The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [179]
The Major supposed Edward to be referring to his physical relationship with Sarah and for a moment was cheered. But no, Edward meant falling as Ripon had fallen: in other words. becoming like putty in the hands of a Catholic lady, becoming enslaved to Rome. This was a slippery path which ended in marriage, which ended in turn by having one’s faith torn out by the roots.
“Don’t be absurd, Edward,” sighed the Major, who would have asked for nothing better. “This notion of the Roman Church is puerile and your marvellous faith, if you ask me, is nothing more than a vague superstition which makes you go to church on Sundays.”
“You don’t know what living in Ireland is like.”
“Oh yes I do. You forget that I’ve been living here for some time now.”
Edward’s face darkened but he was too harrowed to argue the point. “It was I who gave her up, you know, Brendan. Not the other way round.” As the Major made no reply he added: “Could you give Murphy a shout to bring more hot water?”
They were in the laundry, where Edward was taking a bath. The boiler, strained beyond its powers by all the washing that had gone on before the ball, had gone wrong, but Edward’s craving for a bath had been too strong to be denied. Sunk in the bath, a great urge to confess had come over him, or, if not exactly to confess (for he really hadn’t done anything so very dreadful), at least to share his troubles with someone who might understand. Hence the presence of the Major.
At first the Major believed that he had been summoned to hear and sympathize about Ripon, because Edward had started to describe the scene that had taken place the evening before when, after supper, he had sought out his son to give him a cheque...how he had found Ripon skulking in the library, leafing through a book on urino-genital matters that he had idly removed the shelf. And what had he done with his wife? No doubt she was pining away in some ladies’ retiring room. Ripon, in any case, was not showing much interest in her these days. On seeing his father he had started guiltily and replaced the book in the shelf. Then Edward advanced on him, flourishing the cheque. Ripon had taken it and read it (it was for a handsome sum) and had seemed puzzled...What was all this for?
“I know you must be getting short. Sorry it’s not more, but I scraped up what I could,” Edward had told him gruffly.
“But Dad,” Ripon had cried, stuffing the cheque back into his father’s top pocket. “You mustn’t! I don’t need it...Just take a look at this.” And he had proceeded to pull thick rolls of banknotes from one pocket after another, dropping them on the carpet in front of him until his shoes were all but hidden by the mound of money.
“Look here, Dad, why don’t you take some to help out with your expenses? No, I mean, go on and help yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from.” Ripon, his eyes moist with generosity, had stood there inviting his stiff-necked old father to delve into the pile of currency. “Take it all if you want to. Easy enough to get some more.”
Edward had stopped talking. The Major had glanced at him sympathetically but had deemed it best to say nothing, sensing that the worst was yet to come.
The laundry was a vast, desolate cellar, a continuation of the kitchens; ranks of Gothic arches fled into the dim, greenish distance, each arch made of thickly whitewashed stones. Tubs, basins, a gigantic mangle with rollers as fat as pillar-boxes, a few trays of shrivelled apples from some summer of long ago, pieces of greasy machinery carefully spread out on oilskin but long since abandoned (belonging perhaps to the defunct “Do More” generator)—the Major looked around with melancholy interest.
Edward’s head, the only part of him visible over the dark soapy water, was grey and wild-eyed. Most likely he had not slept at all. The business with Ripon had no doubt been humiliating enough—but it was the question of Sarah that was really causing him pain. It did not seem to occur to him that the Major might also still be sensitive on this subject; he was