Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [52]
“Oh really! That’s out of the question, Ripon. Look here, I’m in a dreadful hurry at the moment and I simply can’t afford to miss this train (this business with my aunt is perfectly genuine, I can assure you). If you want me to give you advice I’d be glad to help you in any way I can; in fact, I’ll give you my card and you can put it all down in black and white.”
Ripon took the Major’s card and looked at it without optimism.
“If you spoke to Father he might not take it so hard, you know. If you pointed out that it’s not the end of the world and so forth. I know he respects you. I’m afraid he won’t listen if I tell him.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s out of the question,” repeated the Major, becoming agitated. “It won’t do at all if I miss this train, as I’m sure to do if I stand here talking any longer. And so, well, I just wanted to say goodbye...I’m sure everything will turn out all right in the end. Goodbye, Ripon.”
And without looking back the Major hastened along the corridor, up the stairs three at a time, through the residents’ lounge, took a short cut through the orangerie and emerged beside the statue of Queen Victoria where Murphy was waiting for him with the trap.
As they reached the last point of the drive that afforded a view of the building the Major looked back at the grey, battlemented mass that stood there like a fortress among the trees.
“Stop, Murphy!” he cried suddenly. He had just remembered: he had left Angela’s letter in the Imperial Bar!
The old manservant dragged on the reins and turned slowly to look back at the Major, his discoloured teeth exposed in a ghastly rictus. Was it the effort of reining in the pony that made him look like that or was he laughing hideously? The Major gazed fascinated at the old man’s fleshless skull and sunken eyes.
“Never mind. Drive on or we’ll miss the train.” And he thought: “I’ll get Edward to send it on to me. At this stage it can’t contain anything very urgent, after all.”
* * *
IN PRAISE OF BOXING
A man’s last line of defence is his fists. There is no sport, not even cricket, which is more essentially English than boxing. Wilde is a national hero because he has shown that in the great sport which is ours, and now is the property of the whole world, we can still produce a champion when it comes to a fight. There is no sport in the world which demands cleaner living. There is no more natural sport. Low cunning will not help him, but a quick, clear brain, a hard body, and perfect training will carry a man a long way.
* * *
The Major now found himself sitting beside his aunt’s sick-bed in London and not in the best of tempers. He had very quickly reached the conclusion that his aunt was less sick than he had been led to believe, which irritated him and caused him to suspect a conspiracy between this lonely old lady and her doctor (it was the doctor who had sent the telegram which summoned him). And although within a few months his aunt vindicated herself by dying, the Major was never quite able to discard the faint irritation he had felt at being greeted, as he raced up a beautifully polished staircase (everything looked so clean after the Majestic) beneath sombre, heavily varnished portraits of distant dead relations, and burst into her bedroom, by a wan smile rather than a death-rattle. Meanwhile he sat beside her bed with her loose-skinned, freckled hand in his and murmured rather testily: “Of course you’ll get better...You’re only imagining things.” But even while consoling his aunt his thoughts