At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [128]
The dream dispersed and Jim lay awake in his settle-bed. The last turf slumped in the grate and the hag in the ashes leered blazily at him. He was damp in his shirt like truly he had swum in the sea, but the dream was fading and all he retained was a sensation of having flown, of having skittered through rain.
He thought it was mice in the shop, then rats in the yard. It came as no surprise when the scratching resolved to fingers on the window pane.
He climbed to his knees and pulled the blind. Doyler’s face grinned ghostily through the glass. Jim eyed the ceiling. He tied the blind in place then levered the sash an inch. Doyler slipped his fingers under and together they shuddered it open.
“How’d you get in the yard?”
“Shinned up the wall, of course.”
The breeze brushed the vigil flame and shadows swayed on the walls. Upstairs the bed moved and his father called down, “Are you right there, Jim?”
“Fine, Da.”
“Go to sleep now, son.”
“Yes, Papa.”
They watched the ceiling till the bed-frame ceased complaining.
“You want to come in?”
“No.”
“I’ll come out.”
“Stay.” He wore once more his blue-gone duds of old. He had a brown-paper parcel, tied up with packing thread, which he held up now. “What cheer, eh?”
“You’re leaving,” said Jim.
“Came to say goodbye.”
Words blurted out, admonitions, remonstrations. How Jim had warned him. Told him not to mind them fellows. Time and again he’d warned him against that. Would Doyler listen to him? No, Doyler would not listen.
The bed creaked above and Aunt Sawney coughed above and behind. In the quiet after, Doyler shook his head.
“Lookat, Jim, I’m going nowhere here. I came back for the mother, but the mother don’t need me. There’s things I have to do. And they won’t be done in Glasthule.”
Jim mouthed the openings of different sentences. In the end they all amounted to the same and he said, “I’ll kiss you. I’d like to, I mean.”
Again the squeak of the bed above and their eyes lifted. Falling, they met. Doyler huffed his little laugh. The blood was crusting on the gash in his lip. His hand passed into the room and stroked Jim’s chin. Jim knew the bone of his face through the fingers. Five times he knew it. Then the fingers fisted and gently pucked him. “A chuck on the chin is worth two kisses, they say,” he said.
“The swimming,” said Jim.
“Sure you’re the fine able swimmer. All’s you need is the practice.”
“The Muglins, though.”
“Did you think I’d forget?”
He reached inside his shirt and tugged the string that held his medal. Between thumbs and fingers he twisted the tin till it split in two. Jim saw the proffered half of St. Joseph.
“I’d give you me badge, only they stole that on me. Keep this instead while I’m away. It’s my pledge to you. We’ll have our Easter swim, my hand and heart on that. We’ll make them rocks together, Jim. Are you straight so?”
“I’m straight as a rush,” Jim said. He sniffed. “I am too.”
“Old pal o’ me heart,” said Doyler.
“Come what may,” said Jim. “Come what may.”
Doyler grinned. “Come Easter sure. 1916.”
PART TWO
1916
ecce abstulisti hominem de hac vita, cum vix explevisset annum in amicitia mea, suavi mihi super omnes suavitates illius vitae meae.
—ST. AUGUSTINE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The steps raced on the street outside and into the lane till the shop bell clanged. Mr. Mack refolded the foxed and crinkled pages of the letter, returned the letter to its place upon the mantelshelf. The door flung wide and Jim was there, white and breathless.
“They told me there was a telegram.”
“It’s on the table, son.”
Mr. Mack stared at the letter on its shelf, beside the framed photograph of his son upon which his son had written, I trust the cigarette does not offend.