One day, genuinely alarmed by their immoderation, he permitted himself to suggest to the ladies that this “lack of respect” was more imagined than real...but that if the shopping expeditions continued to behave like war-parties there really would be trouble. The ladies received this suggestion coldly, but perhaps it had some effect. In his company, at any rate, the subject was brought up less often. It had never been mentioned, except obliquely, when Sarah was present. Dimly he was beginning to realize that the old ladies of the Majestic had little affection for her.
The Major had grown weary of whist, although the fever for the game showed no sign of relaxing its grip on the old ladies. Besides, the ladies themselves with their snobbish gentility and complacency had begun to grate on his nerves. Anyone would think, to see them whispering, that Sarah was nothing but a servant-girl! Not, of course, that individually they still could not be as charming as ever. All the same, one could have too much of a good thing.
These days he wanted to be alone in order to think clearly, more clearly, about Sarah. But where? His room was without comfort, the Imperial Bar overrun by cats, all the other rooms in the hotel (of which there was, of course, no shortage) seemed somehow wrong. He hardly knew why. There would be one thing or another which failed to please him. He would simply look at them and see that they were unsuitable, hardly bothering to detail the reasons to himself. But at last, on the second floor, he opened a door he had not tried before —and found exactly what he wanted.
It was a linen room, long and narrow and rather dark. Sheets and pillows lay in piles everywhere. Blankets, hundreds of them, were stacked to the ceiling against each wall; no doubt they had been there since the old days when every room in the place was in use. It was dry here, too, and rather warm, which was a great advantage now that the weather had turned chilly. At certain times of day it became positively tropical because the master chimney from the kitchens passed along one wall. But the Major did not mind; he would simply take off all his clothes and lie naked on a pile of blankets, reading a magazine and perspiring gently while he sipped a whiskey and soda requisitioned from the seething Imperial Bar. It was perfect. Nobody ever came here (except once when Edward, who must have heard a noise, poked his head in, gave a grunt of surprise at seeing the naked Major and withdrew hastily). In no time at all he had fashioned himself a huge, warm and slightly dusty nest of blankets and pillows.
As he lay day-dreaming in this nest he sometimes pictured Sarah (though without permitting himself any indecent reflections) lying there also, naked and gently perspiring like himself. How splendid that would be! He knew without having to ask that she would enjoy it as much as he. He understood her so well when she was no longer present; it was only when they were actually together that he experienced some difficulty. As time went by they would undoubtedly become more attuned to each other’s presence. In the meantime, particularly at equatorial noon and in the late afternoon (except on those days when the cook decided to send back to the dining-room, cut up cold, the unconsumed meat from yesterday’s dinner), Sarah lay there, delightfully insubstantial, naked and content by his side in the hollow of dusty pillows.
Once or twice, indeed, she even managed to be both in the linen room at his side and down below (flesh and bone, blood, cartilage, muscle, mucous membrane and whatnot) playing whist with the old ladies and perhaps with Edward too—for Edward, although some time ago he had forsaken the whist-table for the pistol-range come rain or shine, had recently suffered a relapse and was frequently to be seen shuffling and dealing with no less fervour than the old ladies. But in general the fantasy tended to weaken and vanish in the vicinity of flesh and blood. Besides, the thought of Edward disturbed him. So when he knew that Sarah was there he would pull on his clothes and go downstairs to watch them play.
When Sarah was present Edward liked to play as her partner; “the old firm” he called it. They would both become very boisterous, greeting their cards with cries of mock grief or joy, encouraging each other to all sorts of extravagant behaviour. In this mood Edward often made the ladies roar with laughter and even towards Sarah they adopted a less frosty attitude. The Major would laugh at Edward’s jokes too, of course, but with bad grace. He seldom enjoyed himself. Only Mrs Rappaport, sitting grimly on her straight-backed chair by the fire, never smiled.
