Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [38]
“I’d be delighted. I’m afraid the dog is rather muddy, though.”
“Well, we could shut him up somewhere,” replied Mr Devlin, looking at the dog with distaste. He led the way through a side door of the bank.
“Careful he doesn’t gobble up all your bank-notes,” laughed the Major as the dog shook itself and frisked cheerfully about the room. Mr Devlin did not appear to find this funny, however; indeed, he looked quite upset. The dog was shut in the kitchen and the Major was shown upstairs to the room where, propped against pillows, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed and looking, as her father had said, fretful, Sarah was waiting for him.
“I’ll be downstairs,” Mr Devlin said, adding with a cough: “I’ll leave this door open in case you need anything.” And he withdrew. They could hear his footsteps descending the stairs.
“Well, what’s this I hear about you being sick? You’ve had a chill, I understand, but you’re better now. I must say you look as if you’re sparkling with health.”
“Major, do stop talking nonsense and come and sit down. Here on the bed...don’t worry, I won’t bite you. And where’s the lovely dog you were with? It was really the dog I wanted to see, not you. And now I suppose you’ll be thinking it was for yourself. Men are so conceited, young as I am that’s one thing I’ve found out. And you needn’t bother to contradict me, Major, because I know it’s true, and I’m perfectly sure that you’re more conceited than anyone, I can tell instantly by that absurd moustache you have on your lip, it’s written all over your face, not to mention your ridiculous ‘ramrod posture’ which is the most arrogant thing I ever saw in my life. Why can’t you let yourself droop a bit like a normal person? Well, it’s none of my business, thank heaven. And you needn’t smile like that either in that condescending way you have, as if I know nothing at all because I’m a country girl. I’m sure you think I’m a complete fool who knows nothing at all; I expect you’re used to these young women they have in England who paint their faces and stay out all night—the magazines are full of talk of such creatures—smearing paint on one’s skin, I must say it sounds disgusting!” And she laughed, a trifle hysterically.
“Dogs? Painted women? Really, what nonsense you talk. I think you must be more ill than I supposed.”
“When I saw you walking down the street (look, from the window I can just see people passing by) I said to myself: ‘There goes that absurd English person with a beautiful dog. How nice it would be to have a chat with him...’ But now you’re here I can’t think of a single thing to say and I can’t imagine for the life of me why a few moments ago I wanted to talk to you...But never mind, I shall make the best of it and surely think of something. And there you sit looking uncomfortable and really it almost looks as if your hand is sitting beside you, it hardly looks like a hand at all; it looks like some big leathery creature, like a toad or something, and it looks so rough and dry, is the other one the same? Yes, I can see that it is. They look as if they’re made of leather dried out in the sun...You know, Brendan (I shall call you Brendan since I no longer recognize the British Army which is a force of occupation in Ireland against the wishes of the people, you don’t mind, do you?), when I was a child I used to dream that I was lying in bed with a toad sitting on my chest and although that sounds rather frightful it was really a pleasant, warm feeling. This toad used to be a particular friend of mine, I wish I could have dreams like that now. But tell me (I mustn’t bore you with my childhood or else you’ll make some excuse and hurry away), tell me why you were looking so miserable when you were walking along. Has Angela been making you miserable? But no, don’t tell me, because I really don’t want to know anything about your private affairs. They’re of no concern to me, you’d simply be wasting my time. Instead I shall tell you something about