The Empire Trilogy Part 18

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt?" cried Sarah gaily. "If they had managed to hurt each other perhaps they wouldn't have looked so ridiculous...Why is everyone here so ridiculous? Yes, you're ridiculous too, goggling at me with your sheep's eyes...Can you guess what happened? Did he cut Edward's throat? At least that would have made some sense...but no, not even that! He kept shouting that his honour was besmirched...as if he had any honour to begin with! He said that Edward had bought me with thirty pieces of silver...Naturally Edward couldn't find a word to say to all this. Oh, they make me sick, both of them. 'Now look here, Mr Devlin, can't we be sensible about this?' Ah, and my father was drunk, of course, or else it would never have occurred to him to a.s.sault one of the gentry, a member of the quality, mind you, a Protestant gentleman...one of his own customers at the bank. My G.o.d! Can you imagine his daring? Oh yes, and Edward... don't think that he was any better. He was worse...he was ready to grovel too...and I used to think he was a man with dignity, shows what a poor little fool I am. You should have seen them fighting, you'd have died laughing. They make me sick!"

Sarah's face had turned white and against this pallor her eyes seemed black and very large. As if to give substance to her words, she leaned forward, hanging her head over the arm of the chair as if she were, in fact, about to be sick. The Major took a step forward to comfort her, but stopped again. Lying folded on the arm of the sofa his eyes encountered an oblong of grey silk that might have been a woman's dress. He stood there, painfully absorbing every detail; when he turned his head away every tiniest thread was st.i.tched into his memory. He was certain that Sarah was naked under her blanket. On her naked arm, near the shoulder, he noticed the blue mark of a bruise and in his mind's eye he saw Bolton standing beside her chair at the ball, his finger and thumb whitening around her soft skin.

"Where are they now?"

Sarah lifted her white face and stared at him without comprehension. Eventually she said: "Edward took him home when they'd finished fighting. I wouldn't go with them. What d'you think? They're probably the best of friends by now. Even before he left he was beginning to apologize. 'You'll understand my position, Mr Spencer...' and Edward was saying that he, my father, had every right, that he understood what it was to have daughters...Edward was terrified of him... I've never seen anyone look so shaken and guilty and wretched. It was disgusting!"

The Major stepped forward and knelt by the fire to pick the shoe out of the ashes; the leather sole was blackened and charred. He blew a blizzard of white ash off it and set it down indecisively in the hearth. A deluge of hot wax scalded his fingers, reminding him that he was still holding the candle. He threw it into the fire and picked the wax off his knuckles with a dull resentment, staring at his fingers. Sarah was weeping bitterly by now, but the Major continued to pick at his waxed knuckles. Then, when at last he had finished, he went to stand over Sarah's chair and took hold of her naked arm and tried to kiss her wet face. As she resisted he began to struggle with her, wrenching at the blanket that covered her: "You dirty wh.o.r.e!" He was certain that she was naked beneath the blanket. She struck him heavily in the face. He stepped back surprised, and after a moment said: "I'm terribly sorry, Sarah."

But Sarah did not seem annoyed. She merely said with indifference: "That's all right, Brendan. But now leave for heaven's sake. I couldn't stand another scene tonight."

"Can't I take you home?"

"No. I telephoned a friend to come for me. He'll be here in a minute."

His room was in darkness and he no longer had the candle he had taken downstairs. It was not until he had reached his bed and groped for the bedclothes that he remembered the twins.

"Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"It was nothing serious. You can go back to bed now. A bookcase fell over in your father's study."

"Can't we stay? It's almost morning and our beds will be freezing."

"Certainly not."

"Just for a little while?"

"No, of course not. Go back to your rooms."

But the twins made no move and the Major was too weary to argue. For a while he stood in the darkness thinking of nothing, then he took off his dressing-gown and got into bed. "Well, just for a little while."

It was comforting, he had to admit, to have a warm body beside him. Presently he had two warm bodies beside him, for one of the twins had slipped out of bed, around it, and in at the other side. He formulated in his mind the words of rebuke that would send them both back to their cold beds but his vocal chords seemed to be paralysed by weariness and despair-and so it was in the middle of this chaste, warm, heavenly sandwich that the broken-hearted Major finally fell asleep. A faint smell of wine and perspiration presently began to perfume the air around this peacefully sleeping bed, for not only had the twins forgotten to say their prayers, they had also forgotten to wash themselves.

