The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  “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.

  The Major nodded, his eyes streaming. On second thoughts he decided to swing his legs back into bed and pull the blankets up to his chin.

  “You got your hair cut,” the Major mused.

  �
��Eh? Yes, so I did. Stopped in at Prost’s this afternoon before going out to Ripon’s place in Rathmines. I mean, I couldn’t very well turn up there looking like an organ-grinder’s monkey, now, could I?”

  “Of course not,” agreed the Major grimly.

  All next morning Edward was in a terrible rage. His anger crashed and boomed around the Majestic, rattling the windows and scaring the wits out of servants and animals alike. A small dent had appeared in one of the wings of the Standard while he had been away in Dublin. Small though it was, it appeared to be this dent which was stimulating his explosions of passion. Naturally suspicion centred on Faith and Charity, although they wasted no time in swearing on their mother’s grave (and, when that failed to work, on their sister’s) that they were innocent. The Major was summoned to inspect the damage, but was unable to mollify Edward by saying that he thought it trivial. The twins, meanwhile, were darting covert glances in his direction, trying to warn him by telepathy not to mention it if he had seen them by the garages.

  “Besides,” the Major lied weakly, unable to resist feminine distress, “they spent most of the day with me.”

  The twins looked comforted, but Edward merely glanced at the Major in scornful disbelief. The twins were banished to separate rooms, locked in, and given only bread and water for lunch. Edward retired to the squash court to brood in the company of his piglets. It was the not owning up afterwards or, in other words, the telling of lies which was the real crime. He had made that quite plain. This was something he would not tolerate in his children.

  The Major listened to this pronouncement with an expression of cold surprise, with one eyebrow sardonically raised, and with a running nose. Besides, given the hotel’s state of disrepair he considered it eccentric to notice a small dent in a motor car.

  As for the Major, his cold was much worse and he had just decided to spend the rest of the day in bed when a message arrived from Sarah to say that she was bored and would like to come to the Majestic “to see everyone” and would he come and collect her? He was ill. He had a considerable fever (such that at times he found himself wondering whether he hadn’t simply dreamed the events of the day before). His nose was red, sore and still streaming. Every now and then he was convulsed by shuddering sneezes. At intervals he felt giddy. But now that the opportunity presented itself nothing would prevent him from seeing Sarah. Inflamed equally by his fever and by some whiskey that Edward had made him drink, he stopped on the way to buy some flowers and a box of chocolates.

  “The blighter must have been waiting for me,” he thought peevishly as Mr Devlin hurried out of the bank to intercept him at the gate. The flowers and chocolates he was holding made his intentions all too plain. Mr Devlin’s eyes rested on them for a moment, expressionlessly. Then he was greeting the Major with his customary effusion.

  He and Mrs Devlin (and a certain young lady too) saw far too little of the Major these days, he informed the Major, and for this reason he must insist, indeed he wouldn’t take no for an answer, that the Major should accord him a few moments of his precious time now that he had finally had the good luck to set eyes on him...a piece of good luck which occurred all too seldom since the Major undoubtedly had a great number of good friends here in Kilnalough...so he shouldn’t mind, rather he should expect to be “kidnapped” by those who suffered from the deprivation of his company.

  The Major nodded moodily at this extravagant preamble, looking at his watch. But Mr Devlin did not mean to be deterred. He steered the Major firmly into the bank, along a corridor in which there hung a smell of boiled cabbage, and into a comfortless office. On entering the Major sneezed explosively and had to mop a trail of mucus from his sleeve. He sat down in misery while once again Mr Devlin’s eye rested on the flowers and chocolates.

  Did the Major have a cold? It was plain that he paid too little heed to his health. He must partake of a sup of something to warm him. The Major protested feebly, but Mr Devlin had already seized a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Sweating, the Major felt once more that he must be having a dream.

  “I’m afraid that Sarah may be waiting for me.”

  “Not at all at all,” Mr Devlin reassured him, smoothing his already smooth hair with a delicate white hand. “We have time for a nice little chat now.”

  The Major drank some whiskey and blew his nose unsatisfactorily.

  And how was Mr Spencer getting along these days? There was another of his good and generous friends...very generous, he had done more for “a certain young lady” (he winked roguishly, distressing the Major) than could ever be repaid, more anyway than he would ever be able to repay, and all out of the kindness of his heart...

  A sudden pause ensued, as if Mr Devlin had just asked a question, which of course he had not. The Major, in any event, could think of nothing to add to his remarks.

