“Don’t go away,” the girl called. As they approached she added: “My name is Sarah. I know who you are: you’re Angela’s Major and you’ve just arrived from England for a holiday.” “Ah, for a holiday?” wondered the Major.
“You see, I know everything that goes on...including everything about Ripon, don’t I, Ripon? Everything about what young Ripon has been up to in Kilnalough recently. He’s like an evil little cherub, don’t you think so, Major, with those round cheeks and curly hair.”
“You’re cruel,” the Major said lightly. And though her eyes were clear and grey and the backs of her hands sunburned (which suggested that she might be rather modern) and her hair dark, shining and very long, dividing round her nape and falling over her chest, and though she was quite beautiful, all things considered, the Major thought that perhaps Ripon was right and she was, as he had said, poisonous.
“One of the things I know about Ripon is that he constantly tells lies, isn’t that so, Ripon? He even tells lies to innocent young girls who don’t know any better than to believe him, that’s true, isn’t it, Ripon? No, Major, don’t look so startled, I’m not talking about myself. Young Ripon would have to get up early in the morning before he caught me believing one of his yarns. So now you know why Ripon has to be nice to me (though I’m sure he says spiteful things behind my back). I know everything. Are you going to be nice to me, Ripon?”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Ripon, who, with his head on one side, did in fact look somewhat discomfited. “You always make such a fuss when you know very well that we all dote on you.”
“Well,” said the Major. “I know one or two things about you, Sarah. Your father is the manager of the only bank in Kilnalough and you give piano lessons to private pupils in your father’s home behind the bank. I hope I haven’t got you mixed up. No? You’ve had a grand piano brought down from Pigott’s in Dublin. In order to get it into the house you had to remove the legs and then replace them, I understand ...What else do I know? Let me see, your name is Devlin, isn’t it? I’m sure I know some other things but my memory is terrible these days.”
“Angela told you all that, of course. But you’ve forgotten the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact that I’m a Catholic. Yes, I can see that she told you but that you regard it as a fact too shameful to mention. Or perhaps you regard it as good manners not to mention such an affliction.”
“What absolute nonsense!”
“Pay no attention, Sarah got out of bed the wrong side as usual.”
“Be quiet, Ripon! It’s not nonsense at all. Ripon’s father calls us ‘fish-eaters’ and ‘Holy Romans’ and so on. So does Ripon. So will you, Major, when you’re among the ‘quality.’ In fact, you’ll become a member of the ‘quality’ yourself, high and mighty, too good for the rest of us.”
“I hope not to be so bigoted,” said the Major smiling. “Surely there’s no need to abandon one’s reason simply because one is in Ireland.”
“In Ireland you must choose your tribe. Reason has nothing to do with it. But let’s talk about something else, Major. Is it true what they say (because, of course, I hear all the gossip), is it true that Angela’s Major had to stay in hos-pital so long because he wasn’t quite himself, so to speak, in the head?”
“Ah,” thought the Major, nettled, “she’s cruel...cruel... but then life in a wheelchair must be terrible.” He tried to picture himself in a wheelchair for the rest of his life and it did indeed seem terrible. All at once he felt extremely tired remembering the breathless, swaying cabin on board the mail boat, remembering also an interminable conversation he had got into with some army chap on his way to Dublin Castle, drinking brandy and soda in the bar, on the subject of cricket, and the afternoon seemed endless, endless.
“I was looking at the flowers which have run wild over by the summerhouse,” Sarah was saying, “and I heard the shots. Were you hunting that policeman? How peculiar! And then what was I doing? Yes, I was going to steal an apple and you caught me in the act.”
“Let me help you steal it,” the Major said. “I’m sure it will give you indigestion though.” He reached up to detach the apple and it fell with a flurry of leaves into Sarah’s lap.
“Thank you, thank you,” she exclaimed, sinking her pretty white teeth into the apple and making a face because it was so tart. “As a reward, Major, and you too, Ripon, I shall allow you to wheel me back to watch all those fat men playing tennis...or rather, no, the Major shall have the honour of wheeling me because I hurt his feelings just now by saying he wasn’t quite himself, and I want to make amends and, besides, he won’t think me so nasty if he wheels me.”