By now, at last, it was beginning to get light at the Majestic. The breeze from the sea which had chilled the few remaining guests during the early hours had dropped again and all was still. In a few minutes it would be daybreak: the rising sun would warm the weather-beaten stone that faced the sea.

Presently Mr O'Flaherty arrived in his trap with the three lads who worked for him. He was the local caterer who had been commissioned to provide breakfast in the ballroom (the other firm of caterers having returned to Dublin after supper). He had retired early the previous evening in order to have his wits about him at breakfast-time and thus no news of the outcome of the ball had yet reached him. Certainly he was surprised to find everything so quiet-but that was hardly any of his business. By now the guests would have been sporting and dancing all night. Doubtless they were rather tired.

Laden with baskets of eggs and trays of bacon, the boys staggered after him as he made his dignified way round to the kitchens-which had been left in a shocking state (he clicked his tongue in disapproval). Mr O'Flaherty was a portly man, very red-faced, a Sinn Feiner by conviction but disapproving of violence (indeed, of any kind of excess). He disapproved of a good many things-at least, in general terms; in particular cases he was inclined to be tolerant. He disapproved of the Anglo-Irish "quality," who seemed to him idle, luxurious, and very often slow-witted into the bargain. He disapproved of Hunt b.a.l.l.s and similar shenanigans. But he had nevertheless a job to do and he intended to do it.

"Look at the filth of it...That's Dubliners for ye!"

While the lads were cleaning up the kitchens he went upstairs to fetch the silver. For it seemed that ordinary china was not good enough for these people: they must eat out of silver dishes and drink their coffee from silver pots. Edward had shown him where to find this glistening treasure and handed him the key to the cupboard where it lay. Mr O'Flaherty could not resist a momentary feeling of pride at being trusted in this manner, and perhaps this did a little to palliate the unpleasant thought that while Mr Spencer and his guests were eating off silver there were people in the West of Ireland with hardly a bite to eat of any sort.

The eggs were broken into cups ready for the pan, the rashers spread out in leaves beside the mounds of kidneys, the cauldrons of water brought to the boil for the silver pots of coffee or tea. When everything was ready Mr O'Flaherty took two of the lads upstairs with him, warm plates stacked up to their eyes, leaving the third to start the frying and toasting.

With a clean chef's hat set firmly on his head he advanced on the ballroom with short dignified steps. He was disturbed, however, by the unnatural quiet of the place. There was no sound in the corridor except, once, the distant scream of a cat. The walls gave back that special echo that one only seems to hear in deserted rooms. Still, rather than lose face in front of the lads by showing that he was perturbed, he made no comment. His face remained as grave and impa.s.sive as if everything had been perfectly normal. Besides, with these people one never knew how they would behave. Even if (and the possibility had occurred to him) he found them lying scattered all over the floor "stiff with the drink" his job was not to pa.s.s comments but to serve breakfast to those who could revive themselves sufficiently to partake of it-and this was what he intended to do. But in the ballroom there wasn't a soul.

Mr. O'Flaherty advanced into the middle of the floor with measured steps, his face still studiously impa.s.sive. Behind him the eyes that peered over the stacks of plates were positively bulging with surprise and wonderment. Ah, but now he had to look down at his feet for he was crunching through a litter of broken gla.s.s; in fact, there was broken gla.s.s everywhere and wilted flowers and cigar ends and heaven only knew what else! "What a rabble, did ye ever see the like?" he thought.

"Tell Christy to stop the frying till we see how much we'll be needing...Then bring up the dishes, toast, tea and coffee, as much as he's done."

He took a cautious look outside on the terrace, which was also littered with broken gla.s.s. "What were they doing at all?" he wondered. "Was it a battle they had, or what?" The sun had risen by now. It was going to be a lovely day. The smell of the countryside in the spring...he took a deep, contented breath, but then remembered his duty and, shaking his head regretfully, stepped inside once more to organize the boys at the buffet tables and tell them where to stand.

