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

19

Darcy Dancer, through the jostling and stumbling drunken figures, making his way away in the semi darkness. Water dripping in the cold damp smell of this long corridor. Past these vaulted caverns. And shadows. Go by this sallow sad faced blond gentleman. A violin held to his face, bow delicately drawn across the strings as he plays. Hair like the Count’s, nearly to his shoulders. Sorrow instead of lust in his eyes. A naval greatcoat like Mr Arland’s across his shoulders. A long Trinity College scarf wrapped again and again around his neck. One shivers at his sound. Even in one’s despair. He does so play so beautifully. To a man in tears listening. In pyjamas and slippers. Blood trickling from a cut on his brow.

A hand reaching out to grab Darcy Dancer by the arm. A figure in an arched doorway, drinking a bottle of stout. Pulling him into a dank cellar. Piles of strewn bottles. Broken crates. A mouldering mattress on the floor.

‘If you’ve nothing better to do comrade, come now have a closer look in here. At the sight of that. There’s concupiscence for you.’

Beyond this man inside this dungeon interior. Two naked men. One bent over, his hand grasping a sheaf of bank notes, and propped against the wall. While another stands only in spectacles. Buggering him. Darcy Dancer pulling his arm away. The man pulling him back.

‘Now what’s your hurry. Passing up this bit of anthropology. Look at them. No mind given to the cold. Nor was a kindness ever given by that mean fucking eegit, who’s humping. Fist full of pound notes. From profits out of his electrical appliance shop. Putting his horn up that bollocks naked apprentice seaman there charging him a pound a thrust paid prior to execution. And behold the sweaty face on him to get his money’s worth. Up the Republic comrade. And if it wasn’t so funny it would be the most diabolical piece of revolting uncircumcised heathenish commercialism I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing. But jesus now I’d grease up me own arse and give up socialism for good, if someone were pushing pounds like that into me fist.’

Darcy Dancer retreating further along the corridor. To stop. Listen. Hear back there in that crowded room. A balalaika playing. Hands clapping. Must now be the Count MacBuzuranti has arrived. Bursting into this subterranean nightmare with a Russian dance. How does one escape. Neither forward nor back. Peeking past more archways leading into other caves, tunnels and cellars. More supine entangled groaning and heaving bothes on more mattresses. Or am I merely standing dizzily turning in a desperate circle. To find my way out of here. Mouth dry. Throat tasting of vomit. A crash. A sound of a struggle. A shout. Of help. Rashers’ voice. This door ajar to this room behind me. Which has a window. Which I’m sure does not open out on heaven. But to the red bleak darkness of hell. My god, two on top of him. In violence instead of lust. A third trying to prise open his fingers. As they hold him down. Pinned over a bed. Knocking over the candle. Which is putting a pile of newspapers alight. To bring us all more bright cheery news.

‘Darcy, the buggers, by god. The buggers.’

One large flame illumined silhouette spinning round turning to confront Darcy Dancer. Pausing to look for a wieldy weapon. And none to hand, his head lowering to charge. To butt me like a bull. Hands reach up to grab. To drag me down. As I let fly with every ounce of one’s might behind a fist, arching up from my bent knee in an upper cut. Connecting to the side of his face.

‘Cream the buggers, Darcy.’

Like an apple squashed on granite. The man’s head rising up. Blood bursting from a great gash across his cheek under his eye. His feet leaving the floor. Upwards he goes over a crate. Falling crashing to the other side. Growls and curses. A struggling shout from Rashers unpinioning himself from the bed.

‘Marvellous Darcy. We’ll soon put paid to you damn thieves.’

Rashers’s feet kicking out throwing the second man flying backwards across the room. Crackling sound of breaking gramophone records. Just as one now suddenly remembers. In the middle of all this. So clear and distinct. That my god I had an appointment. That one has so rudely forgotten. To meet Miss von B. For social intercourse.

‘Darcy, the damn bugger has crashed into my McCormack records. Kill him.’

Man’s hands grabbing at the Hessian drape to pull himself up. Fittings tearing out of the plaster. The fabric falling, covering his head. Rashers landing a kick between the third man’s legs. Doubling him up in a squeal of agony to the floor. As he rolls back and forth clutching his goolies. The smoke billowing over the room. The man holding his split face together at the door, blood pouring out between his fingers. His two associates crawling towards him gasping. And shouting out into the hall.