“Ah, she’s cruel,” thought the Major, his feelings hurt afresh. Nevertheless he took hold of the wheelchair and began to push her. And, curiously enough, he did feel a little better as he pushed her up the drive and thought that perhaps she was not quite as nasty as he had supposed.
“Actually,” Ripon said, “it was one of the appalling Shinners we were hunting, not the policeman.”
“Ah, a Shinner,” Sarah replied absently. “That’s a different matter altogether.” And she fell silent as they made their way slowly up the drive and round past the garages to where they could hear the ping of tennis rackets and the sound of voices in the still evening.
The Majestic’s grounds were laid out on such an expansive scale that the Major was surprised to find that Edward’s game of tennis was taking place on a rather cramped and grassless court tucked in the right angle formed by the dining-rooms and another wing of lighter and less weatherworn stone, evidently an addition to the main building to cope with the hotel’s former popularity. This court had an advantage for spectators, however: outside the French windows there was a terrace with comfortable deck-chairs which the Major, who was exhausted, eyed hopefully. Sarah had changed her mind about watching the tennis and had dismissed Ripon and himself before reaching their destination. No sooner was she out of earshot when Ripon had said: “She can walk perfectly well, of course, without that wheelchair. That’s just to get sympathy.” Seeing the Major’s disbelief, he added: “I’ve seen her walking perfectly well when she thought no one was looking. I know you don’t believe me but you’ll see, you’ll see.”
“What an odious young man,” thought the Major. “No wonder Angela didn’t mention him in her letters.” But nobody else was taking an interest in his arrival at the hotel, so for the moment he was obliged to remain in Ripon’s company. Besides, Ripon had at last made up his mind to head in the direction of the deck-chairs that stood invitingly unoccupied on the terrace and the Major was aching to sit down.
Before he could reach them, however, he was intercepted by a maid with the news that the ladies wanted to speak to him. Looking round, he saw that a number of elderly ladies were gathered round a table at the far end of the terrace in a corner sheltered from the breeze. They waved and beckoned eagerly as he looked in their direction; they had evidently been in considerable trepidation lest he pass by without seeing them. As he walked over to introduce himself their anticipation increased visibly.
“Yes, yes, Major,” one of the ladies said with a smile. “We already know who you are, we’ve heard such a lot about you from dear Angela and we do hope you’re better. It must have been very alarming for you.”
“Much better, thank you,” replied the Major and as he was introduced to Miss Johnston, Miss Bagley, Mrs Rice, Miss Porteous, Mrs Herbert, and Miss Staveley (without, however, being able to identify clearly who was who) he wondered just how Angela had described the prolonged attack of “nerves” which had accompanied his convalescence. But the ladies were becoming impatient with the long introductions and with the little speech of welcome to the Majestic which followed, delivered by the only lady whose name and face had remained firmly cemented together, Miss Johnston. “Ask him, ask him!” they murmured, clutching their shawls and stoles around their shoulders, for by now the westering sun had all but left the t
errace, blotted out by the great mass of the Majestic, and presently they would have to go indoors.
“We should like to know,” began Miss Johnston impressively, “whether you had tea this afternoon in the Palm Court.”
“Tea? Why, yes, thank you, I did,” replied the Major, staring at them in surprise. The ladies were exchanging significant glances.
“Thank you, Major. That was all we wanted to know,” Miss Johnston said in clipped tones and the Major felt himself to be dismissed.
In the meantime, to the Major’s relief, Ripon had sloped off somewhere and there was a prospect of being able to relax undisturbed in one of the deck-chairs by the tennis court. Hardly had he sat down, however, when Ripon reappeared with a glass of beer in his hand and sat down beside him. Without offering the Major a drink he began to make comments in a confidential tone about anyone who happened to stray within his field of vision. The old ladies? Permanent residents “battening on the poor old Majestic like leeches, impossible to get rid of, most of them won’t even pay their wretched bills unless one gets a bit sticky with them...” That poor old blighter sitting by himself near the summerhouse, the chap with the drop on the end of his nose? “Used to be a friend of Parnell and a man of great influence with the Parliamentary Party. These days no one speaks to him, he’s a dreadful old bore...” That young fellow with the pale face lurking on the steps down to the next terrace? “The twins’ tutor...but since they don’t need a tutor (or refuse to have one, it comes to the same thing) the chap never does a stroke, always lurking around and toadying to Father. I can hardly bear to look at his neck, his collar always looks like a dirty, bloodstained bandage. Frightful fellow. Another thing, I have it on reliable authority that he has a cloven hoof; he has been observed bathing.”
