The Empire Trilogy Part 17

The orchestra stopped playing just as the Major reached the ballroom. The music had grown hysterical, haphazard, a discordant sc.r.a.ping of violins, an outraged groaning of cellos that bore witness to the exhaustion and alarm of the musicians. Then, abruptly, in the middle of the most frenzied pa.s.sage it had stopped. Now there was utter silence.

A girl was standing in the doorway. She moved aside to allow the Major to pa.s.s. It was Sarah.

"What's going on?"

But Sarah ignored him, intent on what was taking place in the ballroom. The Major brushed past her and went inside.

Edward was standing on the orchestra dais, his face dark and congested with blood, his ma.s.sive body vibrating with fury. He was glaring down at the young men frozen like statues here and there on the empty floor. Behind him the musicians were swiftly and silently packing their instruments into cases and collecting their music. Three or four maids who had been dancing with the Auxiliaries melted away from the floor and vanished.

Edward had begun to stride back and forth along the narrow platform with short, violent steps...a wooden music-stand got in his way, he kicked it aside with a deafening crash, then silence returned except for the ominous creaking of the boards under his weight. As he prowled back and forth his furious eyes remained on the faces of the young men on the dance floor.

Then one of the young men laughed. And at the same time a cold gust of wind blew through the open windows, swirling the curtains and fluttering the tablecloths, making the regiments of candles splutter and grow dim, sending up a blizzard of white petals from a wilted flower that lay beside a lady's forgotten handbag. And then they were all laughing, rocking, hooting with merriment as they strolled unconcernedly towards the French windows. Outside on the terrace they could still be heard laughing as they moved away into the darkness.

Edward stopped pacing. His shoulders sagged and he looked ill. A minute or two pa.s.sed and then the Major strolled across the floor and looked out over the terrace to make sure they had gone. He only saw a brief glitter in the darkness as an empty wine-bottle flew up from the terrace below, hung for a moment and then plummeted towards the gla.s.s roof. It smashed through the roof in a diamond rain and exploded on the floor in a thousand fragments. Edward, Sarah and the Major waited motionless. Presently from the gla.s.s roof there came another deafening crash and shower of gla.s.s, but this time the bottle dropped unbroken into the empty cushions of a sofa. And that was the end. It was only now that the Major noticed there had been somebody else in the ballroom all the time: sitting on another sofa in the darkest and most obscure corner holding hands were the racing motorist and his lady. But n.o.body acknowledged their presence and in due course they disappeared without a word.

"Where have you been?" demanded the Major bitterly. "And thanks for leaving me to cope with everything."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Edward said curtly. Turning to Sarah he added: "I must take you home." They left the Major standing resentfully amid the broken gla.s.s in the middle of the floor.

Unknown to the Major there still remained two Auxiliaries at the Majestic. After Charity's fall the two young men who had been escorting them, the somewhat dubious Matthews and the clean-limbed Mortimer, winked at each other and hastened to a.s.sist the girls up the stairs. Charity needed this a.s.sistance; she had become extraordinarily sleepy and lethargic all of a sudden; she could hardly keep her eyes open or put one foot in front of the other. Faith, on the other hand, raced up the stairs unaided and even tugged at Mortimer's sleeve (which made Matthews wonder whether his great experience of women, which had led him to choose the more intoxicated of the twins, had guided him to such a wise choice after all) whenever Mortimer, who had become strangely talkative, hung back to chat with his friend Matthews. The truth was that Mortimer, though determined to put the best possible face on it in front of Matthews (to whom he had once, in a moment of weakness, confided the description of one or two fict.i.tious conquests), was distinctly alarmed by the turn events had taken and was secretly wondering just what he was in for...that is to say, he already knew knew more or less what he was in for, having had (or almost had) a thoroughly nauseating experience in a brothel in France, one of those "reserved for officers" (one shuddered to think what those reserved for the other ranks had been like). Even now, chatting garrulously on the stairs about Jack Hobbs. .h.i.tting long-hops over the pavilion, he had only to close his eyes to see glittering-ringed fingers parting thick white curtains of fat to invite him into some appalling darkness. more or less what he was in for, having had (or almost had) a thoroughly nauseating experience in a brothel in France, one of those "reserved for officers" (one shuddered to think what those reserved for the other ranks had been like). Even now, chatting garrulously on the stairs about Jack Hobbs. .h.i.tting long-hops over the pavilion, he had only to close his eyes to see glittering-ringed fingers parting thick white curtains of fat to invite him into some appalling darkness.