‘Hit us with axes, the fuckers. Slashed him with an axe down the face.’

Rashers, his tailcoat torn and tie tightened into a tiny knot. Throws a blanket over the flames. Stamping out the burning newspaper. And turning to loose from a clenched fist, cufflinks and pawn ticket into Darcy Dancer’s hand.

‘Here take these, my dear fellow, the whole place is being incited against us. Every one of those evil bastards whose prick is not securely plunged up something or someone, will want to bathe themselves in our Anglo Irish blood.’

Rashers tugging and pulling up the bottom of the window. Lifting up his foot and smashing out the panes. And up on his knees on the sill and disappearing out into the darkness. As one feels something stuck in one’s back.

‘This is a Schmeisser, you fucker. And I’ll blow your spine to pieces if you move.’

Darcy Dancer shoved with the barrel of a gun. Out the door. Along the corridor into another dungeon room. Gathered faces in the candlelight.

‘Here he is. He’s yours.’

Gunman pushing the long barrel of the pistol back in under his coat, hunching up his collar and disappearing. Face this crowd of baleful faces leaning against this wall. Staring at me. As this man malevolently stands with his sour breath accosting my nostrils.

‘Did you hit that man with an axe.’

‘He was hit with my fist.’

‘You hit him with an axe, or keys or something, no fist could do that damage.’

Other faces gathering ominously closer. Moving. As I move. My back closer against the wall. While the man with the gun is gone. I may only have to face gouging hands, kicking feet, kneeings and butting heads. My demise in all their eyes. Rashers to whose rescue one goes. Also gone. At least his cufflinks and pawn ticket are unsafely in my pocket. To whom does one shout for help. And have even the merest hope of being heard from this dungeon room. All I can do. Is fight. Foot and fist. At least make one the with me. Smash in this first nearest face. Kick the goolies of the smirking man behind him. Send them splattering on the ceiling. And distinctly announce my intentions.

‘If you so much as move a hair to touch me, I will part your face in two with the same fist that demolished your associate.’

A furtive sheepish grin stealing over the lips of the interrogator, uneasily shifting his weight from foot to foot. Eyes slowly believing what I’m saying. But still smiling, knowing half a dozen pair of hands stand safely behind his back. Ready to beat me to a pulp. But my fist will reach his jaw before I the. Now. Here. Within steps of her touch. As the silence shivers. The interrogator has just given some signal. And one of them now. I spy. Moving sideways along the wall. But at least this interrogator is going to go down dead in front of me. Before this chilling sound is over. The end smashed off a bottle. A voice. Firmly loud. Word by slow word announcing.

‘Anyone here who is interested to know. Better know that I’m on the side of Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare. And that the end of this will have your jugular cut before it’s jammed deep in your face. Just any of you make one move to put a hand on him.’

The candlelight flickering. Distant sound of singing. The Old Orange Flute. And in the doorway. The broken dark green thick jagged glass of a champagne bottle held up. Glinting in the fist of Foxy Slattery. Full of courage just as his smaller brother is full of cunning. And here. An ally. Braving all this assembled brawn. Just as he did in the battles of our childhood. When he taught me how to fight the world. In the uneasy silence. His voice speaking so sure and solemn.

‘Now that that’s understood. One by one, each of you. Vacate out of here.’

Out the brick arched entrance, the figures slowly departing past Foxy. Off up the passage back into the mêlée of this bleak underground jungle. The last one, the interrogator. Stopping. Looking back.

‘We’re not finished with you yet.’

Darcy Dancer putting out his hand. To clamp it gratefully hard upon that of the Foxy Slattery as his brow furrows and he noddingly grins.

‘Foxy you saved my life.’

‘You can bet I did and all. And if it wasn’t for the man with his face pouring blood, coming out front there where I nearly had a horse and car sold, and hearing them say they were stringing up a man called Dancer who did it, named after the racehorse, I wouldn’t have bothered coming back here. But follow me, we’d be as well to wander out of this place as fast as our feet can take us. And you can be bloody sure they’d be this second gathering up a bigger gang. There’s a way by the back we can go.’

