At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [47]
“I’m turned sixteen.”
A cheek dimpled in calculation. “Show me up them candles like a good boy. I was older than you at your age.”
“Da, it’s about socialism.”
“Socialism?”
“It’s been on my mind to know what it is.”
“Socialism is it?” He was putting the new candles at the back and bringing the old ones forward. He had already dusted the old ones and now, truth to tell, it was hard knowing the other from which. “Did you hand me up them dips like I told you?”
“You stacked them sure.”
“Are you holding on to that steps?”
“Da, it’s all right if you wouldn’t know.”
“Wouldn’t know what?” he said, climbing down. “Ho ho ho, running away with ourself now. Not that I wouldn’t know at all. Wouldn’t know where to begin is all. Socialism, well well.” He rubbed his hands. “What it is primarily is, what it is is wrong.”
“But why’s it wrong?”
“Do they not teach you these things at the college?”
“No.”
“Well it’s, basically it’s, what it is is greed. Oh yes, there’s greed there. Greed and envy. A heap of envy involved. Then there’s pride. Greed, envy, pride—sloth. Sloth there, too. Oh, all the sins. Every man-jack of them. The entire boiling, the hopping-pot, the whole kit and caboodle. I know what it is,” he added wisely. “You was listening to the sermon last Sunday. Well, ’twas all there. Three-quarters an hour the father spoke on the subject and you can’t ask fairer than that.”
“But what does it stand for?”
“It stands for what’s wrong, isn’t that plain as your nose?”
He pulled out the till drawer. “What did I tell you? Herself is going dark as well as cranky. Coins all over the place, in the wrong place, you’d be all day grubbing for the correct change.”
With delighted hands he set about the till’s rearrangement. “Socialism means Larkinism and Larkinism means all ballyhooly let loose. Do you not remember them strikes we had and oratating in the street? Bully-boy tactics is all them fellows knows. And trying to send poor Catholic children to Protestant homes in England? That was beyond the beyonds.”
“Only so’s they’d be fed.”
“What’s that?”
“They had no food, Da. The children didn’t.”
“If they had no food why wouldn’t they go back to work? Stands to reason.”
“They were locked out sure.”
“Who told you that?”
“The employers locked them out so’s to starve them into lower wages.”
“Who’s this been spreading notions?”
“It’s well known.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Doyler told me.”
The till slammed home. “Now, lookat here, young fellow-me-lad. Amn’t I in trouble enough without you palling up with agitating corner boys? Is it him spreading them notions in you? Lord save us, you haven’t the sense you was born with. I’m your father. Your father’s in peril of a prison term. Your father’s name is muck in the street. My name is in the paper sure. Piece of blackguardism in letters high as your hand. That’s talking about your father, that is. And you want to be trumpeting Larkinism? This is where you want it.”
He tapped his son’s head, not intending to strike, but the tap in the event came out a blow. The lad recoiled. “That’s where you want it,” he said. Consistency required he drive the blow home. “And that’s where you’ll get it if I hear another word.”
“I only wanted to know.”
“You’ll know better in future.” The hunted look on the childlike face had him wavering toward conciliation. But the boy had no call to look hunted. The boy had no call to vex him so. “What are you standing for? Haven’t you sweeping to do?”
His fingers agitated the thighs of his trousers. If he stopped any longer he’d know to clatter that look off the boy’s face. He went to the door. “And you can take that flute back to him and all. Aye aye, you needn’t look so startled. Think I’m green as I’m cabbage-looking. Cork grease and almond oil. I don’t know where you gets it at all. Let you earn your living for once. Let you have that floor spotless by the time I have my sup of tea. Cut of this shop. ’Tis muck to the street so it is.”
He thrust into the kitchen, staying the door at