“I don’t believe we talked that very much.”
“I used see you but.”
“Well, he never mentioned anything about going away.” And after all what had they talked about? The absorbing matter of MacMurrough and his dick. God, but I’m an egoistical bastard.
“I just hoped, really, he might have said.”
“He did tell me once that he was fond of you.”
“He did?”
“More than that. He said he loved you, actually.”
“He said that?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back.”
“So am I sure.” He nodded to himself. His eyes went back, drawn to the Muglins. “But I worry we’ll be changed. How would we ever get back again? We were great that while together. Twice now we were great and twice he’s left.”
MacMurrough made out, in the chiaroscuro of sun-blanched sea-drenched stones, Nanny Tremble’s kind old face; and she was saying, The poor lovelorn lad, wouldn’t he strike the heart out of you? And MacMurrough thought so too, and his heart in the shape of his hand lifted from the leg and wrapped about the sloping shoulders. He pulled the cap over the boy’s head.
“Listen, young man, I can’t do anything about that. But I can help with your swimming if you like. Ask your father would it be all right if I swam with you. He’s bound to see sense. I could teach you a dive too.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yes, I would.”
“I’d be grateful if you did.”
MacMurrough stood up. He wanted quite desperately to get away from this place now. He swapped his roll from one arm to the other. He held out his hand. “Happy Christmas, Jim,” he said.
“A happy Christmas to you, Mr. MacMurrough.”
“Here’s a good one, Jim. ‘Boots, boots, boots, boots’—Do you know this one, Jim? About fighting the Boers this one is. ‘Boots, boots, boots, boots, There’s no discharge in the war.’” He peered out from his book. “That’s not entirely true,” he said. “Mr. Kipling got it wrong about that. They was still discharging time-expired men long after I got my papers.”
He looked over at his son the other side of the table, the pickings of their Christmas dinner between them. Capital T for Trouble on his face. “Are we all right there, Jim?”
“Is she in pain?”
“Which?”
“Nancy upstairs.”
“What about Nancy?”
“Sure she’s screaming out, Da.”
“Which?” Mr. Mack turned a page of his book. “Not screaming at all. Now, stopped. Told you she wasn’t screaming.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what hurt?”
“Da, I don’t know is it all going wrong or is she meant to be in pain that way.”
“Don’t raise your voice.”
The box-stairs door opened and Mrs. Tansy came in with the kettle. Mr. Mack quickly rose to assist her, but she shoved him out of her way. He tapped his fingers on the table-edge. “Everything up to the knocker above?” She shoved him again while she put the kettle to the hob. “I could make the tea. Would that help?”
She clicked her tongue and up the stairs with her once more. The door closed snidely behind her.
“Womenfolk,” Mr. Mack explained. “At women’s business.” His son’s mouth was starting with questions, so he said, steering him towards the shop door, “Are you finished eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
He lit the gas-light in the shop. “No pudding or nothing?”
“No.”
“You might risk a step outside so.” He opened the till, took out a half-crown, sized it up, put it back. “Look son, here’s two bob for you. There’ll be something on at the Pavilion. You’d like that.”
“The Pavilion’s burnt down.”
“Can’t you find something to spend it on?”
“It’s Christmas Day, Da. Everywhere’s closed.”
He put the two bob in his son’s hand, closed the hand. “My treat,” he said.
“You want me to spend two shillings?”
“You don’t have to spend it all. Come back with any change.”
“Change after what?”
“Matter a damn what.” His hand had banged on the counter, and to confute any sign of anger, he drummed his fingers merrily along. “Go down the pier,” he said. “You’d like a stroll down the pier.”
“Are you going, Da?”
“No no no, I’m wanted here.”
His son stared at the two coins like he’d be figuring out which reign it was. “Can’t you see, Jim, you’re only in the way here?” A fearful howl came down from above and he saw the boy’s face shudder. “Don’t worry your head about that. That’s only a bit of old punishment for what Eve got up to.”
“Eve?”
He ushered his son to the street door. “All quite natural and to be expected. Go on to the pier and don’t come back till it’s all over. That’s the hookum.”
