˜Not without his wife’s consent! Please leave him there for the present. I will arrange for his removal.’
    â€˜Very well. Men are waiting for beds.’
    â€˜I know. I’ve told you I’ll have him removed to-morrow. But his wife must see him.’ He came back to the sparsely furnished sitting-room.
    â€˜I let those people have a piece of my mind this morning. Perfectly disgusting. It seems nobody heard of this man’s rescue— nobody was told anything— nobody knew he was arriving here, and then that awful journey with those drunken sailors. Father Twomey thought the old man drunk at first, but he was just ill, very ill.’
    â€˜You recognized him?’
    â€˜Of course. He is disfigured, he is a changed man—he’s gone very old—a child. He’ll never see the sea again. It seems he was torpedoed on two occasions within ten days. A strange experience. But you realize that the moment you look at him. It was most difficult. Sometimes he becomes quite incoherent, he can follow you for a while, then he loses all contact, his mind is chaos, and yet he talked of home. He mentioned her. He wanted her. He was dreadfully disappointed that she had not come. What was he doing there, he wanted to go home. That was the hardest part. Telling him there was no longer a home in existence. He blanched—he couldn’t believe it. He broke down altogether. I came away. It was pitiful. Have you told her yet?’
    â€˜I shall tell her in an hour, immediately after the Service.’
    â€˜Good! Good. I think it is better that you should do so, Mother, rather than me.’
    â€˜I shall manage her. It’ll shock—but I’ll be happy giving her the news.’
    â€˜I have already telegraphed to the one available son who is in London. No doubt he will arrive to-morrow. Although he could never stand his mother, he loved his father, and always stood by him. A curious thing, old Fury remembered the day of his going, he said even on that day, sailing away God knows where, his wife and he had had high argument over something or other, one of the children, of course. They were always fighting like cats over their children. I shall write to the youngest boy. Tell me, when did the old woman last see him?’
    â€˜It must be six months ago,’ said the Mother Superior. ‘It was very upsetting for her, and after what Sister Monica told me, I did not allow her to go again. It wasn’t so much the long journey as the shock of seeing him there.’
    â€˜It was that child who split the family asunder. The mother was so determined to possess one utterly, the poor lad simply hadn’t the vocation, nor had she the means to do it. It was disastrous. It involved so much. The husband’s savings went up like smoke, stolen by her—they were never the same again. The little money meant so much to him and he had to work so hard for it. This fanatical favouritism drove the others away. She got tied up with moneylenders—she involved her son-in-law in legal proceedings—she married the daughter to him, not because he was handsome or clever or had money, but simply because he was, in her eyes, a good man. For once she was right. But after a few months the daughter ran away from him. As you know she has never been heard of since. Then the eldest son ran off and left her: they all hated the mother in her insane ambition. He married out of the Church and gloated about it. Some quite unknown family from across the water. I’ve never heard of the people myself, except that I understand they were well respected where they lived. The other son went into the Navy.