—MacMurrough, MacMurrough, said Scrotes, and his bony fingers turned gauntly him round. He led him to a seat far down the garden, where MacMurrough could hear the sea. He lowered his eyes and watched his button bals with patent golosh and the grassblades that crazy-quilted them.
—It won’t do, will it? he said. I can’t pretend myself into acceptable shapes. His Majesty’s Wandsworth has seen to that. Besides, it’s not the doing, it’s the being that’s my offense. You could see that on Kettle’s face. The doing is neither here nor there. Doing only offers an opportunity to be caught.
—You know, he continued, they make it so damned difficult. They make a thing so deeply wrong that no morality can afterward apply. It doesn’t matter how we go about it, kindly or coldly. No good is so good as to mitigate; all further wrong is a feather’s weight upon the deed itself. See it in the newspaper reports. One can be a gentleman thief. One can be a love-struck murderer. We’re just unspeakable, we’re sods.
—Who are we? asked Scrotes.
—People of my kind.
—You have a kind? said Scrotes.
—Yes, and we are easy to find. Under bridges, at the back-end of piers, in parks when parks are closed, in the shadows of others, in the night.
Far up the garden the boys of Erin mavroned and macree’d. Whish it whash, said the sea to the shore. By the summerhouse MacMurrough saw the comfort for the troops who waited in a phalanx of tulips. Where was Doyle? The comfort might topple without his shoulder to slope to. There was Doyle far behind, on his own, in his kilt and sash and pinned to his sash, MacMurrough saw it, his Red Hand badge.
And he appeared at that moment beautiful to MacMurrough; proud, defiant, the way he watched the play like a wild animal considering food. He might be a badge himself, a golden crotchet that had pinned to the trees. The knowing of him, of his nasal whine, his feet that smelt, this did not take from his beauty. His beauty claimed his defects for the part of him that made it possible, made him true. MacMurrough saw the making of a man, of a fellow creature, of such who can say, boldly and freely, I do.
—When you told him of the Spartans, Scrotes asked, what did you intend?
—I don’t know that I’m sure. One is sensible to his feelings for his friend. I thought it might cheer him to know those praised in his national song had felt the same.
—Not nearly the same, said Scrotes.
—I had rather gathered the Spartans were famed for it.
—The Spartans’ desire was praiseworthy and good. Their world was shaped by that desire, as ours is shaped by man and wife.
MacMurrough pursed his lips. I want it to be all right for him, he said. For both of them.
—Help them.
—I have procured the one his suit. The other apparently can clothe himself. It should seem the extent of my capacity to assist.
—Help them make a nation, if not once again, then once for all.
—What possible nation can you mean?
—Like all nations, Scrotes answered, a nation of the heart. Look about you. See Irish Ireland find out its past. Only with a past can it claim a future. Watch it on tramcars thumbing its primers. Only a language its own can speak to it truly. What does this language say? It says you are a proud and ancient people. For a nation cannot prosper without it have pride. You and I, MacMurrough, may smile at the fabulous claims of the Celt. We may know that the modern Irishman as much resembles the Gael of old as he resembles the Esquimau or the Kafir on the Hindu Kush. And we may believe he is the better for that. But no matter. The struggle for Irish Ireland is not for truth against untruth. It is not for the good against the bad, for the beautiful against the unbeautiful. These things will take care of themselves. The struggle is for the heart, for its claim to stand in the light and cast a shadow its own in the sun.
—Help these boys build a nation their own. Ransack the histories for clues to their past. Plunder the literatures for words they can speak. And should you encounter an ancient tribe whose customs, however dimly, cast light on their hearts, tell them that tale; and you shall name the unspeakable names of your kind, and in that naming, in each such telling, they will falter a step to the light.
—For only with pride may a man prosper. With pride, all things follow. Without he have pride he is a shadowy skulk whose season is night. And now behold, the pageant is ending. The boys have fallen upon the stage and the splendor falls with the dying day. Soon there will be fireworks and the young must be led to their duty. You must go from this lofty place and tread again the trampled grass.
