At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [44]
She was sure she had never known so obliging a tongue.
The priest returned his spectacles, resat, spilling the merest skim of tea. “Already the boys are wearing them. I fear, however, the man in charge is not of our timber. A weak character of intemperate habit, unsuited to the charge of boys.”
“A Presentation brother, I believe.”
“There is the smell of drink off him. Worse even, he is Englified beyond redemption. All I had requested was a simple Irish tune. He had them play the Saxon anthem.”
“Oh lah,” said Eveline.
“Alas, it is the nature of these Presentationers. What are they but trumped-up Christian Brothers? The Christian Brothers have the virtue at least of knowing their place in a parish. But these shoneen men of Presentation are Englified to the core, if such could be said to have a core. Rugby they play and cricket in season: a college for Castle Catholics is all it is. And this flute band he gives. What does he teach only bits out of old operas, The Magic Flute even, that monstrous farrago of masonic falsehood.”
“Oh lah,” she repeated, but she was thinking of her nephew. There were strings connecting that troublesome boy with the instrument in question. Had he not played flute as a child? She recalled a silver article that came with his luggage from England.
“However, the bird that can sing but won’t must be made sing.” The curate scoured his hands. With devious jerks of his head he proceeded. “There is a Gaelic-speaking lad in the parish. A poor boy who came looking to me for an introduction for work. Well, I introduced him to the band for good measure. In consequence, that band is the legitimate concern of the parish clergy. We have, so to speak, our ticket of entry.”
“Bravo, Father.”
“It will be no simple contrivance to prise the brother away. They can be stubborn, these modern orders. In the meantime, we must be upon the look-out for his replacement. He need not be any tremendous musician, provided only he be amenable to our aims.”
“I wonder,” Eveline began, but she trailed off, seeking in her mind the passages her wonder should take her. This coincidence of the flute and her nephew: mightn’t two birds be made sing with the one stone? If she might show her nephew to public advantage. A garden party perhaps. Select gathering of advanced opinion. The local youth he leads in song. This is my nephew, whom the English have traduced. With prudent handling, he might, God help us, be regarded a catch.
It did not present a very likely prospect. Troublesome boy, where was he, anyhow? Bathing at the Forty Foot, if she was not deceived.
The priest cocked a kindly query. “Madame?”
“I was wondering where we should find such a person.”
“We must be vigilant. I am thinking also of a military man who might drill the boys in marching. There is nothing to stir the patriotic heart as young men who march in step.”
A military man, a type of sergeant-major or chef de fanfare. No, she was the commandant, marching at the head of her heroes. “Let vigilance be our watch-word.”
“It is not that the parish lacks spirit, Madame MacMurrough. In every street, the deceptions of our oppressors are confronted, defied, deposed. It is a tremendous sight to see.”
“In Glasthule?”
“I refer to the torn recruitment posters. But these hidden hands are profitless without we make a public display. Particularly now that, thanks to your good self, the boys have kilts to parade in. And in regard to those self-same vestments, if I might once more impose”—unhooking his spectacles and obtruding them in the air so that four eyes now poked at her, and again rising from his seat—“Go raibh maith agat.” Spectacled, sinking once more, he added, “If there is any way, any thing at all you can think of—”
“Well, perhaps—”
“Any little thing whatever we can do to show our appreciation—”
“I had thought of a little . . . a fête champ