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

13

The poor ladies having withdrawn to the east parlour where they were rapidly freezing to death, gave up waiting upon us and retired to bed. Sending their apologies via Crooks. Who was, with his every syllable on the verge of laughter, only just able to get the words out of his mouth at the dining room door.

‘Master Reginald, the ladies following the long day’s hunt ask your respectful pardon to proceed to their bedchambers.’

The news that the Mental Marquis wanted the recipe for the gravy for future ice cream sent Crooks into a state one had never before seen him enter and did not indeed think he would ever exit from. Before he withdrew his head back into the hall, paroxysms of mirth simply racked him bodily. And just as one spasm waned another succeeded it. Then while fetching port he let go of the two full decanters, his laughter now hysterical, sending his false teeth, upper and lower, flying out of his mouth, which he then crunched underfoot. Holding his stomach and sides as if they were to be unhinged from him. Until I thought the man would become sick. Which would have been less expensive than his bumping into the side table and his full weight collapsing its delicate leg. The decanters through some miracle remained stoppered and unbroken. Crooks finding this additionally amusing, and totally out of control of himself, reeling out the door, where one found him doubled over in the hall.

‘Good god, Crooks are you all right.’

‘Sir O I beg you excuse me. Sincerely excuse me. And forgive me. But that was funny enough about the gravy but when Catherine down the kitchen heard tell of it didn’t she fall over the pig bucket and straight into the bucket full of eggs.’

‘I see. I suppose they were the eggs for breakfast.’

‘Well they were sir and won’t they be well scrambled now by Catherine’s backside.’

Darcy Dancer leading Crooks off to bed. Up the main stairs. Crooks doubling up yet again. Hands cupping themselves over his stomach. Over his most recent and mercifully last little joke. As the damn man is drunk. Lame, footless and incapable. Heavier and heavier as one drags and pulls him forward in the dark. Down his lonely long hall. Up his own little steps into his anteroom. And wind and rain pouring in the open window of his chambers. Of course one had to just drop him like a sack of potatoes on the bed. And throw my grandfather’s old leather motoring coat over him. Under which, between groans, he still spluttered and laughed.

‘Ah Master Reginald, I’m done for. I’m finished. Sure I’m just an old butler who’s sharpened his last knife. Look at me teeth. O dear O dear. Buggered they are. Buggered. Squashed like a beetle.’

‘You must not fuss Crooks. Mr Kelly the dentist will have them right as rain again.’

‘Don’t I look a sight though in the meantime. With me cheeks caved in and me chin up near me nose. Ah god even with me eyes askew I am plenty handsome enough to attract the ladies.’

‘Of course you are Crooks.’

‘Cut a figure I do. When I have a mind. But now look at me. Sure what one of them decent ladies of this household would have even five minutes time to spare now on an old butler minus his teeth. Sure it’s only four paces there to that door. To hang myself inside from the rafter, like the two of me predecessors. Would you pass me now that bottle of the cough linctus medicine next to me clock on the mantel, Master Reginald.’

One did stand momentarily trepidatory out in the hall wondering if Crooks would string himself up. But the bottle of medicine, by its aromatics clearly containing my best Armagnac, would further assure Crooks not having the strength to stand up to get his neck properly in the noose. And one does rest quite assured that one will still have a butler albeit toothless in the morning. And perhaps even less than half dead.

Two candles burning in the dining room. Where I sensed much embarrassed silence may have ensued in the cigar smoke during my absence. But the fire still blazing a pleasant soft glow. Upon my reseating, his Lordship sipping his port, wasting no time in getting on to the subject of ladies. Whether they were to be better enjoyed long before or shortly after dinner. And whether the Pope, to whom his Lordship referred as the big guinea left footer in Rome, had the usual Neapolitan tart preferred by pontiffs as his main mistress or was the Vatican importing fluff and ecclesiastical arse from all over the kip including Sweden. Prompting the first real comment from Rashers all evening. Which he rather heatedly directed towards his Lordship whose eyebrows did raise.

‘I happen if you don’t mind to be a left footer you know.’

‘Ah forgive me my dear chap. If I did tread on your toes. But it is to my astonished surprise that you have any religion at all. Never mind being a left footer. But as you are of that regrettable persuasion, let me fill you up with some good Protestant preserved port then, sir.’

Clear consternation on his countenance, nevertheless Rashers pushing his glass forward under the flow of wine. His voice spluttering out.

‘Should it concern you in the least, sir, the fact of the matter is I’m a left footer by virtue of my mother. I am however to the Protestant manner born. I know I deserve your remarks. And I do regret that your membership in the casino was not possible to effect on the night in question. It rather became difficult for the club when someone was found stabbed under the roulette table.’

