At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [161]
Jim saw his rosary beads hung on the post of the bedstead, and he saw that his father had hung his chain there too with his half a medal on it.
“Papa, he was right, Mr. MacMurrough. You are a gentleman. I’m proud of you for a father.”
“Irrah now,” he answered, wagging his head. At the door, he said, “I suppose ’tis a species of ridiculous to be calling me Papa. Do you hear that now? That’s your niece is calling.”
“How is she?”
“Little Estella is grand sure. We didn’t let Nancy in the room on account the fever and all. But little Estella is fine and dandy. Only she misses her Uncle Jim, I’d say.”
Estella. They had named her for his mother. He had never thought to ask what was his mother’s name. Then the little thing had come and learnt it for him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The problem is, it’s your”—MacMurrough slapped the side of his buttocks—“you’re letting them, it sink in the water. Think of your body as a balance.” He made a seesaw of his hands. “Every time you lift your head, then”—one hand rose, the other descended—“you push down instead of behind. Upshot is, your kick is wasted. Reason being you don’t keep your”—another slap of his buttocks—“up enough.”
“My legs is it?”
“Your arse,” said MacMurrough.
The boy peeked sideways, checking, then his face dimpled with cheek. MacMurrough slipped into the pool. “I’ll hold you.”
He got him into a swimming position, holding him by stomach and small of his back. Tickle the groin and we’d soon have that arse where we want it. “Arching your neck again. Face in the water. Don’t tense, I have you. Small kick will keep you balanced.”
Slowly, as he relaxed, the navy-clad hillocks rose to break the surface. Fondly lapped lagoony tides upon the tidal creek. One of the more agreeable ruts of life. “Don’t forget to breathe.” The boy sided his face, gulped, faced down again. “Now. Forget about your arms. Roll and breathe. Roll and breathe. Head down and arse up.”
Too high now. MacMurrough lifted his hand from the boy’s back and rested it on his bum, exerting a gentle pressure, at the same time lifting his shoulders, so that a straightish line was formed. They truly had come a long way together, and were getting along devilish well. Not so long ago, when these lessons had commenced, MacMurrough made no doubt the boy would be jumping ten feet from the water and banging his head on the diving-board, if his rear were so much as admitted to, let alone spoken of or, God help us, touched.
“Now do your stroke.”
He waded along with the boy swimming, releasing his hold till only his touch remained, and still the line held. The boy swam on, away from him, with fine leisurely crawls and unhectic flips of his feet. It was the only way. Anyone might dash a length. But to swim well, one must swim slow. MacMurrough pulled himself to the edge, where he sat with his feet in the sink, enjoying the contrary temperatures of tiles and water. The boy kept on, forgetting in his concentration to see where he was going, and swerving late to avoid oncomers. When he came back to the bar he asked had they finished and MacMurrough nodded they had.
“I’ll get along to the other end so.”
Of course it was the cold pool at the open end the boy looked forward to, the freezing, sometimes wave-washed, sea-water pool, where he did his so many lengths, splashing in all directions, unfrustrated by MacMurrough’s tuition. His moment had come the first week of their swimming together, that magical moment when the mind lets go and the body is released. You’ll find it, MacMurrough had promised him, you’ll feel it when you do. Then he slipped into the pool one time, and something