Past more dungeon rooms. Opening a door. Out into the misty night. Soft rain still falling. Darcy Dancer and Foxy clambering over broken bottles, dead rats and a dead cat. Vaulting up on the roof of a water closet. A woman inside screaming, as the toilet flushes.

‘Don’t mind the lady in distress now boss, she’d be that way anyway when she gets back inside.’

Climbing a wall, jumping down the other side into an alley. Foxy shimmying up a drainpipe. Darcy Dancer following. Past a window. And higher on to a roof. Hands scratching clawing crawling up the wet slippery slates splitting under their weight. Clambering over the ridge tiles. Knocking one loose to tumble clattering down. A voice from a window shouting.

‘Call the Guards that’s the second of them tonight from out that bloody sewer over there and breaking this place down.’

Darcy Dancer and Foxy lowering on another drainpipe to the pavement. And running along an alley and out another. To emerge on the street. And cross over to slowly walk along the banks of the canal. Its still water flowing past under the flecks of lamplight. Catching their breath.

‘Well that’s a nice little bit of exercise boss I don’t mind telling you.’

‘It was Foxy. And I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Well you just remember that I’ve not ever forgot. Your own footsteps coming once. When I was huddled cold up hid hardly with shelter saying the act of contrition thinking I was already dead from starvation when you brought me the bit of a bite to eat that saved my life. And it’s only just and fitting that I had at last the chance to save yours. I’ll be going now boss. Can I drop you anywhere. My car’s not that far.’

‘No thank you, Foxy. I’ll walk here a bit by the canal.’

‘Slán agat go fóill, boss. See you again.’

‘Goodbye Foxy. And thank you.’

The great heavy timbers of the canal locks, over which the water pours. Two gleaming white swans cruise. A dead bloated dog floats. The weeds and rushes. There goes Foxy. A moment of brief kindness given once, repaid this day with my life itself. Walk now under this lamp light. Take out Rashers’ cufflinks and the pawn ticket to redeem my own silverware. Stare at them in my hand. And wouldn’t you believe it. A bloody punched tram ticket to Dalkey. And as for priceless cufflinks. These trinkets, aside from being most awfully garish, are clearly nothing but imitation jewelry.

Darcy Dancer walking the path along the canal. Houses the other side with big gardens up to their entrance doors. A light on in a window. Only sign of life. Man standing in dressing gown in the middle of the room looking at a book held open in his hand. And out here. Wet. Cold. Bereft. My trousers torn. Shoes scuffed. One hears Sexton’s voice. Telling of when he was a little boy, often without a shoe. Up at two in the morning to drive his dead father’s cattle ten miles over the hilly winding roads to the market in the town. Arriving at dawn, waiting soaked and chilled by his scrawny hungry bullocks for a buyer. And sometimes no one would even look at him, never mind the cattle. And then drive the beasts home again unsold. Many a sad time that happened Master Darcy, many a sad time. It would drain your heart of blood, but it would never stop you doing it again.

Darcy Dancer walking north across the empty city. Past shop fronts. The mist lifting. The air chilling. A star or two blinking in the sky. One does miss loyal old Sexton. With his razor sharp hedge hook, he’d have been a help down in the catacombs. If he weren’t shocked rigid by the goings on. Knuckle of my thumb swollen where my fist landed. Stood up Miss von B. A heart searing glimpse of Leila, I walk with. As I go from one sadness to another. The damp penetrating one’s bones. Nearly hear the huntsman’s horn calling to the hounds. Out there westwards on the wild lonely land. And without a horse, quicken my steps back to the Shelbourne and a warm bed. What bleak desolation through these streets. One has no one at all. And is it, that all anyone really wants in this world, is just each other. One body enfolding another in comfort when it carries so much pain. Turn now. North. Charlemont Street. At least a name bespeaking some elegance out of the past.