‘I see. A knife probably in the back.’

‘Yes it was as a matter of fact. And I’m awfully sorry about your fifty quid. I have every intention of returning it. I’m a bit short at the moment.’

‘I see. Perhaps since you were unable to pay it into the hand of your club treasurer it temporarily went down your throat. Or I daresay if not that, on the back of a horse.’

‘Yes as a matter of fact, both. I drank ten and put forty on The Bug to win. But you may not know that the toilet bowl you redeemed from my pawn ticket is of a very high quality of pottery. And comes of a well known sanitary manufacturer.’

‘Well forgive me my dear chap if, just below Tara Street bridge, I ran both it and the pram off the quay into the Liffey thinking as I did so that a pity you weren’t in it. Pram floated out to sea. But I’m sure your pottery’s still there preserved in the mud.’

In Rashers’s hurt and subdued voice an angry edge was evident. In spite of what obviously his presently somewhat testy Lordship represented in the way of a marvellous oasis of perhaps future invitations to hunt, shoot, fish, dine and drink on his estates. And his Lordship was clearly gathering up his vowels to let Rashers have further what for in the solar plexus. Rashers suddenly getting up to rap the table with his glass.

‘Pray silence. My lords, gentlemen. Permit me to recite some poetry. From the temporary depths of my dulcet toned Catholic testicles when they choose to chime and rhyme.’

Rashers indeed was beginning to show for the first time his true form. I must confess I was spellbound as he then reeled off stanza after stanza of The Old Orange Flute. And to feel from his fervour that he might, standing up to his oxters in Catholic gore and papist’s blood, have composed the damn words himself. But by god he did have his Lordship’s attention momentarily. Especially finally singing the last lines.

‘So the ould flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic. It was fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic. And while the flames roared they all heard a strange noise, ‘twas the ould flute still playing the Protestant Boys.’

But as Rashers rendered a further few risqué couplets of another ditty suggesting less than noble references to ladies in general, one sensed his Lordship a little shocked. But he did clap rather politely and ask rather pointedly.

‘Aside from reassuring us that the road to hell is paved with popery, what else can you do my dear chap, or to whom, perhaps one should say.’

‘As you may just have noticed from my divertissement I am a tenor sir.’

‘Ah so I did notice. And I’m sure our host will not mind your singing for your supper. Some other time. And dear chap do sit down. Surely you don’t mean to curdle our port with a further medley of vocalized silly octaves. As you are sir, the most blatant mediocrity I think I have ever had the boredom to meet and your poetic pretensions are positively ludicrous and without the redeeming feature of being amusing.’

Rashers’s face flushed with fury, for a moment I thought he was about to swing the decanter of port crashing on his Lordship’s head. Or at least send a fist into the Marquis’ gob. And by the way Rashers’ hands were tightly knotted, Rashers must have thought he was too. But he stood rigidly silent. Taking into his lungs a long slow breath. And as the first shimmering tenor notes of Annie Laurie left Rashers’ lips I shivered in awe as the hair stood up on the back of my neck. His Lordship’s hand loosened on the bowl of his glass and fell away on the table, his mouth open as he sat utterly transfixed. Not even the candle flame flickering. And in the dim light of the dining room, as the last note came vibrating from Rashers’s throat, and was held shimmering in the air for what seemed a blissful heavenly eternity, the tears were tumbling down the Marquis’ face.

‘My god, I’m touched. My dear fellow. Touched. To the depths. To the marrow. The Count. The Count must be turning over in his grave. With envy. I retract my former most rude remarks. And sir if I were not so smitten here and so devilishly presently comfortable I would be upon my feet pumping your hand up and down in the utmost humble homage to your person. You are without doubt among the great tenors of this age.’

Rashers’s glowing eyes. His lips smiling. To see us both so stricken. Worshipping at his altar. Yet he remained so childlike in his joy at our appreciation. He was a dear man at this moment. So humbly eagerly delighted by our praise. Beaming at the Marquis. The Marquis beaming back. As if he had discovered both the north and south poles by flipping a coin backwards over the shoulder. And was now just back in the cosy firelit confines of the Geographical Society. O dear one does conjure up ridiculous ideas. But I did think his Lordship was carrying it just a little bit too far with his great long sighs and shakings back and forth of his head. But I must confess I did shiver right down to the bottom of one’s limbs. And even though one knows not a fig about bloody singing in the professional sense, I could imagine awed gatherings of folks in village halls all over Ireland opening up their hearts and pocket books to this voice. And even on the Tara Street bridge, a hat, or ten dozen hats, being passed around to be filled with ten bob notes. And who knows what would happen in other more sophisticated capitals. With such accumulation of riches Rashers could return home to Eire. Buy himself a piece of land and raise, during summer grazing, sturdy young beef bullocks.