To his surprise MacMurrough found they had left the garden and climbed to Scrotes’s turret room. It was full the night and the pale moon that through the window shone had sketched an embrasure on the floor, sketched it half-way up the opposing wall. In this moonshaft they stood, Scrotes and he, and no shadow of theirs disturbed the dust that floated in the light behind.
Far, far below MacMurrough heard the crowd’s applause. He would never speak with Scrotes again, this he knew, and he turned to him. Was I truly your friend? he asked. I believe I loved you. But I forget, you know.
—You were. You did. You do.
So spake Scrotes, and having spoke he smole a smile and home to raven regions lonely stole.
Leaving MacMurrough among the muttering poor. He made his way to the summerhouse where his boys were waiting.
“Are we ready?”
Yes, sir, they were. But there was a hemming and hawing and a shifting in their faces. MacMurrough took a breath.
“Look, that fellow Pearse, the gentleman I mean, has put up a good show. Let’s see what we can do, will we? Not to better him. See if we can’t somehow salute him.” Not a flicker of spirit. Was this nerves? “Is Mr. Mack with us?”
Two heels clicked behind. “At your service, your honor.”
“You might march the boys out. Couple of turns round the lawn then up the steps to the stage. We’ll give them what they want, this evening at least, which is A Nation Once Again.” Doyle. Where was Doyle? And others were missing too, the big drum brigade. “What’s happened with Doyle? Pigott. Fahy. Are we to have no drums?”
“Oh now, I’m sure now,” said Mr. Mack, “they won’t be keeping us a minute longer than strictly.”
The friend looked up. “He was called out by the father.”
“Whatever for?”
“Now now, quiet, Jim. Mr. MacMurrough is talking. I’m certain they won’t keep us a moment, your honor. Though, truth be told, young Doyle is no great shakes at the marching. With the game of a leg and all.”
The door opened. The priest strode the floor. Behind him, Fahy and Pigott. Between them, Doyle.
“What can you imagine is the meaning of this?” MacMurrough demanded. The two louts smirked, wearing the satisfied gloats of their master’s bidding. “Mister Taylor, can you explain yourself?”
“Mister MacMurrough, your aunt awaits you. I advise you speak with her immediately lest something be said you may after regret.”
“Nevertheless, I really must protest—”
“Then you will protest to your aunt who has vouchsafed your good conduct.” His two eyes cocked independently. “I believe I need say no more.”
MacMurrough felt a crumple inside. He saw the friend on his feet, only his father restraining him. He saw the turned faces in the benches. The priest cracked his smile. He addressed the boys.
“The devil, we know, is omnipresent. As omnipresent as Our Lord and his seeing angels. Yet I had not expected to meet him in my own band of Irish boys. Look at the sorry cut of him, men.”
Doyler’s head drooped in subjection. There was blood on his nose and his chin. His shirt was ripped where they must have torn his badge away. His nipple was exposed, a pathetic emblem.
“No God, no sin, no hell, no heaven, the black devil of socialism, hoof and horn, is among us. Do we want him?”
The silence told the boys did not.
“Do we say no to his works?”
Sile
nce nodded its head.
“Do we cast him out?”
We do, said the tongueless faces and the priest signed to his henchmen to take Doyler away.
“Boys of Ireland,” he continued, “you will join your hands in prayer with me now that our sainted isle will be protected and rendered strong against the manifold perils that beset her. For this once, lest there be any doubt, we will pray in the Saxon tongue. In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
In a hopeless stasis MacMurrough heard the praying, the braying versicles and hushed response. When he lifted his head he saw all faces lowered, save the friend’s, whose gaze was on him. The boy’s lips moved in suffrage, pleading with MacMurrough, begging him to do something. But MacMurrough could do nothing. He had crumpled inside, and his head lowered in shame.
