At Swim, Two Boys

by Jamie O’Neill

  “You can come in,” she said.

  “Will I leave it here?”

  Nancy tipped a look at Aunt Sawney, who was sitting up in bed with her bed-jacket on and her day-cap, and the big bolster behind. “He hangs about the door for fear he’ll catch something prejudicial.”

  “I do not,” said Jim, walking boldly in. Immediately he was aware of the smell, a woman’s room smell, of toilet soap and bodily things, cleansing and motions. Of sickness too, or rather the things against sickness, ointments and creams. He nearly could touch the warmth, a stuff of lavender and camphor balls, stale the way they had it hoarded through the winter. It was a strangely self-contained room: he never saw anything purchased for it, yet it had a share of jars and bottles that must surely run out.

  “And what is the little man at today?” asked Aunt Sawney.

  “Reading a book,” he answered.

  Nancy rolled up the soiled napkin and dropped it in the pan of water. Things changed when they left this room. He would pick that up now and carry it down the stairs to the range. It would be hideous then, but here you wouldn’t mind it at all. He watched Nancy blow on a penny before she placed it on the baby’s bellybutton. She did up the napkin guggling in the baby’s face, and asking it, singingly, “How many miles to Dubellin town? Three score and ten.”

  “Why wouldn’t the little man go out?” Aunt Sawney said.

  “Old Macks has him minding shop,” Nancy told her. “Would you credit it? Minding shop and the shop closed itself.”

  Aunt Sawney smacked her gums. She looked nice in her bed with her bed-jacket on. Nancy had knitted her that. “Are you well, Aunt Sawney?” he asked.

  “Come here, little man,” she said. A shilling she had for him. “Is it the black fellow?” she wanted to know then.

  He laughed. “Is what the black fellow sure?”

  Nancy stood up with the babe in her arms, heaving her. “Go on out with you,” she said, “and I’ll listen for the bell.”

  “All right so, I will.”

  He found MacEmm smoking in the garden room in Ballygihen. He had his towel roll on the table and a carton of Player’s cigarettes. Jim couldn’t say exactly why, but he thought the Player’s a very good sign. The patient—Hygeia’s darling, so MacEmm called him—was doing nicely above, no sicks now, only the gripes and the grumps. Mrs. Moore had him eating broth quite tame. Himself, he was tired playing sick-nurse and was off down the Forty Foot. If Jim had his swimmers and any sense he’d come bathing with him.

  “I have my swimmers.”

  “Come then.”

  But he would just pop up and see Doyler first. He found him dozing still. Jim pulled the covers and let his hand on the forehead. It wasn’t a fever at all, only a temperature. “Hello there,” said Doyler.

  “You’re awake so.”

  “I don’t know but I’m groggy all over.”

  “It’s the doctor’s draught he gave you.”

  “Have I missed me parade?”

  “Don’t mind that,” said Jim, settling him back on the pillow. “Are you hungry at all?”

  He wasn’t. He was already dropping away. Jim looked at him a while, sensible of a niggly disappointment. He bent over and kissed him on the glisten of his temple. He tiptoed out of the dimmed rayed room. Old Mrs. Moore on her chair beyond the door smiled so kindly. Yes, she told him, he was bravely now and the broth on the boil whenever.

  Oh but it was grand at the Forty Foot and swell to swim. He dived and cut his dash before the regulars’ benevolent appraisal. “Was you one of them madcaps swum to the Muglins?” He was indeed. “Gob, but I held the pair of yous in me glass. Pegging away like blazes. I said to meself, I says, God help Wales if it gets in them fellas’ way. Won me two bob out of that.” Jim hoped he hadn’t bet on them coming back. “Gob, but I didn’t. How’s the other fella?” The other fellow was fine sure. Jim glided through the nugatory holiday throng and dived again from the high board. He floated on his back and gazed at the vast heavenly dome above, infinity. Over there the Muglins, and close by, watching from his ledge, MacEmm, reposing, admiring him.

  They dried in the sun on the slabs with their towels under. Jim said, “I thought of entering in the Gala this year.”

  “So you should.”

  “You’d train me of course.”

