At Swim, Two Boys

  Doyler might have followed his thoughts, for he said, “It looks amazing near, don’t it?”

  “It does too.”

  “You wouldn’t credit all that trouble of getting here.”

  A year near enough, thought Jim. Doyler lay on his belly, his face on his folded arms. Jim turned that way too. The sun beat down. He said, “Was it today it was planned for, Doyler?”

  “Was what planned?”

  “The rising.”

  “Oh that. I think so.”

  “You would have told me.”

  “I didn’t know if I would. I’d tell you now of course.”

  “Yes of course.”

  “I have parade this afternoon. I can’t miss that. But nothing will happen.”

  “I see. But you would tell me?”

  He didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “You know, I was scared with the rising. Would you believe that?”

  “No.” Another pause, and Jim asked, “Would you be scared now?”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of now.”

  He had turned on his side and Jim had turned too to face him. Doyler kept glancing up, his eyes checking, each move his fingers made, glancing back at Jim’s face. “They’re like toadstools,” he said.

  “They are a bit, all right.”

  “Do you mind what I’m doing?”

  “It’s nice sure.” But there was still this business not absolutely cleared up, and so as there could be no misunderstandings between them, of whatsoever nature or cause, Jim stated plain as he might, “You’d only be making a muddle not telling me.”

  “Telling you what?”

  “The rising of course.” Doyler let a laugh. “Don’t you see,” Jim reasoned, “I’d be running from billy to jack and who’s to say would I find you at all?”

  “All right, honor bright, cross me heart and hope to die. I’ll send it in a telegram, urgent. A night letter, a marconigram, a pigeongram even. I’ll send smoke signals out of the Sugarloaf. That do you?”

  “I only want to be with you.”

  “I know you do.”

  Doyler’s hand had removed. He fetched a phlegm and a gobshell splashed in the bladderwrack. He had turned on his belly again. He looked disappointed, and Jim reached a hand to his shoulder. “It’s all right, Jim,” he said. “We’ve come this far. I can wait.” Another spurt jetted through his teeth. A moment, then he said, “You see the Martello beyond on Dalkey Island? Do you know the story with that? What it was—”

  “Is this true now?”

  “Go way, would I lie to you? Back I don’t know when, after the British gave up them towers, well, that one on the island over, don’t ask me why, it got forgot.”

  “No,” said Jim. “That was the Sandycove tower.”

  “It was not. You know so much, do you know what happened?”

  “The sergeant and two swaddies kept at their duties, twenty years they kept at them. Me da told me all about it.”

  “Your da’s a decent skin, and I wouldn’t go against him save he’s not within the bawl of an ass of it. ’Twas a corporal with two gunners. And never mind their duties, they didn’t do spit the week long save blow their bunce in the Dalkey shebeens. Now that corporal’s name was Reilly. And it’s after him you get it, living the life of Reilly. Now.”

  “Is that true?”

  “True as I’m lying here holding your lad in me hand, it is.” Jim felt a laughter burst from him. Then Doyler said, “Can I kiss you now?”

  “You know better than to ask.”

  “Why wouldn’t I ask?”

  “You know you can kiss me.”

  “I’ll kiss you all over.”

  But it was Jim who kissed first. He lay atop Doyler, pinning his shoulders, and kissed his forehead and his cheeks, his chin, his throat, kissing the apple in his throat. He kissed the bruise on his shoulder and the seven hairs, counting them, on his chest where the half a medal lay. He watched Doyler’s face through the strands of his hair while he snuck down, still watching, and kissed the very tip of his horn which bounced up against Jim’s nose and his chin making him blink, till he kissed it again on the hop. He felt his face like a red velvet. He was charged with the wonder of desire and delay. He pulled up again and made a hold of Doyler’s arm.

  “I’m not shy, you know,” he said.

  “You don’t be acting very shy.”

  “But you understand we had to come?”

  “I know I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Jim nodded. He said, “I suppose it’s soft wanting to cuddle always.”

  “It is not. I’d hate you and you didn’t.”

  “Gordie used bring his arm round me in bed sometimes. I used love it then. I’d wake in the night and his arm would be there. One time then, he was lying awake and I think he twigged that I was awake too. He gave the hell of a shove and kicked me down the bottom of the bed. We were sleeping head and toe after that.”