‘Please do excuse me gentlemen, while I fetch more port.’

Darcy Dancer a candle held aloft, proceeding along the hall. The footfalls echoing. Down to the cellars. Fingertips so cold. How sad it all is, somehow. That such beauty sung has lain unknown in another’s breast. Perhaps one needs this evening over. This day done. For its non ending, utterly non ending sudden twists and turns draining of one’s emotions. Living in the country should be quiet. Like in these cobwebbed stone vaults. Instead of dramatic. But dear me the sweetness of his dulcet vowels still weave into one’s senses. Filling one with such an awakened fervour. To indeed love. To cherish life. To wrap arms around and even kiss misfortune. It of course too does mean yet another trip down to fetch up more port. Carefully ferry it back. And in the precipitous process upset the lees in the bottom of the bottle. And her. Her soul. Up there. In that room. From whence she might fly and go away. And leave me. So totally distressful. And in this moment of sadness as I pull on this cork. The dining room door my god bursts open. Kitty and Norah. Kitty shouting.

‘Come quick sir, come quick, it’s Crooks, Crooks, he’s hung himself sir. He’s up there his feet kicking in the butler’s hanging room.’

At least one did wonder, while this nice brand new disaster was so typically unfolding, if the contorting rope around Crooks’ neck would in some manner, as his eyes bulged out of their sockets, perhaps bring them back into alignment once more. Rashers, like a hound dog, eagerly awaiting me to show the way, and was indeed quite perturbed. No doubt contemplating a future absence of attendance being danced upon him. His Lordship, however took a different view.

‘O dear another servant’s demise. Well Kildare, damn it, it does remind one I’ve left my groom roasted to a crisp. Do give a shout if you need help dear boy. I mean a decent butler is a damn sight harder to replace than a groom.’

And the ruddy bunch of the rest of us skidding out the dining room door. Ruddy charging lickety split up the stairs. Rashers crashing into a side table on the way. The edge getting him in the lower stomach and doubling him up and one hopes not nearly castrating him.

‘Sod it. Sod it. My dear man. Light the bloody way will you before I kill myself.’

In the butler’s suicide room, Crooks draped in my grandfather’s motoring coat, a mauve scarf of my mother’s at his throat. The hanging rope up over the rafter but the noose hopelessly under one armpit and only half around his neck. His rosary beads in his hand. But instead of mumbling his Hail Marys he was moaning and feebly kicking the wall, slowly turning and twisting in a circle, a chair turned on its side beneath him.

‘Cut me down, cut me down. Let me the on me back in peace. Give me the viaticum. O Lord in thy greatest mercy release the spirit of this humble butler on this earth to join you in heaven and be eternally blessed.’

Rashers on the chair severing the rope. As Crooks fell down into our arms, and between his religious outbursts, clearly adoring all the attention. But now demanding as he was carried back into his bedroom and laid out on the bed.

‘Give me me teeth. I am without me teeth.’

Crooks’ room remarkably neat. Copies of Tatler and Sketch on a side table. His sofa chair with slippers parked in front of it and several dressing gowns hanging on the back of his door. But with his crushed teeth back in his mouth, and parts protruding between his lips, one cheek bulging, regrettably made him look like a vampire. Never mind, despite being drunk as a lord, he assumed the prostrate manner of a dying monarch on his bed, folded hands intertwined with his rosary, his body composed. Indeed with his crossed eyes closed and disregarding the disfigurement of a projecting point of one of his canine teeth, he did present a remarkably handsome countenance. And one could actually imagine the ladies giving him more than a tumble.

Darcy Dancer, Kitty, Rashers and Norah tiptoeing away out of the room. Leaving Crooks snoring asleep. Darcy Dancer excusing himself from Rashers on the landing. To head back up into this house. You might know that Crooks in his hopeless efforts to hang himself had most suitably dislocated his shoulder. And one chooses this moment to go back and find her door. Hesitating twice up the stairs. Racked with nerves. And even turning back. Until I was suddenly overwhelmed with anger. One had never before gone supplicatingly to knock on a servant’s chamber. But there was light inside. Standing in the dark the toes of one’s evening slippers illumined by the faint glow under the door.

‘What do you want.’

‘I’ve come to inquire to see how you are. And if you were disturbed by the commotion.’