  Not only with money (Mr Devlin gave the Major some more whiskey), not only with money, though to give that “certain young lady” the proper care would have been beyond his own means with medical expenses being what they were, no, not only with money, though the Major was probably unaware of the extra expense involved in having a semi-invalid in the house whose prospects for marriage...ah, well, that was a different story and one couldn’t blame her for that, now, could one? it was the luck of the draw...but she was a self-willed girl and though he and Mrs Devlin saved what they could they would have to provide for their old age and even with a fortune behind her an invalid would be hard put to it to make a decent match but that was life...not only with money, though he prided himself on knowing its value, but with acts of kindness, sure, he would go out of his way to help someone, would he not?

  “He would,” assented the Major, the whiskey providing him with an Irish turn of speech.

  He’d do anything for you and that was the truth, one had only to look at the way he had taken her up to Dublin in his motor car yesterday...but of course the Major would know all about that, since he had most probably gone up to Dublin with them?

  There was a long pause until the Major said: “Really, no more, thank you. I’ve already had more than is good for me.”

  Oh, he could manage just a little drop to boil the germs out of him, sure he could, it was rare to find a man who’d do a Christian act like that out of the goodness of his heart, so to speak, and he understood that the specialist had taken a fair old time about it, keeping the young lady waiting around annoyingly for a good part of the day, the morning anyway (?), but that he’d given her a splendid report in the end so that it was worth waiting all that time (?)...irritating though it must have been to Mr Spencer who probably had a hundred and one things to do, and to the Major?

  “No trouble to me, Mr Devlin,” the Major burst out with sudden irritation, “because I wasn’t there. But I think I can say quite honestly—I won’t drink any more, thank you—that I wouldn’t have minded waiting all week if it had helped Sarah to walk again as she’s walking now.”

  “To be sure, that’s very kind of you. So you weren’t in Dublin with them?”

  “No, I wasn’t. As for it being kind of me, why, anyone would do the same.”

  “Ah, I suppose...”

  Mr Devlin fell silent, his troubled eyes on the Major’s face as if he were anxious to confide something in him but not quite able to bring himself to speak. The Major, in any case, had got to his feet, having disposed of his glass, and was walking directly to the door with a plain determination not to be stopped.

  “Still, she’s a worry to her mother not being married yet at her age, a great worry, it’s only natural...”

  “Natural or not, Mr Devlin,” said the Major sharply, having lost all patience, “it’s...” But he could think of no way of ending the sentence. He left it hanging ominously in the air and strode out of the office with Mr Devlin fussing somewhere behind him and muttering deferential instructions: to the right here, there’s a door, yes, then up the stairs and...

  “What a frightful fellow!” thought the Major giddily. “And to ha
ve such a nice daughter.” He looked round, but Mr Devlin had retired and he was outside a door he recognized as that of Sarah’s room.

  He had barely rapped on it when Sarah opened it, caught him by the sleeve and pulled him inside, saying: “Why have you taken so long, Brendan? I heard your car arrive ages ago.”

  “Well...”

  “Oh, you’re so slow,” Sarah said impatiently, “and you have a cold. Really, you’re such a child! What can you expect if you wander around in that absurd bathing-costume in the middle of winter? You’ll catch your death, I expect, and serve you right.”

  “Your father gave me a drink.”

  “My father? He said something to you? He asked you something about me?”

  “Well, not really...”

  “Ah, I knew as much. He wouldn’t dare say anything to my face!”

  “But no, I assure you, he merely wanted a chat.”

  Sarah had sat down awkwardly and without ceremony, ignoring him. She stood up again and made for the door.

  “Are we ready then?”

  “No. Wait here. Ah, these dratted stairs...D’you know why they give me a room up here? They think they’ll keep me a prisoner,” she muttered furiously, and went out, dragging the door closed behind her. The Major was left standing there with the chocolates and flowers (which were blood-red roses); he had just cleared his throat, on the point of presenting them.

  A moment later he heard the sound of angry voices from below. He held his breath but was unable to hear what was being said. “Heavens!” he thought wretchedly, “I’ve started another family row.”

  Sarah called from below that he should go down, they were ready to leave, she didn’t want to climb the “dratted stairs” again. Still clutching his roses and chocolates, the Major made his way down. He was following Sarah into the street when Mr Devlin materialized at his elbow and whispered: “You mustn’t mind her. She gets excited. She’s very high-strung, you know, Major, but she means no harm...Indeed, it clears the air...Her music makes her temperamental, you see, it’s always the way...”