At Swim, Two Boys Part 20

Then he fetched in the boy's mouth and prettily it dribbled till the boy swallowed, popping his apple. "Gluggary," said he, "like egg gone off."

That had made MacMurrough laugh. He might have sent him away then, in the decent obscurity of the dead of night. But his gameness was amusing and his smile beguiled that smelt of MacMurrough's comings. He stroked his skin while good-humoredly the boy defended his honor. 'Course I never done it before. Never said I liked it or not. Sure you's the one as asked me here. They talked till he nodded and his eyes closed on the pillow and MacMurrough had watched while the yawning curtains moved in the breeze.

-That blackguard would need a good thrashing, ordained the chaplain. And MacMurrough smiled when d.i.c.k volunteered his rod for the task.

s.c.r.o.t.es? Still no s.c.r.o.t.es.

The boy stirred and made grumpy moan. An arm shrugged the covers away. Poor lamb, said Nanny Tremble, he wouldn't be used to the woolly warmth.

MacMurrough ran his hand through the hair, which was scraggy from sea-water. A faint salt dusted his skin that he could feel when he stroked his neck. He smelt of sea-water too, and tasted of it, like an oyster in the mouth. Extraordinary eyes, MacMurrough recalled. No eyes are truly black, but this boy's seemed to be. Like rain on a laid road, rain on a road in the moonlight. Swimmer's body, tight, lithe, all of a piece. It really is the best exercise and might be encouraged more among the lower orders as it costs nothing and the effects are wholly benign. Listen to me, sounding off like the chaplain.

-But we must remember with the Keating's Powder, said Nanny Tremble; and MacMurrough sighed because this was very sound advice.

His hand, which had ranged over the boy's shoulders, traced now through its finger-tips the descent of his spine. And when it came to the flat bone that marked its end-Coccyx, said d.i.c.k; Os sacrum, said the chaplain-it splayed its five fingers and cupped the rounding cheeks of his b.u.m. Ripe fruity firm: the peach he had been so careful with last evening.

Funny how they all undress with their tail to you, saving till the last moment the flourish of their manhood. Comes as a shock to discover you're as keen on their behind as their front. Back-scuttler, b.u.m-jumper, a.r.s.e king, gentleman of the back door, s.h.i.t-hunter, gut-f.u.c.ker, stern-chaser who navigates the windward pa.s.sage: as though all their street expressions were ultimately without meaning for them.

How shy they go then, like a girl with her cherry, the boy with his peach. Buxom seat of unmanhood. Get thee before me, Satan.

Appropriately, it was MacMurrough's ring finger that crept into the crease now, discovering hair, a dampness, a hairyless wetness, dry spot; on to the perineum where a tiny pulse gave him to wonder was the boy awake. He worked his hand through the thighs, clutched in rather a how-are-ye way the tightening b.a.l.l.s till, proud as the morning, he found what he sought. Pulled once or twice, just to get the strength of it, then back through the plush and the silky skin to the stone-dry ring. In a bit. Knotted. A Mary-hole.

It would mean a further five bob, but he determined on b.u.g.g.e.ry.

He withdrew his hand from the parting-such sweet sorrow-spat on it, wet himself. He seized the boy's shoulder and as he turned him, mounted him. Not savagely, as d.i.c.k would have it, but with patient steady mastery so that Nanny Tremble need fear for neither's posterity.

The boy gasped and battled out of his fox-sleep, but by the time he had marshalled awareness of his surroundings the worst was done. Color washed from his cheeks and the eyes fixed in their corners, but the pain diminished as resistance fell. His gape unfroze and the fists unfroze that had gripped the sheet. The mouth puffed and little grunts came out, hardly of pleasure, but of pain contained.

It was safe now to leave d.i.c.k in charge and MacMurrough felt himself depart. In his mind he climbed spiral stone stairs till he entered a draughty turret room. s.c.r.o.t.es looked up from his text.

