The Bay

by L. A. G. Strong

  “There’s money c-coming to me,” he would babble, time and time again, saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. “There’s money laid up in the bank, and accumulating at c-compound interest. Ah, Martin, listen here to me. I’ll be a rich man some day, and then I’ll make you rich. I’ll give it all to you, Martin, every p-penny.”

  “Ah, sure, Dennis, what would I do with it? I wouldn’t want it.”

  “You c-couldn’t refuse it, Martin. You couldn’t refuse it, and you k-keeping me here all these years. What use would the m-money be to me? No, no. You’ll be a rich man, Martin, and you’ll never have to work again.”

  “I don’t know would I like that, Dennis,” Martin would say smiling, and shaking his head. “I’d miss my little shop, and my company.”

  “Well then, you should keep it, or have a grand big shop in Dame Street or in Grafton Street.”

  “I don’t know would I like that either. I’d be lost in the city.”

  “Ah, Martin, ah, Martin! There’s n-nothing I won’t do for you, when my money comes. You shall have your heart’s d-desire, Martin. Your heart’s desire.”

  And Dennis would become tearful and catch hold of Martin’s hand and kiss it. Martin would pat his shoulder, and say a few comforting words to him, then pull his hand away gently, and come back to the rest of us, with the same smile and raise of the brows, while the drunken bundle of rags sobbed and twitched itself to sleep. Not one of us but believed that the whole story was poor Dennis’s wish and dream, and that there was no chance of the promise having any foundation in fact.

  So the years passed, and the hungry forgotten man became more and more helplessly dependent on the barber, assuring him oftener and oftener that the time was coming near when he would make his protector a happy, comfortable man who would never need to wield scissors or razor again. Then—the only miracle was it hadn’t happened sooner—the years of want, neglect, and exposure took their toll, and, as Doctor Marcus had foretold, Dennis fell a victim to consumption, with all its dreadful manifestations of coughing, exhaustion, and blood. After the first haemorrhage, Martin could no longer let him lie on the padded bench. We got some sacks and rugs, I begged an old coat of Ann Dunn, and made Dennis a bed underneath the bench where he used to lie at night, and soon for most of the day as well. One of the most heartrending sights I ever saw was Dennis trying one day to get up, when Martin was out, and a customer came into the shop. Imagine a man galvanised into frantic movement by an electric shock that has at the same time robbed him of all power to co-ordinate his movements or control his limbs.

  The disease made rapid progress. Less and less did Dennis ply his ineffectual mop and broom: less and less did we hear of the riches to come, for speech brought coughing, and coughing brought blood. Dr. Marcus had a row with Martin, insisting that Dennis be sent away, but the barber shook his head.

  “He shall stay here as long as he wants,” he said, and nothing would shift him. The Doctor cursed, called Dennis a public danger, talked of denouncing Martin to the health authorities, and stamped out. Martin smiled and watched him go.

  “Will he make trouble, do you think?” asked a sailor uneasily.

  “Ah no. He’s all right. He wouldn’t do any harm.”

  The sailor looked at me.

  “Maybe if the young lad went after him, and persuaded with him?”

  “Ah no,” Martin said again. “It’s all right.”

  The Doctor stayed away, but he said nothing to the authorities. At any rate, Dennis was left unmolested, to live in his corner, his eyes following Martin like a dog’s, helpless and full of adoration: and Martin would reward him now and then with a smile, and go over every hour or so to bend down and speak to him, or give him something, a glass of milk or anything else he could take, as gentle as any woman.

  But that could not last long, and the morning came when the anxious barber could not rouse his friend. As the day advanced and customers gathered, it became manifest and urgent that the scarecrow be removed to the Workhouse Hospital at Loughlinstown. The hat went round, Dennis was steadied with as much whiskey as he could stand, and Mr. Neligan’s horse and cab was summoned for the four-mile journey.

  Dennis was heartbroken. He cried like a baby, and clung to Martin’s hand.

  “D-don’t send me away, Martin,” he pleaded. “D-don’t send me away.”

  Martin patted his hand.

  “Sure it’s only for the time, Dennis. It’s only to make you well again. As soon as you’re better, you shall come back. I’ll fetch you myself, in this same cab. Won’t we, John?”