The sky widening with more stars. A faint moon lighting clouds. Darcy Dancer’stopping to stand on a corner. Where this road divides. Look up. A sign over a pub. The Bleeding Horse. Such a name, Mr Arland mentioned once. Said he came here to buy cheap vegetables, haggling with the barrow women. Took him from the walled safety of college out into the harsh world. Sexton used to say, know about horses and you know all there is to know about the rest of life. A cinema over there. Camden Street. Must go on. Just as I feel I am bleeding. And need someone. With whom to console. A friendly voice to hear. While the whole city is asleep. Eggs, butter and cheese in this glass front. Nice nourishing name on the sign, Monument Creamery. Down this way somewhere is Lois’s street. Am I hearing things. A voice. This utterly ancient hour of the morning. O my god. There’s Horatio Macbeth. Declaiming at his reflection in a shop front window. I suppose I’m not that lonely that one feels the need to pass the time of night with him. But what a convenient way to amuse oneself. And avoid thinking how sad life is. I know no lines to orate. To put alive again my hopes and dreams. I had that night as Leila stood in my mother’s room. When I should have reached out for her. Gathered her into my arms. Without fear of rebuff. Even with all the household’s spying and listening behind doors. Not let her have escaped. As my mother’s admirers had let her in her scrapbook. Their love poems. I worship thee from afar. And had one of them worshipped my mother from near, she would not have married a gambling waster called my father. With his whisky reddened face, mean and pinched. And shall I now. Sell land. Go away forever somewhere. Preferably sophisticated. Rid one’s mind of Leila. Of mad stallions, butlers, rot, falling slates, dying cattle and other troublesome servants. To London. Where I shall of course avoid the Marquis’ most stupid sounding club. Go instead to one of those hotels where during the season, my mother stayed. A suitable one I remember called Claridge’s. Yet is there anywhere or time when one can ever be safe from grave injury to the spirit. Or the more mortal of embarrassments. Such as one, once befallen my mother’s mother. Gone bald in bereavement over my great grandfather’s death. The scarves she wore over her pate often blown off by the wind. Till family members insisted she get a wig. Which, the first time she wore it out hunting, was knocked off with her hat. And there her red tinged hair lay against the green grass. And as it resembled a fox, it was instantly set upon and eaten by the hounds. She did however jovially say to the huntsman. O dear, little left isn’t there, not even the tail.

Darcy Dancer walking along this shadowy dingy street. An undertaker’s. Can smell the stables. Black horses who pull the carriages. A church. Outside a statue to the Blessed Virgin. Inside it must have walls lined with boxy wooden confessionals where the whole city pours out their sins. Now every Dubliner will be rushing down into the dungeons of the catacombs instead. And I’ve not yet come to Lois’s street. Gone the wrong way. Remember looming a big grey granite hospital on the corner. Perhaps if I turn right now instead of left. Vaguely recognize this shoemaker’s. A grocery. A timber merchant’s. And here. At last is the alley. God it’s as late as one is desperate. No street lamp to see by. Hers is the only door. A green one numbered four. Knock. Or better bang on it. Peer in the letterbox. Not a sign of life inside. She may tell me to go away. I must be waking her. Wait for her to dress and come to the door. Just sit a moment on this box. So tired. Intended tomorrow to have my hair cut. Go to the chiropodist’s to have my toe nails trimmed. Then to the races. And I may instead in my present state, leave Dublin altogether. Go home. Back across the lonely flat bogs. Let my life live and the out there on that rolling hunting land. Away from the sordid world. Out where the banks of earth, streams and the boughs of beech are friends one knows. And not these bereft pavements. Down those dungeons, tonight someone shouted that when Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden it became the Garden of Evil called the catacombs.

Darcy Dancer slumped asleep back against the stone wall. Suddenly awakening, shivering and cold. Sound of footsteps approaching up the alley. A voice whispering and calling to a cat.

‘Here pussy puss. Here here pussy puss.’

A shadow. A figure. Stopping. Looking down. Two feet in black Wellington boots. Her face in the hood of her duffle coat, one, she said, her husband wore on the bridge of his ship during the war.

‘Good god, it’s you. What are you doing here like this.’

‘I’m afraid I called upon you to collect my etching and fell asleep.’

‘This time of night. How dare you assume you can arrive like this Just whom do you think you are to take such prerogative.’

‘I do apologize.’

‘Well I should think so. Just because I am an artist does not mean you can take for granted that I am a bohemian whose privacy can be invaded willy nilly. I happen to be of a distinguished family. With Admiralty and Foreign Office connections.’

‘But you did invite me earlier at the Count’s party. However I am sorry to have given you vexation. Goodbye Madam.’

