At Swim, Two Boys Part 9

"She's not a witch."

"That's all right so. Nothing to fear."

He told him about the Protestant church by the railway bridge up Adelaide Road that played hymns on its bells on Sundays. "Folk have got it wrong, you know. You don't have to walk three times round to make the devil appear."

"No?"

"Not at all. Just bless yourself as you pa.s.s and Old h.o.r.n.y'll come."

That was all right because it was easy not to bless yourself, you could do that just forgetting. The cunning was too soon revealed. The cross was your sole protection, yet by signing there under the shadowy trees you invoked the enemy. The panic of those journeys past the Protestant church was with him still, a blink away.

He stretched his legs to the end of the sheet. How wide the bed, how still without his brother's dominant breath. The face of Our Lord reproached him. I promise you in the unfathomable mercy of My heart . . .

Pal of my heart. Wished I hadn't seen that. Wished I hadn't delayed in the road.

Mice in the shop. Outside he heard a shrill voice calling, Stop Press! Stop Press! Jim thought of a baton coming down on a newsboy's leg. Why would they do that to a newsboy?

Lusitania, he was calling. Another place he had never heard of. Tomorrow they'd mark it down on the map. Soldier in the mud with his legs missing and he turns with Gordie's face to say, When are the other boys coming?

Our Lady clothed with the sun and the moon at her feet and the twelve-starred crown atop the Muglins. No clear idea what a socialist does. Oft in the stilly night.

Upstairs, Aunt Sawney coughed and creaked in her cot. "She's on her way," Gordie had said on his last visit, his embarkation leave.

"Her way where?"

"Young 'un," he said and cuffed Jim's neck.

That night, lying head-and-tails as of old, Gordie had said quietly, "Do you never think of girls, young 'un?"

"What about them?"

"Nancy's a bit of"-jam, he called her. "I take her out the odd time. Picture palaces together."

"What do you see?"

"Matter a d.a.m.n what you sees." His toes nudged Jim's ribs. "Dark as be d.a.m.ned in the picture palace."

He wished it was dark as be d.a.m.ned in the kitchen. He wished it was dark as he was d.a.m.ned. He shifted on his side and a hand reached under the sheet to the hole he had cut in the ticking and felt its way through the lumps of horsehair till it found the rag he kept stolen there. He shut his eyes from the gaze of Our Lord and the reddening gaze of King George and Sir Redvers Buller, and he crossed out the image of Brother Polycarp's face and squeezed the mimosa from his mind, and he wondered what would it be like to swim in the sea, to swim in the sea off the Forty Foot, while his shirt lifted and the sheet began to move and the smell came up of the glue-pot.

Old h.o.r.n.y.

CHAPTER FOUR.

"Nice bit of skirt."

"Ah stuff it, will ya?"

The joke had been aired ten times over and no one was stirred by it any more. And yet it was curious to be wearing a kilt, to be clothed and to feel undressed inside. Four yards of saffron swung from Jim's hips. Creamy stockings, Scotch cap, white shirt from Lee's of George's Street.

A glance beside at Doyler who was tangling with a garter. Dark hairs curled from his stockings, stopping at the knee where the kilt hemmed. He caught Jim's look and saucily swayed, lifting his hands in a Highland manner. The ribbons from his cap dangled down his neck. All about the white shirts glared with newness, giving to everyone a bright and flourishing air.

"What cheer, eh?"

"Grand," said Jim.

The usual must of the school commons was thickened with the sweat of unclothing. Over the benches lay shirts and gallused trousers, and the chatter and chaff was like many drums and many fifes and many boys and mayhem.

"Are we to be a marching band now, Brother?"

Brother Polycarp was at the blackboard where he was chalking an arrangement of "A Nation Once Again." "Never fear, boy, when we of Presentation march it will be as gentlemen." He turned. "Not as an early turn from the palace of varieties."

"Why the kilts so, Brother?"

"Wouldn't ye think to be merry enough with your Whitsun gauds, not to be moidering me with speculation?" He rapped his stick on the easel. "Quiet now, men, please. Ye can see the push I'm in. I have this jewel of the Hibernian muse to twist some refinement into it."

He looked surprised at the effect of his command. Every boy stood stock still. He nodded appreciatively, turned back to the board. Only then did he see the newcomer at the door.

A priest. A young priest, black-suited, with a black felt hat, one hand stiffly in his jacket pocket, thumb hooked outside, the other holding a black breviary, finger keeping the page. So tall, his head had a stoop. Wire-framed spectacles saddled his nose. Oddly, ever so, foreign-looking. Stuck in his lapel, a b.u.t.ton with a Celtic cross and words in Gaelic underneath. A young, tall, Irish-speaking priest.

