At Swim, Two Boys Part 26

All along the road Jim felt the limp exaggerated beside him. Doyler kept stiffly apart and their long thin shadows were parallel lines that never in this world would meet.

"Till tonight so," Jim said at the junction.

"Practice, aye. I'll be keeping me flute after."

"But what about your da?"

"Don't mind himself. And don't mind me. I came on the back of the wind. With the heat of the sun I came."

It felt a punishment in some way, and Jim asked, "Is it to play with Mr. MacMurrough?"

"What'd you say?"

"To play flute with Mr. MacMurrough."

"What're you allegating now?"

"Nothing," said Jim. "Nothing. He's your friend, I thought."

"What d'you mean by that?"

"Only I thought he's your friend."

"How dare you. How dare you. To me face and all." He was looking blue murder.

"I didn't know," said Jim. "Only I thought-"

"Did you know me ma does their was.h.i.+ng?"

"Oh." There was no sense to any of this, but Jim just wanted it to be all right. "It's all right, Doyler." He nodded his head, nodding agreement, conciliation, anything at all.

"She washes their sheets for them."

"All right."

"I only found out. She washes his sheets, she does. You follow me?"

"I do."

"No, you don't. You're no more than a kid, Jim Mack. You don't follow nothing."

He was aware of a great misunderstanding between them. It was not his college cap and it was not the policemen. It was not the mother having to take in was.h.i.+ng. Why had he done that with Doyler's arm? Shrugging it away as if it was nothing to him. All that day if another touched him or b.u.mped into him he was wildly angered. His father laughed, saying how precious he was become. And he was precious, too, and it was fanciful to imagine he would ever swim well, let alone against the stream to the Muglins.

Lonesome look of him, all down the dumps, young Doyler Doyle retires to the Banks. Depend on it, the country is a wholesome place but already that flush is fading. Would do that for you, the Banks, so it would. Soon enough now our Doyler'll be down with the odds and sods of the rest of them.

Mr. Mack frowned. Go bail now, he's been up the shop all evening. Hanging about the till. Hop and go lightly.

Goes swimming with my son. Jim, my son James. Learning him the crawl. A new stroke, he calls it, but there's nothing new about the crawl. That's only the old trudgen dressed up with a modern name. I swam the trudgen myself down the Cape. In the Indian Ocean I swam it. Beat that, young larrikin.

A horror returned of a dark morning and the grey sea. The boy's body they found on the rocks. The people shake their heads and usher the man away. You must be brave, they tell him.

Sure, why would I mind if my son goes swimming? Power of good in the sea. He sucked his cheek, chewed what he found. The way I'd have any say in the matter. Crossed the road.

Lone nipper now with his sheaf of final Mail Mail s. Mr. Mack stopped. "What's the latest?" he asked. s. Mr. Mack stopped. "What's the latest?" he asked.

"Munittens," said the boy.

"Munitions," Mr. Mack corrected. He already had an afternoon edition but he toyed with the idea of purchasing another for no better reason than the boy would be earlier to bed this night. "There's a deal of shortage there," he said by way of conversation.

The boy screwed his face, eyeing him cautiously. He leaned closer and on his tippy-toes he asked, "Is it you is the General?"

"Well, I have the general stores above."

"Is it you is the General of the Fenians?"

"What's this?"

"The da has you for the General of the Fenians. The A1 of Glasthule parish."

"Why-where would he get such nonsense?"

"Wasn't it you the man tore down the British posters?"

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Wasn't it you got 'rested for patriotic singing?"

"That was only the flute band marching."

"Outside where the Orangemen was giving a G.o.dsave?"

"I had no notion the Protestants was-" But Mr. Mack took hold himself. He had not this minute left St. Joseph's sacristy, where his views had been sought on scapulars-their trade, retail and donative values-to chop logic with newsboys in the street. "Enough of that," he said. "I have never in my life heard such old-fas.h.i.+oned sauce."

"But you know what, mister?"

Again the boy inclined his head, sending Mr. Mack his baleful halitosis. "Well?"

"I amn't much, but I'm ready whenever. Me and me pals is with you. Only say the word and we're out, Mr. Mack. A Nation Once Again."

Mr. Mack viewed the nearly four feet of him. Bootless gurrier with his nose on tap. The snot sniffed back inside the nostril, then he did a thing never heard of before. Never known to pa.s.s in Glasthule parish or any parish in the barony, nor ever in the four fields of Erin, go to that of it. He pulled out a paper and gave it gratis for nothing. "The Sword of Light is s.h.i.+ning still," said he, then he crossed the road to Fennelly's. "Final Buff!" came his high-pitched quaver before the doors swung shut behind.

Mr. Mack stared after. The scrawl of him to give such scandal. He stroked his mustache, attempting to trace in its hairs the series of events that had led to his being the darling of newsboys. Sclanderous. And all I had wanted was a little respectability.

He came to the shop, but before he would clink the bell he looked in through the window. There he was, nose dug in a book, hand on the counter with cloth at the ready. Mr. Mack pushed the door, the door clinked, the hand was set in motion. "I see you have that counter nicely polished," he said.

"I was only-"

"Never mind your only." He took off his jacket. "Is your Aunt Sawney inside?"

"She was at her beads."

"You might fix a cup of cocoa for her."

"We're out of cocoa but."

"Take some from the shelf, can't you? No no no, the sh.e.l.l cocoa. Are we made of money? In the book, now. How am I supposed to keep tabs if you won't write it down?" He watched the boy jot the item in his careful, elegant and not altogether satisfactory hand. "Have a cup yourself while you're about it."

"Do you want some, Da?"