  “Is it hard with him gone?”

  “I dream of him.”

  “You would too.”

  “I don’t know if you ever dreamt of anyone was close to you and he’s dead. It’s terrible strange. He’s always walking, I don’t know, some hill or other. He’s not walking fast or anything, save it’s hard catching up with him, hard to keep up even. He won’t turn to look at you, just keeps walking on. And you’re saying, What’re you doing here? After they told us you was dead? You’re shocked like and all annoyed. You can’t get any talk out of him. And you’re crying really and saying, Why’re you doing this? Won’t you come home now? He’s not looking at you, he’s just walking on and on. I try to hold his arm, I try to turn him round. Don’t you know we miss you? Don’t you know you can come home out of this and we’ll forget all about it? There’s everything so weary with him. And he just says, Oh well you know. And he keeps on walking.

  “I hate it when I dream like that. I wake up and I’m so angry. I’m really angry with him.”

  “I’m sorry, Jim.”

  Jim felt Doyler bring his head round, he felt him kiss his eyes, his eyes feeling wet after. He said, “Oh well.”

  Doyler said nothing.

  Then Jim said, “I don’t know what’s it called. Will you do it with me? If I lie down, will you lie on top of me?”

  “I’d like to. It’ll maybe hurt a bit.”

  Jim hunched his shoulders, making him feel skinny of a sudden. He felt his bottom lip caught in his teeth. It did that if he smiled feeling awkward.

  For a moment or two, he was aware of the hardness of the stone beneath him. He heard them come back again, the seaside sounds of waves and birds. Behind his eyelids the sun had its red glare. There was a sweat on his back which the air traced. He felt it far away, the intimate search of foreign fingers. Then Doyler pushed against him. His eyes squeezed and all sensation shook.

  It was a moment when he scarcely existed but to suffer pain. Then Doyler’s weight came down on top of him. His hair fell on Jim’s cheek, reawaking the sense of his face.

  “You all right?”

  He rubbed his cheek against Doyler’s. He opened his lips and felt with his tongue along Doyler’s teeth, searching out the chip off the middle one. He tasted a salt of the sea where the lips creased at the side. Doyler was upon him and inside him, on his breath even, all about him. His body strained the more to meet the body above. He did not think of anything, but his thoughts were there in the back of his mind or in the sea that circled his mind. They had this together now. They had their island. Whenever a thought crossed or a look met, if a hair but brushed a finger, this was where they would be. No one could take it from them, chance what might, nor he couldn’t nor Doyler. He had to bring Doyler here because Doyler didn’t know to come of his own. This was the light the Muglins had shone all those years. It was here was their home, it was in the sea, an island.

  Doyler whispered in his ear, “It’s my turn next.” It had Jim smiling to think of that. He felt lazy and free. “There’s all the time,” he sai
d.

  “Throw a line over, sor?”

  “Do, by all means. And let me know when the tide turns.”

  MacMurrough took off his coat and folded it behind his head, pulled down his hat over his eyes; closed his eyes, tired after the glaring water, to drowse the while. And drowsing he saw but waves and beacon and rock. But in the dip of that rock he knew there formed a primal unity, which was not, as Aristophanes had thought, an egg-shaped being, rather a twin-backed flapping seal; that unity the jealous gods had thought to sunder, not reckoning the human heart.

  It was the boatman who woke him, plucking his trousers. “Only they looks to be harrished, sor,” he was saying.

  “What is it?”

  “Shwimmers, sor. Only they’s in trouble, could be.”

  “Where?” He pointed. “Row,” MacMurrough said; then bellowed, “Row, man, damn you!”