There was an explosion outside, followed by another. The night through the windows burst into light. Star after star flared in the sky as the fireworks let off. Green, silver and gold the fragments glittered, then fluttered down like fabulous rain. And the air was rent by drumfire and shellblast and the surging cheers of the populace.
“Cushmawaunee,” he heard Mr. Mack say, “it looks as though we’re after missing the grand finale.”
On and on the fireworks come and into the night are falling still. Across the rift of a continent they fall, bursting in stars and fountains of light. They crackle in a thousand squibs, in mad minutes of furious joy. In metal rain they shower to rise again in scarlet flowers. Their dust like fairy dust descends, upon the brave, upon the coward.
They dart across the heavens of Greece, where Gordie watches the night sky. Beside him his chum remarks, Shower of lights tonight.
And Gordie says, Me da used say they was souls released from purgatory.
I never heard that before, says Gordie’s chum. Gob, but there’s enough of them.
They’d want to be, says Gordie.
Where y’off to now? asks Gordie’s chum.
See if there ain’t no water left on this tub.
When he comes back he says, Snacks, and hands the half-full of his can to his chum. The troopship gently rocks beneath them, at anchor in the bay.
Have you a sister at all? asks Gordie’s chum.
I haven’t, says Gordie. A brother only.
Shame that, says Gordie’s chum. A man could settle with a sister of yours.
He could, Steerforth, he could, says Gordie. He lies back on the deck and watches the glittering sky. The glittering sky and the shimmering souls that minute by minute escape the dark.
Who’s Steerforth? asks Gordie’s chum.
Away with you, says Gordie, cuffing his neck.
In Ballygihen, in the tumbledown lodge, Mary Nights at last laid down her head. Oh, but it was the beautiful elegant lodge of the world. Upon the flawless stone she lay, and through the splendid loft she gazed. What cared she for falling stars? Oh God, that all the stars would fall and leave the thick black velvet cloth. Oh God above, of love and light, loan me the blanket of the night, till on the cold and grumpy ground, I’ll warmly wrap it round me.
Her stiff old neck she turned on the stone. When might it end, she did not know. She did not know what end she pondered. But this she knew, and knew too well: the nights were drawing in.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He was swimming to the island, but the sea was slippery and thick, like a jelly that would set beneath him. Great guns he was going, but he wanted to try a kick in the legs. And it was true, it was better if he kicked. The push propelled him over the water, like flying, not flying but leaping, long horizontal leaps that skimmed the surface and he landed like an insect and kicked again. Strange to say, the water was uphill all the way.
He kicked through the crest of a wave and there was the Muglins before him. The water was warm now and shallow and emulsive. His feet felt sand underneath and he tiptoed through the ripples. He could hear her behind the rocks, she was singing or something, and the gulls moaned round and about, and flapped their wings. In a way he was annoyed and he wanted to know why had she been here all this while when she could have come home. Home was only a spit away. But when he came round the rocks, it wasn’t his mother but Doyler who moaned, and his wrists were red in their chains while he writhed on the rock, and an old gander pecked at his eyes. Save it wasn’t his eyes he pecked, but down down down below.
The dream dispersed and Jim lay awake in his settle-bed. The last turf slumped in the grate and the hag in the ashes leered blazily at him. He was damp in his shirt like truly he had swum in the sea, but the dream was fading and all he retained was a sensation of having flown, of having skittered through rain.
He thought it was mice in the shop, then rats in the yard. It came as no surprise when the scratching resolved to fingers on the window pane.
He climbed to his knees and pulled the blind. Doyler’s face grinned ghostily through the glass. Jim eyed the ceiling. He tied the blind in place then levered the sash an inch. Doyler slipped his fingers under and together they shuddered it open.
“How’d you get in the yard?”
“Shinned up the wall, of course.”
The breeze brushed the vigil flame and shadows swayed on the walls. Upstairs the bed moved and his father called down, “Are you right there, Jim?”
“Fine, Da.”
“Go to sleep now, son.”
“Yes, Papa.”
They watched the ceiling till the bed-frame ceased complaining.
