Leila: Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

11

I led Rashers into the front west parlour. Dead flies falling out as I opened the shutters of that dusty unused museum of a room. Smelling of musky damp. Full of its glass cases of porcelain and bric à brac. I’m sure one was mistaken but I thought the tears did dry rather quickly as Rashers’s eye swept round the statuettes and bowls, the trinkets and cups. Nonetheless I did give him an Andromeda Park best linen napkin to mop up any remaining grief.

‘Kildare. I do apologize for my unspeakable behaviour. Such a thing has never happened to me before. You must think me a weak kneed, spineless fellow. I suppose these past cold months of winter have rather knocked the stuffing out of me. I don’t want to continue boozing and whoring. But sometimes it’s only way to keep warm. I want some respectability in my life.’

‘Rashers. You may. Indeed please. Do stay. Crooks is already seeing to it.’

‘No. I must go. This is too much. To impose upon you. Damn it I’m nearly a stranger to you.’

‘Well you are.’

‘Well I thank you Kildare for being damn honest about it’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how that quite slipped out. But of course you’re not. A stranger. You know you are absolutely welcome.’

‘Well since you put it with such insistence. Alright. I’ll stay. Only because you absolutely entreat me to.’

Hunting may not sweep all sadness from the mind but does indeed quite quickly erase misery from the soul. And one did feel relief at the Master’s signal to move off. With the usual shouts and hoots from the gung ho contingent. But not ten yards from the front door of Andromeda Park, two members of the hunt already nosedived on their heads, having in their efforts to mount, got up on one side of their horses only to tip over to plunge down the other. And Gearoid holding the reins of both, while still clinging to a glass of Guinness and trying to swallow its spilling contents, was dragged off bodily. One did look back at the house and the fuss. And there up in the whim room window, catch sight of Leila. Staring it seemed down. At the top of the heads of hunt followers and of the assembled staff arrayed watching on the front steps. And waving goodbye. Sexton rushing up to me with a nosegay.

‘Ah now you’d not want to be without a bit of colour taking you with its beauty flying through the wind safely.’

One presumed the front hall had been left to scavengers. Cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews of one’s staff. Who make themselves known from the lower reaches of the house when the grand folk have gone. Sexton of course directing traffic and hoofs to keep us off his sacred preserves of flower bulbs and grass. Down the drive someone dismounting. Secreting themselves behind a piece of broken statuary and heaving out their guts into the rose bushes, sounding as if in their death throes. You’d think that that terrified, they might rather retire safely quiet in front of the fire, and read about the more active moments of the hunt in Horse and Hound. Which periodical as it happens has sent a lady associate just arrived to report today’s outing. Although I don’t suppose she’ll be reporting that in the thick of the rhododendron plantation there, white breeches can be spied of similar folk crazed with terror, depositing their hunt breakfasts. Which, who knows, will quite possibly be gladly gobbled up by one of the very devilishly clever foxes we shall chase.

It would seem that the advent of the use of the motor car again has brought a plethora of the nervous of heart to hunt. For not even a quarter way to the first covert, an extremely pinched faced lady down from Dublin, her face a mask of make up, which nonetheless underneath could be seen turned entirely green, keeled with a sighing gasp from her lips, in a dead faint straight out of the saddle and stuck like a pole into the ground. The hunting priest did stretch her out and do his well meant mumbo jumbo over her unconscious face, till the lady awoke and it would seem was distinctly and irately Protestant. Of course one does feel a shiver or two oneself. But at this casualty rate we will soon be minus the field before finding a fox.

Approaching the second covert, the first finding no fox, and just beyond and at the edge of the wood. The breeze not so cold in the snatches of sun. But the cloud brought a shuddering chill as we waited. And one did think. That not that long ago one sat in solitary enjoyment of one’s privacy. The sole lonely occupant of one’s house and served by its staff. Whose exact number one always has trouble to calculate. And now bloody hell. The place is overflowing. But if I were merely to count up the mouths. It would amount to more than a dozen more than I can afford.

