Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [180]
“Look here, Dad, why don’t you take some to help out with your expenses? No, I mean, go on and help yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from.” Ripon, his eyes moist with generosity, had stood there inviting his stiff-necked old father to delve into the pile of currency. “Take it all if you want to. Easy enough to get some more.”
Edward had stopped talking. The Major had glanced at him sympathetically but had deemed it best to say nothing, sensing that the worst was yet to come.
The laundry was a vast, desolate cellar, a continuation of the kitchens; ranks of Gothic arches fled into the dim, greenish distance, each arch made of thickly whitewashed stones. Tubs, basins, a gigantic mangle with rollers as fat as pillar-boxes, a few trays of shrivelled apples from some summer of long ago, pieces of greasy machinery carefully spread out on oilskin but long since abandoned (belonging perhaps to the defunct “Do More” generator)—the Major looked around with melancholy interest.
Edward’s head, the only part of him visible over the dark soapy water, was grey and wild-eyed. Most likely he had not slept at all. The business with Ripon had no doubt been humiliating enough—but it was the question of Sarah that was really causing him pain. It did not seem to occur to him that the Major might also still be sensitive on this subject; he was too occupied with his own distress. “How selfish he is!”
Murphy now appeared carrying a jug of steaming water. As he passed he leered knowingly at the Major—that wretched maid must have spread the news below stairs! Edward waited for the elderly servant to pour the steaming contents of the jug between his knees, then went on with his rambling description of how he had nearly fallen into the papist trap. He had been lonely after Angela’s death, intolerably lonely: the Major (his “only close friend”) in London with his moribund aunt, the twins not yet expelled from their school, Ripon away all the time and busy confecting his dishonourable marriage, the Majestic peopled as it was with its sparse platoon of guests from the last century, the melancholy Irish winter setting in...Was it any wonder that a cast-iron depression, like a bear-trap, had closed its jaws on him?
Edward, slumped in the bath, had sunk lower by degrees so that now the water rimmed his chin and a second haggard face floated on its placid surface.
A young person whom he was, literally, putting back on her feet. It had given him an interest. (“I can imagine,” said the Major sarcastically.) And it had been Sarah, of course, Edward continued, not noticing the Major wince at the mention of her name, it had been Sarah, of course, who had made advances, who had led him on. Not that he was blaming her. He knew as well as anyone that it was the man’s duty to be honourable, that women are weak; but all the same...
Edward stopped speaking and there was a long silence. With the stillness of the water his body had become dimly visible: the hairy chest, the massive white limbs...From the nether regions, that darker area that might have been a submerged water-lily, the Major averted his eyes with distaste. “How could any young woman possibly be interested in that?” he wondered glumly.
At length the Major cleared his throat. He wanted to talk about the ball. Perhaps by talking about it one might make its memory less terrible. But so far Edward had not said a word on the subject. All morning the old ladies had been chattering like parakeets, discussing it with any sentient being who came within earshot, servant or fellow-guest, it made no difference. The presence of Edward alone had stilled their tongues. Though outwardly calm there was something in his face, a lurking pain or fury...whatever it was, it had silenced the old ladies just as now it silenced his “only close friend,” the Major.
“It was I who gave her up,” Edward repeated.