“I shall have to be leaving some day soon.” Even now MacMurrough could not state plainly his intention. It would be too much to have the boy waving while the boat sailed. Far rather dismay him a day or two till he read it in a letter.
“Some day is all right, though I’m not sure about soon.”
MacMurrough slipped thankfully into a trousers.
“Doyler was in this bed, wasn’t he?”
Again the boy had stopped him. “Jim, are you sure you want to be asking these questions?”
“It doesn’t matter, MacEmm. I’m glad if you were with Doyler. I am. I’m glad.”
MacMurrough turned from him, into his closet to choose a tie. The big fawn one, he heard called after. “This one is it?”
“Can I tie it for you?”
“Of course you may.”
He stood before him, a most solemn face, his jaw working with the twining of his hands. It was a while before he spoke. Even then it was MacMurrough’s shirt stud he addressed. “MacEmm—when Doyler comes, it will be all right, won’t it?” He gave a glance at MacMurrough’s face.
“My goodness,” said MacMurrough, “it has you worried out of your mind.”
“I know it’ll be all right. Only I think I needed you to tell me it will.”
He put his hands square on the boy’s shoulders. “It’s your friend who’s coming, Jim, not some stranger. Didn’t you tell me you loved him? Don’t you know when you love someone you don’t need to do anything at all?”
“You don’t?”
“You just look in his eyes and smile.”
“Oh,” said Jim. He was biting his lip. His chin lifted and he was forcing his narrow shrinking face into the semblance of a smile. His eyes fluttering looked into MacMurrough’s. “Oh,” he said again.
MacMurrough’s arms flung about him and pressed the boy to his body. His fingers raked through his hair, near pulling it. The face crushed against his shoulder and, muffled, the boy said, “I do love you, MacEmm.”
“Oh Jim,” said MacMurrough. His arms in their strength would hold him more tightly still, would crumple the slender frame, grunt the breath from its lungs. And still tighter they would hold him, hurting him, willing the hurt, rather to experience than to express, in this pain they would give, the extremity of the passion he felt. He saw them reflected in the body-glass: the tumbled hair, the jacket skewed in his grip, the boy’s arms that languid reached to his neck. A corner of the bed peeked into view. “Come now,” he said. He took Jim by the shoulders again. “You mustn’t leave him waiting.”
He walked him to the gates and watched him down the road to Glasthule. A terrible fear shook him, a fear for his boy and what the future might hold. Lest he should stumble and the crowd should find him. For we live as angels among the Sodomites. And every day the crowd finds some one of us out. I know their lewd calls and their obscene gestures. I know their mockery that bides their temper’s loss. I have seen in lanes and alleys of Piccadilly faces streaked with their spit and piss, and mouths they have bloodied with boots and blows. For rarely an angel finds a Lot to house him. And I would not my boy should suffer so.
You had it wrong, old man, my Scrotes. There is no grand mistake. Aristotle wrote something that Augustine got wrong that Aquinas codified in law. It’s so much fustian, mere philosophastering. What hates is madness. There’s no reason, only madness. All your laws and fulminations are not the agent, but the event. Who but a madman could revile this boy? It’s all of it mad, a madness to fill the spaces, lovely and comfortable as hating a Hun. Do you hear me, old man? Your pages are not worth the ink.
But he heard not the rustle of one sere page.
That evening, he took Scrotes’s papers from the drawers of his desk, bundled there any old how, months back, and forgotten since Christmas and before. The foxed corners and their yellowing hue recalled the nightmarish quality of those hours, his feverish lucubration, searching for their order, for their signification. Not theirs alone but his own too, his justification. Now pages slipped to the floor; he retrieved them: the crabbed hand on the cramped paper, in the scant light the thin moan . . .