By seven o'clock there was still no sign of anyone wanting breakfast. The first dishes, though kept warm for a while with hot water, had had to be discarded and replenished, though it was a shame to waste good food.

"Stand up straight, Paddy, and stop your fidgeting or you'll get what's what."

Of the three of them only he was permitted to move. But still, it was hard on them standing there with nothing to do.

Presently, however, a peahen came in through the French windows with nervous steps, looking for the long-tailed blue-green magnificence that had been her mate. She picked around for a while amid the broken gla.s.s, watched by the three silent men in white hats and ap.r.o.ns. At length Mr O'Flaherty tore off a corner of b.u.t.tered toast and, bending with a sigh, offered it to her in the palm of his plump hand. She took it and ate it distractedly, a faint breeze ruffling the biscuit-coloured feathers of her breast. Then she hurried fretfully back to the terrace to continue her search. She was Mr O'Flaherty's only customer that morning.

It was almost noon when the Major awoke. The maid was opening the curtains to let in a cascade of golden sunshine and the twins were still in bed with him, giggling fit to burst. For an instant he and the maid stared at each other in silent horror; then he had rolled the girls out of bed in a flash and with as much bravado as he could manage sent them on their way with a ringing slap on their fat bottoms. A furtive glance at the maid, however, was enough to tell him that this playfulness had, if anything, made the situation worse.

Edward was penitent. He had behaved foolishly and deserved the Major's contempt. He had been weak and knew it. He had slipped but, by a miracle, he hadn't fallen.

The Major supposed Edward to be referring to his physical relationship with Sarah and for a moment was cheered. But no, Edward meant falling as Ripon had fallen: in other words. becoming like putty in the hands of a Catholic lady, becoming enslaved to Rome. This was a slippery path which ended in marriage, which ended in turn by having one's faith torn out by the roots.

"Don't be absurd, Edward," sighed the Major, who would have asked for nothing better. "This notion of the Roman Church is puerile and your marvellous faith, if you ask me, is nothing more than a vague superst.i.tion which makes you go to church on Sundays."

"You don't know what living in Ireland is like."

"Oh yes I do. You forget that I've been living here for some time now."

Edward's face darkened but he was too harrowed to argue the point. "It was I who gave her up, you know, Brendan. Not the other way round." As the Major made no reply he added: "Could you give Murphy a shout to bring more hot water?"

They were in the laundry, where Edward was taking a bath. The boiler, strained beyond its powers by all the washing that had gone on before the ball, had gone wrong, but Edward's craving for a bath had been too strong to be denied. Sunk in the bath, a great urge to confess had come over him, or, if not exactly to confess (for he really hadn't done anything so very dreadful), at least to share his troubles with someone who might understand. Hence the presence of the Major.

At first the Major believed that he had been summoned to hear and sympathize about Ripon, because Edward had started to describe the scene that had taken place the evening before when, after supper, he had sought out his son to give him a cheque...how he had found Ripon skulking in the library, leafing through a book on urino-genital matters that he had idly removed the shelf. And what had he done with his wife? No doubt she was pining away in some ladies' retiring room. Ripon, in any case, was not showing much interest in her these days. On seeing his father he had started guiltily and replaced the book in the shelf. Then Edward advanced on him, flourishing the cheque. Ripon had taken it and read it (it was for a handsome sum) and had seemed puzzled...What was all this for?

"I know you must be getting short. Sorry it's not more, but I sc.r.a.ped up what I could," Edward had told him gruffly.

"But Dad," Ripon had cried, stuffing the cheque back into his father's top pocket. "You mustn't! I don't need it...Just take a look at this." And he had proceeded to pull thick rolls of banknotes from one pocket after another, dropping them on the carpet in front of him until his shoes were all but hidden by the mound of money.

"Look here, Dad, why don't you take some to help out with your expenses? No, I mean, go on and help yourself. There's plenty more where that came from." Ripon, his eyes moist with generosity, had stood there inviting his stiff-necked old father to delve into the pile of currency. "Take it all if you want to. Easy enough to get some more."

Edward had stopped talking. The Major had glanced at him sympathetically but had deemed it best to say nothing, sensing that the worst was yet to come.

