The Empire Trilogy (29 page)

One morning the Major and Edward found themselves standing in the potato field which lay within the boundary wall of the Majestic on the far side of the orchard. They stood there in silence, looking round at the rows of green plants in which stark, mysterious craters had begun to appear overnight, like the empty sockets of missing teeth.

“They're even climbing the wall now. Next thing we know they'll be sitting down at the table with us.”

“They have nothing to eat. What d'you expect?”

“It's not my fault they have nothing to eat.”

“Oh, I know that. All I'm saying is that you can't expect someone willingly to starve to death. What would you do in their shoes?”

“Don't be absurd, Brendan. I wouldn't allow myself to get into such a mess in the first place.”

The Major turned away to watch the crows flapping in lazy circles, looking for some nourishment from the newly turned soil. Between himself and Edward there was a long, dissatisfied silence.

Early in the afternoon the weak sunshine was masked with cloud, the sky crept nearer to the treetops and a drizzle began to fall. The warm, clammy breath of autumn hung by the still open windows, but Edward, with absent-minded munificence, called for turf and log fires to be lit. It was not so much against the chill in the air as against the melancholy; everyone was touched by it. By half past four it was already quite dark outside, thanks to the drizzle. The Major, transfixed by sadness, was slumped in an armchair in the gun room with his elbows on a level with his ears, gazing into the fire or watching its reflection flicker in the shining, varnished scales of an immense stuffed pike. In the hotel's heyday this pike had succumbed to a gentleman with a title, name and date illegibly inscribed with spidery flourishes on a brass plate, and now it rested on the mantelpiece, its small, vicious mouth frozen open in impotent rage and despair.

The ladies never came into this room; it was a masculine preserve. In Ireland, of course, the distinction between the sexes had become blurred in recent years. Many young women were crack shots, the Major had heard, and would fire off both barrels without batting an eyelid. Someone he knew had a niece who was a fast bowler. Another girl, the young sister of one of his army friends, had been given a rhinoceros-hide whip for her sixteenth birthday; by the time she was eighteen she could flick a cigar out of a man's lips at twenty paces. And of course there was the Countess Markievicz who day and night wore a pistol on her hip, it was said, and thought nothing of shooting a man between the eyes. He had heard, too, that these days girls smoked cigars and drank port. But all that was the younger generation. Older ladies had been brought up with different ideas on how it was seemly to behave. It was rather a relief to know that here in the gun room he was protected from them—because after all, he couldn't spend
all
his life with old ladies. Of course, young ladies (if there had been any) would not think twice about barging in here for a smoke and a chat. But against
them
the Major did not particularly feel he wanted to be protected.

He sighed. He had been avoiding the Majestic's ladies all day. This evening they would feel they had been neglected. At dinner he would very likely be snubbed by Miss Staveley. He would receive vinegary glances from some of the others. It had happened before.

Edward came in and sat down in an armchair beside him. Having taken a spill from a pewter mug on the mantelpiece, he proceeded to light his pipe, saying between puffs that he would be going up to town tomorrow to see Ripon, was there anything the Major wanted?

“No thanks.”

“Sarah has to see her doctor, so I may as well give her a lift. Save her the train journey.”

The Major sighed enviously, thinking how much he would like to motor up to Dublin in Sarah's company. There would be room for him in the Daimler, moreover. But Edward showed no sign of inviting him to join them and for some reason he felt unable to broach the subject. He sighed again, disgruntled. She was only a friend, of course. The pike's small bad-tempered mouth and wicked teeth expressed his mood to perfection.

“Will it be safe travelling by yourselves?”

“Oh, I should think so,” Edward replied blandly. After a moment he added reflectively: “What a state the country's in! You know, Brendan, I sometimes think ‘to hell with them all'...The way they've ruined life in this country I sometimes feel that I'd welcome a holocaust. Since they want destruction, give it to them. I'd like to see everything smashed and in ruins so that they really taste what destruction means. Things have gone so far in Ireland now that that's the only way they can be settled with justice, by reducing everything to rubble. D'you understand what I mean?”