  He turned to the old cabby, who was standing near the door, his fists on his hips, looking over at Dennis.

  “We will surely,” said he.

  Dennis shook his head. It jerked and rolled on his neck.

  “I’ll n-never be well. If I leave here, it’s for the last time.”

  “That’s no way to talk, Dennis avic. Where’s your courage?” The barber shook him softly by the shoulder. “Where’s your courage? You must make up your mind to get well, and draw full benefit from the grand treatment in the hospital. Sure we can’t give you the right treatment here.”

  “You c-can,” blundered Dennis. “You do. An angel in heaven couldn’t give me better treatment than you’ve g-given me all these years.”

  Martin looked embarrassed. “Ah, then, Dennis, it’s little we could do, but sure, you were welcome.”

  The poor wretch in a sudden access of energy beat the back of his hand against his forehead.

  “G-god forgive me. I’m a b-burden to you, a millstone round your neck. It’s true. I’ll g-go, Martin. I’ll go.”

  “Be easy, now,” said Neligan the cabby, in his thick rattling voice. “Be easy, and don’t be agitating yourself for the journey.”

  Dennis fixed his eyes on us, tragic, hollow caverns of despair. He was sitting propped up on the bench.

  “Look. Do one 1-last thing for me, will you?”

  “Anything, Dennis. Anything we can.”

  “Lay me down in my c-corner for a few minutes. It’s for the last time.”

  Martin looked enquiringly at Neligan, who signified with a nod that he was in no hurry. So Dennis’s wish was granted, and several hands laid him down tenderly on his bed of rags. From that awful spot where he had dreamed and tossed and twitched he stared at us all, assured us and called us to witness that now at last, in a week or so, the money long due to him would come, and then he would do what he had always promised, and Martin would never want again. He shook us all by the hand, he put his wasted arms round Martin’s neck, and they wept together.

  Then, asseverating, coughing, and twisting, his eyes steady in pain as Mr. Neligan and the assembled friends begged him to pull himself together, he suffered us to lift him to his feet, and, with one arm about Martin’s neck and one about the jarvey’s, he was led from the room. We reached the pavement, and I was stooping to put one of his feet on the step of the cab, when he gave a convulsive heave, sagged heavily in the middle, and passed out in a cascade of blood you’d never have believed was in him. Some of it splashed over my sleeve and boot. Ann Dunn burned the coat.

  The body was hurriedly brought across to St. Michael’s Hospital, a few perches away. A silly inquest was held, at which Martin and Mr. Neligan gave evidence, and Martin, to his great confusion, was complimented by the coroner on his kindness and forbearance in sheltering Dennis for so long. Doctor Marcus, who was among the spectators, uttered a loud snort at this point, drawing indignant glances. In the end, Dennis was buried in Loughlinstown Paupers’ Plot, and once more the hat went round at the barber’s for the few petty trappings, including a mass.

  There was a sequel, which I would hardly dare to set down if it were not true. The burial was on a Thursday, a cold, wet, dismal day of early autumn. The tall trees near the burial ground leaned over disdainfully in the wind: the shiny yellow coffin looked indecent and absurd. I could not connect it with Dennis. As it was lowered into the grave, th
ere was a pig being killed in a field close by, and its frenzied yells, bursting on us in gusts of wind, struck me with a sense of the strangeness of life. I saw one or two of the mourners exchange shamefaced uneasy grins, and one jerked his shoulder towards the noise.

  We were all silent on the way home. I remember the joggling of the cab, and the vague, bemused look in Martin’s eyes, as he sat, his hands on his knees, the fingers open. Part of the time we would ride in shelter, under the whistling trees, the wind behind us. Then, as we turned a corner, or reached a bare cross roads, it would hit us a blow, furiously shake the old cab windows, and fling drops on the pane the size of fishes’ eyes, that spattered and were lost in a descending blur.

  That was on the Thursday. On the Saturday morning, a letter was delivered at the barber’s by a top-hatted emissary of the National Bank. The emissary was haughty, and disliked his surroundings. It so happened that Martin was out, interviewing Mr. Kelly the bookie. The one or two neighbours in the shop questioned the top-hatted man, but he scorned to answer questions, and would not wait till Martin could be fetched. He deposited the letter, sniffed, and took his departure.

