At Swim, Two Boys

by Jamie O’Neill

  The details Jim already knew. HMS Serapis to Gibraltar; HMS Devonshire to Egypt; quartered in the Citadel in Cairo. He wondered was Cairo near the somewhere-in-Egypt where Gordie had stayed.

  “Egypt wasn’t the worst,” his father continued. “Imshee. Do you know what imshee means? ’Tis Gyppo that for go away. First thing you learns out East. Imshee! Imshee! With a smack of your cane on their b-t-m. Bamboo backsheesh they calls that. Terrible lads for the importuning.”

  “But the Pyramids, Da, the Sphinx? Did you not see any the sights?”

  “Would you get away with yourself and your sights. A regiment is too busy for any of that carry-on. Always something going forward, wedding or a funeral, any number of parades. And all the clobber and nick-nacks they give out. All to be kept spick and span. I doubt I’ll ever forget it, the wonder of so many things to call my own. A poor lad who had only his Tipperary fortune before that. Do you know what’s this is a Tipperary fortune?”

  “The shirt on your back,” said Jim.

  His father glanced down suspiciously from the steps. “That and your wits,” he allowed. He had a pin in the corner of his mouth, which made it difficult for him to speak clearly. He took it out now and stabbed it through a streamer. Climbed down the steps which together they shifted the regulation three feet along the wall. Climbed again.

  “Everything bright and colored,” he said. “Tunic to be pressed. Pouches and belts to be pipe-clayed. Five ration tins that you cleaned with bath-brick. Eight metal wash-basins. My very own knife, fork and spoon. All to be buffed four times daily with Globe Polish. And never touched but with a cloth. You kept any old makeshift yoke for use. Do you know how to be sure of a crease in a trousers?”

  “Soap the inside, wet the outside, sleep on them under your mattress.”

  “Did I happen to mention these things before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Ah sure well, that’s how they teach in the army. By rote.”

  Jim handed him the end of the streamer, retrieved the pin his father had dropped, reached that up to him. To be told, “Head first, Jim. You don’t never pass a pin that way. Where’s this that streamer’s got to?” After Jim had once more passed him its tail, he said, “Sights now, let me see. Did I ever let on about the time I went down the casbah?”

  “No,” said Jim, “I don’t think so.”

  “With Mick this was. What it was, we heard tell of a padre, he was famous for it, he used go down the opium dens, on the scout, see, for swaddies what had been kidnapped. He’d have to brave his way out, carrying the poor lads on his back, some of them. Well, meself and Mick, we thought we’d have a twist at the rescuing lark ourself. Youthful high spirits, I suppose you’d call it. Officer we hit on wasn’t at all grateful. Threatened to throw the book at us if we didn’t clear out double-quick and let him alone with his hookah. Occifer, Mick used always pronounce it.”

  Jim laughed obligingly. “Mick would be Mick Doyle,” he said.

  “What other Mick would I be talking of? ’Tis well known we was pals together. Mick and Mack the paddy-whacks. More than once he had me on the orderly’s mat. Defaulters’ book and regimental entries. Many’s the scrape we had of it. Terrible to the world was Mick.”

  His father a lad with a lad for his friend. His father cod-acting and getting into trouble. It made you blink twice to think of it.

  “Then it was India. HMS Serapis again, trusty old sardine-can. Shocking voyage that was. Some of the men didn’t make it at all. Fierce hot in the Arabian Ocean.”

  Jim mimed Sea.

  “What it was we hit a calm. Never known anything the like of it. Eerie to say the least. Ship steamed on but not a stir of a breeze gave out. And the heat like the insides of an oven. Poor old Mick. At death’s door we all thought. Had to cradle him in me arms, I did, and drip the water on his tongue. Days on end I sponged his forehead, speaking the Brigid’s Rosary in his ear. There was a fear of the water giving out but I scoured that tub upside-down till I had a source found from a sailor-johnnie. Time we reached port there was scarce a man left standing. Never bothered me. Never a day’s sickness in me life. Got me first stripe out of that. Lance-jack Mack.”

  “You must’ve been great together, Da.”

  “Who?”

  “You and Mr. Doyle.”