Mrs Rappaport would have cast a cloud over the proceedings, no doubt, if the whist fever had been any less intense—but one got used to her presence. Besides, she sat a little apart from the main group. One day, however, she did cause a slight stir and a few cries of dismay because it was noticed that another cat had magically appeared in her lap. Once again it was a mystery as to how it had got there. Normally everyone made a point of hunting cats out of the residents’ lounge with walking-sticks or parasols or whatever lay to hand, because one had to draw the line somewhere. Even more disturbing was the fact that the cat in question had the same marmalade fur as the frightful beast which had attacked Miss Staveley’s hat in the writing-room. Old Mrs Rappaport was blind, of course, so she could not possibly have selected it deliberately. The ladies’ concern might have been greater but for the fact that this cat was clearly not dangerous. Indeed, it was only a kitten—a tiny, mewing bundle of orange fur with its eyes barely open. If anything, it was a rather attractive little creature. One felt immediately that one wanted to stroke it. Some of the old ladies did so, bending stiffly to fondle its tiny ginger ears, and if the kitten promptly reacted by gripping these loose-skinned, jewelled fingers with the miniature needles of its claws, why, any healthy kitten would do the same. “It’s only natural,” said Miss Bagley, “and hardly hurts at all.”
All the same, it did have one faintly disturbing quality: namely, the speed at which it was growing. It was almost as if during the night someone picked it up by its wisp of a black-and-orange-ringed tail and blew a deep breath into it, inflating it like a gaudy balloon. With each day that passed it appeared a little more swollen and when it stretched and yawned the span of its claws reached a little farther. Moreover, when its eyes were more fully opened it was remarked that they were of a bitter, sea-green hue. Grim and impassive Mrs Rappaport sat there day after day with the kitten under her palm swelling into a...well, into a cat. Nobody took much notice of either of them; Edward had become so amusing these days, almost like a comedian.
The Major envied him. No matter how grey the afternoon, no matter how despondent the whist players had become about the state the country was in, Edward had only to sit down at the table for five minutes and everyone would be shouting and laughing, their ailments and prophecies of disaster forgotten. A current of energy accompanied him. When he left the table it was as if all the lights had been turned out. He dominated everyone, even the indomitable Miss Johnston. One could hear his voice three rooms away. His cheerfulness rattled the window-panes. He was like the ring-master of a circus: not one of the old ladies would be allowed to sulk or sink into herself. Miss Devere or Miss Bradley might try to resist him, remembering a loved one who had died on that particular day, perhaps, or thinking of the onset of winter, but...Crack! The whip of Edward’s massive personality would sail out across the ring and tickle her into action once again. Crack! Even the Major was forced to go through his paces or appear impossibly surly. He might be thinking: “I’m stronger than Edward because he can’t help admiring me whether he likes me or not...” but then, crack! He would find himself having to jump through a blazing hoop.
But still the Major was convinced that he was stronger than Edward. It was simply that Edward was so hearty and extroverted these days (but the Major had not forgotten the days when he was moody) that he made the Major seem dull and cautious by comparison. “It’s all show,” the Major would think lugubriously as he noticed that Sarah’s glistening eyes seldom left Edward’s face. But then, crack! It would happen again. He scarcely had time to build up his animosity before he would be forced to laugh grudgingly at whatever Edward was saying. “Very funny!” he would mutter to himself.
“But we shall see...” Once or twice since the day that Edward had been set upon in the dark the Major had seen a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, he was sure of it. “We shall see what we shall see.” And to his surprise he found that he was grinding his teeth. “Good heavens, the fellow is my friend after all,” he reproved himself.
“If I haven’t an ace in this hand I’ll eat my pipe,” cried Edward. And sure enough he pulled out a pipe and wolfed it in a flash. The ladies shrieked and gasped in pain, holding their ribs, so funny did they find this (the pipe, of course, had been made of liquorice). The Major watched them with dismay, afraid that Edward might give them all heart attacks. But in between these humorous sallies the Major more and more often believed he could discern a lost and frantic look on Edward’s face. Sarah too sometimes stared at him with concern when she was not laughing at his antics. But then Edward would leave the room to attend to some business and everyone would feel dull and dispirited once again.
