The Empire Trilogy (12 page)

Of course he had heard of it, he assured her smiling. That was the treacherous attack by Irish hooligans on the British Army so busily engaged in defending Ireland against the Kaiser.

“Did Ireland ask to be defended?”

“Whether they asked for it or not they obviously wanted it, since so many Irishmen were fighting in the army.”

“Obviously? Nothing was less obvious! The Irish people weren't even consulted. No one asked them anything. Why should it make any difference to them whether they were invaded by the Germans or by the British? It might even be better to be subject to the Germans; at least it would make a change...” And the Major was quite wrong in saying that the heroes of the Easter Rising were hooligans. On the contrary, there were many gentlemen among these patriots. Did he know nothing at all? How ignorant the English (only politeness, she laughed, prevented her from saying “the enemy”), how ignorant the English were. Had he even heard of the débutante Countess Markievicz who with a pistol in her belt defended the College of Surgeons and was sentenced to death for shooting at a gentleman looking out of the window of the Unionist Club (even though the shot missed)? Or did he think that Joseph Plunkett, jewels flaring on his fingers like a Renaissance prince and who
was,
in fact, the son of a papal count, did he think that this man was a hooligan? Already doomed with T.B., he had got up out of his bed to fight; did that make him sound like a treacherous criminal? Did the Major know that Joseph Plunkett got married to Grace Gifford (a beautiful young aristocrat whose Protestant family disowned her, naturally, the pigs) by the light of a candle held by a British soldier in the chapel of Kilmainham gaol in the early hours of the morning shortly before he faced a firing-squad? Did
that
sound like the behaviour of a hooligan?

“Indeed, no,” said the Major smiling. “It sounds more like the last act of an opera composed by a drunken Italian librettist.”

“Ah, it's impossible to argue with someone so cynical!”

“But you ask me to believe in these operatic characters when one reads entirely different things in the newspaper. Just the other day I was reading about a woman who had pig rings put in her buttocks for supplying milk to the police...and then there was the brass band that started a rough house with the police, using their instruments as clubs... and a donkey stabbed to death for carrying turf to the R.I.C. barracks and labelled as a traitor to Ireland!”

“Such things are invented by the British to discredit us. We've no way of knowing whether the newspapers tell the truth. Everything belongs to the British in Ireland. Everything.”

There was silence for a moment. Sarah's flush had faded but she still looked rather fretful. She said abruptly: “Did you know that Edward thinks you a cold person, Brendan?”

“No, I didn't know that,” said the Major, surprised.

“I think it's because you're always so very polite and distant.” She smiled at the Major's look of concern and shook her head. “However, I told him I thought quite the opposite ...in fact, I told him I thought you were probably as soft as a steamed pudding.”

“That doesn't sound very complimentary, I must say. But how do you know what Edward thinks of me? You said he was always unfriendly to you. I thought you never saw him.”

“Oh, in Kilnalough one meets everyone,” Sarah said vaguely. “One couldn't avoid people even if one wanted to. Now do stop looking so uneasy. Close the door and come and sit here on the bed. Don't be silly, you don't have to be paying any attention to
him
(my father, I mean)...What, you're off already? Don't say I've offended you
again
!” And she broke into peals of laughter that rang pleasantly in the Major's ears all the way home.

But before he reached the Majestic a disturbing thought occurred to him. Could it be that Dr Ryan had been talking about Sarah and not about Angela with his “chill” and his “touch of fever” and his “father as spineless as jelly”? If that were so, poor Angela might be gravely ill after all. And the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed.

“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! It was most alarming, Major, I can assure you (though naturally it wouldn't have been alarming for a man of your moral fibre). So Himself goes clanking across the room to a big table in the very middle at which there was nobody except a toothless, wrinkled old man. This old codger had his white head lowered over an immense mug from which he was supping liquid with a faint whistling noise. As he came up for breath he inhaled his shaggy brown moustache and sucked it white and dry before lowering his head again. This fellow took to his heels when he saw the stone statue approaching. Can't say I blame him, actually.

“Chairs were found and we all sat down. ‘Could we have some service please,' demanded the Man of Stone in a voice from Beyond the Tomb. A perspiring red-faced chap in an apron scurried out from behind the bar wiping his hands.

