The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [159]
Sarah dropped her eyes to her glass, which was empty; she flicked it idly with her finger-nail and drew from it one thin, clear note of a painful beauty, over which the honeyed sighings of the violins on the platform had no dominion.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs and see what the nannies and the children used to look at.”
He gave her his arm. On the way out they passed Bolton, who was conversing politely with a feathered lady. He raised one eyebrow sardonically at Sarah as she passed.
Through the empty foyer and up the stairs Sarah clung tightly to his arm, humming under her breath.
“Well, you must tell me all the gossip, Brendan,” she said at last. “I hear that Edward has been courting that sensible lady with the moustache.”
“Oh come now!” protested the Major feebly. “She hasn’t got a moustache. And besides, he wasn’t really courting her in my opinion and anyway he’s stopped now...But why do you want to know? Are you jealous?”
“Look at me, Brendan. Isn’t it plain to see that I’m head over heels in love with him?”
In consternation the Major stopped. For a few moments she gazed at him with a sombre, tragic air; then, seeing his expression, she abruptly burst out laughing—a fresh, mocking laugh that echoed cheerfully all around them.
They had now reached the second landing. Reassured, the Major steered her along the corridor and into one of the dark starlit rooms. They moved out on to the balcony; below them lay the ballroom, an immense, glistening bubble of glass. Another waltz was about to begin; the orchestra sat poised in its luxuriant garden of ferns, bald heads shining with perspiration, fingers crooked, bows at the ready. Hardly had the first few notes been played before the twins were out on the floor spinning round and round, disappearing every now and then into the fierce solar glare of one or other of the chandeliers. Presently three of the young Auxiliaries went spinning out on to the floor with their partners, Miss Bagley, Mrs Bates and a terror-stricken Mrs Rice. The Major watched, perturbed lest the young men might be taking their joke too far. A crash of breaking glass echoed up to them—but it was only some young chap who had clumsily swept a tray of empty glasses to the floor.
“I’m cold,” Sarah said with a shiver. “Let’s go inside.”
In the darkened room the Major took hold of Sarah’s arm and, in concert with his strange mood, kissed her sadly yet optimistically. It was one of those nights, he had the feeling, when everything isn’t (as it usually seems to be) already settled; when one doesn’t have to say to oneself: given your character and my character what harmony shall we ever be able to achieve?
“The moon will be coming up soon. Let me show you my favourite room.”
As he opened the door of the linen room a great exhalation of hot air enveloped them. The night was mild, the kitchen ovens had been burning for several hours at full blast while the supper was being prepared, so behind this closed door the temperature had been mounting steadily all afternoon. Still, Sarah had said she was cold. The Major stepped inside and lit the candle beside his nest of pillows on the floor. He gestured for Sarah to sit down in the depths of the cocoon. She looked faintly surprised but did so, murmuring: “It’s frightfully warm in here.”
The Major was full of determination but uncertain quite how to proceed. He would have liked to take his coat off for a start (indeed he would have liked to take all his clothes off) but was afraid lest