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

16

Leaden skies above this morn. Flurries of snow swirling across the grey of the granite. A nosegay of heathers in one’s overcoat buttonhole. Above the trees of the distant wood a flock of crows circling. Waiting here on the front steps of Andromeda Park. The clatter of hoofs from the stable yard. Up the road, Sexton driving the victoria. Wheeling it to stop precisely in front of one. Wield up to his hands my portmanteau. Step down one step and step up.

‘It’s not a bad old morning now, Master Darcy. There’d be a bit of kindness lurking in the air behind the present bitter bit of breeze.’

Overgrown rhododendron leaves down the drive brushing against our faces. Out across the grey fields a momentary distant ray of sun. The only seldom brightness to come in one’s life these many past days. Leila gone one morning. Departed as I still lay asleep. And woke nearly knowing when I heard the distant sound of the train whistle come in my open window on the chill silent air.

‘And how are you Sexton. How is your back keeping.’

‘Ah a mite more than middling you’d say, if you had to say anything. But it would be me soul I’d be more worried about. I was, not long after dawn’s early light, planning to say me Stations of the Cross around the garden.’

‘That’s very commendable, Sexton.’

‘Ah by me prayer be exalting the humble and weak. And putting the Pharisee and the Philistine to flight. But wasn’t that brazen butcher banging with his stick on me door. With a bill tabulating up two years he was collecting, he was.’

‘Awfully impromptu of him that hour Sexton.’

‘He said he wouldn’t want to approach you himself in the big house direct. As you might not understand. Sure he knows quite right that you’d have blown him off the porch with a shotgun. Ah god now, they’ll give you credit in the town Master Darcy. Up to your eyebrows. And you’d think with the slabs of bacon he’d be giving you a little extra, throwing in the offal and the dog bones and the like for nothing but by god when he’s got the bill high enough giving you what he wants to get rid of and what you think is a good luck penny, then by god you’ll get the bill counting up the whole lot of it. Deceit. Fraud. No other name for it.’

The roar of a motor car. Horn beeping past. Petunia shying and Sexton reining her in along the verge. Wheel hitting a stone nearly upturning us. A wave out the window, exhaust smoke pouring out. Foxy Slattery, a smile across his face leaving consternation across Sexton’s.

‘Look at the like of that lout now. Driving a motor car no less.’

‘Foxy Slattery Sexton.’

‘Don’t I know it’s him. And now an even bigger lout than he was then. The country is sine dubio going to the dogs, I’m telling you. They’re kicking in the teeth of the holy Roman Church that’s protected the moral fibre of their souls all these centuries. While at the same time they’re parading their vain-gloriousness as members in good standing of Fatima and the Legion of Decency.’

‘You’re taking a very poor view this morning Sexton. Don’t we as a race and people have something to boast about.’

‘Well as a race we’ve never wasted time rushing anywhere. But no one can beat us at the speed with which we break up your grand piano into your anonymous atoms. Or at destroying your objet d’art into useless smithereens. Or your best architecture burned to the ground.’

‘I may remind you Sexton that soda water was invented in Dublin. And the bubbles are reputed to be of the highest quality.’

‘Well you could say too Master Darcy our lies are of the purest falsehood. Without one redeeming semblance of truth in them. We’re a nation of champions at least in that I can tell you.’

‘We are waxing eloquent in and Irish propaganda this morning Sexton.’

‘Well I caught your blind man Mick McGinty and his swamp trollop wife. Over in our bog stealing turf. You’d think the lesson I taught them when they attacked you when you were a lad would be enough. Sure they were rushing away to beat the band when they see me coming a mile away. But their old horse idling making a contrary fuss. Wouldn’t get on pulling home his cart full of turf. Eager to be out of there. The pair of them. And doesn’t the blind McGinty give the poor horse such a clatter of his fist. I could hear it where I stood. And didn’t the eegit knock the poor horse dead in its tracks. And then didn’t the wife attack him with the spade. Ah it was a great scene of justice. The pair of them running. And leaving of course the poor old horse there dead for us to bury. But now isn’t the pair of them back to me now for the cart. Sure they’re related to another whole slovenly family like themselves, beyond the edge of Thormondstown, brother, mother, sister, old father and sons, and a more treacherous bunch never walked the face of the earth.’

‘You mustn’t get so upset Sexton. We surely won’t miss a cartload of turf.’

‘Sure who’s upset. I put the turf and cart in our barn. Nor am I near yet like Crooks to dancing the Tyburn jig. But it took long enough to get anyone to stack the turf. No shortage on indolence. Sure your mother’s father had signs posted up on the wall down in the servants’ hall that lying down on the job or lying with words is strictly forbidden in this household. And Master Darcy I wouldn’t mind so much either kind of lying. But it’s the guile, cunning and duplicity of them. Sure some master thief among them would have got off with that silverware. If they could grab hold of it, they’d steal the very piece of sky you were standing under. Then tell you while you’re staring at it that the colour of it was bright green. And not sky a’tall. The only time such a thing as the truth is spoken would be when it’s a bit of scurrilous gossip. Then it would be gospel you can be sure of that. Didn’t I catch that one Mollie with the young Slattery out in the hay. And more than once catch him pulling on himself out in the warmth of the greenhouse. Two of them said they were having a smoke of a cigarette. That one will have her belly as big as her tits, popping out a bastard soon I can tell you. Devoted loyalty is all fake and sham these days. Now I’ll tell you the difference Master Darcy between a Protestant and a Catholic. And it’s as much as if one was black and the other was white. One lies. The other tells the truth. One steals. The other is honest. One is dirty. The other is clean. One is treacherous. The other is loyal. And one would have to be a foreigner to think one was charming and the other dull.’

