Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [159]
“The first time I came to the Majestic,” the Major was saying to Sarah, “I went for a walk round the terraces with Edward and he told me about the hunt balls and regattas they used to hold here...the violins and the chandeliers and the silver breakfast dishes...I never expected to see it for myself.”
“It’s lovely, Brendan. This is how it should be all the time—with candles and flowers. It’s almost too good to be true. D’you think there’ll be silver dishes for breakfast? What a long time there is still to go before then!”
She was smiling at him warmly, with a trace of that innocent enthusiasm which he had found so disarming during her visit to London. Dancing had made the Major thirsty. He drank a glass of cold champagne and then another. He was in a strange mood, both sad and somehow optimistic at the same time. He told Sarah, pointing at the blue-black glass on the roof, how, up on the balconies above, the nannies and the children used to watch the grown-ups dancing. That was in the old days, at the height of the season, when the ornate gilt mirrors in every room in the hotel were busy reflecting the corporeal envelopes of titled persons and the attics under the roof were positively bulging with their servants. Those were the days! (In those days too Sarah would have thought him too splendid a match to refuse.) He drank some more champagne and gazed into Sarah’s grey eyes, thinking...well, he didn’t know what he was thinking...perhaps of old women, black as ravens, rummaging through the rubbish bins.
Sarah dropped her eyes to her glass, which was empty; she flicked it idly with her finger-nail and drew from it one thin, clear note of a painful beauty, over which the honeyed sighings of the violins on the platform had no dominion.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs and see what the nannies and the children used to look at.”
He gave her his arm. On the way out they passed Bolton, who was conversing politely with a feathered lady. He raised one eyebrow sardonically at Sarah as she passed.
Through the empty foyer and up the stairs Sarah clung tightly to his arm, humming under her breath.
“Well, you must tell me all the gossip, Brendan,” she said at last. “I hear that Edward has been courting that sensible lady with the moustache.”
“Oh come now!” protested the Major feebly. “She hasn’t got a moustache. And besides, he wasn’t really courting her in my opinion and anyway he’s stopped now...But why do you want to know? Are you jealous?”
“Look at me, Brendan. Isn’t it plain to see that I’m head over heels in love with him?”
In consternation the Major stopped. For a few moments she gazed at him with a sombre, tragic air; then, seeing his expression, she abruptly burst out laughing—a fresh, mocking laugh that echoed cheerfully all around them.
They had now reached the second landing. Reassured, the Major steered her along the corridor and into one of the dark starlit rooms. They moved out on to the balcony; below them lay the ballroom, an immense, glistening bubble of glass. Another waltz was about to begin; the orchestra sat poised in its luxuriant garden of ferns, bald heads shining with perspiration, fingers crooked, bows at the ready. Hardly had the first few notes been played before the twins were out on the floor spinning round and round, disappearing every now and then into the fierce solar glare of one or other of the chandeliers. Presently three of the young Auxiliaries went spinning out on to the floor