  MacEmm laughed. He dressed, saying he had one or two commissions in Kingstown. Jim followed him along the road past Sandycove Harbor. He was going to Kingstown to buy his ticket. Jim knew this for certain, and he said, “Don’t do it, MacEmm, please don’t go.”

  They were passing through the little Otranto gardens, and MacEmm stopped now at a bench that overlooked the bay. He said, “It’s not how I should have wished it, my dear. I should be long gone by now, but your pal has screwed my plans rather. Drowning, I mean. They say Easter longed for is gone in a day. And now it has gone, and I—My gosh, look at that!”

  “Yes,” said Jim, “I’ve seen it before.”

  “So graceful.”

  “It’s from out Drumcondra way. They have an aerodrome.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “But MacEmm, you can’t leave with Doyler sick.”

  “Doyler has an upset tummy. If he’s not better tomorrow he must try for a hospital.—Do you see him climb? How wonderful it must be.”

  “I’ll steal your ticket. I won’t steal it, I’ll tear it up.”

  “All alone up there. Such terrific solitude.”

  “You won’t listen to me.”

  “Oh Jim, I am listening to you. But I don’t belong here now. You must surely understand that.—Look, he dives, the vol plané!”

  “It’s not true, you do so belong.”

  Jim had tried to bring his arm round the high faraway neck, with clumsy inadequacy, and he could only leave his fingers latched on the shoulder, while the neck strained to follow the puttering engine above. Puttering which repeated now in his own chest as his breath unwilling sobbed.

  “Oh Jim, don’t cry on me now.” The big arm came wrapping round, shrugging his paltry fingers from the shoulder, and pulling him close to the creamy soft cloth of his suit. “Aren’t you the beautiful boy of the world? And don’t you know I love you too much? Far too much to interfere between you and your pal. But I couldn’t bear to watch you with another always. It’s too much for me.”

  “I don’t know what difference that makes.”

  “If you don’t know that, my dear, you should never have swum to your Muglins at all.”

  There was some shiloo on the sea-wall. Fellows weren’t watching the skies any more, but were gathering about some news. A startling intelligence, to tell by their faces. “Fairyhouse,” MacEmm said. “Apparently an outsider won the National.” He told Jim to go back to the house and mind after Doyler, that he’d see him this evening, they’d have that together. Then he got up and made his way to the road. Jim watched his walk, a strong leisurely stride, and his windy clothes billowing behind him. Then after a while, Jim got up too and went down by the sea-wall where the little men were big with faces.

  Moments later, mad and tumultuous, he was haring through the garden gate. Up the lawns, through the garden doors, skidding on the polished wood, into the hall where he paused, panting, his hand upon the swirling knob of the baluster. His head brimmed with the news. His heart positively had leapt to his mouth. He must collect himself. There were too many things. He heard Mrs. Moore below in the kitchen. He went down. Yes, he said. Broth, he said. Sitting up, yes, that was good. He’d bring it, yes, himself, he would. And thanks now, Mrs. Moore.

  He climbed the stairs, judicious of each step. His hurry of spirits-transferred to the tray: the spoon that rattled, broth that spilt on the bread and the good napkin. The door yawned. “Doyler?” He wasn’t sitting up at all. “Doyler, are you all right?” Groaning and his breath at a gasp. The poor fingers shook and picked at the bedding. A dread turn he had took. “Doyler?” He must fetch the doctor. The tray had set down: Jim found the flannel se
ized in his hand. He swabbed the forehead, saying, “Doyler, Doyler, can’t you hear me at all?”

  His hand was nabbed, a strength jerked him down: great big slobber on his face, and Doyler saying, “Gaum you.”

  “Eejit you!” shouted Jim with stunning ferocity. “The fear of God in me, you did.”

  “Serves you right and all. Leaving me here to me fate.”

  “You wasn’t left. You was sleeping sure.”

  “All over me one minute, and I close me eyes, you’re off. Poor old Doyler can fetch for himself.”

  “You had Mrs. Moore outside the door.”

  “Any excuse to be gone of me.”

  “A rotten low trick to play.”

  Jim flung the curtains and day gushed in. What time was it, he wanted to know, what day was it even. Was that broth he smelt? His belly thought his throat was cut. Did Jim know at all what a horrible big house was this to be abandoned in it? And where was his clothes?