Darcy Dancer standing in the silence. The cold draught blowing along this hall. Waiting. A vixen barking out in the frosty night. The squeaks and groans of the floorboards. O dear the poor lady, perhaps in there sick and ill. But the door opening. Her face. Quite magnificently beautiful in the shadow. And beyond, a candle lit on the black chimney piece. The low ceiling curving up over her narrow bed of this narrow room. Chill and damp. Strewn everywhere with bits of clothing. Torn pieces of paper. Two photographs propped up against the edge of a book. And next to them an envelope. Staring at me.

‘May I. Please. Just come in.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘You have no fire.’

‘No.’

‘But you must.’

‘I am alright as I am.’

‘But you might become sick and ill.’

‘Please do not worry about me.’

‘But have you eaten. You haven’t have you. I will have something brought you.’

‘No please don’t.’

And all these terrible hours of agonising jealousy spent. With her being all over my mind. Relieved only by the tribulations befalling me. As she sits on the edge of her narrow bed. Or stood that evening ghost like at the whim room window. All these scraps of paper on her floor. The room in such utter disarray. So unlike everything else she’s so neatly done in this household. Including breaking a vase. Which may have been more precious than I dare to contemplate.

‘Perhaps you ought to say why you really have come. It is isn’t it, because I broke your vase and for that I can tell you I am most heartily sorry. And I will, no matter how long it takes, I will repay you for it.’

‘Please you mustn’t say that. Every day crystal is broken, silver is scratched and bent, porcelain smashed. That vase is the merest of tragedies.’

‘You do say tragedy, don’t you.’

‘That word merely slipped out. I really don’t mean it in its sense applied to the vase but to you, that you might think it a tragedy.’

‘You can’t get out of it. I know how valuable it was. And I will, and you must let me, pay you back.’

‘O god Madam. O god. You can, can’t you, so distress me.’

‘Do I.’

‘Yes. When I don’t see you. And haven’t talked to you. And saw you at the whim room window as we rode off today.’

‘And why do you refer to me as madam.’

‘I don’t know. But somehow I must just feel the tide is appropriate.’

‘I go there just to stand to look out. When I am upset. And I have to be alone then. I watched you once come up across the park on your horse one evening a while ago. I know it’s presumptuous of me to go into that room at all.’

‘Please don’t feel that.’

‘Mr Crooks has given me my notice.’

‘I’m the only one who can give you your notice. And I have not and do not choose yet to do so.’

‘But I may choose yet to do so.’

‘And for that I would be most heartily sorry. And where would you go and what would you do.’

‘There are so many places I could go. To Dublin. I could find work in a shop.’

‘But you would have to live on a mere pittance. A shop girl earns nothing.’

‘I would manage. I have managed before this.’

‘Please don’t go. And we shall talk again, shan’t we, like this. Perhaps somewhere alone. Would you mind. We could meet on a walk. Tomorrow. In the afternoon before tea. There is a little old boathouse on the lake about a mile along the old farm road through the forest. Will you meet me. Please say yes. That you will. Now I must rush back to my guests. I know you know one of them quite well. Don’t you.’

‘I don’t wish to reply to your question, please. And if I am at the boathouse, I am there. And if not, I am not.’

‘Which may mean you won’t be.’

‘It may not.’

One did go on one’s gloomy way down the stairs. The note of doubt in her voice. Sad and cold as the shadows of the beech grove trees were out in the wintry darkness as one passes on the landing back to the dining room. Where now sat my guests. And two greater pals it would be hard to find. That the Mental Marquis and Rashers had become in one’s absence. One might have even thought they had fallen in love. Looking as they were beyond the purple ruby port into each other’s blue eyes. The Marquis in some awe to find Rashers’s father a distinguished General he had long admired. Who it would appear had won in the field of battle nearly every military distinction possible, including the Military Cross three times. And it would also appear that the Mental Marquis was nearly as distinguishingly entitled and decorated. Rashers quick to inform me in his Lordship’s momentary absence to take a piss.

‘My dear fellow, the Marquis, don’t you realise it, is a military hero. One of RAF’s leading aces. Downed Germans all over the kip, rat tat tat tat tat, all over the sky. Isn’t that wonderful. Don’t you realise.’

‘Well Rashers, clearly I have no option as you seem to insist on it with some hysteria.’

‘I must. Absolutely must repatriate his fifty quid. And much sooner than pronto. You couldn’t my dear man, could you, see it in your heart, in view of these circumstances of which I was absolutely unaware previously to give me the brief loan of the ten fivers required.’

‘I have already returned to you a previous loan of two fivers.’

‘Of course you have, my dear boy, of course you have.’

‘And that makes only forty pounds you require.’

‘Of course it is, my dear boy, of course it is. How silly of me not to realise. Of course. Forty will do. Of course it will. Good of you to point it out to me.’

