At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [245]
In a flash MacMurrough knew the morning he had spent. Nothing beyond him, nothing the equal of him, his earnest noddings, his half-baked suggestions, retreating from the trenches three or four times till he was satisfied he got it right. There he stood in his baggy drapes and his outsize hat. Behold, he goes to war, my boy.
It was a moment too glorious meanly to keep and he turned to Doyler as Doyler turned, their faces brimming, to share the delight. They nodded to each other, an agreement at last: not as prize-fighters will agree, or barristers, after their bout: an acknowledgment of what they shared, of two who had been led a merry old dance.
“I better report,” said Doyler.
“Yes, I suppose I had best make myself known.”
“You sure you’re staying?”
“Wild horses,” said MacMurrough.
“I’ll tell them you’s a Volunteer captain. It’s no lie anyway. I’ll tell them you was caught on the hop in Dublin and you can’t get down into Wexford. That’s no lie neither.”
Yes, his poor Wexford boys. MacMurrough wondered how they fared. It was a rotten shame, but he was not a man to lead other men. He could not give courage as great men do, as a comical kid could even. But he did not lack conduct, his aunt had reminded him that. He recalled now the small boy who had played along the sea-wall. By night he had dreamt of magnificence and on the wings of its tales he flew. Well, it was more miserable here than magnificent, he supposed. But he believed he might reach across the years to that boy and lift him up on his high shoulders. See, I come to war because I love that boy. See how beautiful he is, see how fine. Here is his friend: he too is fine and beautiful. They go to war because they love, each his country. And I too love my country. Do you feel the wind that is rising, the magnificent wind? These things will come, my dear. Let you dream of this.
He returned the little boy to his rocks by the sea where too the drizzle fell. He thought now of Aunt Eva as they wandered, he and Doyler, down the road to Jim. She’d have taken the Shelbourne, yes she would, with just her Webley a-wobble in her hand, and there’d be none of this nonsense of entrenching a park. Her verve, her dash, her bottom, her form—of all the misfortunes, Ireland’s too, to be incarcerated this week in the Castle.
Doyler was frowning. He was gazing beyond Jim at the terrace of buildings that fronted the end of the street. Gentlemen’s clubs, officers’ clubs, where the Union flag flew above. MacMurrough wasn’t sure, but he believed he too had seen something. Doyler said, “Them windows just opened.”
“Yes, I thought so too.”
“That second machine-gun, I wonder now what happened it?”
“Yes, I wonder,” said MacMurrough.
“Did you ever hear of a raking fire?”
An enfilade, MacMurrough was going to reply, but he was stung by something in the hand. He heard Doyler shouting. He was shouting Jim’s name. MacMurrough brought his hand to look at it. He found he was kneeling in the road. He looked at the blood dripping from his palm. While he looked, blood clouded his eyes.
Jim turned smiling at the shout. Doyler was running for him, that funny run he had. He saw his clothes on him, all wrists and ankles. He was just saying something, something like, Here you are at last, and Doyler flung into him. The breath thumped out of Jim. He fell flump on the road with Doyler on top. Doyler said something that sounded like Oh-oh.
Jim lifted his shoulders. The head hung limp. “Doyler?” he said, turning him over. He saw MacEmm sitting in the road with his handkerchief out. There was blood on his face. “Doyler?” he said again.
Feet were rushing across the street. There was some screaming. Pebbles kicked up off