At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [142]
MacMurrough saw it from far off, coming, a wave over the sea, spraying the outlying rocks, unmindful, aimless, parting and merging, onward ever coming. And I thought that I—
“I used be jealous a touch that he’d be talking with you,” the boy went on. “But I’m glad now if he did. I’m glad to be talking with you myself. I think you’d know what I was feeling. And I’m glad if Doyler was able to talk with you.”
On came the wave, and MacMurrough watched it, feeling the lumbering land’s insignificance to the sea. The wave splashed carelessly on the rocks below, drenching him in the knowledge of his inconsequence. That I should have thought that I—How could I have thought that I—?
The boy’s gaze was steadfast on the Muglins rock. He bit his lip. “For I let him down.”
My gracious grief, thought MacMurrough. What on earth did I think I had done that I should ever dream that I—that of all people I—To have come to have imagined such a thing, I?
Still the boy continued, regardless of MacMurrough, berating himself for some negligence or lapse. Some private anguish that MacMurrough, should he live a thousand years, would not reach to. “And all the time,” he said, “I was telling him his buttons was greasy—were greasy, I mean.”
MacMurrough saw that his hand was patting the boy’s knee. He might have been patting a wave, so insensate the leg. He let it drop and rest there; a fatuous five-fingered thing. “You must miss him deeply.”
“I do that. I thought he might be home for the Christmas. But he didn’t come yet.”
Of course, that was the present in all the world he hoped for. And I had thought to please him with a book of Shelley filched from my aunt. God, that I could be so insensible. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”
Now he turned. “Will he?”
“Well, I’m sure he will.”
“Only I thought you might know where he was.”
“Why should he tell me?”
“It seemed to me he was close with you. I fancied you had talks together. Only he might have mentioned something.”
“I don’t believe we talked that very much.”
“I used see you but.”
“Well, he never mentioned anything about going away.” And after all what had they talked about? The absorbing matter of MacMurrough and his dick. God, but I’m an egoistical bastard.
“I just hoped, really, he might have said.”
“He did tell me once that he was fond of you.”
“He did?”
“More than that. He said he loved you, actually.”
“He said that?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back.”
“So am I sure.” He nodded to himself. His eyes went back, drawn to the Muglins. “But I worry we’ll be changed. How would we ever get back again? We were great that while together. Twice now we were great and twice he’s left.”
MacMurrough made out, in the chiaroscuro of sun-blanched sea-drenched stones, Nanny Tremble’s kind old face; and she was saying, The poor lovelorn lad, wouldn’t he strike the heart out of you? And MacMurrough thought so too, and his heart in the shape of his hand lifted from the leg and wrapped about the sloping shoulders. He pulled the cap over the boy’s head.
“Listen, young man, I can’t do anything about that. But I can help with your swimming if you like. Ask your father would it be all right if I swam with you. He’s bound to see sense. I could teach you a dive too.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yes, I would.”
“I’d be grateful if you did.”
MacMurrough stood up. He wanted quite desperately to get away from this place now. He swapped his roll from one arm to the other. He held out his hand. “Happy Christmas, Jim,” he said.
“A happy Christmas to you, Mr. MacMurrough.”
“Here’s a good one, Jim. ‘Boots, boots, boots, boots’—Do you know this one, Jim? About fighting the Boers this one is. ‘Boots, boots, boots, boots, There’s no discharge in the war.’” He peered out from his book. “That’s not entirely true,” he said. “Mr. Kipling got it wrong about that. They was still discharging