Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [26]
“Who will shortly be tried and hanged in London,” spoke up a gentleman in heavy tweeds. “Lloyd George said so in the House yesterday.” There was a moment of approving silence and then the gentleman in tweeds went on to say that he’d met a man who knew personally one of the constables killed at Soloheadbeg quarry, a fine young man, “as straight as the day,” who had only been doing his job. If that wasn’t murder what was?
The Major had listened to all this with detachment. After all, it was hardly any of his business (and would be even less of his business once he had managed to have a talk with Angela). Although he felt sorry for the “friend of Parnell” who, whitefaced and evidently upset, had pushed his plate aside, unable to swallow another mouthful, it seemed to him that Edward was undoubtedly right. The Irish, as far as he knew, had always had a habit of making trouble. That was in the nature of things. As for the aim of their unruly behaviour, self-government for Ireland, that seemed quite absurd. What would be the advantage to the Irish themselves? They were so ill-educated that they could not possibly hope to gain anything from it. The English undoubtedly knew more about running the country. The priests would presumably take over if the English were not there to see fair play. He was inclined to agree with Edward that the Republican movement was merely an excuse for trouble-makers moved more by self-interest than by patriotism. For the important fact was this: the presence of the British signified a moral authority, not just an administrative one, here in Ireland as in India, Africa and elsewhere. It would have to be matched by the natives themselves before self-government became an acceptable proposition. So thought the Major, anyway.
But by now he had had more than enough of politics, so he decided against joining Edward and the others for coffee. Other considerations apart, the coffee at the Majestic was execrable, brewed as it was by the manservant Murphy according to some recipe of his own. Instead, he went to his room for some tobacco, passing on his way the fat cook he had reduced to tears earlier in the day. She was coming heavily down the stairs, panting slightly with the effort of negotiating the dangerously bulging carpet with a tray held in front of her. The Major peered at this tray: on it there was an entire lunch (cottage pie and stewed apple), hardly touched, pushed aside, one might suppose, by a person without appetite. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Angela was ill and this was her lunch. However, since she had been up and about during the morning it could hardly be anything serious. The cook nodded to him somewhat nervously and then stumbled on a loose stair-rod. For an instant it seemed that she must plunge headlong to the foot of the stairs. But she righted herself somehow with a rattle of plates and a slopping of water and continued on her way, leaving the Major to wonder in which room lay his pallid “fiancée.”
Later in the afternoon, restless but with nothing to do, he walked into Kilnalough with the intention of finding out at the railway station at what time the trains left for Kingstown and Dublin. On his way there, however, he encountered Sarah, who was being wheeled by a very plump, voluptuous girl with dark hair and rosy cheeks (“All Irish girls are as fat as butter,” thought the Major). Hardly had this person been introduced (as “Máire”) when she whispered something urgently into Sarah’s ear and hurried away, leaving Sarah to wheel herself.
“Well, am I as terrifying as all that?”
“She’s shy. Also I expect she had some idea that I might... well, never mind. Shall I tell you who she is? After all, the sooner I tell you all the gossip the sooner you’ll find Kilnalough as dull as the rest of us.”
“By all means.”
“She’s the daughter of the wealthiest man in Kilnalough—yes, even wealthier