Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [82]
“Another round quick sharp, Paddy, you dirty Shinner, and put it on our account...”
“And send it to the King,” added Pike. “If he won’t pay send it to the Lord of Wipers.”
O’Neill explained the reason for introducing the Major to them: namely, the fact that they were neighbours. The Major too lived under Edward Spencer’s roof at the Majestic.
“Spencer has two lovely daughters,” Foster-Smith said, showing no interest in O’Neill’s information.
“I’ve got a lovely daughter too,” offered O’Neill winking broadly. “Want to see her picture?” And after a moment’s fumbling he produced a tattered photograph of Viola. While “the men from the trenches” were studying it O’Neill winked again, this time at the Major. The Major turned away. As he was leaving Bolton called after him: “Tell the old grannies that the next one we catch we’ll cut her up in pieces and put her in a sack.”
Laughter echoed after him as he made his way through the empty changing-room towards the lounge. Before he reached it O’Neill, who had hurried after him, took him by the arm and asked eagerly: “What d’you think of them? They’ll give the Shinners something to think about, won’t they?”
“I’m sure they will,” the Major said coldly. “But the cure may be as bad as the disease.”
When O’Neill had departed the Major wearily climbed the stairs to the tea-room on the first floor. It was empty at this hour, but there was a veranda with a splendid view over the links and beyond to the cornfields that lined the road to Valebridge. The sun was already low in the sky and black shadows crept far out into the flowing grass. Down below, by the club-house steps, four late arrivals were preparing to set out for the first tee, the breeze ballooning their plus-fours as they waited. There would still be time this evening for nine holes, or eighteen if one was not too particular about the fading light.
As they moved away from the club-house a great number of ragged men and boys materialized around them raising a piercing, pitiful clamour. Some of these tattered figures were so old and bent that they could scarcely hobble forward to press their claims, others mere boys who were scarcely bigger than the golf-bags they were hoping to carry. The golfers looked them over and made their selection. Those who had been rejected retired disconsolately to the shadows where they had been lurking. There was little hope now that another party would set out that evening.
The Major sighed, stretched, yawned and presently went home, disturbed that old men and children should have to hang around the club-house until late at night in the hope of earning a sixpence. He thought: “Really, something should be done about it.” But what could one do?
* * *
STATE OF IRELAND
A Conspiracy Against England
On the motion for the adjournment of the House of Commons yesterday, Sir Edward Carson said that he could not help thinking that the English and Scottish people—he hoped he was wrong—had begun not to care a spark what happened in Ireland. He imagined that a few years ago they could not have seen policemen serving their King shot down like dogs from day to day and soldiers who had fought their battles returning home to be treated like criminals because they had performed their heroic duties with very little being done for their protection. It was difficult to understand the paralysis that had come over the people of England in relation to these crimes. There was ample evidence that what was going on in Ireland was connected with what was going on in Egypt and India. It was all part of a scheme, openly stated, to reduce Great Britain to the single territory she occupied here, and to take from her all the keys of a great Empire. They would find, if they looked into it, that