Some things are by nature pleasant . . . Great Thou art, O Lord, of praise most worthy . . . others are not pleasant by nature . . . Whether the unnatural vice is the greatest sin among the species of lust? . . . To Carthage I came . . . I answer that . . . for these arise in some by nature . . . On the contrary, Augustine says . . . corrupting and perverting their nature . . . I answer that . . . and in addition to these, paederasty . . . which Thou hast made and ordained . . . Now those in whom nature is the cause of this state . . . in ways forbidden burning to that use . . . On the contrary, the Philosopher says . . . no one would call such intemperant . . . And therefore are shameless acts . . . I answer that . . . Nature does nothing . . . being against nature . . . without purpose . . . We speak of that as being natural . . . everywhere and always to be detested . . . which is in accord with nature . . . Nor is there a nature in anything . . . or uselessly . . . but Thou knowest it . . . I answer that . . . I came to Carthage . . . On the contrary . . . BEHOLD! YOU TOOK THAT MAN FROM THIS MY LIFE, WHEN NEVER A YEAR OUR LOVE HAD GROWN—AND HE SWEETER TO ME THAN ALL THINGS SWEET!
This suffices for the answers to the objections.
Fustian, so much foolosophy. And what in the end did it amount to, beyond an aged gent, bemused of his wits, exposing himself in a gents in Oxford—and who paid the price in Wandsworth Jail? MacMurrough gathered the papers and carried them to the kitchen, where old Moore kept the range, and he fed them, sheaf by sheaf, into the fire. The angels danced in the flickering flames. We shall now begin, over again, anew.
He slept that night thinking of loves and lighthouses. That one love might shine to bring all loves home. What more was the meaning of Easter?
Easter Sunday then and morning found him in the side rows at early Mass. He must never have caught a low Mass at Easter before, because the vapidity surprised him. No asperges, no waft of incense; couple of altar boys chirping alleluias, then the oddest of sermons. The words trumpeted resurrection and renewal, but the curate’s delivery was all to pot, jitters and stutters and losing his place. MacMurrough had a distinct impression of a complication in the night. Something with the door to the tomb, mechanism had jammed. Savior hasn’t quite risen yet, but we’re working on it. We’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, let us, um, pray.
It had all to do with the Casement business, he supposed, and the placards outside canceling the Volunteer parades. At least Jim was safe out of that. But Jim would never be safe. Nor could he wish safety on the boy. Again he sat at a café in Artois. On the table the letter stained, while the guns growled in the distance. I write to tell you, who had a wish for the boy, the sad news concerning my son . . . I must be released. I must yield decision to another. O Lord, grant not the Kaiser victory before I come to France.
The stale sniff of adulterated frankincense oppressed him. He left before the last Gospel, avoiding the spill of cooks and maids in the glory of their bonnets. He walked briskly to Bullock, where he had a boat waiting in the harbor.
“Everything ready?” he asked.
“Ready, sor,” said the boatman, and he and second oar pushed off. They passed under the steep neck of the pier. A chop of curiosity as the sea met them, then out into the bay.
It truly was the morning of the world. The sky blued above to shade and silver in the sea. What was it, eight o’ clock? Already he felt stuffy in his coat and tie. He had risen very early. All had remained night within while outside morning screaked in the garden. At his window he listened to the birds. He sniffed the new-mown lawns and later watched squirrels, like writing, loop across them. The dandelions were in their first clocks; already bluebells, some. The sycamores were coming to leaf, a green stubble after the hard night. And he had thought on a whim to hear Mass.
“Where to, sor?”
“Out a bit, I should think.”
“Out where, sor?”
“Wales.”
He had even received the Host, and had enjoyed the accident of its acrid taste. It had carried him to school mornings when entire love-makings were conducted by smile and nod between communicants and choir. He remembered the cornering eyes of the boys and their singing oval mouths. Oh, but I was a god then. Even more, I was one with the crowd.
“A hard row to Wales, sor.”
“Here will do so. Only bring the boat about so I can see the shore.”
The bells had returned from Rome and he heard now their revelry, that rowdy way they sounded after Lent. And just as he noticed them, he saw the boys, rounding along the rocky shore from the Forty Foot. How was he swimming? He was swimming fine. Rushing it a bit? No, he was taking his time. The other too swam well. Yes, he did swim well, actually. Curious that: he has no kick, and still he keeps up. Inconsiderate, really; MacMurrough thought it rather a cheek.
But he must not stare or attract attention. He took up a fishing-line he had arranged for. He was wearing a hat of his grandfather’s. They should not notice him.