-I see you have taken to rape now.

-Is it rape? asked MacMurrough.

-Do you need to ask? Or do you need to be told?

As though from on high, MacMurrough viewed his work. He had tugged the boy sideways again and was fetching him off by hand. Clumsy motion that counter-rhymed with the mounting thrusts behind. The boy too had found an action of sorts and he was b.u.mping his bottom pudently along-more hindermate than help, for d.i.c.k went at it like a beast of the wild. At one point, his childlike hand reached behind and pressed the thigh he found. The touch shot a pang through MacMurrough. As though the boy would share what d.i.c.k knew might only be taken.

In boyish throes he spurted. MacMurrough would follow, but just as he did he leant over and kissed the boy's lips. It surprised that they parted and his unready tongue was met by another.

He slipped off the boy and collapsed on his back. His head fell on the pillow and, sinking through the down, he heard the pounding of his heart; and every pound was a footstep, as down the iron-railed hall the warder clanged, calling out the numbers of the cells and the cell doors slammed as he called them rebounding, and the bawling and banging and hounding steps came closer till his door was resoundingly next.

-C.3.4, called the warder.

Slam. This cannot be. Prison. But it is.

Songbirds released him. Ballygihen, smell of lawns and the sea. He forced his eyes to open. His breath returned and the pounding ceased. Sandycovely safe.

He needed a cigarette then, and he got up to find his carton. He drew on the darkly fragrant Abdulla. At the open window he watched the sea and he saw himself a snail at its sh.o.r.e who carries not his home but his prison with him. They only let you out: they never let you go.

"Who's s.c.r.o.t.es?" said the boy, watching him.

"s.c.r.o.t.es?"

"You was calling him out."

"When?"

"Just then, while you was . . ."

"Really?" You hear that, s.c.r.o.t.es? I call out your name. In the throes of my pa.s.sion I call for you. You hear that, s.c.r.o.t.es? I call out your name. In the throes of my pa.s.sion I call for you.

"Friend, is it?"

MacMurrough flicked the match with his nail on its tip, flipped it in the grate. "Someone I used to know. Dead now." Hear that, s.c.r.o.t.es? You're dead. Hear that, s.c.r.o.t.es? You're dead.

Distantly he heard the rustle of sere pages.

He pulled on his drawers, sat down on the bed. "Are you recovered?"

"I won't be sitting cosy for a while."

"Rather a rude awakening, I suppose." Though he looked comfortable enough. Hands behind his head, showing mohairs under the arms. Less boyish now, as if a d.i.c.k up the a.r.s.e really could make a man of you. Rather pleased with himself, actually. Suppose it is a hurdle to be over. Accomplished without need of decision. Put like that, I've done him a favor. Your honor, I was asleep at the time. Something else too. When you use them for pleasure they're more at home in the big house. Breaks the ice, so to speak. Though he looked comfortable enough. Hands behind his head, showing mohairs under the arms. Less boyish now, as if a d.i.c.k up the a.r.s.e really could make a man of you. Rather pleased with himself, actually. Suppose it is a hurdle to be over. Accomplished without need of decision. Put like that, I've done him a favor. Your honor, I was asleep at the time. Something else too. When you use them for pleasure they're more at home in the big house. Breaks the ice, so to speak.

He touched the depression of the boy's chest, running his finger through half a dozen fledgling hairs to a leather string where clung a cheap tin medal.

"Stay the night, says you. Promise I won't jump you."

"Hard to resist when you turn your back like that."

The boy shifted his legs. "'S all right anyway. Don't be sitting much in my line of work."

A bitter tone which reminded MacMurrough of their first meeting at the Forty Foot. He came from the latrine with his dress unadjusted. In a casual way MacMurrough said, "Do you need any help with that?" The boy shrugged. "They works me like a horse. Might as well hang out like one." At the time, he'd taken it for no more than a chase-me. Not so sure now. Chip on his shoulder. My proud Hibernian boy.