‘Tally ho.’

A fox found. And off straight into the woods. To make sure we’re all scratched to pieces if not knocked senseless.

‘Watch out.’

A shout just behind one. And a silly chap, absolutely belted backwards off his horse by that branch of a tree under which Petunia and I have just ducked. Blood exploding from his nose before he hits the ground. Miss von B following him, to whom he was obviously turning to display his charms. And who at the same time shouted to him to watch where he was cantering. Poor damn sod. Immediately pretending to Miss von B, as she offered to help, that he was tough as nails and completely alright. And then as she rode on, whammo, the Mad Vet, lately arrived at a gallop out of the trees, flattened your man once more. Poor wretched sod, just as he was sitting up to hold together his various parts of his loosened skull.

The field veering suddenly. Hounds barking hell bent on yet another fox. And foolish doggies. Down a hillside. Over a stream. Dear me, the injured gentleman’s riderless horse has just scampered by. Which being on our way once more, everyone pretends not to see. And those who can’t avoid being seen seeing, pretending to grasp and tussle about with the reins, and of course as I see is happening, letting them go at the first opportune unobserved moment while shouting loose horse. They really are, just like oneself, such a bunch of damn self centred pleasure seeking hypocrites caring only for indulging their own sport and enjoyment. Rather like the Mental Marquis of Farranistic who one does keep an eye open for to come thundering out of some copse, like the last charge of the Light Brigade. Which of course exactly happened the next second as his lathered horse came up beside mine. And god, he does look at times awfully insane. By his own admission having been rapped constantly on his head by a perverse nanny who maintained it was a good way of knocking sense into him. Only on one occasion she used the leg of a table.

‘Damn sorry Kildare to have missed my stirrup cup. Damn car blew up other side of the village. Damn silly fellow can you imagine came lighting a cigarette to examine why my petrol tank was leaking. Set the horse box on fire. Burning bloody inferno. I say, see a few nice pieces of crumpet out today.’

One heard while waiting at the next covert that instead of anyone coming to the flattened chap’s assistance, poor damn man ended up crawling to the nearest cottage where he was nearly shot. The farmer not only loosing a load of pellets over the poor bugger but nearly garrotting him pulling his head gear off and trampling his top hat with his muddy Wellington boot. It’s not stylish to wear a cord attached to your top hat. But I suppose the poor polite foreign fellow will have learned a thing or two before this day’s out. Among which is, that he does not quite present the pleasure one gets fetching a beautiful lady in her muddy soaked finery out of a bog hole. And that an injured gentleman is quite likely to be left for dead. Perhaps a reason why more gentlemen of the inclination to prefer gentlemen should be encouraged to hunt.

‘Go get him.’

The huntsman with a terrier released into a foxhole. The whipper in nearby furiously digging with his spade to fill in an escape route. The stragglers slowly arriving. Gossip being savoured on various lips. Miss von B off to the side with a bevy of bug eyed still slathering at the mouth gents in eager attendance. And directly behind one. Sounds like a waterfall. Must turn to see. My god. Baptista Consuelo. Who obviously has avoided my hunt breakfast. Now suddenly here. Reined up and tightening her girth. Probably ready to accuse me of further and better particulars of my previous heinousness various. Her horse taking one incredibly noisy pee. Which one can’t help marvel at. The stream coming out of what one must certainly term an inordinately large equine penis. Exactly what one would expect her horse to have of course.

‘I would prefer, if you do not mind, and in particularly you, not watching while my horse is peeing.’

Of course one turned away. Who bloody well wants to watch her damn horse peeing. While she is preening and making all her usual efforts to look captivatingly splendid while at the same moment also haughtily attempting to ignore the collection of chop licking gentlemen surrounding Miss von B. And it is amusingly clear that she and the Marquis currently utterly detest each other. I suppose some brands of fucking can breed later abhorrence. And dear me, over where the fox has gone to ground, an altercation already. The Master raising his voice to the Mad Vet.

