Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [27]
“I was hoping to hear something more scandalous.”
“Very well then. Can I rely on you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“She and your friend Ripon have an understanding.”
“An understanding? You mean a...sentimental understanding?”
“On her part it’s sentimental. On Ripon’s I have the feeling it’s more commercial than sentimental, but as you know I have a habit of thinking the worst of people. In any case, there’s little chance of it coming to anything since their respective families can’t abide each other.”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
“It would be more true to say, let me see...Iago and Juliet. What’s more, Juliet is a snob.” The Major laughed and Sarah turned to him with a sweet smile. Her malice amused him and, really, it was quite harmless, intended to entertain rather than hurt.
Sarah had declared her intention of buying some material at Finnegan’s and they were progressing slowly up the main street in that direction, the Major pushing and Sarah chattering, teasing him by turns about his “Englishness,” his “respectability,” his “ramrod posture” and anything else that came into her head. The Major was only half listening, absorbed in looking round at the men in cloth caps idling on doorsteps (so few of them appeared to have any work to do), at the women in black shawls with shopping baskets, at the barefoot children playing in the gutter. How very foreign, after all, Ireland was!
Their progress up the street was now considerably impeded by a herd of cows (“How delightful, how typical!” thought the Major) which strayed not only over the road but on to the rudimentary pavement as well. Presently a motor car came up behind them with the driver sounding his horn, which did very little good since cows are inclined to panic; one of them almost charged straight back into the motor’s radiator but was diverted at the last moment by a lad in a ragged overcoat who was herding the animals with a stick. Sitting beside the driver the Major recognized the burly figure of old Dr Ryan wrapped in a trench coat and numerous mufflers though the day was mild. He saw them and waved, telling the driver to pull in to the kerb to give the cattle time to move on. When they came level with him he said sternly: “Always in that chair, Sarah. You should be walking. You never do as you’re told.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You’re always telling me,” Sarah replied petulantly and glanced helplessly at the Major.
“You know, I think you like being in that chair.”
“Oh you know everything, Doctor!” Sarah retorted, and for an instant the Major glimpsed a bitter, sly expression on her face.
“Don’t be impertinent,” Dr Ryan said sharply. “And let me see you get out of that chair and walk over to me. Take hold of your young man’s arm.”
Sarah made a face and for a moment remained seated.
“Come on, we can’t wait all day,” snapped the doctor.
Looking confused and miserable, Sarah pulled herself up and, leaning heavily on the Major’s arm and one of her sticks, she began to move forward. He was immediately surprised by how well she could walk. She was unsteady, it was true, but her legs seemed firm and strong. Dr Ryan, his aged head looking small and infirm on top of his great pile of cloth-ing, watched as she reached the car and started back to her chair, her slender fingers gripping the Major’s forearm with a strength which surprised him.
“If you weren’t so spoiled you’d be out of that chair the whole time. You could walk perfectly well if you took the trouble. And as for you, Major, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell Edward Spencer from me to stop aggravating his tenants or there’ll be trouble.” With that the doctor waved to his chauffeur to drive on.
“What a dreadful old man,” the