‘But I have not said I shall give you forty.’

‘Of course you haven’t my dear boy, of course you haven’t.’

‘Or indeed said I even have such a sum.’

‘I shall never again ask of such a favour as I am doing upon this most desperate occasion. I promise you that my dear chap. Absolutely promise and cross my heart, not ever to do so again. If you can accommodate me on this moment of most desperate moments.’

Of course there were now tears in Rashers’ eyes. His lips were not perhaps trembling but it was interesting to find that I was in fact looking closely at them to see if they were. It was impossible to tell if one were confronting the biggest lying impostor of all time. In the soft candle light. The pleading look. Of utter genuineness. And even reinforced somehow by the lurking smile that would steal on his face and carefully recede under his look of stricken abysmal disappointment and sorrow.

‘O my dear boy. Recently and frequently, woe, trial and tribulation have been my lot. And I know. I simply absolutely know. You shall not on this most poignant occasion at least. Will you. Disappoint me.’

Rashers’ hand stealing out to place itself on my arm. And revealing my cufflinks under my nose. But his other hand firmly grasping his glass of port. His eye flicking towards the small amount remaining in the just recently refilled of the last of the two decanters. No question but that Rashers in his most soulful desperation was managing to keep an eye out for more mundane matters.

‘It grieves me my dear Darcy that I cannot at this time bestow upon you equal favours. You must please realise that.’

Rashers’s fingers gently squeezing upon one’s wrist. Yet there was some redeeming warmth in even his most crass attempts at purloining some new favour of one and taking advantage of one’s compassion. One does so want to be kind. Forgiving. Anoint tenderness to the suffering. But then from whom does one obtain it in return. To replenish that which one gives. Minor betrayals forgiven do seem to beget major ones in one awful hurry. Dear me, so much better to swear utter unrelenting revenge from the start And present an implacability against blandishment and beseeching. For to give in seems only to have the effect of people looking for more. And my god just as the last of funds disappear. The once adequate stacks of five pound notes. Now a mere handful.

Darcy Dancer with a candlestick glowing, opening the safe in the estate office. The old rent table with its drawers worn with the coins that once filled it up so consistently. The tenants for miles around outside the door as they stood waiting, caps in hands to pay. Or as my grandfather said, were more likely waiting to spin a tissue of lies and fibs why they couldn’t. But gone. Those days. Gone. More’s the pity. We were kindly landlords. Despite the bullets fired at the walls and shutters which might indicate we were not.

Rashers there in the candlelight just as one had left him. And putting back down a pepper mill on the table. His fingers seemed to touch and feel the tableware. Perhaps he has, as does the Marquis, a vast knowledge of antiques. Certainly he bloody knows the sight of eight Irish five pound notes when he sees them.

‘O my dear boy, thank you. Thank you. My dear fellow, you are, aren’t you, a dear brick. You are. So many have been less than nice to me recently, not that it matters when such behaviour comes from people I would not normally associate with. His Lordship will appreciate knowing that honourable standards are the unquestioned norm in your household.’

‘Rashers do please shut up. I cannot afford that. And I do want that money back. And it is the very last penny you will get from me.’

‘I shall be mum as you request. But must voice my feelings as I cannot be less than truly and utterly grateful to you my dear boy.’

Darcy Dancer on yet another trip to the cellar. For yet another bottle of port. His Lordship returned from peeing and feeding his horse. Back now purring in the company of Rashers. Listening to him discoursing on the subject of silver.

‘The French do not exceed us in the purity of morals but they do in the purity of their silver. By three point three per cent. To put a fine point on it. Now this rather nice sugar caster, made by Gabriel Sleuth I do believe seventeen nineteen.’

‘Upon my sweet smelling socks my dear man, not only the century’s greatest tenor but you do don’t you know your ruddy silver onions. You must join my London club. Isn’t that right don’t you think, Kildare. Skoal Kildare. Skoal.’

The Mental Marquis his port aloft, turning his happy smiling and inebriated face towards Darcy Dancer. A gust of wind outside. Trembling the shutters, flickering the candle flame. One would think I was now on the election committee of the Marquis’ club. And he’s oblivious to the fact that as yet I have never even set foot in London. Must say one does feel a bit miffed. With his Lordship previously implying that the membership of his London club was small, discreet and tres select. To put a French word on it. Albeit Rashers in proper footwear does cut an acceptably fine figure. But one does think the Marquis is growing his hair far too long around the edges of his baldness. And by the look on his face clearly has another and different subject on his mind.