‘Sir I order you to leave the field.’

‘I certainly will not. Not for the pansy likes of you me boyo.’

‘Sir, that insult I shall deal with in due course and I repeat, I order you to leave the field. You left a man injured, having jumped over him.’

‘Bugger off. Wasn’t he minding the beauty behind him instead of the danger in front. Daft fool’s better off left. He was already half dead in the head before ever he came off his horse.’

As the loud shouting match continued, other hunt members distancing themselves from the scene of disciplining. The hunting field is always the perfect place to hurl an insult if you’ve got one reposing in your bonnet. You damn silly fucker. You stupid ass. You absolutely ox witted obtuse unthinking noodle noddled nincompoop. You jerk. Very American that last. But effective. But then when one finally turns for home at the end of the day, one is supposed to forget all that was said and done. And as one invariably does, to sit fireside over one’s whisky in smouldering fuming utter indignation and wrath. I’m sure rage must release into the blood a lot of unpleasant chemicals. But I suppose one must take it as refreshing that fox hunting gives rein to the basic instincts. And to quote the Mental Marquis. Especially the tendency incited by the blood spattered hounds at a kill for a gendeman to fish out his pole to put same plunging up some likely lady.

‘Tally ho.’

The fox. Dug, shouted at and disturbed out of its hole. We’re off. Pounding. Just as I was bloody well hoping to see a really good fight for a change. One in which I might be the observer instead of the observed. No one giving a tinker’s damn now, about the poor maimed and perhaps dead left in the wake of these present aerial sods flying behind down this hillside. And up on high ground again. See the red of the huntsman on the far hillside. And one can make a very neat detour here.

‘O do please get out of my way, won’t you.’

Copycat Baptista, of course, knowing I was taking a short cut, cutting in front of me. As if she were the one who knew this country well. Thinks she’s such a fine horsewoman. Ruddy cheek. And listen to her pedantic English hunting references.

‘I say, the hounds are feathering on the fox.’

Instead of saying the damn silly mutts have decided to go off in a dozen different directions. And that ruddy howl just emitted is her ruddy horse imcompetendy stepping on a straggling hound. I’ll soon bloody well show that overly endowed rump of hers a clean pair of heels. Come on. Petunia.

Darcy Dancer slamming his whip across Petunia’s quarters. The mare in three vast strides overtaking Baptista. As the two mounts nose to nose head for the same low spot in a vastly high wall of boulders. With so much mud flying it was rather difficult to perceive how dirty the dirty look Baptista gave one was as I cruised past her on this brief stretch of flat meadow. Baptista bending her neck to growl.

‘Keep out of my way. You wretched boy. Damn you.’

‘And you get out of my way. You wretched girl.’

The pair of horses thundering abreast across the pasture. A stone’s throw to go. To the wall ahead. The ground gently rising. Sun’s rays flashing across the fields. A massive double rainbow arched on the horizon. Hoofs still stretching over the grey lichen encrusted outcroppings of granite, peeking up out of the emerald green. Baptista hissing out words she must have picked up hunting with the Quorn or Beaufort. Or some equally esteemed hunt in Leicestershire. Or elegant one in Gloucestershire.

‘You fucker Kildare, fuck off.’

Darcy Dancer swerving his horse away. Petunia’s hoofs, carving a thick wave of turf up out of the ground. Foam flying from her mouth and landing in little lumps of froth in the grass. Baptista’s nag rising up into the sky. And disappearing. With a scream. Down the other side. Which was down and down. Deep into a ditch halfway to hell. It does help so to know the countryside well at such times. And to be able to smile deeply inside one’s soul. Instead of plummeting into a chasm of bog water.

