At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [192]
Meanwhile Jim’s father made talk and Doyler politely earned his tea. No, Mr. Mack, he had never stepped inside of the Castle. True to be sure, Dublin was notorious for losing your way in it. Italy joins Austria? No, he hadn’t heard that. Certainly, that was a grave development. Oh yes, he saw it now. On the map, yes. That was a good one, Mr. Mack. Italy joins Austria. No, he never thought of that. Sure why not, send it in, the papers might publish it.
The tea things came and went, sparingly with Lent. At last the table was cleared and Jim might leave his elbows legitimately there. He rested his chin in the crook of his hands, watchful and listening. The fire spat at the hearthrug. Long time ago he would used curl on that rug, a ball of pinky heat, while the furniture winked and tall shadows peopled the walls. Then, like now, though he had not then the words to describe it, he was aware of his detachment, of his being a witness to the moment, witness not participant. Now, in a lazy way, he was pleased to remain so, these last few hours, a time yet. His feet pressed against the bench he sat on which later they’d pull out for their bed.
Doyler had little Estella on his lap, and he was dandling her up and down, asking her, riddling, “Will I tell you a story of Johnny Magorey? Will I begin it? That’s all that’s in it.”
Jim’s father said, “I believe there are two flutes here somewheres about. Are you with us at all there, Jim?”
“What, Da?”
“I said we have two flutes here somewheres.”
“Yes,” said Jim. “I kept your flute for you.”
“Sure I knew you would.”
Jim showed it down from the press, casually, and busied himself with his own, piecing the sections. Hours of work that flute had cost him. Cleaning the years of use from the finger-holes, new-twining the tenons, oiling the brittle from the wood, shining away till he found its yellow gleam; and all the while testing to be sure of the tone, bright and near silvery in the high Ds, dark and warm in the low. Doyler gave out a scale. He said something. Jim shied his head. “Oh well sure,” he muttered.
“Slipjigs,” called Doyler. He rapped on the floor, one two three, and off they flew, spattering the dew. Nancy tapped on the tiles, Estella jogged on her lap. His father called up the stairs, “Are you all right with the rattle, Aunt Sawney?” “Way with you!” they heard her back. They had the dew nicely spattered: on they played. It was a puzzle how they agreed the tunes, but a glance to Doyler and Doyler would nod, and their fingers leapt to the change. The night came down and the fire gathered them round. They slowed to airs. Doyler’s eyes glimmered in their corners, watching him. Jim closed his own and he heard the notes, how they found themselves, as once Doyler had told they would. He heard them drifting above, their harmonies, shifting in the draughts of the fire; with the smoke they lifted, up up above, in modes he did not know the names of them, aloft and adrift in the night and the stars.
“You been practicing,” said Doyler.
Jim nodded.
Nancy said, “Now then, Mr. Mack, will we leave these two dotes to themself a while?”
“Already?” said his father. “And I was only thinking I’d fetch the spoons.”
“’Tis Lent a while yet,” she said, “and Our Lord still in the tomb.”
There was admonishment in her tone and Jim saw his father glance to the walls the way he’d hear the neighbors malavoguing his house. “Bed so,” he said.
Nancy was away up the stairs. His father went out the yard—“The inconvenience,” he said with a wink