"Dia agus Muire dhaoibh."

Brother Polycarp was stung into action. "Father Taylor, we had not looked for you." He strode the floor, offering his hand. "Boys, let me introduce the new curate at St. Joseph's. Father Taylor has taken a keen interest in our musical diversions. Already he has provided us a costume. It will be a great treat, Father, to hear the boys play uniformis uniformis for the nonce." for the nonce."

The priest smiled generously at the brother while he released his hand from his shake. "Dia agus Muire dhaoibh," he said again.

No one answered.

"Did ye not hear me, boys? Dia . . . agus . . . Muire. G.o.d and Mary be with ye."

His nose pecked before him as he spoke, crossways, as though each of his eyes required independent view.

"Have ye no Gaelic?" Silence. "No boy?" Mounting silence. "No Gaelic at all in the vaunted college of Presentation?"

At last Doyler spoke. "Dia 's Muire dhuit 's Padraigh, a hathair."

Clap went the priest's hands. "Did ye hear that, boys? G.o.d and Mary and Patrick be with you. Such is the response appropriate to my greeting, indeed the only response for an Irishman. For, as ye know or had ought to know, the Irish tongue may not speak but it utter a prayer. Good man for yourself. Good boy. There's one true Irishman amongst ye, I am pleased to hear. Though, if I am not mistaken, you are not of Presentation?"

"No, Father."

"It would seem, Brother Polycarp, this is not the unmingled elect you had led us to believe. Sigh sios."

They followed Doyler's lead and sat down. The priest dusted his hands together. When he smiled starch had cracked. "Brother Polycarp, I fear we have a way to go yet with the Gaelic. I trust the music is on a firmer footing."

"For our sins, Father, we persevere."

"I would not doubt you. Well boys, pace pace the brother, my name is Father eamonn O'Taighleir. Ye'll know I have recently joined the parish here and I have great hopes for us all. Ye'll be with me in that, boys?" the brother, my name is Father eamonn O'Taighleir. Ye'll know I have recently joined the parish here and I have great hopes for us all. Ye'll be with me in that, boys?"

Yes, Father, they would.

"I hope soon to be coming to know each of ye individually. In a moment we will say a prayer for Ireland and her sequestration from the pagan breaths that on every side a.s.sail. In the meanwhile ye might entertain me to a rousing chorus. I believe Brother Polycarp will know the Hibernian jewel to which I refer?"

His head tilted to Brother Polycarp who simpering deflected his glance.

"Though why he should allude to our country by its Latin name, I do not know. Our country which alone withstood the degenerate embrace of the Roman Empire. Perhaps ye can tell me, boys?"

No father, they could not.

"Brother Polycarp, 'A Nation Once Again,' if you please."

The brother suffered his smile to remain. He looked to be chewing on leathery gums. Humbly he bowed. "Welcome though you be, Father, it is unfortunate your visitation should come all precipitate. What with the gimcracks and kickshaws of Mozart and Bach and sundry other euterpean gents, we have not found leisure to give justice to your request."

"Do you tell me?"

"Another five minutes and we'd have made a fist of it."

"I believe I take your gist, Brother Polycarp."

The brother was all condolence till a notion occurred to brighten his guise. "There is, nonetheless, in our repertoire an old galliard that I have on good authority is a stirring Irish tune."

The pecks strayed from brother to boys. "Any music will serve that stirs the patriotic heart."

"Stand boys, please," said Brother Polycarp. He raised his stick, wavered a moment. "Father Taylor, are you sure you would not rather stand with us?"

The priest nodded and stooped to his feet.

"Very well, boys. A rousing rendition for our new curate, please, of 'G.o.d Save the King.'"

"Game for a walk?"

"Where to?"

"Forty Foot."

Doyler didn't wait for a reply but bounded over the bench. At the door he motioned for Jim to hurry. Furtively Jim was shaking his head, then Brother Polycarp intervened.

"Have you forgotten your Christian Politeness, Christian Politeness, Mr. Mack? A gentleman does not beck and twitch. Talk sensibly, boy, and after you're done, collect me the music. I'll be waiting inside." Mr. Mack? A gentleman does not beck and twitch. Talk sensibly, boy, and after you're done, collect me the music. I'll be waiting inside."

"The usual, is it?" asked Doyler.

"Half an hour maybe."

He made a contemplative mime of a spit. "I'll be waiting."

