At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [5]
She looked thoughtful a moment. “I misrecall your name being spoke, but there was mention of some fellow might be bringing socks. I was to dump them in the scullery and give him sixpence out of thank you.”
After the huffing and puffing and wagging his finger, in the end he had to let his parcel into her shiftless hands. She knew better by then to bring up the sixpence. He had tipped his scant farewell and was re-ascending the steps when she let out, “Still and all, Mr. Mack, it’s the desperate shame you wouldn’t know where your ownest son was stationed at.”
“A shame we all must put up with.”
“Sure wherever it is, he’ll be cutting a fine dash of a thing, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Slavey, he thought, proper name for a rough general. “Don’t let me disturb you further from your duty.”
“Good day, Mr. Mack. But remember now: all love does ever rightly show humanity our tenderness.”
All love does what? Foolish gigglepot. Should have told her, should have said, he’s gone to fight for King and Country and the rights of Catholic Belgium. Cutting a dash is for rakes and dandyprats. All love does ever what?
He sloped back down the road to Glasthule, his heart falling with the declining properties. Could that be true about the sixpence? It was a puzzle to know with rich folk. Maybe I might have held on to the stockings and fetched them over another day. Nothing like a face-to-face in getting to know the worth of a man. Or maybe the lady supposed I’d be too busy myself, would send a boy instead. Jim. She thought it was Jim I’d be sending. Jim, my son James. The sixpence was his consideration. Now that was mighty generous in Madame MacMurrough. Sixpence for that spit of a walk? There’s the gentry for you now. That shows the quality.
Quick look-see in the hand-me-down window. Now that’s new. Must tell Jim about that. A flute in Ducie’s window. Second thoughts, steer clear. Trouble enough with Gordie and the pledgeshop.
Brewery men at Fennelly’s. Mighty clatter they make. On purpose much of the time. Advertise their presence. Fine old Clydesdale eating at his bait-sack. They look after them well, give them that. Now here’s a wonder—paper stand deserted. Crowd of loafers holding up the corner.
A nipper-squeak across the road and his heart lifted for it was the boy out of the ironmonger’s to say the tram had passed, package ready for collection. He took the delivery, signed the entry-book, patting the boy’s head in lieu of gratuity, recrossed the street.
He was turning for home into Adelaide Road, named after—who’s this it’s named for again?—when Fennelly’s corner doors burst open and a ree-raw jollity spilt out in the street. “Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,” they were singing. Except in their particular rendition it was socks she was knitting.
“Quare fine day,” said one of the loafers outside. Another had the neck to call out Mr. Mack’s name.
Mr. Mack’s forefinger lifted vaguely hatwards. Corner of his eye he saw others making mouths at him. Loafers, chancers, shapers. Where were the authorities at all that they wouldn’t take them in charge? Fennelly had no license for singing. And the Angelus bell not rung.
Package safe? Under me arm. Chickens clucking in the yards, three dogs mooching. What they need do, you see, is raise the dog license. That would put a stop to all this mooching. Raise the excise while they’re about it. Dung in the street and wisps of hay, sparrows everywhere in the quiet way.
The shop was on a corner of a lane that led to a row of humbler dwellings. He armed himself with a breath. The bell clinked when he pushed the door.
Incorrect to say a hush fell on the premises. They always spoke in whispers, Aunt Sawney and her guests. There she sat, behind the counter, Mrs. Tansy sat on the customers’ chair, they had another fetched in from the kitchen for Mrs. Rourke. Now if a customer came, he’d be hard put to make it to the till. Gloomy too. Why wouldn’t she leave the door wide? Gas only made it pokier in the daylight. Which