Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [40]
“Well,” said Ripon, who was drunk. “It was the most farcical business I’ve ever seen in my life. It happened right after the Soloheadbeg affair, which was the first of many attacks on the peelers, and, as you might expect, indignation and patriotism were running high. There we are, all sitting at the dinner table munching peacefully when suddenly Himself stands up and says in ringing tones: ‘I intend to go into Kilnalough this evening to have a drink and show the flag. Any of you men who care to join me will be most welcome.’ Well, a hush falls, nobody says a word...‘Ripon, how about you?’ Needless to say, I had no appetite for such a reckless venture. Himself puts on a contemptuous expression and says: ‘Very well, if no one cares to join me I shall go by myself.’ We’re all looking rather sheepish—at least I was—but inwardly heaving a sigh of relief (lucky for you, Major, that you weren’t staying here at the time; you don’t look to me like a man who could resist a call on his patriotism) when lo and behold, from a shadowy table at the other end of the dining-room a voice pipes up, thin, quavering, but determined. It’s Miss Johnston. ‘I shall accompany you, Mr Spencer!’ Everyone is dumbfounded. ‘And I shall come too!’ cries Miss Staveley. And soon everyone is clamouring and even Mr Porter, whose wife had volunteered, is carried away by the general enthusiasm and changes his mind. And so Himself rather reluctantly found himself at the head of a party of old ladies—there must have been a good half-dozen of them—plus the doddering old Porter and plus, finally, having scented a splendid fiasco on the wind, myself.
“By the time we arrived, of course, everyone including me was practically fainting with terror (too bad you weren’t there, Major, since you’re obviously abnormally brave when it comes to a rough house). Byrne’s pub isn’t such a bad place, though nobody, mind you, would think of going there unless for the purpose of harassing the natives, nobody from the Majestic anyway. A bit ramshackle, perhaps, with its thatched roof and stone walls. There was a rank, beery smell from the open door which made the ladies wrinkle their noses.
“I hadn’t ever been in there before so I had a look round (looking for the safest place in case there was a scrap, you know, Major, not being a brave and manly fellow like you). Dark, low ceiling, shabby, sawdust on the floor, chairs and tables all wooden, a bit of stench coming from the old ghuslkhana (as Father insists on calling it), a long mirror over the bar badly in need of silvering, and propped against it, beside a plaster statue of Johnny Walker with cane and monocle, a calendar or something with one of those frightfully gruesome Sacred Hearts on it. I think there were probably some wilted tulips in a jam jar in front of it.
“Oh, look! I’ve forgotten that there was another man in our party, that frightful tutor fellow Evans, who’s always lurking in the shadows. Actually, on this occasion he was as keen as mustard. As soon as he heard what Himself was planning he volunteered right away, could hardly restrain the chappie from leaping at the first native we saw. Anyway, there he was looking around keenly, frightfully belligerent (you’d have been delighted with him, Major, I’m sure; no white feathers for old Evans), but fortunately none of the locals seemed anxious to let him fracture their jaws.
“In fact, everything was quite peaceful. Surprising number of people there, sitting around or leaning on the bar, men for the most part. A couple of haggard and blowsy women at one of the tables, some men playing cards at another, an old crone by the fire with a big glass of porter beside her. Everyone had obviously been having a jolly good time until we showed up. But now there was Himself, standing there like that terrifying stone statue that turns up at the feast at the end of Don Giovanni to deal with the rotter who’s been tampering with everyone’s daughters!