At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [57]
“At school they take us—”
“I don’t mean the baths, I mean with a pal. For a lark like.”
Songbird that sings on the high wing. Exaltation the collective noun. Jim looked straight in the laky black eyes. “I don’t suppose I ever had much of a friend.”
Doyler’s brow creased, like ripples in a sand. “You’re a queer one, Jim Mack, I don’t mind me saying. Get on out of your shirt and let’s get busy.”
When he pulled up his shirt, there was Doyler’s face, tunnelled by the collar, then the white cloth seeming never-ending till its tail slipped over his head, and Doyler’s face again, a lop-sided grin, appraising him. He’d be all right if Doyler wouldn’t be watching the while.
“You know, you don’t look half so scrawny in your pelt. Couple of mornings here and we’ll soon have you in sorts.”
Somewhere in the heat Jim perceived a smile brought out of him.
“And don’t mind about your lad below. That’s only the nerves makes him poke up. Nothing to be shy about. Can you jump in?”
“If I hold my nose.”
“Be sure, now, it’s your nose you hold.” On the bold grin, he grabbed Jim’s wrist. “Steady—go!”
They raced to the ledge, Doyler letting out his yahoo of a yell. Father, Son, the Holy Ghost: Jim lifted, dropped, splattered.
A freezer of a sea, punching the breath from out of him. Ears filled with the roaring quiet. Falling like in sleep, in green and opaque dream. Then the pumping in his ears grew fierce and the lungs were like a paper bag you could bang with a clap, and he fluttered his hands to begin the ascent, unintentionally frantically by the end. At last he broke surface and dear joy! there really is air. A hand slaps on his shoulder and up pops Doyler. “What cheer, eh?” says he.
The weight sent Jim under again and he came up spluttering foam and thrashing.
“Are you trying to run a footrace or what? That’s no way to tread water. Look at here, go slow, be easy.”
“I don’t know,” said Jim, “I don’t know to—”
“Bicycle steady like,” said Doyler, demonstrating. “You’ll be pumped before we’re started else.”
Jim was going to say something but a wave came and found his mouth. He was coughing and sinking and suddenly an arm had caught him under the shoulders, guided him to the iron ladder up. “You all right?”
“Fine. I swallowed some water is all.”
Doyler frowned. “You sure about this?”
“Honest, I’m grand.”
The water trickled in and out of Doyler’s mouth. He looked uneasy and Jim didn’t wish to be the cause of this coddling.
“See the raft beyond?”Fifty yards out a platform was moored. “Calm now and slow, any old stroke you know, do you think you can make that?”
“I can try.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Doyler. “You’re a plucky devil, I’d say.”
“Plucky?”
“Them times in the Kingstown Baths. Was you ever out of your depth?”
“Once or twice.”
A wry look. “Once, maybe.”
“By mistake, actually.”
“Mary and Joseph, no shortage of guts in this skinamalink. And you after leaping in like it was no bother on you.”
He would have swum to Howth and back, and drownded twice, to bask in such praise. “Are we straight so?” he asked.
Doyler laughed and splashed a hand through a wave. “Straight as a rush,” he answered.
It was actually easier outside of the cove. The waves were against him but consistently so, rather than bobbing round bewilderingly. His instinct was to exert his strength, push to the limit, but he heard Doyler’s voice calling, “Steady on, be easy,” and felt his calm purposeful foamless form at his side. It was a punisher all right, and he was knocked up by the time he gripped the looping rope of the raft. But it was grand to look back on the undulant sea and trace the progress of his triumph.
“Pooped?”
“Destroyed.”
“Rest a while. There’s no hurry.”
Doyler climbed on the raft, sending it seesawing up and down, and sat with his arms about his knees. Water spilt from him, tracing the hairs of his legs, puddling on to the planks. On his chest a medal caught the sunlight as he heaved. Steam rose from his shoulders.
“Hand up?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Jim pulled himself up and sat beside, gazing