‘Well chaps, I’m tight as a newt, should we let our hair down. Instead of precious metals, what about matters of the flesh. Ah Rashers I see you’re listening attentively to this presently pissed peer. Well one shouldn’t discuss one’s old papa but that’s how lessons in life are learnt. The Duke took up with an actress. Damn scandal’s all over London. And damn all seems I can do about it. Very flighty but very beautiful young lady. Can’t sing a note but a wonderful speaking voice she has. Is running the poor old goat ragged out of his mind. Getting her flowers to the theatre on time. Insisting he do errands for her. Even in restaurants she tries to turn the old Duke into a waiter. He set her up in an absolutely palatial flat in Mount Street. Four bloody bathrooms. And then the creature would lock him out. And when he did get in, ready to roger her with his semi annual erection, poor old devil, she’d be dead asleep snoring in bed. That’s the thing about women isn’t it. They want everything their own sweet way. Now what I want to know from you worldly chaps is how do I straighten the old devil out. I love my papa you know. But the poor old Duke, must occasionally give him his due. Third time the lady snored asleep, he had his chauffeur fetch a suitably wieldy fish from Billingsgate Market and he bloody well whacked her awake with slaps across the cheeks of the face and the arse. Bit of a struggle of course the lady being strong for her diminutive size. Duke’s no slouch either. Outstanding huntsman, Master of Foxhounds. Keeps fit wood chopping. Left the lady at the time a bit smelly of course to climb on. But what the devil. I mean if he had daily or weekly erections, fine, but damn it, the poor old bugger deserved getting his rocks off. She maintains she gets her rocks off on stage. What about that chaps. You think that possible. I mean that we’re there innocently in the stalls watching the mimes strutting on stage mouthing drama while they’re coming in their drawers. Well gentlemen. Speak up. You’re being of no damn help here. Rashers. What about it.’

‘Well it does rather make one think doesn’t it.’

‘Damn right it does, sir. Damn right. Of course one thought matters would improve when the old Duke moved her diminutive ladyship within the Division Bell area. Into a big old mansion flat down the shadowy labyrinths of Westminster. Thought she’d get up to less mischief. In Mount Street. She threw flower pots at passers by. Then put all the bath taps on and flooded the building out. But of course the old Duke likes taking tea at the House of Lords. He’d walk her to the theatre. Pair of them could be seen crossing St James’s Park hand in hand. And that sight I must say was rather touching. Of course gentlemen you both have the utter looks of ruddy astonishment on your faces. You’re wondering how I know all this. Another story that. Suffice to say on this occasion I was actually following the poor old goat and her ladyship across the park trying to keep him out of trouble. Well in their usual manner they went sauntering out Queen Street at dusk and into the park. They’d crossed the bridge. Then the pair of them stopped the other side near the pond. And embraced. I thought how sublimely enviable. They truly are in love. I’d stopped to contemplate the ducks the other end of the bridge. And then the dear girl, just as the Duke seemed to be getting somewhat steamed up, suddenly shoved the old goat backwards flying off the shore into the pond. Water’s not too deep but poor old bugger can’t swim a stroke. He was left floundering and gasping. While she ran away laughing. I had to wade in and drag him to shore. It was ruddy attempted murder. I confronted her in her dressing room at the theatre and she denied the whole thing. Of course one doesn’t want headlines ablaze in The News of the World. Duke Dunked by Saucy Star of West End Farce. Of course if I really felt the lady was malicious instead of mad, I’d damn certain inform the police. Now what I want to know from you two gentlemen being men of the world, don’t you agree that the old Duke she’d give this lady up. What have you got to say Kildare. She professes lesbian tendencies as well. The Duke has more than once caught her with her tongue down some other lady’s throat.’

‘Well, the Duke may in fact be having a good if surprising time of it.’

