The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [101]
“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;