“It’s a scandal!”
Silence fell immediately, an absolute silence in which everyone held his breath and the throbbing purr of the kitten could be distinctly heard. Mrs Rappaport had gone unnoticed for such a long time that they had almost forgotten that she could speak.
“You think that I don’t know what’s going on in this house,” shouted the old lady, her jowls quivering with fury. “I shall not stand for it under this roof!”
The Major expected Edward to soothe her as he usually did, to ask her what was the scandal, what it was that she wouldn’t stand for. But he said nothing. His eyes remained on the table. Nobody said a word for two full minutes. There was no movement except for the flicking of the kitten’s ringed tail on Mrs Rappaport’s lap. But at last her shoulders drooped, she sniffed and felt for the handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, her face went vacant once more. She had forgotten about her scandal, whatever it was.
But her outburst had a strange effect on Edward. He became morose and taciturn. Not only did he stop making jokes and infecting the ladies with hilarity, in a day or two he stopped playing cards altogether. Without any warning he abandoned the field to the Major. The Major was pleased, of course, since this meant that he could exercise his more subtle charm on Sarah without impediment, but somehow disturbed as well. Edward had begun to drink more than was good for him. More than once the Major had caught a whiff of liquor on his breath. One day he heard that Edward had been drunk at the Golf Club. He had got into an argument with one of the members and told him he was “worthless.” Of course such things happen from time to time and a man in his cups is not to be taken seriously. But then, perhaps a week later, it happened again, this time at the Majestic. Edward, impeccably dressed as ever but with his mane of grey hair in disorder and a glass in his hand, confronted Mr Norton in the corridor and told him he was “worthless.” Mr Norton fled indignantly to the residents’ lounge but Edward, glass still in hand, followed him there and, although he did not say anything, stared at Mr Norton with a sarcastic smile, looking himself (as Miss Porteous later put it) like “The Wreck of the Hesperus.” Presently, however, he tired of Mr Norton and, slumped in an armchair, stared balefully at the Major.
“Always playing cards with the ladies, Major?”
“That’s right, Edward.”
“Fine occupation for a young man.” The Major said nothing.
“I said it was a fine occupation for a young man.”
“I heard you.”
“Well, I take it you agree with me.”
“Edward, please!” Sarah said. She had become very pale. She stared at Edward anxiously. The other ladies had become as quiet as mice.
“I’m sure you think it’s a good idea to have young men playing cards with you,” Edward said harshly. “I want to hear what the Major thinks.”
“Very well,” the Major said curtly. “I think it’s better than being in the trenches. Does that answer your question?” With that he put down his cards, got to his feet and strode out of the room.
* * *
SOUTH AFRICAN AFFAIRS
The Union of South Africa is passing through a period of stress and danger. On Saturday last serious rioting broke out in Port Elizabeth...The police showed admirable restraint but were powerless to cope with the frenzied crowd of maddened natives. Military came on the scene and opened fire, killing several of the rioters ...Every effort is being made to localize the trouble, but, in view of the fact that in the whole Union there are only one and a quarter millions of white people as compared with four and a half millions of natives, the possibilities of widespread disturbances cannot be ignored.
The dangers of a native rising are much greater than they would be if the white population were united... To the Kaffir, Boer and Briton, Nationalist and Unionist, German and South African, are alike. There is not a white man in South Africa who does not recognize to the full the perils that lie dormant in the niggers’ kraals. There is not a white woman from the Congo to the Cape who does not shudder at the thought of a native rising, and there is hardly a native in the country who would not rise tomorrow if he dared.
* * *
THE CAMPAIGN OF CRIME
The guerrilla warfare against the forces of the Crown has become general outside North-East Ulster. Already the R.I.C. has suffered as heavily as if it had held a front-line trench in France. Its efficiency is maintained only by its own indomitable spirit and by constant reinforcements...The last three days have produced a truly appalling orgy of blood-stained lawlessness. In different parts of the country policemen have been assassinated and soldiers killed in ambush; every Irish newspaper has been turned into a catalogue of horror.
