At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [52]
Politics was always a puzzle but now there were new ingredients to bother the brew: the working man and Gaelic-talking priests and the Red Hand badge that Doyler hid inside his lapel.
“I believe Brother Polycarp thought you were to do with the new father,” Jim ventured after a while. “I think that’s what got his rag out so.”
“Me with the priest? Codding me.”
“Speaking Gaelic and all that.”
“Where was the priests when we called on them? Where was the priests when they locked out the workers? At the pulpit is where, damning to hell the working man. They have a saying down Clare way, the four cautions: Beware a woman in front of you, beware a horse behind of you, beware a cart beside of you, and beware a priest every which way.” He turned his head on the stone and looked cheekily out from under his cap. “Am I wicked or what?”
“I don’t know what you are,” Jim answered, for he hadn’t the heart to let on he wasn’t near so scandalous as the Reverend Brother Polycarp in his cups.
“Past praying for, anyways.”
And even that was not quite so, for though he gave no names Jim made a prayer at night for the blessing of friends, as told in the Dominican tract he had kept, that they might be granted to meet in the joy of that everlasting home, amen.
“I can’t delay long tonight,” Jim said.
“The da, is it?”
“He’s on the rare old ree-raw at home.”
“Hold on a short while. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Well?”
“You’ll see.”
On a sudden notion Jim asked, “What would you think would leave you insane?”
Doyler pulled a face. “Is it a riddle or something?”
“I don’t think so.” Jim considered the question. Something would leave you insane. The urge to something. Only a prayer would stop it. You’d have to sleep with your hands like so. A prayer to Our Lady.
A shudder passed through him and the muscles of his stomach clenched. But no, it was not that thing. He had thought a moment back in the shop it might be that thing. But no, it could never be. A father wouldn’t ever remark such a thing to his son. It was insane considering it even.
“I have it,” said Doyler. “Your da. Sure he’d have anyone away with the fairies.” There was truth in that, whatever. “How’s he bearing up anyways?”
“Fit to be tied still.”
“They had a bad right to nab him that way. And the paper and all. Thought I’d die reading it.”
“He’s to see the canon on Sunday.”
“Sound move. Priest is a good friend at court. How’s he to plead, does he know yet?”
“They say to switch to guilty and have done.”
“And will he?”
“I don’t know. He’s been on the perpetual polishing his medals ever since.”
His poor da. He did not think he would ever live it down, the shame of his name in the paper. Of course it was the sport of the parish. Rumor soon had him flootered to the eyeballs, cursing melia murder and clawing at posters till his nails were raw and his fingers raddled with blood. Six peelers it took and a superintendent to hold him down, frog’s march to the station and him bawling roaratorious and abusing the poor polis, seed, breed and generation of them, for Castle whores as sold their soul to England.
“He’ll be fine,” said Doyler, “depend on it. Your da is known for a Britisher true and blue. No one’d credit he was ripping at posters.”
He should not have provoked his father that way. It was unfair provoking him with the court hanging over. Would he truly have belted him, Jim wondered. It was a long time since his father had chastised