The day was down when Jim came out the monastery gate. A shadow waited on the chapel wall opposite. Vernacular transformed it to Doyler. "Half an hour, me a.r.s.e. Them Protestant bells has gone three goes at least. Get on and shift your bob. I've piles waiting."

Jim felt the creep of eyes on his back, and turning he saw the blind shift in Brother Polycarp's window. The brother had been in purple spirits throughout their devotion, smiling for holiday before their prayers; and during them, in their silences, Jim heard him chortling to himself. "Nation once again, how are you," he said afterwards. "I think we put the kybosh on his Gaelic reverence. He'll know better in future to poke his bake in Presentation. What do you think, Mr. Mack? Did we introduce our bootmaker to his tailor there?"

The blind was down now but still Jim made the dark shape behind. The brother's mood had shifted when he spied Doyler outside. Twice the past week they'd met after Jim's devotion. Brother Polycarp wasn't long catching on. Corydon, he called Doyler. "I see Corydon awaits his Alexis again." Tonight he added, "Better alone than bad company, Jim. Lie down with dogs and you'll rise with fleas." Jim sucked his cheeks. There was nothing in the Ca.s.sell's about Corydon. Nothing about Alexis either. He hurried down the lane to catch up.

There was plenty about bad company, however, in most the books they used at Presentation. In particular a manual called Christian Politeness Christian Politeness which described the proper deportment of a Catholic gentleman. Where the eyes should rest, where the hands; the lips part so when drawing breath; exhaling, a gentleman employs his nose. Doyler might have posed for the thou-shalt-nots. His hands wouldn't settle, but swept along a wall or slapped against any lamppost he pa.s.sed. He scrunched stones underfoot or scooted them away as though they posed an obstruction. According to which described the proper deportment of a Catholic gentleman. Where the eyes should rest, where the hands; the lips part so when drawing breath; exhaling, a gentleman employs his nose. Doyler might have posed for the thou-shalt-nots. His hands wouldn't settle, but swept along a wall or slapped against any lamppost he pa.s.sed. He scrunched stones underfoot or scooted them away as though they posed an obstruction. According to Christian Politeness, Christian Politeness, the eyes were the windows of the soul: Doyler's rarely rested: proof of a giddy and unstable character. Occasionally they glanced on Jim's eyes, prompting a confederate grin. Jim might scatter a pebble, but he was conscious of imposturing. The fall of his hair bounced flatly on his forehead under the peak of his cap. He saw himself a study in brown that lumbered ponderously along. Then Doyler's arm would bang on his back. "Slow as a wet week, so y'are." the eyes were the windows of the soul: Doyler's rarely rested: proof of a giddy and unstable character. Occasionally they glanced on Jim's eyes, prompting a confederate grin. Jim might scatter a pebble, but he was conscious of imposturing. The fall of his hair bounced flatly on his forehead under the peak of his cap. He saw himself a study in brown that lumbered ponderously along. Then Doyler's arm would bang on his back. "Slow as a wet week, so y'are."

"Watch them go, the cripple and his pooch."

Under the yard wall of the parochial house, a cigarette glowed in a huddle of forms. "Fahy," said Jim.

"Ignore 'em," said Doyler.

A throat hawked and an oyster of phlegm splashed at their feet. Doyler spun. "What ails ya, Fahy? Have you something to say or what is it?"

Fahy laughed and one of his cohorts, a clever-shins named Butler, crowed, "There's that whiff again."

Doyler grabbed at Butler's coat. "Any more of that and I'll have ya ate. Ate without salt I'm telling ya."

Fahy detached from the wall and leant forward the way his finger pressed on Doyler's chest. "Now listen to me, my wee sleeveen. You're becoming a pain in the Erse, if you don't mind me saying. Hop away home to your hut in the Banks. And take the pooch with you."

"Let's go," said Jim.

Doyler let go Butler, who brushed himself prettily down, and measured Fahy with his eyes. But Fahy was not easily browed. His father owned a slaughterhouse in Dalkey: he fed his sons on steak for breakfast.

Suddenly Doyler was laughing, "Ah, have a banana." A thin streak of spit landed expertly on top of Fahy's. "What ails them fellas?" he asked when they climbed down the steps to the sea-wall and the jeers were left behind. "Are they that way always? Are they that way at Pres?"

"Mostly."

"You'd do better to ignore them."

"I do."

He stopped Jim with a hand that bolted on his shoulder. "Do they give you trouble? You'd tell if they laid a hand?"

Eyes burnt and the ridge of brow protruded like horn. The grip was fast through Jim's jacket. He could feel the press of each finger.

"Sure why would they give me trouble?" he said, though in his heart he knew if trouble came it would come on account of Doyler.