The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [177]
But Sarah did not seem annoyed. She merely said with indifference: “That’s all right, Brendan. But now leave for heaven’s sake. I couldn’t stand another scene tonight.”
“Can’t I take you home?”
“No. I telephoned a friend to come for me. He’ll be here in a minute.”
His room was in darkness and he no longer had the candle he had taken downstairs. It was not until he had reached his bed and groped for the bedclothes that he remembered the twins.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“It was nothing serious. You can go back to bed now. A bookcase fell over in your father’s study.”
“Can’t we stay? It’s almost morning and our beds will be freezing.”
“Certainly not.”
“Just for a little while?”
“No, of course not. Go back to your rooms.”
But the twins made no move and the Major was too weary to argue. For a while he stood in the darkness thinking of nothing, then he took off his dressing-gown and got into bed. “Well, just for a little while.”
It was comforting, he had to admit, to have a warm body beside him. Presently he had two warm bodies beside him, for one of the twins had slipped out of bed, around it, and in at the other side. He formulated in his mind the words of rebuke that would send them both back to their cold beds but his vocal chords seemed to be paralysed by weariness and despair—and so it was in the middle of this chaste, warm, heavenly sandwich that the broken-hearted Major finally fell asleep. A faint smell of wine and perspiration presently began to perfume the air around this peacefully sleeping bed, for not only had the twins forgotten to say their prayers, they had also forgotten to wash themselves.
By now, at last, it was beginning to get light at the Majestic. The breeze from the sea which had chilled the few remaining guests during the early hours had dropped again and all was still. In a few minutes it would be daybreak: the rising sun would warm the weather-beaten stone that faced the sea.
Presently Mr O’Flaherty arrived in his trap with the three lads who worked for him. He was the local caterer who had been commissioned to provide breakfast in the ballroom (the other firm of caterers having returned to Dublin after supper). He had retired early the previous evening in order to have his wits about him at breakfast-time and thus no news of the outcome of the ball had yet reached him. Certainly he was surprised to find everything so quiet—but that was hardly any of his business. By now the guests would have been sporting and dancing all night. Doubtless they were rather tired.
Laden with baskets of eggs and trays of bacon, the boys staggered after him as he made his dignified way round to the kitchens—which had been left in a shocking state (he clicked his tongue in disapproval). Mr O’Flaherty was a portly man, very red-faced, a Sinn Feiner by conviction but disapproving of violence (indeed, of any kind of excess). He disapproved of a good many things—at least, in general terms; in particular cases he was inclined to be tolerant. He disapproved of the Anglo-Irish “quality,” who seemed to him idle, luxurious, and very often slow-witted into the bargain. He disapproved of Hunt Balls and similar shenanigans. But he had nevertheless a job to do and he intended to do it.
“Look at the filth of it...That’s Dubliners for ye!”
While the lads were cleaning up the kitchens he went upstairs to fetch the silver. For it seemed that ordinary china was not good enough for these people: they must eat out of silver dishes and drink their coffee from silver pots. Edward had shown him where to find this glistening treasure and handed him the key to the cupboard where it lay. Mr O’Flaherty could not resist a momentary feeling of pride at being trusted in this manner, and perhaps this did a little to palliate the unpleasant thought that while Mr Spencer and his guests were eating off silver there were people in the West of Ireland with hardly a bite to eat of any sort.