‘Well that’s what I thought Kildare exactly. But is his old heart going to stand up to it. Well I suppose, what’s a chap to do sometimes. But get into his low cut gown and hack on as the braver of the ladies do. As soon as the pair of them were back on terms again the Duke planned a Sunday and Monday in Paris. The old fool waiting in their carriage compartment at Victoria Station after the theatre. She got the old bugger worked up and then just before the train left, said she wanted to meditate a moment alone. And stepped off the train just as it was leaving. Poor old Duke went trundling off by himself to Folkestone. I love my papa. Hate to see him suffer. Damn sad. But damn if the old Duke didn’t make the most of it. Somehow got himself a doxy. Spent an agreeable two weeks with her at the Crillon. With the actress screaming abuse at him down the long distance telephone. Hate to talk of one’s old pops in this manner, but damn it, I’ve got to look after the old fool. He sets one a lesson. Of course the lady’s a brilliant actress. When he got back from Paris she said she’d meet him by the fountain in Sloane Square for tea. Then disguised as a cockney waif she waylaid the poor old Duke, led him off into a side street, revealed her identity and kicked him in the balls for his infidelity. He adores her for it. That is of course what is somewhat worrying. When he is so enthralled, you don’t know what the old Duke may suddenly do with his codicils in his final will and testament. Imagine he might even marry. The bloody lady actress could end up mistress of his English and Scottish estates. Duke’s been a widower now a long time. Once had a most beautiful mistress too. Got killed in a hunting accident. For years he was mourning her, with his hatchet faced housekeeper keeping every presentable lady away from the Duke by one means or another. Now gentlemen is one better with a steady lady of pleasure. Which only involves throwing the girl a fiver or two now and again. I mean she would have sufficiently administrated her charms with the punters to be even able occasionally to agreeably pretend she was a faithful wife. For the novelty of course. But I mean if the knot’s tied. The actress lady will after all be a Duchess. And if the old bugger ever expires, be my ruddy singular parental step mother. Big difference you know, being right up there as a Duchess. So many damn Barons and Earls around these days. I think it’s a mistake to be too blasé about one’s title. Even if it’s in courtesy only. I do so love my Debrett handle so much. Even though the damn thing shames me. Utterly shames me too, to adore it. Meet these twits who pretend to find it a burden. Chaps, to me it’s bliss. Gives one a bloody sense of belonging. Down the ages. I mean it takes ten minutes to change into rags. And that bloody well quicko teaches you a lesson. Old Duke does it from time to time. Took a leaf out of the actress’s book. Stood in disguise one Sunday at Victoria Station with a placard proclaiming the wisdom of eating fresh fruit, nuts and fish. Smalls our butler, coming back that day down from visiting his elderly dying mom in the country, chanced upon him there and walked up and said. Is it you, your Grace. Of course it’s me Smalls. And can’t you damn well read the sign. Go home and eat fresh fruit, nuts and fish as it says. What do you think I’m standing here for. Well chaps, a lot said tonight. Thing we must remember to love is a woman. Really love her. And from her we must require fidelity. Love her chaps. Love her. We must. We must. And you Rashers my dear chap are wearing brown bloody shoes sizes too small for you. But what, gentlemen are any of us ever ever going to do for humanity at large. Ah I see you Ronald, I’ll call you that as Rashers seems to make you wince. I see a question burning upon your face.’

‘Well I really would like to know how you possibly know so much about your father’s intimate life.’

‘I chanced upon the lady’s locked up diary in the Westminster flat. Brought it to a locksmith and then to a typist. I have the voluminous volume on my bedside table. From time to time on matinée days I had it updated. Possibly the most disgusting document ever penned by a human being in history. Most of it unspeakable even by club after dinner standards. The Marquis de Sade, dear man could have learned something from these pages. I mean among the most mild references, a long long discourse on the amounts of sperm this lady has had discharged into her mouth. And remarking on the quality. Including damn it, the Duke’s. You wouldn’t think a woman could be so contemplative about such an intimately squeamish matter. And at what depth of penetration into that orifice discharge took place. I mean I don’t want to be a prude gentlemen. But there are limits you know.’

‘But you are reading her diary.’

‘Of course I am Kildare. In the interests of my father whom I love dearly. And the cheeky lady informed him that she must remain celibate for six months. And in the next bloody sentence in the diary, she’s picked up a raunchy, her word not mine, female member of the military she’s met in the underwear department of Harrods and took her back to Westminster and had it off with the Naval lady for an entire night. Using bloody appliances including blessed left footer candles I might add, attached to their persons what’s more. I mean that’s morally fraudulent. The old Duke paying her medical and grocery bills. Although the old Duke never made it above Major he is an Army man. And of course she and the Naval lady who went absent without leave, are at it hammer and leather thongs and iron tongs and ruddy priapisms.’

‘But mournful as her infidelity may be, surely isn’t that the lady’s own business.’

