The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [172]
“Anyway, you’re sure you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have done? It’s far better to tell me now if you did...”
“Oh no, Brendan!” murmured Charity hoarsely, avoiding the Major’s eye.
“What sort of thing do you mean?” inquired Faith more strategically.
“Never you mind. Just drink up. Come on now, take a deep breath and drink it down all in one go. It’s the only way.”
Half an hour earlier the Major had come upon a strange quartet proceeding slowly down the stairs. First had come Mortimer, grunting and dishevelled, wobbling dangerously under the weight of the limp and senseless Matthews (who had “bumped his head in the dark”). A few stairs above the labouring Mortimer the two sisters were supporting each other, pale as ghosts, their clothing disarranged and somehow...well, different, he could not help thinking (in their debilitated state they had left off some of the inner layers that had earlier exercised Matthews’s skill to the utmost). With one dismayed glance at the twins the Major had leaped to assist Mortimer with his unfortunate friend; the “bump” was a bad one, the poor chap was out cold, though breathing steadily enough.
Once Matthews had been deposited on a sofa in the foyer the Major telephoned the camp at Valebridge and asked for an ambulance. “No, no, it was an accident,” he had explained several times. In due course the ambulance arrived; the men who came with it looked around suspiciously for a while (“No, nothing whatsoever to do with Sinn Feiners. He simply bumped his head!”) and then left with poor Matthews who still had not regained consciousness. Indeed, it was several hours before he finally came round and even then was unable to remember just how he had come to bump his head in the dark, an uncertainty of memory that was to persist, together with bouts of double vision and absent-mindedness, for the rest of his life.
The twins had heaved a sigh of relief when they saw him go. Charity in particular experienced a surge of joy and for a moment almost forgot to appear more ill than she felt (she and Faith had had the presence of mind to powder their faces with chalk in order to incite sympathy and deflect punishment). She did feel ill, of course, inside, though luckily she had vomited the contents of her stomach. But her face in the mirror had looked all too shiningly healthy. It was boring of the Major to insist on them drinking this vile stuff, but it was comforting too in a way—after all, she had had a fright. Tonight, for once, she would remember to say her prayers!
At length, the twins in bed and brimming with bicarbonate of soda, the Major himself climbed the stairs, though not without checking once more in his mind that everything had been taken care of...The twins? Yes. Padraig? Sent home in dry clothes. The wretched tutor? Deal with him tomorrow. The guests? Well, nothing could be done about the guests. Sarah? Forget about her. Mrs Rappaport? Disarmed and in bed, as far as he knew. And Sarah? Forget about her. But how could he? He must. And Sarah? Think about her tomorrow, perhaps. And Sarah?
His room was bitterly cold; the sheets on his bed were damp and icy to the touch. Tired and in despair, this lack of comfort was almost more than he could bear. If only he had had a hot-water bottle! He lay there, craving physical comfort as, earlier in the evening, he had craved sweetness. Of course a hot-water bottle was out of the question. “All the same,” he thought, “I shall never manage to fall asleep like this,” as worn out by the happiness, disappointment, unhappiness, bitterness and chaos that had succeeded each other throughout the day, he fell asleep nevertheless, forgetting to blow out the candles at his bedside.
They were still burning when he woke a little later; in fact, they had hardly burned down more than an inch or two. He called: “Come