At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [36]
“At school they take us to the baths at Kingstown.”
“What use is a baths at Kingstown? Come down here to the sea. Don’t have to be scared. I’ll see you right.”
“Not scared,” said Jim judiciously. “Not a strong swimmer is all.”
“I’ll learn you. What you need is the crawl. Best day is Sunday. Half-past ten, we’ll have the place to ourself.”
“But Mass is on then.”
“Nail on the head. Swaddlers won’t swim on the Lord’s day, and the Catholics is hearing the Men’s.”
“You mean you’d skip off Mass on a Sunday?”
“Can’t you catch another if it bothers you?”
“But do you miss Mass?”
“Ah miss it something dreadful.” He stood up with a muttered, “Back in a crack,” and wandered off behind the shelters. In the quiet Jim heard the scurry of feet, tiny animal scutterings. It was unfair that he had mentioned the baths in Kingstown. They did not let you in at the baths in Kingstown without you were wearing a collar and tie. Red blinked the Muglins light.
A body brushed behind and Doyler hunched down again. He was still buttoning his trousers and Jim turned aside.
“They do say there’s a partition at the baths against the ladies’ modesty. Is it true?”
“Some days all right.”
“Well, sure as eggs, there’s no ladies at the Forty Foot, nor little modesty neither.”
He had his flute out now and he was screwing the joints. “Does he never have anything Irish to play at that band,” he asked, “old Polycarp?”
Jim thought through the repertoire. “St. Patrick’s Day.” “Brian Boru.” “Garryowen.”
Doyler spat. “Regimental marches. Shagging polis band does that. I mean real Irish.”
“Would ‘A Nation Once Again’ be Irish?”
“Cod-Irish maybe. Like that priest’s cod-Irish name. Father O’Táighléir. Did you ever hear the like? Right cabbage-looking patriot.”
It was a puzzle that he’d make a jeer of a priest of God. A puzzle too how quick the ape would leap on his back and quickly then leap off again.
“Never thought I’d enjoy to give the old Godsave, but I did that time, I tell you. Good on you, Polycarp. Puss on the priest was glorious to behold.”
He leant forward on his sitting bones. His grin adjusted to the fluter’s smile and he brought the instrument to his lips. Long opening note that was the breath of music, then he burst into play. Grace-notes galore, slurs and sudden staccatos, octave leaps inside of a triplet. The tune was oddly familiar though it took a while for Jim to place it. “God Save the King” done into a jig. Brother Polycarp would have been appalled, let alone the new father. But the walls of the Forty Foot rang about them.
In the dim light Jim could just make out the contortions that came over his face. It was like the flute was after surprising him there, he had no notion of that leap coming, fancy a flute putting pass-notes inside of that. The impression was of his cracked old stick having a will its own and Doyler merely following on.
After a time the virtuoso wore off. He slowed to a plainer air whose melancholy mode curled over the rocks and out to sea where waves flapped in mild percussion.
“You’re after oiling it for me. Greased it too. I want to thank you for that.”
Jim shrugged. “I was doing me own sure.”
“Almond oil don’t come cheap.” He studied his instrument, toying with the bindings he’d made about the joins.
“Where did you learn to play that way?” Jim asked.
“My uncle knew a tinker out of Sligo who knew a traveler out of Roscommon who had the playing. Try along with me sure. Not difficult if it’s slow like. Notes do mostly find themself.”
Jim untied his sock, but not without reservation, for he’d been told often enough against shifts in temperature. Indeed he had only to look at Doyler’s flute. But in the end it was Doyler’s playing that decided him against, for he feared to disfigure it with his fumbling way. The music was remote and unresolved, wound about with slides and those yearning delays, not notes really, but the lingering between. It was like the harmony of another air whose melody he believed he could catch and maybe, had he the fingering, might one day play. He closed his