At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [81]
Now she said, “My black-headed black-eyed boy. I remember every day of you. How would I forget?” She wiped her hands on her smock, greying the white with prints of wet. “Give Missy here to me now and let you get on with your day.” She crooked her elbow and the bundle fell home. In God’s pocket, they called that, snug inside of the shawl.
He said, “You was hurt me leaving.”
“I wasn’t laughing,” she told him.
The water sloshed and the washboard jolted. Only her arm was steady where Missy slept. He scratched his head, wishing now if he’d taken a rake to his hair. “What choice did I have?” he said. “It was all I could do to go to Clare.”
“It wasn’t you going to Clare upset me but the way you went at it. I was proud of your scholarship and so was himself.”
“Aye was he proud. And if he was, it was mighty curious pride.”
“That was his way, as well you knew. We would have the money been found but there was no waiting with you. You were away off without a look behind. You had the face of your father that day.”
Which father is that? He didn’t ask but he knew she read the question in his eyes.
“Wisha, you’re back now. For a time whatever.”
“For good, Ma.”
“For good or ill. Not but it’s done you well, I can see that, your stay away. But you weren’t sent, son. Don’t say you was sent.” She withdrew from the pump. “Let you have your wash now. The houses are rising and I have my load to finish.”
He took the handle and worked it hard, punishing his muscles. The water drew and still he pumped. “You know, Ma, I woke up thinking I was back on the island.”
“And did that take the temper off you?”
“Which temper is that?”
“You was murdering rough on himself last night. I heard him begging of you to hang his coat for him.”
“He was drunk at it. If you seen him in the street.”
“He’s outgrown his strength. But he’s no stranger yet.”
He splashed water on his face and shaking the wet from his hands he said, “You know what he says, don’t you, Ma? When he’s away on the tear with his butties. He says he saved you out of the workhouse. An opportunity wouldn’t pass but he gets in that cut. And he has worse than that to say.”
“I know what he says.”
“And do you mind him?”
“Sinn féin,” she said, “sinn féin anseo.”
Her wish for peace had her resort to her Irish. We’re ourselves here: no quarrels. “Do you know, Ma, you’re the true Sinn Feiner. The right patriot for peace, you are.”
She cocked her head at his humor. “In with you and shift your shirt. Leave that one out for me to wash it.”
“Ah, Ma, I’ve no call to be wearing a clean shirt to work. It doesn’t last two minutes on me.”
“You might take a leaf from himself inside. While you have it to wear, be thankful of a clean cloth to your back.”
“Have it to pawn is better.”
“Son—”
“Aye?”
“Come back to me now.” He came back and she said, “Don’t be bitter, son. There’s bitterness enough in the world.” She touched his chin as she spoke. The hard of her face was in the soda of her fingers. “I’ll be in to fix your bite to eat.”
“Ah no, Ma. Sure you have the seven cares of the mountain with them sheets. You’ll share a sup of tea?”
“Don’t wake himself.”
“Why would I do that?” He made tea and brought out two jars of it. He hunched beside her with a heel of a loaf that he dipped inside. “What house is it at all needs all them sheets?”
“Ballygihen House it is. Up Sandycove way.”
“Ballygihen?”
“They have any number of help and still they wouldn’t cope.”
“Not MacMurrough is it?”
“Miss MacMurrough,” she answered. “Spinster of the parish.”
In a confused way he watched the sheet she was scrubbing.
“The slavey says ’tis a nephew from England they have staying and he’s the jack and all for clean