Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [194]
“Well, I don’t know that I can altogether agree with you there,” replied Danby with an irritating smile. “Shall we think of a few examples? How about that Lord Mayor of Cork chappie?”
“I know who you mean,” piped Hall-Smith. “The one with the gorgeous name. What was it? MacSwiney...”
“That’s the fellow. Went on hunger-strike and starved himself to death for the cause he believed in. To say that he was out for what he could get is absolute tommy-rot, sir, if you’ll excuse me saying so.”
“A fanatic! His head had been turned by the priests. Bleeding hearts and crucifixes!”
“That sounds suspiciously like bigotry to me, sir,” intervened Maitland, sweetening his impertinence with a dimpled smile.
“Bigotry be damned!” roared Edward in a voice that made the windows rattle. “What’s your name, you ill-mannered pup?”
“Maitland, sir.”
Tight-lipped in an effort to prevent themselves smiling, the undergraduates exchanged covert glances. With a trembling hand Edward reached out for a glass of water and gulped it noisily. Nobody said a word or looked in his direction. Presently he dropped his eyes and seemed surprised to find a plate of roast beef in front of him. Slowly he began to chew it. The meal proceeded in silence except for the chink of plates and cutlery. The blood had drained from Edward’s cheeks. His rasping breath was clearly audible.
Little by little, however, casual conversation grew up over this violent outburst like a benevolent cloak of grass and weeds hiding some unsightly abandoned object. The weather was discussed. Miss Archer passed along a message from the far end of the table to inquire whether the young men had had good weather so far during their stay in Ireland. Yes, on the whole, reasonable enough, the answer came back. And soon the other ladies were passing their inquiries along, like so many lavender-scented handkerchieves for the poor undergraduates to wipe their bleeding lips on and return. And then, when this had taken some of the chill from the air and the line of communication had become clogged with too many questions and answers coming and going, they began to sing out their questions directly, person to person. Even some of the ladies at the other table (where the Major sat like a block of salt in front of his untouched plate) were unable to resist carolling a question or two across the intervening space—balm to the wounds of the nicely-spoken young men who had just suffered Edward’s boorish outburst. In no time the cacophony had rendered even this method of communication uncertain. “It sounds like the parrot-house at the zoo,” mused the Major grimly. And he glanced at Edward, who was staring straight ahead, features still set in a mask of rage from behind which, for the moment, the fire had consumed itself.
Besides, it was quite plain that the ladies had got the whole thing wrong—that far from being wounded the undergraduates were absolutely delighted with Edward’s outburst and were thinking: “What a perfectly splendid old Tory! What a rare find!” The whole thing was priceless: the old ladies, the revolvers (what a shame they weren’t loaded!), the decrepit palace around them—and brooding in the middle of it, John Bull! Never-say-die in person! The evening would make a rare saga when retold over beer-mugs in the buttery next term. It might be entitled: “How Maitland Put His Cherubic Head In The British Lion’s Mouth...And Got It Bitten Off!” Only Captain Roberts, who had lost his taste for battles of any description (even verbal), felt uncomfortable and heartily wished the meal were at an end.
Coffee, these days, was no longer served in a separate room but wheeled in tepid and acid to the tongue on a trolley by Murphy, who confected it himself out of heaven only knew what ingredients in some little alcove reserved for the purpose. The bright chatter of questions and answers had continued to ring undiminished throughout the dessert of apple