The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [247]
Ford had pulled his chair closer to that of Mrs Ross and had abandoned his lethargic manner.
“How I wish Florence had a piano,” wailed Mrs Ross, changing the subject abruptly. “My fingers fairly ache to play. I fear that Mr Fleury will find but few of the comforts of civilization in Krishnapur, is that not so?” Opening her eyes very wide she gazed interrogatively at Fleury.
“Well,” began Fleury, but once again he was forestalled, this time by the arrival of what seemed to be a tornado hitting the verandah and the wooden steps that led up to it. Such a crashing and banging shook the house that the gentlemen started up and made towards the folding louvred doors to see what was the matter. But before they could take more than a couple of steps the doors burst open and a young officer, whom Fleury instantly recognized as Lieutenant Cutter, rode into the room on horseback, wild-eyed, shouting and waving a sabre. The ladies clutched their breasts and did not know whether to shriek with fear or laughter as Cutter, his face as scarlet as his uniform, drove his reluctant horse forward into the room and put it at an empty sofa. Over it went, as clean as a circus pony, and landed, skidding, with a crash on the other side. Cutter then wheeled and flourishing his sabre, lopped the head off a geranium in a pot as he turned his horse to drive it once again at the sofa. But this time the animal refused and Cutter, his sabre still in his hand, slithered off its back on to the floor.
“Do you surrender, sir?” he bellowed at a cushion on the sofa, his arm drawn back for a thrust.
“Yes, it surrenders!” shrieked Mrs Rayne.
“No, it defies you,” shouted Ford.
“Then die, sir!” cried Cutter and charging forward transfixed the cushion, at the same time tripping up in a rug in the process, with the result that he collapsed in a whirlwind of feathers on the floor.
“It’s just a joke,” explained Burlton to Fleury, who was amazed and shaken by this latest development. “He’s always up to something. What a clown he is!”
“Who is this griffin?” shouted Cutter, fighting his way out of the rug with which his spurs had become entangled. “Who is this milk-sop? Do you surrender, sir?” And drawing back his sabre once again he seemed to be on the point of running Fleury through.
“Yes, he surrenders!” shouted everyone except Fleury, who merely stood there, too dazed to speak, with the point of the sabre patrolling the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Oh, very well then,” said Cutter. “No thanks, Rayne, you can keep your Calcutta champagne. I only drink Todd and James, my horse drinks that rubbish. Monkey, bring brandy pawnee!” But Monkey was evidently familiar with Lieutenant Cutter’s tastes for he was already hastening forward with a tray.
“Does Beeswing really drink simkin ?” Mrs Rayne wanted to know, for it seemed that Cutter had given his horse the name of the celebrated Calcutta mare. At this, Cutter, who had sunk despondently on to the feather-strewn sofa with his boots and spurs dangling over the end, started up again with a roar and nothing would do but that Beeswing, who all this time had been standing patiently by the window and occasionally dropping his head to try and crop the Persian rug on which he was standing, should join the party too and drink his fill. Ram hurried in with another bottle and a bowl, but Cutter ignored the bowl and seized a solar topee from a side table; into this he splashed the contents of the bottle, guffawing and shouting encouragement to his horse. When the champagne was stuck under his nose Beeswing, who was thirsty from his canter in the late afternoon heat, began to lap it up with a will.
The sun was already low on the horizon and Fleury was anxious to return home to see if Miriam had returned and to find out if by any chance the Dunstaples wanted to invite him to supper. But such was the jollity surrounding Beeswing that he had the greatest difficulty attracting the attention of his host.
“What? Can you be off already?” exclaimed Rayne. “I haven’t yet had a chance to talk to you...A talk about civilization, that