‘And which Sexton, pray, is the Protestant.’

‘Ah now, Master Darcy, that would be telling wouldn’t it.’

‘Ah Sexton, you are indeed telling a good deal this morning.’

Reaching the station up the little incline. Icicles hanging down from its roof gutters. Another flurry of snow. Two farmers huddled in their black coats, one with a pair of bright new shoes. Amid the pigeon droppings. There was no doubt as to the lighthearted attitude towards travellers this morning. Turf smoke smell of the turf fire in the ticket office. The station master saluting, with his ever cheery greeting.

‘Ah up to town now is it Master Reginald Kildare. The metropolis of the east is your destination. Where there’d be them swanks now wouldn’t there, as would have champagne delivered to their doors of a morning instead of milk.’

Dear old Sexton carrying now my portmanteau. Lugging it ahead of me. And clearly taking exception to the station master’s liberty. Which if I do say so myself is a damn good bloody suggestion. But you’d think I was heading off on the grand tour. Not to return for years. A tear in his eye. His massive hand opening my compartment door. And putting up my case. Suspiciously regarding another inmate.

‘Goodbye Sexton.’

‘Goodbye Master Darcy. And while you’re up in Dublin I’ll be having a visit from the Professor Botanist from Trinity College. And it won’t be long before we’re up to our noses in the very latest horticultural exotics. Take heed now of the man who stepped out into the world liberally endowed with morals and money. And remember that as fast as your man lost the first he lost the second even faster.’

The station master blowing his whistle. Sexton looming next to him, his breath chilled white on the air and waving that long arm. Dear man, through any bleakness, always seems to have his own hopeful world. And some beacon lighting up his future. As mine seethes with worries.

‘Goodbye Sexton. I shall take heed.’

‘And by the way, Master Darcy. Petunia is in foal.’

The train squealing, squeaking. Finally edging forward slowly slow. Moving, stopping. Moving again. Pulling past the grey little station. Sweet smell of turf burning. Past the station master’s thatched cottage. Wash drying frozen stiff on a line over his little garden. Smoke curling out of the cottage chimney. The deep snows on the countryside when I came. All melted away on the fields grey green. Out there in the coverts, foxes long finished mating. Hope always arises with the days getting longer. Even out there on this passing bereft boggy emptiness. One only wishes one’s fellow passenger wasn’t reading Stubb’s Gazette. Roll call of the county’s debtors. Clears his throat each time he turns a page and Again as he writes something down. Looks so awfully like a solicitor. Wears same odious demeanour as one’s former agent threatening a writ on me. Whose lawyers are still sending letters. I do believe I got a sound kick up the agent’s arse when someone was trying to twist my testicles in the post hunt mélée. Soon now south, will be the purple dark hills. The first signs of Dublin beyond the abandoned ditches over the heathery boglands. Even as the cold ash branches shake by in the train’s breeze, already feel the quickening pace of the city.

Darcy Dancer crossing the black and white tiles of the station. A porter leading the way and the people streaming everywhere.

‘Sir just follow me now sir. To the entrance. I’ll have a taxi for you. Not a bit of worry about that now.’

Darcy Dancer stepping towards a motor taxi. Driver jumping round his vehicle to open up. Door falling off its hinges into the gutter.

‘Ah I’d let you use the other door now sir only it’s jammed shut. Get in now sir, only needs tying back on with a bit of string.’

Porter tugging at the cover of the boot. Comes away in his hands. Of course in this vehicle one will be damn lucky to reach even the morgue just around the corner. Plus the window’s cracked and the bottom of this seat is gone. Smells like a stable. Be safer taking a horse cab with a runaway horse between the shafts. As it is, one will oneself end up in the city morgue.

Taxi crossing the Liffey. Guinness boats waiting. Loading their big oak barrels. The heavy clip clop of the massive draught horses pulling more barrels on their clattering carts. Tara Street. Past the baths. Where Mr Arland said he had swum in its swimming pool. Wall and railings of Trinity College. Nosing out down Dame Street. Same massive red faced guard directing traffic with his white gloves as if he were conducting a Beethoven symphony. The Provost’s House. Sits so elegantly in Protestant glory. Jammet’s just there behind its so discreetly curtained front windows. As we head up this stylish boulevard of Grafton Street. Mitchell’s grey granite monument to coffee cakes and tea. All of it still here just as I’d left it. There’s where Miss von B works. Without zee dust, zee dirt and zee decayed mice stinking up her bathwater. Turn left at the Green. Ah, awaiting one. The canopy of the Shelbourne Hotel. O dear. The driver is now kicking at the bloody hinges to get me out. And now the doorman. Both tugging. O god. Off it comes. Landing them backwards right on top of a poor begging tinker.

