“She’s sitting in the lounge. Mrs Roche disarmed her, I gather.”
Edward passed at this moment, tweaked Charity’s ear painfully and whispered to the Major: “Would you mind holding the fort later on, Brendan? A few things I must do...have a word with Ripon and so forth...” He bent closer to the Major’s ear and, tapping his breast pocket, added: “I have a cheque for him. The rascal must be getting short by now.” He winked at the Major and moved on. Meanwhile Charity had departed and was dragging Padraig by the sleeve into the throng of young men. The Major, whose heart was still aching, did not feel in the least like holding the fort for Edward and was wondering peevishly whether he should not go and tell him so. Edward had halted not far from the table of foreign cheeses. He was standing by himself, hands behind his back in the “at ease” position, which was probably the most comfortable, given the tightness of his coat. He was gazing at his guests with a look of wistful satisfaction. “This,” he seemed to be thinking, “was the way it used to be in the old days.” But then his attention was taken by the large and jovial figure of Bob Russell, the timber merchant from Maryborough, who had come up to congratulate him. Arm in arm and puffing cigars, they sauntered back to the ballroom where coffee and liqueurs were being served.
“Why have you left those beautiful daughters of yours at home?” Edward was inquiring amiably as they passed the Major. “But of course! They’re still at school in England!”
He turned briefly before leaving the dining-room and his face clouded for a moment. Perhaps he too was thinking that the shortage of young ladies was acute.
A few moments later it became more acute than ever, because the twins hared off somewhere with shrieks of laughter, dragging Padraig with them. Left to drink by themselves, the Auxiliaries’ merriment declined and although there was now a general movement back to the ballroom they remained morosely where they were. Since the servants were no longer filling glasses they seized bottles of champagne and served themselves, moving out on to the terrace through the open French windows. The Major followed them and stood on the threshold looking out. The moon had now risen, washing the stone parapets with a pale light; farther along, outside the open French windows of the ballroom, a galaxy of coloured lanterns swayed in the mild night air. The orchestra had begun to play once more, the sound of violins mingling sadly with the distant thud of waves from the darkness below. With a shiver the Major went back inside. He stood, hands in pockets, in the middle of the dining-room, which was now empty except for the servants clearing away the tables. He wished the ball were over so that he could be alone.
The Major stood irresolutely at the door of the ballroom. He still had some old ladies who had to be danced with. But, knowing that he must come face to face with Sarah, he was unable to bring himself to enter. Instead, he climbed the stairs to the second floor with the intention of returning to the balcony over the ballroom where he had been earlier.
The room was still in darkness but the door was open. A faint murmur came from the moonlit balcony that lay beyond the window. He paused—afraid that Sarah might have returned here with someone else—but now the speaking voice rose querulously, becoming audible; a confused string of obscenities reached his ears. The voice was unrecognizable, but an image flashed into the Major’s mind—of a man he had seen mortally wounded sitting hunched in a shell-hole with his intestines in his lap like a mess of snakes, his blue lips still quivering with an unending rigmarole of curses while his eyes turned milky.
The Major blundered forward and stepped out on to the balcony. There was only one person there: a man leaning over the balustrade, his face illuminated by the bright pool of glass that lay beneath. It was Evans. A bottle stood on the stone parapet beside him. He paid no attention to the Major, perhaps had not even heard his footfall, but continued his muttered, gulping commentary on the dazzling scene below. On the whores and whoremasters, the bitches in heat and the lecherous old goats, the cowards and the swine who thought they were so high and mighty, their day would come, the wheel would turn...
The Major grasped him by the frayed collar of his shirt and wrenched him back from the balustrade with a hiss of splitting cloth. He was swaying on his feet and the Major had to hold him up, fingers dug into the stained lapels of his jacket. Sudden anger gripped him. He shook Evans with all his strength; all the growing bitterness of the last hour, of the weeks and months of receding hope, all the tragedy and despair of the years in France exploded in one violent discharge of hatred concentrated on the loosely swaying head in front of him. Slowly the pale lids crept down over the tutor’s bleary eyes and a tear trickled down to the corner of his mouth.