  He shoved the man, near upsetting the boat. He could make out one head in the water. There was a slick on the surface, a spill of something—never oil? The glare was bewildering. He had to throw water in his eyes. One head, yes. Down it ducked. Not oil: that wretched flag. He shouted to the men, “Row, row,” as he pulled at his clothes. The head came up. It was Jim. A breath, then down again. The flag was sinking, had sunk. But Jim was safe. He registered no relief. A kind of training took over, that his mind and dreaming body these months had rehearsed. Training judged the boat’s speed, their distance, his balance on the gunwale; it dived him to the water. The cold hit, near gasping his breath. He skimmed to the surface; air gulped in his throat. He pulled on the waves, tugging on them, willing a purchase, laddering them almost. Jim was ducking again and he charged into him, grabbed his hair, savagely wrenched him away. “Boat,” he yelled, then plunged below. He kicked with the current. His eyes still smarted, but the water was clear. He saw the cloth, a dark jelly-fish below. Beneath it, the boy had stopped struggling. In silence, dreamily, MacMurrough unwound the cords that had wrapped themselves round, propelled the imponderable weight to the surface. Jim was still there and he roared at him, “Boat!” He dragged the boy to the stern and Jim, inside now, helped pull the body over.

  “MacEmm,” Jim was saying, “MacEmm.”

  “Tongue. Check his tongue.” He turned the boy on his front, straddled his back. Push, one thousand. All cramped in the well of the boat, water swilling about. Push, two thousand, his hands on the small of the boy’s back. Up, three thousand. He saw Jim open the mouth, search his fingers inside. “Pulse,” he shouted. Wait, four thousand. The boy’s face was turned on his elbow: his face livid, so very nearly lifelike. Wait, five thousand. Jim’s fingers fiddled with his wrist. Push, one thousand. “I think so,” he heard. Up, three thousand. “Pulse, yes!” Wait, five thousand. He felt a shudder under his hands. “Tongue,” he called again. Push, two thousand. Water trickled out of the mouth. Up, three thousand. “He’s not breathing.” Wait, four thousand. “MacEmm, he’s not breathing.” Wait, five thousand. “Please, MacEmm.” He glimpsed the red faces of the men rowing. Push, one thousand. The horizon pitched and sended. Wait, five thousand. Jim shivering watching. “My shirt on,” he told him. The shirt absurdly wrapping round his own shoulders. Still push one thousand and up three thousand and wait five thousand and push. A freak wave buffeted the boat as MacMurrough came down, one thousand, to push. The boy choked and he made to turn his face to cough or to vomit. “Tongue,” shouted MacMurrough. “Breathing!” shouted Jim. “He’s breathing, MacEmm!” Still MacMurrough pushed and upped and waited till there could be no doubting. The boy moaned, and to moan he must breathe.

  He wrapped his coat over the boy’s back, then turned him round. “Put my shirt on,” he snapped at Jim. He held his hand on the chest, gauging the strength of the breathing. “My watch,” he said. Jim had it ready. He timed the breaths. He felt for the boy’s pulse: thready, but undeniable. He lifted the boy’s legs into his trousers. Jim was on the stern bench dripping, juddering. He clambered over and slapped him hard on the cheek. “I warned you about that flag.” Biting his lip, disbelief in his eyes: a little color returned. “Where are we?” MacMurrough called to the men.

  “Bullock rocks, sor.”

  “Don’t let up.” To Jim again. “You know the doctor’s house?” Nod. “You must run. If the doctor is away, you must find from his people where there’s another. Give my name and have them use the telephone.”

  “He’ll be all right now?”

  “He’s breathing well. But you must fetch a doctor. Don’t panic now, Jim. I need you with your wits.”

  MacMurrough attended to the boy, buttoning his coat on him and checking his pulse and his breathing. He opened an eyelid where the eye was dull. But it flinched against the light and the eyelid blinked. The body convulsed with shivers.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Jim’s face would repent a judge. “Come here, Jim.” The boy crept over. “Take his hand now. He’s fine. A little shock, that’s all. Try keep him warm.”

  “MacEmm, I wasn’t panicking.”

  “All right.”

  “But you did right to hit me if you thought I was.”

  MacMurrough turned his head. “Keep him warm now.”

  At last she heard him, his brisk boots on the tiled floor, Shorty stepping through the hospital ward. With a tenderly soldierliness he took up his station behind her. “Mum,” said he, turning about the bath-chair, “the motor-car awaits.”

  Which meant no more, Eveline was not deceived, than that her permit had been approved to hear public Easter Mass. They passed along corridors, where walking wounded sidled by the walls, into the Castle grounds. The motor waited by the steps, and with Shorty’s efficient bracing she slipped into the leather lap of the rear. All the courtesies. Motor and driver, her personal attendant, a cornered space in the officers’ ladies’ ward: the London influence of her brother of course.

