At Swim, Two Boys Part 5

"That's not your good s.h.i.+rt, is it?"

"No, Papa."

"Goodnight so." He lit a small candle from the Sacred Heart vigil, signing the cross as he did so, then opened the door to the boxstairs. He was preparing to turn off the gas, when Jim said, "Papa?"

"What is it?"

"I'm worried about Gordie."

"What are you worried for?"

"If they send him to France. They're using poison in France."

Mr. Mack sat down on the edge of the bed. The candle was wasting, but that didn't signify. "He's in the army, Jim. And the British Army is the finest-trained and best-rigged army the world over. Look at me sure. n.o.body knows what happened my mother and father, may the earth lie gently on them. But the army took me in, fed me, clothed me, made the man I am today. It's a great body of men he's joining. They wouldn't send Gordie in with a damp cloth on his face. There'll be respirators and all sorts, then nothing can harm him. Take my word. He's safer in the army than crossing a road in front of a motor. All right, honor bright?"

"All right, Da."

In the bluey light he smiled down at his son. He found himself touching his forehead, momentarily checking for temperature, then sifting his fingers through the fall of his hair. How well he looked, how rude in health. Both his sons looked well, for they lacked the pallor of Dublin. They were born down the Cape and their first few years had been spent in the warm. A memory of that sun glowed in their faces, in the high color and the brownish skin. Or maybe it wasn't that at all, was the Spanish blood rumored on their mother's side.

Yes, both boys had their mother's face, thanks be to G.o.d for that. But Jim positively sang of her. They lose it, you see, age coa.r.s.ens it from them. But say what they will, I've reared two goodly boys.

On his padded way up the stairs, he said under his breath, You'd be so proud, if you saw them, you'd be so pleased. G.o.d rest you in peace everlasting. G.o.d rest you in peace, my dear.

In the bedroom, above the bockedy prie-dieu, hung a photograph-portrait of his wife. I'm so so sorry, he told her.

Way up Glasthule Road, through Kingstown and its breezy streets, a smack of industry hits the sleeping town. Outside a black-brick bakery, in the fallen light from a window, a young lad crouches. He looks to be reading, but in fact he's nodded off. The book slips from his hands and slides to the road.

The bakery hand comes out and shakes him. "Here y'are, son," he says and drops the broken bread in his lap. "G.o.d save us, I hope 'twas worth the wait. What's that you're after reading?"

He takes up the cheap cardboard cover. "Socialism Made Easy, what? By Mr. James Connolly. You don't want the polis catch you reading likes of that. No, nor the priests." what? By Mr. James Connolly. You don't want the polis catch you reading likes of that. No, nor the priests."

The lad acknowledges him but he's too tired to grin or say anything. He stuffs the bits of bread in his pockets and homeward treads.

Through George's Street with its shuttered shops, named for the king who named Kingstown, past the railed-in People's Park and down the slope to Glasthule Road. The road must squeeze between chapel and college and he glances up at the gaunt red brick of Presentation where no light shows. No light shows from the church and on he treads without signing the cross. At the lane that leads to the Banks, he halts and sniffs the air. Weedy fishy middeny air that follows where he goes.

The words come to him of the old famine song and softly he sings while he crosses the road and past the public house to Ducie's lamplit window.

O we're down into the dust, over here, over here, We're down into the dust, over here.

O we're down into the dust, for the Lord in whom we trust Has surrendered us for lost, over here, over here.

"Flute, is it?"

Cigarette smoke and a glove on his shoulder.

"Band flute, aye."

"Boxwood, I should say. German. What they used to call a student flute."

Still Doyler doesn't turn, but gazes dead in the gla.s.s. The chatty manner has an edge to it which he feels in the press of the hand on his shoulder.

"How much do they ask for it?"

"Five bob, actually."

"Tidy sum. For a flute."

"Worth more."

"I dare say."

The grip on his shoulder guides gently him round. The face lights up in the cigarette glow. Guard's mustache under a soft felt hat. The amicable n.o.b from the Forty Foot. Had wanted to learn him a dive. Brim drawn down.

"What's your name?"

"Doyle."

"MacMurrough."

Costly smell of the tailor-made smoke.

"Walk with me a while."

Doyler shrugs, careful of dislodging the hand. "If you say so."

"So," says MacMurrough.

CHAPTER THREE.

Brother Polycarp rapped his wand on the easel and the fluting straggled to indefinite desistance. "Will the man at the back with the grace notes kindly stand forward?"

Feet shuffled, some faces turned, eventually the culprit rose.

"The new man, is it? Tell me, Doyle, where did you learn to play flute at all?"

"Nowhere, sir. Brother, I mean. I mean I learnt meself."

Brother Polycarp inclined his head while a suspense playfully mounted. "In this band, Mr. Doyle, we are accustomed to a respectable music. A music in the tradition of Kuhlau and Briccialdi and like gentlemen of the transverse mode. We do not slip and slide the like of Phil the Fluter at his ball. Sit you in front in future, boy, and play by the tongue not your maulers."

In a coa.r.s.e whisper someone let out, "Plays be the a.r.s.e be the smell off him."

Brother Polycarp chose to disattend the cod. "Go on now, home with ye. No, stand still till we say a prayer first. Would think the public house was closing on us. Name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost."

He charged through the Our Father versicle, the boys doing a trailing response. Three times in all, then three Hail Marys and an invocation to St. Cecilia. In the end, he called over the clatter of benches, "Now punctual next week. Don't leave me down. The new curate is due this fortnight and we needs must cut a dash for his reverence."

