The bottle of champagne had not broken, however, when she hit Matthews (who was now lying on the floor with a fractured skull); her fingers had released it and it lay like a block of ice between her thighs. The cork, meanwhile, had begun to travel imperceptibly away from the bottle as Charity floated peacefully onwards (and Faith in the next room groped around in the darkness trying to collect up as many of her garments as possible). Presently it gathered momentum and exploded. A long cry of pain broke from Charity’s lips as the freezing liquid bubbled over the warm skin of her stomach.
Downstairs the Major paused and thought anxiously: “One of the twins?”—but he had Padraig to think of and hurried on.
In the next room Faith paused in alarm at her sister’s bloodcurdling cry and thought that perhaps, after all, it mightn’t be such a bad thing that her own escapade had proved a failure—while beside her in the oily darkness Mortimer thought bitterly: “What a cad the fellow is! Taking advantage of her like that...”
Another person heard the scream. This was Murphy, who had been lurking in the shadowy corridor and seen the twins come up with their young men. When he heard it he chuckled; then his gaunt figure melted back into the darkness. As he went, the moonlight from an uncurtained window glinted momentarily on a long, curving blade, for he had brought a scythe up from the barn, to hone and grease it in the attic where he kept his belongings.
It seemed to the Major that the night had already lasted an eternity, but the clock on the mantelpiece of the residents’ lounge (specially repaired and wound to mark off the bliss-ful moments of Edward’s ball) had scarcely conceded three o’clock. A few moments ago he had caught sight of himself in a mirror unexpectedly: two eyes round with worry in a pale face had stared at him unblinking as an owl, making him think of shell-shock cases in hospital, men who used to sit up in bed all night, wide-eyed, smoking one cigarette after another as they tried to probe the darkness around them.
“I hope this will be a lesson to you!”
All the lessons that were being learned that evening! But what good did they do? By the time one had learned them it was too late. He would move on, but life would not go with him. Life would stay where Sarah was; all the great explosions of joy would take place in her vicinity.
“Drink it all up. Every drop. If it tastes bad you should have thought of that beforehand!”
The house was empty now and silent, except for an occasional faint scratching sound; the Major postulated a rat under the floor-boards. Edward had disappeared once more, leaving him to cope with everything as usual, but he was too tired to feel any resentment. Besides, in a moment he would go to bed.
The Major was standing beside the dying fire, resting one elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand sifting slowly through his untidy mass of hair. Next to him, huddled in dressing-gowns, sat the twins, looking pallid and chastened, each of them nursing an enormous glass of bicarbonate of soda mixed with water from which, wrinkling their noses in disgust, they sipped miserably.
“Anyway, you’re sure you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have done? It’s far better to tell me now if you did...”
“Oh no, Brendan!” murmured Charity hoarsely, avoiding the Major’s eye.
“What sort of thing do you mean?” inquired Faith more strategically.
“Never you mind. Just drink up. Come on now, take a deep breath and drink it down all in one go. It’s the only way.”
Half an hour earlier the Major had come upon a strange quartet proceeding slowly down the stairs. First had come Mortimer, grunting and dishevelled, wobbling dangerously under the weight of the limp and senseless Matthews (who had “bumped his head in the dark”). A few stairs above the labouring Mortimer the two sisters were supporting each other, pale as ghosts, their clothing disarranged and somehow...well, different, he could not help thinking (in their debilitated state they had left off some of the inner layers that had earlier exercised Matthews’s skill to the utmost). With one dismayed glance at the twins the Major had leaped to assist Mortimer with his unfortunate friend; the “bump” was a bad one, the poor chap was out cold, though breathing steadily enough.
Once Matthews had been deposited on a sofa in the foyer the Major telephoned the camp at Valebridge and asked for an ambulance. “No, no, it was an accident,” he had explained several times. In due course the ambulance arrived; the men who came with it looked around suspiciously for a while (“No, nothing whatsoever to do with Sinn Feiners. He simply bumped his head!”) and then left with poor Matthews who still had not regained consciousness. Indeed, it was several hours before he finally came round and even then was unable to remember just how he had come to bump his head in the dark, an uncertainty of memory that was to persist, together with bouts of double vision and absent-mindedness, for the rest of his life.
