At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [144]
He hurried over to the chapel. At the back he knelt, with the humdrum women, and he stared at the host on its high throne and the twelve candles glimmering before it. A Forty Hours adoration was on. He heard the praying of the vigilants, way up by the altar. He crossed himself and left.
He was coming home, passing into Adelaide Road. The lights were on in Fennelly’s. A private do it would be, friends and family. The empty streets echoed with the din that surged and shrunk in waves. Glancing up at the sky he saw a thin mist drifting to the sea, too thin to veil the teeming stars. There’ll be a frost in the morning, he told himself. He tightened the scarf round his neck but not so tight it might be mistook for a muffler. Patted the crown of his Dunn’s three-and-ninepenny. The occasion called for—he misbelieved he deceived himself—called for a small celebration. He knocked on Fennelly’s door.
Regular ree-raw inside. Fug of the place and the free-and-easy way they had of pushing against you. Friends and family, my foot. Fennelly is only raking it in. He excused his way, wishing the season’s greetings to any who looked likely to nod.
A wretched streel stopped in his path. “Yous’re I know what yous are. It’s all very I know what it is. Yous’ll know all about it an’ I tell yous. Yous’ll know the price of yous.” Terrible conviction in her voice. Nodding, smirking, Mr. Mack greased past.
Counter a beery slew. “Hello? No, soda. Hello? No, soda.” Faces registered with beastly familiarity. “Soda, hello?”
Baby bottles of Powers on the shelf. Snuggled in the corner with soda beside. Baby and nurse they calls that. Buy a round for the house. Think of it. Nominate your poison, gents, the drinks is on me. Imagine that. To wet the infant’s head. How much would that—? Say fourpence a head, how many heads, forty say, multiply by four, divide result by hundred and forty, twelve by twelve. How much we talking roughly?
“A soda when you’re ready—Hello?”
Make it simpler. Four forties is hundred and sixty, minus hundred and forty, twelve from twenty is eight and carry one, one pound one and eightpence.
A terrific dig in the ribs brought Mr. Mack round. The wretched streel was after tripping into him. Her wish of gin swayed before his face. He had to hold her by the shoulders to keep her upright.
“The Shah of Persia,” a mellifluous voice announced, “contemplates an increment of his hareem.”
“Fill us up, y’oul fox.”
“Now now,” said Mr. Mack, chucking a finger to his hat. A party was after gathering, he could feel them edging round him. Select, should have tried the select first.
“The General’s on the ran-tan,” somebody called, and the phrase was taken up till Mr. Mack heard it on every mouth in every tone and minor variation. On the ran-tan, on the razzle, on a batter, on a skite. The General’s in liquor, he’s langers, twisted, stocious, blue moldy and cursing for soda. Chase me, ladies, I’m a fusilier. Take your washing in, Ma, old Macks is on the rampage. Call out the Silly Army.
Moments later and he was out in the road again, sucking in the crisp night air. Wretched place it was. Wretched gab off those fellows. Things they’d think. Names they’d call you. Not even behind your back, some of them. Wretched altogether. And not a one but his name in the tick book. It isn’t a Christian country we live in at all.
In his pocket he had a half-bottle of Powers whiskey and a corona cigar. And he’d only gone in for a sober-water.
He stood on the street at a loss what to do with himself. Over the rooftops the chapel lights showed and Fennelly’s echoed behind. He felt the miss of something, if only a hand to shake. He wished now he hadn’t sent Jim away. Precipitate that.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waif of a newsboy mooching down. Bundle of white under his arm. What paper is that on Christmas Day night? And who does he think to sell it to?
Slower and slower the newsboy came till it seemed as close as might be to