Gay as a skylark and with more energy than she could find a use for, Faith had now begun to climb using only one leg, her crinoline ballooning prettily with each hop-but even so she found she was ascending more quickly than the others. Back she came to tug at Mortimer's sleeve again, telling him that he was a slowcoach and that he should forget his beastly cricket and come on up and..."My G.o.d! Just look at Catty! You'd think she was sleep-walking!"

Indeed, Charity was swaying helplessly, loose-limbed as a puppet, divinely relaxed. Her eyelids kept creeping down and it took all her strength to force them up a millimetre or two to see what was going on. Climbing unaided would have been out of the question but fortunately Matthews's shoulder was under her left armpit, his powerful arm was wrapped round her back and a hand like a steel hook gripped the bottom of her rib-cage as if it were the handle of a suitcase (this hurt, she knew, but for some reason she couldn't feel it)..."Jolly decent of him to help me, anyway," she kept thinking.

"Hey! Are you all right, Catty?" Faith's grinning face was saying a few inches in front of her own, emerging out of a grey fog of sleep.

"Of course I am!" she said crossly-or would have said if she had not been so busy with the weight of her eyelids.

"Of course she is!" Matthews echoed her thoughts, though rather defensively. "She's as right as rain." But at the same time he was becoming increasingly anxious lest he had picked the wrong one. This one was too too drunk-either that or not drunk enough. Fortunately, while his right hand, fingers dug deep into the soft, elastic flesh of her waist, was holding Charity up by the ribs, his left hand was gripping the neck of a bottle of chilled champagne that he had thoughtfully caught up out of an ice-bucket in case a further anaesthetic should be needed. But what was the matter with that a.s.s Mortimer? Was he showing the white feather in spite of all his big talk? In which case... drunk-either that or not drunk enough. Fortunately, while his right hand, fingers dug deep into the soft, elastic flesh of her waist, was holding Charity up by the ribs, his left hand was gripping the neck of a bottle of chilled champagne that he had thoughtfully caught up out of an ice-bucket in case a further anaesthetic should be needed. But what was the matter with that a.s.s Mortimer? Was he showing the white feather in spite of all his big talk? In which case...

But meanwhile they had at last reached the second floor and Faith had picked out two adjoining rooms which she knew to be unoccupied. Having deposited one twin in each of them, the young men emerged for a hasty conference, Matthews suggesting that Mortimer might like to swap..."I think this one prefers you, anyway."

But Mortimer considered his honour to be at stake and rather haughtily rejected the suggestion, though he knew (and knew that Matthews knew) that he would have been only too glad to accept if it had not been a question of honour.

"But you aren't going to be a cad, are you, Matthews? I mean, your one is dead to the world."

"Matter of fact, you're wrong there. She's already getting interested..."

Matthews and Mortimer separated on this disagreeable note, the former with every intention of being a cad if he possibly could, the latter determined to put up a good show (or at least not to be sick like last time). Matthews, returning to the room where Charity lay fast asleep on a dusty counterpane, cast an expert eye over her inert form and saw at a glance that he would have to be quick.

It's not at all easy to undress someone who is unconscious -and Charity was wearing a great many layers of clothes. Fortunately Matthews was deft and experienced at removing ladies' garments, otherwise he might have been so discouraged as to give the whole thing up as a bad job, thereby losing a heaven-sent opportunity. Besides, he knew himself to be a good worker and was proud of his skill. This was something of a challenge, all the more so since the clothes Charity was wearing were unfamiliar: crinoline and petticoats and odd pantaloons with all sorts of hooks and ribbons and laces and safety-pins in places where one would not expect them. He lit the oil lamp, removed his jacket and made a rapid preliminary check to make sure that what ought to be there was was there-and it was (for even divinely beautiful girls are constructed on the same general principles as their more homely sisters). Then he rubbed his chilly fingers and set to work, his eyes bright with concentration. there-and it was (for even divinely beautiful girls are constructed on the same general principles as their more homely sisters). Then he rubbed his chilly fingers and set to work, his eyes bright with concentration.