The twins had heaved a sigh of relief when they saw him go. Charity in particular experienced a surge of joy and for a moment almost forgot to appear more ill than she felt (she and Faith had had the presence of mind to powder their faces with chalk in order to incite sympathy and deflect punishment). She did feel ill, of course, inside, though luckily she had vomited the contents of her stomach. But her face in the mirror had looked all too shiningly healthy. It was boring of the Major to insist on them drinking this vile stuff, but it was comforting too in a way—after all, she had had a fright. Tonight, for once, she would remember to say her prayers!
At length, the twins in bed and brimming with bicarbonate of soda, the Major himself climbed the stairs, though not without checking once more in his mind that everything had been taken care of...The twins? Yes. Padraig? Sent home in dry clothes. The wretched tutor? Deal with him tomorrow. The guests? Well, nothing could be done about the guests. Sarah? Forget about her. Mrs Rappaport? Disarmed and in bed, as far as he knew. And Sarah? Forget about her. But how could he? He must. And Sarah? Think about her tomorrow, perhaps. And Sarah?
His room was bitterly cold; the sheets on his bed were damp and icy to the touch. Tired and in despair, this lack of comfort was almost more than he could bear. If only he had had a hot-water bottle! He lay there, craving physical comfort as, earlier in the evening, he had craved sweetness. Of course a hot-water bottle was out of the question. “All the same,” he thought, “I shall never manage to fall asleep like this,” as worn out by the happiness, disappointment, unhappiness, bitterness and chaos that had succeeded each other throughout the day, he fell asleep nevertheless, forgetting to blow out the candles at his bedside.
They were still burning when he woke a little later; in fact, they had hardly burned down more than an inch or two. He called: “Come in,” because someone was knocking at the door. He expected to see Edward appear; it was just like him to wake people up inconsiderately because he suddenly felt the need for reassurance. But no, it was the cook.
“Ye’re t’ come at once!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “The divil’s below!” And she gabbled a further torrent of words which the Major found quite incomprehensible. He stared at her in astonishment.
He had had very little to do with this woman since the time of Angela’s illness when he had been in the habit of haunting the staircase at mealtimes. Indeed, he had made it his business to avoid her because she still showed signs of being uneasy in his presence. All the more surprising, therefore, that she should be now standing at his door, her plump figure swathed in what looked like an army greatcoat, unlaced men’s boots on her feet, the grey hair that was normally tightly rolled into a bun on the back of her head frothing wildly over her shoulders.
“What’s all this?” he demanded sternly. “The devil? You must speak plainly and slowly. I don’t understand you.”
But the cook plunged on faster than ever, repeating the same mysterious phrases again and again while the Major tried in vain to fit them into some coherent pattern. Could she be speaking Irish? Or was it merely her defective palate, abetted, he suspected, by the absence of teeth?
“Wait!” he said severely (this sort of thing must not
be encouraged). “I shall come and see for myself.” And he threw aside the bedclothes, causing the cook to back away apprehensively, her flow of speech suddenly arrested. He paid no attention to her but pulled on slippers and a dressing-gown, knotting it tightly round his waist. By this time the cook had vanished along the corridor, but as he hurried after her and turned a corner he saw a sputtering candle ahead of him, the flame dragged horizontal by her haste, the men’s boots slapping clumsily on her bare feet. As they descended the staircase the candle shining through the banisters made clumsy, swollen cartwheels that accompanied them down into the foyer.
The house was in complete darkness. Everyone had retired for the night. But no...a glimmer of light was still shining from under the door of the writing-room. The cook pointed at the door and stepped back.
