At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [235]
Doyler persisted in this knowing, lording-it manner as on they tramped to Blackrock. It was MacMurrough’s fault. He blamed MacMurrough. MacMurrough had filled Jim’s head with notions. Did a man MacMurrough’s age not know he was dealing with a kid?
“Wait a minute here. Are you saying I encouraged Jim?”
“Well, who the hell else did?”
“Well, you’re the one who struts about in a uniform.”
“What are you allegating now? You saying I packed him off to Stephen’s Green?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t.”
“Of course I wear a uniform. I’m supposed to wear a uniform. Amn’t I a Citizen soldier?”
“And now Jim’s gone off to be one too.”
“That’s nothing to the point. And I don’t strut neither. Leg like mine, you’d want to strut.” His leg, which had largely been forgotten in their hurry, now made stiff semi-circles for a pace or two, knocking into MacMurrough’s shins.
“You’ll find,” said MacMurrough, “you’ll get along faster if you rest your tongue.”
“I’m not saying nothing.”
“Good.”
“Fine by me.”
They tramped in silence. They passed, briefly, through the Kingstown slums, then on to the broad avenues of Monkstown. It was a strain, with the streets so empty, maintaining any sense of urgency. It was cherry week: all along the road and down the side roads, an exotic snow had pinked the gardens. Chestnuts were new-clothed and on the tip of candling, their loose green shawls picked with cream. But mostly the trees were bare yet, affording little shelter from the weather.
For no very good reason, MacMurrough fell to pondering his funeral. Like so many things in life, he had missed his moment for death. That last year at school, had I topped it then, the splendor of it, my apotheosis. Cowled monks sanctus chanting. A squealer I favored once with a smile, his wispy treble, pie Jesu. At the back, bowed, awed, scrubbed, combed, urchins from the local boxing club; one, his stubby face, agnus dei, my protégé. Dear Father and dearest Mother, comforted, a little surprised even, as they glimpse in the candled gloom that lux aeternum the boy choir sings. He will be especially remembered for his many kindnesses to his younger fellows. Libera me. A look, a smile, a chink in the Sunday faces: a message slips in a pocket. Tonight at eight by the lats. In paradisum.
Sometimes I wonder does anything in the world exist for me at all, beyond the horizontal refreshment. Well, all quite natural: one is walking, after all, to war. Please to note, no dies irae.
Movement at last: a milk van round a corner came clopping, colloping, collopaling to a stop clop. As they drew near, the driver threw them a wary nod. Maids were queuing at the churn, tattling over their half-gallon cans. “Yez off to town, boys?—Don’t Maggie!—I hope yez aren’t Sinn Feiners, boys?—Maggie don’t!”
“Well,” said MacMurrough, “do we take it?”
“Crawl there faster than that old nag.”
It dawned on MacMurrough that Doyler was rather the dull insurrectionist. That brief exchange had launched him again on his gripes. MacMurrough never thought things through. A round table would have the edge on MacMurrough. Was MacMurrough demented altogether to be telling Jim them tales?
“Which tales are these now?”
“Don’t ask me. The Holy Band of Thesbians.”
“Of Thebes,” said MacMurrough. “The Sacred Band.”
“All lovey-dovey dying together. Don’t you know he’s dippy over you? He takes anything you say at face. That’s a kid you’re telling that to. He don’t know it’s stories.”
“Doyler, he’s the same age as you. Besides, I grew up on tales like that.”
“Aye and you’re some example.”
“What are you talking about? The entire world grows up on those stories. Only difference is, I told him the truth, that they were lovers, humping physical fellows.” Yes, and Jim had grasped instinctively that significance: that more than stories, they were patterns of the possible. And I think, how happier my boyhood should have been, had somebody—Listen, boy, listen to my tale—thought to tell me the truth. Listen