"Seems early yet. What time is it at all?"

MacMurrough leant over for his wrist-watch.

-He will have that item, warned the chaplain. If we are not vigilant, he will.

-Ah no, said Nanny Tremble, and he looks such a nice young man.

-He is not nice nor honest, the chaplain retorted, who will permit what that vulgarian has submitted to.

"Four," said MacMurrough. "Twenty after. Rotten bind, I know, but I'm afraid . . ."

Moments later the boy was at the washstand soaping himself. How it gladdened Nanny Tremble's heart to find him so mindful of the daily rinse. Today he would shovel s.h.i.t smelling of violette de Parme. violette de Parme. Skin flowed translucently over ribs as he stretched to pull on his trousers. Nacreous or in some way like the sea, rippled. Each bone was defined, perhaps a touch too defined. Skin flowed translucently over ribs as he stretched to pull on his trousers. Nacreous or in some way like the sea, rippled. Each bone was defined, perhaps a touch too defined.

-Oh, and he was so hungry last evening, said Nanny Tremble. Remember and he sent you down for the cold meats? We thought he'd never have his nough. But you can never give a boy too much to eat.

-And he lapped up all his milk, added d.i.c.k, stirring in his drawers.

No sign of injury though the limp is there. And that, too, had attracted at the Forty Foot. Youth, poverty, minor impairment: had a lot in his favor. Walked along the sea-wall with him that first time, tried to interest him in diving. Well, anything to keep a conversation up. Knowing grin he had. Convinced all along he was fly to the game. Tossed him a coin. The magic effect of half a crown, deposit on a bit of brown.

Found him that night outside the hand-me-down shop. I remember geese barking in the yards while we chatted on the sea-steps. I bent down and took him in my mouth.

Afterwards he had bread which he was happy to share. Boland's. They don't use foreign flour, he chose to tell me. I paid him, the full pledge, his flute for his flute. His smile was collusive then. And I thought of those lines from Blake: Stolen joys are sweet, and bread eaten in secret pleasant.

And very pleasant it has been. He found his notecase. "I hope you don't mind paper," he said, "as I haven't sufficient coin."

The boy took the red ten-shilling note. A week's, two weeks' wages, MacMurrough calculated. Not so very long ago and the least smile should have earned a sovereign. He watched him read the note like a morning paper, turn it over and read the back page. Soap shone on his face, and he gave his regular G.o.dless oath.

"Mary and Joseph, are you always so free with your bunce?"

"It wouldn't do to defraud a laborer of his wages," MacMurrough responded and kissed his forehead. "That sin cries to heaven for vengeance."

"You're a regular pagan," said the boy.

"You're not so bad yourself."

He took him down the backstairs to the kitchen where no one yet stirred though MacMurrough knew the girl, and most probably Cook too, and whoever else in the turnover of staff, would be ears against the walls. He opened the kitchen door and paced up the area steps, suppressing in the open an urge to sneak. The boy felt this, for he asked, "Are you never worried you'll be catched?"

-We will be caught, said the chaplain. We will go down for habitual degenerates and it will be that young blackguard's blame.

MacMurrough said, "Actually, I was caught."

The boy stopped on the gravel. "You was?"

MacMurrough ambled on. "It's all right. They never catch you twice."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"They never release you the first time."

Down the path to the end of the garden where opened a private gate to the sea-wall. Mist out on Howth and a chill breeze; dew on the lawns where a blackbird practiced its range. Distant doves cooed with argumentative insistence. A magpie's rattling gun. He believed he saw a rabbit. He believed he saw a fox. Hare and hyena, he told s.c.r.o.t.es: supporters of our chivalry.

"Good luck so," said Doyler.

"Yes, good luck."

