At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [2]
“Are you all right there, Mick?”
“Be right in a minute, Arthur. Catch me breath is all.”
Mr. Mack gave a squeeze of his hand, feeling the bones beneath. “Will I inquire in Fennelly’s after a drop of water?”
“I wouldn’t want to be bothering Fennelly for water, though.”
Them chancy old eyes. Once upon a time them eyes had danced. Bang goes sixpence, thought Mr. Mack, though it was a shilling piece he pulled out of his pocket. “Will you do yourself a favor, Mick, and get something decent for your dinner.”
“Take that away,” Mr. Doyle rebuked him. “I have my pride yet. I won’t take pity.”
“Now where’s the pity in a bob, for God’s sake?”
“I fought for Queen and Country. There’s no man will deny it.”
“There’s no man wants to deny it.”
“Twenty-five years with the Colors. I done me bit. I went me pound, God knows if I didn’t.”
Here we go, thought Mr. Mack.
“I stood me ground. I stood to them Bojers and all.”
Here we go again.
“Admitted you wasn’t there. Admitted you was home on the boat to Ireland. But you’ll grant me this for an old soldier. That Fusilier Doyle, he done his bit. He stood up to them Bojers, he did.”
“You did of course. You’re a good Old Tough, ’tis known in the parish.”
“Begod and I’d do it over was I let. God’s oath on that. We’d know the better of Germany then.” He kicked his boot against the newsboard, which told, unusually and misfortunately for his purpose, not of the war at all but of beer and whiskey news, the threat and fear of a hike in the excise. “I’d soon put manners on those Kaiser lads.”
“No better man,” Mr. Mack conceded. Mr. Doyle tossed his head, the way his point, being gained, he found it worthless for a gain. Mr. Mack had to squeeze the shilling bit into his hand. “You’ll have a lotion on me whatever,” he said, confidentially urging the matter.
The makings of a smile lurked across the paperman’s face. “There was a day, Arthur, and you was pal o’ me heart,” said he, “me fond segotia.” The silver got pocketed. “May your hand be stretched in friendship, Sergeant, and never your neck.”
Charity done with and the price of a skite secured, they might risk a reasonable natter. “Tell us,” said Mr. Mack, “is it true what happened the young fellow was here on this patch?”
“Sure carted away. The peelers nabbed him.”
“A recruitment poster I heard.”
“Above on the post office windows. Had it torn away.”
“Shocking,” said Mr. Mack. “Didn’t he know that’s a serious offense?”
“Be sure he’ll know now,” said Mr. Doyle. “Two-monthser he’ll get out of that. Hard.”
“And to look at him he only a child.”
“Sure mild as ever on porridge smiled. Shocking.”
Though Mr. Mack could not engage it was the offense was referred to and not the deserts. “Still, you’ve a good few weeks got out of this work.”
“They’ll have the replacement found soon enough.”
“You stuck it this long, they might see their way to making you permanent.”
“Not so, Sergeant. And the breath only in and out of me.” An obliging little hack found its way up his throat. “There’s only the one place I’ll be permanent now. I won’t be long getting there neither.”
But Mr. Mack had heard sufficient of that song. “Sure we’re none of us getting any the rosier.” The parcel shifted under his arm and, the direction coming by chance into view, Mr. Doyle’s eyes squinted, then saucered, then slyly he opined,
“Knitting.”
“Stockings,” Mr. Mack elaborated. “I’m only on my way to Ballygihen. Something for Madame MacMurrough and the Comforts Fund.”
“Didn’t I say you was up with the high-jinkers? Give ’em socks there, Sergeant, give ’em socks.”
Mr. Mack received this recommendation with the soldierly good humor with which it was intended. He tipped his hat and the game old tough saluted.
“Good luck to the General.”
“Take care now, Mr. Doyle.”
Parcel safe and under his arm, Mr. Mack made his way along the parade of shops. At the tramstop he looked