“How will I know when it’s over?”
“Lookat, would you just get to hell out and enjoy yourself for once?” He pushed the boy into the lane and closed the door on his face. He turned off the gas again, returned to the kitchen.
The kettle was on the boil and he made the pot of tea. He had the ladies’ cups ready for them when Mrs. Rourke the handy-woman came down. “Ye’re the slatey man,” she said, waving aside the cup he offered, and she took the kettle to refill it. Half an hour later he was out on the road himself, having been told to find cold weather. But not before he had heard the new cry from above and had crept up the stairs to peek by the door. They had a fire lit in the high-barred grate. He felt the warmth of the room and the subdued air. Something holy had taken place there, a mystery was after happening, and the women bore with complacent looks their attendance on it. He saw the tub with its ruddy water. There was a smell, earthy and sweet, from where Nancy had got sick. The girl lay dozing, moaning lightly. In Aunt Sawney’s arms the babe lay, Aunt Sawney hushoing quietly.
God bless the babe and spare the mother. And He had that. He had that indeed. Girl, said Mrs. Tansy, closing the door on him. Glory be to God, he said tapping his breast.
He tapped it again outside in the night looking up at the light from Aunt Sawney’s window. A girl. A darling dainty dote of a girl. A wee grandchild even. And a grandfather too. A mother and daughter. Uncle and niece. Great-aunt and great-niece. All the one go. It seemed an extraordinary abundance of creation. A great surging of life like a dam had broke. And there was the crying again, the tiny lungs that had called forth all this generation.
He hurried over to the chapel. At the back he knelt, with the humdrum women, and he stared at the host on its high throne and the twelve candles glimmering before it. A Forty Hours adoration was on. He heard the praying of the vigilants, way up by the altar. He crossed himself and left.
He was coming home, passing into Adelaide Road. The lights were on in Fennelly’s. A private do it would be, friends and family. The empty streets echoed with the din that surged and shrunk in waves. Glancing up at the sky he saw a thin mist drifting to the sea, too thin to veil the teeming stars. There’ll be a frost in the morning, he told himself. He tightened the scarf round his neck but not so tight it might be mistook for a muffler. Patted the crown of his Dunn’s three-and-ninepenny. The occasion called for—he misbelieved he deceived himself—called for a small celebration. He knocked on Fennelly’s door.
Regular ree-raw inside. Fug of the place and the free-and-easy way they had of pushing against you. Friends and family, my foot. Fennelly is only raking it in. He excused his way, wishing the season’s greetings to any who looked likely to nod.
A wretched streel stopped in his path. “Yous’re I know what yous are. It’s all very I know what it is. Yous’ll know all about it an’ I tell yous. Yous’ll know the price of yous.” Terrible conviction in her voice. Nodding, smirking, Mr. Mack greased past.
Counter a beery slew. “Hello? No, soda. Hello? No, soda.” Face
s registered with beastly familiarity. “Soda, hello?”
Baby bottles of Powers on the shelf. Snuggled in the corner with soda beside. Baby and nurse they calls that. Buy a round for the house. Think of it. Nominate your poison, gents, the drinks is on me. Imagine that. To wet the infant’s head. How much would that—? Say fourpence a head, how many heads, forty say, multiply by four, divide result by hundred and forty, twelve by twelve. How much we talking roughly?
“A soda when you’re ready—Hello?”
Make it simpler. Four forties is hundred and sixty, minus hundred and forty, twelve from twenty is eight and carry one, one pound one and eightpence.
A terrific dig in the ribs brought Mr. Mack round. The wretched streel was after tripping into him. Her wish of gin swayed before his face. He had to hold her by the shoulders to keep her upright.
“The Shah of Persia,” a mellifluous voice announced, “contemplates an increment of his hareem.”
“Fill us up, y’oul fox.”
“Now now,” said Mr. Mack, chucking a finger to his hat. A party was after gathering, he could feel them edging round him. Select, should have tried the select first.