Darcy Dancer dismounting. Stepping to take a peek over the wall. And down into what is the very deepest gulch in this parish. Good lord. Her wretched animal is flapping on its side like a fish out of water. Gasping for breath. Legs atremble in its death throes. And she with her tresses strewn from under her disturbed hairnet and hat, is spreadeagled drowning next to him. Of course there was nothing for it but to be chivalrous. And slide down the bank into the abyss. I do damn myself sometimes for being such a gentleman. Drag her ashore under the armpits. Pour the water out of her boots. Slap her face back into consciousness. Mumble the last rites over her rapidly dying horse. And wonder how soon others would catch us up if I had the temerity to revive her further with an attempt upon her virtue to end my long excruciating bout of celibacy.

Of course Petunia ran off to graze in some longer grass she spied in the corner of the field. And Baptista’s half submerged horse now dead. Its lips hanging loose away from its teeth. A fore leg snapped in two and the bone poking whitely from the brown bog water. I fell dragging Baptista out of the deeper mud and then attempting to further drag her up the impossibly steep bank, came crunching down my two knees landing on each of her shoulders. Which did not make her make an awfully nice sound.

‘O God I can’t move my legs and you’re trying to kill me.’

We both of us slipped back down three times before I got a foothold and lugged, dragged and tugged her heavy carcass to safe grass again at the top. Where it appeared her legs could again miraculously move and instead of thanking me for saving her life.

‘You did that deliberately, letting me jump that wall.’

Luckily three stragglers, with the previously creamed foreign gentleman’s horse in tow, arrived. And I took the opportunity to be immediately gone. Until two parishes away, horse foamy mouthed, steaming in sweat, one finally caught up. But damn silly ineffectual hounds lost the scent. But my god what a wondrous mêlée was in progress. Whips snapping and the air smelling of hot leather. The Mad Vet and Master entangled on the ground. Gouging at each other’s ears and eyes. Rolling over in some splendidly deliciously fresh cow flop. O god, my stomach so bloody well paining me with laughter that I fell off Petunia as she reared away from the two embroiled figures. Their fists beating on each other’s backs rather ineffectually as they clutched. Gloves blackened with dung. Who would believe that some of these same human beings might actually know who Tiepolo is or that Meissen is preferable to some other crockery. Even though they might not know a Neapolitan table top on a Chippendale frame. The lady reporter, who proves to be a good rider, is of course stunned out of her senses to witness the unbelievable physical rudeness in progress. And eyebrows raised, she’s putting quietly back in her pocket her notebook. Clearly not needed when events are seared on the mind.

‘Stop stop gentlemen. Disgraceful behaviour. In front of the ladies. Disgraceful.’

The secretary wagging his riding crop over both the protagonists and pushing back some of the local grinning populace. Who must have materialized acrawl out of the thicker hedgerows or from behind the larger mounds of moss and granite. And were now most contentedly pulling forelocks and nodding to hunt members as they took up discreet ringside positions watching the gentry punch each other to pieces. As more hunt stragglers arrived up the hill. Followed by a loud bellowing voice.

‘Ah much jolly nice. Not even a fox roused and yet mucho beaucoup frappe, I see.’

The Mental Marquis taking a swig from his brandy pouch. Not even offering one a drop. And his nerve. To assume such a nonchalant indifference having written members of my staff letters. I’m simply never going to let him land his airplane in one of my fields. But one must suppose that together with his aerial acquaintanceship with the downed Master, the Royal Air Force is here in strength. And dear me, we are taking sides aren’t we.

‘Kick him. Come on. You’ve got him now. Squeeze.’

And now the top hatted and today red coated Mental Marquis with reins dropped over his hunter’s neck is putting his hands to his mouth and shouting.

‘Hit him in the haggis. Twist his fucking halo out of orbit for him Jonathan dear chap. Can’t damn well tell who’s winning this fight. Seems we should simply let them get on with it Kildare, don’t you think.’

His Lordship still grinningly watching the battle. Wiping his crimson sleeve across his dripping nose. Taking up reins again. His massive horse, its eyes rolling in its head, snorting out its nostrils. Till suddenly overcoming the Mad Marquis’s face, a look of alarmed consternation. His brow creasing and his eyes looking concernedly askance. As he shifts his weight around in the saddle and slaps his whip against his thigh.

