At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [111]
Coming down the stairs MacMurrough halted at the half-pace glass. Momentarily a blue-eyed boy in Fontleroy lace quizzed him. He winked and the glass returned the boy grown up. And such an elegant gentleman he was. Sleek fell of hair, his thread of a ’tache, eyes the color of a blue-fox fur. Morning-coat and grey slip showing, pearl pin, pale gardenia, choker of a collar to keep his chin up. In his hand a slip of gloves, silk topper, his grandfather’s best malacca. His front-creased pants, pearl-grey spats, his bals, buttoned, patent. An aubade in black and dirty white.
He felt an itching in his nose which, if Nanny Tremble were to be believed, boded a stranger to meet. Or perhaps he was already looking at him. He satisfied the itch, then lodged the cane in the half-pace corner, sloped the gloves above. Légion étrangère, my aunt. I’m Gilbert the filbert. He topped the silk, tipped it to an angle. L’incroyable. Tapped down the stairs.
His aunt’s voice came loudly from the garden room, surdity now having apparently been loaded upon old Mrs. Houlihan’s other misfortunes. He thought a livener might be in order but there was a gentleman in uniform by the library door.
“Ah, MacMurrough,” this officer called. “Don’t suppose you’ll remember me.”
His hand was out for a shake. MacMurrough gestured a brief delay and darted through the pass door. Kitchens like Piccadilly Circus. Child in the corner weeping to herself while the trays passed overhead.
“Is everything all right, Nancy?”
She looked up through reddened eyes. “Oh, Mr. MacMurrough, I’m a good girl, really I am.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Though somebody evidently thought otherwise.
He came out on the area, then up the steps to the side terrace. Family groups knotted about, each with its attendant cleric; magnificent matrons in powder and mink, maidens pale beside. Threading between, black-tailed waiters and exotic-liveried youths.
Now that he’d thought about a drink, he couldn’t get the notion off his mind. Who was that fellow in uniform? Should have lifted a glass while I was down the kitchen. Interesting specimen against the wall there. Glass tilting out of his hand. Very louche he looks. Lounge suit inside the enclosure, sound the alarm. One of the Houlihan sons who have frittered their wealth. Or is it? Good grief, it’s bloody Doyle.
“Well, Mr. MacMurrough, grand isn’t it?”
“Shouldn’t you be in your kilt? Shouldn’t you be serving the guests?”
“Thought I’d swank it a while in me suit of clothes.”
“Did you indeed.”
“Besides, there’s the division of labor involved. I’m here for to play music not to be kowtowing to the la-di-das.”
“You’re looking rather la-di-da yourself. Is that champagne you’re drinking?”
“Don’t rightly know what it is. Was standing here, just looking, like, and a young thing comes and offers me the tray of it. Sure why not? says I. Is that what it is, champagne? Wait till I tells them at home.”
“Fetch me a glass, will you? Fetch two glasses. I need to keep clear of the house for a time.”
They stepped over the rope that enclosed the high lawns from the mud-show proper. Stalls were still setting up as they wandered down the paths. Banners fluttered with looping Celtic letters. Rinuccini’s ice cream. Keogh’s saddlery. Catering by Allen, Larkin and O’Brien. Clod-hopper who taught the boys to march trundling his barrow to its station. Through somber umbrage of trees shadow-tailed squirrels flickered.
“Queue a mile long at the gates,” Doyler said. “What time’s it due opening at?”
“Whenever the refreshments are finished, I suppose. We don’t want feeding the hungry, do we?”
“Wouldn’t do at all, that wouldn’t.”
Makeshift stage where later his boys would perform, where now hob-nailed laborers thumped the boards. Behind and in the wings, national schoolteachers led their charges in final rehearsal. Communion-frocked girls sang hymns to Our Lady, crop-haired boys peeped Hibernia irredenta. In equal doses, Home Rule and the BVM. Horrisonant call of somebody’s warpipe.
“Let’s cut to the vegetable garden. Private there.”
It had rained