At Swim, Two Boys

by Jamie O’Neill

  “Was who here?”

  “You been agitated looking about you since we came.”

  “I have?” He let a horse-laugh. “I met a toff the other week and he said he does often come this way of an evening.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t fancy to bump into him tonight is all. Are we fixed for Sunday, so?”

  “To swim?”

  “Sure why not?”

  “I go with Brother Polycarp to the Men’s Mass.”

  “After Mass then.”

  “We do a retreat on Sundays.”

  “Has you praying with him day and night, that fellow. Mighty devoted, the pair of yous.”

  “He says I have a vocation.”

  Doyler puffed a cheek and the air hissily issued. “And do you?”

  “He says my mother would want me to be a brother.”

  “Why would she want that?”

  Because a brother took vows, and if he kept those vows his mother need never feel shame before the angels. “Wouldn’t any mother?” he said.

  On the steps to the path above, Doyler ran his fingers in a lackadaisical way through the posters that lined the battery wall. Strips that came off ruffled to the sea, whence the breeze from Wales laconically returned them. At Ballygihen Avenue, an arm lumped round Jim’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about me cursing back there.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I wouldn’t want upsetting you. You’re a college boy and they don’t be used to that manner of talking.”

  Jim felt most indignant. He combed his stock of expressions while Doyler hummed through a rambling air. “Don’t be a damned fool,” he muttered and the hum beside him warbled with humor.

  “When does it end, this devotion of yours?”

  “End of the month.”

  “What happens then?”

  “The Monday is the Queenship of Mary. I’ll know then if I’m to be a brother.”

  “Do you know what my mother always wanted for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “She always hoped I’d make a dungman’s monkey.” The arm gave a squeeze of his neck. “And look at me now. Haven’t I made her wish?”

  Old hunchback on her tramp through Glasthule. Widow’s stoop to give the correct designation. Could set your clock by her, eight on the blow, there or thereabouts. Every night the road to Dalkey, never known to pass the other way back. How she gets to Dublin again we don’t know. Still, she was a harmless soul. Mr. Mack tipped his hat as she passed and said, “Hello, Mary Days. How’s this the days are doing?”

  The determined old head didn’t lift an oat as onward she trudged.

  Odd that now. By rights she’d give out how the days is doing. Half the year they’re drawing in, come mid-winter then they’re drawing out again. Hold on now. Have I got the right handle at all? Is it Mary Days or Mary Nights is her name?

  He called out, “Mary Nights, Mary Nights, how’s this the nights is doing?” But she had already passed up the road.

  Mr. Mack stared after. Made a donkey of that, he told himself. He looked round to see had anyone been watching. “Good evening, Constable.”

  The constable beetled from under his helmet, swivelled on his heels to beat the opposite way.

  Mr. Mack turned into a lane of cottages. Dark-green moss growing up the walls, yellow-green slime coming down. Smell of—what would you call that smell? Crowd of nippers at mud pies by the pump. Curious how quiet they play. If a poor man’s riches is his children, these folk is mighty flush. He began knocking at the half-doors. “Tell your ma it’s Mr. Mack for the fortnightly.”

  Who has fewer childer feeds them fatter. Truer word. That was the way with his own two. Though he supposed had it turned out to the differ, there’d be other feet at his table now, devouring him out of house and home. Nice to have a little girl though. A little girl would be nice to have. Handy about the house and all.

  Little sisters, you may work,

  Work and help your mothers,

  Darn the stockings, mend the shirts,

  Father’s things and brother’s.

  Yes, a girl would have been dandy. God rest your soul in peace everlasting.

  That time with Gordie we went down the Banks. Like Calcutta it was. Well, any place in India, you takes your pick. Never suspected to find it on my doorstep. The fever van had called collecting. Children stood watching, the way they would be waiting their turn. Flies on their faces. I said to Gordie, “We won’t bother with that sum now.” Gordie felt it too for he said, “We’ve a poor right coming here looking for payment.”