“I hate them! I hate them all!” And he shuddered convulsively, his chin sinking on to his chest. The Major’s anger abated suddenly. Evans’s knees sagged and the Major had to stagger forward to keep his own balance. It was all he could do to keep him from falling. For a long moment he stood there, holding the tutor upright by the lapels. But then, with a sudden access of strength, Evans straightened up and tore himself free, throwing his head and shoulders forward over the parapet. The Major lunged after him, afraid that he was about to throw himself over. But Evans had begun to vomit copiously, a thick yellow fluid that splattered on the illuminated glass below. Unaware, the black and white gentlemen on the other side of the glass continued to revolve mechanically with the softly flowing silk and taffeta of the ladies.
“You’re disgusting.” The hand that the Major reached out to grasp Evans by the shoulder and help him back was shaking. Evans’s eyes were closed and his features had relaxed into a strangely peaceful expression. It was difficult to get him back through the window and across the dark room. “You’ll hear more of this tomorrow.”
In the corridor a shadowy figure detached itself from a doorway. “Murphy, come here!” the Major shouted. “What d’you think you’re doing there anyway?” But then he remembered that the uncouth old manservant had been instructed to keep himself out of the way until the guests had departed, for fear that his cadaverous appearance would upset the ladies.
“Never mind. Take Evans back where he came from and put him to bed. And clean him up while you’re at it. You’d better lock him in his room until tomorrow morning.”
The tutor’s sour breath still seemed to hang in the room as the Major moved back to the balcony to retrieve the bottle left on the parapet. It was empty. He left it where it was. There was a pause in the dancing. The music had come to a stop; the musicians were mopping their shining heads and consulting each other. Suddenly across the empty floor the twins came into sight, towing the beaming but reluctant Padraig...and Padraig was dressed in a black velvet gown that reached to his ankles, with a string of pearls round his slender neck. The twins had decided to remedy the shortage of young ladies. With a grunt of dismay the Major watched them sweep out on to the moonlit terrace to join the young men, then he turned and hurried back downstairs.
But on his way back to the ballroom he was diverted for a moment by Bolton, who was lighting a cigar from the flaming torch at the foot of the stairs. He was just leaving, he informed the Major, since he had to be on duty early in the morning. Perhaps the Major would be so kind as to thank Edward on his behalf for a most pleasant evening—for the moment their host was not apparently to be found.
By now there were only a few couples dancing; among them were the twins with the young men they had selected and Viola O’Neill dancing with her father. Old Mr Norton was also there with a lady of middle age who wore a long-suffering expression as he ferried her hither and thither, his gleaming bald head stooped to the level of her bosom. With so few of the guests dancing one might have expected that the surrounding tables and chairs would be overflowing, but this was not the case. The Major looked at his watch anxiously: not yet two o’clock. Could it be that the guests had begun to leave already? The Major’s worried eyes moved from one group to another, trying to account for the guests who were missing. But he soon gave it up. There was Padraig to be s
een to, and the twins must be given a sharp word, they were dancing in an outrageously abandoned fashion, brushing against their partners and throwing their heads back with wild laughter while the other guests watched them with pursed lips...they both must have had something to drink on the sly. But first, Padraig!
He was standing with several other people by the open French windows and there was something on the floor at which they were all looking with interest. Avoiding Mr Norton, who went trotting swiftly by, head and shoulders industriously lowered like a man pushing a wheelbarrow, the Major crossed the floor to see what it was. At first sight it might have been a blue-green muff or feather boa let fall by one of the ladies; but then, looking over Padraig’s shoulder he saw that it had a pair of feet, a long neck and a tiny head crowned with a sparse diadem of feathers; the neck had been twisted round several times like a piece of rope.
“Where on earth did that come from?”
But before anyone had time to reply a gale of drunken laughter echoed from the darkness beyond the terrace and the Major understood. Padraig turned a pale, disconcerted face towards him.