Charity was rolled on to her front, so that the eye-hooks that meandered up her spine could be unfastened one by one...but then something became stuck in front, so she had to be rolled on to her back, then on to her front again so that half a dozen white laces in granny-knots could be untied. Next he had to work his forearm under her stomach in order to lift her off the bed an inch or two, with the other hand trying to work the clumsy hooped skirt upwards...but he found this too difficult and had to stop and scratch his head in perplexity. It was clear that the only way was to roll her backwards and forwards working the skirt up a few inches at a time.

Each time he rolled her over Charity groaned, dreaming that she was crossing the Irish Sea to school in a black gale; giant waves swept her up and down, up and down...Of course she was never seasick...it would be too shaming if she was sick...but what if the boat began to sink? Up and down, up and down...Ah, no wonder it hadn't been moving, Matthews was thinking, there were a million pins he hadn't even noticed, he must be losing his touch...Now over she goes again, a firm shove on the hip and on the shoulder and..."No, no, straighten out your legs," he muttered crossly. "We'll get nowhere like that...It'll take us all night."

The temperature had been dropping steadily as the night wore on. By now it was freezing in the room. His fingers were stiff with the cold and lacked their usual dexterity, but he worked on without a pause. In a moment the first layer of clothing would be lying on the carpet. After that, things should go more smoothly.

Next door it was cold as well; at least Faith thought so. She was sitting in bed with her knees up to her chin, naked and shivering. The room was pitch-dark except for a faint orange glow that leaked under the communicating door from the oil lamp by which Matthews was working. Mortimer was striding up and down in the darkness. Although she could not see him she could tell more or less where he was by the sound of his voice and the creak of the floor-boards.

For some minutes he had been telling her about a master at school who had got drunk on Speech Day. Young, handsome, courteous, artistic, a wonderful athlete, the whole school had loved him from the loftiest prefect to the most insignificant f.a.g until that day when he had gone weaving across the quad in gown and mortarboard shouting that the Matron was a flabby old b.i.t.c.h before the horrified eyes of a lot of chaps' parents...But Faith's teeth were chattering and try as she might she was unable to see the relevance of this story to their present situation. Was Mortimer trying to say that he was drunk? No, it couldn't be that. But what was it, then? Having failed, together with Charity and Viola, to understand and identify on her own person a fair proportion of the technical terms used in the brown-paper-wrapped book that Matthews had lent them, she was vague about what exactly was supposed to happen to begin with; but instinct told her that this sort of preamble was not necessary. Perhaps she had got undressed too promptly? On the other hand, what else was there to do? If only there had been a light burning she might have been able to see his face and get some clue as to what he was thinking. Mortimer had refused even to permit a candle to be lit. He had become hysterical when she had struck a match to see where the bed was. After that she had had to grope her way towards it in the dark. The whole thing was turning out to be decidedly odd and a much bigger bore than she had antic.i.p.ated. Discouraged, she dolefully rested her trembling chin on her knees and wondered whether it wouldn't be best to give it up and start slipping on a few clothes again.

Mortimer was now telling her in a rapid, high voice about a fellow in the army who had gone for a trip on a whaler before the war, all those mountains of blubber, cutting through the mountains of blubber with flensing-knives! Ah, he could have done with a flensing-knife himself...The truth was that he was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid the curtains of white fat in which the room was draped. But now, striding about excitedly in the darkness, he had completely lost his sense of direction so that presently, ducking to avoid some limp ta.s.sels of lard that hung from the ceiling, he caught his foot in a rug and crashed forward into the bed, winding himself badly. Seizing her opportunity, Faith cast aside her sheet and pinioned him promptly against the mattress planting lean, dry kisses on his lips.

As he recovered his breath it slowly dawned on Mortimer that the sensation of touching a naked girl wasn't at all what he had expected...Little by little the curtains of white fat began to liquefy about the edges. Soon they were sliding down the walls to the floor and melting into a colourless liquid that seeped rapidly away through the cracks in the floorboards. His hand touched one of Faith's shoulder-blades...splendid, hard as a rock, nothing flabby about that! Next it alighted on her hip-bone and pelvis...solid as an iron ca.s.serole, it would chime as clear as frost if one tapped it with a fork (no need to think now about the spongey tripes that might be cooking inside it). Then came the ribs, every one clean and hard as the iron bars of a railing, drag a stick along them and they'd chatter like a machine-gun, a jolly good show (provided one forgot about the two oozing octopuses that were busy squeezing slimily in and out behind the bars). "Really," he was thinking, "girls seem to be perfectly splendid little creatures!" But at this moment his hand, which had been hovering in the darkness over her ribs, swooped down to land by misfor-tune on Faith's ample bosom-which fled silkily in all directions, quivering like a beef jelly. A vast dough of white grease (which Mortimer had somehow failed to notice suspended above the bed) at this moment detached itself from the ceiling and dropped, engulfing him.