  “Didn’t I say we was pals? That’s the army way. Nothing you wouldn’t do for a pal. Nor nothing he wouldn’t do in return. End of the earth you’d go.”

  On the deck of a boat in his scarlet tunic cradling his friend in his arms. What would you feel then? It was comical when you tried to picture it. Mr. Doyle with his red hair and ashen face and his father’s round face looking all concerned. His father with all his medals on and Mr. Doyle sneaking glugs from a baby Powers. “What happened with Mr. Doyle?” he asked.

  “What would you think happened him? He got better, sure.”

  “I mean what happened your friendship?”

  “Oh well you know,” his father said. “The world has a way.”

  He climbed down the steps to view his handiwork. Colored tissue that swung in chains from printed mottoes. Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth. Goodwill to All Men. Victory.

  “Gordie used love the decorations,” he said.

  “He did that,” agreed Jim.

  Jim fetched the dustpan and brush to tidy the mess his father had left. His father watched a while then said, “What happened I was made a sergeant of. Who said it first was a wise man that there’s no friendship without you’re equals. Might as well try be pals with a woman. This was up in Quetta. Do you know where Quetta is?”

  “In the mountains.”

  “Not in the mountains at all. Quetta is in the hills.” He looked pleased with himself and the nicety of his distinction. Then the smile went down and he continued, “It was a shame the way it had to happen. I didn’t wish to make anything of it. After all, he’d only come to congratulate me. But I couldn’t but help notice his buttons the way they were. How would I know he’d take it so hard? But I had my three stripes on me and his buttons was greasy, whichever way you looked at it.”

  “You said that to him?”

  His father looked up sharp as if to have forgotten he was talking aloud. “You needn’t be glassing me, young fellow. I had my duties to perform and a sergeant can’t be seen to have his favorites. What would become of discipline else? There’s a burden to rank that one day you’ll understand. But the bold Mick never forgave me, and God knows, I never blamed him for it. I doubt but he was ever the same man again.”

  Jim knew his face was skewed and he tried to square it for his father’s sake. But he could not accept his father behaving that way. He comes to shake your hand, your friend, the lad you grew up with. He wants to congratulate you on being made sergeant. And you reprimand him for his buttons. It was like your stripes would be sewn to your heart not your sleeve. Jim knew he would never play so false. No matter how the world divided them, he’d never let his pal down so. For friendship was a heartfelt thing. Its absence was an ache inside that no rank could ever assuage. He was certain he would never act so—yet even as these assurances trundled on, the suspicion grew that in fact he already had.

  How many times had Doyler invited him to his home and he made excuses not to go? Pop down and see the ma, Doyler would say, she does often be asking after you. But Jim had dreaded the squalor he would find. He saw no mother but a washerwoman at her skivvying and the dirt-faced children that would be clinging to her skirts. And when Doyler would ask the meaning of a word, in Latin say, or in the French of Madame MacMurrough, Jim would pretend not to know. And saying “do be” and using “was” for “were”—as though he’d please a friend with his ignorance. What behavior was that? He might have come out straight and told Doyler his buttons were too greasy to be seen in his company. Oh sure right enough, he’d follow Doyler to war, but he wouldn’t stoop to visit his home. Was it he after all had sent Doyler away and not the Father Taylor at all?

 
And worse it got, for when Doyler had spoke of teaching, sure it was clear as day it was himself he meant. It was Doyler had wanted to be a schoolteacher. That was his secret wish. Why hadn’t Jim said, We’ll sit the King’s together. He might have offered, it was so clear to him now, might have offered to help at least. He had most the books to share. And Doyler had better lights than ten college boys. How much he might have done. How much they might have done together. But no, Jim had his three stripes on his sleeve and Doyler had buttons far too greasy. Let Jim be the schoolteacher. It was good enough for Doyler if he was the dungman’s lad the remainder of his days.

  And God help me, he never asked anything of me, never ever a thing, save a kiss, and even that I refused him.

  “Jim.”

  “Yes, Da?”

  “Turn back your cuffs if you’re to brush the floor. You’ll have your good shirt destroyed.”

  He hadn’t realized he was brushing the entire shop. His father was at the till. Quickly he said, “Da, you could go down and see him.”

  “Go down and see who is it?”

  “Mr. Doyle. Maybe it’s not too late. You could explain what happened.”