“No,” said the Major sourly.

After Edward had left for Dublin on the following morning the Major took a walk with Rover (who was getting old, poor dog) as far as the summer house and then looked back across the lawns towards the Majestic. How dilapidated it looked from this angle! The great chimneys towering over the hulk of wood and stone gave it the appearance of a beached Dreadnought. The ivy had begun to grow, to spread greedily over the vast, many-windowed wall adjacent to the Palm Court...indeed, it appeared to spread out from the Palm Court itself, through a broken pane in the roof: one could just make out a trunk which emerged thick and hairy as a man's thigh before advancing multifingered over the stone. Rusting drainpipes bulged on the southern walls like varicose veins. “Maybe,” thought the Major, “the ivy will help hold the place together for a bit longer.”

Ripon stood beside the statue of Queen Victoria with one elegantly shod foot on the running-board of a shining Rolls-Royce. His eyes shielded by a tweed cap, he was staring up uncertainly at the windows of the first floor. His manner, the Major thought, was oddly furtive as he started towards the front steps. He stopped abruptly when he saw the Major and seemed disconcerted.

“Oh hello.”

“Hello.”

“Didn't know you were back here. Thought I'd just drop in...”

“Your father's not at home. In fact, I understand that he's planning to visit
you
today.”

Ripon's eyebrows shot up, miming surprise and despair. “What a nuisance!”

“He'll be back this evening so why don't you stay? I know he's anxious to see you.”

“That's a bit difficult, actually. You see...” The Major waited, but Ripon's explanation lapsed into silence. Over his shoulder he glimpsed the motionless silhouette of a chauffeur behind the steering-wheel. Meanwhile Ripon, in turn, was looking over the Major's shoulder with curious longing at the half-open front door. But the Major, half turning, assured himself that there was nobody standing there, only the dog Rover and one of the maids cleaning the brasswork on the massive front door. Could it be that the boy was homesick? wondered the Major, touched.

“You really should stay.”

“Wish I could, old man. Only wish I could...Fact is...” But again the explanation was still-born.

“Well, at least come in for a moment. You can write him a note or something.”

But Ripon paid no attention to this suggestion. Instead, he turned towards the motor car and with gloomy animation began pointing out its virtues to the Major. The size, the speed, the comfort...

“It looks a splendid vehicle.”

“Not mine, of course. Old man Noonan lent it to me for the day to motor over and see the old parent. Very civilized of him. Thoughtful.” He advanced on the motor car, summoning the Major.

“This is Driscoll. Come and meet him, Driscoll's a brick.”

The chauffeur was a thin sandy-haired youth with bulging eyes and the abnormally solemn face of the impudent; the Major had seen his type in the army, where trouble-makers reveal themselves as surely as acid on litmus paper. He nodded curtly. Driscoll lifted his peaked cap with more deference than the situation required. Ripon was once more gazing greedily at the front door. Reluctantly dragging his eyes away, he said: “Splendid driver, aren't you, Driscoll?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“See you at Brooklands one of these days, eh? Almost hit a heifer on the way over...I tell you, Major, he's a real bright spark. Hey, on parade!” And Ripon, lunging forward, knocked the peaked cap off Driscoll's head on to the gravel. Driscoll instantly dropped into a boxing stance, right fist guarding his chin, left fist pumping exaggeratedly back and forth, chuckling as Ripon feinted in one direction and tried to land a blow from the other. The Major watched, in dismay.

“You'll find me in the house,” he said sharply and turned away, thankful that Edward was not on hand to see his son skylarking with the chauffeur.

“Hey, wait a minute. Wouldn't you like to go for a ride in her? Wait, Major...look, I thought Driscoll might take you for a drive around while I'm writing a note for the old man.”

“No thanks.” The Major had already reached the door. He turned and glanced back. Driscoll was picking up his cap. Ripon's round cherubic face was looking towards him in consternation. “Whatever is the matter with the fellow?” wondered the Major.

Feeling tired and somewhat feverish (he believed he must have a cold coming on), the Major went upstairs to his room and lay on his bed. But presently he got up again, searched through the drawers of his dressing-table for a cigarette, found one and lit it. The tobacco tasted dry and stale. He put it out almost immediately.