‘Ah Jasus can’t you give a decent ould woman minding her own business on the pavement some peace, and fuck off the fool pair of you.’

The doorman standing brushing himself off. And kicking out at the tinker lady. Sending her box of pennies flying into the gutter.

‘Get out of the way you. Good day to you Mr Kildare. And don’t mind the mayhem. Long time now since we’ve had the pleasure.’

Darcy Dancer depositing himself on the pavement. Reaching into his pocket. Shilling tips for doorman and taxi driver. And handing over half a crown to the tinker lady.

‘Ah sir you’re a most decent and fine gentleman. God bless you. And may the sun never set on your glowing riches. And may you never back a losing horse.’

Darcy Dancer led through the hotel door. Soft carpets. Late morning smell of coffee. Tinkle of cups. Scurrying porters dancing attendance. One must suppose they remember me with such welcome, having finally paid on my last visit the largest unpaid bill in their history. Massive debt has always been the fastest and surest way to achieve fame in the better places of Dublin.

‘It is very good to have you back with us again Mr Kildare.’

Past pillars in lobby, and preceded by this gentleman in his striped trousers, one is ushered into the lift. Such a nice comfortable feeling when one is followed by two pages, one carrying my portmanteau and the other transporting my selection of morning newspapers on a tray. So marvellous to ascend in this cage. The wires pulling us up through the well of the great staircase. Past the shiny mahogany balustrades. Alight at our floor. Maids in black quietly lurking in the carpeted corridor, watching my entourage enter into the quiet recess of this cosy comforting room.

‘Now Mr Kildare we trust on short notice this apartment meets with your approval.’

‘Very satisfactory indeed.’

‘I suppose you’re up in town to attend the theatre. Or is it to buy or sell a few cattle. Or would it be horses now.’

‘I sincerely hope it will be one or the other or indeed all three.’

One of course stays at the Hibernian to attend theatre and at the Shelbourne to buy horses. Best anyway to supply an enigmatic answer that can be taken in the most number of numerous ways. Essential that one does not give the impression one is where one is for no damn good reason at all. And here so hauntingly ensconced in my crimson carpeted room for the mere fact it pleasantly presently pleases me. Out one’s window over the tree tops. Seagulls softly sailing beneath the blue grey clouds, edges glowing pink. Ducks circling the sky to land on the pond in the Green. The whole city at one’s feet. The roof tops and misty haze of smoking chimneys, spread all the way to the Wicklows rising purple in the distance. Mountain peak high with the Sugar Loaf. The tangy fermenting smell of the Guinness brew that keeps this whole metropolis alive and all its brains revived each day. Perhaps even fevered each night, putting them snoring asleep with their perishing dreams. Pubs with money pouring in and beer pouring out, makes every one of them a little bank. And the telephone ringing.

‘Mr Kildare, your champagne is ready in the downstairs drawing room.’

‘Thank you. I shall be down shortly.’

Could clonk someone unconscious with this telephone. It is, when one thinks of it, a marvellous instrument. If one had them installed all over the house. Imagine the nice new unbelievable confusion it would be possible to cause. Quick wash and brush up. Descend again from heaven on high down into the voices. Some of them nearly hysterically snooty like my sisters. Eleven o’clock chiming the perfect time for having one’s champagne. Aloof from the early Monday morning traffic out in the lobby. Sink back into this flowered sofa chair. Down here in the deserted quiet and peace of this room. God what bliss miles away from the turbulence of Andromeda Park. Beneath this comforting ceiling. And if one overlooked the cads, racecourse touts, amateur abortionists, mountebanks, medical students and gas meter readers, at least the few remaining would mostly be lords, ladies and squires, either heading in from the country or back out again. And now a hotel page intoning. Right into this very room.

‘The Earl of Ronald Ronald please. Lord Ronald please.’

‘My god, that cheeky bugger, Rashers. God he must be this city’s biggest chancer. Sounds as if he’s staying right in this hotel. Must confess I never thought I’d ever extricate him from Andromeda Park. Of course when they weren’t dancing attendance upon him, he kept the whole staff idle with laughter. One had the guilty feeling that one would be kicking a great artiste out into the wet. Each morning confronting me in the library, reading yet another volume of Punch. Telling me yet again, how much the protracted comfort was healing his previous wounds of indignity. Futher soothed now no doubt by his having clearly taken unto himself a title. And he no doubt is at this very moment planning some new coup. To help land his lady pub and tobacconist owner up the aisle. And not even at this moment is one safe from his depredations. As one carried this very last forgotten one hundred pound note. Miraculously stuffed away all these months. And dredged up from the very bottom seam of one’s jacket’s barrister’s pocket. Designed so handily for either stuffing therein, torts or a stray pigeon or snipe one might shoot out walking. Such a welcome find, this big and sickly green coloured paper. A plentitude of ready, as Rashers would call it. Before one sinks instantly back into a nightmare of the unready. Unravel it. Bearded man’s face on the back of this legal tender. Fish, swans’ necks and sea shells hanging over his brow. A shawled lady, her chin in her hand, leaning on a harp. Her face the shape of Leila’s.