The chaplain and d.i.c.k proffered their conflicting counsel as MacMurrough watched him tread his way. A sadness and tenderness descended as he saw how beautiful was the world. The clearing sky was beautiful, the leaping dew, the breeze that blew like mint upon his face. His seed was inside a darling boy who limped through this imperial morn in his raggedy-daggledy clothes. Lamb dressed up as mutton. How sad that made him feel, and tender. Tender and sad and cold.

MacMurrough climbed back into bed. He closed his eyes and wandered up spiral stairs till he came to s.c.r.o.t.es's turret room. The old fellow was beavering away at his table. MacMurrough leant at his shoulder to over-read, piecing together with difficulty the vermiculate letters. Omnis natura, Omnis natura, he read, he read, in quantum natura est, bonum est. in quantum natura est, bonum est. Aquinas? It sounded like Aquinas. Aquinas? It sounded like Aquinas.

-Augustine, snapped s.c.r.o.t.es.

MacMurrough wandered about the room, opened a book, closed it again, flicked through the Latin dictionary of Lewis and Short. s.c.r.o.t.es certainly was in a mood, which was inconvenient rather, for he felt a wish to speak with the fellow.

-Why is it always so cold in this turret? he ventured after a time. Never a fire in the grate.

s.c.r.o.t.es tapped his quill in its well.

-I shall tell you why it is cold, he replied. It is cold because you fancy it so. You fancy I wear a skull-cap when I work. You fancy me in threadbare wool. The temperature descends to suit. Industry in your mind is a.s.sociated with old clothes and ice. Sometimes as I write, droplets freeze on my mittens. It is all most disturbing. A memory of your schooldays no doubt, when they penny-pinched on coals.

MacMurrough yawned. He said, rhyming schoolboy-quick: Amo, amas, I loved a la.s.s, for she was soft and tender; amas, amat, she laid me flat, and tickled my masculine gender.

-He has gone then, your young friend? said s.c.r.o.t.es sighing.

-Yes, I led him down the garden path.

The porcupine quill was wiped with the pen-wiper, the page was blotted, and s.c.r.o.t.es said, You wish to speak with me.

-Do you always eavesdrop on my thoughts?

-You forget: I am your thoughts.

-A portion of them, MacMurrough advised.

s.c.r.o.t.es fleered in deference. The loftier portion, one hopes.

MacMurrough hesitated. It's about that boy.

-Well?

-While d.i.c.k was at him- -d.i.c.k? By which you intend your membrum virile and the wayward cerebrations that command it?

MacMurrough sighed. Very well, while I was sodomizing the kid, I felt an odd poignancy. The oddness remained while we said our goodbye. It was my desire that had occasioned our intercourse, it was by my leave that we walked through the garden. Yet he chose-I do not know by what expediency-to behave as if this were not the case.

-And this explains your sadness? This explains the tenderness you avowed?

-One is not so foolish as to attribute such sentiments to anything more elevated than selfish interest. I was sad for myself; I desired the world should know me for a sad and tender soul.

-And the boy?

-One pities him, naturally. It would be absurd to say one cared.

-Was it pity you felt last evening?-when he spoke of his friend.

His friend, yes, the comfort for the troops who had brought stockings. They planned to swim at the Forty Foot together, every morning, rain or shine. d.i.c.k was thrilled by it all and spent much of the night romancing the two into all sorts of performances. Not sure why, now, possibly to humiliate, probably to goad, I asked did he love his friend. Well, no boy loves his chum, or no boy says he does. But he answered, I do.

I do, he answered as in some preposterous dissenting nuptial. And MacMurrough remembered how touching it was that a young fellow in a stranger's bed should say that he loved his friend. The strangeness of the bed a.s.sisted, of course. But still, it was . . . charming.

-But did you pity him? s.c.r.o.t.es would be deferred no longer.

-No, I did not. I thought him naif. Charming, but naif.

-And this morning when you parted, why did you feel sad?

-I have already explained it was an egoistical affectation.