Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [106]
He had barely rapped on it when Sarah opened it, caught him by the sleeve and pulled him inside, saying: “Why have you taken so long, Brendan? I heard your car arrive ages ago.”
“Well...”
“Oh, you’re so slow,” Sarah said impatiently, “and you have a cold. Really, you’re such a child! What can you expect if you wander around in that absurd bathing-costume in the middle of winter? You’ll catch your death, I expect, and serve you right.”
“Your father gave me a drink.”
“My father? He said something to you? He asked you something about me?”
“Well, not really...”
“Ah, I knew as much. He wouldn’t dare say anything to my face!”
“But no, I assure you, he merely wanted a chat.”
Sarah had sat down awkwardly and without ceremony, ignoring him. She stood up again and made for the door.
“Are we ready then?”
“No. Wait here. Ah, these dratted stairs...D’you know why they give me a room up here? They think they’ll keep me a prisoner,” she muttered furiously, and went out, dragging the door closed behind her. The Major was left standing there with the chocolates and flowers (which were blood-red roses); he had just cleared his throat, on the point of presenting them.
A moment later he heard the sound of angry voices from below. He held his breath but was unable to hear what was being said. “Heavens!” he thought wretchedly, “I’ve started another family row.”
Sarah called from below that he should go down, they were ready to leave, she didn’t want to climb the “dratted stairs” again. Still clutching his roses and chocolates, the Major made his way down. He was following Sarah into the street when Mr Devlin materialized at his elbow and whispered: “You mustn’t mind her. She gets excited. She’s very high-strung, you know, Major, but she means no harm...Indeed, it clears the air...Her music makes her temperamental, you see, it’s always the way...”
The Major nodded curtly but showed no inclination to pause and discuss the matter. Mr Devlin dropped back into the shadows of the corridor from which he had appeared, murmuring that the Major should call more often, that he was always welcome under their...Under their what? The Major did not wait to hear. “Roof,” he supposed.
“What on earth are you carrying, Brendan? Are you going to visit someone sick in bed?”
“They’re for you.”
“For me?” Sarah exclaimed, laughing. “How ridiculous you are! What on earth shall I do with such things? But, very well...I’ll accept them. It’s really very kind of you. In fact, you are a terribly kind person, I can see that plainly. With your flowers and chocolates you remind me of Mulcahy.”
“Oh? The rural swain?” asked the Major, offended.
“Now I’ve hurt your feelings, Brendan. It’s just like the old days.”
As they motored through the tranquil streets of Kilnalough the Major, eyes blurred, nose red and mouth gaping like a fish, peered gloomily at the peaceful shops and houses, some of which already had turf-smoke rising from their chimneys, and wondered whether one day there would be trouble in these streets too.
On the outskirts of Kilnalough a shabby old man hurled a stone at them as they went sailing by—but feebly. It missed by a considerable distance. The Major pretended not to notice.
The twins had not been liberated. There was no sign of them in the writing-room, where a fire was blazing in the hearth and where card-tables covered in green baize had been set up, each with a neat stack of playing-cards, a scoring pad and a sharpened pencil.
“I say, you don’t really feel like playing whist, do you?” asked the Major, his eyes closed to the merest slits in an attempt to avoid surrendering to another volley of sneezes. He hoped that she felt as reluctant as he did.
“But of course! That’s what I came for. What a frightful smell of cats there is in this room.”
The Major could smell nothing because of his cold, but he had already noticed that one or two cats, presumably ejected by the servants who had put up