‘Sir you’re ready are you for your champagne.’

‘I was expecting a guest. Who doesn’t appear to be coming.’

‘Will you have some yourself sir while you wait.’ ‘Please.’

‘It will do your elbow no harm, sir. And maybe you’d fancy a sliver of smoked salmon.’

The waiter with his white hair combed flat back and parted in the middle of his red cheeked face. This high priest of his profession, taking his steps with his aloof dignity. A figure so familiar for so many years. Who brought us tea as I sat then waiting for Mr Arland trying to stop my eyes staring down between Clarissa’s alabaster bosoms. Now he disappears away through the door and down into the great ample bowels of this hotel which one feels so reassured is so full of plenty.

‘I trust sir, the Heidsieck is to your satisfaction.’

‘Excellent as a matter of fact.’

‘Shall I pour the other glass sir, for luck and for the welcome ghost that may be in it.’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.’

‘Me old granny, sir down the country alone, never poured a cup of tea without a cup for the welcome ghost.’

‘I see. Well in that case do pour a glass in the hope that either my guest or the ghost may soon arrive.’

‘Pleasure’s all mine.’

One sits. Long and lonely. And sad. Mr Arland always so prompt. Wrote me back a fortnight ago. Only three days waiting for him to reply. To say he would come. Near where his beloved Clarissa died. And now he has not. One is tempted to venture down to his address. Mount Street. Not particularly salubrious as an area. Must be near Westland Row Station. Wait at least cosily quiet in here. Feeling no pain. He still may come. While one avoids the more desperate of Dublin’s denizens. One or two of whom I see briefly creeping by. Among whom Rashers must be the king of chancers. Dispensing his endless charm. To even the beaten and broke. Who are always there to applaud one’s largesse. Who seem never beaten, but always broke. Forever able to stick forth a hand to take to their lips a drink when someone else who can pay is buying their round. And now I count myself among the beaten. Walking away from the boathouse that day. A pall so great one was hardly able to bear it. She would not even go a few paces back with me. Our goodbyes are better this way, she said. Let us leave each other just as we do in this room. I hardly remembered returning back up the path. Oblivious to the briars scratching my hands and face. Through the wood and by the fields and meadows along where they joined the land of the great castle. Where the Mental Marquis was a guest. Imagining their making a tryst. During her hours off in the afternoon. Somewhere in the woods. That she would submit to the Mental Marquis’ arms. He could touch her. Do other angering unspeakables. And then cast her back into the gutter again.

Darcy Dancer downing the last of the champagne. Rising from his chair. Stand over the ghost’s glass with the tiny bubbles still arise in the pale light. The taste bud bliss in one’s mouth of the soft slivers of salmon. Lunch bustle of waiters in the dining room. Blue flame of alcohol burners. Pleasant fume of sauces. My god, people actually speaking French are upon this doorstep. Mountains of very good quality luggage. Although the gentleman’s tailoring is a trifle tight, the tall dark woman he is with has exquisite long slender legs, tapering wrists and ankles. Aloof beauty. Her dark eyes and satin soft skin. My god Miss von B is right, these clearly aristocratic people from the continent do put us to shame. By their effortless casual elegance. Put my key to the porter. Must make an inquiry.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes Mr Kildare. At your service.’

‘Ah, as a matter of fact I believe I heard the Earl of Ronald Ronald being paged.’

‘Yes sir, to be sure you did.’

‘Might I inquire if he is staying.’

‘Yes he is, sir.’

‘Ah, actually in the hotel.’

‘Would you like me to contact his apartments for you Mr Kildare.’

‘His apartments. Is that word actually plural.’

‘Yes, the Royal Shamrock suite, sir. At the corner of the fourth floor. Two bedrooms, a drawing room, anteroom and two bathrooms.’

‘I see.’

‘Is there something wrong Mr Kildare.’

‘No. No. Just a momentary dizzy faint. I’m quite alright. Thank you for your help. But tell me. We are aren’t we referring to the same gentleman, I think we both know.’

‘Yes. Indeed we are sir. Seems he was previously for private reasons under the incognito of a commoner. Isn’t the father a big English General. Sure I remember him as Rashers if you’ll excuse me now referring in that vernacular, in those days with his great friend Clarissa, the actress. May such a beauty rest in peace. The two of them now would be great gas together of an evening in there in the Shelbourne Rooms. Ah god she was lovely.’

‘Yes of course. Thank you so much.’

I went out the Shelbourne. Popping a shilling in the tinker lady’s hat. Her blessings crying out after me, one did lift one’s heels to saunter along the Green. Clearly Rashers is a bigger mountebank than one had already conceived him to be. I must damn demand my money back. But I suppose he does keep one’s mind off other dilemmas, even more irritating, attached to roof slates, livestock, plumbing and staff horrors which usually gloom over my life. And one does back in Dublin find a joy quickening and lightening one’s step. The breeze milder with this bit of pale sunshine down Grafton Street. Past the smoky coffee smells of Roberts’ café. Which Rashers said is forever full of perennially stalled first year medical students down from the College of Surgeons. Who maintained that if they ever got their first year exams they’d go flying through the rest. And then be in Fannin’s with their window full of medical instruments, buying their scalpels, saws and stethoscopes.

