At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [225]
Jim was staring at the bruise on Doyler’s shoulder. It was just where the recoil of his gun would have hit, had his gun been real and not play. But his gun was real. It was hiding this minute in the broom-cupboard at Jim’s home. He believed for the first time he understood that Doyler was a soldier, that he really had been in training, that Doyler in a very real sense was under orders. He wondered was it entirely sane what he was about.
“Oh that,” said Doyler, following his look. “That’s all you get for your pains.”
“Does it hurt that bad shooting a gun?”
“Hurts worse getting shot, I believe.”
Jim tried to think and make sense of his thoughts. Was he depriving the army of a trained soldier? It was only for one night, mind. And Doyler might be trained, but he really wasn’t fit. And wouldn’t Jim be there anyway to stand in his place? “Doyler,” he said, “they would want me, wouldn’t they, in the Citizen Army?”
“Ah no now, Jim, you’ll steer clear of that lot. You’re grand now and you don’t want any messing in Dublin. Your da’s in the right of that. He does right to be lost in town. A fool would be home there.”
That decided it. Doyler would never let him in with him. Far better to have Doyler come find him. No, the Citizen Army would do fine. Tomorrow they’d have three, where they only had one before, and MacEmm a crack shot. He commanded his face. “And do you think,” he asked, “is it St. Stephen’s Green that Mr. Pearse would be? If ever there was to be a rising, I mean.”
“Don’t ask me where that crowd’d be. Abbey Theatre most like, giving a reading. Have I got this straight now? We’re to spend the night together here?”
“Oh gosh no,” said Jim. “I have deliveries all evening.”
“He never has you doing deliveries the bank holiday?” Jim shrugged: the unaccountable quirks of fathers. “You’re saying I’m to be stuck in this house on me own the night? Ah Jim, it’s an awful big house. There’s noises.”
“That’s the wind.”
“It’s creepy on your own.”
“MacEmm’ll be here. He’ll stay up with you sure.”
“You and your bloody MacEmm. You won’t be happy till you have us the three in a bed. I’ll show you what I think of his nobs.” He made a grab for Jim’s arms, twisting them. Jim let him wrestle away, exerting only a supine opposition. His arms were pinioned under and Doyler sat him astride, naked as Adam and as flawless. “James Mack, is that what I think it is? It is and all. You’re worser than a he-goat, Jim Mack. You’d take advantage of a poor sick man to have your dirty end away.”
“I won’t,” said Jim, “today.” He gazed fondly into Doyler’s eyes till Doyler rolled over on a pillow and was quiet. “Penny for them,” he said. “I have a shilling even.”
“Sure sorrow the shilling they’re worth,” said Doyler.
“Tell me anyway.”
“I was thinking earlier lying here what you said about the schoolteaching. I don’t know, it’s a mad idea, but I can’t think why I wouldn’t give it a twist.”
“Of course you will,” said Jim. “You’ll sit the scholarship. Maybe not this year, but next. We’ll do the books together.”
“And I was thinking, wouldn’t it be gas if we did get a digs. Now I know we won’t now. Pie in the sky, I know that. But wouldn’t it be a gas if we did manage it? I can picture it even.”
“So can I.”
“No you can’t. You never lived anywheres poor.”
“I can too. It’s poky and damp and there’s a torn wallpaper and the fire won’t draw.”
“There’s no fire. We can’t afford a fire to keep. And there’s bugs in the wallpaper.”
“We’ll have a box for our table and an old newspaper for a cloth.”
“We’ll have nix to eat and nuppence to buy it with.”
“We’ll eat bread and onions.”
“Bread and onions, bread and onions, bread and onions,” said Doyler. “Because you know onions repeat.”
“And every time we sit to table, we’ll be reading that same old paper, tenth time the same column. We’ll curse it, so we will.”
“We