At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [189]
He remembered how Connolly had addressed the army. Any man with doubts should leave now, he told them. Let another stand in his place. There would be no recriminations. Only let him go now. Not a man had moved.
But in the pause, Doyler had imagined himself to leave. He dropped his rifle, he tossed his hat. Out the door and his tunic shrugged from him, down the steps and he shook from his boots and his trousers. Then he ran, naked he ran, where to? The river, he leapt from the quay to the river. The tide carried him, the darkly-going green, where did it carry him? To the blue, to the sea, swimming to the sea.
He slept late the Saturday morning. He had no duties, but he dressed in his uniform and made a parcel of his working clothes. He must go see his mother. He set off for King Street. The city was half alive again after the grim and shuttered Friday. Then he thought he’d please her by getting confession first. Any number of chapels beckoned, but he couldn’t make up his mind. In the end he met his mother in the street. She took him home through the markets where the knowledge and sight and stink of death assaulted him. She gave him red tea and he gave her what he had, which was his working clothes and one and fourpence.
“You’ll be going to Glasthule,” she said. He didn’t answer and she looked bothered at him. “And you with swimming for Easter?”
“I have me duties tomorrow.”
“Don’t we all have duties?”
“I’m not talking about making the tea, Ma. This is my country.”
“What country is that without a friend in it? When you go to Glasthule say to Mr. Mack he might come in soon.”
“Himself?”
She nodded. “Go in now,” she said, “and make your peace with your father.”
“What father is that?”
“He gave you a name, son, when there was no call on him. He gave you a name and a home when you had none before. For no better than I married him, speak your peace.”
He threw the dregs of his cup in the back of the fire. “Wasn’t I intending to anyway?” he said. But he didn’t move, and he said, “Ma, do you remember, Ma, when I stole the pig’s cheek?”
“I don’t.”
“Out of the butcher’s barrel. Do you not remember that? I had it hid under me coat running home. The brine was dripping and it took the dye out of the coat where I hid it. You must remember that, Ma?”
“I don’t, son.”
“You took it off me then and you cooked it. You had me sit to table with this pig’s cheek in front of me. And I kept telling you, Ma, I got it for all of us, yourself and the girls and himself even. You wouldn’t hear of it. Sat me down with the knife and a fork to eat it by meself. Himself came home and you hid it away. He was angry smelling meat and no dinner. He left in a black rage and you brung it out again, the pig’s cheek. I wasn’t let go till I had it ate, the plate of it. I remember the girls was looking at me. But you said I was hungry, I must eat it all.”
“You was often hungry, son.”
“Then you took me down the butcher’s after, and I waited while you paid for it. Paid for it. I watched the coppers going in the butcher’s hand. I remember how thirsty I was. And I knew then you’d have no supper that night. The girls would have no supper. I was so thirsty after the brine and me mouth all greasy from me eating. And them coppers going one upon the other into the butcher’s hand. Don’t you remember that, Ma?”
“I remember you did always come home with the pennies you earned. I don’t remember any pig’s cheek.”
“Oh, Ma, I wanted to do some good always. I never did it the right way, sure I didn’t?”
“You were a great good to me, son. You are yet.”
“But I wanted to be needed, Ma. You would never let on you needed me. You don’t need me now, sure you don’t, Ma?”
She put her hand to his head. “A cheann dubh dhílis,” she said, “my black-headed boy. Don’t you know ’tis loving I have, not needing. God send one day you’ll be happy with that.”
He had fallen forward from the chair, and he laid his head on her breast, wrapping his arms tightly round her waist.
“Aren’t you desperate scared?” she said. “My Lady of the Wayside, for