The Empire Trilogy Read Online Free Page B

table and begun a curious exercise with it, grunting slightly with the effort, as if trying to tread some slow-moving but resilient beetle into the tiled floor. “Is she trying to find my foot?” wondered the Major, perplexed. Then at last, after this curious spasm had continued for a few moments (the O’Neills were either accustomed to it or pretended not to notice), a distant bell rang somewhere away in the jungle of palms. Angela’s leg relaxed, an expression of satisfaction appeared on her pallid, fretful features, and an aged and uncouth manservant (whom the Major for a moment mistook for his prospective father-in-law) shambled out of the jungle breathing hard through his mouth as if he had just had some frightful experience in the scullery.
    â€œTea, Murphy.”
    â€œYes, Mum.”
    Angela switched on the lamp long enough for Murphy to collect some empty cups in his trembling hands, then turned it off again. The Major noticed that old Dr Ryan was not asleep as he had supposed. Beneath the drooping lids his eyes were bright with interest and intelligence.
    â€œI wish we could trust
ours
,” Mrs O’Neill was saying.
    â€œIt is a problem,” agreed Angela. “What do you think, Doctor?”
    Dr Ryan ignored her question, however, and silence descended once more.
    â€œIn a lot of ways they’re like children,” Boy O’Neill said at length and his wife assented. “What an extraordinarily inert tea-party!” thought the Major, who had become aware of a keen hunger and looked up hopefully at the sound of a step. But it was only Ripon, sliding apologetically into a chair beside Mrs O’Neill.
    â€œDid you wash your hands, Ripon?” asked Angela. “After that horse.”
    â€œYes, yes, yes,” replied Ripon, smiling furtively across at the Major and lounging back in a self-consciously casual manner. A moment later he threw a leg over the arm of his chair, narrowly missing Mrs O’Neill’s face with his shoe (which had the wandering contours of a hole worn in the sole). “Where are the twins?”
    â€œThey’ve gone to spend a week in Tipperary with friends from school. But one wonders whether the roads are really safe these days.”
    â€œTrees have been felled on the road to Wexford. It really can’t go on. Three policemen killed in Kilcatherine. The
Irish Times
said this morning that a levy of six shillings in the pound has been put on the whole electoral division. That should make them think twice.” Mr O’Neill spoke with the fluted vowels of an Ulsterman; his drawn, yellowish face had reminded the Major of the fact (recorded in Angela’s letters) that the Spencer family solicitor was thought to be ill with cancer, had been up to Dublin to see specialists, had even travelled to London to see doctors there. Though the verdict had been omitted from Angela’s letters to the Major, this omission was eloquent. Death. The man was dying here in the Palm Court as he nervously discussed the abomination of Sinn Fein.
    â€œThose who live by the sword...” said Mrs O’Neill.
    â€œAh, more tea,” exclaimed Angela as Murphy once more appeared out of the jungle like some weary, breathless gorilla, pushing the tea-trolley. Mustard-and-cress sandwiches. The Major took one and cut it in half with a small, scimitar-shaped tea-knife. Weak with hunger, he put one half in his mouth, then the other. They both vanished almost before his teeth had had time to close on them. His hunger increased as he took another sandwich from the plate, ate it, and then took another. It was all he could do to restrain himself from taking two at a time. Fortunately it was now getting quite dark in the Palm Court (though still only mid-afternoon) and perhaps nobody noticed.
    Meanwhile Angela (who had once, so she said, sat on the lap of the Viceroy) had begun to talk languidly about her childhood in Ireland and India, then with a