‘I say, hello, it is you Kildare.’

‘Why hello Kelly. Yes it’s me.’

‘Well. You are looking well. How nice to see you like this Kildare.’

‘Same to you Kelly, same to you.’

‘I suppose you’re up in town on business.’

‘A little business, Kelly. That and some pleasure too I hope. And I suppose you want your fudge I borrowed that night at the school fire, back.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t adhere to bringing that up again. That was all such a long time ago.’

‘Well you know Kelly, your horse, Tinkers Revenge saved my bloody life. I placed a bet on it at a hundred to one.’

‘Did you really, did you really.’

‘Yes I really did.’

‘Did you put a lot of money on him.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘You must have won a lot of money.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘I mean you could have won thousands.’

‘Yes I did. And as a matter of fact even planned to have Bewley’s post you a weekly box of fudge. But didn’t, thinking that it would make you extremely fat’

‘I see. Well, it would have done. Of course you were extremely decent to me at school. I’m sorry you came down in your life as you did. But you do seem to be doing alright now.’

‘Yes I am. At least not having to work as a stable lad or an indoor servant.’

‘You must not hold that against me Kildare. I did everything possible to make your life reasonable when you were down on your luck.’

‘Yes you did Kelly. Yes you did.’

‘Well we have another similar horse running. With even greater prospects. At Phoenix Park. Ulidia Princess The Second.’

‘Are the brakes off Kelly.’

‘I hate that expression. It implies deceit.’

‘My goodness Kelly you are taking a moral view of racing aren’t you.’

‘Well. Yes I do rather.’

‘Well I shall pop a moral bet on him, in memory of our school and previous squire and servant relationship.’

‘I don’t find that at all funny, you know Kildare. Throughout I looked upon you as my friend and I so behaved.’

‘Ah so you did Kelly, so you did. Well I must rush on. And Kelly you know, you are not at all a badly turned out chap. Very smart. Yes.’

‘Well I’m part of my father’s business now.’

‘Good.’

‘And what do you do, Kildare.’

‘Ah. Well. I may be breeding up a nag or two myself.’

‘Well Kildare, obviously you have improved yourself. This is my office right here.’

‘Ah.’

‘Please I should appreciate it, if you were to call in on me anytime. Really anytime. I should so like for us to keep in touch.’

‘I shall Kelly. I promise I shall. Ta ta.’

‘Goodbye Kildare.’

Astonishing, one noticed actual tears in Kelly’s eyes. Dear me. In spite of his awful parents he seems to have turned out decent enough. I suppose none of us really has to be as odious as our fathers. If the opportunity arises to be otherwise. Stand here a moment on the corner of Duke Street. Hard to know which way to turn in Dublin. There’s the turf accountant’s next to The Bailey. One must put something on old Kelly’s horse. Meanwhile why not perhaps stroll through the Trinity College squares. Heavens who’s poking me in the back.

‘Grosser Gott. It is you.’

‘O my goodness, Miss von B, my countess.’

‘Why did you not say you were coming to Dublin.’

‘Well as a matter of fact, I didn’t know myself. My you look awfully pretty,’

‘Thank you. I am just crossing here to go back to work after my quick coffee for lunch.’

‘Well won’t you join me. Later. For an aperitif at the Shel-bourne. What about six.’

‘Ah, my bog trotter, you are on.’

‘Ta ta.’

My goodness, one is meeting folk today. Plus seeing an awful lot of old familiar faces. Even the Master of Foxhounds whose horse one stole. An occasion to carefully make one avert one’s face. And turning in this gateway of Trinity College. One thinking of Mr Arland. Across the wooden blocks and out across the cobbles of the front square. And as I go closer and closer to the back gates. Past the green velvet lawns of the colleges. The sun coming out. The rugby pitch, churned up. Three gentlemen practising kicking goals in the mud. Why not go to Mr Arland’s address. At least perhaps find if something may have befallen him. He could be sick. Injured or worse. Even as one knows that somehow his letter seemed not to encourage one to visit.

Darcy Dancer walking past the buildings, Zoology, Chemistry, Pathology, Anatomy. And towards the back college gates. Porter in hunting cap outside the lodge, a watch chain across his waistcoat. Saluting as if one were a respected student in good standing on the college books. This turreted emporium looming across the street looking like something out of Constantinople. It’s said they were once Turkish baths. I suppose just one more desperate foreign innovation imported to hopelessly founder in the uncharted commercial seas of Dublin.

Sky darkening. Men just up the street, lurking in the doorway of the corner pub. Scarves wrapped up round their necks and eyeing me suspiciously from under their caps. One’s heart nearly breaks standing here. On these ancient worn granite steps. This is the number. This is the door. Past Magennis Place. Down Mount Street and its bleak perspectives. The grime and the gloom. Pointing washed away between the bricks and the drainpipe from the roof gutter leaking down by the door. One’s hand dare hardly reach to bang this knocker again. No sound inside. No sign. Not even his name. Yet must bang again. Wait. I may be mistaken. But his letter said he lived on the first floor of a Georgian house, with a broken iron balcony. Across from the back of Westland Row train station. And there it is, just as he said, the gentlemen’s convenience tucked into the wall with a rather dignified arched cut stone elevation. Bang once more. A sound. Feet coming. Slowly. Now in the hall. Latch pulled back. Door opening.