  “What’s this you’re on about? Why would I be knocking on Mick Doyle’s door?”

  “You were friends, Da.”

  “Irrah, will you get on out of that. Mick and me ended years back. I left the army and ’twas only his jiggery-pokery had him follow me down to Glasthule.”

  Clink, customer. Clink clink, customer customer. “Now ladies,” his father said and his fingers tapped on the counter.

  He held the door for the ladies’ departure. The margarine smile showed he had drink detected on their breath. “’Tis fond of the rain,” he pronounced, looking out in the road. “General Weatherall in command.” The door closed and he turned to take in the sweep of the shop. “My my,” he said, “but Gordie used love the old decorations.”

  They both knew this wasn’t so. Or if it was, it wasn’t Gordie who had told them. What Gordie had loved was messing and scrapes and toss-ha’penny in the street. But the shop was how he would remember it. Shop, Christmas, home.

  His father took off his hat that he had quickly put on when the customers came in. He looked inside its crown as though for corroboration and sighed. “There’s good news coming,” he said, his voice belying the words. “I can feel it in my bones. There’s good news on its way.”

  Though it had to be said, when news came it did not appear to be tidings of joy. They came home from chapel after carols being sung, Mr. Mack and his son, to find the parlor door ajar. Gas on inside and lady talk coming out that had squirks of amusement in it. Mr. Mack could hardly persuade himself but he heard spoons kinking on saucers. He crept up to the jar and by the splay he saw Aunt Sawney with her go-to-Mass hat and the sugar tongs out. Her interlocutor he could not quite discover, but through the peep in the jamb she appeared a corpulent customer. And rather a sing-song voice for the avoirdupois she carried.

  “Have ye enough of milk?”

  “Thanks again, Miss Burke.”

  “Call me Aunt Sawney, why wouldn’t ye?”

  “God increase you for that, mam.”

  Two lumps of lump sugar were ferried with the sugar tongs to a china cup on outstretched saucer. “Sugar for snap. Ye have the two of ye now to be thinking of. And when his lordship at the door has his fill of prying he may fetch a cup and join us himself.”

  It took a moment for Mr. Mack to apprehend who she intended. “Is it you, Aunt Sawney? I didn’t notice you were inside. Jim!” he called. “I was only looking at this door and there’s a fierce dust on the—Jim! Fetch a cloth like a good boy and give this door a rub-down. Hello, Aunt Sawney,” he said entering, chafing his hands against the chill of her look. “Oh, forgive me now. Had I known you had company visiting, I wouldn’t, why it’s, well if it isn’t, how are you, Nancy child?”

  “Grand this day, thanks be to God, Mr. Mack.”

  His gaze took in the bay window of her front. “’Tis a long while now and we heard sight of you.” His gaze lifted to her still shining face. “Anything strange?” he inquired.

  “Strange enough,” she answered.

  His fingers were tapping on his waistcoat pocket where long ago he had kept a fob. Up to his mustache, back to his fobless pocket. The room was sharp with secrets, with the mocking suspense of feminine eyes. “I’ll leave you at it so. You’ll call, Aunt Sawney, should you require assistance?”

  “Sit ye down,” Aunt Sawney answered.

  “Well, I don’t think as I will.”

  “Ye’ll do as ye’re bid, Mr. A. Mack Esquire, or if ye don’t ye’ll have the length of my tongue for your supper.”

  “Will you have the goodness to get out of this, woman?”

  Jim arrived at the door with a cloth. Mr. Mack gestured for him to clear away out of that but Aunt Sawney beckoned him in.

  “Fetch two cups for yourself and his lordship. We’re to have this day a ponderation.”

  “No no, not the boy.”

  “The boy’ll hear what’s to be said.”

  “But recollect yourself, Aunt Sawney.” He motioned to Nancy who bestrode her chair like something regal. “He’s only a lad.”

  She near pounced on him at that. “There was another boy was only a lad. Where is he this day? Get away, little man, and fetch them cups. We’ll drink tea together as a family.”

  Mr. Mack saw, without consent, that his son obeyed. When he would be out of earshot, he said, “Now this is nonsense, Aunt Sawney. You’re evidently out of yourself. There’s no family here.”