“The General’s on the ran-tan,” somebody called, and the phrase was taken up till Mr. Mack heard it on every mouth in every tone and minor variation. On the ran-tan, on the razzle, on a batter, on a skite. The General’s in liquor, he’s langers, twisted, stocious, blue moldy and cursing for soda. Chase me, ladies, I’m a fusilier. Take your washing in, Ma, old Macks is on the rampage. Call out the Silly Army.
Moments later and he was out in the road again, sucking in the crisp night air. Wretched place it was. Wretched gab off those fellows. Things they’d think. Names they’d call you. Not even behind your back, some of them. Wretched altogether. And not a one but his name in the tick book. It isn’t a Christian country we live in at all.
In his pocket he had a half-bottle of Powers whiskey and a corona cigar. And he’d only gone in for a sober-water.
He stood on the street at a loss what to do with himself. Over the rooftops the chapel lights showed and Fennelly’s echoed behind. He felt the miss of something, if only a hand to shake. He wished now he hadn’t sent Jim away. Precipitate that.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waif of a newsboy mooching down. Bundle of white under his arm. What paper is that on Christmas Day night? And who does he think to sell it to?
Slower and slower the newsboy came till it seemed as close as might be to an accident that he stopped and took his station on the curb beside Mr. Mack. They spoke nothing for a time, both of them watching the gutter below, then Mr. Mack shook the coins in his pocket. “Well,” he said. “What’s the latest?”
“Constriptin.”
“Conscription,” Mr. Mack corrected. “There’s a deal of trouble in that.” A while, then he added, “I wasn’t aware there was papers sold on Christmas Day.”
The boy shifted his sheaf, one arm to the other, importantly to announce, “Workers’ Republic.” He sniffed, then once again he swapped the sheaf over, as though its substance was too great for one thin arm to contain it long.
Mr. Mack sniffed too. “Workers’ Republic, is it?” There was a ring of Larkinism to the name. “And how did you come by that in Glasthule?”
Carefully the boy explained. There was a young fella after selling them, in Kingstown this was, yesday affnoon, he had a uningform on him, all dark green, outside of the railway station. The papers got thrun in the wind, after the polis come, in the ruggy-up that follied, looking for his license. Then after the polis was gone, they took the young fella with them, so he gathered them up the pages himself, and made them at home into papers again. “Worth penny each. Says so on the front.”
He offered one in evidence and under the streetlamp Mr. Mack perused the page. “And do you think to sell many of that outside of Fennelly’s on Christmas Day night?”
The da had said to try it only. The da had said whatever got sold, he’d see that went where it was meant for. It was meant, the boy told him, for the Irish Citizen Army. Mr. Mack made no doubt of that. “And where’s this your da is now?”
The boy jerked his head, indicating Fennelly’s behind. Mr. Mack nodded. Only for quick glances at the pub door to be sure of any customer, the boy hadn’t looked his way at all. Now he asked of the gutter, “Is it true you’s not the general of the Fenians?”
“No more I am.”
“The da says you never was no Fenian.”
“Your da now would know all about that.”
“Says you’s next or near a Positant now.”
“A Protestant?” said Mr. Mack.
“Says they hunted you out the tuppenny-door at Mass. The ma says you keeps a strumpet at home with you, has her in the familiar way.”
“Now now.”
“What’s a strumpet, mister?”
“Never you mind about that.”
Mr. Mack viewed sideways the scrap of him and he wondered what on earth we had them for, to send them working this hour of night, to clothe them thinly and feed them poorly, and never a thought for impressionable young minds. Every day you see them, up and down the street, selling papers they can’t read them or coals they can’t burn them or cakes they’d never afford to eat. And their folks inside of Fennelly’s knocking back the Christmas spirit. God send ’tis a kinder world for the wee one above.
“Listen, young shaper, how many of that rag have you there with you?”
“Thirteen.”
“How much is that all together?”
“One and three.”
“It is not,” said Mr. Mack, though he counted out a shilling and thruppence for the boy. “Get on home to your bed now. And don’t be repeating things you oughtn’t be listening to. Do you hear me now?”