‘Kildare.’

‘Yes.’

‘Heavens I hardly expected to find you. I was expecting it to be the laundry man.’

‘I do apologize calling unbidden upon you like this.’

‘Well dear me, you have. And so you may as well come in. I was only at this very moment in the middle of a message to you.’

‘Mr Arland, you’re limping.’

‘Yes. My hip. Went on me. Just as I was off to see you. Not as fit as you, Kildare, I’m sure. Come. Please don’t expect a palace. Or indeed much more than a hovel.’

Slowly up the stairs. In the musky odours. Laths showing through plaster broken on the walls. Around the landing past a sickly green door, a sign, The Trans World International Engineering Company, half scribbled and printed on a warped piece of cardboard hanging suspended under a rusted thumb tack. High up over the stairwell, a roof skylight throwing down pale gloomy light. On the head and back of this man who so much by his kind words, his example, his advice and warm sympathies, bids me think that there was ahead in one’s life a noble reason to live.

‘Well Kildare, please forgive these conditions to which you are about to be exposed.’

Key stuck in the door. Mr Arland pushing it open. A hand gesturing one in. His room. My god. This is awful. Unmade grey sheets on a narrow bed. A cooking stove. Frying pan full of grease. Clumps of wet turf smouldering in a tiny grate. A lone bare light bulb hanging by its cobwebbed wire from the ceiling. A steamer trunk. Lieut. N. P. Arland, rnvr, in the corner. A warped cupboard, its panels cracked. A shirt by a bottle of milk. Sausages and two eggs next to a hairbrush on his broken dresser. Sheets of paper strewn amid newspapers and books. A gnawed piece of bread.

‘The condition of my room I fear is not exactly what one might expect of an ex naval officer, Kildare. And I do most abjectly apologize. Standing you up. I was coming to meet you. As you see I am still dressed for the occasion. But I fear my hip, when it goes like this, unless rested, only gets worse. As you see here on my College Historical Society notepaper to which I helped myself copiously as an undergraduate, my message to you. A nuisance the time it takes me now to get up and down the stairs. Do. Sit there. Alas the only chair. I’ll park here on the bed. Well dear me. It is good to see you. It is really. I wish it were in more auspicious surroundings.’

‘It is good to see you too. Mr Arland.’

‘Well we’ve got to stop that Mr Arland stuff.’

‘But you have never told me your Christian name.’

‘Alas with good reason, Kildare. And perhaps my middle one will better suit the purpose. My first Christian name being none other than Napoleon. It provokes endless inanities especially in Dublin. So therefore call me Patrick, please. And I shall call you Darcy if I may. Well you’re about two feet taller. And clearly a man of the world. Did you come by taxi.’

‘I walked. By way of Westland Row.’

‘A smattering of one or two decent architectural features, aren’t there, around this area, I think.’

‘Yes. One or two.’

‘Merrion Hall’s not that far away with its Protestant elevations. Does make one realize that there’s hardly a Roman Catholic thing in Dublin to boast about. I mean the church by the station of course. Nice front pillars. Plinths plain at least. Inside, does have one interesting marble plaque to boast about A viscountess who died in Paris in eighteen fifty. A County Meath family. Helps the soul to dwell on these little obscure antiquities. One attempts to cure one’s injured spirit by any means. Ah, but I think the day comes when one has to rue the senseless pleasure in having been a romantic. Graviora quaedam sunt remedia periculis. Translate Kildare. Ah I see it’s hard to change our use of names, isn’t it.’

‘I do not believe there remains a single phrase of Latin left in my head, Mr Arland.’

‘Dear me. Have I also failed as a tutor then. Well in that case, some tea perhaps.’

‘Yes please.’

‘But how are you Kildare. And do tell me. How is Andromeda Park. I hear you have taken over. How is Sexton’s Latin getting on. Or is it Greek nowadays. I did occasionally hear him rattling off the alphabet to himself. And Crooks, how is he.’

Mr Arland, limping and disappearing out the door with his kettle. Returning with a smile. Striking a match. Turning on the gas ring. The blue flames licking out under the blackened aluminium. One does somehow feel it at least encouraging, Mr Arland keeps open his eyes to what is commendable in these streets of some squalor. Perhaps it reassures him he is not entirely removed from the civilised world. But as one tells him of Andromeda Park, a lost nostalgic sadder look grows on his face as he munches a cream cracker.

‘Darcy, do have some brandy in your tea, I’m having it in mine.’

‘Thank you. But Mr Arland. Please do tell me now. How you really are.’

‘Kildare. Complaint is tiresome, you know. But I suppose it’s been a long time since last we parted. Yes. I do put a brave face upon it. And must not bore you with what I’m sure is my transparent dishonesty.’

‘But please, it would so help to know if you are here like this through design or necessity.’