Next door Matthews was crouched low over the bed working on a last stubborn knot in the region of Charity's lower vertebrae; his mouth was open as he worked, partly from concentration, partly because he suffered from catarrh. As he bent closer, anxiously trying to see the ins and outs of this knot, the vapour that sped like smoke from his lips stirred the tiny blonde hairs running up Charity's spine, causing her to groan and mutter. For a moment she even tried to lift her head. Matthews shifted his worried gaze to her face. She was going to wake up any minute! That would be just his luck! She was already half-conscious and every few moments she would thrash out blindly with her legs; once she had caught him a painful blow on the elbow. Now that he had only one miserable knot left to deal with she would be bound to wake up and call the whole thing off!

His eyes moved to the bottle of champagne on the floor by the bed. Better give her some more to drink before she became sober enough to refuse it. He left the knot and shifted his attention to the bottle, hastily working the wire harness away from the cork. He had just begun to dig out the cork itself when he heard footsteps. He paused. He held his breath.

It seemed to come from from the floor below (in fact, he had just heard the Major carrying Padraig to the linen room), but supposing someone came up here and saw the light under the door! It would take some explaining away-him up here with a half-naked filly! He'd have to say he had just found her like that. Maybe he'd better give it up...But the sound had faded. All was silent once more.

He breathed again. In the room next door that idiot Mortimer had at last stopped pacing up and down and got down to business. Charity was lying peacefully again now. He judged that the champagne was no longer necessary. Putting the bottle down quietly on the floor by the bed he returned, rubbing his knuckles and blowing on his fingers, to deal with this last knot. It was definitely the last, he had a.s.sured himself of that...Charity was already naked to the waist; all that now remained was a wretched knee-length camisole, tied firmly round the waist with (of all things) coa.r.s.e brown string. Really, the things girls trussed themselves up with! As it happened it was Faith who had tied this knot for her sister-and as a joke (Charity had not been able to see what she was doing behind her back) she had tied it as tightly as she could, one knot on top of another, so that Charity would never never ever be able to get it undone. Matthews had stubby, thick fingers which were stiff with the cold although he had tried warming them over the lamp. To make things worse, he was in the habit of biting his nails with the result that he was now picking away at the knot as clumsily as if he had been wearing gloves. He could cut it with a penknife, of course. He paused, tempted. But no; that would be unsporting. This knot was a challenge and he wasn't the kind of man to duck a challenge. He'd already got so far, besides, he didn't like to think of all his patient work going to waste. Breathing through his dry mouth, tongue between his teeth with concentration, he applied himself to his task.

And then his parcel was untied at last! It had taken him another three or four minutes before his diligence was at last rewarded. All he had to do now was remove the final wrapping; he would just have to roll her over on to her front and on to her back a few more times to ease the camisole off and then...he would have opened the small locked door leading into the garden of delight.

All this time Charity was being tossed savagely to and fro on stormy seas and by now she was feeling alarmingly sick. One moment she was rocking back and forth on the mail-boat with that dreadful lurching one feels as one first leaves the protection of the Howth peninsula and forges out into the open sea; the next she was shipwrecked and bobbing about helplessly in the water. It was icy cold and she had lost all her clothes-a huge wave had just come and turned her completely over, dragging away the last st.i.tch she had on-and then somehow she was lying on her back on a rock and some appalling Creature (that resembled a black sea-lion with a white shirt and black bow-tie, rather like an ill.u.s.tration from Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland), an appalling Creature was trying to dislodge her from the rock and send her sliding back into the black water...and now a moist pink tongue was licking her kneecaps and a scratchy moustache was tickling her thighs ...At this moment, as luck would have it, her roaming hand closed over a very cold, elongated stone and she swung it up and hit the Creature with it. With a soft moan the Creature vanished back into the water...but Charity continued to feel sick until at last she vomited enormously, volcanically, over the side of the bed. Then the waves calmed down and she felt very much better.