‘Good god Kildare, I just remembered. Left my bloody groom in the blazing horse box. Shut it up after I got the horse out. To stop the damn draught burning the ruddy thing to a pile of ashes more quickly than it might otherwise. Do you think the poor fellow might be a cinder by now.’

‘Wouldn’t he have yelled.’

‘No he wouldn’t. Hasn’t murmured a word for donkey’s years. That’s what I liked about the chap. Kept his mouth shut. So that you don’t even know he’s there. O well too late to worry about that now. But damn nuisance losing a good groom like that. Poor fight here don’t you think.’

And then just as one was turning one’s attention away from the mêlée there was Johnny Gearoid holding one’s mare. And how on earth did he two footed miraculously get here a dozen or so fields in from any road. No point in taxing one’s brain over that one. But obviously he’ll be looking for five shillings for his services. Knows just when to be around. Just like many of one’s staff. One always finds them so clever in the wrong way. Perhaps their saving grace is they’re too dumb to know what stupidity is and I suppose if they ever found out they’d be twice as dumb. But what are these words at one’s shoulder.

‘That’s the kind of thrashing the likes of you should get trying to rape a lady.’

Would you believe it. The words are addressed to me. Of course this ruddy smarmy pipsqueak has a moustache which twitches on his unpleasantly sneering face that one vaguely remembers from the battle of Andromeda Park front hall in the last mêlée. Son of a bitch sitting high up on his horse does not think he is in any danger with another imbroglio in progress, and is totally convinced he is nicely out of harm’s way. As one grabs hold of the silly man’s martingale. And goodness, imagine, bloody man is trying to lash me with his riding crop.

‘Let go of my horse or I’ll give you a bit of Swaine and Adeney across your uncouth bog face you Irish savage.’

Darcy Dancer, whip blows raining down on his head arms and shoulders, sinking his ten fingers agrip in the top of the man’s boot. And in one downward wrench dragging him plummeting to the ground. Man’s horse swerving around and kicking out its hind legs. Two hoofs catching the back of the secretary square on each rump and lifting him skywards to descend on top of the still battling Master and Mad Vet, now grunting and wheezing with exhaustion. Just as a shower of rain unleashes and two more peaceful rainbows blaze glowing purple orange gold and green in the eastern sky, one intersecting the other.

Darcy Dancer wrestling the moustachioed man to the ground. Dear me, by the facing on his collar, a Master of Foxhounds of a Leicestershire hunt. Must admit the son of a bitch is unexpectedly strong. With a good pair of lungs which he puts to good loud use as I wrench the cartilage within and nicely break two of his smaller fingers. Knee him for good measure in the kidneys. Elbow him for additional measure across the Adam’s apple. I’m a prince. You cunt. A prince at least in moral fibre. And now it’s just about time to render you unconscious with a fist between your eyes. And wham. Am I actually seeing stars. I am. In an astonishing looking solar system. Good heavens. One is actually floating. Around in one’s life. Yes there goes Sexton. Dressed as a cardinal. And O yes. There’s Mollie. Her tits being milked by Luke. Into a pail held by Crooks. O good, Catherine’s going to churn it into butter. Or am I waking. Staring up into her face.

‘Hello my little bog trotter, ah your eyes, they at last open. Are you alright. Can you move.’

‘Yes I can move.’

Her Highness covered in mud and debris. Her face scratched. The awful churned up muddy battlefield nearby empty. Just the darkening sky and cold breeze sweeping the hillside. And the faintest distant sound of the horn of the hunt.

‘What happened Madam.’

‘Ah what happened. Of course, you. You are what happened. And 1.1 am what happened. Coming to rescue you.’

‘My god, I’ve a lump the size of a hoof on the back of my head.’

‘She kicked you. Sent your hat flying.’

‘Who.’

‘That one. Consuelo. While you were on the ground. In the fight.’

‘My god.’

