Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [177]
“Where are they now?”
Sarah lifted her white face and stared at him without comprehension. Eventually she said: “Edward took him home when they’d finished fighting. I wouldn’t go with them. What d’you think? They’re probably the best of friends by now. Even before he left he was beginning to apologize. ‘You’ll understand my position, Mr Spencer...’ and Edward was saying that he, my father, had every right, that he understood what it was to have daughters...Edward was terrified of him... I’ve never seen anyone look so shaken and guilty and wretched. It was disgusting!”
The Major stepped forward and knelt by the fire to pick the shoe out of the ashes; the leather sole was blackened and charred. He blew a blizzard of white ash off it and set it down indecisively in the hearth. A deluge of hot wax scalded his fingers, reminding him that he was still holding the candle. He threw it into the fire and picked the wax off his knuckles with a dull resentment, staring at his fingers. Sarah was weeping bitterly by now, but the Major continued to pick at his waxed knuckles. Then, when at last he had finished, he went to stand over Sarah’s chair and took hold of her naked arm and tried to kiss her wet face. As she resisted he began to struggle with her, wrenching at the blanket that covered her: “You dirty whore!” He was certain that she was naked beneath the blanket. She struck him heavily in the face. He stepped back surprised, and after a moment said: “I’m terribly sorry, Sarah.”
But Sarah did not seem annoyed. She merely said with indifference: “That’s all right, Brendan. But now leave for heaven’s sake. I couldn’t stand another scene tonight.”
“Can’t I take you home?”
“No. I telephoned a friend to come for me. He’ll be here in a minute.”
His room was in darkness and he no longer had the candle he had taken downstairs. It was not until he had reached his bed and groped for the bedclothes that he remembered the twins.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“It was nothing serious. You can go back to bed now. A bookcase fell over in your father’s study.”
“Can’t we stay? It’s almost morning and our beds will be freezing.”
“Certainly not.”
“Just for a little while?”
“No, of course not. Go back to your rooms.”
But the twins made no move and the Major was too weary to argue. For a while he stood in the darkness thinking of nothing, then he took off his dressing-gown and got into bed. “Well, just for a little while.”
It was comforting, he had to admit, to have a warm body beside him. Presently he had two warm bodies beside him, for one of the twins had slipped out of bed, around it, and in at the other side. He formulated in his mind the words of rebuke that would send them both back to their cold beds but his vocal chords seemed to be paralysed by weariness and despair—and so it was in the middle of this chaste, warm, heavenly sandwich that the broken-hearted Major finally fell asleep. A faint smell of wine and perspiration presently began to perfume the air around this peacefully sleeping bed, for not only had the twins forgotten to say their prayers, they had also forgotten to wash themselves.
By now, at last, it was beginning to get light at the Majestic. The breeze from the sea which had chilled the few remaining guests during the early hours had dropped again and all was still. In a few minutes it would be daybreak: the rising sun would warm the weather-beaten stone that faced the sea.
Presently Mr O’Flaherty arrived in his trap with the three lads who worked for him. He was the local caterer who had been commissioned to provide breakfast in the ballroom (the other firm of caterers having returned to Dublin after supper). He had retired early the previous evening in order to have his wits about him at breakfast-time and thus no news of the outcome of the ball had yet reached him. Certainly he was surprised