At Swim, Two Boys Part 51

"Yes, I thought we'd have some fun with that."

"I was chatting with one of these Dublins. Do you know, he actually considered there was a history attached to the Irish regiments."

"Mercenaries, weren't they, out in India. John Company."

"Chap actually believed they had some claim to honor."

"Interesting."

"I thought it d.a.m.nable strange. I say, here's a poser. Which is better for officer training: polo or hunting?"

"That is a poser. Polo or hunting. Very good indeed. I'll have to think that one out."

The lieutenant looked at his finger nails. "It is a bore."

The captain, whose scarlet was just that shade too noisy for the lieutenant's liking, clapped the four legs of his chair on the floor. "You can come to enjoy it after a while. Keeping a tab on the b.u.g.g.e.rs."

"They're all pro-German. We should shoot the leaders, pack the rest off to France. In my opinion, there is too much kid-gloving in this country."

"Oh, it won't come to shooting people. And if it does, we can leave that safely to the Irish. You surely know the one thing they hate more than us English."

"Well, it ain't porter and it ain't German gold."

"It's an Irishman with the pluck to stand up to us."

The captain laughed and the lieutenant eyed him with distaste. He did not rate the man's tailor at all.

Doyler woke with a start. His rifle had slipped from his hands. He looked about him. For a moment he couldn't work out where he was. The stars gleamed above. Liberty Hall of course, on the roof, on guard detail. He picked up his rifle. He pulled the bolt back and fingered the chamber. But of course there was no cartridge inside. He blessed himself, despising the urge. It was the night of Good Friday.

The week had run with rumor. The British were to raid all centers. The British were to seize all arms. Any name on the nationalist side was to be taken and imprisoned. The Archbishop himself was to be imprisoned. The guard at Liberty Hall was doubled, then trebled, round the clock. It was known the Volunteers had maneuvers planned for Easter Sunday. Their leaders were every day and night at the Hall, the lights in Connolly's office burnt late. It was joked they were promoting each other to generals and admirals. Then Doyler received his orders. Special mobilization-all ranks with equipment and two days' rations-Liberty Hall, Sunday at three. So it was settled. Easter Sunday it was. He went to his officers and asked for extra duties. They gave him guard detail at the Hall, thankful enough for his offer. He was not sure could he trust himself without keeping busy.

He smelt a cigarette smoke from over the roof. If he listened, he could hear the other lads chatting. Those things you talked about on guard detail, Mr. Mack sort of things. What's this is the Latin for candle. Name the states of America. They hadn't ought to be chatting at all. He sat down with his rifle on his lap.

Muster at three at Liberty Hall. There was an unreal quality to the words. Muster, liberty. Two days' rations-were they mad? Where was he supposed to find two days' rations? Easter Sunday-on this day she rose again, Ireland. It was too far-stretched. Far too stretched to be frightened about it.

But there it was: he was frightened. And it had come as such a revelation, he had wanted to stop people he knew in the street. You'll never guess-I'm not brave at all. Now he hugged his rifle while away behind a Protestant bell struck midnight. Easter Sat.u.r.day already. The cold metal of his gun warmed where he touched. When he touched again it had chilled.

He remembered how Connolly had addressed the army. Any man with doubts should leave now, he told them. Let another stand in his place. There would be no recriminations. Only let him go now. Not a man had moved.

But in the pause, Doyler had imagined himself to leave. He dropped his rifle, he tossed his hat. Out the door and his tunic shrugged from him, down the steps and he shook from his boots and his trousers. Then he ran, naked he ran, where to? The river, he leapt from the quay to the river. The tide carried him, the darkly-going green, where did it carry him? To the blue, to the sea, swimming to the sea.

He slept late the Sat.u.r.day morning. He had no duties, but he dressed in his uniform and made a parcel of his working clothes. He must go see his mother. He set off for King Street. The city was half alive again after the grim and shuttered Friday. Then he thought he'd please her by getting confession first. Any number of chapels beckoned, but he couldn't make up his mind. In the end he met his mother in the street. She took him home through the markets where the knowledge and sight and stink of death a.s.saulted him. She gave him red tea and he gave her what he had, which was his working clothes and one and fourpence.

"You'll be going to Glasthule," she said. He didn't answer and she looked bothered at him. "And you with swimming for Easter?"

"I have me duties tomorrow."

"Don't we all have duties?"

"I'm not talking about making the tea, Ma. This is my country."

"What country is that without a friend in it? When you go to Glasthule say to Mr. Mack he might come in soon."

"Himself?"

She nodded. "Go in now," she said, "and make your peace with your father."

"What father is that?"

"He gave you a name, son, when there was no call on him. He gave you a name and a home when you had none before. For no better than I married him, speak your peace."

He threw the dregs of his cup in the back of the fire. "Wasn't I intending to anyway?" he said. But he didn't move, and he said, "Ma, do you remember, Ma, when I stole the pig's cheek?"

