At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [10]
And indeed she had carried the day. The motor performed superbly, the IAC man figured and stamped in his book, the newspapermen assured her of a prominent notice. She had expected at the least a Johnsonian quip—the wonder being not in her exploit, but in a lady’s wish to stage such performance. But the next day’s newspapers gave no mention of her. The August bank holiday had passed and while she had been conquering Mount Leinster Great Britain had declared war on Germany.
At her library desk, begloved once more, this time in creamy four-button mochas, she opened the brown-papered parcel of stockings. Plain-knit, rough-textured stuff. Queer specimen down Glasthule had suggested the arrangement. She might not approve of enlistment in the tyrant’s yeomanry, but she did not see why Irish soldiers should suffer cold feet. Besides, the soul had grown soft since Parnell, with the English and their ploys, killing home rule with kindness. A reacquaintance with arms might prove useful, indeed requisite, in the coming times.
For she too felt the change in the air. Last August, while she motored home alone through the acetylene-lit gloom, the twilight had forced itself upon her. But this was not the evening twilight of the foolish poets. It was the half-light before dawn, the morning of a new Ireland. For indeed it was true: England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity. And she, a MacMurrough born to lead, knew well where lay her duty.
Inside the foot of each stocking she inserted a slip of paper. Green paper whose script proclaimed: “Remember Ireland!”
CHAPTER TWO
The girls were colloguing outside the confectioner’s when Jim came by.
“Lookat, there’s Jim Mack, home for his dinner. Isn’t he the grand swell in his college get-up? Dinky cap and lovely shiny boots on. Delivered out of a bandbox.”
“And his knickers up to his knees and proper black stockings on. Wouldn’t you love to take him home with you and stick him on a cake?”
“Ah, but why wouldn’t his da put him in longers?”
“On his birthday and all.”
“Big boy he’s getting, and handsome with it.”
“Though without the anatomicals yet, would you listen to me!”
“Are you getting your greens there, Jim?”
“Ah, the wee spurt, little by little.”
“Shush now,” said Nancy, “leave him be. You’ll have him baked for shame.” She left her companions and beckoned Jim privately over. “How’s the birthday boy?” she asked and she planted a smacker on his cheek. “There you are for luck.”
From a distance his face looked unwashed, but closer to you saw there were rosebuds on his cheeks, buds that bloomed now to perfect pinks, occasioning a further shrill of laughter from the girls behind.
“Well, Nancy,” he said, brushing a hand against the wet.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” She hooked his arm and marched him onward. “Don’t mind them saucepots. Them saucepots is only ignorant.” She chid them over her shoulder, “Ignorant, so yous are!” He was muttering something, but she held to his arm. Past the butcher O’Brien’s where tubs of brine fumed on the pavement and carcasses buzzed with blow-flies above. Past the buttery milky smell of Smelly’s marbly dairy. “Muck for more luck,” said she when he stepped in dried-up dung. Adelaide Road was spilling with children from the national school and there were cries and street-calls all ways. Only when they came to the entry to Adelaide Cottages did she draw him aside.
“You’ll never guess.”
“Guess what?”
“I’ve news from Gordie. Got a letter in the first post.” She watched his eyes close, squeeze, then open wide again. A right scholar he makes. Can’t even blink without thinking. “Has that woken you?”
“He