At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [92]
Mr. Mack stared after. The scrawl of him to give such scandal. He stroked his mustache, attempting to trace in its hairs the series of events that had led to his being the darling of newsboys. Sclanderous. And all I had wanted was a little respectability.
He came to the shop, but before he would clink the bell he looked in through the window. There he was, nose dug in a book, hand on the counter with cloth at the ready. Mr. Mack pushed the door, the door clinked, the hand was set in motion. “I see you have that counter nicely polished,” he said.
“I was only—”
“Never mind your only.” He took off his jacket. “Is your Aunt Sawney inside?”
“She was at her beads.”
“You might fix a cup of cocoa for her.”
“We’re out of cocoa but.”
“Take some from the shelf, can’t you? No no no, the shell cocoa. Are we made of money? In the book, now. How am I supposed to keep tabs if you won’t write it down?” He watched the boy jot the item in his careful, elegant and not altogether satisfactory hand. “Have a cup yourself while you’re about it.”
“Do you want some, Da?”
“Oh sure, if you’re making it, why not? Go on with you so. Make it with milk sure. We’re not in the poorhouse yet.”
He sat down behind the counter. Let me see, let me see. His fingers tapped on the greasy till. It was beyond him why he stayed open these hours. Mug’s game for the most part. Irrah, what option would a man have? Inside at the range with herself at her cuts. Direct, indirect, cuts sublime and infernal. Sclanderous altogether.
What was he about at all, he didn’t know. In his mind’s eye he saw the curate and the queer twistical look he’d have. And if ever you raised a kick, might just be you said yea or nay the wrong tone of voice, the screw he’d give out at you. And the coins jingling in his pocket like tuppences would rattle in the collection box.
Where was he going and where would it take him? He did not know. Looking down he saw on the shelf below a stocking he had started how many weeks back. The needles were still attached. Hadn’t found the time since. Footless stocking with a hole in it. What the Connacht men shot at. Nothing.
But there was small use complaining, you got nothing for it. And the father says if ’tis a fine I get, they’ll raise another subscription. Can’t ask fairer than that.
He looked about the shop. What about them dips? Did he dust them dips like I told him to? Heck as like. Talking to meself. He took out the steps and was busy with the top shelf when his son returned. “Did you fix that cocoa?”
“I have it here.”
“Hold on to them steps while I see to these dips.”
“I already done them, Da.”
“You did?” He felt angered by the boy, he could not tell why. Climbing down again, he said, “Wouldn’t you think to do something proper for once? Just once in your life to have a job done well and the next fellow comes along will see ’tis so.” He took the cocoa. “Is she asleep inside?”
“Yes.”
“We might risk a heat from the range so.” He had been saving it for a treat for God knows when, but the cast of the boy was so weeshy-deeshy, he decided to let on immediately. “We had a missive in the late post.”
“From Gordie?”
“’Tis on the shelf.”
While his son raced through the letter, Mr. Mack recounted the news. “Reviewed by the King, no less. Their Majesties King George and Queen Mary, no less. Royal salute, followed by a march-past. Entire division in column of platoons. Band playing the music. Duty band that didn’t have the scores for the Irish regiments. Had to be playing at the British Grenadiers. With a tow-row-row for the British Grenadiers. The Grinning Dears, we used call them. They didn’t like