The scene in the writing-room was a dismal one. It had proved impossible to clean all the rooms on the ground floor in time for the ball; rather than allow the guests to cover themselves in dust it had been thought best to seal off the most distressing places. One of the gas mantles was burning, but no answering gleams were reflected from the dust-laden furniture and woodwork; at best a stray gleam radiated from the glass fairy that Mrs Bates had given her life to place on top of the grandfather clock; the remainder of the Christmas decorations still hung from the corners of the ceiling, grey and sinister as the toils of a giant spider.
A small man was standing with his head directly interposed between the gaslight and the Major so that his face was in darkness. His elongated shadow stretched out gigantically over the open expanse of floor to engulf the Major—indeed, all the shadows seemed to stretch out from him and that single light behind his head, lending him the appearance of a black spider at the centre of another web. The Major failed to recognize the silhouette. But there was no mistaking the deferential yet agitated tones in which the man, advancing, began to speak. It was Mr Devlin and he regretted very much disturbing the Major at this unpardonable hour but he would surely be forgiven when the reason was known...(“Is the wretched fellow incapable of speaking straight?” wondered the Major, grinding his teeth).
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
It was his daughter, Sarah...she hadn’t come home yet and though he knew she was in safe hands...in short, he’d heard that the ball had terminated more early than was expected... mind you, everyone had said what a great success it was... and therefore, because there was such trouble in the country round about...
“Sarah? What time is it now?” He had left his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. He thought of the candles left burning in his room.
“Mr Spencer took her home...perhaps an hour ago, perhaps more. More, I should think. Where is Mr Spencer?” He looked round for the cook, but of course she had disappeared.
Grasping Devlin by the arm, he dragged him deeper into the room, nearer the solitary gas jet so that he could see the man’s face. From the darkness there came a faint, distressed mewing and a dislocation of shadows. The cats had returned. For a moment he had thought that the mewing was coming from Devlin himself.
But Devlin had also begun to speak, in a high, frenzied tone which grated unbearably on the Major’s nerves. He’d known as much! He’d warned her against it...But no, she wouldn’t listen. No decent girl would show her face with those drunken devils on the loose. He’d warned her! They’d gone rampaging through Kilnalough not an hour ago and she hadn’t come home...She’d been so intent on dancing with the quality, well, that was where it had got her. He’d seen the damage they’d done...they’d overturned the milk churns so that the main street was like a white river, Finnegan’s window with a black, star-shaped hole in it...and the butcher’s shop-window lay piled under the sill like a snowdrift! And they’d been dressed up in their finery, in their claw-hammer suits like gentlemen. Ha, fine gentlemen! And he’d heard girls screaming...But she’d not come home even then...It was he, the Major, who was responsible. She had been left in his care. He was not a gentleman. Indeed, he was a swine and a cad to leave the girl on such a night...Ah, a cripple and without protection...And Mr Spencer who thought that he could buy him, Devlin, with his money and his hypocrite’s talk, what sort of a man was that? D’ye hear me?
The Major shook Devlin so violently that his last words were uttered in gasps. He fell silent then.
“Sarah will be all right with Edward. Nobody will touch her.”
“Nobody, is it?” Devlin leered. “And where is she at this minute? Tell me that. All right with him, d’you say? Sure he’s likely worse than any of them!”
“You’re speaking of a gentleman!” snapped the Major. “Mr Spencer is a man of honour.”
Abashed, Devlin fell silent. The Major peered at his face, certain that he had been drinking. For once the bank manager looked dirty and dishevelled; his hair, oiled and combed, had swung forward over his forehead, curving ridiculously upwards like a pair of horns. His trousers were secured with bicycle clips. “They’re all the same,” mused the Major. “Even when they hold responsible jobs they’re liable to go to pieces at the first sign of trouble.”
“You see, you came here on a bicycle. Heaven only knows how long you took on the way. Your daughter is probably back at home by now.”
Devlin paid no attention, his eyes had strayed into the shadows and he was mumbling incoherently. “He’s been most good...She was a cripple...the best doctors, indeed I am, sir, more grateful than I can say...Ah, it wasn’t the sort of expense I’d be able to permit myself...He did everything for her! Nothing was too much...”
“You must go home, Devlin. Sarah will be all right. I’ll answer for it.”
