The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [26]
But by now he had had more than enough of politics, so he decided against joining Edward and the others for coffee. Other considerations apart, the coffee at the Majestic was execrable, brewed as it was by the manservant Murphy according to some recipe of his own. Instead, he went to his room for some tobacco, passing on his way the fat cook he had reduced to tears earlier in the day. She was coming heavily down the stairs, panting slightly with the effort of negotiating the dangerously bulging carpet with a tray held in front of her. The Major peered at this tray: on it there was an entire lunch (cottage pie and stewed apple), hardly touched, pushed aside, one might suppose, by a person without appetite. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Angela was ill and this was her lunch. However, since she had been up and about during the morning it could hardly be anything serious. The cook nodded to him somewhat nervously and then stumbled on a loose stair-rod. For an instant it seemed that she must plunge headlong to the foot of the stairs. But she righted herself somehow with a rattle of plates and a slopping of water and continued on her way, leaving the Major to wonder in which room lay his pallid “fiancée.”
Later in the afternoon, restless but with nothing to do, he walked into Kilnalough with the intention of finding out at the railway station at what time the trains left for Kingstown and Dublin. On his way there, however, he encountered Sarah, who was being wheeled by a very plump, voluptuous girl with dark hair and rosy cheeks (“All Irish girls are as fat as butter,” thought the Major). Hardly had this person been introduced (as “Máire”) when she whispered something urgently into Sarah’s ear and hurried away, leaving Sarah to wheel herself.
“Well, am I as terrifying as all that?”
“She’s shy. Also I expect she had some idea that I might... well, never mind. Shall I tell you who she is? After all, the sooner I tell you all the gossip the sooner you’ll find Kilnalough as dull as the rest of us.”
“By all means.”
“She’s the daughter of the wealthiest man in Kilnalough—yes, even wealthier than your friend Mr Spencer (not that I should think he’s all that wealthy, mind you, by the look of the Majestic)—the owner of the flour mill to be precise. You didn’t know that we had a flour mill here? How ignorant you are! On every single bag of Noonan’s flour sold in Ireland you’ll find a picture of Máire dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood carrying a basket. Isn’t that charming?”
“I was hoping to hear something more scandalous.”
“Very well then. Can I rely on you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“She and your friend Ripon have an understanding.”
“An understanding? You mean a...sentimental understanding?”
“On her part it’s sentimental. On Ripon’s I have the feeling it’s more commercial than sentimental, but as you know I have a habit of thinking the worst of people. In any case, there’s little chance of it coming to anything since their respective families can’t abide each other.”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
“It would be more true to say, let me see...Iago and Juliet. What’s more, Juliet is a snob.” The Major laughed and Sarah turned to him with a sweet smile. Her malice amused him and, really, it was quite harmless, intended to entertain rather than hurt.
Sarah had declared her intention of buying some material at Finnegan’s and they were progressing slowly up the main street in that direction, the Major pushing and Sarah chattering, teasing him by turns about his “Englishness,”