He had no great fear for the boys till they were past Bullock and coming to Dalkey. He had marked rather a nanny route and gone over it thoroughly with Jim. Swim along the shore with the tide, then swerve across the tide and come to seaward of Maiden Rock. Come to landward, and the tide would sweep them into Dalkey Sound and they might give up any hope of the Muglins. A short hop by Clare Rock. Then the final leg, and quite a challenge it was. MacMurrough had essayed it himself. One had to aim more or less for Scotland to arrive more or less at Wales. He had managed it, but his muscles ached and a knot of pain lodged below his breast-bone. He floated by, seeing the rock for the bird-shitten desolation it was. He hadn’t liked to come ashore, nor even to hold by its crags, feeling his touch an infringement of sorts. He had crawled back across Muglins Sound to Dalkey Island, and rested on the decent grass.
He watched the boys under the brim of his hat. On an impulse he dipped his hand over the side. Icy cold, but they would be over that pain by now. They were swimming naked. Well, he had known they would. He waited while they passed Bullock. That damned flag. I told him not to bring that flag. Senseless drag, let alone the weight. Something in the boatmen’s mutters: he realized they were watching the boys, had been discussing them even. He snapped at them to mind what they were about. He moved along till he sat in the stem. He glanced over his shoulder at the Muglins. Perhaps a mile, mile and a half. It was a hard swim in the open sea for sixteen-year-old boys. Would I come to him in time? Listen to me, Nanny Trembling in a boat.
He had never questioned the swim or sought any explanation for it. It was a boyhood test, so far as he considered it, of endurance, togetherness, whatever. Then, on Maundy Thursday, at Doyle’s Rock, he had shaken Jim’s hand. This was the end of his lessons and, so he had intended, their last meeting. He said, not even thinking of the words, “I wish you luck and I hope you won’t be disappointed. I hope you both pass the test.”
And Jim had said, “Oh no, it’s not a test.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s nothing like a test.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I think I do.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. He looked up through his hair, then swept it out of the way. “You see, MacEmm, we’re extraordinary people. We must do extraordinary things.”
“How we,” said Doyler, “how we doing?”
“Near,” said Jim, “near there.”
“We easy make it.”
“Easy,” said Jim.
The shiver gripped his jaw. He had to duck his head to be gone of it. They were by Clare Rock, treading water. Between the heaves and the pants and the shivery-shakes it was hard talking at all. The flag in its yoke tossed over to him.
“Your bags,” called Doyler.
Jim noosed his neck. Doyler paddled closer till their faces met on the skin of the swell. “Not beat at all,” he said, “you.”
“Amn’t I, amn’t I knocked up?”
Doyler reached his hands to Jim’s shoulders, sending them both down. He held Jim under and rubbed their faces, a class of kissing. Jim came up spluttering and flung back his hair. “You soft?” he cried.
“Happy,” said Doyler, “in sea again.”
“Want to save your breath.”
“No more ’n a spit now.”
“Save your breath,” said Jim, slicing a splash, “when we get there.” He looked about him, feeling a spasm of giddiness. Whatever course MacMurrough had plotted, he couldn’t find the Forty Foot now. Up and down they bobbed, making hectic doggy-paddles, so strange after the concentrated stroke of their swimming.
After a time, Doyler said, “Old shoes—up again.”
Jim nodded. His eyes narrowed on the Muglins. The rock had grown as they neared it, but the channel they must cross had widened too. Even in this tide with little or no carry, the current flowed grey-green.
“We risk it so?”
“Time all right.”
Doyler smiled and Jim smiled too. He nodded and they pushed out. Soon as Jim found his stroke, the ache was back in his arms. Only it was doubled now or trebled, the way the hurt had been storing all the while he rested. And for all he strove, such small return: the Muglins refused to budge. He gave up looking and centered on his stroke, till gradually he found that state where exertion became timeless. The moments no longer heaped the one upon the other. He felt the water, its living run along his body. He lost his sense of the sea’s resistance and felt instead its acceptance of him. It was the sea’s ache in his chest and limbs, the sea’s toil that crawled him on. He had been doing this for ever and surely he must go on doing this for ever more. Then a seaweed came in his mouth. It wouldn’t spit out, he had to tread water to take his fingers to it. He saw Doyler had halted a little way off. He looked up and it was there, the Muglins, no more than a good stone’s throw. There was a landing-deck and reefs jutting out and individual crevices. It was a place all of a sudden. The beacon stood high on its rock.