  “It’s two, maybe three in the afternoon.”

  “Give us here that tray. I’ve the hungry staggers whiffing it.”

  Jim considered him while he ate or, better, slurped the broth. A fright he looked with his hair tussled and the pillow-creases on his face. He still looked pasty and his eyes lacked glister. “Easy,” he said, “you’re not the better of it yet.”

  Doyler snorted a look. There was nothing ever the wrong with him. He was maybe tired, was all. He was maybe after neglecting himself a trifle in Dublin. Neglecting the inner man, he elaborated, patting his stomach. Patting it a touch too hard, for he let a groan, “Mary and Joseph, the cramp in me belly.”

  “You got a bug out of the water,” said Jim complacently, taking the bowl before he had it bolted. “You might have known not to go guzzling the Irish Sea. Truthfully now, how poorly do you feel?”

  “I’m grand. Grand total. Who was the biddy outside? Was it she made the broth? Listen and I tell you. I went out looking for the flush-down article—”

  “There’s a pot under the bed sure.”

  “Never mind that. Hello now, says she. Hello missus, says I. How’re you coming up? says she. Fine now missus, thanks. You’re rallying anyway, she says, looking me up and down. And there I was, the full of the door, stark mother naked.”

  “Never,” said Jim. “Oh gosh, you weren’t?”

  “God’s truth. And you know that way you are when you wake up?” He made a size with his hands. “There’s no aiming at a po with that.”

  “Don’t, Doyler.”

  “And there she was, calm as clocks, getting her eyeful up and down. You’re rallying, says she. I nearly bursted. Oh, laugh away. I tell you, I was back in bed before you’d cry crack. She had me all of a heap thinking she might be getting notions.”

  “You ought never be let out,” said Jim. “And your shirt only on the rail where you flung it.”

  “Where? Sure I didn’t think, the house so quiet. Pass us over that now and I’ll be making me move.”

  “You won’t be making any move,” said Jim. “You’re stopping here. Two days’ bed, the doctor was decided.”

  “Aye aye. Suppose he left a note excusing me work and all. Better, a draft on his bankers to tide me over. A decent set, these half-crown medicals.”

  “He was a guinea doctor, matter of fact.”

  “A guinea doctor! Kiss me pink. I’m not rallying at all, I’m resurrected. Get on now, Jim.” He made motions of getting up, but the pain gripped him. It wasn’t sudden, you could see on his face it was coming round. He arched forward clasping his belly. Seconds and it was gone, and he flumped on the pillow. But he looked harrowed after, and a little surprised.

  “Is it very bad?”

  “I don’t know, it rolls round. Actually, it is. I’m at death’s door if you did but know. It isn’t upright I’ll be leaving this premises. Oh Jim, won’t you pray for your pal? And won’t you promise me, Jim, you’ll cry at me funeral? Tell them, ’twas of a broken heart and the colic he died.”

  “Shut up,” said Jim. “I don’t know anyone would cry over you.”

  “Serious now, they’ll be wondering in town what’s happened me. I didn’t say, but I skipped a guard detail Sunday morning, then the evening I missed parade. I have me officers, you know. Year and a day I’ll be peeling spuds and the revolution nowhere the nearer.”

  “What revolution?”

  “Gaum you. Just give us me shirt and find me me uniform.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “It got flung in the sea.”

  “Ah no, Jim, not me uniform.”

  Yes, Jim was sorry, his uniform got soaked, flung in the sea in the muddle. Jim had took it home to get the salt out and he didn’t know would it be dry again till morning. Doyler wouldn’t mind stopping the night, would he? MacEmm had said it was all right. And Doyler wasn’t fit, need only look at him. “You’re delicate still,” he said, easing him back in the bed.

  “Will you get your hands off me, Jim. I’ve a pain, I’m not an invalid.” He reached behind his head, plumping the pillow. “Well I’m stuck here so.”

  He didn’t look too entirely put out. Jim pulled off his boots and sat up on the bed. “Listen,” he began, “there was a paper inside your tunic. I didn’t like to look but it got dropped out. Some sort of a street plan.”

  “That,” said Doyler, “is me pride and joy. Do you know what it is? I drew it meself. It’s what you could call the opposite of a street plan. Give us here that bread and I’ll tell you.”