  I was down on the pier, fishing, when a small breathless boy brought me a message to go at once to the shop. The pollack were biting, and I had four already, but I pulled up and went.

  I found the neighbours in a circle. All had been summoned, for the poor and uneducated fear letters. Martin was apologetic.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. But, the way things are, I didn’t like to send for the Doctor.”

  I looked around. All eyes were fixed on me, and I read in them a respect and an appeal. My heart gave a violent leap of pride. They turned to me, a boy, because I had learning, because they thought I could tell them what to do. It was a tremendous moment, but a moment of loneliness as well as pride. The long, stiff envelope was put into my hand. It was addressed to Dennis Darcy Esq. I raised my eyes to Martin’s.

  “You open it,” I urged. “He can’t.”

  Martin fingered his chin. He was loth to touch the letter.

  “Go on,” I said. “He would have wanted you to open it.”

  A chorus broke out, supporting me.

  “That’s right. That’s right.”

  “He’d have wanted Martin to do it.”

  “It’s Martin’s business.”

  “The lad’s right. Martin’s the man.”

  Then one voiced the thought in all our minds. “Maybe it’s his money at last.”

  Martin smiled, and shook his head. He took the envelope gingerly from me, and fumbled at the flap. It was so well gummed he could not get his thumb under it.

  “Here y’are. A knife. Hold on.”

  A jackknife was produced and opened, the owner wiping the blade carefully on his trousers before handing it across. All were in awe of the envelope. They accorded it the respect they felt for all it stood for.

  Martin slit the envelope, took out the letter, unfolded it, gave it a glance, then smiled weakly and handed it to me.

  “Read it you, Luke.”

  I blushed furiously, took the letter, and began to read it aloud. My voice cracked: I had to clear my throat, and start again. The letter was a memorandum from the bank, to the effect that the residue of the Darcy Estate, consisting of seventy-five hundred pounds, fourteen shillings, and sevenpence, was now at Mr. Darcy’s disposal, free of all entail and encumbrance: and would Mr. Darcy please sign the necessary documents.

  I finished, and handed Martin the letter. There was a silence of stupefaction.

  “Be the gonies!” gasped one: and in an instant the shop was a babel of jubilation and admiring oaths, as all crowded round Martin and clapped him on the back. Martin smiled all the time, gently shaking his head.

  He was right. The congratulations were premature. Martin did not get a penny. Dennis had made no will, and his oft-repeated intentions were valueless in law: so, to the boundless indignation of the entire waterfront, the money went to the state.

  We were most of us with Martin when the news came. We did our best to commiserate with him, saying what a bloody shame it was. But Martin did not seem to be disappointed. He looked over to the corner where Dennis used to lie.

  “Ah, ye know,” he said. “I miss him.”

  Chapter V

  I was a long time learning to swim. I don’t mean that I was slow or timid at it, but that I didn’t start till late. At school they made a poor fist of teaching us. We had the river, but it was deep and none too safe, and the only place for beginners lay a mile and a half away. It was no one’s business in particular to teach us, we had to coax someone into going, and, what with the short time in the water and the long hot walk back, the whole thing was too much trouble.

  At Kingstown, I had other things to do. I fished of a morning, when the tide served: and Ann Dunn—it was one of her few weaknesses—had a suspicion of the sea, and feared it might be too cold for me. She had not forgotten that bad chill in Dublin. She was milder these days, was Ann Dunn, and gentler. She never scolded me now. She would not really have opposed me, but we had taken on a new relationship. It was I now who protected her, and looked after her: I who took her arm when we crossed the road: I who saw her off in the tram and was there to meet her when it brought her back. She mothered me and saw to my comforts as much as ever, even more: but I was growing up, and she loved the new state of things, as I did. So, while I could have carried my point, I didn’t want to worry her. I kept from her all that might trouble her. And even now, I found it hard to do anything she would not wish.

  Yet, all the time, I felt a fluttering, restless urge towards the sea. When I heard shouts and laughter, and looked down and saw the boys and young fellows swimming and splashing and diving, a great desire came to me to join them. It seemed absurd not to be able to do as they did. And something deeper, something radical in my nature, gave me a fever to try the new element. I had bathed before, and I loved the clean tang of the salt water, its uncompromising exploration of my body, and the glow that followed as one sat, lazy and exhilarated, on the sand.

