The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [14]
“One of the things I know about Ripon is that he constantly tells lies, isn’t that so, Ripon? He even tells lies to innocent young girls who don’t know any better than to believe him, that’s true, isn’t it, Ripon? No, Major, don’t look so startled, I’m not talking about myself. Young Ripon would have to get up early in the morning before he caught me believing one of his yarns. So now you know why Ripon has to be nice to me (though I’m sure he says spiteful things behind my back). I know everything. Are you going to be nice to me, Ripon?”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Ripon, who, with his head on one side, did in fact look somewhat discomfited. “You always make such a fuss when you know very well that we all dote on you.”
“Well,” said the Major. “I know one or two things about you, Sarah. Your father is the manager of the only bank in Kilnalough and you give piano lessons to private pupils in your father’s home behind the bank. I hope I haven’t got you mixed up. No? You’ve had a grand piano brought down from Pigott’s in Dublin. In order to get it into the house you had to remove the legs and then replace them, I understand ...What else do I know? Let me see, your name is Devlin, isn’t it? I’m sure I know some other things but my memory is terrible these days.”
“Angela told you all that, of course. But you’ve forgotten the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact that I’m a Catholic. Yes, I can see that she told you but that you regard it as a fact too shameful to mention. Or perhaps you regard it as good manners not to mention such an affliction.”
“What absolute nonsense!”
“Pay no attention, Sarah got out of bed the wrong side as usual.”
“Be quiet, Ripon! It’s not nonsense at all. Ripon’s father calls us ‘fish-eaters’ and ‘Holy Romans’ and so on. So does Ripon. So will you, Major, when you’re among the ‘quality.’ In fact, you’ll become a member of the ‘quality’ yourself, high and mighty, too good for the rest of us.”
“I hope not to be so bigoted,” said the Major smiling. “Surely there’s no need to abandon one’s reason simply because one is in Ireland.”
“In Ireland you must choose your tribe. Reason has nothing to do with it. But let’s talk about something else, Major. Is it true what they say (because, of course, I hear all the gossip), is it true that Angela’s Major had to stay in hos-pital so long because he wasn’t quite himself, so to speak, in the head?”
“Ah,” thought the Major, nettled, “she’s cruel...cruel... but then life in a wheelchair must be terrible.” He tried to picture himself in a wheelchair for the rest of his life and it did indeed seem terrible. All at once he felt extremely tired remembering the breathless, swaying cabin on board the mail boat, remembering also an interminable conversation he had got into with some army chap on his way to Dublin Castle, drinking brandy and soda in the bar, on the subject of cricket, and the afternoon seemed endless, endless.
“I was looking at the flowers which have run wild over by the summerhouse,” Sarah was saying, “and I heard the shots. Were you hunting that policeman? How peculiar! And then what was I doing? Yes, I was going to steal an apple and you caught me in the act.”
“Let me help you steal it,” the Major said. “I’m sure it will give you indigestion though.” He reached up to detach the apple and it fell with a flurry of leaves into Sarah’s lap.
“Thank you, thank you,” she exclaimed, sinking her pretty white teeth into the apple and making a face because it was so tart. “As a reward, Major, and you too, Ripon, I shall allow you to wheel me back to watch all those fat men playing tennis...or rather, no, the Major shall have the honour of wheeling me because I hurt his feelings just now by saying he wasn’t quite himself, and I want to make amends and, besides, he won’t think me so nasty if he wheels me.”
“Ah, she’s cruel,” thought the Major, his feelings hurt afresh. Nevertheless he took hold of the wheelchair and began to push her. And, curiously enough, he did feel a little better as he pushed her up the drive