The laundry was a vast, desolate cellar, a continuation of the kitchens; ranks of Gothic arches fled into the dim, greenish distance, each arch made of thickly whitewashed stones. Tubs, basins, a gigantic mangle with rollers as fat as pillar-boxes, a few trays of shrivelled apples from some summer of long ago, pieces of greasy machinery carefully spread out on oilskin but long since abandoned (belonging perhaps to the defunct "Do More" generator)-the Major looked around with melancholy interest.

Edward's head, the only part of him visible over the dark soapy water, was grey and wild-eyed. Most likely he had not slept at all. The business with Ripon had no doubt been humiliating enough-but it was the question of Sarah that was really causing him pain. It did not seem to occur to him that the Major might also still be sensitive on this subject; he was too occupied with his own distress. "How selfish he is!"

Murphy now appeared carrying a jug of steaming water. As he pa.s.sed he leered knowingly at the Major-that wretched maid must have spread the news below stairs! Edward waited for the elderly servant to pour the steaming contents of the jug between his knees, then went on with his rambling description of how he had nearly fallen into the papist trap. He had been lonely after Angela's death, intolerably lonely: the Major (his "only close friend") in London with his moribund aunt, the twins not yet expelled from their school, Ripon away all the time and busy confecting his dishonourable marriage, the Majestic peopled as it was with its spa.r.s.e platoon of guests from the last century, the melancholy Irish winter setting in...Was it any wonder that a cast-iron depression, like a bear-trap, had closed its jaws on him?

Edward, slumped in the bath, had sunk lower by degrees so that now the water rimmed his chin and a second haggard face floated on its placid surface.

A young person whom he was, literally, putting back on her feet. It had given him an interest. ("I can imagine," said the Major sarcastically.) And it had been Sarah, of course, Edward continued, not noticing the Major wince at the mention of her name, it had been Sarah, of course, who had made advances, who had led him on. Not that he was blaming her. He knew as well as anyone that it was the man's duty to be honourable, that women are weak; but all the same...

Edward stopped speaking and there was a long silence. With the stillness of the water his body had become dimly visible: the hairy chest, the ma.s.sive white limbs...From the nether regions, that darker area that might have been a submerged water-lily, the Major averted his eyes with distaste. "How could any young woman possibly be interested in that that?" he wondered glumly.

At length the Major cleared his throat. He wanted to talk about the ball. Perhaps by talking about it one might make its memory less terrible. But so far Edward had not said a word on the subject. All morning the old ladies had been chattering like parakeets, discussing it with any sentient being who came within earshot, servant or fellow-guest, it made no difference. The presence of Edward alone had stilled their tongues. Though outwardly calm there was something in his face, a lurking pain or fury...whatever it was, it had silenced the old ladies just as now it silenced his "only close friend," the Major.

"It was I who gave her up," Edward repeated. "That's something to be thankful for."

But the Major knew that he was not telling the truth. Besides, Edward's wounded pride seemed as nothing compared with his own absolute loss.

"You know, sometimes..." Edward began; his lips moving only a millimetre or two above the surface sent tiny waves out towards his knees.

"Sometimes what?"

Edward wearily rolled his eyes towards the Major and then dropped them again.

"Sometimes I even used to forget that she was a Catholic." And he shook his head, perhaps at the narrowness of his escape.

And so at the Majestic everything returned to the way it had been before. The gleaming tiles became dulled. Sofas as sleek as prize cattle lost their glow. Rooms that had been cleaned needed cleaning again while those that had been locked up were reopened, and still n.o.body could find the heart or the energy to take down the Christmas decorations (besides, presently it would be Christmas again). Two or three litters of rapidly growing kittens had more than restored the population of cats, although, for the moment, there was no corresponding decrease in the number of rats sighted. Mrs Rappaport's marmalade kitten (fertilized by heaven knew what hideous monster on a moonless night) caused a surprise (everybody had a.s.sumed it to be a tom) by contributing no less than half a dozen of these kittens...enchanting little fellows, though, that one simply couldn't help adoring as they wobbled blind and mewing across the carpet. But the cries of delight became muted when the kittens at last opened their eyes and six pairs of bitter green orbs were seen to be staring around with malice at the new world in which they suddenly found themselves.

