At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [40]
As he wandered along home, he felt the poor people’s copper weigh in his pocket. Low in the sky hung watery clouds hovering over the gas-lamps. More rain. There was no up in poor people and the sullen skies dispirited him.
Game of a leg, hop and go quickly. Young Doyler it is with Jim in tow. I was thinking his devotions was taking longer these nights. They’ve palled up. Arm-and-arm they go. Ten days and they’re cup and can together.
He made faces to himself while he considered the implications. Already he had caught Jim out in a lie and that lie was nailed now as he saw the flute passed over for safe-keeping. Wouldn’t mind, but the age he spends cleaning it for him. Almond oil and cork grease, they don’t come cheap. No cop-on, that boy. Got a load of almond oil in when he joined the band, thinking he’d let on to his schoolfellows where to buy it local. Shy of his shadow. Gave up in the end sending him down with the tins. Would weary you, the mortification on his face. Gathering dust now, along with everything else in the shop that can’t be sold be ha’pennies.
He watched the boys as they made their farewells. Palled up great so they have. Those chats you have in the green of youth. All the time in the world and all the plans to make for it. But little the future is in it. No friendship without your equals. They learnt me that in the army. And Jim’s a college boy now. Jim. My son James.
He had backed into a doorway not to be seen. Now he found himself reading the poster in the window. An Inquiry From the Front, the banner said. Inside a giant question-mark, a soldier asked: When are the other boys coming?
His hand went to his mustache, explored the comb of its hairs.
Now that’s the damnedest thing. See here his cap badge? That’s the Leinster Regiment, that is. The 109th Foot as was, the old Brass Heads. But look at this, would you. If them buttons isn’t pewter on his tunic, I’m a grenadier. Class of thoolamawn they have doing these posters. Any wonder there’s no rush to enlist. Sure any guffoon’d tell you, the Leinster Regiment has brass for its buttons and always has since 1858.
And would you look-see here. This poster’s not up to scratch at all. Coming away at the edge already. Some young tearaway now, who knows but he has a sup taken, and he’s wending his way merrily along. He sees this corner fluttering in the wind, what care he if ’tis Government property? No sooner seen than done, his hand goes out and bang! Out comes the constable, the boy’s before the beak, and there’s another young life broken. No wonder there’s posters gets defaced. Very sloppy work altogether. Asking for trouble, so it is.
If I could maybe—all it needs is a drop of wet behind—if I could pull it back a touch more, get my finger in. Lick of spit and the job’s good as new. Let me see now. Gently does it.
Cheese and crusts, would you look at that. Hames I’ve made of it now. Whacking great strip come off in me hands. Must be mighty inferior paper they use. Should write that down and send it in. A better class of paper and the posters might stay longer up.
He felt the hand upon his shoulder. He turned and saw the dark blue cape. “Good evening, Constable,” said Mr. Mack.
All along the road to Kingstown, over the bridge and past the railway station, all along the shuttering shops of George’s Street lower, then the parade of doctors’ and dentists’ and lawyers’, on their easy tramp through the fashionable township, Mr. Mack tipped his hat to all he passed. In a low voice he explained, over and over again, that the glue-merchants and paper-manufacturers were all to blame and truth be told were in league with the Kaiser. Till, with a sense almost of surprise, they entered the doors of the police station and the desk sergeant said, “Well?”
“Posters,” said the constable.
“If you’ll allow me explain,” began Mr. Mack.
“Red-handed?” asked the sergeant.
The constable waved the torn strip. “Scarlet at it.”
CHAPTER FIVE