  The sentry at the gates saluted, the constable peeked his helmet. Under the gate-arch now, with its figure of Justice atop, her back turned significantly on the city. Shorty, in acknowledgment of the weather, hurrumphed and passed a white-gloved hand to his mouth. Eva responded in like vein, primming her face so that she stared impassively ahead: it truly was a most pretty morning.

  The motor-car purred to its halt outside a blank façade, dead to a lane, a chapel whose sole recommendation, so Eveline perceived, was the absence of any side exit: this prisoner de luxe should not through faith be tempted to her liberty. The pilgrim crowd, discomposed by their passage, reformed by the chapel steps. Urchin eyes spilt on the coachwork, breaths gaped on the glass. She saw the pinched and mesquin faces of the women. Beyond, on a tenement sill, flowers waved in a window-box like weeds on a cliff. Shorty, in full stepping-out rig, soon made way and handed Eveline to the chapel porch. He eyed her a little doubtfully. “Thank you, Shorty,” she said, dismissing him. “Perhaps an hour. You shan’t forget me now?” And she stepped through the portal unaided.

  The usher was abashed to receive her. He asked only a ha’pence and she understood then why the chapel should hum so exclusively of the Lord’s unwashed. He guided her to a forward seat where she knelt awkwardly, a veiled island of dignity beyond the promiscuous shawls.

  Poor people, yet buoyant with it. There was a murmur from the benches almost of chatting. Forty days they had mortified their wants: now they feasted on the expectation of meat, a pipe of tobacco, alleluia. A youth in soutane came to light the candles. So very few candles, a begrudgement of flowers. Her back ached, so too her neck. Escape: the notion of course had crossed her mind. But where to go, what to do? History had finished with her generation. Better surely exile than to remain here, in this land of taint and squalor, among a people who saw no further than their pipes, hoped for no better than bacon at table. Twice four hundred years had Ireland famished in Lent. What cared this racaille for that?

  Oh lah, but this was too unfair, and immediately she repented her dureté. Lent must have fallen very hard this year. Fish was grown so expensive in the war
, it was rather a treat for the rich than any penance of the poor to be fasting on it.

  A hand-bell rang. The susurration ceased, quiet came down in a fust of incense. A shock of white as entered the priest.

  An elderly gentleman, quite alone save for the soutaned young man, now surpliced, his server: a well-looking youth whom presently Eva believed she must recognize. Surely I have met that young man? The priest bowed, genuflected to the altar, signed the cross. That quaint unsongful intoning, Introibo ad altare Dei. Low Mass in a slum chapel at half before noon.

  The server’s responses came reasoned and clear—so very much more fitting than the rote-learnt gabble of the usual altar boys. A college student, Eva considered: an act of charity to serve in this quartier. So simply he stood and so surely he spoke, they were true, she was certain, the words that he said, that he would go unto the altar of God, unto God who gave joy to his youth.

  And yes, there was a joy in this server’s youth, a joy to look at him even, so fresh of face in this dowdy scene. The vestments he wore did not shroud him entirely, and she made out, though her veil blurred a little her view, the collar of a tunic at his neck: at the cuffs and legs the heather green of a uniform. So, a Volunteer lad—had she inspected him, perhaps, at a parade?

  The priest made his confession to the server, and in the people’s name the server begged God’s mercy on the priest. After, the young man made his own confession, in the name of all gathered, striking his breast for their fault, their fault, their most grievous fault. Perhaps it was this chapel and its sanctuary so very bare: the scene imposed its drama on Eva. The youth bows to the venerable priest: it might be Ireland’s sins he confesses, that she has not risen, she has not risen, most grievously has not risen.

  How it must anguish them, she thought, the young, to know once more their hopes are deceived. How shall we ever expect their pardon? This lad would go out alone, she made no slightest doubt, with his bare hands to fight, were but one good man to lead the way. That one good man lay in chains in London. Now when she saw them joined in prayer, how white and fine were his fingers: a virile delicacy that carried her to Casement. How he had delighted, that noble-hearted man, in the upright spirit of the young.