“Silence still gripped the room, Major, like a heavy frost. Everyone at our table was wondering why ‘they' didn't start talking again, in respectful undertones, of course. Suddenly one of the men at the bar snorted into his glass, sending a great brown spray over his neighbours, hanging on helplessly to the brass rail, barking again and again with uncontrollable laughter, gasping so desperately for air that for a while it wasn't clear that it was laughter and not some dreadful epileptic fit he was having. Little by little, though, his need for air strangled his merriment and he was led outside, half drowned, by one of his companions, who then returned alone. After this some of the other men were obviously having trouble keeping their faces straight; on every side faces were long and solemn, tight as violin strings. (It was awful, Major, you've no idea.) The restrained laughter bulged like an abscess in the room. At any moment one had the feeling that the wretched thing might burst with a loud report and drench us all with the yellow pus of laughter (sorry about some of these metaphors, Major, I'm doing m'best). One could feel it coming, that terrible, cataclysmic burst of laughter...

“At this point Himself, alone in the silence, stood up and began to sing:

‘GodSaveourGraciousKing
LongliveourNobleKing
GodSavetheKing.'

The other members of the Majestic party were now on their feet. Two or three of the ladies, their voices reedy and defiant, joined in here and fluted:

‘Sendhimvictor-rious
Happyandglor-rious
LongtoreignOh!-verus
Go-od sa-ave the King.'

(Oh, Major, you can't imagine what it was like! Your hackles would have bristled with pride at that dear uplifting sound!)

“Well, an instant of silence followed. Then it came: a great rolling storm of applause, of laughter, of clapping and crying and cheering. The noise was positively deafening. The skin that covered that straining, bulging tension in the room had broken and the relief was divine, Major. Even I was applauding.

“The Man of Stone and the ladies, however, looked far from pleased at this favourable reception. Their faces darkened, the Man of Stone grimly licked his granite lips while the ladies elevated their rheumy eyes to a more noble, uncompromising angle than ever. What was to be done? Hardly had the cascade of applause begun to subside when the Man of Stone, marble nostrils quivering, launched once more into the National Anthem, singing the same verse as before (I suppose there
are
others, you're the sort of chap, Major, who'd be likely to know about that sort of thing, but never mind for the moment.)

“This time not only the contingent from the Majestic but also some throaty tenors from the bar joined in, raising their foaming tankards and showing a tendency, common to many Irishmen when singing, to warble sentimentally and allow their eyes to fill with tears. In our party at that moment, Major, muscles were tensing, necks were growing red, veins were bulging, fists were being clenched. Evans, the appalling tutor-wallah, in particular, looked as if he were about to swoon in an ecstasy of hate and violence if he didn't get to bash someone up pretty quickly.

“Now everyone was singing, not just a few drunken tenors at the bar. It was wonderful, the way everyone was singing together. And, not content with singing, a young fellow wearing a cap much too big for him and baggy trousers that looked as if they'd been made out of potato sacks jumped up on a stool and began to conduct, now the Man of Stone, now the chorus at the bar.

“The applause once again was deafening. The Man of Stone was by now looking a tiny bit defeated. He stood perfectly still for a moment, head just a little bowed. Then he fumbled in his pocket and dropped a handful of silver on the table beside his untouched glass of stout. After that he turned and clanked stiffly towards the open door, with his dignified platoon of elderly ladies trailing behind him.

“Well, we all trooped back to where we'd left the motors and for a while nobody said a word. We just stood there waiting for everyone to get in the motor cars until one of the ladies said: ‘You know, I think they were making fun of us.' Well, nobody had anything to say to that, so I said (hoping to make things better, Major, you realize): ‘Couldn't it be that they just enjoyed singing and that was the only song we all knew?' But that didn't seem to help at all.

“It was then we realized that there was a bit of a scuffle going on. Evans had hung back looking for someone to punch in order to avenge the slight on Himself's honour. But in a moment or two he was bundled out by two or three grinning natives with his jacket pulled over his head like a strait-jacket. And that was that. He wasn't thanked for this splendid bit of loyalty. Himself told him angrily to get in the motor and stop playing the fool. Himself and I were the last to climb in, watched by all the drinkers who'd come pouring out of the pub and stood watching us from the door. Himself looked back at them, you know, and just for a moment it occurred to me—there was something about the expression on his face—that he was afraid of them, and I felt a bit sorry for him. But now, Major, I'm afraid you'll have to pardon me a for moment while I go and vomit—I should think probably into yonder pot of ferns would be the best idea. I realize it's a rotten show, mind you (particularly to a man like yourself who's frightfully good at holding his drink)...”