‘Oh, what does it matter? He’ll soon be in the poorhouse. Why don’t we go for a swim?’
I walked in sullen silence by his side across the bridge. I wanted to swim with him but I wanted to reject him, and in my heart I hated him. I calmed as we walked. At the boathouse I helped him lift someone’s night line. It had no fish though the hooks had been cleaned of bait. We started to talk again as we went to where the high whitethorns shielded the river from the road. We stripped on the bank and swam and afterwards lay on the warm moss watching the bream shoal out beyond the reeds, their black fins moving sluggishly above the calm surface, white gleam of the bellies as they slowly rolled, until harness bells sounded on the road behind the whitethorns.
At the iron gate, where the whitethorns ended, two gypsy caravans and a spring cart came into our view. The little round curtained window in the back glittered in the sun, and two dogs roped to the axle trotted, heads low, mechanically, between the red wheels. Now and then a whip cracked above the horses’ heads into the jingling of the harness bells.
‘Do you think Lavin did what he was supposed to do to the gypsy girl?’ I asked.
‘He’d hardly have to pay with the farm if he didn’t,’ Casey answered with quiet logic. The image of the monstrous penis being driven deep into the struggling gypsy girl made me shiver with excitement.
‘It’d be good if we had two caravans, you and me, like the caravans gone past. You and me would live in one caravan. We’d keep four women in the other. We’d ride around Ireland. We’d make them do anything we’d want to.’ If Casey had been more forward with Lavin early on, I was leading now.
‘It’d be great,’ he answered.
‘They’d strip the minute we said strip. If they didn’t we’d whip them. We’d whip them with those whips that have bits of metal on the ends. We’d whip them until the blood came and they’d to put arms round our knees for mercy.’
‘Yes, we’d make them get down on their hands and knees, naked, and do them from behind the way the bull does,’ Casey said, and dived sideways to seize a frog in the grass. He took a dried stem of reed and began to insert it in the frog. ‘That’s what’ll tickle him, I’m telling you.’
‘Why couldn’t we do it together?’ I tentatively asked, stiff with excitement. He understood at once.
‘I’ll do it to you first,’ he said, the dead reed sticking out of the frog in his hand, ‘and then you’ll do it to me.’
‘Why don’t you let me do it to you first, and then you can have as long as you like on me?’
‘No.’
The fear was unspoken: whoever took his pleasure first would have the other in his power and then might not surrender his own body. We avoided each other’s eyes. I watched the dead reed being moved in and out of the frog.
‘They say it hurts,’ I said. There was relief now of not having to go through with it.
‘It’d probably hurt too much.’ Charley Casey was eager to agree. ‘It’d be better to get two women and hurt them. They say a frog can live only so long under water.’
‘Why don’t we see?’
I found a stone along the bank and we tied one of the frog’s legs with fishing line to the stone. We took it some hundred yards up the bank to where a shallow stream joined the river. We dropped the stone and watched the frog claw upwards, but each time it was dragged back by the line, until it weakened, and it drowned.
We crossed the bridge in silence, already changing. I helped him at school for some time afterwards but in the evenings we avoided each other, as if we were aware of some shameful truth we were afraid to come to know together.
I never saw Lavin again. They took him to the poorhouse that October when the low hedges were blue with sloes, though by then the authorities referred to it as the Resthome for Senior Citizens.
Casey is now married, with children, and runs a pub called the Crown and Anchor somewhere in Manchester, but I’ve never had any wish to look him up. In fact he seldom enters my mind. But as I grow older hardly a day passes but a picture of Lavin comes to trouble me: it is of him when he was young, and, they said, handsome, gathering the scattered tools at nightfall in a clean wheatfield after the others had gone drinking or to change for the dances.
My Love, My Umbrella
It was the rain, the constant weather of this city, made my love inseparable from the umbrella, a black umbrella, white stitching on the seams of the imitation leather over the handle, the metal point bent where it was caught in Mooney’s grating as we raced for the last bus to the garage out of Abbey Street. The band was playing when we met, the Blanchardstown Fife and Drum. They were playing Some day he’ll come along/The man I love/And he’ll be big and strong/The man I love at the back of the public lavatory on Burgh Quay, facing a few persons on the pavement in front of the Scotch House. It was the afternoon of a Sunday.
‘It is strange, the band,’ I said; her face flinched away, and in the same movement back, turned to see who’d spoken. Her skin under the black hair had the glow of health and youth, and the solidity at the bones of the hips gave promise of a rich seed-bed.
‘It’s strange,’ she answered, and I was at once anxious for her body.
The conductor stood on a wooden box, continually breaking off his conducting to engage in some running argument with a small grey man by his side, but whether he waved his stick jerkily or was bent in argument seemed to make no difference to the players. They turned their pages. The music plodded on, Some day he’ll come along/The man I love/And he’ll be big and strong/The man I love. At every interval they looked towards the clock, Mooney’s clock across the river.
‘They’re watching the clock,’ I said.
‘Why?’ her face turned again.
‘They’ll only play till the opening hour.’
I too anxiously watched the clock. I was afraid she’d go when the band stopped. Lights came on inside the Scotch House. The music hurried. A white-aproned barman, a jangle of keys into the quickened music, began to unlock the folding shutters and with a resounding clash drew them back. As the tune ended the conductor signalled to the band that they could put away their instruments, got down from his box, and started to tap the small grey man on the shoulder with the baton as he began to argue in earnest. The band came across the road towards the lighted globes inside the Scotch House, where already many of their audience waited impatiently on the slow pulling of the pints. The small grey man carried the conductor’s box as they passed in together.
‘It is what we said would happen.’
‘Yes.’
The small family cars were making their careful way home across the bridge after their Sunday outings to their cold ham and tomato and lettuce, the wind blowing from the mouth of the river, gulls screeching above the stink of its low tide, as I forced the inanities towards an invitation.
‘Would you come with me for a drink?’
‘Why?’ She blushed as she looked me full in the face.
‘Why not?’
‘I said I’d be back for tea.’
‘We can have sandwiches.’
‘But why do you want me to?’
‘I’d like very much if you come. Will you come?’
‘All right I’ll come but I don’t know why.’
It was how we began, the wind blowing from the mouth of the river while the Blanchardstown Fife and Drum downed their first thirst-quencher in the Scotch House.
They’d nothing but beef left in Mooney’s after the weekend. We had stout with our sandwiches. Soon, in the drowsiness of the stout, we did little but watch the others drinking. I pointed out a poet to her. I recognized him from his pictures in the paper. His shirt was open-necked inside a gabardine coat and he wore a hat with a small feather in its band. She asked me if I liked poetry.