The bottle of champagne had not broken, however, when she hit Matthews (who was now lying on the floor with a fractured skull); her fingers had released it and it lay like a block of ice between her thighs. The cork, meanwhile, had begun to travel imperceptibly away from the bottle as Charity floated peacefully onwards (and Faith in the next room groped around in the darkness trying to collect up as many of her garments as possible). Presently it gathered momentum and exploded. A long cry of pain broke from Charity's lips as the freezing liquid bubbled over the warm skin of her stomach.

Downstairs the Major paused and thought anxiously: "One of the twins?"-but he had Padraig to think of and hurried on.

In the next room Faith paused in alarm at her sister's bloodcurdling cry and thought that perhaps, after all, it mightn't be such a bad thing that her own escapade had proved a failure-while beside her in the oily darkness Mortimer thought bitterly: "What a cad the fellow is! Taking advantage of her like that..."

Another person heard the scream. This was Murphy, who had been lurking in the shadowy corridor and seen the twins come up with their young men. When he heard it he chuckled; then his gaunt figure melted back into the darkness. As he went, the moonlight from an uncurtained window glinted momentarily on a long, curving blade, for he had brought a scythe up from the barn, to hone and grease it in the attic where he kept his belongings.

It seemed to the Major that the night had already lasted an eternity, but the clock on the mantelpiece of the residents' lounge (specially repaired and wound to mark off the bliss-ful moments of Edward's ball) had scarcely conceded three o'clock. A few moments ago he had caught sight of himself in a mirror unexpectedly: two eyes round with worry in a pale face had stared at him unblinking as an owl, making him think of sh.e.l.l-shock cases in hospital, men who used to sit up in bed all night, wide-eyed, smoking one cigarette after another as they tried to probe the darkness around them.

"I hope this will be a lesson to you!"

All the lessons that were being learned that evening! But what good did they do? By the time one had learned them it was too late. He would move on, but life would not go with him. Life would stay where Sarah was; all the great explosions of joy would take place in her vicinity.

"Drink it all up. Every drop. If it tastes bad you should have thought of that beforehand!"

The house was empty now and silent, except for an occasional faint scratching sound; the Major postulated a rat under the floor-boards. Edward had disappeared once more, leaving him to cope with everything as usual, but he was too tired to feel any resentment. Besides, in a moment he would go to bed.

The Major was standing beside the dying fire, resting one elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand sifting slowly through his untidy ma.s.s of hair. Next to him, huddled in dressing-gowns, sat the twins, looking pallid and chastened, each of them nursing an enormous gla.s.s of bicarbonate of soda mixed with water from which, wrinkling their noses in disgust, they sipped miserably.

"Anyway, you're sure you didn't do anything you shouldn't have done? It's far better to tell me now if you did..."

"Oh no, Brendan!" murmured Charity hoa.r.s.ely, avoiding the Major's eye.

"What sort of thing do you mean?" inquired Faith more strategically.

"Never you mind. Just drink up. Come on now, take a deep breath and drink it down all in one go. It's the only way."

Half an hour earlier the Major had come upon a strange quartet proceeding slowly down the stairs. First had come Mortimer, grunting and dishevelled, wobbling dangerously under the weight of the limp and senseless Matthews (who had "b.u.mped his head in the dark"). A few stairs above the labouring Mortimer the two sisters were supporting each other, pale as ghosts, their clothing disarranged and somehow...well, different, different, he could not help thinking (in their debilitated state they had left off some of the inner layers that had earlier exercised Matthews's skill to the utmost). With one dismayed glance at the twins the Major had leaped to a.s.sist Mortimer with his unfortunate friend; the "b.u.mp" was a bad one, the poor chap was out cold, though breathing steadily enough. he could not help thinking (in their debilitated state they had left off some of the inner layers that had earlier exercised Matthews's skill to the utmost). With one dismayed glance at the twins the Major had leaped to a.s.sist Mortimer with his unfortunate friend; the "b.u.mp" was a bad one, the poor chap was out cold, though breathing steadily enough.

Once Matthews had been deposited on a sofa in the foyer the Major telephoned the camp at Valebridge and asked for an ambulance. "No, no, it was an accident," he had explained several times. In due course the ambulance arrived; the men who came with it looked around suspiciously for a while ("No, nothing whatsoever to do with Sinn Feiners. He simply b.u.mped his head!") and then left with poor Matthews who still had not regained consciousness. Indeed, it was several hours before he finally came round and even then was unable to remember just how he had come to b.u.mp his head in the dark, an uncertainty of memory that was to persist, together with bouts of double vision and absent-mindedness, for the rest of his life.