“You want to come in?”
“No.”
“I’ll come out.”
“Stay.” He wore once more his blue-gone duds of old. He had a brown-paper parcel, tied up with packing thread, which he held up now. “What cheer, eh?”
“You’re leaving,” said Jim.
“Came to say goodbye.”
Words blurted out, admonitions, remonstrations. How Jim had warned him. Told him not to mind them fellows. Time and again he’d warned him against that. Would Doyler listen to him? No, Doyler would not listen.
The bed creaked above and Aunt Sawney coughed above and behind. In the quiet after, Doyler shook his head.
“Lookat, Jim, I’m going nowhere here. I came back for the mother, but the mother don’t need me. There’s things I have to do. And they won’t be done in Glasthule.”
Jim mouthed the openings of different sentences. In the end they all amounted to the same and he said, “I’ll kiss you. I’d like to, I mean.”
Again the squeak of the bed above and their eyes lifted. Falling, they met. Doyler huffed his little laugh. The blood was crusting on the gash in his lip. His hand passed into the room and stroked Jim’s chin. Jim knew the bone of his face through the fingers. Five times he knew it. Then the fingers fisted and gently pucked him. “A chuck on the chin is worth two kisses, they say,” he said.
“The swimming,” said Jim.
“Sure you’re the fine able swimmer. All’s you need is the practice.”
“The Muglins, though.”
“Did you think I’d forget?”
He reached inside his shirt and tugged the string that held his medal. Between thumbs and fingers he twisted the tin till it split in two. Jim saw the proffered half of St. Joseph.
“I’d give you me badge, only they stole that on me. Keep this instead while I’m away. It’s my pledge to you. We’ll have our Easter swim, my hand and heart on that. We’ll make them rocks together, Jim. Are you straight so?”
“I’m straight as a rush,” Jim said. He sniffed. “I am too.”
“Old pal o’ me heart,” said Doyler.
“Come what may,” said Jim. “Come what may.”
Doyler grinned. “Come Easter sure. 1916.”
PART TWO
1916
ecce abstulisti hominem de hac vita, cum vix explevisset annum in amicitia mea, suavi mihi super omnes suavitates illius vitae meae.
—ST. AUGUSTINE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The steps raced on the street outside and
into the lane till the shop bell clanged. Mr. Mack refolded the foxed and crinkled pages of the letter, returned the letter to its place upon the mantelshelf. The door flung wide and Jim was there, white and breathless.
“They told me there was a telegram.”
“It’s on the table, son.”
Mr. Mack stared at the letter on its shelf, beside the framed photograph of his son upon which his son had written, I trust the cigarette does not offend. It does not offend, he told him. You were mistaken to think it offended, nor anything you said nor done offended. You were greatly mistaken in that.
Jim looked up from the telegram. “Missing, Da?”
“That’s right, missing.”
“What does it mean?”
Mr. Mack fixed his face, then turned from the mantelshelf. “Why, it means there’s hope yet. Isn’t that the best news? Missing in action only. That’s easy done. The muddle of war, ’tis surprising there isn’t more goes missing. Where there’s hope there’s, where there’s hope there’s—” But he could not rightly recall what there was. “Where there’s hope there’s a way. They’ll have him found soon enough, never doubt it. Then we’ll have him home again and there’ll be mafficking the length of the street. Don’t doubt it, Jim. We’ll be back the three of us together in no time. In time for Christmas even.”
“Christmas, Da?”
“Let that be the end of the lemoncholy now.”
The way the boy stood there holding the telegram, so mannishly determined against tears, it made Mr. Mack finally to heave. He kept his face smiling but he could not stop the blubbers. He said, “Now now, be a Briton. Turn off the main,” while the tears streamed down his cheeks.
“We’ll say the Rosary, Da.”
“That’s the spirit. If we pray every day and on the hour of every day, then. That’s all we can do now, Jim. Did you come direct from school?”
“I did.”
At Swim, Two Boys Page 30