The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [124]
“What a rabble!” he thought unsympathetically. He hated the Irish. He stared at the faces that floated by as the Daimler inched its way through against the tide of humanity sounding its horn. Dull, granitic faces, cheekbones sculpted like axe-handles, purple cheeks and matted hair, bovine, the women huge and heavy-breasted, arms dimpled and swollen like loaves of bread. But no, they did not look like refugees; in their faces he read a strained, expectant look. Something was up. The Major shouted at a toothless old man dangling his legs on the back of a cart to ask him what it was all about. But the fellow did not seem to understand, merely touched his forelock and looked away furtively.
“Yes,” he was saying to Edward, “I’ve written to Cook’s to ask about hotels in Florence, but I may move farther south.”
Edward’s face darkened, as if he were thinking: “Disloyalty!”, but he said nothing. The Major listened to the echo and re-echo of his own words and thought how false they sounded, how hollow! He no longer had the will-power to leave Kilnalough without Sarah; all he could do now was allow himself to drift with the tide of events. Some strange insect had taken up residence in the will-power of which he had always been so proud, eating away at it unobserved like a slug in an apple.
At the golf links they heard about the miracle. Nobody was out playing golf and for once there were no caddies to be found. But the Members’ Bar was overflowing and there was an unusual air of excitement, with much laughter and joking. Only that corner of the bar where the Auxiliaries were normally to be seen remained empty. They’d gone off to perform a miracle of their own, someone said.
Boy O’Neill told them what had happened. Late on Saturday night a young seminarian, kneeling in front of a crucifix in prayer, had seen drops of blood flowing from the wounds of the Christ-figure. For a number of hours he had remained there in a state of ecstasy, unable to speak or move.
This miracle was clearly anti-British. Some member of the seminarian’s family had been accused of complicity in the ambush of an R.I.C. constable. It was said in Kilnalough that the lad’s family had been abused and threatened, dragged out of their cottage by the Tans and lined up against a wall as if to be shot; his sister had been made to dance in her night-shift in front of her father while the Tans made lewd remarks and jeered at her. Under such provocation of devout people a miracle was only to be expected.
“What d’you make of it, Boy?”
“Mumbo-jumbo.”
“Of course it’s mumbo-jumbo, that’s obvious...What I mean is: are the beggars going to cause trouble? God knows, things are bad enough already without having a holy war on our hands.”
“Och, it’s just a bit of nonsense. In a day or two they’ll have forgotten about it. But look who’s just come in, Ted. You’d have thought he’d be spending the day on his knees in front of the miracle.”
The Major turned. Mr Devlin had just come in and was standing uncomfortably at the door, smiling ingratiatingly in the direction of a group at the bar who, by accident or design, had turned their backs on him. Sarah was standing beside her father. For a moment her eyes met the Major’s but her face remained expressionless. Mr Devlin, in turn, caught the Major’s eye and began to make frantic signals of respectful greeting: would he be permitted to join the Major and his companions and perhaps have the honour of purchasing them a refreshment? The Major nodded curtly.
O’Neill said: “I do believe the awful fellow is coming over here.”
“I invited him,” the Major said coldly.
“Well, well, you don’t say...”
Sarah, sullen and with downcast eyes, hesitated for a moment before accompanying her father. She barely moved her lips in response to the Major’s greeting. Captain Bolton had come in silently behind the Devlins and followed them over to where