Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [166]
“Ah, you’re off then,” the Major at last murmured somewhat grimly. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed your...ah!” His words ended with a grunt as the velvet bundle thrashed petulantly, causing the limp strand of water-weed to slither to the floor. The ladies in furs stared at it as if it were an adder.
Meanwhile the Major had turned and was striding swiftly up the stairs with his dripping cargo. He stopped abruptly, however, before he reached the landing and looked down.
“I’ll say goodbye to you for Edward. I’m afraid he’s indisposed.”
With that he vanished, leaving only that sinister coil of water-weed as testimony to his passing. The departing guests cautiously groped their way out into the night.
As for the Major, he was carrying Padraig swiftly along the corridor towards the linen room, the warmest and driest place he could think of. The boy was trembling, his pearly white teeth were chattering. And no wonder! The water in the swimming-pool must be icy at this time of year. Kicking open the linen-room door he dropped Padraig into the nest of pillows and said sternly: “Now take that wet dress off immediately. I hope this will be a lesson to you, Padraig. If I ever find you dressing up as a girl again I’ll throw you in the swimming-pool myself.”
Padraig said nothing, but his whimpering increased in volume. The Major stooped and struck a match to light the oil lamp on the floor. By its light he could see that clouds of steam had begun to rise from Padraig’s wet clothes. Poor Padraig! Not only had the Auxiliaries coaxed him with honeyed words to a tryst by the swimming-pool, not only had they thrown him cruelly in, they would also have left him to drown if the Major had not come to the rescue. Poor Padraig! He remembered how Sarah had once said: “With the twins everything has a habit of beginning amusingly and ending painfully.”
In the corridor the Major paused to listen. Had he just heard a cry of pain from somewhere close at hand, perhaps from one of the rooms that lay along this very corridor or the one above? But all the doors were closed; from the linen room alone a thin trickle of yellow light daubed the carpet. Elsewhere all was dark. The cry of a girl? “One of the twins?” he thought anxiously. But he hurried on. He must get some brandy and hot water for Padraig lest the boy catch pneumonia. Perhaps, after all, it had only been the cry of a seagull swooping close to the house.
The number of guests collecting themselves in the foyer had increased, but they and the Major ignored each other. Outside, motor cars continued to arrive, illuminating the green lawns with their sweeping headlamps. A white-haired old gentleman seated on a sofa, palms resting with dignity on a silver-embossed cane, noticed the Major slipping by and wagged a stern reproving finger at him. But the Major paid no attention and hurried on. Hardly had he escaped from the foyer, however, when he came face to face with Miss Archer who said: “Those wretched young men are causing trouble in the ballroom. They’ve been threatening to shoot the orchestra if they don’t go on playing. And they’ve been making the maids dance with them.”
“My God! You haven’t seen Edward? We must find him. Would you mind getting a hot drink for Padraig? He’s in the linen room on the first floor. They threw him in the swimming-pool. Thank heaven most of the bloody guests have gone!”
The orchestra stopped playing just as the Major reached the ballroom. The music had grown hysterical, haphazard, a discordant scraping of violins, an outraged groaning of cellos that bore witness to the exhaustion and alarm of the musicians. Then, abruptly, in the middle of the most frenzied passage it had stopped. Now there was utter silence.
A girl was standing in the doorway. She moved aside to allow the Major to pass. It was Sarah.
“What’s going on?”
But Sarah ignored him, intent on what was taking place in the ballroom. The Major brushed past her and went inside.
Edward was standing on the orchestra dais, his face dark and congested with blood, his massive body vibrating with fury. He was glaring