The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [39]
“Indeed, no,” said the Major smiling. “It sounds more like the last act of an opera composed by a drunken Italian librettist.”
“Ah, it’s impossible to argue with someone so cynical!”
“But you ask me to believe in these operatic characters when one reads entirely different things in the newspaper. Just the other day I was reading about a woman who had pig rings put in her buttocks for supplying milk to the police...and then there was the brass band that started a rough house with the police, using their instruments as clubs... and a donkey stabbed to death for carrying turf to the R.I.C. barracks and labelled as a traitor to Ireland!”
“Such things are invented by the British to discredit us. We’ve no way of knowing whether the newspapers tell the truth. Everything belongs to the British in Ireland. Everything.”
There was silence for a moment. Sarah’s flush had faded but she still looked rather fretful. She said abruptly: “Did you know that Edward thinks you a cold person, Brendan?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” said the Major, surprised.
“I think it’s because you’re always so very polite and distant.” She smiled at the Major’s look of concern and shook her head. “However, I told him I thought quite the opposite ...in fact, I told him I thought you were probably as soft as a steamed pudding.”
“That doesn’t sound very complimentary, I must say. But how do you know what Edward thinks of me? You said he was always unfriendly to you. I thought you never saw him.”
“Oh, in Kilnalough one meets everyone,” Sarah said vaguely. “One couldn’t avoid people even if one wanted to. Now do stop looking so uneasy. Close the door and come and sit here on the bed. Don’t be silly, you don’t have to be paying any attention to him (my father, I mean)...What, you’re off already? Don’t say I’ve offended you again!” And she broke into peals of laughter that rang pleasantly in the Major’s ears all the way home.
But before he reached the Majestic a disturbing thought occurred to him. Could it be that Dr Ryan had been talking about Sarah and not about Angela with his “chill” and his “touch of fever” and his “father as spineless as jelly”? If that were so, poor Angela might be gravely ill after all. And the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed.
“Well,” said Ripon, who was drunk. “It was the most farcical business I’ve ever seen in my life. It happened right after the Soloheadbeg affair, which was the first of many attacks on the peelers, and, as you might expect, indignation and patriotism were running high. There we are, all sitting at the dinner table munching peacefully when suddenly Himself stands up and says in ringing tones: ‘I intend to go into Kilnalough this evening to have a drink and show the flag. Any of you men who care to join me will be most welcome.’ Well, a hush falls, nobody says a word...‘Ripon, how about you?’ Needless to say, I had no appetite for such a reckless venture. Himself puts on a contemptuous expression and says: ‘Very well, if no one cares to join me I shall go by myself.’ We’re all looking rather sheepish—at least I was—but inwardly heaving a sigh of relief (lucky for you, Major, that you weren’t staying here at the time; you don’t look to me like a man who could resist a call on his patriotism) when lo and behold, from a shadowy table at the other end of the dining-room a voice pipes up, thin, quavering, but determined. It’s Miss Johnston. ‘I shall accompany you, Mr Spencer!’ Everyone is dumbfounded. ‘And I shall come too!’ cries Miss Staveley. And soon everyone is clamouring