  She said to Nancy, “His lordship would have it his family ended with the regiment, so he would.”

  “Leave the regiment out of this.”

  “He sent him away, hunted him out of it, for the pennies he owed the publican. And d’ye know what my good boy did then?”

  “What did he do, Aunt Sawney?”

  The familiarity was scandalous to Mr. Mack’s ear.

  “He did join his father’s regiment. At age eighteen.”

  “And didn’t it make the man of him? Haven’t you read his letters since?”

  “’Tisn’t the letters we’re reading now but the telegrams.” It was a cut which she made the best of by thrusting her chin where his face was. “Ye have lost my good boy on me.” She threw a hand in Nancy’s way. “Will ye lose the grandchild with it?”

  “What do you mean, grandchild? This really cannot be let go farther. This skit here has importuned on your kindness for long enough. I will not suffer these proceedings—”

  She banged her stick on the floor. “Ye’ll sit down and suffer with the rest of us.”

  He sat down, stared at his legs. “She has no business calling at this house,” he told them. Then he broached the girl’s face. “You had no business returning here, Nancy. Madame MacMurrough did well to send you home. You ought be ashamed to show your face.”

  “’Twasn’t home I went,” said Nancy.

  “Wherever then.”

  “She gave me money for England.”

  “And wouldn’t you be better off over, where nobody would know you? I cannot get over the out-and-out sauce of you. Strolling to my door on Christmas week.”

  “Your son didn’t mind me calling.”

  “My son, is it? My son is likely dead or dying. He has done a brave deed for his King and Country. What manner of girl are you to come here and speak his name?”

  “I’m the girl he loved.”

  The one was close to blubbering now, so he turned his eyes to the other who chewed her tongue with toothless gums. “She had no call coming,” he told her. “You had no call letting her in.”

  “She came for I bade her.”

  “You bade her?”

  “She wrote me, Mr. Mack. Months back she wrote and told me the news.”

  The girl was fumbling with a letter which Mr. Mack waved aside. “You have this hatched on me. You have it planned all the while. Behind my back to ma
ke a mockery of the house.” His son was at the door with the cups. “Lookat, let the boy go only.”

  “The boy’ll stay.”

  The tea was long stewed but his son poured with concentrated movements then sat down by the door. Mr. Mack stared into his cup at the floating leaves. It was Jim who broke the silence.

  “Where have you been staying, Nancy?”

  “Up by the canal. Oh, it was dreadful, Mr. Mack. Only for Aunt Sawney gave hope, I don’t know what to have done. They treated me something cruel. Like a common walker in off the street. And they had me doing laundry the day through. All day through, Mr. Mack, without ever a smile or a kind word.”

  “And what might you expect in the awkward state of you?” He tasted the bitter tea. In his mind’s eye he saw a deeshy waif who gulped red-haired tea for there wasn’t milk to be had in all that farming country. That farming country was Tipperary. Tipperary, the Yorkshire of Ireland. He washed the vision away and said, “No no no, this won’t do at all.”

  Aunt Sawney banged her stick. “I’ll say this the once only. No blood of mine will be born in the Union.”

  Mr. Mack muttered, flecking his son with his eyes, “How do we know whose blood is it at all?”

  “Shame on you, Mr. Mack, for thinking such a thing.”

  “Is it shame on me? The strap of you to give such lip. I’m an honest man here. I try to do an honest labor. I tried to bring my sons up something decent. I looked to keep a good name to this house.” His hand beat on his breast with each argument. He turned to Aunt Sawney. “God’s sakes, woman, don’t you know they have my name down for the Hibernians? I’m only clinging to the tuppenny-door as it is.”

  “Pish,” she said, “what sign of a fool are ye at all? If ye wanted to get on in the chapel, ye’d double your dues and be done with it. Ye’re the careless man, Mr. A. Mack Esquire. Careless enough to lose the half your name till we don’t know is it MacThis or MacWhat-is-it. Careless enough to lose your woman bringing her home from Africa. You lost your son for to please the King of England. The little man here was a Presentationer only the black fellow saved him out of it.” Even Jim glanced up surprised at this. “Will ye lose the infant to please the priesteen that’s in it? I say again, ’ tisn’t born in the Union my good boy’s child will be.”