Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [143]
“Very well, then,” said Matthews (one of the curly-headed young men), “the boxing will be for tomorrow.” The other curly-headed young man was called Mortimer and his curls were almost as blond as those of the twins. He had frank blue eyes, moreover, good manners and a pleasant smile, not to mention the fact that he had been to a public school. It was clear to the Major that Mortimer did not owe his rank simply to the war-shortage of officers: this young chap was quite plainly officer material and could certainly be trusted to keep his somewhat more dubious companion, Matthews, under control. The Major was relieved about this—there was no telling what the twins might get up to with a little encouragement.
Winking at Padraig, the two young men took the twins off to play touch rugger in the ballroom with Viola and another young man, using an old Teddy bear belonging to the twins as a ball. Dermot and Padraig shyly exchanged a glance of mutual dislike and despair.
The Major found Dr Ryan at home and by himself as he had expected. What he had not expected was to find the old man in the kitchen laboriously trying to prepare his Christmas dinner. Where on earth were the bloody servants? the Major wanted to know. They had no business leaving a man of his age to fend for himself.
“Sent ’em home,” grunted the doctor.
“But for heaven’s sake! You can’t cook for yourself! And how about your family?”
The feud with his family was maintained, it seemed. “Unionists!”
“Look here, why don’t you come back to the Majestic with me...If you like we could take that chicken of yours with us and get the kitchen staff to see to it.”
But the old man was obstinate. He’d sworn he’d not go near the place again! He’d not sit down with the British! He’d not have fellow-Irishmen working to feed his stomach while they had nothing to put in their own! The Major listened to this nonsense with consternation. The old man was becoming a Bolshevist in his dotage!
While they talked Dr Ryan scraped feebly at a potato he was trying to peel. A man of his class peeling his own potatoes! This was too much for the Major. Elbowing the old doctor aside, he seized the potato from him and began to peel it in his place, and then another and another (by this time he had taken off his jacket). Dr Ryan, unable to leave well alone, tottered back and forth from the pantry collecting things.
“Will ye not stop and eat with me, Major?” But the Major had eaten already; his only interest was to see that the doctor ate. Still, he might stay to sample a little, see what it tasted like. And he became absorbed in the preparation of the meal —which luckily presented no great difficulties since the servants had left the chicken stuffed and it had only to be put in the oven. Ah, but there was no bread, except for the remains of a pan loaf, hard as steel, that was serving as a paperweight in the doctor’s study. They would have to make do with the potatoes and Brussels sprouts. And so he set to work again. But all that peeling and chopping took him an age, and Dr Ryan kept wanting to help, getting in the way and giving advice, as if the Major didn’t know what he was doing, which was more than the perspiring and exasperated Major could stand.
“Look, why don’t you go and sit down and leave it to me?” he exploded at last.
But the old man had become bad-tempered too. He was probably hungry, although he said he wasn’t. His mind had begun to wander as well...Fanny would soon be here, he said, with her mother and father, they were expected for Christmas. The Major did not know who Fanny was. He supposed she must be the doctor’s wife, dead, though, forty years or more. And no one did come, which in the circumstances