A few minutes later he made his way along the dusty corridor towards a room which looked out over the drive. The Rolls-Royce was still standing there. Driscoll was sitting on the running-board flicking gravel. Ripon was talking earnestly to one of the maids under the orangerie door; the Major could just see the white starched cuff of her sleeve moving against the black material of her uniform.

A few more minutes elapsed before he made up his mind to go downstairs again. But Ripon was no longer to be seen. Wearily the Major set off to look for him, trailing through one room after another. Rover, uncomfortable in Edward's absence, trotted at the Major's heels, as anxious as he was himself to find whoever it was they were looking for. The Major stopped. He felt delirious and thought: “I must have caught a chill. It's like being in a maze. I've walked for miles. Are those footsteps I can hear or am I imagining things? I must avoid the rooms where the old women will be at this time... Really, I feel quite ill.” He turned and retraced his steps swiftly. It was Murphy.

The Major was astonished, never having known Murphy to follow anyone. On the contrary, the old rascal usually made himself scarce. Murphy stood his ground, though irresolutely, avoiding the Major's eye. But the Major was in no mood to be trifled with and, grasping the old man by the lapels of his faded, stained livery, he said harshly: “Well?” Murphy made an incoherent reply. What was he trying to say? The Major shook him. But no, the old fellow was merely caught in the spasm of a long and wheezing cough that dampened the back of the Major's hand.

“Where's Ripon?”

Murphy pointed upwards and whispered: “Fourt' floor.” His wizened skull of a face with its bushy yellow eyebrows peered up at the Major, lips contracting back over empty gums in which stood two or three discoloured teeth. Shocked, the Major stepped back a pace. The old blackguard was smiling! Clenching his fist, he all but drove it into Murphy's face. With an effort he restrained himself. He turned on his heel and strode rapidly towards the foyer, Rover at his heels. He was conscious that Murphy was following at a distance.

He climbed the stairs painfully. He was suffocated. Murphy had vanished up some dark ancillary staircase of which perhaps only he knew the secret. But on the second floor he glimpsed him again, motionless, watching, half concealed by a linen-room door. The Major ignored him. What did the rascal want spying on him all the time?

At last he reached the fourth floor. He paused after a few paces along the corridor and steadied himself, thinking: “I must be feverish.” He had a sore throat. His throat was painfully dry. He had to keep swallowing.

Rover had been waiting for him to move forward but now pricked up his ears, alerted by some faint sound. Nose to the carpet he surged forward without waiting for the Major. He stopped outside one of the rooms and scratched at the door. A few feet away the Major halted and watched. Rover scratched the door again.

The door was opened a few inches. Rover vanished inside. The door closed again.

For a few moments the Major tried to visualize the scene that Rover would now be confronted with. Then he turned and tiptoed back the way he had come, stood for a while on the landing, thinking: “After all, it's none of my business,” and finally made up his mind to retire to his own room. An hour or so later he got up and went to look down into the drive. The Rolls-Royce was no longer there. At six o'clock one of the maids pushed a note under his door. It was from Ripon and said: “Please don't mention my being here to Father. Ripon.”

His incipient cold had taken away his appetite, so he did not go down for dinner. Instead, he got between the sheets fully dressed (the room was chilly) and dozed fitfully until late in the evening when there was a knock at the door. He sat up.

It was Edward. He stared in surprise as the Major, fully clad in waistcoat, collar and tie, threw aside his bedclothes and swung his trousered legs over the side of the bed.

“Look, about Ripon...” the Major began, dazed and forgetting Ripon's instructions.

“Oh, he was in splendid form,” Edward told him cheerfully. “Spent the afternoon with him while Sarah was with her surgeon fellow in Harcourt Street. Mind you, he'll need a bit of a helping hand...”

He was interrupted by a deafening volley of sneezes from the Major, whose head drooped wearily between his knees while he groped for a handkerchief.

“I say, you seem to have caught a bit of a cold,” Edward said sympathetically.