At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [221]
“Nobody never said about the even papers, mister.”
“Here now,” said Mr. Mack. Here we go again, he thought. “Sixpence, that’s all I have. Off you go. It’ll all be over tomorrow, never fear, and you’ll be back with your Herald and Mail.”
And now who was this only Mary Nights. Mary Nights not to her hour and her direction into Dublin, a thing never known in weal nor woe, come wind nor weather, in hail rain nor shine. Her determined old head bent to her course. “They’s drawing out,” said she, “the nights.”
The bell clinked. Lord save us, he was home at last. Nancy was at the kitchen door. She had a bowl in her elbow, mixing something. “Why, Mr. Mack, you haven’t your hat.”
Mr. Mack wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Never mind that. Is Jim about?”
“Sure he was moping about the shop till I told him go out and play.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know now. He was back again then and he called out to me. He’s to eat his dinner at MacMurrough’s.”
“Mr. MacMurrough’s? Was Doyler with him?”
“Doyler’s in his bed still, poorly. You look took yourself, Mr. Mack. Is there anything the matter?”
“Oh sure Nancy, the most terrible thing has happened, you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t I know, Mr. Mack. And where would you find another hat the size of you?”
Before Mr. Mack had left for town that morning, he had told Jim—not to keep shop, exactly: it was a holiday and the shop was firmly shut for the holiday—but to keep by, with an ear for the bell, in case of a customer would be caught sudden and they’d need a goods in an emergency. For a corner-grocery, he said, his hand braced in the air against any contraposition, was as much a service to the community as a shop in the strict sense. Jim had mentioned Doyler above at MacMurrough’s. Tush, his father had replied. Hadn’t Jim only now told him that Doyler was right as rain? Was he saying now there was any imminent danger of a relax? Was Doyler about to be drownded in his bed, was he? Fine bobbish fellow likes of Doyler, he didn’t want Jim to be mollycoddling. Let Jim read a book at home, hadn’t he examinations this summer? His father might wish he had leisure for reading a book, so he might.
His father was gone then, and Jim settled with his tome, From Crécy to Tel el-Kebir, the very article for a blue sky in the morning. Mollycoddle, he thought—milksop too: he had fed Doyler bread dipped in milk when he woke. There were other names he could think of: miss boy, molly mop, molly maguire—though the Molly Maguires were agrarian banditti who had dressed, he did not know why, in women’s clothing. By noon, the brightness outside had deepened nearly to night the apparent evening within. Drake had circumnavigated the globe and Spain approached her acme; while Nancy up in Aunt Sawney’s room was calling for him to fetch water. He made his noisy tread on the stairs and waited in the door.
“You can come in,” she said.
“Will I leave it here?”
Nancy tipped a look at Aunt Sawney, who was sitting up in bed with her bed-jacket on and her day-cap, and the big bolster behind. “He hangs about the door for fear he’ll catch something prejudicial.”
“I do not,” said Jim, walking boldly in. Immediately he was aware of the smell, a woman’s room smell, of toilet soap and bodily things, cleansing and motions. Of sickness too, or rather the things against sickness, ointments and creams. He nearly could touch the warmth, a stuff of lavender and camphor balls, stale the way they had it hoarded through the winter. It was a strangely self-contained room: he never saw anything purchased for it, yet it had a share of jars and bottles that must surely run out.
“And what is the little man at today?” asked Aunt Sawney.
“Reading a book,” he answered.
Nancy rolled up the soiled napkin and dropped it in the pan of water. Things changed when they left this room. He would pick that up now and carry it down the stairs to the range. It would be hideous then, but here you wouldn’t mind it at all. He watched Nancy blow on a penny before she placed it on the baby’s bellybutton. She did up the napkin