At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [77]
The girl came to take his order. “Sticky buns and a pot of tea,” she repeated. “Are you here on your furlough, sir?”
MacMurrough nodded.
—She takes me for an officer.
—Naturally. Your upright bearing and eleven-a-side mustache.
A laughter rose from a party two tables away. Fashionable eyes wreathed in glee. He edged his chair so that he no longer faced them. I don’t feel very upright, he said.
He took out his case but, choosing a cigarette, he saw the calluses on his hands. Cuticle: such a dainty word for shredded skin, blisters. Hello, dear, have we been picking oakum lately? He felt his hands retreat up their sleeves.
—A course of manicure, suggested Scrotes.
—And the earth returns to its orbit.
The strains of the band carried through the garden doors. MacMurrough read the program. In tribute to our new and glorious allies, an admired selection of Italian overtures. At the bottom, it informed, The members of this band have been exempted from Military Service. He saw now that the saloon and terraces were dotted with khaki.
One of these khakis, a young lieutenant, was shown to the table opposite. He nodded to MacMurrough, who nodded back. Blond mop atop a gentle high-colored face. Tennis sort of build. He caught MacMurrough watching and smiled, playing with his swagger-stick on the table. MacMurrough raised an eyebrow in return. Barely out of school. Cadet corps and third fifteen. Would let you fuck but really he preferred to hold hands.
Which brought MacMurrough to old Brother Benedict. That last day they walked through the school cloisters while the other boys were at chapel. No alternative, immodest acts, influence on others, disappointment we all felt, shame your mother must feel, under the circumstances, consideration given to father’s position, your mother has begged, one last chance, if truly repentant, bright future ahead, knuckle down, I’m afraid not possible. Deo optimo maximo. Datur omnibus mori.
—Can’t help wondering if they get much, he said to Scrotes. Officers, I mean. Get to choose your batman. Clean hands and eager-to-please nature. Be like setting up house. Pull me off, Atkins, I’m feeling wotten weawy.
—I am happy to find you relax somewhat.
MacMurrough laughed and lit a cigarette, careless at last of his hands. You know, he said, I had a friend who was set to marry but they were in some terrible train disaster. He found himself in a hospital and the nurse told him his intended had died. He was devastated, of course, but devastated the more to find he was attracted to the nurse. Every time she passed he went stiff under the sheets. But dicks are like that. Callous they may be, but they never lie. He was alive. He had survived. His dick told him.
The girl came with the buns and tea. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s all.”
“I hope and you enjoy your holidays.”
“Yes,” said MacMurrough.
“Oh let me do that and your poor hands and all.” She poured the tea. “Is it home from the Front you are? Don’t mind me asking, sir, only I have a man in Flanders. Sure it’s never as bad as they say, sure it isn’t, sir?”
MacMurrough eyed the empty chair beside as if Scrotes might actually be found there. “No,” he answered. “It’s never so bad as they say.”
“Thank you, sir,” and she bobbed away.
—Worst of it is I should be an officer now. I mean, all one’s contemporaries are.
—You might still volunteer.
—You think they’d have me?
—One suspects the authorities have grown less particular of late.
—Well I haven’t. What do I care about this war? Whoever the victor, they’ll still despise me.
—It is not their despising that concerns us. It is your own.
—Why this harping on my despising myself, Scrotes? It really is tiresome in you.
—My friend, we wish to be rid of something. How to be rid without finding