  At the last cottage, a little girl came out and pulled the door after her. “The ma’s away on a message,” she said.

  Mr. Mack bent down till he was level with her nose. Small as she was she had a smaller child in her arms. “Well, little lady, we’ll have to take the little brother so.”

  “Ma, Ma, the General’s after going to take the buddy, Ma!”

  Mr. Mack said Aha! with his eyes and waited while the woman came with her poke.

  “Why wouldn’t you call of a Saturday like any decent Christian?” she complained while she counted out the coins. “Wouldn’t you know we was depending on his wages tomorrow?”

  But how could he collect of a Saturday? Sure Saturday was his busiest night in the shop.

  Some of these people, you’d think it was the bailiff after chucking them out the way they’d treat you. The trip-club, the communion-club, the photograph-club, the club for Christmas. Had he any sense he’d charge for a new trousers. Has me pockets near destroyed, the fiddler’s change I collect. Wouldn’t mind but I charge no commission, I share out the interest, not a penny would come the way of the shop necessarily. I only take the opportunity to remind them of the tick-book. And still they’d give you the cold shoulder of mutton. A thankless task it is, more kicks than ha’pence.

  As he wandered along home, he felt the poor people’s copper weigh in his pocket. Low in the sky hung watery clouds hovering over the gas-lamps. More rain. There was no up in poor people and the sullen skies dispirited him.

  Game of a leg, hop and go quickly. Young Doyler it is with Jim in tow. I was thinking his devotions was taking longer these nights. They’ve palled up. Arm-and-arm they go. Ten days and they’re cup and can together.

  He made faces to himself while he considered the implications. Already he had caught Jim out in a lie and that lie was nailed now as he saw the flute passed over for safe-keeping. Wouldn’t mind, but the age he spends cleaning it for him. Almond oil and cork grease, they don’t come cheap. No cop-on, that boy. Got a load of almond oil in when he joined the band, thinking he’d let on to his schoolfellows where to buy it local. Shy of his shadow. Gave up in the end sending him down with the tins. Would weary you, the mortification on his face. Gathering dust now, along with everything else in the shop that can’t be sold be ha’pennies.

  He watched the boys as they made their farewells. Palled up great so they have. Those chats you have in the green of youth. All the time in the world and all the plans to make for it. But little the future is in it. No friendship without your equals. They learnt me that in the army. And Jim’s a college boy now. Jim. My son James.

  He had backed into a doorway not to be seen. Now he found himself reading the poster in the window. An Inquiry From the Front, the banner said. Inside a giant question-mark, a soldier asked: When are the other boys coming?

  His hand went to his mustache, explored the comb of its hairs.

  Now that’s the damnedest thing. See here his cap badge? That’s the Leinster Regiment, that is. The 109th Foot as was, the old Brass Heads. But look at this, would you. If them buttons isn’t pewter on his tunic, I’m a grenadier. Class of thoolamawn they have doing these posters. Any wonder there’s no rush to enlist. Sure any guffoon’d tell you, the Leinster Regiment has brass for its buttons and always has since 1858.

  And would you look-see here. This poster’s not up to scratch at all. Coming away
at the edge already. Some young tearaway now, who knows but he has a sup taken, and he’s wending his way merrily along. He sees this corner fluttering in the wind, what care he if ’tis Government property? No sooner seen than done, his hand goes out and bang! Out comes the constable, the boy’s before the beak, and there’s another young life broken. No wonder there’s posters gets defaced. Very sloppy work altogether. Asking for trouble, so it is.

  If I could maybe—all it needs is a drop of wet behind—if I could pull it back a touch more, get my finger in. Lick of spit and the job’s good as new. Let me see now. Gently does it.

  Cheese and crusts, would you look at that. Hames I’ve made of it now. Whacking great strip come off in me hands. Must be mighty inferior paper they use. Should write that down and send it in. A better class of paper and the posters might stay longer up.

  He felt the hand upon his shoulder. He turned and saw the dark blue cape. “Good evening, Constable,” said Mr. Mack.