The twins had heaved a sigh of relief when they saw him go. Charity in particular experienced a surge of joy and for a moment almost forgot to appear more ill than she felt (she and Faith had had the presence of mind to powder their faces with chalk in order to incite sympathy and deflect punishment). She did did feel ill, of course, feel ill, of course, inside, inside, though luckily she had vomited the contents of her stomach. But her face in the mirror had looked all too shiningly healthy. It was boring of the Major to insist on them drinking this vile stuff, but it was comforting too in a way-after all, she had had a fright. Tonight, for once, she would remember to say her prayers! though luckily she had vomited the contents of her stomach. But her face in the mirror had looked all too shiningly healthy. It was boring of the Major to insist on them drinking this vile stuff, but it was comforting too in a way-after all, she had had a fright. Tonight, for once, she would remember to say her prayers!

At length, the twins in bed and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with bicarbonate of soda, the Major himself climbed the stairs, though not without checking once more in his mind that everything had been taken care of...The twins? Yes. Padraig? Sent home in dry clothes. The wretched tutor? Deal with him tomorrow. The guests? Well, nothing could be done about the guests. Sarah? Forget about her. Mrs Rappaport? Disarmed and in bed, as far as he knew. And Sarah? Forget about her. But how could he? He must. And Sarah? Think about her tomorrow, perhaps. And Sarah?

His room was bitterly cold; the sheets on his bed were damp and icy to the touch. Tired and in despair, this lack of comfort was almost more than he could bear. If only he had had a hot-water bottle! He lay there, craving physical comfort as, earlier in the evening, he had craved sweetness. Of course a hot-water bottle was out of the question. "All the same," he thought, "I shall never manage to fall asleep like this," as worn out by the happiness, disappointment, unhappiness, bitterness and chaos that had succeeded each other throughout the day, he fell asleep nevertheless, forgetting to blow out the candles at his bedside.

They were still burning when he woke a little later; in fact, they had hardly burned down more than an inch or two. He called: "Come in," because someone was knocking at the door. He expected to see Edward appear; it was just like him to wake people up inconsiderately because he suddenly felt the need for rea.s.surance. But no, it was the cook.

"Ye're t' come at once!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "The divil's below!" And she gabbled a further torrent of words which the Major found quite incomprehensible. He stared at her in astonishment.

He had had very little to do with this woman since the time of Angela's illness when he had been in the habit of haunting the staircase at mealtimes. Indeed, he had made it his business to avoid her because she still showed signs of being uneasy in his presence. All the more surprising, therefore, that she should be now standing at his door, her plump figure swathed in what looked like an army greatcoat, unlaced men's boots on her feet, the grey hair that was normally tightly rolled into a bun on the back of her head frothing wildly over her shoulders.

"What's all this?" he demanded sternly. "The devil? You must speak plainly and slowly. I don't understand you."

But the cook plunged on faster than ever, repeating the same mysterious phrases again and again while the Major tried in vain to fit them into some coherent pattern. Could she be speaking Irish? Or was it merely her defective palate, abetted, he suspected, by the absence of teeth?

"Wait!" he said severely (this sort of thing must not be encouraged). "I shall come and see for myself." And he threw aside the bedclothes, causing the cook to back away apprehensively, her flow of speech suddenly arrested. He paid no attention to her but pulled on slippers and a dressing-gown, knotting it tightly round his waist. By this time the cook had vanished along the corridor, but as he hurried after her and turned a corner he saw a sputtering candle ahead of him, the flame dragged horizontal by her haste, the men's boots slapping clumsily on her bare feet. As they descended the staircase the candle shining through the banisters made clumsy, swollen cartwheels that accompanied them down into the foyer.

The house was in complete darkness. Everyone had retired for the night. But no...a glimmer of light was still shining from under the door of the writing-room. The cook pointed at the door and stepped back.

The scene in the writing-room was a dismal one. It had proved impossible to clean all the rooms on the ground floor in time for the ball; rather than allow the guests to cover themselves in dust it had been thought best to seal off the most distressing places. One of the gas mantles was burning, but no answering gleams were reflected from the dust-laden furniture and woodwork; at best a stray gleam radiated from the gla.s.s fairy that Mrs Bates had given her life to place on top of the grandfather clock; the remainder of the Christmas decorations still hung from the corners of the ceiling, grey and sinister as the toils of a giant spider.

