At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [83]
“Ready enough.”
“You want to try a kick in your legs this time.”
To this Jim did object. “Sure you never kick.”
“See me kicking and ’tis round in circles I go. But give a kick yourself. Don’t break the surface, mind. You’ll find you get the pull of a push off it. Are we straight so? Great guns you’re going.”
And Jim was back inside the water, where his thoughts tumbled in the spill.
He had feared he might grow used to the mornings, but over the weeks the adventure had not diminished. First thing on waking, he moved the blind to test the sky. Not that it made any difference what weather it was. A spat handshake was copper-bottomed. He had told his father that and his father had to agree. “Though ’tis a shame you wouldn’t ask at home before entering into commitments.” All the same it was better if the day promised bright. Better on the raft or after their swim when they would dry in the sun; for swimming it made no difference. The sea was a freezer, rain or shine.
He skipped breakfast for fear of the cramps, only he brought bread to share afterwards. Jitter bread, Doyler called it, for it stopped the teeth from chattering. Doyler would fetch an onion out of his pocket that he rubbed along the surface. “There’s relish for you.”
Jim was always early at the Forty Foot and he waited outside the entrance whilst the regulars came past. The regulars were all sorts, Protestant and Catholic, clerks and clerics, all kinds of accents you’d hear. At first he tried to look inconspicuous, like he hadn’t a friend to be waiting for, and if a friend arrived it was only the off-chance they thought to go swimming. But these men soon grew accustomed to him. “Begod ’tis fresh this morning,” they’d say coming out. It surprised him how open they were, that they wouldn’t mind him intruding on their spot. “He’s behind himself this morning—no, speak of the devil, hopping along the front there.” A cheery wave the regulars would give and Doyler waved in return. “Sure we’re regulars ourself now,” he said.
And down they’d descend the winders into the gentlemen’s bathing-place, still raw and long-shadowed. A quick strip and a mad dash to the water. That instant before he jumped when he did not quite believe he would dare. Water up his nose, sensation close to nausea, and the swell all round, till he rose with his bubbles to the surface. The crazy wafting horizons, the floundering rocks. That marbly numbness below and the way his thing floated free, near alive in the water. It was special to swim naked. The way nature intended, so Doyler claimed. Nobody minded at the Forty Foot, though in the day you was supposed to wear costumes. Then off to the raft and Doyler saying, Great guns you’re going, as beside and a little behind his smooth and inconsistent form made its kickless stroke.
Jim’s father had changed his mind about Doyler. Doyler wasn’t a bad hat after all. Doyler was a bit of a black diamond in fact. “You might stick in with that one. The new father has a great wish for him. See if you can’t pick up any of the Erse while you’re at it. Mighty fond of his dee gits is our new father.”
Father O’Táighléir seemed everywhere at once. If he wasn’t opening a new class he was raising subscriptions for one. He had the Gaelic League in the parish hall, and Miss Biggs the newsagent, though a notorious Orangewoman, did a power of trade in the thin little O’Growney primers. To the envy of Jim’s father, who searched his head for something Irish a general stores might sell. Language classes, singing-classes, dancing-classes (no skipping, no battering, girls Friday, boys Saturday). The curate had his eye on a plot of the Castlepark Fields where hurling and Gaelic football would be played. In the meantime collections were made for jerseys and boots, hurleys and balls. In the court outside the parish church he had the Irish Volunteers out of Dalkey parade, and they marched up and down each Sunday after Men’s Mass. His influence pervaded where his presence