The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [86]
Edward was kneeling among the bundles of clothing and rummaging through them abstractedly.
“Poor Angie! There’s lots more somewhere: petticoats and knickers and corsets and so forth...she liked clothes, used to buy things nobody’d ever wear out here in the country.”
He held up a dress of black velvet that billowed emptily in his hands, empty of Angela.
“Wore this the day she was presented at the Viceregal Lodge. For a joke we went out to Phoenix Park on the tram instead of hiring a carriage, both of us dressed up like dog’s dinners. How people stared at us! Bit of fun we had, you know, pretending to be Socialists. Angie said she was ashamed to be seen arriving on the tram, but she laughed about it afterwards like a good sport.” He stood up and went to stare at himself moodily in the mirror, picking up one of the silver brushes (tarnished blue-grey by months of neglect) and rubbing his thumb over the bristles.
“They’re only kids and it doesn’t really matter what they wear so long as it keeps them warm,” he added defensively. “Got to get hold of a bit of spare cash one way or another if I’m to give that blighter Ripon a helping hand.”
“Is that the reason?”
“Well, you said yourself that with a wife to support he’d be needing some cash to set himself up.”
The Major could remember saying no such thing but could see no point in denying it.
“But don’t you think his wife will have something?”
“I doubt it. Anyway, Ripon’s not the sort to accept charity, whatever his faults. In some ways, you know, he’s a chip off the old block. I suppose I should sell off these brushes and things as well. They’re not much good to poor Angie now. These trinkets might fetch something. Hate to do it, though.”
They lapsed into a lugubrious silence. Presently, with a sigh, Edward began: “You know, the one time in my life when I was really happy...” But at this moment the twins entered.
“My! Don’t they look smart?” cried Edward in genuine admiration. “Well, what d’you think of that, Brendan? Aren’t they lovely?”
The Major had to agree with him. The twins looked more lovely than ever standing there, identical, outraged, each holding up her skirts in small clenched fists. They uttered a simultaneous gasp.
“But we look like freaks, Daddy!”
“We can’t wear things like this. People will laugh themselves sick at us.”
“Nonsense, you look absolutely charming, you can take it from me. Young ladies knew how to dress themselves before the war.”
“Daddy, you surely don’t want us to look like freaks,” pleaded Faith, close to tears.
“That’s going too far! I refuse, I simply refuse!”
“Faith, I warned you! Charity! You’ll go to your rooms this instant,” shouted Edward, losing his temper. His anger impressed the twins sufficiently to quell them. They glared at him tearfully for a moment and then stamped out.
The soft-hearted Major hurried out after them and handed each a bar of chocolate (he had recently taken to carrying chocolate in his pockets to give to the ragged, famished children he encountered on his walks). They looked at the chocolate, sniffed, but finally accepted it.
The following day the Major came upon the twins in a deserted sitting-room sifting through a mountain of hats, muffs, boas and shoes. The hats were hopelessly lush and exotic, they told him peevishly. Who could possibly wear such things?
“Look at this!” Faith showed him a broad-brimmed felt hat swathed in yards of orange satin with a bird clinging to the back.
“Or this, it looks like a whole farmyard,” she said, throwing him another hat of black leghorn trimmed