Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [190]
“It’s quite a relief to hear you say it. I’d begun to imagine things.”
“You haven’t a thing to worry about. Take my word for it.” And Mr Delahunty, with a smile, indulged the Major by going with him, even so, to take a look at the crack behind the tapestry in the writing-room. Nothing structural, he declared, simply an “easing of the brickwork.” Happened in all old places. But the upper storeys? The dry rot? The place the Major had put his foot through?
“You’re bound to find that some of your woodwork doesn’t come up to scratch. ’Tis the damp in the air that does it. Any old house in Wicklow or Wexford will be the same. But that’s not to say they’re going to fall down. Far from it. When you feel like it, Major, do a bit of re-timbering. Take your time. There’s no hurry. The old Majestic will still be here long after you and I are dead and gone.”
“There’s no need to take a look upstairs then?” Mr Delahunty laughed out loud at this. Taking the Major’s arm he said: “Look here, Major, you can say what you like against me but I know my buildings. Take it from me, this one will last another couple of hundred years if it lasts a month. There it is. Say what you like against me...” He hesitated, as if he half expected a denunciation from the Major. As none came, however, he added quickly: “Now let’s go and have some of that lovely tea you mentioned.”
The Major had gone to some pains to organize tea for himself and Mr Delahunty in the privacy of the writing-room, which he had taken the precaution of locking earlier in the afternoon.
Curiously, however, after his first cup of tea Mr Delahunty’s conversation languished, his amiable barks of laughter became intermittent. He even failed to respond to one or two, admittedly rather dull, anecdotes the Major found himself recounting.
“Tea all right?”
“Oh, splendid. Absolutely top-hole.”
The Major attempted several topics, regretting that he knew so little about architecture. Finally he tried to inter-est Mr Delahunty in the situation in Ireland today, a subject on which he surely had a great deal to say. But although he smiled and murmured vague replies he seemed preoccupied. His eyes roved absently around the walls and the ceiling. He appeared to be listening for something. When the maid, coming for the tea-tray, slammed the door he jumped violently.
Presently he looked at his watch and held out his hand to the surprised Major.
“But I thought you were staying to supper?”
“Appointment I forgot about, old chap. Maybe another time.”
As they took leave of each other in the foyer Mr Delahunty’s eyes continued to rove absently here and there.
“Well, I’m glad to hear there’s nothing to worry about. You’ve taken a load off my mind.”
“Oh yes, you haven’t a thing to worry about,” murmured Delahunty and once more before leaving, though rather cautiously, rapped the wall with his chubby knuckles.
Now that the Major’s mind had been set at rest about the structure of the Majestic it seemed less important to him that the guests should be encouraged to leave. However, the collapse of the building itself was not the only factor involved. There was also the increasing violence in the countryside, where the Majestic stood in vulnerable isolation. There was the simple absurdity of continuing to run the place as a hotel when it had long since ceased to resemble one. Above all, there was the deterioration in Edward’s state of mind (not to mention the suspicion that he’d gone clean out of his wits) since the slaughter of the piglets. Bacon off the menu for ever, so the cook had been instructed. Revolvers to be laid out with the knives and forks in case of emergency at mealtimes. Clearly the fewer strains on him the better. Sooner or later, in any case, the guests would have to be got rid of. The Major was still haunted by the harsh laughter that had echoed over the rooftops.
But some of the ladies had been there for a very long time indeed. They had lasted through the winter; they had a right to stay through the