At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [201]
“Everything ready?” he asked.
“Ready, sor,” said the boatman, and he and second oar pushed off. They passed under the steep neck of the pier. A chop of curiosity as the sea met them, then out into the bay.
It truly was the morning of the world. The sky blued above to shade and silver in the sea. What was it, eight o’ clock? Already he felt stuffy in his coat and tie. He had risen very early. All had remained night within while outside morning screaked in the garden. At his window he listened to the birds. He sniffed the new-mown lawns and later watched squirrels, like writing, loop across them. The dandelions were in their first clocks; already bluebells, some. The sycamores were coming to leaf, a green stubble after the hard night. And he had thought on a whim to hear Mass.
“Where to, sor?”
“Out a bit, I should think.”
“Out where, sor?”
“Wales.”
He had even received the Host, and had enjoyed the accident of its acrid taste. It had carried him to school mornings when entire love-makings were conducted by smile and nod between communicants and choir. He remembered the cornering eyes of the boys and their singing oval mouths. Oh, but I was a god then. Even more, I was one with the crowd.
“A hard row to Wales, sor.”
“Here will do so. Only bring the boat about so I can see the shore.”
The bells had returned from Rome and he heard now their revelry, that rowdy way they sounded after Lent. And just as he noticed them, he saw the boys, rounding along the rocky shore from the Forty Foot. How was he swimming? He was swimming fine. Rushing it a bit? No, he was taking his time. The other too swam well. Yes, he did swim well, actually. Curious that: he has no kick, and still he keeps up. Inconsiderate, really; MacMurrough thought it rather a cheek.
But he must not stare or attract attention. He took up a fishing-line he had arranged for. He was wearing a hat of his grandfather’s. They should not notice him.
He had no great fear for the boys till they were past Bullock and coming to Dalkey. He had marked rather a nanny route and gone over it thoroughly with Jim. Swim along the shore with the tide, then swerve across the tide and come to seaward of Maiden Rock. Come to landward, and the tide would sweep them into Dalkey Sound and they might give up any hope of the Muglins. A short hop by Clare Rock. Then the final leg, and quite a challenge it was. MacMurrough had essayed it himself. One had to aim more or less for Scotland to arrive more or less at Wales. He had managed it, but his muscles ached and a knot of pain lodged below his breast-bone. He floated by, seeing the rock for the bird-shitten desolation it was. He hadn’t liked to come ashore, nor even to hold by its crags, feeling his touch an infringement of sorts. He had crawled back across Muglins Sound to Dalkey Island, and rested on the decent grass.
He watched the boys under the brim of his hat. On an impulse he dipped his hand over the side. Icy cold, but they would be over that pain by now. They were swimming naked. Well, he had known they would. He waited while they passed Bullock. That damned flag. I told him not to bring that flag. Senseless drag, let alone the weight. Something in the boatmen’s mutters: he realized they were watching the boys, had been discussing them even. He snapped at them to mind what they were about. He moved along till he sat in the stem. He glanced over his shoulder at the Muglins. Perhaps a mile, mile and a half. It was a hard swim in the open sea for sixteen-year-old boys. Would I come to him in time? Listen to me, Nanny Trembling in a boat.
He had never questioned the swim or sought any explanation for it. It was a boyhood test, so far as he considered it, of endurance, togetherness, whatever. Then, on Maundy Thursday, at Doyle’s Rock, he had shaken Jim’s hand. This was the end of his lessons and, so he had intended, their last meeting. He said, not even thinking of the words, “I wish you luck and I hope you won’t be disappointed. I hope you both pass the test.”
And Jim had said, “Oh no, it’s not a test.