Ripon fell silent. Sarah was approaching with Angela, who wanted to know if the Major had met her “best friend in the world” ...the person without whom she didn’t know what she would do in Kilnalough, where life was so dull and the people, although kindness itself, so uncultured that one hardly knew what to say. Did the Major know that, apart from the one in the vestry at St Michael’s and perhaps one at the chapel (she didn’t know about that) and two or three broken-down old things here at the Majestic, Sarah was the only person in Kilnalough who owned a piano and that this piano had been brought down from Pigotts of Dublin? The Major, as he listened and nodded politely, began to wonder, not for the first time, whether Angela was conscious of having written him so many letters. Could it be, he wondered as Angela explained how the beast’s legs had been sawn off and reattached, that this was a case of automatic writing, that one night in every week she would throw back the bedclothes and with staring eyes and arms outstretched, clad only in a shimmering nightdress, walk mechanically to her writing-desk and set to work?
Sarah said: “Angela, how are you these days? I see so little of you.”
“Much the same,” Angela murmured. “Much the same.” And there was silence for a moment except for the sound of scuffling feet and hard breathing from the near-by tennis court. Brightening, however, she added: “But how are you, Sarah? Life must be such a trial for you—yes, I know it must be—the things all the rest of us take for granted and yet you’re like a perfect angel, never a word of complaint!”
“Oh no, that’s not true at all. I’m evil and bad-tempered and always complaining but you’re so good yourself that you don’t even notice it.”
“Well,” said Angela, “I’m sure that’s not true but, anyway, it’s so nice to be having a conversation that’s not about Home Rule and Nationalism and so forth, which is all we ever seem to talk about these days. I’m sure London’s not what it used to be before the war (everyone says it’s not) but at least there’s still conversation. Brendan, you must tell us all about it, we’re becoming hopelessly provincial although even in Kilnalough we hear the most tantalizing rumours.”
But the Major was at a loss to find anything to tell them. The few chats he had had with his aunt, pleasant though they had been, would certainly not qualify as conversation in Angela’s eyes. And as to what the tantalizing rumours might refer to he had no idea. In any case before he had time to reveal his ignorance Edward Spencer called up from the tennis court: “See that the Major gets himself a room, Ripon, will you? Show him the ropes and...” He was interrupted by a flurry of agile volleying at the net... “and all that sort of thing,” he added lamely, picking up the ball, which had ended in the net at his feet. And then Angela had wandered away absently and was helping a very old lady, whom the Major provisionally identified as Miss Bagley, to wind her wool.
“If I were you, Major,” Ripon said gesturing up to the left, “I should aim for a room up there somewhere around the third floor...that part of the place is in reasonable condition by the look of it.” He must have noticed the Major’s look of astonishment because he added: “A lot depends on how the roof is. We’re not as watertight as we might be...though the weather does seem fairly settled at the moment.”
Could it be that Ripon was actually suggesting that he should go and forage for a room by himself while he remained slumped in a deck-chair? A moment later and there was no doubt of it. Ripon said: “In my experience it’s usually best to have a look before the sun goes down because sometimes, you know, one finds that not all the lights are working.”
“How incredibly...well, Irish!” thought the Major bitterly. The fellow might at least have collared a servant and told him to show him up to a room. And was one expected to draw one’s own bath? However, he would no doubt have accustomed himself to the idea since the quickest way to find a bed and a bath was plainly by not depending on the Spencers, had not the wretched, cruel (though crippled) girl Sarah not immediately divined his suffering and said: “Ripon, you can’t possibly let the Major who looks so pink and exhausted and offended wander all over the hotel by himself trying to find a pillow on which to lay his head. Major, you mustn’t let the thoughtless and inconsiderate Ripon treat you this way.” A surge of anger took hold of the Major. He would gladly have strangled her. As he stood up Ripon said: “Oh, the Major doesn’t mind fending for himself, do you?” Then, possibly concluding that the Major did, after all, mind, he added: “I’m going upstairs anyway so I may as well give you a hand.”