‘Not design Kildare. More necessity. But I simply found I could not work after Clarissa’s death. I don’t suppose there’s any way of ever getting over it. As crushing as her dying by other circumstances would have been, it was doubly so to have been the cause oneself. Just from a glance through a window. And she was. Just innocently dining with someone else. A dreadful disease is jealousy. And what it has done to another out of one’s own selfish pique. Had I only spoken. And not written. It’s so easy to think all women flirts, and their interest in one just their passing fancy. I suppose my letter revealed to her so much past hurt of mine. And then too late to find she loved me as much as I loved her.’

‘You mustn’t talk further about it.’

‘No I mustn’t. Not while I still can’t hold back my tears. I came back here from London. Finding it there just as bleak and just as dark. If you look out the window. That street across there goes under the railway. Beneath the bridge there’s an aperture through which one can peek and see a long series of arches supporting the tracks above. And like one’s life. I’ve had to build each arch to carry one’s burden. And I’ve managed to do that from day to day. Yet I do feel very under the weather sometimes. My steady if small emolument At least allows survival. And occasionally I’m invited to dine on Commons. Rushing there like a hungry animal. To take a sherry in the Fellows’ Common Room. Sit at high table. See the girl’s sweating faces at the serving hatch having lugged up from the deep bowels of the kitchen the great roasts. The litany of grace. Scrape of chairs on the floor as we all sit down. The gowns. The swell of voices as the dishes clatter, the carvers carve and porters rush to serve. Those things keep one from entirely sinking. But I suppose living here is indeed like joining the lighthouse service, which I always said I might do. Keeping the flame going and the reflectors shined. Reading books as the seas pound. Yes, even to reading this strange volume I see you’re casting your surprised eye at. Aptly called Women, Love and Life. Treating as it does of love and beauty. Love and courage. Love and tolerance. There’s so much truth often found in the trite and sentimental. Anyway. Whiles away the solitude.’

‘But surely you don’t propose to become a recluse.’

‘Ah Kildare not quite. I occasionally at least have in my life brighter patches now. Making me able to face the world and give it back an occasional kick in the backside.’

‘Sir I am glad. I think one must always be ready to rise by dawn’s early light, shake the mud from one’s heels and remount.’

‘Yes, Kildare, yes, remount. But I suppose one has meanwhile been taught one god awful agonizingly long lesson in loneliness.’

‘And you have not even a wireless here, sir.’

‘No. I suppose if I did I could have found solace listening to the orchestral. Instead of pacing, where it permits, on this awful green carpet. Turning again and again to look out the window for life somewhere down on the street. Only to see pathetic passing figures making their hunched cold way through the damp evening. Or see queer gentlemen in search of each other in the convenience across the road. Making one shrivel up even more in one’s loneliness. Moments come when you feel that no one in the world wants your company. And what is worse, when you then see someone and think perhaps you could talk or get to know that person, and then, if you sense that he or she is lonely too, it makes you feel that their loneliness will only make your own more unable to bear. Leaving two people already so lonely, simply creeping cringing away from one another in their desperation.’

‘But you must, you must come and stay at Andromeda Park.’

‘Yes I must. One has got to know every inch nook crack and patch of this room, every spot on the wall. Stain or smudge on the carpet. The sound and squeak of every floorboard. Even know if a stranger’s steps go by in the hall. All these things, if you let them, become drum beats of a dirge. Forgive me Kildare, I suppose it’s the brandy talking now. But there were moments so wretched that time itself seemed to come and add to the crushing weight on one’s soul. To be as if one were flung away as a discarded bandage. And not even accorded the minimal dignity of being deserving of some contempt, just merely the most utterly uncaring indifference. And all of one’s own stupid making.’

‘But Mr Arland, we all must fight such things. Do them battle.’

‘Yes Kildare yes. But as much as one knew that one must soldier on, one could not crawl out from under the awful brooding gloom. The love one has for someone, left gnawing in one’s vitals. Becoming such a sickly poisonous wretchedness that you wonder how the species could allow such to exist, except, yes, and I think this is why. It is to crush to dust the hopes such as I might ever have for fatherhood. For sons being born like me, or daughters, who would be unruthless and loving, and sentimentally unwise like their father.’

‘No, no Mr Arland, that’s not so.’

‘Yes it is Kildare, it is. And I have put far too much brandy in my tea. And what dreadful sophistic drivel I spill upon your kindly indulgent ears. The cure in my book of homoeopathy is distillate from the bean of St Ignatius. Three globules, eighteenth dilution. Taken twice at intervals of three days when there is great moral depression consequent upon grief. But since no chemist Kildare seems able to make it up, I suffice to have just the brief joy one has of a visit to Bewley’s Oriental Cafe for rashers, egg, toast and coffee and spice bun. Reading The Time, if it’s arrived from London. One does take a little reassurance and some occasional amusement from the personal column. And yet having breakfasted well, paid my bill and visited Bewley’s bogs, the best in Dublin by the way, and then going out to face the grim wet wooden cobbles of Grafton Street, one would still stand absolutely wondering what to do next in order to further cope with the day. My only solace being, I suppose, knowing ahead of time that wherever one went one was still only somewhere where one’s imagination allowed one to be.’

‘Sir, do I occasionally detect that your English grammar has gone completely to pot.’

