At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [112]
“Good garden of potatoes there,” Doyler said. “What they calls a broo, with the cabbages in between.”
“You’re welcome to help yourself, you know.”
“Serious?”
“Don’t suppose anyone would notice.”
“Aren’t you the grand nob, Mr. MacMurrough. But you don’t know gardeners very well.”
He hadn’t thought of old Moore, it was true. “Must you keep on with this Mr. MacMurrough? We know each other better than that.”
“Aye do we. First off you’re asking why amn’t I serving your guests. Next you’re offering me spuds to steal.”
“You’re sharp enough to know what I meant.”
“Aye, you meant charity.”
Out in the bay MacMurrough saw what he presumed was the Misses French’s motor-yacht. Its jolly-boat had moored by Kelly shore. There were toy poodles inside. He heard their yapping and he could just make out their crimped heads as up and down they leapt, will-they-won’t-they spring to land.
The best amongst the poor are never grateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and rebellious. Wilde again; his observation concluding: They are quite right to be so. Wilde, too, had provided his boys with suits of clothes. At the trial Carson produced one in evidence. We picture the scene, the lawyer’s flourish, almost the prestidigitation, Do you deny, sir, that you provided this boy with this suit of blue serge? It was said the lad in question, paperboy off Worthing pier, was to be found that afternoon outside the Old Bailey with the other renters, winking and nodding at likely customers. Oh, to have bought them all that day, the luxury, and only a few quid the lot, glorious.
Were Wilde’s panthers grateful or rebellious? Eventually, of course, one prefers a rebellious bedfellow. But it requires a degree of gratitude to get him to bed in the first place.
While he watched the poodles and mused on charity and rent, his hand descended on Doyler’s thigh. He could wish Doyler had chosen blue serge instead of this agony in check. A shave of the rough cloth and his hand was brushed aside.
“Do you never give over?”
“Beg pardon, I’m sure.”
“Wouldn’t you let a body be himself?”
Rather a lacuna then, fit of the magnificents. MacMurrough inclined his head to search through the glowers. “Aren’t we friendly today?”
“I have me friend.”
“I could help.”
“Help with what? He don’t need clothes.” He stood up. He took a swig of his champagne. The sulky look was disturbed by surprise as a hiccough escaped his throat. “Champagne, what?”
“Boy, they call it.”
“Who calls it boy?”
“Them what drinks it.”
Doyler laughed, expectorated. The cap came off and returned dégagé and a hand lunged in his pocket. “Lookat, I’m thankful I met you but.”
You’re all right, Doyler, MacMurrough thought. You’ll do fine, my sputative disputative boy. “Come here,” he said.
“What is it?”
MacMurrough felt for the pin inside the boy’s lapel, unpinned it, fixed it flagrantly on the outside. Doyler looked gaugingly at him. MacMurrough said, “I hereby grant you the freedom of my garden to wear your badge with pride.” Then he kissed him on the cheek and muttered in his ear, “I’ll bring a blanket down the meadow garden. Tonight at ten.”
“Get on with you,” he answered, pulling away. He wiped his cheek, the action too impulsive to be thought discourteous. “What if they catched you?”
“This is my garden. I refuse to be cowed in my own garden.”
“Aye aye. Why’re you avoiding them above so?”
Damn me, if he isn’t sharp enough to slice himself. MacMurough quaffed the last of his wine, tossed the glass in the briars. “Shall I let you into a secret? You