"Oh sure, if you're making it, why not? Go on with you so. Make it with milk sure. We're not in the poorhouse yet."

He sat down behind the counter. Let me see, let me see. His fingers tapped on the greasy till. It was beyond him why he stayed open these hours. Mug's game for the most part. Irrah, what option would a man have? Inside at the range with herself at her cuts. Direct, indirect, cuts sublime and infernal. Sclanderous altogether.

What was he about at all, he didn't know. In his mind's eye he saw the curate and the queer twistical look he'd have. And if ever you raised a kick, might just be you said yea or nay the wrong tone of voice, the screw he'd give out at you. And the coins jingling in his pocket like tuppences would rattle in the collection box.

Where was he going and where would it take him? He did not know. Looking down he saw on the shelf below a stocking he had started how many weeks back. The needles were still attached. Hadn't found the time since. Footless stocking with a hole in it. What the Connacht men shot at. Nothing.

But there was small use complaining, you got nothing for it. And the father says if 'tis a fine I get, they'll raise another subscription. Can't ask fairer than that.

He looked about the shop. What about them dips? Did he dust them dips like I told him to? Heck as like. Talking to meself. He took out the steps and was busy with the top shelf when his son returned. "Did you fix that cocoa?"

"I have it here."

"Hold on to them steps while I see to these dips."

"I already done them, Da."

"You did?" He felt angered by the boy, he could not tell why. Climbing down again, he said, "Wouldn't you think to do something proper for once? Just once in your life to have a job done well and the next fellow comes along will see 'tis so." He took the cocoa. "Is she asleep inside?"

"Yes."

"We might risk a heat from the range so." He had been saving it for a treat for G.o.d knows when, but the cast of the boy was so weeshy-deeshy, he decided to let on immediately. "We had a missive in the late post."

"From Gordie?"

"'Tis on the shelf."

While his son raced through the letter, Mr. Mack recounted the news. "Reviewed by the King, no less. Their Majesties King George and Queen Mary, no less. Royal salute, followed by a march-past. Entire division in column of platoons. Band playing the music. Duty band that didn't have the scores for the Irish regiments. Had to be playing at the British Grenadiers. With a tow-row-row for the British Grenadiers. The Grinning Dears, we used call them. They didn't like that."

Gordie had included a photograph with the letter. Very likely he stood with his chest out and his shoulders back. You could be proud of a son that way. He had a cigarette in his hand and underneath he'd written, I trust the cigarette does not offend. That too would stand you proud. Sign's on, it was farewell to the old Gordie. It wasn't any old slavey would do for him now.

He felt her before he heard her, the friction of her eyes on his neck. "Ye're back," she said.

"h.e.l.lo, Aunt Sawney, are you awake so?"

"Don't tell me, ye was away vandalizing the posters." And she was off. He was away scandalizing the street, she made no doubt. Wasn't he at St. Joseph's, he told her. And if he was, she said, it wasn't to pray he went. The price of him to be tooting his Fenian songs outside of a church. In vain Mr. Mack protested he had no notion about the Protestant church. Outside of a church, she went on, where a poor soldier laddie was having his last respects. In vain he protested he had no notion there was a funeral in progress. Might be his own son one of these days, she said. But what would he mind with his fond priesteen and his rebels' medley?

"Will you give it a rest, woman?"

"So long as ye have your twopenny door, the world can go stand on its head."

But Mr. Mack was saved by the bell. Clink. Customer. This time of night and all. "I'll be with you directly." But he wasn't out of his chair before the inside door opened and think of the devil, the horns is there.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Mack, and how are you at all? Is that a letter you're after reading, Jim? Who's it from, don't tell me. Is it Gordie? Oh, Mr. Mack, I'm pleased he's wrote at long last, for it wasn't fair leaving you out in the cold like that. h.e.l.lo, Miss Burke, is it well you're keeping? Did you get a snap, Jim? I got a lovely snap."

"Nancy, this is the private quarters. You know that well."

"Fierce handsome he looks in his racc.o.o.n-skin cap."

"Thank you, Nancy," said Mr. Mack ushering her into the shop and closing the door behind.

"And the plumes sticking out on the side."

"Hackles."

"What's that?"

"Not plumes, Nancy. Hackles."

"Hackles, Mr. Mack?"

"As it happens, Nancy, the shop is closed, only Jim forgot the gas. Howsomever, as you're here already."

"'Tis only I was thinking he won't be sporting a racc.o.o.n-skin hat where he'll be headed. Will he now, Mr. Mack?"

"I don't know what nonsense you're talking, Nancy, but if you'd care to purchase anything you need only ask."

"I was only saying if it's out East he's going, it's the pith helmet he'll want. Sure you'd go demented with a racc.o.o.n on your head in all that suns.h.i.+ne."

"East? My son is going East?"

"Did he not let on? Oh yes, they was issued with sun-hats. Weeks ago, this was. I'm surprised now how it slipped his mind to tell you."

Mr. Mack had to sit down. My son is going East, he kept telling himself. Thanks be to G.o.d almighty and all the saints. Our Lady of Ransom, pray for us. Out loud he said, "I was a good while out East myself." Out East in the sun where it's safe. Safe bar the sun and the Punjab head and the Doolally tap and the dhobi itch and the Billy Stink and the rest. But safe from the trenches. The Lord between us and harm, and he was.

"I'll be with you directly, Nancy, I must just-" He snuck his head inside the kitchen door. "Jim, Jim!"

"Da?"

"He's going out East."

"Gordie is?"

"Isn't it great?" He waited to be sure his son understood the significance, then back inside the shop.