‘Of course Rashers or rather Ronald, of course but I haven’t said what my present dilemma is chaps. She’s discovered I’ve copied the diary, and the bloody lady’s now in correspondence with a filthy literature publisher in Paris and threatening to have it published. Word for bloody word. Names included. She wants five thousand quid. And the flat. And the furniture. Including a Gainsborough, two Turners and a Bonvicino. Not to mention the pair of French rouge marble and ormolu candelabra and torcheres by Sormani in the bathing light of which she writes her diary. One does get awfully depressed you know. Damn lawyers’ bills mounting up. I suppose it’s all cheap at the price if we can chuck the lady but it’s the feelings of my father I mind. She doesn’t give a tinker’s curse how she hurts the poor old gentleman. Taunting him. I mean, as genuine as a Duke’s love is capable of being, which is not very, he does at least seem to feel it for this wretched lady. But dear me I do rave on. Of course now the bloody lady is trying to kill the Duke. Made him meet her in Sloane Square, in the freezing cold. Then steps out of a taxi in a sheer evening gown and says she wants to go for a walk to Victoria Station. And the Duke chivalrously removing his coat to put on her. Of course by the time the poor old shivering devil got into the safe warm confines of the Grosvenor Hotel at Victoria Station he was having pneumonia. He must have damn silly well said she’d hear something to her benefit from his lawyers when he popped off, what. I demanded to see her back stage, said what the devil do you mean pushing my old pop into the pond at St James’s. She has these eyes, I don’t know what they did to me but I could not say another word. And the very worst happened of course, I fell in love with her. I proffered an assignation and she said my dear, you’re not the Duke yet, you know. And the damn old goat is still seeing the girl.’

The Mental Marquis’s hands were strangely delicate under their hairy exterior and clearly immensely strong. And somehow sad. One would never think he might have had these mournful occasions concerning his father. Or would protect the old gentlemen so in his dotage. But he does get back on the subject of the actress and the Duke every time the port was passed to him.

‘Of course we never think we ourselves will ever be old men one day, and we won’t of course. Die young that’s my motto. Drink to it, chaps, shall we. Welcome to the club, both of you. Ah we shall have many similar dinners, what. Grow old together, what. Man must have men to talk to you know. Every bloody thing you say to a woman can be taken the wrong way. Used bloody well against you. Damn nuisance in conversation. I’m not suggesting we have to be homosexuals about it but short of that, a man’s company is the most satisfying thing in the world. You run a nice little squadron here, Kildare. Let’s drink to it. And be damned hypocrisy, what.’

After we had all taken a good long pee off the front steps his Lordship did suggest we mount up again on fresh horses and ride the rest of the night away. However after a few miles I did suggest that one’s dinner clothes were freezing me to death and that since the moon was hardly evident we were certain to be killed. Although there was no doubt that it cleared the port from one’s brain. The damn Marquis however insisted we race the stretch up the front park lawn for a fiver, which I lost, the evening now having cost me on top of being a generous host an additional total of fifty five pounds.

‘Thanks Kildare, for the fiver. And I wonder, does one ever seriously contemplate marrying a woman who can’t ride a horse. Damn dilemma.’

I watched his Lordship proceed ahead with Rashers who’d awaited our return, into the library. I reddened the fire embers with a few blows of the bellows. And there was no doubt that one had to regard the Marquis in another light. He seemed to have finer feelings which his bluff and blunt exterior hid. Even though he dredged up a mundane subject which indicated not one penny of my loan of forty pounds had been repaid the Marquis.

‘Now Ronald my dear. Where did my fifty pounds go, would you like to enlarge upon the reason. I’m sure you would. Come come now.’

‘Well as a matter of fact, my dear Marquis it was a horse. The first time The Bug ever lost a race. Which left the bloody streets around Duke, Anne, Dawson and Grafton and Stephen’s Green empty, most having pawned everything decent off their backs. And were left naked all over Dublin.’

‘O my dear chap. How cruel. How cruel. And you know, whatever happened to that beautiful creature, Clarissa I believe was her name, that you were with that evening in the Buttery.’

One watched Rashers’ eyes fill with tears. And the Marquis leaning forward to see closer. And my god one is simply amazed at his stories and his turns of emotions. Who does he speak of. To love. O god. A flash of white, white, white of a wedding just blazed a second in one’s mind. Terrible jealousy gives such painful visions. He won’t. He wouldn’t think of such a thing. But my god he is not above behaving in the most eccentric manner possible. Put his arm around Rashers’ shoulders as if to comfort him. Rashers’ voice stealing out upon the air. I went dozing off in the chair. At whatever it was that Rashers had chosen to tell him now. But woke, tears inexplicably dropping out of my eyes. For I had a dream in my sudden sleep. Of Stephen’s Green. And the early morn upon which Clarissa died. I had come running out of the park. To her. Trying to tear from under her body the spears of fence. I loved her. So loved her. Because she loved him, Mr Arland. And the life he would have so lived with her. That dear man. A song singing, a choir raising their voices in a great cathedral. And then stirring distant drums and voices rising. And approaching from all the streets. A flooding procession of Dubliners. Candles aloft alight in the winter air. Singing, black hatted high priests in long emerald robes, their hands lifting her up above their heads. The swelling throb of choir voices as they came. Gliding so softly, so silently do they go.

While her

Bleeding

Drops of red

Fell

Upon my hands