A small man was standing with his head directly interposed between the gaslight and the Major so that his face was in darkness. His elongated shadow stretched out gigantically over the open expanse of floor to engulf the Major-indeed, all the shadows seemed to stretch out from him and that single light behind his head, lending him the appearance of a black spider at the centre of another web. The Major failed to recognize the silhouette. But there was no mistaking the deferential yet agitated tones in which the man, advancing, began to speak. It was Mr Devlin and he regretted very much disturbing the Major at this unpardonable hour but he would surely be forgiven when the reason was known...("Is the wretched fellow incapable of speaking straight?" wondered the Major, grinding his teeth).

"Yes, yes. What is it?"

It was his daughter, Sarah...she hadn't come home yet and though he knew she was in safe hands...in short, he'd heard that the ball had terminated more early than was expected... mind you, everyone had said what a great success it was... and therefore, because there was such trouble in the country round about...

"Sarah? What time is it now?" He had left his watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. He thought of the candles left burning in his room.

"Mr Spencer took her home...perhaps an hour ago, perhaps more. More, I should think. Where is is Mr Spencer?" He looked round for the cook, but of course she had disappeared. Mr Spencer?" He looked round for the cook, but of course she had disappeared.

Grasping Devlin by the arm, he dragged him deeper into the room, nearer the solitary gas jet so that he could see the man's face. From the darkness there came a faint, distressed mewing and a dislocation of shadows. The cats had returned. For a moment he had thought that the mewing was coming from Devlin himself.

But Devlin had also begun to speak, in a high, frenzied tone which grated unbearably on the Major's nerves. He'd known as much! He'd warned her against it...But no, she wouldn't listen. No decent girl would show her face with those drunken devils on the loose. He'd warned her! They'd gone rampaging through Kilnalough not an hour ago and she hadn't come home...She'd been so intent on dancing with the quality, well, that was where it had got her. He'd seen the damage they'd done...they'd overturned the milk churns so that the main street was like a white river, Finnegan's window with a black, star-shaped hole in it...and the butcher's shop-window lay piled under the sill like a snowdrift! And they'd been dressed up in their finery, in their claw-hammer suits like gentlemen. Ha, fine gentlemen! And he'd heard girls screaming...But she'd not come home even then...It was he, the Major, who was responsible. She had been left in his care. He was not a gentleman. Indeed, he was a swine and a cad to leave the girl on such a night...Ah, a cripple and without protection...And Mr Spencer who thought that he could buy him, Devlin, with his money and his hypocrite's talk, what sort of a man was that? D'ye hear me?

The Major shook Devlin so violently that his last words were uttered in gasps. He fell silent then.

"Sarah will be all right with Edward. n.o.body will touch her."

"n.o.body, is it?" Devlin leered. "And where is she at this minute? Tell me that. All right with him, d'you say? Sure he's likely worse than any of them!"

"You're speaking of a gentleman!" snapped the Major. "Mr Spencer is a man of honour."

Abashed, Devlin fell silent. The Major peered at his face, certain that he had been drinking. For once the bank manager looked dirty and dishevelled; his hair, oiled and combed, had swung forward over his forehead, curving ridiculously upwards like a pair of horns. His trousers were secured with bicycle clips. "They're all the same," mused the Major. "Even when they hold responsible jobs they're liable to go to pieces at the first sign of trouble."

"You see, you came here on a bicycle. Heaven only knows how long you took on the way. Your daughter is probably back at home by now."

Devlin paid no attention, his eyes had strayed into the shadows and he was mumbling incoherently. "He's been most good...She was a cripple...the best doctors, indeed I am, sir, more grateful than I can say...Ah, it wasn't the sort of expense I'd be able to permit myself...He did everything for her! Nothing was too much..."

"You must go home, Devlin. Sarah will be all right. I'll answer for it."

But abruptly Devlin burst out: "He's been most good... He's been a swine!"

This cry echoed emptily around the panelled walls, shrill as a girl's scream. It was followed by a few moments of utter silence.