‘And I must say. There was another battle. Between this Consuelo and me. This time not with whips. But sock sock.’

‘O my god. Are you hurt.’

‘Of course not. I knock her silly.’

‘That was kind of you Miss von B.’

‘Kind. Never. It was stupid. I have lost my pin. I have torn my jacket, two precious buttons gone.’

‘O we’ll look. We’ll find it.’

‘Find. Never. My horse I hire. It had no go. Till now. And is gone. With your Petunia. Dragging away that little man.’

‘But we are at least here alone together.’

‘Ah that kick in the head has not lost you your presumptions. And there is some blood on your lip.’

‘Madam, you are using big English words. It is rather nice however to wake up out of one’s unconsciousness and find oneself in the kindly care of a beautiful woman.’

‘You little foolish arse. That cloud coming. It is going to rain again.’

‘I don’t mind madam, a little rain.’

‘You don’t mind. I mind. I am already wet enough.’

‘Don’t you have any romance left in you, madam.’

‘And what is left in you. I can tell what, looking into your eyes. And I think I am seeing the lust.’

‘Ah Madam you have a very cunning mind, but would you mind telling me, are you being honest and sincere.’

‘What a crazy question. The rain is pouring. I do not think I have to answer.’

‘But you must.’

‘But why must. Get up please.’

‘Because you have been unfaithful to me.’

‘What, Mein Gott. Unfaithful. To you. What right you got I be faithful to you. You impossible little pup.’

‘I’ll have you know, I am now a country squire, Pasha and lord of a thousand acres.’

‘And still the little snob you are. I see you with the Marquis. O so friendly. Do you still, how does one say, break your arse to kiss the arse of titles.’

‘How unforgivable of you Madam, how unforgivable to say such a thing.’

‘Ah now you are an actor playing on the stage.’

‘Damn soakingly wet one if I may say so, Madam.’

‘But you are at least funny sometimes. You know, don’t you, my dear little darling. That I could see your breeches out a mile and your eyes so popping out of your head when I come into zee hall. And you know. I should not tell you. But I will. I was myself feeling such thoughts that you were thinking.’

‘O god.’

‘Yes. But I am sad I did not say something to you in Dublin. But how. I did not see you. What could I do.’

‘O Madam I do think you did, you must have at least felt my presence, and thereby you ignored me. I was crushed. You were so clearly with another man.’

‘And why not.’

‘We did have a deep abiding relationship. Of kindred souls. Our love had been consummated. That’s why not. That’s why it was unfaithful.’

‘What to have dinner. What nonsense.’

‘I knew by the look you gave him.’

‘What look. I don’t know who you even talk about.’

‘It was a look of love. I saw it on your face. I know that look. In the expression of your eyes. And the way you leaned towards him. And there was wine. And during horse show week as well. I know it was your lover.’

‘You know. You know nothing. Except you have a piece of grass coming out of your ear. And listen. The horn. You hear. And a cow. Go moo, moo.’

‘And there, a rooster Madam. Go cockadiddledo.’

‘Yes my little bog trotter. And my arse is frozen leaning over to talk to you. And the rain. Go drip drop. On top of us.’

‘Where do you live now in Dublin.’

‘Such conversation. You think we are having an aperitif on the boulevard. In Paris perhaps.’

‘Yes. In Paris. Now where do you live in Dublin.’

‘Ha you would so much like to know wouldn’t you.’

‘Do you live with a man. Who supports you.’

‘Ha I support me. Me I support. But the rest is none of your damn business.’

‘Madam, let’s make love.’

‘Make love. I am too, soaking fucking wet.’

‘No need Madam to get excited with such an unladylike expression.’

‘Well well. Out in zee middle of nowhere. What a thing to ask.’

‘I withdraw the request.’

‘Ah that is nice of you. Now get up.’

‘No. I shall I think Madam, just lie here. Casually let the raindrops fall, boom, bang, bing on my brow.’

‘They bloody fall on me too. My knee’s in muck. And if you don’t get up. I am.’

