At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [206]
“MacEmm,” Jim was saying, “MacEmm.”
“Tongue. Check his tongue.” He turned the boy on his front, straddled his back. Push, one thousand. All cramped in the well of the boat, water swilling about. Push, two thousand, his hands on the small of the boy’s back. Up, three thousand. He saw Jim open the mouth, search his fingers inside. “Pulse,” he shouted. Wait, four thousand. The boy’s face was turned on his elbow: his face livid, so very nearly lifelike. Wait, five thousand. Jim’s fingers fiddled with his wrist. Push, one thousand. “I think so,” he heard. Up, three thousand. “Pulse, yes!” Wait, five thousand. He felt a shudder under his hands. “Tongue,” he called again. Push, two thousand. Water trickled out of the mouth. Up, three thousand. “He’s not breathing.” Wait, four thousand. “MacEmm, he’s not breathing.” Wait, five thousand. “Please, MacEmm.” He glimpsed the red faces of the men rowing. Push, one thousand. The horizon pitched and sended. Wait, five thousand. Jim shivering watching. “My shirt on,” he told him. The shirt absurdly wrapping round his own shoulders. Still push one thousand and up three thousand and wait five thousand and push. A freak wave buffeted the boat as MacMurrough came down, one thousand, to push. The boy choked and he made to turn his face to cough or to vomit. “Tongue,” shouted MacMurrough. “Breathing!” shouted Jim. “He’s breathing, MacEmm!” Still MacMurrough pushed and upped and waited till there could be no doubting. The boy moaned, and to moan he must breathe.
He wrapped his coat over the boy’s back, then turned him round. “Put my shirt on,” he snapped at Jim. He held his hand on the chest, gauging the strength of the breathing. “My watch,” he said. Jim had it ready. He timed the breaths. He felt for the boy’s pulse: thready, but undeniable. He lifted the boy’s legs into his trousers. Jim was on the stern bench dripping, juddering. He clambered over and slapped him hard on the cheek. “I warned you about that flag.” Biting his lip, disbelief in his eyes: a little color returned. “Where are we?” MacMurrough called to the men.
“Bullock rocks, sor.”
“Don’t let up.” To Jim again. “You know the doctor’s house?” Nod. “You must run. If the doctor is away, you must find from his people where there’s another. Give my name and have them use the telephone.”
“He’ll be all right now?”
“He’s breathing well. But you must fetch a doctor. Don’t panic now, Jim. I need you with your wits.”
MacMurrough attended to the boy, buttoning his coat on him and checking his pulse and his breathing. He opened an eyelid where the eye was dull. But it flinched against the light and the eyelid blinked. The body convulsed with shivers.
He glanced over his shoulder. Jim’s face would repent a judge. “Come here, Jim.” The boy crept over. “Take his hand now. He’s fine. A little shock, that’s all. Try keep him warm.”
“MacEmm, I wasn’t panicking.”
“All right.”
“But you did right to hit me if you thought I was.”
MacMurrough turned his head. “Keep him warm now.”
At last she heard him, his brisk boots on the tiled floor, Shorty stepping through the hospital ward. With a tenderly soldierliness he took up his station behind her. “Mum,” said he, turning about the bath-chair, “the motor-car awaits.”
Which meant no more, Eveline was not deceived, than that her permit had been approved to hear public Easter Mass. They passed along corridors, where walking wounded sidled by the walls, into the Castle grounds. The motor waited by the steps, and with Shorty’s efficient bracing she slipped into the leather lap of the rear. All the courtesies. Motor and driver, her personal attendant, a cornered space in the officers’ ladies’ ward: the London influence of her brother of course.
The sentry at the gates saluted, the constable peeked his