Ripon got to his feet and led the way out, but not before Sarah had caught the Major’s sleeve and said: “I’m sorry... I’m always saying stupid things that come into my head.”
She must have known, of course, that that would only make things worse—but no, perhaps she really wanted, in spite of everything, to be forgiven.
The room he found, though dusty, was a pleasant one on the third floor facing the sea. He had chosen it after looking at only three or four others. Ripon had disappeared immediately, but arrangements, he hoped, had been made for someone to clean it and make up the bed later on. In the meantime he had unpacked his suitcase and was glad to find that his bottles of cologne and macassar were unbroken after all; for some time he had been intending to achieve a smarter appearance, hoping that this might dissipate the notion that he was unstable and suffered from “nerves.” Having arranged the bottles on the dressing-table beside his silver hairbrushes he investigated the adjoining bathroom. A great gush of rust-coloured water came out of the taps at first, but then gradually it cleared to a pale amber and though it never became quite warm enough for comfort he endured it and felt better afterwards.
It was true that there was a curious smell in the room, a sweetish and disturbing smell which lingered even when he opened wide the French window on to the balcony. But he decided to forget about it and enjoy the splendid view over the series of terraces descending to the sea, until at last he heard the distant boom of the gong and made his way downstairs in search of the dining-room.
He found the Spencers waiting for him around a dimly lit table above which a faint aura of exasperation seemed to hang. He assumed that they were displeased at being made to wait for him. As soon as he made his appearance
Edward picked up a heavy hand-bell and rang it vigorously. This done, he went to a small concealed door in the oak panelling (which the Major took to be a broom cupboard) and whisked it open. An elderly lady stepped out. She was dressed entirely in black except for a white lace cap pinned haphazardly to her faded bundle of grey hair. She was evidently blind, for Edward led her to the table and sat her down before instructing her in deafening tones that Brendan, that was to say the Major, Angela’s Major, had come home, home from the war...
“Angela’s Major,” she murmured. “Where is he?”
And the Major was apologized to and led forward to kneel beside the chair while the old lady ran a withered hand over his features. Suddenly she cried petulantly: “That’s not him! That’s someone else!” and there was confusion for a moment while old Mrs Rappaport (for the Major had identified her as Angela’s widowed grandmother) was shifted into a position suitable for addressing the steaming plate of brown soup in front of her. A silver spoon was put in her hand, a napkin was tied round her neck and, still protesting feebly, she began to siphon up her soup with great rapidity.
Thereafter the meal became lugubrious and interminable, even to the Major who thought that in hospital he had explored the very depths of boredom. Edward and Ripon were annoyed with each other for some reason and disinclined for conversation. The tutor apparently did not eat with the family; at any rate he was nowhere to be seen. The food was entirely tasteless except for a dish of very salty steamed bacon and cabbage that gave off a vague, wispy odour of humanity. But the Major did not really mind. He was hungry once more and chewed away with a weary ferocity. Indeed, he was light-headed with fatigue and as he chewed his thoughts kept wandering to the bed that awaited him, as a bridegroom throughout a long wedding-feast might contemplate his bride.
In the farthest shadowy reaches of the dining-room a handful of guests dotted here and there at small tables occasionally revealed their presence by a cleared throat or a rattle of silver. But silence collected between the tables in layers like drifts of snow. Once in the course of the meal a brief, querulous argument broke out at the other end of the room; someone complained that his private jar of pickles had been used without his consent (it seemed to be the old man Ripon had described as a “friend of Parnell” but the Major could not be sure); but then silence returned, and once again the clinking of cutlery. Why are we all sitting here in shadowy silence clinking our chains like souls in perdition? Even in Kilnalough, he felt sure, in the wretched whitewashed cottages he had seen or in the parlours behind the straggling shop-fronts there would be identical shadowy figures clinking in silence as they ate their meals around a hearth. And it was too much for him, tired as he was, to endure. For this was the Major’s first night in Ireland and, like a man struggling to retain his consciousness as he inhales the first fumes of chloroform, he had not yet allowed himself to surrender to the country’s vast and narcotic inertia. He would leave the Majestic tomorrow, he told himself, or the day after, at latest. He would settle his business with Angela and go. After all, he had never really believed that they would get married. At most it had never been more than a remote possibility.
The Empire Trilogy Page 4