  All along the road to Kingstown, over the bridge and past the railway station, all along the shuttering shops of George’s Street lower, then the parade of doctors’ and dentists’ and lawyers’, on their easy tramp through the fashionable township, Mr. Mack tipped his hat to all he passed. In a low voice he explained, over and over again, that the glue-merchants and paper-manufacturers were all to blame and truth be told were in league with the Kaiser. Till, with a sense almost of surprise, they entered the doors of the police station and the desk sergeant said, “Well?”

  “Posters,” said the constable.

  “If you’ll allow me explain,” began Mr. Mack.

  “Red-handed?” asked the sergeant.

  The constable waved the torn strip. “Scarlet at it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nancy knocked on the dressing-room door. “Mam, there’s a visitor to see you, mam.”

  “Well? Who is it?”

  “It’s a priest, mam.”

  Eveline caught the girl’s look of awe in her table glass. “Did he mention his business?”

  “I didn’t dare for to ask, mam.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Isn’t he in the hall?”

  Idiot child. “Is the fire lighting in the small drawing-room?”

  “It is, mam.”

  “Show him to the big one so. And make tea, child. Is there cake?”

  “Wasn’t there Madeira, only Cook said—”

  Eveline cut short the elaboration of excuses. “Bring what you may find.”

  “Only Cook says, mam, to ask will he be staying for dinner?”

  “No. Neither will he stay for lunch. Now, will you make haste.” Perfunctory curtsy, then her tread on the clumsy stairs.

  Eveline studied the presentiment in her glass. Not the pearls after all, not the studs, nor the jet. It would have to be the emerald eardrops now. She chose a tea-gown of bold and cloqué roses: cerise, chartreuse, grenadine. Eau de damas for scent. Her hair was not unparagoned, wisps strayed beyond her ears. Not en négligé, but as though stirred by a Celtic breeze.

  Father Amen O’Toiler, direct from his first sermon to the parish. She could not remember had she engaged to attend. She would congratulate him nevertheless. Magnificent blow for Ireland. At last a leader has come among us. Feet now. The button boots or the Gibson laces? Gibsons to show her shins.

  The Gibsons had not been brushed nor the laces ironed and she cursed her idle people. And the gown, she realized, was a shade perhaps French in its reach. Still she had exquisite shins, and should the priest pretend to look askance she would say the gown had been run up in Donegal. Yes, splendid relict contrives them. One sits at her hearth while she spins and sews and regales with tales of the old times. I suppose they do sew in Donegal?

  She viewed the ensemble in the body-glass. A nation’s muse, la belle Irlande. A celebrated lady poet. Lionizing hostess. Her shoulders sank. Judge at the Glasthule Charity Bazaar. Some fallal or other. Choker with the cameo brooch? In the end she chose an amber pendant with a fly caught inside. She sang to herself, “Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing seabird hath wept.” They gave it to Mother when Father was returned the third time. Grateful constituents. Oil of palm, she expected.

  En grande tenue, she descended the stairs. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Stop it, now, one must be sober.

  “Forgive me, Father, for keeping you waiting. The butler has run off to sea, the parlor maids have married their soldiers, which leaves me only the girl from the kitchen and she, God help us, is touched.”

  She approached with her hand held out and the young man rose in jerks from the sofa. He fumbled in a farouche way, confused as to whether to kiss her hand or to shake it. At the last moment she glided past and pulled the bell-rope that hung by the hearth.

  Nancy came rushing to the door. “Mam?”

  “Be a good child and bring tea. Would tea be all right for you, Father?”

  “Tea would be grand, Madame MacMurrough.”

  “Isn’t the kettle only waiting, mam?”

  “Very good. Make haste. Father O’Toiler, do sit down and tell me, do, how are things in the four green fields of Erin?”

  She perched upon a fiddle-back and the priest returned to the sofa. He had chosen the center cushion and she watched as he sank lower and lower till his knees rose to be level with his chin. Whatever it is they teach in Maynooth these days, she considered, it is never command of furniture.

