The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [105]
“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 have 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.