The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [41]
“At this point Himself, alone in the silence, stood up and began to sing:
‘GodSaveourGraciousKing
LongliveourNobleKing
GodSavetheKing.’
The other members of the Majestic party were now on their feet. Two or three of the ladies, their voices reedy and defiant, joined in here and fluted:
‘Sendhimvictor-rious
Happyandglor-rious
LongtoreignOh!-verus
Go-od sa-ave the King.’
(Oh, Major, you can’t imagine what it was like! Your hackles would have bristled with pride at that dear uplifting sound!)
“Well, an instant of silence followed. Then it came: a great rolling storm of applause, of laughter, of clapping and crying and cheering. The noise was positively deafening. The skin that covered that straining, bulging tension in the room had broken and the relief was divine, Major. Even I was applauding.
“The Man of Stone and the ladies, however, looked far from pleased at this favourable reception. Their faces darkened, the Man of Stone grimly licked his granite lips while the ladies elevated their rheumy eyes to a more noble, uncompromising angle than ever. What was to be done? Hardly had the cascade of applause begun to subside when the Man of Stone, marble nostrils quivering, launched once more into the National Anthem, singing the same verse as before (I suppose there are others, you’re the sort of chap, Major, who’d be likely to know about that sort of thing, but never mind for the moment.)
“This time not only the contingent from the Majestic but also some throaty tenors from the bar joined in, raising their foaming tankards and showing a tendency, common to many Irishmen when singing, to warble sentimentally and allow their eyes to fill with tears. In our party at that moment, Major, muscles were tensing, necks were growing red, veins were bulging, fists were being clenched. Evans, the appalling tutor-wallah, in particular, looked as if he were about to swoon in an ecstasy of hate and violence if he didn’t get to bash someone up pretty quickly.
“Now everyone was singing, not just a few drunken tenors at the bar. It was wonderful, the way everyone was singing together. And, not content with singing, a young fellow wearing a cap much too big for him and baggy trousers that looked as if they’d been made out of potato sacks jumped up on a stool and began to conduct, now the Man of Stone, now the chorus at the bar.
“The applause once again was deafening. The Man of Stone was by now looking a tiny bit defeated. He stood perfectly still for a moment, head just a little bowed. Then he fumbled in his pocket and dropped a handful of silver on the table beside his untouched glass of stout. After that he turned and clanked stiffly towards the open door, with his dignified platoon of elderly ladies trailing behind him.
“Well, we all trooped back to where we’d left the motors and for a while nobody said a word. We just stood there waiting for everyone to get in the motor cars until one of the ladies said: ‘You know, I think they were making fun of us.’ Well, nobody had anything to say to that, so I said (hoping to make things better, Major, you realize): ‘Couldn’t it be that they just enjoyed singing and that was the only song we all knew?’ But that didn’t seem to help at all.
“It was then we realized that there was a bit of a scuffle going on. Evans had hung back looking for someone to punch in order to avenge the slight on Himself’s honour. But in a moment or two he was bundled out by two or three grinning natives