  She saw his fingers fidget with the cardboard cover of his breviary. Would a leather breviary be a fitting gift?

  The priest hemmed. “Things are growing apace, Madame MacMurrough. It is my fear, however, that in the parish of the Stream of O’Toole we are lagging somewhat.”

  “The Stream of O’Toole, father?”

  “It is the translation of Glasthule from the Gaelic.”

  “How inspiriting. You cannot conceive how proud I am to hear the ancient tongue spoken once more in my father’s house.”

  He looked perplexed a moment, then graciously nodding, said, “Go raibh maith agat.”

  She gave an enchanted clap. “Bravo, Father, bravo. Tell me now, do, what was that you said?”

  “It was the Irish for thank you.” Again he nodded.

  “Too long have we waited for a lead in this parish. And now you have come in answer to a prayer.”

  His smile sucked on sherbet. He leant cannily forward. “So you heard my sermon?”

  “Splendid show.”

  “I thought it went very well.”

  “A magnificent blow for Ireland.”

  “And for the Church.”

  “And for the Church, of course.”

  “The two are inseparable. And you do not think my hopes too extravagant?”

  “In what way extravagant now?”

  “No, Madame MacMurrough, I see you stand foursquare beside me. For the past twenty years the Gael has been crying aloud for help to beat back the Anglicization that drags its slimy length along. The immoral literature, the smutty postcards, the lewd plays and suggestive songs were bad, yet they were merely puffs from the foul breath of a paganized society. Even today I saw ye, many of ye here this morning, on your very way to Mass, I saw ye stoop to purchase—”

  “I’m sorry, Father?”

  “No, Madame MacMurrough, I quote from my sermon, you will recall. It was at that point I mentioned the News of the World and there was tremendous shuffling of feet and coughing throughout the congregation.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “For we know now that should we continue traveling in this same direction, condemning the sports that were practiced by our forefathers, effacing our national features as though we were ashamed of them, contemning indeed our own native tongue that cannot speak but it praise God, and putting on, with England’s stuff and broadcloths, her masher habits and feminine follies, we had better at once!”

  “At once, Father?”

  “And publicly, abjure our nationality, clap hands
for joy at the Union Jack, and declare unto a disbelieving world that Ireland!—she has lost her faith of old.”

  “I see.”

  “It was all in the sermon and I believe it went tremendous well.”

  The girl came in with the tray, délivrance, and rattled it on to a table. “Leave us, child. I shall serve the father myself.”

  She measured tea into the teapot, poured the water. To her surprise she saw the child had remained.

  “Mam, there’s a poor woman come to the kitchen door, mam.”

  “Well?”

  “She’s looking to take in washing, mam.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Only Cook said—”

  “Cook?”

  “Didn’t she say to tell you—”

  “Enough. Show the woman to the pass door. I shall interview her there.”

  “Thank you, mam.”

  “Go raibh maith agat,” said the priest.

  Curtsying cheeses, Nancy left.

  “Sugar?”

  “I do.”

  “Cream?”

  “A taste only.”

  “Your tea, Father.”

  “Go raibh maith agat.”

  A gracious language, if somewhat limited of expression. “You’ll excuse me, Father O’Toiler, if I abandon you a moment.”

  “A domestic crisis ensues,” he said, rising. But Eveline had already left.

  The clock clicked, tock-tick. Over the hearth hung a heavy frame, carved in blackening shamrock lace. It leant ponderously forward as though the likeness within had been listening the while and now intended to intrude. An advocate perhaps, a politician certainly, last scion of a dispossessed clan. The large, square, low-fronted head was quarter-turned, as if to catch from the shadowy plane the ceaseless cries of an oppressed people. The gleam of the eyes showed humor, but the mouth had thinned with scorn as, blow for blow through the midless years, it had turned a conqueror’s jibes. In ageing morbidezza, the character of their race.