At the front row, Jim was wedging his flute in its sock, a sewnup sugar-sack on which his father had stencilled Master James Mack, Esqr. Master James Mack, Esqr. There was more chaffing behind which he strained to apprehend. A boy randled metallically, "I think I think I smell a stink, I think I think I do." There was more chaffing behind which he strained to apprehend. A boy randled metallically, "I think I think I smell a stink, I think I think I do."

Fahy, the ugliest of his schoolfellows, added, "Something fierce in here whatever it is."

Surrept.i.tiously Jim wiped the wet patch on his breeches where his neighbor's flute had dripped.

"Worse than a cheeser."

"No," said Fahy. "Less than a cheeser, it's the dungman's monkey."

A hand from behind landed on Jim's shoulder. It stiffened like a vaulter's pole. He had time to glimpse a cloudy, mismatched suit sail by, then a kick in its leg sent Fahy's case scattering.

"Gabh mo leithsceal," said Doyler when he landed. "That's excuse me in our native tongue." He thrust the bits of his flute in his jacket, c.o.c.ked an eye at Jim, then strode out the pa.s.sage, lurching once, twice, as he went.

"Cla.s.s of gouger they're letting in now."

"A stinker and a cripple."

And Fahy said flatly, "That one's not long for this band. No, nor long for this world."

Jim stared toward the door, moving his lips to the Gaelic phrase. He believed Doyler had uttered something more while he clambered past. It had sounded again like What cheer! The mix of quaint and Gaelic struck him as fantastical in the school commons.

"Mr. Mack?"

"Yes, Brother?"

"Close your mouth, boy. You're not in training for a fly-paper. Kindly do the honors and collect me the music. I'll be waiting within."

A head leant into Jim's ear and uttered the one word, "Suck."

"I heard a coa.r.s.e word and mention of smell this evening," Brother Polycarp said when they were alone in his monastery room. "Was it you, Mr. Mack?"

"No, Brother."

One eyebrow drolly lifted. "Who was it so?"

"I didn't hear, Brother."

"A vilipendence about the new boy, no doubt."

Jim's face perked at the word.

"The new curate was very insistent he be let in. Why would you say that was?"

"I wouldn't know, Brother."

"There's moves afoot. The new curate speaks Erse. Did you know that? An Erse-speaking priest. Wouldn't you think they'd get the Latin right first. The inflexion one sometimes hears is deplorable. All chees and chaws like an ice-cream vendor out of Napoli."

Jim finished lighting the candles. Grease had spilt on his finger and he rubbed it now with his thumb. Particles fell like dandruff to the floor.

"He's a decent enough mouth on the flute, I'll grant, for all he's not a college boy. Howsoever, there is a certain redolence." The eyes yellowly closed, whitely opened. There was intimation of humor in the thirsty wax of his face. Muscles strained and opened till a wheezing noise let out. "The ars musica," he said with lubricious intonation.

He picked up some music he had been studying, fetched a sigh, replaced it on his table. "On that subject St. Augustine as always is enlightening. Feast Day?"

"August twenty-eight."

"What he says, inimitably, is: 'There are those who can break wind backwards so artfully would they sing.' Dates?"

A brief hesitation. "Three-five-four, four-three-o AD." AD."

"The anno Domini is unnecessary. A supererogation in the instance of a saint."

"Yes, Brother."

The brother was s.h.i.+fting through the folds of his soutane in search of the slip for his pocket. Unbidden otherwise, Jim stood and waited. He could never be sure if Brother Polycarp liked him, or, if he liked him, was it for company or play. It was a trust of sorts to be the audience of these remarks. But was he trusted to share their scandal, or merely not to repeat it? His eyes roamed the scanty room, its whitewashed walls, crucifix over a bed perfectly if thinly made. In the corner, the little grotto to Mary, Our Lady of Presentation. Smell of Maca.s.sar from the grey-sleeked head of the brother.

He took Jim for Latin, and on those mornings when he ran a fever and his hands shook with the strain he had Jim stand up and read page after page of Virgil. All morning long the stumbling feet, while the brother nodded and the boys like Virgil's Trojans embraced their arms in weary sleep.

Keep in with the brothers, his father admonished. Mister Suck, said the boys, the Grand Exhibit.

Was that true about saints? He could think of any number that were born before Christ, but had any died BC? BC? St. Zachary perhaps, father of John the Baptist. Supererogation. It was an easy word to say once you had heard it spoken. Tomorrow he'd look out vilipendence in the school d.i.c.k. St. Zachary perhaps, father of John the Baptist. Supererogation. It was an easy word to say once you had heard it spoken. Tomorrow he'd look out vilipendence in the school d.i.c.k.

The candles at the grotto glimmered and guttered. He wished the brother might hurry that their devotion would begin and be over. Our Lady's downcast eyes.

A silver snuff-box had appeared and the brother made play with settling the top layer of dust. There were stains all down his soutane, a tide of rust, from grains that had rubbed in and soiled. On his sleeves was a s.h.i.+ne of chalk-dust. Before he snorted, he blew his nose on a big blue belcher with grubby white spots. The ritual over, he picked up the new sheet of music again. "What do you make of this, Mr. Mack?"

"A Nation Once Again," Jim read. The page was white as nip. Con brio Con brio was crossed out and underneath, in green ink, a phrase in Gaelic had been subst.i.tuted. Surprising, on account Brother Polycarp wasn't known for his advanced opinions in politics. was crossed out and underneath, in green ink, a phrase in Gaelic had been subst.i.tuted. Surprising, on account Brother Polycarp wasn't known for his advanced opinions in politics.

"Are we to learn this next?"

"The new curate has asked for it. A particular favorite, evidently. He would appear to be under the impression we are a band of rapparee fifers. Mountain-men musicianers. Fluters with slips and slides." He watched Jim's face a moment, then brightly said, "How's your Virgil today?"