"I don't."

"Out of the butcher's barrel. Do you not remember that? I had it hid under me coat running home. The brine was dripping and it took the dye out of the coat where I hid it. You must remember that, Ma?"

"I don't, son."

"You took it off me then and you cooked it. You had me sit to table with this pig's cheek in front of me. And I kept telling you, Ma, I got it for all of us, yourself and the girls and himself even. You wouldn't hear of it. Sat me down with the knife and a fork to eat it by meself. Himself came home and you hid it away. He was angry smelling meat and no dinner. He left in a black rage and you brung it out again, the pig's cheek. I wasn't let go till I had it ate, the plate of it. I remember the girls was looking at me. But you said I was hungry, I must eat it all."

"You was often hungry, son."

"Then you took me down the butcher's after, and I waited while you paid for it. Paid for it. I watched the coppers going in the butcher's hand. I remember how thirsty I was. And I knew then you'd have no supper that night. The girls would have no supper. I was so thirsty after the brine and me mouth all greasy from me eating. And them coppers going one upon the other into the butcher's hand. Don't you remember that, Ma?"

"I remember you did always come home with the pennies you earned. I don't remember any pig's cheek."

"Oh, Ma, I wanted to do some good always. I never did it the right way, sure I didn't?"

"You were a great good to me, son. You are yet."

"But I wanted to be needed, Ma. You would never let on you needed me. You don't need me now, sure you don't, Ma?"

She put her hand to his head. "A cheann dubh dhilis," she said, "my black-headed boy. Don't you know 'tis loving I have, not needing. G.o.d send one day you'll be happy with that."

He had fallen forward from the chair, and he laid his head on her breast, wrapping his arms tightly round her waist.

"Aren't you desperate scared?" she said. "My Lady of the Wayside, for the sake of the child You hold in Your arms, take hold the hand of my boy and he going."

He left soon after. Still dragged the day. He could not think what to do with it. At the pro-Cathedral he looked in at the confessions. The lines snaking from the confessionals were close-packed with uniformed men. The light green and the dark green intermingled, Volunteers and Citizen soldiers, already in prayer the one army. It made him think of laughing, the first in a while. What need had the Castle of spies and informers? In Ireland, if you would know was a rising due, look no farther than the Sat.u.r.day confessions.

He had stopped inside the door. Now the voices gathered about him, male voices groaning their sins to their beads in their hands. The votary candles flickered, yellow and blue and red, shedding no light only telling the dark about them. The statues all were draped still. A finger poked starkly out of one of them.

He thought of himself at home, when he had looked in on him behind his screen, his stepfather. He was more dead than living now, but still he clung on. Doyler had opened his hand and placed a plug of tobacco there. To chew, he told him, then pointed to his mouth, Chew. The fingers closed on his own fingers, and Doyler had felt them pulling him down. Sweet Jesus, but that man clung to life. And Doyler understood that. He too would cling to life. That life which all his thinking years he had dreamt to spend in a magnificent cause. He'd take this miserable existence instead. He would too. He'd never live with himself, but he'd take it, and hate himself ever on. Jesus, I'm too coward to turn back even.

He turned on his heel. He must go to Jim. Even while he thought this, he did not believe it. He was making for the Russell Hotel. Across the river, past Trinity, up Grafton Street to the Green. He sent in a note. It seemed he must wait an age before the coach-house door would open. He followed the boots up the stairs. He stood on the bed-frame and slid the skylight open. He stepped back. He hadn't spoken a word to the boots. Now he just nodded for him to go first. The boots did as told. Then Doyler pulled himself out and replaced the skylight. He led the boots creeping along to the pit where two roofs pitched. The boots kept his back to him. Doyler didn't know was he shy or ashamed. He didn't care. He pressed up behind, he had his hands at the boy's b.u.t.tons undoing them. The black trousers came down, he tugged at the drawers. He had himself unb.u.t.toned now. He lifted the tail of the boy's shirt. He kept one hand on his back pushing down, the other round his waist. The boots staggered to his hands and knees. Doyler too went down on his knees where the surface sc.r.a.ped his skin. He spat and rubbed his spittle in. He pushed. He pushed till it hurt but he could gain no way. He took a hand to aim but still he could do nothing. He rammed against the stupid flesh. He took hold of the boots with his hands on his thighs and tugged him backward. He could do nothing. He could not even do this.

"Christ almighty," he cursed, "ain't you use for nothing?"

He gave a mighty shove at the boots who tottered forward. He leant back on his hunkers. The boots was sniffing back his sobs. His fingers pulled at his drawers, his trousers. Crouching the way he was he couldn't get his shirt tucked in.

"What are you snivelling for anyway? Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You didn't need to be so rough."

"You want to see me rough? Throw you off the roof, then you'll know me rough all right."

