Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [35]
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BUY VICTORY LOAN!
“We have won the fight, but we have gone into debt in buying the ‘gloves.’ It was a glorious fight for humanity, but the creditors call regularly for interest on the loan nevertheless. They are about to demand the whole amount...hundreds of millions of pounds fall due for payment within the next few years.”
HELP YOUR COUNTRY OUT!
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Two or three of the elderly ladies who resided permanently at the Majestic had approached the Major to ask his advice on the Victory Loan, alarmed at the thought that England had got herself into debt (although, of course, in a perfectly respectable way). But the Major disappointed them. He listened politely, of course, but his indifference was plainly visible. He contented himself with murmuring: “Afraid I don’t know much about that sort of thing. Perhaps Edward or, let me see, that bank-manager fellow Devlin might be able to give you some tips.” To tell the truth, the ladies were somewhat distressed by his attitude; after all, in a manner of speaking the “gloves” had been bought expressly for his use. They retired with tight lips and the ill-defined but somehow distinct impression that the Major, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, suffered from a lack of patriotism.
This impression was reinforced when, with glistening eyes, Miss Johnston read aloud to Miss Devere, Mrs Rice, and Miss Staveley an account of the Great Victory Parade. “The faultless alignment, perfect unison of step, the smartness with which salutes were given and eyes righted, was a matter of general comment. Demobilized men in ‘civvies’ were plentiful, and, in spite of orders to the contrary, they could not refrain in the majority of instances from lifting their hats in homage to the King.” But the Major, slumped in an armchair, was observed to have a dazed and listless expression on his face as he listened (there was no option) to Miss Johnston’s ringing tones echoing through the residents’ lounge.
“On they marched, through the Mall, Admiralty Arch, Fleet Street, Ludgate Circus, St Paul’s Churchyard, Cannon Street and Queen Victoria Street to the Mansion House where the crowd was densest. A pandemonium of cheering greeted every detachment...”
A thick blue cloud of tobacco smoke was to be seen swirling around the Major’s armchair when Miss Johnston next glanced up. The ladies exchanged significant glances when it had cleared. The Major had vanished.
As it happened, the Major had vanished on an important mission. He really had to find out what was wrong with Angela, otherwise he might find himself here for weeks! He had resolved to cultivate the cook, spend sufficient time with her to get to understand her dialect, accent, or speech-infirmity, whichever it was (he suspected that there might be something wrong with her palate), and then find out how things stood.
But this plan was a failure. He made a sudden appear-ance in the kitchen and began the sort of cheerful, slightly roguish banter which he expected would be irresistible to a fat Irish cook, ignoring her unintelligible (though clearly embarrassed) replies. He had somehow seen himself sitting on the edge of the table and swinging a leg as he chatted, winking a great deal, chaffing the cook about her boy-friends, stealing strawberries—or, at any rate, apples, of which there was a better supply—dipping his finger into bowls of sugar-icing and being chased laughing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin. It soon became clear, however, that the cook was paralysed with embarrassment in his presence, flushing horribly and looking round for some place of escape. Anyone might have thought he was some kind of sexual deviate the way she behaved! It was simply no use at all. He was obliged to give up almost as soon as he had begun, afraid that the stupid woman might give notice or tell Edward that he had been molesting her. In future he thought it best not to nod to her