The groaning tables of the night of the ball were now only a distressing memory as the food served in the dining-room returned to normal. One day at lunch, while the guests were sustaining themselves with an Irish stew ("A Chinese Irish stew," muttered Miss Johnston in disgust), a supplementary dish was brought in by Murphy. On it rested a large sirloin steak. Pushing aside his plate, Edward proceeded to cut the steak into small cubes and place the dish on the carpet in front of Rover who by now was almost totally blind, surrounded day and night by lurking horrors. Rover licked the meat experimentally, masticated one or two pieces, then lost interest. With a sigh Edward returned his attention to the Irish stew on his plate. A moment later the new favourite, the Afghan hound with golden curls, came skipping up, bent his long nose to the meat and wolfed it down in a flash. The guests watched him in thoughtful silence.

In the last week of April the Major, returning from a melancholy stroll in the park, met Edward crossing the drive by the statue of Queen Victoria. He stopped. Edward's service revolver dangled from one hand. From the other, dark spots of blood were dripping on to the gravel. He stared in alarm at Edward's stricken face.

"What on earth happened?"

"I shot Rover...He was getting old. I thought..." He peered at his dripping hand. "I thought I..." But with that he turned and went into the house, leaving the Major to borrow a spade from Sean Murphy and wander off in search of the body.

The hole he dug at the foot of an oak tree near the lodge was constricted by large roots. He should really have begun another hole in a more suitable place, but sadness made him stubborn. The result was that, in order to receive the entire dog, his hole had to be narrow and deep. So it was that Rover was buried standing on his hind legs, his shattered skull only a few inches below the surface of soil.

The Major had filled in the grave and was hammering it down with the back of his spade when he spied a delega-tion of old ladies approaching, well furred against the restless spring breezes. Miss Johnston was the spokeswoman. They had heard what had happened and had come with a suggestion: Rover should be sent to Dublin and stuffed. They would make a collection to pay for the work and present him to Edward on his next birthday. The Major thanked them but explained that the heavy bullet had smashed the dog's skull beyond repair. It would be hopeless, the dog was unrecognizable (all of which was untrue, but the Major could not bear the thought of Rover stuffed and in some debonair att.i.tude, front paw raised perhaps, gathering dust for the years that still remained to the Majestic...It was bad enough to think of the poor dog begging below ground as the worms did their work). Later the Major learned that Edward, cradling the dog's head in his free hand, had accidentally wounded himself with the same bullet. But luckily it was only a flesh wound.

At about this time in Dublin a number of statues were blown up at night; eminent British soldiers and statesmen had their feet blown off and their swords buckled. Reading about these "atrocities" threw Edward into a violent rage. These were acts of cowardice. Let the Shinners fight openly if they must, man to man! This sort of cowardice must not be allowed to prevail...skulking in ambush behind hedges, blowing up statues...Had there been one, even one, honest-to-G.o.d battle during the whole course of the rebellion? Not a single trench had been dug, except perhaps for seed potatoes, in the whole of Ireland! Did the Sinn Feiners deserve the name of men?

"Of course, there was was Easter 1916," suggested the Major mildly. Easter 1916," suggested the Major mildly.

"Stabbed us in the back!" Edward bellowed with a kind of pain, almost as if he had felt the knife enter between his own shoulder-blades. "We were fighting to protect them and they stabbed us in the back."

"Well, not if one looks at it from their point of view, of course...Mind you," he added soothingly as Edward's features stiffened, "one has to consider both sides."

A dispiriting silence fell on the room. The Major decided that it would be a sign of strength not to press the matter. Edward inspired more pity than anger these days. Privately, though, he retained his conviction that it was rather amiable of the Sinn Feiners to prefer attacking statues to living people-a proof, as it were, that they too belonged, or almost belonged, to the good-natured Irish people.

"You don't suppose they'll have a shot at Queen Victoria, do you? Perhaps we should think of getting her moved a bit farther away from the house..." But Edward merely curled his lip contemptuously at this further proof of the Major's lack of martial instincts.

