The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [36]
After his visit to Angela (though no one admitted that this was the purpose of his ascent) the same process of clinging to the banister would be gone through in reverse. Afterwards he would doze in an armchair in the Palm Court or the residents’ lounge and around him would gather a group of chattering old ladies who looked, by contrast to his immense age, as sprightly and exuberant as young girls. And maybe, reflected the Major, in Dr Ryan’s presence they did become a little intoxicated with their youth again. He found it touching, this recovery of youth, and enjoyed hearing them chatter in this girlish and charming way and thought that, after all, there is not so very much difference between an old lady and a young girl, only a few years diluting the exuberance with weariness, sadness, and a great sensitivity to draughts.
However, the presence of the old ladies made it a little difficult for the Major to bring up the subject of Angela. And perhaps, too, the doctor resented their enjoyment of his extreme old age, because one day, after his usual ascent of the stairs, he was to be found in none of his usual haunts. Disconsolate, petulant and elderly, the ladies took their knitting from one room to another and back again...but in vain. The old man had disappeared.
The Major, however, soon came upon him (though by accident) while searching for the place where the tortoiseshell cat, who had grown suddenly and eloquently thinner, was hiding her kittens. He was dozing in a wicker chair in the breakfast room behind a great oriental screen inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragons, pagodas and sampans. Seizing his chance the Major said: “How is she, Doctor?”
“Eh?” The old man started guiltily. “Ah, it’s you.” Reaching out with a blue-veined, freckled hand, he dragged the Major down into another wicker chair at his side. “It’s nothing. Nothing serious. A chill. Touch of fever. But that’s nothing...It’s her future here in this town that I’m worried about. Her father has no guts. She’s a fine girl but what will become of her? She’s of a different metal from the rest.”
“I’m glad to hear it’s not serious,” replied the Major, surprised to hear the doctor say that Edward had no guts. There was a silence, broken at length by the doctor saying with a sigh: “Why are you young men so stupid? You’d marry her if you had any sense. What’s your name, did you say?”
“Brendan Archer.”
“He’s as spineless as jelly. What’ll become of the girl? Ireland is no place for a girl like her with a bit of spirit...”
The doctor’s eyelids stole down over his eyeballs and he slept, or seemed to sleep. The Major told himself that this was the news he had been waiting for, that he was liberated, that since Angela was only suffering from a chill she would surely be up and about again in a day or two so that everything could be settled. He got to his feet quietly so as not to disturb Dr Ryan, but the old man was awake and watch-ing him.
“Don’t tell them where I am, Mr Archer. Ach! Old women!” And he chuckled faintly, with disgust. “She’s the only one worth a farthing in the whole of County Wexford,” he muttered, half to himself. “What fools!” He paused and sighed heavily once more. “The English are fools; they’ll lose Ireland if they go on like this. Do they even want it? Do they even know what they want? Ach, the Protestants will die of fright in their beds and serve them right!”
One afternoon, tired of sitting in the Imperial Bar reading the newspaper while the kittens played with his shoelaces and romped on the carpet, the Major set out for a walk in the company of Haig, a red setter. On his way across the fields he passed the grey stone buildings that before he had only seen from a distance, pointed out