* * *
It was now that the first of the great autumn storms began to blow. The wind whistled in the chimneys and immense breakers rolled in to smash against the sea-wall, kicking clouds of white spray high into the air. Spray drenched the gravel paths and dashed against the squash court, so that Edward was in a state of constant anxiety lest his piglets (now as big as spaniels) be drowned. A great quantity of rain-water collected on the sagging flat roof of the Prince Consort wing and presently it relaxed under the pressure, allowing a cascade to empty itself with a musical roar into a grand piano which had been left open and on its side, with one leg amputated. By this time, in any case, the Auxiliaries billeted at the Majestic had removed to a barracks at Valebridge, either because the accommodation there was superior or because they judged the hotel indefensible.
“There are a devil of a lot of people about,” Edward remarked to the Major as they motored out to the golf links. “Something must be up.”
There was a high wind, almost a gale, howling over the countryside, but the rain had abated. The roads were thick with people and vehicles, ponies and traps, carts with giant lumbering horses in the shafts, even some battered motor cars—passengers crammed inside and out, on the bonnet, on the running-board, even on the roof—bicycles pedalling in and out or way up on the grass verge with bells ringing—and hundreds of people on foot. It might have been an annual fair or point-to-point; but there was no talking or laughter, no singing, these crowds moved in silence, like refugees the Major had seen moving back from the Front.
“What a rabble!” he thought unsympathetically. He hated the Irish. He stared at the faces that floated by as the Daimler inched its way through against the tide of humanity sounding its horn. Dull, granitic faces, cheekbones sculpted like axe-handles, purple cheeks and matted hair, bovine, the women huge and heavy-breasted, arms dimpled and swollen like loaves of bread. But no, they did not look like refugees; in their faces he read a strained, expectant look. Something was up. The Major shouted at a toothless old man dangling his legs on the back of a cart to ask him what it was all about. But the fellow did not seem to understand, merely touched his forelock and looked away furtively.
“Yes,” he was saying to Edward, “I’ve written to Cook’s to ask about hotels in Florence, but I may move farther south.”
Edward’s face darkened, as
if he were thinking: “Disloyalty!”, but he said nothing. The Major listened to the echo and re-echo of his own words and thought how false they sounded, how hollow! He no longer had the will-power to leave Kilnalough without Sarah; all he could do now was allow himself to drift with the tide of events. Some strange insect had taken up residence in the will-power of which he had always been so proud, eating away at it unobserved like a slug in an apple.
At the golf links they heard about the miracle. Nobody was out playing golf and for once there were no caddies to be found. But the Members’ Bar was overflowing and there was an unusual air of excitement, with much laughter and joking. Only that corner of the bar where the Auxiliaries were normally to be seen remained empty. They’d gone off to perform a miracle of their own, someone said.
Boy O’Neill told them what had happened. Late on Saturday night a young seminarian, kneeling in front of a crucifix in prayer, had seen drops of blood flowing from the wounds of the Christ-figure. For a number of hours he had remained there in a state of ecstasy, unable to speak or move.
This miracle was clearly anti-British. Some member of the seminarian’s family had been accused of complicity in the ambush of an R.I.C. constable. It was said in Kilnalough that the lad’s family had been abused and threatened, dragged out of their cottage by the Tans and lined up against a wall as if to be shot; his sister had been made to dance in her night-shift in front of her father while the Tans made lewd remarks and jeered at her. Under such provocation of devout people a miracle was only to be expected.
“What d’you make of it, Boy?”
“Mumbo-jumbo.”
“Of course it’s mumbo-jumbo, that’s obvious...What I mean is: are the beggars going to cause trouble? God knows, things are bad enough already without having a holy war on our hands.”
The Empire Trilogy Page 27