At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [91]
It felt a punishment in some way, and Jim asked, “Is it to play with Mr. MacMurrough?”
“What’d you say?”
“To play flute with Mr. MacMurrough.”
“What’re you allegating now?”
“Nothing,” said Jim. “Nothing. He’s your friend, I thought.”
“What d’you mean by that?”
“Only I thought he’s your friend.”
“How dare you. How dare you. To me face and all.” He was looking blue murder.
“I didn’t know,” said Jim. “Only I thought—”
“Did you know me ma does their washing?”
“Oh.” There was no sense to any of this, but Jim just wanted it to be all right. “It’s all right, Doyler.” He nodded his head, nodding agreement, conciliation, anything at all.
“She washes their sheets for them.”
“All right.”
“I only found out. She washes his sheets, she does. You follow me?”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You’re no more than a kid, Jim Mack. You don’t follow nothing.”
He was aware of a great misunderstanding between them. It was not his college cap and it was not the policemen. It was not the mother having to take in washing. Why had he done that with Doyler’s arm? Shrugging it away as if it was nothing to him. All that day if another touched him or bumped into him he was wildly angered. His father laughed, saying how precious he was become. And he was precious, too, and it was fanciful to imagine he would ever swim well, let alone against the stream to the Muglins.
Lonesome look of him, all down the dumps, young Doyler Doyle retires to the Banks. Depend on it, the country is a wholesome place but already that flush is fading. Would do that for you, the Banks, so it would. Soon enough now our Doyler’ll be down with the odds and sods of the rest of them.
Mr. Mack frowned. Go bail now, he’s been up the shop all evening. Hanging about the till. Hop and go lightly.
Goes swimming with my son. Jim, my son James. Learning him the crawl. A new stroke, he calls it, but there’s nothing new about the crawl. That’s only the old trudgen dressed up with a modern name. I swam the trudgen myself down the Cape. In the Indian Ocean I swam it. Beat that, young larrikin.
A horror returned of a dark morning and the grey sea. The boy’s body they found on the rocks. The people shake their heads and usher the man away. You must be brave, they tell him.
Sure, why would I mind if my son goes swimming? Power of good in the sea. He sucked his cheek, chewed what he found. The way I’d have any say in the matter. Crossed the road.
Lone nipper now with his sheaf of final Mail s. Mr. Mack stopped. “What’s the latest?” he asked.
“Munittens,” said the boy.
“Munitions,” Mr. Mack corrected. He already had an afternoon edition but he toyed with the idea of purchasing another for no better reason than the boy would be earlier to bed this night. “There’s a deal of shortage there,” he said by way of conversation.
The boy screwed his face, eyeing him cautiously. He leaned closer and on his tippy-toes he asked, “Is it you is the General?”
“Well, I have the general stores above.”
“Is it you is the General of the Fenians?”
“What’s this?”
“The da has you for the General of the Fenians. The A1 of Glasthule parish.”
“Why—where would he get such nonsense?”
“Wasn’t it you the man tore down the British posters?”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“Wasn’t it you got ’rested for patriotic singing?”
“That was only the flute band marching.”
“Outside where the Orangemen was giving a Godsave?”
“I had no notion the Protestants was—” But Mr. Mack took hold himself. He had not this minute left St. Joseph’s sacristy, where his views had been sought on scapulars—their trade, retail and donative values—to chop logic with newsboys in the street. “Enough of that,” he said. “I have never in my life heard such old-fashioned sauce.”
“But you know what, mister?”
Again the boy inclined his head, sending Mr. Mack his baleful halitosis. “Well?”
“I amn’t much, but I’m ready whenever. Me and me pals is with you. Only say the word and we’re out, Mr. Mack. A Nation Once Again.”
Mr. Mack viewed the nearly four feet of him. Bootless gurrier