At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [147]
“Ah sure give it here to me. Ballyhays you’ll make of that.”
“You used have a fondness for the old cigar, I do recall.”
“I had me day.”
“You might light it now you’ve gone this far.”
“Throw me a spill and I will.” He blew on the spill, little whiffery breaths, till it took fire and he brought it to the cigar. In the flame Mr. Mack saw his face, an old skin-and-bones of a thing. Deep furrows reached from his nose like tackles to hold his jaw in place. His hair was gone a shock of white, sticking out in startlement at the change. “I’m not dead yet,” he said in disputatious tone. “I might cheat the worms of me yet.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” agreed Mr. Mack. “You have smoke enough and whiskey inside to be proof against all comers.”
“There’s that.”
“Except they shoot us, we Old Toughs refuse to die.”
“The Dublin Refusiliers,” said Mr. Doyle.
“You did always have a way with words,” said Mr. Mack smiling and shaking his head. “Would you take a sup of the creature now? If you had it to hand, say?”
“I wouldn’t know to get any this hour.”
“There’s a small drop I have with me.”
“I saw that. And you known to have the pledge taken.”
“Didn’t we take it together sure?”
“Aye we did. There’s many gone under the bridge since that.”
“Many and more,” agreed Mr. Mack. “We used always be pledging ourself after a night on the Billy Stink.”
“The old Billy Stink was a killer right enough.”
“That and the purge.”
“That and the purge.”
“And we did often share an old shock off a pipe together.”
“I did often have a red pipe put in my hand, ’tis no lie.”
“Sure the first pipe ever I smoked, we shared it.”
“People was known share a bit in them days, ’tis true.”
There was some old tinder in a nook in the hearth and Mr. Mack, judging his station as old comrade would just about stretch to it, leant down and threw a stick or two on the fire. He opened the parcel he’d left beside him and one by one he placed the coals he’d brought. He dusted the coal-dust from his hands and held them over the blueing flame. They were talking the while, of the past still, Mr. Mack asserting some friendly deed, Mr. Doyle recognizing in a general way the possibility of such things occurring.
“The first time ever I scraped my chin,” said Mr. Mack, “’twas yourself found me the razor. I can remember you now, stropping the blade on the sling of your hipe for me.”
“I wasn’t the worst for doing a good turn. If I could see my way at all, God knows.”
Mr. Mack stared into the flames, and sure what did he see but this fellow here, with his shoulders back, his chest blown, thighs that would grip a shilling bit. Red hair you’d think his head was on fire. Not a man but he was proud to step out with Red Doyle. He had the poor ladies fainting with the scarlet fever. Mick and Mack the paddy-whacks. Rang like bells.
“Till they gone and went and made a sergeant of you,” said Mr. Doyle, “and you turned like.”
And there it was, that old wound, done with as that fire and still with a heat at the heart of it. Mr. Mack could see it now, in the flicker of flame, the queer look on the man’s face that time, before he had snapped to attention. Yes, Sergeant, said he. Buttons greasy, said he. But his eyes were crooked the way they looked. Mr. Mack could doubt but they were straight again since.
“You took the heart out of me that day, you did,” said Mr. Doyle now. “What you see before you is the close of that day’s work.”
Oh and the rest, thought Mr. Mack. All downhill after that, for sure. Tell a man his buttons is greasy and his pride is gone, his manhood broke, his life in tatters ever after. “Do you know something?” he said. “You was never any damned good for a soldier.”
“Nor you was any good for a sergeant.”
“We’re snacks there then.”
“Snacks,” said Mr. Doyle. “And I’ll tell you what else,” he said, more animated now and the blush on his cheek-tips deepening.