“I asked one of them, if he’d give me a peacock feather. Then they threw that in!”
The Major stooped and picked up the dead bird; its body was still warm. As he carried it outside the neck swung to and fro, unwinding a few turns, and the long tail-feathers trailed on the floor. He dumped it on the terrace and returned. Again, from outside where the Auxiliaries were roaming with bottles in the darkness, there came that gale of laughter.
He cursed Edward silently for not being present, but, determined to remain calm, he lit a cigarette and made some bland remarks to the Prendergasts and Colonel Fitzgibbon, who had noticed the dead peacock. Then, excusing himself, he moved away, beckoning to Padraig. The boy must be made to go upstairs and change his clothes instantly!
But before he had time to speak there was a further unfortunate diversion. Charity, in full view of everyone, swinging herself round more and more recklessly in the arms of her grinning young man, had finally lost her balance and fallen heavily, bringing her partner sprawling on top of her. The orchestra faltered and stopped playing.
“The poor thing is sto¯shus!” cried one of the maids in the sudden silence. And the appalling silence continued while Charity, flushed and bemused, tried to extricate herself from her partner’s limbs and get to her feet. The Major, mortified, signalled to the orchestra to go on playing and hurried over. By this time Charity, giggling helplessly, was being assisted to her feet by Faith and her partner.
“You and your sister had both better go and lie down,” the Major told Faith sternly. “And see that they have no more to drink,” he added to the blue-eyed Mortimer, who had been dancing with her and was now dusting off his companion Matthews. “I thought I could rely on you.”
Faith and Charity were escorted from the room, crestfallen; the Major could not help feeling sorry for them.
The music had resumed. Mr Norton tirelessly continued to criss-cross the floor with his lady of middle age. The Major turned to the maid who was anxiously trying to attract his attention.
“What is it?”
“There’s a gentleman and lady would like to say goodbye to Mr Spencer before they leave, sir.” Lady Devereux had apparently already left. The Smileys were all on their feet and waiting expectantly. No doubt their departure would start a general exodus. Already two or three couples were consulting each other interrogatively.
“I’ll see if I can find Edward. But do you really have to go so soon? The party’s only just beginning.”
By half past two the number of guests anxious to leave had swollen considerably, but still there was no sign of Edward. The ladies had long ago exchanged their flimsy dancing-shoes for more solid footwear and waited wrapped in furs. The men had found and used Edward’s telephone to summon their chauffeurs and now stood, conspicuously overcoated, silk hats in hand, at the door of the ballroom, peering in distractedly in the hope of seeing, if not Edward, at least the Major. But by this time even the Major had disappeared.
The presence of these guests at the door (so obviously leaving but taking such a long time about it) had a debilitating effect on the resolution of those in the ballroom who had decided to stick it out until breakfast was served...for, after all, not everyone has the chance of attending as many balls as the Devereuxs and the Smileys. Every now and then someone would turn his head casually to see if the overcoated defectors were still there (and yes, they were!), then, looking thoughtful, would return his gaze to the almost empty expanse of dance-floor where old Mr Norton, stooped and perspiring but feet twinkling as industriously as ever, continued to plough his lonely furrow. He would have been altogether alone had it not been for the fact that there were a handful of the least distinguished guests (the young Finnegans for example whose grandfather owned the drapery) for whom a dance was a dance, no matter what.
By now it had occurred to several of the guests that, although it might be embarrassing to leave so early, it might be even more embarrassing to stay and find oneself eating breakfast en famille with the Spencers at a breakfast table set for two hundred.
“Where is the dratted fellow?” demanded the overcoated and outspoken Captain Ferguson in a loud voice from the door. He was no longer even referring to Edward, given up for lost and completely mad, but to the equally elusive Major.
“Well, we can’t wait all night!”
