Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [130]
“They come here every evening at this time,” the tutor said.
The Major had joined him on the veranda and having had a look round now knew where he was. Below was a paved courtyard full of rubbish and dead leaves, although there was no tree in sight. Just round the corner would be the back door to the kitchens. Beyond that, on the other side of a wall, the dogs would be lounging, bored as the ladies of a harem, waiting for someone to come and give them some exercise. Immediately below the veranda yawned four giant, malodorous dustbins. A number of old women dressed in black were rummaging in these bins with fingers as gnarled as hens’ feet, head and shoulders swathed in black shawls that concealed their faces.
“They’re looking for food. They come up from the beach every evening when it begins to get dark—they can get in easily that way provided there isn’t a high tide. I told Mr Spencer about it but he hasn’t done anything.”
The Major stared down at the moving black figures, smelling the aromatic scent of the tutor’s cigarette. A shrill, incoherent argument had broken out between two of the women over a greasy newspaper containing scraps and bones. Watching them, the Major thought with despair: “She doesn’t love me at all. She doesn’t love me at all.”
Below, the argument was at last settled. One of the women withdrew and, squatting on the ground, opened the newspaper to pore over its contents, counting them over and carefully examining the fragments of meat. When she had finished she stowed them in an empty flour bag before returning to the huge bins.
“If you ask me, the cook sometimes throws away perfectly good food on purpose. They can get away with murder if no one keeps an eye on them.”
The Major nodded. His whole life would be spent without Sarah. Although it was now almost dark the black crones, oblivious of the Major’s anguish hanging like a bitter fruit a few feet above them, continued to pick deftly through the rubbish.
* * *
THE PREMIER AND IRELAND
Mr Lloyd George, speaking at the Guildhall banquet in London last night, referred to the situation in Ireland. He said: “Before I sit down, if you permit me, I must touch on one of the few disturbed corners of the Empire. I am sure you will not guess what I am referring to (laughter)—Ireland (laughter). I hope soon it will be less disturbed. There we witness the spectacle of organized assassination of the most cowardly character (Hear, hear), firing on men who are unsuspecting, firing from men who are dressed in the garb of peaceable citizens and are treated as such by the officers of the law, firing from behind—cowardly murder (Hear, hear).
“Unless I am mistaken by the steps we have taken, we have murder by the throat (Hear, hear). I ask you not to pay too much heed to the distorted accounts by partisans, who give detailed descriptions of the horror of what they call reprisals but slur over the horrors of murder (Applause). I ask the British public—I am sure it is not necessary to ask them—I apologize for asking them—not to be ready to credit the slanders on the brave men (Hear, hear) who at the peril of their lives are tracking murder in the dark (Hear, hear).
“I am told that the result of the steps we are tak-ing is that you have had more murders than ever in the last few weeks. Why? Before this action was taken in vast tracts of Ireland police were practically interned in their own barracks. They dare not go out. Terror was triumphant. We had to reorganize the police. But as long as men are in dug-outs the casualties are not as great as when they go out to face danger. And the police are going out seeking danger in order to stamp it out (Hear, hear). And believe me they are doing it. They are