The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [40]
“By the time we arrived, of course, everyone including me was practically fainting with terror (too bad you weren’t there, Major, since you’re obviously abnormally brave when it comes to a rough house). Byrne’s pub isn’t such a bad place, though nobody, mind you, would think of going there unless for the purpose of harassing the natives, nobody from the Majestic anyway. A bit ramshackle, perhaps, with its thatched roof and stone walls. There was a rank, beery smell from the open door which made the ladies wrinkle their noses.
“I hadn’t ever been in there before so I had a look round (looking for the safest place in case there was a scrap, you know, Major, not being a brave and manly fellow like you). Dark, low ceiling, shabby, sawdust on the floor, chairs and tables all wooden, a bit of stench coming from the old ghuslkhana (as Father insists on calling it), a long mirror over the bar badly in need of silvering, and propped against it, beside a plaster statue of Johnny Walker with cane and monocle, a calendar or something with one of those frightfully gruesome Sacred Hearts on it. I think there were probably some wilted tulips in a jam jar in front of it.
“Oh, look! I’ve forgotten that there was another man in our party, that frightful tutor fellow Evans, who’s always lurking in the shadows. Actually, on this occasion he was as keen as mustard. As soon as he heard what Himself was planning he volunteered right away, could hardly restrain the chappie from leaping at the first native we saw. Anyway, there he was looking around keenly, frightfully belligerent (you’d have been delighted with him, Major, I’m sure; no white feathers for old Evans), but fortunately none of the locals seemed anxious to let him fracture their jaws.
“In fact, everything was quite peaceful. Surprising number of people there, sitting around or leaning on the bar, men for the most part. A couple of haggard and blowsy women at one of the tables, some men playing cards at another, an old crone by the fire with a big glass of porter beside her. Everyone had obviously been having a jolly good time until we showed up. But now there was Himself, standing there like that terrifying stone statue that turns up at the feast at the end of Don Giovanni to deal with the rotter who’s been tampering with everyone’s daughters! It was most alarming, Major, I can assure you (though naturally it wouldn’t have been alarming for a man of your moral fibre). So Himself goes clanking across the room to a big table in the very middle at which there was nobody except a toothless, wrinkled old man. This old codger had his white head lowered over an immense mug from which he was supping liquid with a faint whistling noise. As he came up for breath he inhaled his shaggy brown moustache and sucked it white and dry before lowering his head again. This fellow took to his heels when he saw the stone statue approaching. Can’t say I blame him, actually.
“Chairs were found and we all sat down. ‘Could we have some service please,’ demanded the Man of Stone in a voice from Beyond the Tomb. A perspiring red-faced chap in an apron scurried out from behind the bar wiping his hands.
“Silence still gripped the room, Major, like a heavy frost. Everyone at our table was wondering why ‘they’ didn’t start talking again, in respectful undertones, of course. Suddenly one of the men at the bar snorted into his glass, sending a great brown spray over his neighbours, hanging on helplessly to the brass rail, barking again and again with uncontrollable laughter, gasping so desperately for air that for a while it wasn’t clear that it was laughter and not some dreadful epileptic fit he was having. Little by little, though, his need for air strangled his merriment