And at last the defectors moved in a convoy of fur, perfume, silk hats and cigar-smoke towards the foyer. Dragging open the massive front door (the servants had evidently vanished to their own more amusing below-stairs revelry) they found themselves face to face with the very man they had been looking for, the Major. He was carrying in his arms a large bundle of dripping black velvet from which protruded two blue-white feet and a pale, whimpering face.
The Major stepped inside immediately, looking as surprised and disconcerted as the departing guests. Beyond him, in the dark drive illuminated here and there by the lamps of the waiting motor cars, a number of uniformed chauffeurs impassively watched this curious scene.
The Major hesitated for a moment or two, long enough for his dripping black bundle to form a small pool of water on the gleaming tiles, long enough for the departing guests to notice a dark snake of pond-weed dangling from one of the slender ankles.
“Ah, you’re off then,” the Major at last murmured somewhat grimly. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed your...ah!” His words ended with a grunt as the velvet bundle thrashed petulantly, causing the limp strand of water-weed to slither to the floor. The ladies in furs stared at it as if it were an adder.
Meanwhile the Major had turned and was striding swiftly up the stairs with his dripping cargo. He stopped abruptly, however, before he reached the landing and looked down.
“I’ll say goodbye to you for Edward. I’m afraid he’s indisposed.”
With that he vanished, leaving only that sinister coil of water-weed as testimony to his passing. The departing guests cautiously groped their way out into the night.
As for the Major, he was carrying Padraig swiftly along the corridor towards the linen room, the warmest and driest place he could think of. The boy was trembling, his pearly white teeth were chattering. And no wonder! The water in the swimming-pool must be icy at this time of year. Kicking open the linen-room door he dropped Padraig into the nest of pillows and said sternly: “Now take that wet dress off immediately. I hope this will be a lesson to you, Padraig. If I ever find you dressing up as a girl again I’ll throw you in the swimming-pool myself.”
Padraig said nothing, but his whimpering increased in volume. The Major stooped and struck a match to light the oil lamp on the floor. By its light he could see that clouds of steam had begun to rise from Padraig’s wet clothes. Poor Padraig! Not only had the Auxiliaries coaxed him with honeyed words to a tryst by the swimming-pool, not only had they thrown him cruelly in, they would also have left him to drown if the Major had not come to the rescue.
Poor Padraig! He remembered how Sarah had once said: “With the twins everything has a habit of beginning amusingly and ending painfully.”
In the corridor the Major paused to listen. Had he just heard a cry of pain from somewhere close at hand, perhaps from one of the rooms that lay along this very corridor or the one above? But all the doors were closed; from the linen room alone a thin trickle of yellow light daubed the carpet. Elsewhere all was dark. The cry of a girl? “One of the twins?” he thought anxiously. But he hurried on. He must get some brandy and hot water for Padraig lest the boy catch pneumonia. Perhaps, after all, it had only been the cry of a seagull swooping close to the house.
The number of guests collecting themselves in the foyer had increased, but they and the Major ignored each other. Outside, motor cars continued to arrive, illuminating the green lawns with their sweeping headlamps. A white-haired old gentleman seated on a sofa, palms resting with dignity on a silver-embossed cane, noticed the Major slipping by and wagged a stern reproving finger at him. But the Major paid no attention and hurried on. Hardly had he escaped from the foyer, however, when he came face to face with Miss Archer who said: “Those wretched young men are causing trouble in the ballroom. They’ve been threatening to shoot the orchestra if they don’t go on playing. And they’ve been making the maids dance with them.”
“My God! You haven’t seen Edward? We must find him. Would you mind getting a hot drink for Padraig? He’s in the linen room on the first floor. They threw him in the swimming-pool. Thank heaven most of the bloody guests have gone!”
The orchestra stopped playing just as the Major reached the ballroom. The music had grown hysterical, haphazard, a discordant scraping of violins, an outraged groaning of cellos that bore witness to the exhaustion and alarm of the musicians. Then, abruptly, in the middle of the most frenzied passage it had stopped. Now there was utter silence.
A girl was standing in the doorway. She moved aside to allow the Major to pass. It was Sarah.
The Empire Trilogy Page 36