At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [4]
He did not enter by the gates, but turned down Ballygihen Avenue beside. He had come out in a sweat, beads were trickling down the spine of his shirt, the wet patch stuck where his braces crossed. He mended his pace to catch his breath. At the door in the wall he stopped. Mopped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief, took off his hat and swabbed inside. Carefully stroked its brim where his fingers might have disturbed the nap. Replaced it. Size too small. Would never believe your head would grow. Or had the hat shrunk on him? Dunn’s three-and-ninepenny bowler? No, his hat had never shrunk. He brushed both boots against the calves of his trousers. Parcel safe? Then he pushed inside the tradesmen’s gate.
Brambly path through shadowy wood. Birds singing on all sides. Mess of nettles, cow-parsley, could take a scythe to them. Light green frilly leaves would put you in mind of, ahem, petticoats. A blackbird scuttled off the path like a schoolboy caught at a caper. Then he was out in the light, and the lawns of Ballygihen House stretched leisurely to the sea. The sea oh the sea, long may it be. What a magnificent house it was, view and vantage them both, for its windows commanded the breadth of Dublin Bay. If he had this house what wouldn’t he do but sit upon its sloping lawns while all day long the mailboats to’d and fro’d.
Mr. Mack shook his head, but not disconsolately; for the beauty of the scene, briefly borrowed and duly returned, would brighten the sorrow of a saint. He followed the path by the trees, careful of stepping on the grass, till he came into the shadow of the house where the area steps led down to the kitchens.
And who was it only Madame MacMurrough’s slavey showing leg at the step. Bit late in the morning to be still at her scrubbing. From Athlone, I believe, a district I know nothing about, save that it lies at the heart of Ireland.
He leant over the railing. “You’re after missing a spot, Nancy.”
The girl looked up. “’Tis you, Mr. Mack. And I thought it was the butcher’s boy after giving me cheek.”
She thought it was the butcher’s—Mr. Mack hawked his throat. “Julian weather we’re having.”
She pulled the hair out of her eyes. “Julian, Mr. Mack?”
“Julian. Pertaining to the month of July. It’s from the Latin.”
“But ’tis scarce May.”
“Well, I know that, Nancy. I meant ’tis July-like weather. Warm.”
She stood up, skirts covering her shins. Something masonic about her smile. “Any news from Gordie, Mr. Mack?”
Mr. Mack peered over her shoulder looking to see was there anyone of consequence about. “Gordie?” he repeated. “You must mean Gordon, my son Gordon.”
“No letters or anything in the post?”
“How kind of you, Nancy. But no, he’s away on final training. We don’t know the where, we don’t know the where to. Submarines, do you see. Troop movements is always secretive in times of war.”
“Ah sure he’s most like in England, round about Aldershot with the rest of the boys.”
No cook in evidence, no proper maid. Entire residence has the look of—“Aldershot? Why do you say Aldershot?”
“Do you know the place? Famous military town in Hampshire.”
“You oughtn’t be talking such things. Haven’t I just warned you about submarines?”
“In Ballygihen, Mr. Mack?”
“Matter a damn where.” He felt he had stamped his foot, so he patted his toes on the gravel and muttered, “Dang. Matter a dang, I meant.”
The breeze reblew the hair in her eyes. Slovenly the way she ties it. Has a simper cute as a cat. “Is there no person in authority here I might address my business to?”
“Sure we’re all alone in the big house together. If you wanted you could nip round the front and pull the bell. I’d let you in for the crack.”
Flighty, divil-may-care minx of a slavey. Pity the man who—He pinched, pulling, one droop of his mustache. “I haven’t the time for your cod-acting now, Nancy. It so happens I’m here on a serious matter not altogether disconnected