The boy did not appear the least surprised by the exchange. As if it was a popular halt, Glasthule, for good Samaritans. Mr. Mack stowed the sheaf under his arm. He wondered what was he to do with thirteen Larkinite papers. Knowing his luck now a constable would come along and he’d fetch up himself in the cells. Wasn’t that the price of the police? Arrest the messenger and leave the message floating about for any young waif to pick it up again.
The boy without papers to shift flapped his arms instead. His tiny toes curled over the curbstone. “There’ll be no rising so?”
Mr. Mack shook his head. Wouldn’t you think they’d find him a boots for the winter at least? “No, son, there’ll be no rising.”
“We was ready. Me and me pals was ready and willing.”
“I’m sure you were,” said Mr. Mack. “I’m sure you’re good brave boys. But you’d do better thinking of school and getting your readamadaisy and your rickmatick right.”
He bade a good night and a happy Christmas to the boy who homeward trod. He turned round, then turned again. The sheeny light from the chapel was in his eye. His name had been down for the Forty Hours adoration. But the Forty Hours was too respectable for him now. He’d given a home to the mother of his grandchild and Christmas Eve he found his name struck off, for all to see, on the list inside of the door. Shine on, he told the church. A lighthouse in a bog would have no edge on you.
Mr. Mack stared down the lane to the Banks.
They were a long time answering his knock so that in the end Mr. Mack gave out, “It’s Quartermaster-Sergeant Mack only, come to inspect an old fusilier.”
A sound of shuffling then, and after a time the latch of the topgate scraped from its catch. Mr. Mack peered inside. He could make out little in the gloom, but he ventured, “Is it himself?”
“It is,” said a voice by the fire. “All that’s left of me.”
Mr. Mack entered the cabin. The smell wasn’t the worst. Besides the which, it was a poor soldier who wouldn’t bide his comrade’s breath. They were wise all the same not to leave any candle burning, for the fire would be robbed of what glow remained. Like an old crone he huddled by the hearth, on his box with a blanket drawn round him. Mr. Mack glimpse
d the faded red of flannel legs and knew even the trousers was gone now.
Mr. Doyle coughed, worrying the blanket. He kept his eyes on the ashes, and said, speaking with a strange old-time courtesy, “I would bid you stay for a sup, but the woman is away at chapel yet.”
“Has she the youngsters with her?”
“And why wouldn’t she? Warm there nor anywhere.”
Mr. Mack left a parcel on what might be the table. Only the pickings of the goose from home, some old tarts, no more. “I might take a heat off the fire, all the same.”
“Take an air of it and welcome. Whatever, there’s little enough to sit on.”
“Had I the use of that bucket I might sit on that.”
“You might too.”
“Was I let.”
Mr. Doyle nodded to the fire, as though in agreement with its ashes on some consequential point. “Sure take it and welcome. ’Tis all we have bar the holes that are in it.”
That old cockiness, the jackeenism that so had disturbed Mr. Mack when Mr. Doyle had rolled up first in Glasthule, had dropped away like it had never been. In its place he heard the crabbed pride of a man with no farther to fall. But a countryman, thought Mr. Mack, not any go-boy on the loose out of Dublin.
He turned the bucket upside-down. Another parcel he laid by the hearth. Before he would sit he took out the half-bottle of whiskey and pulled the stopper half-way. On the floor in front and between them he placed it, judging a finical equidistance. Mr. Doyle turned his eyes till they took in the amberly gleaming bottle, then they swiveled home to the ashes.
“I was sorry to hear of your trouble,” said Mr. Mack.
“I wasn’t smiling hearing your own,” said Mr. Doyle.
“Is herself over it at all?”
“You wouldn’t know with women.”
Mr. Mack lowered his voice. “I thought you had a grand send-off for the weeshy thing.”
“We did our best sure.”
“Fine frisky horse. Grand plumes. Always sad to see the little coffin. The white brings it home somehow.”
“She left in better style than she lived, God bless the little Missy.”
At Swim, Two Boys Page 34
