At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [17]
The boy shoveled in silence a while, then said, “There’s sewers in it all right. But the fact remains the men as used be working is soldiering now. Can see them camped on Tivoli Fields. God knows, I’m thankful for the work. But it’s hard taking another man’s job. Harder still at half the pay. But that’s the times that’s in it, Mr. Mack.”
The times that were in it indeed. He might mention three square meals a day, smart uniform, healthy living, separation money for the women at home, pension at the end of it. Satisfaction of fighting for King and Country. Glory to be had and to spare. Travel far and wide.
“Though I was thinking of joining the band.”
But down the Banks where this one lodges there’s scant notion of glory. Hard-scrabble place, the Banks. Mean cottages, rotten thatch, entire family cramped into—“Joining a band?”
“Flute band.”
“But Brother Polycarp out of the college takes that.”
“The very man. I saw him this morning only. The new curate as found me this employment gave me the word.”
“Curate? You mean the band is not restricted to college boys?”
“So far as I know, Mr. Mack.”
“Well, I’ll go bail.”
“Have to get me flute back first, though.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Mr. Mack. “Ducie’s window.”
“’Fraid so.”
Mr. Mack puckered his lips. Abstractedly, he said, “I have a son in that band.”
“Jim, is it?”
“James, my son James. James is a college boy now.” His voice had risen above the ordinary, so in token of fellowship, he jerked his head and said, “Oh, easy street for some, I suppose.”
Doyler set his shovel squarely down. It made a rasping noise on the tin base of the privy. “Mr. Mack, I’d never hold it against a man that he tried to better himself.”
That’s right, thought Mr. Mack. Comes back to me now. Same time Jim won his exhibition, they had one gave out to young Doyler too. Sure what would that man care for a scholarship? Hunted his son down the country instead. Always grafting. Half-timer at school. Late-to-come and soon-to-go. Wonder he learnt his readamadaisy.
Poor lad to fetch up down the Banks. That’s where you go when you can’t keep up the rent. Demon drink, curse of Ireland.
He watched the boy shoveling muck with his steady muscular rhythm. His dowdy clothes were all in fits, the seat of his pants so often patched it was a puzzle to tell the material. You’d be all day putting that shirt on, avoiding the tears and repairs in the sleeves. Wretched muffler pulled up round his nose. Mr. Mack was overcome with pity, at a boy’s life stunted by the failings of a father. He waited till he was leaving with the last bucket of filth and thrust a bag of broken biscuits into the crook of his free elbow.
“Take these now and don’t say a word.”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Mack.”
“Not a word now. And eat them all yourself.”
“I couldn’t do that without sharing them.”
“No, of course you couldn’t. That wouldn’t be Christian at all. But mind you keep your puff up. That’s a man’s job you’re at.”
The gaffer appeared at the shop door. “Hey you, you little Larkinite. Put some beef into it. You’re close to the door as it is.”
Larkinite, Mr. Mack pondered. Now why in the world would he call young Doyler a Larkinite? Wasn’t that an agitator of the blackest variety? When he came to the kitchen Aunt Sawney was on her knees with soap and scrubbing-brush. “Would you like me to help with that?” he asked.
“Get away out of my way.”
“I’ll tend shop so. There’ll be a rush on soap and soda after the dungmen.”
“There will, but ’twill all be on tick with your lordship at the till.”
Under the picture of King George the pile of mess had risen. Odd how he managed to slop his swill at that place every time. Could almost be on purpose. Wait now, hold on to yourself. Was that young gallows taking a rise out of me? Wasn’t there something last year about agitators employing the Red Hand? Business about sharing, was that Christian sharing or red-flag Larkinite? I hope now my Jim won’t be falling into bad company at that band.
There was a moral to all this but Mr. Mack could not immediately catch wind