Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [211]
For a few minutes more the Majestic became brighter and brighter until, like a miniature sun, it was impossible to look at for more than a moment with the naked eye. Then with a shuddering roar it caved in upon itself and an immense ladder of sparks climbed into the sky.
And that was the end of the Majestic. It continued to burn and smoke, however, for two more days and nights. Nobody considered burying the charred and scorched demons that littered the surrounding land. Soon they began to smell atrocious.
In July Dr Ryan received a visit from Mrs O’Neill and her daughter Viola. He had been asleep on the couch in his study and was displeased at having been woken. For some time it was not clear whether the visit was a social one or whether his professional services were required. Assuming the former, since both mother and daughter looked to be in good health, he showed them into his front room, a damp and depressing place which rarely encouraged visitors to prolong their stay more than was absolutely necessary. Having done this, he sank into a chair and closed his eyes. Mrs O’Neill chatted away sociably about this and that, while Viola smiled prettily, showing her dimples, occasionally directing a meaning glance at her mother (“Is he asleep?”).
At last, after a long silence which the doctor had found agreeable but which his guests had found disturbing, Mrs O’Neill said: “Viola would like you to recommend a diet for her, Doctor. She finds she’s getting rather plump and needs to lose a bit of weight.”
With an effort the doctor got to his feet and shuffled off down the corridor to his study followed by Mrs O’Neill and Viola, both of whom wrinkled their noses when they saw the state the place was in. But still, one had to make allowances. He was elderly, and the only doctor in Kilnalough.
When Viola had partially undressed, the doctor looked briefly at her breasts and at her stomach and then motioned her to get dressed again.
“Well, Doctor?”
“She doesn’t need a diet.”
“But she’s getting fat, Doctor!”
There was another long silence. The old man stood there wool-gathering, eyes half closed. Mrs O’Neill and Viola exchanged a significant glance. “Impossible,” Mrs O’Neill was thinking, “impossible for him to keep his mind on anything for more than two seconds!”
“A diet, Doctor,” she reminded him. But the doctor merely sighed and it looked as if they were not ever going to get any sense out of him. At last, however, his trembling, wrinkled lips parted and he said: “Your daughter doesn’t need a diet because she’s pregnant, Mrs O’Neill.”
“Pregnant! But that’s impossible. Viola is only a child. She doesn’t even know any young men, do you, Viola?”
“No, Mummy.”
“There, you see...It’s absurd. And what a thing to say! Really, it’s disgusting!”
“None the less, Mrs O’Neill, she’s pregnant.”
“But how many times do I have to tell you...?” And again Mrs O’Neill patiently explained (nothing was achieved by losing one’s temper) that what Viola wanted was a diet, nothing more complicated than that. But the old doctor persisted in being obstinate and senile. Gradually it became clear to Mrs O’Neill that it did no good to explain anything to him, however patiently. The old boy was beyond it. His mind was made up and there was no hope of making him see reason. Dr Ryan, who had served Kilnalough so well for so many years (and this was true, he had done a splendid job, one must give him his due), had at last reached the end of his career in medicine. In some ways it was rather sad. But it was no use complaining.
Dr Ryan shuffled as far as the gate with his visitors and watched them walk away towards the main street. Then with a sigh he made his slow and