The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [136]
He needed some distraction—a visit to the theatre. He consulted the Irish Times. Charley’s Aunt was being performed at the Gaiety and the advertisement said that it was “Enough to make a cat laugh.” But the Major dolefully suspected that it would fail to work on him. Besides, there was a special notice which said that the performance ended nightly at 9.15 p.m. sharp, and the idea of snatching a few quick chuckles before hastening home through the lawless streets did not appeal to him. All the same, he must take himself in hand. For an entire morning he forced himself to remain sitting in one place. The ladies, rebuffed in peevish tones, watched him from a distance and supposed in offended whispers that he had “got out of bed the wrong side.” After lunch, when he had satisfied his most urgent craving for movement, he did his best to restore himself to their good graces.
Shortly before tea-time he was strolling, hands in pockets, along a corridor on the third floor (since putting his foot through the floor-boards he seldom ventured higher) when a door opened round the corner, releasing a gale of laughter followed by footsteps and a rustling of skirts. A moment later and he had collided with a slim, dark girl who came running round the corner, laughing over her shoulder. In the dim light the Major failed to see her until the last moment. He just had time to catch her in his arms to prevent her falling.
“I beg your pardon!”
The girl’s laughter changed to surprise and dismay. She disengaged herself and stood back awkwardly. The Major peered at her in the twilight. She was wearing a charming dress of black velvet with a white ruff and white lace cuffs; from the ruff her neck rose, slender and flushed, to a delicate pouting face. A fragrant perfume hung in the air. Abruptly, she turned and fled back into the room that the laughter was coming from. There was some urgent whispering (it was the twins and Viola, of course) and then the hilarity became greater than ever. The Major, also laughing, put his head round the door. By this time he had realized that the “girl” was Padraig.
“Brendan, what d’you think? Doesn’t he make a gorgeous girl?”
“We’re all frightfully jealous of him.”
Smiling (though still a tiny bit dismayed by the pleasure he had derived from touching “her” soft body a moment earlier), the Major agreed that black velvet suited Padraig to perfection. It was some time before the mortified Padraig could be enticed out of the adjoining dressing-room. Indeed, it took a great deal of cajolery from the girls and a hearty appeal from the Major before he would agree to show himself again. And then what laughter there was when Charity lifted the hem of his skirt to show the Major what slender, well-turned ankles he had! And his hair was so fine and curled so naturally that if he grew it a bit longer he wouldn’t have to wear a wig at all! Besides, according to some magazine they’d been reading there were girls in London who had cut off all their hair and wore it short like men.
“So with his lovely soft hair...”
“And his skin and colouring...”
“And his dark eyes with their long lashes...”
“And my ankles, don’t forget them,” added Padraig.
“And his ankles, of course, we mustn’t forget them, and his hands, just look how slender and white they are!”
“With all those things there’s hardly any difference between him and a girl at all!” cried Viola enthusiastically.