But abruptly Devlin burst out: “He’s been most good... He’s been a swine!”
This cry echoed emptily around the panelled walls, shrill as a girl’s scream. It was followed by a few moments of utter silence.
“You must go home, Devlin. Come along, there’s a good fellow. I’ll see you to the door.” And the Major caught hold of the bank manager’s elbow and dragged him round to face the door. As he did so he noticed a bluish light flare in Devlin’s eyes. But it was only the reflected glint from the gas mantle. By the time they reached the foyer Devlin had recovered a little and was excusing himself in a low, monotonous voice for getting the Major up at this hour, he must be tired after the ball which had been, he had heard, a famous success, the Major must forgive him this liberty given the desperate circumstances,...the last time they had met and had their most enjoyable chat the Major had given him to understand that a certain young lady’s well-being was of importance to him, had he not? and with all the drunken shouting and singing and smashing of windows and accosting of respectable girls he had felt it his duty to take the grave decision of calling for assistance...
“Shut up, for God’s sake! Go home and have some sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning. It must be almost five. There! Now good night and go straight home!”
Devlin was standing uncertainly at the top of the steps. He seemed anxious to continue his apologies but the Major’s patience was at an end. He slipped back inside the door and closed it. Then, without waiting to see whether Devlin was going to take himself off, he climbed the stairs to bed. “And Sarah?” he thought as he was climbing between the sheets.
“Wake up, Brendan! Wake up!”
The Major was floating in soft black water in a disused quarry. The depth of the water was so great that when he dropped a white pebble into it he could still see it minutes afterwards, winking in the darkness as it sank. Then he was sinking beside it, down and down. “Death is the only peace on earth,” he thought as he was sinking.
“Wake up!”
A hand touched him and he sat up with a start. The room was black and he could see nothing. But he knew that he was not still dreaming: a hand was grasping his wrist, warm breath fanning his cheek.
“Who is it?”
“Where are the matches? I can’t see a thing.” It was one of the twins.
“What’s the matter?�
�
“Brendan, are you awake?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“There’s been a terrible fight downstairs. We think it must be the Sinn Feiners.”
A match flared, illuminating Charity. She held it up above her head, looking for the Major’s candles. Presently the match was swamped by darkness; then another match was struck, this time on the other side of the bed, and Charity was lighting the candles.
“We were too frightened to go down.”
Unable for a moment to recall the events of the past few hours, the Major waited with instinctive dread for consciousness to start the first few rolling pebbles that would generate an avalanche of remembered disasters. Then, as one memory after another hurtled down on him, he heaved his drugged limbs over the side of the bed and massaged his face wearily. He stood up and for a while looked in vain for his dressing-gown. Then he realized that he was still wearing it.
“I’ll go down and see. You’d better wait here and lock the door if you hear anyone coming. Get into my bed or you’ll catch cold.”
It seemed to him that there would never be an end to this blundering through the darkened, empty corridors of the Majestic. What time was it? Surely it should be light by now! But the black windows he passed were lit only by the reflected flame of his candle.
After the darkness of the corridor the study seemed glaringly bright. Still holding the candle and oblivious of the drips of hot wax that spilled over his clenched fingers, the Major stood in the doorway and looked about with shocked eyes at the bizarre scene of destruction that greeted him. At his feet the floor was littered with broken glass and tarnished silver cups. A framed cartoon by Spy which had once hung over the desk lay on the floor, its glass cobwebbed; the desk itself had been swept clean except for an upturned ink-well which was still leaking a steady black drip on to the dusty carpet. Even the air showed traces of the room’s chaos—hazy with white powder, turf-ash scattered half across the floor from the embers of the fire, in which, moreover, a man’s shoe lay smouldering. Beyond the fireplace a Welsh dresser had tilted forward to unload a shelf of books and half a row of dusty upturned brandy glasses on to the floor. As he watched, another glass crept forward, slithered off the topmost shelf, turned slowly in the air and dissolved in a bright puff as it struck the edge of the dresser.
The Empire Trilogy Page 38