"You must go home, Devlin. Come along, there's a good fellow. I'll see you to the door." And the Major caught hold of the bank manager's elbow and dragged him round to face the door. As he did so he noticed a bluish light flare in Devlin's eyes. But it was only the reflected glint from the gas mantle. By the time they reached the foyer Devlin had recovered a little and was excusing himself in a low, monotonous voice for getting the Major up at this hour, he must be tired after the ball which had been, he had heard, a famous success, the Major must forgive him this liberty given the desperate circ.u.mstances,...the last time they had met and had their most enjoyable chat the Major had given him to understand that a certain young lady's well-being was of importance to him, had he not? and with all the drunken shouting and singing and smashing of windows and accosting of respectable girls he had felt it his duty to take the grave decision of calling for a.s.sistance...

"Shut up, for G.o.d's sake! Go home and have some sleep and we'll talk about it in the morning. It must be almost five. There! Now good night and go straight home!"

Devlin was standing uncertainly at the top of the steps. He seemed anxious to continue his apologies but the Major's patience was at an end. He slipped back inside the door and closed it. Then, without waiting to see whether Devlin was going to take himself off, he climbed the stairs to bed. "And Sarah?" he thought as he was climbing between the sheets.

"Wake up, Brendan! Wake up!"

The Major was floating in soft black water in a disused quarry. The depth of the water was so great that when he dropped a white pebble into it he could still see it minutes afterwards, winking in the darkness as it sank. Then he was sinking beside it, down and down. "Death is the only peace on earth," he thought as he was sinking.

"Wake up!"

A hand touched him and he sat up with a start. The room was black and he could see nothing. But he knew that he was not still dreaming: a hand was grasping his wrist, warm breath fanning his cheek.

"Who is it?"

"Where are the matches? I can't see a thing." It was one of the twins.

"What's the matter?"

"Brendan, are you awake?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"There's been a terrible fight downstairs. We think it must be the Sinn Feiners."

A match flared, illuminating Charity. She held it up above her head, looking for the Major's candles. Presently the match was swamped by darkness; then another match was struck, this time on the other side of the bed, and Charity was lighting the candles.

"We were too frightened to go down."

Unable for a moment to recall the events of the past few hours, the Major waited with instinctive dread for consciousness to start the first few rolling pebbles that would generate an avalanche of remembered disasters. Then, as one memory after another hurtled down on him, he heaved his drugged limbs over the side of the bed and ma.s.saged his face wearily. He stood up and for a while looked in vain for his dressing-gown. Then he realized that he was still wearing it.

"I'll go down and see. You'd better wait here and lock the door if you hear anyone coming. Get into my bed or you'll catch cold."

It seemed to him that there would never be an end to this blundering through the darkened, empty corridors of the Majestic. What time was it? Surely it should be light by now! But the black windows he pa.s.sed were lit only by the reflected flame of his candle.

After the darkness of the corridor the study seemed glaringly bright. Still holding the candle and oblivious of the drips of hot wax that spilled over his clenched fingers, the Major stood in the doorway and looked about with shocked eyes at the bizarre scene of destruction that greeted him. At his feet the floor was littered with broken gla.s.s and tarnished silver cups. A framed cartoon by Spy which had once hung over the desk lay on the floor, its gla.s.s cobwebbed; the desk itself had been swept clean except for an upturned ink-well which was still leaking a steady black drip on to the dusty carpet. Even the air showed traces of the room's chaos-hazy with white powder, turf-ash scattered half across the floor from the embers of the fire, in which, moreover, a man's shoe lay smouldering. Beyond the fireplace a Welsh dresser had tilted forward to unload a shelf of books and half a row of dusty upturned brandy gla.s.ses on to the floor. As he watched, another gla.s.s crept forward, slithered off the topmost shelf, turned slowly in the air and dissolved in a bright puff as it struck the edge of the dresser.

In the middle of all this confusion Sarah was sitting, alone. She said calmly: "Go away, Brendan. Things are difficult enough already." And then, as the Major neither moved nor spoke, she added impatiently: "Edward is a fool, an absurd and pitiful creature. Mother of G.o.d! And as for my father... He seemed to think that he was actually going to kill Edward...Of course he couldn't even do that successfully."

Sarah was sitting with her legs drawn up beneath her in a deep leather armchair. Around her shoulders she had swirled a vast khaki blanket which hung to the floor in an irregular cone. One naked arm clasped the blanket to her chin. The Major's eye, stung by the nakedness of this arm, travelled away and was promptly stung again, more severely: this time by a door beside the desk that stood open to an adjoining room. He had never seen this door open before. Within he could glimpse an iron bed and a tangle of dirty sheets.