At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [19]
“They’re fine.”
“That’s the hookum. Bit wide in the waist. I’ll put a tuck in them for you after. Could maybe turn them up a patch too.” Why was he so sad? His son was his son no matter his breeks. But he looked so grown-up in his trousers. Had he tried to keep him a boy and why had he tried it? I wasn’t being thick, nor mean, he wanted to say. It’s not the time for a boy to be a man. Wait till the war was over.
“That’s grand to have something best for Sundays, isn’t it, Jim?”
“For Sundays, Da?”
“Best take them off now. Don’t want them creased.”
Later on, while Jim did his homework, Mr. Mack returned to his Irish Times. He was still trying to put flesh on the bare bones of the London communiqués. Hard to work out where the Dubs was fighting. Only chance was to glean it from the death notices. Foolish secrecy that wouldn’t give out the names of regiments. Headlines full of British gallantry, but did British include Irish? Why wouldn’t they be done with it and say Irish gallantry? Do the world of good for recruiting. Gallantry of Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Old Tough’s Heroism. World of good ’twould do.
All over the world they were fighting, from the steppes of Russia to the African plains. Well, not America, granted not America. But in the seas around, they were fighting everywhere. From Canada they came to win glory in France, from Australia and New Zealand to knock out the Turk. If you looked at the map you saw the corners folding over, returning the blood of the young dominions to stand in defense of their motherland. It made you feel grand to be a part of it, this great empire at war, its fighting men sent forth not for gain but for honor, and Dublin its second city.
But one son was enough.
When he looked up, he saw that Jim had arranged the settle-bed and was already lying in it. He heaved up from Aunt Sawney’s chair, disremembering having got into it, rubbed his eyes. The only sound was Aunt Sawney above coughing and the low hiss of the gas. “Have you said your prayers?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“That’s not your good shirt, is it?”
“No, Papa.”
“Goodnight so.” He lit a small candle from the Sacred Heart vigil, signing the cross as he did so, then opened the door to the boxstairs. He was preparing to turn off the gas, when Jim said,
“Papa?”
“What is it?”
“I’m worried about Gordie.”
“What are you worried for?”
“If they send him to France. They’re using poison in France.”
Mr. Mack sat down on the edge of the bed. The candle was wasting, but that didn’t signify. “He’s in the army, Jim. And the British Army is the finest-trained and best-rigged army the world over. Look at me sure. Nobody knows what happened my mother and father, may the earth lie gently on them. But the army took me in, fed me, clothed me, made the man I am today. It’s a great body of men he’s joining. They wouldn’t send Gordie in with a damp cloth on his face. There’ll be respirators and all sorts, then nothing can harm him. Take my word. He’s safer in the army than crossing a road in front of a motor. All right, honor bright?”
“All right, Da.”
In the bluey light he smiled down at his son. He found himself touching his forehead, momentarily checking for temperature, then sifting his fingers through the fall of his hair. How well he looked, how rude in health. Both his sons looked well, for they lacked the pallor of Dublin. They were born down the Cape and their first few years had been spent in the warm. A memory of that sun glowed in their faces, in the high color and the brownish skin. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all, was the Spanish blood rumored on their mother’s side.
Yes, both boys had their mother’s face, thanks be to God for that. But Jim positively sang of her. They lose it, you see, age coarsens it from them. But say what they will, I’ve reared two goodly