  “No, it’s too heavy on your stomach.”

  “I need me strength is all.” He reached anyway and the remains of the broth to dip it in. “Now what it does,” he said, indistinctly through the slop in his mouth, “instead of the streets, it shows the ways above the streets—the rooftops of course. All round Stephen’s Green.”

  “So Stephen’s Green would be an important place?”

  “Any number of roads coming into Dublin, they meet there. If I had it here I’d show you plain. Snipe and run.” He made the motion of a rifle with his arm and elbow. Pow, the arm shot up, the elbow recoiled and broth spilt on the sheet. “That’s all right, scrape of soda’ll sort that out. Snipe and run,” he repeated. “Never mind your slope-and-port, your form-fours. Snipe and run. What’s up with you?”

  Jim was staring at the bruise on Doyler’s shoulder. It was just where the recoil of his gun would have hit, had his gun been real and not play. But his gun was real. It was hiding this minute in the broom-cupboard at Jim’s home. He believed for the first time he understood that Doyler was a soldier, that he really had been in training, that Doyler in a very real sense was under orders. He wondered was it entirely sane what he was about.

  “Oh that,” said Doyler, following his look. “That’s all you get for your pains.”

  “Does it hurt that bad shooting a gun?”

  “Hurts worse getting shot, I believe.”

  Jim tried to think and make sense of his thoughts. Was he depriving the army of a trained soldier? It was only for one night, mind. And Doyler might be trained, but he really wasn’t fit. And wouldn’t Jim be there anyway to stand in his place? “Doyler,” he said, “they would want me, wouldn’t they, in the Citizen Army?”

  “Ah no now, Jim, you’ll steer clear of that lot. You’re grand now and you don’t want any messing in Dublin. Your da’s in the right of that. He does right to be lost in town. A fool would be home there.”

  That decided it. Doyler would never let him in with him. Far better to have Doyler come find him. No, the Citizen Army would do fine. Tomorrow they’d have three, where they only had one before, and MacEmm a crack shot. He commanded his face. “And do you think,” he asked, “is it St. Stephen’s Green that Mr. Pearse would be? If ever there was to be a rising, I mean.”

  “Don’t ask me where that crowd’d be. Abbey Theatre most like, giving a reading. Have I got this straight now? We’re to spend the night together here?”

  “Oh
gosh no,” said Jim. “I have deliveries all evening.”

  “He never has you doing deliveries the bank holiday?” Jim shrugged: the unaccountable quirks of fathers. “You’re saying I’m to be stuck in this house on me own the night? Ah Jim, it’s an awful big house. There’s noises.”

  “That’s the wind.”

  “It’s creepy on your own.”

  “MacEmm’ll be here. He’ll stay up with you sure.”

  “You and your bloody MacEmm. You won’t be happy till you have us the three in a bed. I’ll show you what I think of his nobs.” He made a grab for Jim’s arms, twisting them. Jim let him wrestle away, exerting only a supine opposition. His arms were pinioned under and Doyler sat him astride, naked as Adam and as flawless. “James Mack, is that what I think it is? It is and all. You’re worser than a he-goat, Jim Mack. You’d take advantage of a poor sick man to have your dirty end away.”

  “I won’t,” said Jim, “today.” He gazed fondly into Doyler’s eyes till Doyler rolled over on a pillow and was quiet. “Penny for them,” he said. “I have a shilling even.”

  “Sure sorrow the shilling they’re worth,” said Doyler.

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I was thinking earlier lying here what you said about the schoolteaching. I don’t know, it’s a mad idea, but I can’t think why I wouldn’t give it a twist.”

  “Of course you will,” said Jim. “You’ll sit the scholarship. Maybe not this year, but next. We’ll do the books together.”

  “And I was thinking, wouldn’t it be gas if we did get a digs. Now I know we won’t now. Pie in the sky, I know that. But wouldn’t it be a gas if we did manage it? I can picture it even.”

  “So can I.”

  “No you can’t. You never lived anywheres poor.”

  “I can too. It’s poky and damp and there’s a torn wallpaper and the fire won’t draw.”

  “There’s no fire. We can’t afford a fire to keep. And there’s bugs in the wallpaper.”