The Golf Club these days was thronged with members whom the Major had not ever seen there before: fat, wary men with copious moustaches who cupped their ears whenever the "troubles" were mentioned but said very little, contenting themselves with an occasional mild reminiscence of Chittagong or Cairo or some other place under foreign skies. They seemed to be waiting uneasily for something; perhaps even they themselves did not know what it was. They would stand there, hands in pockets, staring moodily out of the club-house windows at the acres of blowing gra.s.s. Nowadays not so many players would venture out there; and all those who did, like Boy O'Neill, carried rifles in their golf-bags. Once or twice, indeed, distant shots had been heard over the hum of conversation in the bar, causing the drinkers to fear the worst: a ma.s.sacre at the fourteenth hole, bodies spreadeagled on the velvety green or bleeding in bunkers. But no, presently a laughing, windblown group would come into sight on the fairway of the eighteenth and as they came up towards the club-house one or other of the party would be seen swinging a putter in one hand and a dead hare in the other. Not that they would have minded a "sc.r.a.p"-some of them were young and brave, others middle-aged and fierce, and none of them had been to the war in France.

For the most part, though, the members stayed in the bar drinking whiskey-and-sodas and waiting. There were still a few ragged, shivering caddies waiting to besiege any plus-foured gentlemen willing to risk themselves in the open s.p.a.ces-but their numbers had decreased considerably over the winter. Now only the very young and the very elderly remained. And the others? Perhaps instead of hefting golf-bags on their shoulders they were roaming the hills with some flying squad carrying rifles for the I.R.A.

"h.e.l.lo, Major."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Boy...Didn't see you there." O'Neill was leaning on the bar, his shoulders two great bunches of muscle outlandishly swollen by the thick sweater he was wearing. More aggressive than ever, he had recently acquired the habit of grinning sarcastically after anything he said, whether it was supposed to be humorous or not. The Major found this habit upsetting.

"Seen old Devlin?"

"Can't say I have, Boy."

"Giving us a wide berth these days. Too bad because I've a joke to tell him. Listen. It's about a girl called Mary from Kilnalough. Mary goes to England in rags and comes back a year later in fine clothes and throwing away money right and left. Meets Father O'Byrne who says: 'Tell me, Mary. How did you get all that money?'

"Says Mary, shamefaced: 'Oi became a prost.i.tute, Father.'

"'What's that you say?' cries Father O'Byrne in a fury.

"'Oi became a prost.i.tute, Father,' says Mary again.

"'Ah, sure that's all roight,' says Father O'Byrne with a sigh of relief. 'Oi was after thinking you said you'd become a Protestant!'"

Laughter from one or two of the men at the bar near by. But these were the old hands. The Colonials (as the fat, wary men with moustaches had come to be called) looked blank, being more used to a division of people by race than by religion. This sort of thing was too subtle for them. After all, a white man is a white man when all is said and done.

"Very funny," said the Major without enthusiasm. He had heard the story before.

Across the room, sitting in an armchair under a portrait in oils of the Founder, the Major noticed young Mortimer. He went over to ask him how Matthews was getting on. Mortimer stood up politely and offered the Major a chair, causing him to think: "At least some of these young fellows have been properly brought up." And really there was no denying it. Mortimer was a fine young fellow, been to a good school, nicely spoken, good at games...really Charity (or was it Faith?) could do a lot worse. The only trouble was that although he obviously came from a decent family, this family just as obviously had no money or they would hardly have allowed one of their offspring to join the riff-raff in Ireland for the sake of earning a few shillings a day. Still, it was a shame. A nice young fellow, though rather more nervous than one realized at first sight.

Matthews, it seemed, was much better. Still a bit groggy, of course. That b.u.mp on the head had turned out to be rather a bad one. But Mortimer had another, much more sensational piece of news. Had the Major heard about Captain Bolton? He had left Kilnalough after a frightful row with his superiors. Dismissed for insubordination. In short, he had told them to go to h.e.l.l! And he'd immediately gone off to Dublin with an Irish girl. Who would have thought it of Bolton... having a love-affair on the quiet?

"The girl was at the ball at the Majestic. You may remember her?" The Major remembered her.

"You wouldn't have thought it of old Bolton, would you? I mean, he always seemed such a man's man. They say that if she so much as looks at another man he knocks her cold on the spot!"

"How d'you know about all this?"