  I made up my mind to swim, and, next time I visited him, I told the Doctor of my resolve. He snorted derisively.

  “Don’t be a fool, Mangan. Stay as you are. The human race has outgrown its gills, thank God.” He pulled his wire that lifted the top of the range, spat on the coals, and added, “Give you rheumatic fever. Strain your heart.”

  I was dashed, for I had a high regard for the Doctor’s wisdom: but he did not dissuade me. I waited till I should next see Uncle John.

  Uncle John had always urged that I should be a swimmer. Why, I don’t know, for he never went near the water himself. I think it must have been his admiration for Uncle George, and some obscure sense of guilt he felt towards him, which made him anxious that none of his brother’s virtues should perish from the earth. He had expressed disappointment, often, that I made no progress towards swimming, and so, when I suggested taking lessons, he was delighted.

  “That’s grand, son. That’s grand. Ah, there’s nothing like swimming. Nothing like it for setting a man up. Look at the fine chest poor George had.” He always spoke now of “poor George”. It was his unconscious come-back on a brother who had goodnaturedly despised him.

  Uncle John looked at me sadly. “There’s nothing like it. I used to swim myself, but I fell from grace, son. I fell from grace.”

  He sighed, and sank into a reverie which I hesitated to disturb. Yet I needed to disturb it. There was the question of the money to pay for swimming lessons.

  “Uncle John.”

  “Ah-ha. It’s a sad thing, son, the way we get old and lose sight of ourselves.”

  He sighed again, and emptied his glass. The whites of his eyes were more bloodshot these days, and the purple veins in his nose and cheeks had run together, but, except for moments of shakiness, he kept his vigour, and was as good a trencherman as ever.

  I waited a little, then tried again.

  “Uncle John.”
/>   “Yes, little son.”

  His mind was elsewhere. He had dropped the “little” for some time now. I knew I had to be firm.

  “Uncle John, if I’m to have lessons, I’ll need some money to pay for them.”

  “Ah sure, son, that’s the way of the world. Sure, we have to pay for everything.”

  “I don’t like to ask Ann Dunn for it, because, you see, she doesn’t approve of my learning.”

  Uncle John’s brow clouded.

  “She doesn’t approve of your learning what, son?”

  “Learning to swim. Ann Dunn doesn’t approve of my learning to swim.”

  “Does she not. Does she not. Ah, ye know, son, the women are queer. The women are queer. Not that I’d hear a word against Ann Dunn, mind you. A saint among women. A saint to us all.” This was getting me nowhere. I made a frontal assault. “Uncle John—will you give me some money to get lessons? I ought to have them, don’t you think?” He recalled himself with a jerk. “What’s that, little son?”

  I felt bad about worrying him, but repeated my question, clearly and firmly.

  “Ah, why, of course. Why didn’t you say so at first! I’ll see to all that. You leave that to me.”

  But he did nothing about it. Poor Uncle John: it was getting harder than ever to pin him down to anything. I loved him too much to be vexed with him. It meant that I would have to depend on myself. I suspected, too, though Ann Dunn of course had not said a word, that she had a difficulty in getting from him his contribution towards my keep.

  Still, his moral support was worth something, and, when next I visited the Doctor, I told him of Uncle John’s enthusiasm, and adduced the prowess of Uncle George.

  The Doctor exploded.

  “Rubbish, Mangan. What good did swimming do him? It got him his death. If he hadn’t been able to swim, he’d have left those drunken devils to drown, and he’d be alive now.”

  I fell silent before the onslaught of such logic. But I was determined to swim, lessons or no lessons. So I went down one morning to the little shore, and chose the least stony place I could find. I lay down on my back in a few inches of water, and worked myself along with my hands until it was deep enough for me to float. I learned to float that morning. Next day, I turned over on my front. That was harder, but soon I could lie that way too, keeping my lips and nose out of the water. Next I tried to move my arms and legs. In a week I could go a few yards, breathlessly, clumsily, but keeping myself up. By the end of that summer, I could swim from the shore to a little raft, maybe fifty yards out, and back.