‘Madam if you leave me like this. I shall never never forgive you. Heavens my heart. And I do think one of my legs is gone.’

‘Ah my little broken bunny rabbit. Such an actor when you want to be, you are not that injured. With that little leg in your breeches bulging.’

‘Madam you are being uncommonly unrefined in your references.’

‘But is it not more that we are getting uncommonly fucking soaked and fucking muddy in this most unladylike and ungentlemanly fashion my darling in zee fucking wet grass.’

‘O dear, in spite of your vulgar Dublin parlance, I am smitten, Madam. That you will not make love.’

‘Ah my darling, it is not that I will not. But it is that certain time of the month.’

‘O no.’

‘O yes. But.’

‘But what.’

‘Ah but but. But.’

‘Tell me what but.’

‘It would be unladylike. As you say my expression has been. To tell you what but.’

‘That should not trouble you to be unladylike. For just the merest moment. To tell me something. That’s clearly quite important.’

‘Tell. Who said tell. I shall do.’

‘What shall you do.’

‘Ah, I shall do as I am doing. While we are mad to be here in the rain. Try to get it out of these buttons. Mein Gott, like the locks on Colditz.’

‘What is Colditz Madam.’

‘It is an old castle with big thick walls and many locks like your buttons, impossible to open.’

‘O god Madam.’

‘Ah. Too funny. Just to think once that now again, it is suddenly like it was, my dear little darling.’

‘O please. Please. Say that to me once more.’

‘Mein lieber kleiner Liebling das Gluckskind. Ich liebe dich. Sometimes only. Ich liebe dich.’

‘Ah. Ah. Now tell me what but. I don’t of course know exactly what beautiful words you are saying so softly beautifully. Only hope you’re not calling me a little fucker or something.’

‘It is that I shall teach you a lesson you shall not forget. And suck your cock like it has never been sucked before, my dear little bog trotter.’

The gates of Colditz unlocked, I did hear the banshees, the fairies, the poucas. Dancing all over the rainbow the bright side of one’s brain. Her blond hair, the smooth locks of it netted and curled so neatly up underneath her bowler. And in that dark space underneath there must be the parting straight down the middle of her head. Bouncing up and down over me with the delicious sweet grabbing of her warm soft sucking mouth. Hands stealing up under my waistcoat to squeeze pinching on the chill tips of my breasts. This woman. Comes to my rescue. Back into my pale cold world. Kneels between my legs. Akimbo. Strewn upon my back contused in adversity. Take me. So crushed those many months ago in my jealousy. Too shy to ever call you Gwendolene. Hide me somewhere in your life please. Lead me by the hand. Back to your tower. Where e’er it be. In Dublin. To ring our bell. Whosoever shall clang my goolies. Resounding. Smashing all over the sky. Call me. On this darkening day. Who doth it be who hoots. Call me. To tell what death is. That stops the heart and the blood. That chills the lips to stillness. Melts eyes into darkness. Ah god now if that’s death. I’ll lead you to plenty that are alive and living. Who said that sound. Who spoke. As the seed gushes spurting. Sucked out of me. A fountain of life. In all this long stale celibacy. Scream at the top of one’s lungs. To the ears of birds and beasts that go asleep now. Under the blankets of darkness, clouds close on this earth. Hurrying down over the hills. Sprinkling soft rain again. To wet the side of one’s head, purring in bliss. One’s cheek on the cold ground.

‘Tally ho.’

A cry. From the edge of the field. Grey strange bumps adorning an outcropping of rock. Where a face peeks up under a battered trilby hat. In the faded light the blood flooding up from her throat, blushing flagrant red across her cheeks. A flash of shy fear in her eyes. At the laughter and clapping. Shaking her fist. At the voice shouting bravo. And at least perhaps out of all the abysmal insolence all over this land, there is one less stupid fool among them. Saying not as much as Madam’s mouthful.

But bespeaking

Poetical

And intellectual

Appreciations