"One of our chaps was up in Dublin the other day and saw them together in Jammet's. There was a scene with some fellow who was staring at her. Personally, I thought she looked a b.i.t.c.h, didn't you?"

At the end of April the last of the great spring storms blew in from the north-east and once more all the windows in the Majestic were rattling in torment, while the chimneys groaned and whined like unmilked cows, half threatening and half pleading, and draughts sighed gently under doors like lovelorn girls. At the same time curious cracking sounds were heard, difficult to identify; perhaps the sort of sound one might a.s.sociate with the breaking of bones. Difficult, also, to say where they originated; they seemed to come dully through the walls or the ceiling, even up through the floor once or twice-or so it appeared; with the howling of the wind and the noise of the breakers outside it was impossible to be sure.

The Major was worried, of course, and sometimes went to investigate. Something had snapped, he could feel feel it, the special vibrations of something breaking somewhere; one can always tell when something breaks. But when he pulled himself out of his armchair and, puffing his pipe thoughtfully (so as not to alarm the ladies), sauntered into the next room or the one above, expecting to see diagonal cracks appearing in the walls...well, there was never anything to be seen. All was silent. He must have imagined it. But one knows perfectly well (thought the Major) whether one is imagining something or not, and he it, the special vibrations of something breaking somewhere; one can always tell when something breaks. But when he pulled himself out of his armchair and, puffing his pipe thoughtfully (so as not to alarm the ladies), sauntered into the next room or the one above, expecting to see diagonal cracks appearing in the walls...well, there was never anything to be seen. All was silent. He must have imagined it. But one knows perfectly well (thought the Major) whether one is imagining something or not, and he knew knew this was real. Besides, other people heard it too. Crack! And one or two of the ladies would look up vaguely, not wanting to make a fuss and not really trusting their worn-out old ears. Then, since nothing had actually happened, they would drop their eyes to the fingers which nowadays seemed all joints, one joint on top of another, strung like fat beads, all this time patiently knitting in their laps (but no longer able to sew)...and then a few minutes later: Crack! It would happen again. And this time even the Afghan hound on the hearth-rug would p.r.i.c.k up his ears and go sniffing round the walls or doors before he was diverted by noticing someone asleep in a chair who needed to be licked awake, or one of the ladies trying to smuggle a peppermint from handbag to mouth without being nuzzled by his long greedy snout. this was real. Besides, other people heard it too. Crack! And one or two of the ladies would look up vaguely, not wanting to make a fuss and not really trusting their worn-out old ears. Then, since nothing had actually happened, they would drop their eyes to the fingers which nowadays seemed all joints, one joint on top of another, strung like fat beads, all this time patiently knitting in their laps (but no longer able to sew)...and then a few minutes later: Crack! It would happen again. And this time even the Afghan hound on the hearth-rug would p.r.i.c.k up his ears and go sniffing round the walls or doors before he was diverted by noticing someone asleep in a chair who needed to be licked awake, or one of the ladies trying to smuggle a peppermint from handbag to mouth without being nuzzled by his long greedy snout.

"Did you by any chance hear a cracking sound just then?"

But Edward, concerned about the possibility of a tidal wave swamping his piglets, shook his head.

"Listen for a moment."

But there would only be the sound of wind and rain, the groaning and the sighing, and Edward would become engrossed in his problems once more so that when it did come, he still did not hear it.

Remembering the bulges, real and imaginary, which he had discovered with Sarah, the Major moved aside the sofa in the lounge. The root throwing up the parquet blocks had swollen from a forearm into a thigh-thick, white, hairy and muscular. The Major thought it best to roll the sofa back promptly over this obscenity.

That night he lay awake listening to the wind and the waves, thinking that he might have been alone in a great ocean liner, drifting in the eye of a storm. Instead of decreasing with daybreak, the storm continued to mount throughout the following morning. By the afternoon Edward had become seriously concerned about the welfare of the piglets. They had not been fed since noon the day before. All this time they had cowered without physical or moral comfort in the roaring black squash court. Something must be done. But in this weather one could scarcely put one's nose outside, let alone walk a quarter of a mile, so he waited for a lull standing by one window or another with an unread newspaper trailing from his fingers.

"Almighty G.o.d! Did you see that?"