‘Ha ha Kildare, you do rescue me from the glooms. You do. And it is so marvellous to see you. And I have I fear let myself be a bore.’

‘Mr Arland do you still take your snuff.’

‘Yes. I still take my snuff. And this is my same old cane. And I don’t want you to abandon your Latin, you know. One does sometimes feel, what matter Virgil, Horace, Juvenal, odes, satires and epistles. Yet sometimes a Latin proverb comes near to spelling the truth of life. Divitiae virum faciunt.’

‘Riches make the man.’

‘Good for you Kildare. Remember my privilege of dining on Commons free as an undergraduate came from one’s ability to translate from the Greek and Latin authors.’

A knock on the door. Mr Arland giving a start. His grey herringbone suit. His white shirt. The black green, red and cerulean blue stripe of his Trinity tie. Slowly pulling himself up on his stick. Moving from the bed. Bent over as he unlatches and opens the door.

‘Hi there. O gee I’m sorry. Didn’t know you had anyone visiting. I’ll come back, pardon me.’

‘Please, Clara. Do please come in.’

‘O gee no. I was only going to ask if I could get you something while I’m out to the store before they close.’

‘But please do meet Darcy Thormond Kildare. Clara Macventworth. Of the Michigan Macventworths. Or is it Minnesota Macventworths.’

‘Hi.’

‘How do you do.’

‘O I’m just fine. See you all later, nice meeting you Darcy Kildare. Bye bye Bonaparte.’

Sound of her rapid footsteps pounding down the stairs, scrape of front door opening and banging shut. Mr Arland, some cheer on his face manoeuvring back to his seat on the bed. Pouring more brandy in his tea as I shake my head no.

‘Of course Kildare, you see what I mean. But she is always one splendid blaze of colours. And totally mad. But she is one of the bigger bright spots in one’s life. And lives upstairs. Seems such an awfully young lady, to be out globe trotting. She’s doing, as they say over there across the water, a course and getting her credits, at Trinity. Americans seem to treat education like an abacus adding up numbers. She goes floating by my door in her dirndl skirts. Swirling round her knees like rainbows. Pity she nearly blots out her big saucer innocent eyes in mascara. She is dismayed by nothing. Least of all by living here. She’s so kind and generous. Writes poetry. And staggering thing is, it’s awfully good poetry. But coming back to you. Yes, you have, you’ve become a worthwhile member of society. Just as the destiny of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman, was foretold. Have more tea. And brandy.’

‘No. I must go thank you.’

‘Ah yes, you must, I can see.’

‘But you will won’t you, soon, come and stay at Andromeda Park.’

‘It is kind of you to ask me, Kildare. I often thought of you. Knew you’d understand if I weren’t in touch.’

Down these gloomy stairs. In the damp reeking smells. I leave him. That dearest of men. His smile. Stealing out across his mouth, his delicate fingers. And his firm hand grasping mine to say goodbye. The soft warmth in his eyes. Perhaps there’s hope in Mr Arland’s life. A new love to take the place of that which he has so tragically lost. Spurned so abysmally as he was by Baptista Consuelo. One so hopes this is not another of such ladies. His old naval dress coat hung on the back of the battered door. One wonders if the love for a man cannot be far greater than that one can ever have for a woman. And one could not help recalling Mr Arland’s long hard ascetic struggle through Trinity College. Gleaning his pennies by tutoring the thick skulled cramming for their exams. Plumbing the depths of his privileges as a sizar and, later, scholar. His few lonely shillings always clutched always counted. Each quarter awaiting his emolument. His meagre breakfasts measuring out his flakes of porridge oats. But all the while popping into a large brown stone biscuit jar any spare penny, a sixpence and sometimes half a crown. To be sure to finally save enough money to celebrate the conferring of his degree. A cold grey brooding Wednesday at two o’clock in the afternoon in Michaelmas Term. And at long last after all those four years, buying a barrel of Guinness it took four porters to lug up to his rooms. Excitedly issuing invitations to all his friends. And on that chill stormy eve he tremulously prepared for his splendid night of raucous rejoicing. Bustling about, keeping the fire in his previously empty grate, steeped high with glowing turf blazing. Listening for steps on the stairs and knocks on his door. His table covered with bottles, glasses. His skippery full of a reserve of sandwiches. Days previously spent scrubbing, polishing and cleaning. And on this day, the final roasting of sausages at his fire. At seven p.m. prompt his tutor called. To sip a sherry. Shook his hand and was gone. And a rotund black African prince came. Puffing up the stairs. Just for a moment to stand in his tweeds smiling in the door, as he had a fleet of cars, engines revving, waiting in front square to take him and his retinue to the airport And then the door closing on the big cheerful black face. The Campanile tolling the hour of eight Then of nine. And there Mr Arland sat, after his long, four long years. Alone, solitary at his fire. The roar of an occasional tram passing out on College Green. Unused empty glasses agleam in the firelight Slices of smoked salmon on a plate which he dared not think he could eyer afford. The distant cry of the shoeless newsboys hawking their papers out through the wintry Dublin night. As he waited and waited.

No knock

No sound

No pounding feet

Climbing up his stair