"You didn't have to be rough with me."

"Ah will you shut your snivel. What manner of a man are you I don't know. Right sheela."

He still hadn't turned round. He was still kneeling, fumbling with his shirt and holding his trousers up the same time.

"Ah lookat here," said Doyler exasperated. "Turn round for G.o.d's sake till I sort you out."

He didn't turn but he let Doyler coax him round. Doyler pulled the trousers down. He straightened the shirt tail, then pulled the trousers up properly, b.u.t.toning the waistband. "You can do the rest for yourself," he told him. "Have you a handkerchief?" Not looking he nodded. Doyler found it in his pocket. "Go on now, blow your nose."

He blew his nose, but he didn't wipe his eyes, which were red and sore-looking.

"I'm sorry, all right? I've said I'm sorry now."

Again the boy nodded.

"I didn't do nothing anyway. I didn't hurt you."

"I thought you'd be friendly."

"Lookat I have a friend already."

"You didn't do that to him."

"No I didn't."

"You did it to me though."

"I said I'm sorry. You can hit me if you want."

"Don't want to hit you."

"You can sit down anyway, can't you?"

The boots sat down, sliding against the tiles till he was hunched like Doyler.

"Listen to me," said Doyler. "I have me friend. Least I think I do. And I wanted to be with him."

"Why wouldn't you go there then?"

"I don't know why."

"You're scared to," the boots said and sniffed.

"Blow your nose," said Doyler. He watched him blow his nose. "That's better, isn't it? It's better when you blow your nose."

"You're scared he won't be your friend no more."

Yes, he was scared. He was scared to be with Jim. And he wanted to hold him. He wanted so much just his arm round his neck. But he didn't know could he be trusted. If he made Jim do what he made this boy do. And worse if Jim would let him.

"Do you miss him?"

Doyler sighed, and with that breath spilt all the tide of his loneliness and fears. "I miss him, aye," he said. "He was pal o' me heart, so he was. I try not to think of him, only I can't get him off my mind. He's with me always day and night. I do see him places he's never been, in the middle of a crowd I see him. His face looks out from the top of a tram, a schoolboy wouldn't pa.s.s but I'm thinking it's him. I try to make him go away, for I'm a soldier now and I'm under orders. But he's always there and I'm desperate to hold him. I doubt I'm a man except he's by me."

"Maybe he misses you too. I'd miss you was you my friend."

Doyler patted his knee, that could never be more than bones to him.

"What scares me most," said the boots, "is not that I'll be hit or they'll hate me. I'm scared if I wouldn't find anyone. I can't help looking, can I?"

"No, you do right to look." Doyler stood up. "I'm going to Kingstown."

"Good luck," he said.

"You know now you can still hit me if you want?"

"I never wanted to hit you."

"Sure I know you didn't. If I thought you did, I wouldn't offer it." He held out his hand to give the boots a pull up.

"I still like you," he said.

"Ah come here to me," said Doyler, "you old wirrasthrue thing."

He went back to the widow woman's room and took his rifle from the rafters. He'd take that in case, but his equipment could wait till tomorrow. To h.e.l.l with his guard duty. They'd get some other jasus to guard their Hall for them. It was a long journey on foot, seven miles. It was raining hard when he got to Kingstown. He had his rifle in a brown-paper parceling. By Glasthule the paper was sogging away. He pa.s.sed between chapel and college. He found he was walking more briskly. He had a spring in his step. He turned up Adelaide Road. He was running now. Sprinting and scarce a falter of his leg. The months fell with his feet till it was only a day since last they swam. He spun into the lane, splashing in puddles. The door pushed and the bell clinked. Jim was behind the counter. He looked up. His smile had been practising all day. Doyler held out his rifle in one hand and his bush-hat in the other. "What cheer, eh?" he said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Doyler had the salt and he was offering it round the table. "Salt?" he said to Jim. The words wouldn't form on Jim's lips. He felt his face stupid with smiles, but his face wouldn't brook their interruption. "Will I leave a pinch of it anyway?" Jim nodded and a white scruple formed on his plate.

"Elbows, Jim," said his father. "You don't see Doyler with his elbows on the table."

His father sat with the bread before him, his face significant, sleeves. .h.i.tched up, slicing. Jim heard Nancy laughing into Doyler's ear, "Would think 'twas the Christmas goose to be carved." He watched Doyler dip in his egg. The spoon paused before his mouth and he glanced over, the way Jim had called him to look. The dark gleamed in his eyes, and they collusive, full of meaning. Jim felt his own quicken in response. Doyler grinned, the spoon in his mouth. A boot reached under the table and rubbed Jim's shin. He thought his smile then would leap the plates to hit Doyler smack on the cheek. It had been this way since he arrived. Scarce a word between them, what conversation they had in gestures-a shake, a shrug, the c.o.c.k of a query; smiles, their thieving eyes.