He looked at Doyler and saw the same notion had struck him. He slipped off the flag yoke and flung it clumsily toward the rocks. “Steady?” he called.
“Go!” cried Doyler. And they plunged headlong, tore through the waves. Well, it wasn’t gala form, and he doubted he’d win any prize for style, nor for speed neither. He was thrashing wildly and a breath wouldn’t last more than two strokes. It was a mystery this last spurt where it came from but it was always there waiting, if you knew how to reach for it. He saw the flash of Doyler’s arm. He made a stab for a landing, but his wrist was grabbed by Doyler who held it aloft in champion style while their bodies glided on.
“We made it!”
“We did and all!”
“Aren’t we mad?”
“Delirious.”
The ground was giddy and dream-like after the sea. Jim’s hands seemed to sink into it. He collapsed on the landing-deck. The sun beat down, but it was cold. From out the stone the shivers came, like the rock itself would be jittering.
“Get up,” said Doyler. “You’ll catch a founder. Ten times round the beacon.”
“Ten times round your head.”
“Tig,” said Doyler. He gave a swipe at Jim’s balls. “You’re it.”
“I’m not it, I’m dead.”
But Doyler was off round the beacon. Out let his yahoo yell. “Chase me,” he called. Wearily Jim rose. He bunched his toes against the rocks. He felt light-headed. “Come on and chase me,” called Doyler. The sunlight was terrifically fierce. Mica glittered in the rock. Doyler looked so queer you couldn’t but smile. He was dancing in some Mohawk fashion. His lad was leaping up and down. It was a kind of giggling when you smiled and shivered the same time. Jim took a step or two. He found indeed he could shift his legs. Indeed he might have something to yell even. “Catch me,” shouted Doyler, insistently, slapping his behind. Jim followed him round. He followed, he chased, his frame unknotted, he hared ahead. Round and round the beacon they
raced, yahooing and roaring the hoarse of their voice. Till all in a heap they fell, heaving and blowing, the sweat dripping from them.
Doyler’s eyes, like black crystals, were looking him in the face. A steam rose from his shoulders. His arm went up round Jim’s neck, drawing him down. Still their chests heaved.
“That was some chase you put me through.”
Jim nodded. His eyes closed as he came down to Doyler’s mouth.
“What is it?”
“It’s a ship it sounds like.”
They clambered round the rock. It was a ship all right, low in the water, a small grey-hulked vessel. The ensign flew, a squat gun poked.
“The Helga.”
“Aye, HMS Helga all right. Submarine patrol. Don’t wave.”
“No.”
“I mean they’ll think we want rescuing.”
Then Jim said, “The flag, quick.”
So they hauled out the flag, Jim holding the bottom corner and Doyler, standing a little above him, the top, while he kept an arm about Jim’s neck. The breeze took the green and flapped it mildly. A sailor was leaning over the rail. He watched them a while, then another sailor came. Jim thought they might be laughing. Then both sailors came to attention and brought their hands to salute. And so the King’s ship passed and the green flag flew from the Muglins.
“Well, we have that done.”
“We have.”
“We’ll be heading back now, I suppose.”
“We will not,” said Jim. “We have the tide to turn first.”
There was a dip in the rock out of the wind. There was even a slab they might lie on, with a seaweed growing that a mind unfussy to these things might take for moss. “Didn’t I tell you?” crowed Doyler. He scraped off the winkles and spread the green flag over. There they stretched. The air had a hazy look. There was the very slightest sniff of ammonia.
Jim listened to the sea-sounds, wave and gull, till these sounds no longer obtruded on his mind, and an immense sea-quiet settled about him. He looked out to seaward, to the vastness of ocean, blue and deep-blue and green-blue, a little awed by its immediacy, that feeling of infinity, that here it begins. There was no horizon, only a shimmering haze, and this intensified the sense of boundless expanse. And then to landward, and the shore so stunningly close, quite toppling in its rush towards them.