The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [44]
Although Edward, as good as his word, had procured a room for the Major with a window overlooking Dame Street (affording him a splendid view of the route that the parade would take), shortly after eleven o’clock he became restless and made his way out to the street. Above him the windows and balconies of College Green were packed with eager faces. Ladies and gentlemen had crowded on to the roof of Trinity College. People clung to parapets or precariously embraced chimney-pots. The statue of King William, horse and rider, was festooned with patriots. Red, white and blue rosettes or miniature Union Jacks glowed in every lapel as the Major forced his way through the excited throng.
By now only the most important places in the Viceregal Stand remained empty. At any moment the pageant would begin, the triumphant apotheosis of the Empire’s struggle for Peace. A boy had climbed one of the tramway poles on the pavement and was shouting hysterically, signalling the approach of four motor cars from the direction of Westmoreland Street. An open motor with a grim-looking cargo of police dashed past. Then the Major just managed to catch a glimpse of a second motor as a tremendous roar broke out. He had arrived!
Standing on tiptoe (luckily he was taller than anyone around him) the Major craned forward to see through the waving forest of hats and caps. The dense crowd by the railings of the Bank of Ireland was stirring violently. A number of tall policemen were to be seen fraying a passage for the new arrival who still remained invisible. Very faintly, beneath the continuous cheering, the Major could make out the thud of drums; the bands were playing “God Save the King.” And still he had not come into view. So thick was the crowd, so great their enthusiasm to catch a glimpse of the celebrity who was making his slow and dignified way through the tunnel of their waving, clutching hands, that a way had to be brutally forced through them. For he must not be touched: that much was clear. An assassin might have positioned himself in the great man’s path. A suddenly drawn revolver, a hastily pulled trigger...what a blow struck for Sinn Fein! But now the violently stirring whirlpool of heads had almost reached the steps up to the Viceregal Stand. Any second now and he would climb into view...
Abruptly, he was there! The cheering increased to a thunderous cascade. Tiny and plump, fierce and dignified in his gleaming cavalry boots, swagger-stick under his arm, Lord French of Ypres scurried to the centre of the Viceregal Stand a pace or two ahead of the tall and languidly strolling officers of his staff. For a moment, while he sternly acknowledged the delirious cheering of the crowd, his thick, pale moustache flared in the sunshine (surely that head, the Major was thinking, is too big for the rounded shoulders and dapper little body). Then, having greeted the representatives of the Government, he made ready to take the salute. Meanwhile the Major had turned and was forcing his way back through the crowd towards Jury’s Hotel.
Already the leading contingents had turned the corner from the Castle Yard and were moving up Dame Street beneath the tossing, brilliant roof of flags and bunting. First came the Mounted Police, men with granite faces on su-perb, caracoling horses; as the Major made his way through the crowded entrance to Jury’s a great cheer was sent up to welcome their arrival at the Viceregal Stand. The hotel foyer was deserted. Everybody was either on the street or at some vantage-point on one of the upper storeys. But as the Major, without impatience, was climbing the stairs to his own room, he almost collided with a gentleman coming down in great haste. He glanced at the Major and then cried: “Man, what a stroke of luck! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” It was Boy O’Neill, wild-eyed and in a great state of excitement.
“Edward told me you had a room with a view. You don’t mind, do you? Can’t see a blessed thing from the street. Left the ladies