The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [21]
Edward said in somewhat sepulchral tones: “They gave their lives for their King, their country and for us. Let us remain silent for a moment in their name.” Silence descended. The only sounds to be heard were Murphy’s regular, whistling breath and a faint gurgle of gastric juices.
Meanwhile the Major was trying once again to delve into the past with the paralysed fingers of his memory, hoping to grasp some warmth or emotion, the name perhaps of a dead friend that might mean the beginning of grief, the beginning of an end to grief. But now, as he stood at the breakfast table, even the dead faces that nightly appeared in his dreams remained absent. There was only the cold and constant surprise that would come, say, from dreaming of home and waking among strangers. He ground his teeth at the accusing, many-eyed memorial and thought: “Hypocrisy.”
As Edward said grace his eye met the Major’s for an instant and perhaps he noticed the Major’s bitterness, for a shadow of concern crossed his face. Turning, he closed the memorial and took his seat.
Now that the domed lid was being lifted from the silver dish the Major’s spirits improved and he thought that today, after breakfast, he must have a talk with Angela and clear up her misconceptions. Then he would leave. After all, if he did not leave promptly his presence might well foster more misconceptions. If she could nominate herself his “fiancée” on the strength of a few meetings in Brighton she might well be capable of arranging the wedding without consulting him. All the same, it was difficult to bring the matter up while Angela continued to treat him as a casual acquaintance. It seemed indelicate to recall that time they had kissed with the cactus in Brighton.
“Did you sleep well, Brendan?” Angela wanted to know... and looking at her pale and frigid face he wondered whether the kiss might have taken place only in his imagination.
“Yes,” the Major replied curtly, hoping to indicate the contrary.
“That’s good,” Edward said with satisfaction, spearing the fat rump of a kidney and a few leaves of bacon (all stone-cold by now and remarkably greasy). “Don’t pay any heed to what those bally guide-books say. It may not be quite what it was in the old days but it’s still a comfortable old place. Anyway, they’re all written by Liberals and Socialists and so forth... They envy us, if you want my opinion, it’s as simple as that.”
This was too much for the Major. “There was a sheep’s head in the cupboard by my bed.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Angela, though without surprise.
“That’s what we give the dogs. Boil ’em down. Very nourishing and they cost nothing at all. The butcher would probably throw them away if it wasn’t for us, though I’ve heard the country people sometimes eat them too. You should see the healthy coats they have on them. Come along with me afterwards and see for yourself.”
The Major, who hoped never in his life to see another sheep’s head, could only nod mutely and trust to luck that Edward would forget.
He didn’t, however. Just as the Major was preparing to slope off after breakfast (and perhaps corner Angela to drop a few hints about not wanting to marry her) Edward abruptly materialized at his elbow and steered him firmly down unfamiliar corridors, through a yard festooned with damp sheets bulging in the wind and into a smaller yard walled by outhouses. Here a dozen or so dogs of varying ages, shapes and sizes (whose names the Major already knew by heart) were dozing on piles of straw or empty sacks.
“My dogs,” Edward said with simplicity. “Aren’t they beauties? Mind where you walk.”
“They certainly are,” the Major replied insincerely.
The dogs brightened up at the sight of Edward and crowded round him excitedly, snapping at his fingers and trying to land their paws on his chest, barging, quarrelling and getting