Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [173]
At length, the twins in bed and brimming with bicarbonate of soda, the Major himself climbed the stairs, though not without checking once more in his mind that everything had been taken care of...The twins? Yes. Padraig? Sent home in dry clothes. The wretched tutor? Deal with him tomorrow. The guests? Well, nothing could be done about the guests. Sarah? Forget about her. Mrs Rappaport? Disarmed and in bed, as far as he knew. And Sarah? Forget about her. But how could he? He must. And Sarah? Think about her tomorrow, perhaps. And Sarah?
His room was bitterly cold; the sheets on his bed were damp and icy to the touch. Tired and in despair, this lack of comfort was almost more than he could bear. If only he had had a hot-water bottle! He lay there, craving physical comfort as, earlier in the evening, he had craved sweetness. Of course a hot-water bottle was out of the question. “All the same,” he thought, “I shall never manage to fall asleep like this,” as worn out by the happiness, disappointment, unhappiness, bitterness and chaos that had succeeded each other throughout the day, he fell asleep nevertheless, forgetting to blow out the candles at his bedside.
They were still burning when he woke a little later; in fact, they had hardly burned down more than an inch or two. He called: “Come in,” because someone was knocking at the door. He expected to see Edward appear; it was just like him to wake people up inconsiderately because he suddenly felt the need for reassurance. But no, it was the cook.
“Ye’re t’ come at once!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “The divil’s below!” And she gabbled a further torrent of words which the Major found quite incomprehensible. He stared at her in astonishment.
He had had very little to do with this woman since the time of Angela’s illness when he had been in the habit of haunting the staircase at mealtimes. Indeed, he had made it his business to avoid her because she still showed signs of being uneasy in his presence. All the more surprising, therefore, that she should be now standing at his door, her plump figure swathed in what looked like an army greatcoat, unlaced men’s boots on her feet, the grey hair that was normally tightly rolled into a bun on the back of her head frothing wildly over her shoulders.
“What’s all this?” he demanded sternly. “The devil? You must speak plainly and slowly. I don’t understand you.”
But the cook plunged on faster than ever, repeating the same mysterious phrases again and again while the Major tried in vain to fit them into some coherent pattern. Could she be speaking Irish? Or was it merely her defective palate, abetted, he suspected, by the absence of teeth?
“Wait!” he said severely (this sort of thing must not be encouraged). “I shall come and see for myself.” And he threw aside the bedclothes, causing the cook to back away apprehensively, her flow of speech suddenly arrested. He paid no attention to her but pulled on slippers and a dressing-gown, knotting it tightly round his waist. By this time the cook had vanished along the corridor, but as he hurried after her and turned a corner he saw a sputtering candle ahead of him, the flame dragged horizontal by her haste, the men’s boots slapping clumsily on her bare feet. As they descended the staircase the candle shining through the banisters made clumsy, swollen cartwheels that accompanied them down into the foyer.
The house was in complete darkness. Everyone had retired for the night. But no...a glimmer of light was still shining from under the door of the writing-room. The cook pointed at the door and stepped back.
The scene in the writing-room was a dismal one. It had proved impossible to clean all the rooms on the ground floor in time for the ball; rather than allow the guests to cover themselves in dust it had been thought best to seal