‘You did earlier of course ignore me. For the company of that fortune hunting very aptly named philistine called Rashers. Well of course if you wish to say goodbye, do. I won’t stop you. But you are you know, practically shivering with cold. Why aren’t you more warmly dressed foolish boy. And I of course am not so inhospitable as to not at least offer you a cup of tea or cocoa. As little of that as I may still possess.’

‘Thank you, that would be very kind.’

‘Well come in. Don’t stand there making a draught. And just remember I am now celibate.’

Church bells. Tolling three over the city. Climbing up these stairs. Where once I had convulsions of laughter. With Lois tripping and falling on her arse over bottles. And now one is utterly embarrassed at her mercy. Her so British nasal voice. Her age. From which one suddenly wants to run. Despite her lack of wrinkles, she must be nearly thirty eight. Or in her god forsaken forties. She does have a certain smoothness to her skin. But o god, she does so damn moan on. Ought to be bloody glad someone’s calling upon her. She is of course considerably more ancient than even Miss von B. O god. This big grim room. How cold. The black of night above on the skylight. And dear me. A wash line hung with her personal underthings. Smell of turpentine. The sweeter smell of linseed oil. Her bookcase crammed with books.

‘If it weren’t for the fact that I had to remain late at the Count’s conferring over some ballet sets I’ve been asked to design, I should have been soundly asleep. Or at the very least, having one of my nightmares. And I should not like dear boy since I’m inviting you in, for you to ever get the idea that if you call upon me at this hour of the night again that you will be welcome. It does make one think that beneath your English exterior, you may be just like the Irish.’

‘I do wish, since you are now in fact having me in, that you did not continue to complain about my not making an appointment to call upon you.’

‘Well I shall stop. But I also think with that cruel edge to your voice, that you can be hurtful when you choose to be, can’t you.’

‘Perhaps yes. I can be.’

‘Spoilt I think as well. However at least you are not obnoxious.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you are young and beautiful. I do like young and beautiful men, and if they are extremely young and extremely beautiful, I like sucking their cocks.’

‘I hope then, madam, that being just merely young and beautiful does not exclude me from your latter category.’

‘It most certainly does. No matter how enticingly beautiful. I must make it quite clear in case you’re getting ideas that my celibacy most certainly excludes sucking your cock.’

‘O dear. Well I hope the youth and beauty you refer to does not also imply you’re preferring too, lack of brains.’

‘I regard beauty as being part of intelligence. However without wanting to sound trite, intelligence makes an ugly face beautiful. Put those drawings on the chair on the floor and do sit down.’

Lois vigorously riddling her stove. Sparks flying up from the dying embers as she throws in pieces of turf. Taking off her duffle coat. Scratching herself under both bosoms through several layers of sweaters. Pours milk and puts it on a gas ring. Her little world here. Fewer balls and pricks on display than I previously remember. Must be her celibacy. Even has a sketch or two of country scenes.

‘I like that watercolour very much Lois.’

‘O that. That’s nothing. 0one on an excursion. Enniskerry village.’

‘But it’s very attractive.

‘Thank you. Well at least I can tell you something nice did come of our previous brief little association. An awfully cultivated American at Trinity College came and bought an entire portfolio of washes of the male nude. Choosing as it happens all those I did of you. If you can recall your being somewhat difficult when you posed, ruining the tension of line with your constant erection. Actually, although I thought at the time your erections an artistic imbalance he was enthralled by what he called the refreshing tumesced quality the drawings had. I do wish there were more cultivated Americans like him. Of course Count MacBuzuranti could so easily be my patron now, since he has come into his inheritance. Having bought his previous portrait at such a reduced price, you’d think he’d now have the courtesy to commission me to do another. I am so continually being exploited by people. Now what about you. Surely you can commission. I’ve heard all about your stately home, you know. And your extravagant dinner parties. And balls. And I just wonder. I really do, why I am not invited. I feel quite put out. After all, we have previously at least been in the same bed together. And there. Just look. It’s leaking from the skylight right on top of my stove. And o god, did you see that. Right in the corner. A rat. O no. He’s gone under the bed. O god, not that, I don’t think I shall be able to stand being in here with a rat. O dear with my cats dead.’

‘I’ll get him Madam for you.’

Darcy Dancer taking a broom. Shoving it under the bed. The rat scurrying out. Lois screaming. The rat running along the baseboard. Darcy Dancer grabbing an empty wine bottle and flinging it. The bottle missing and smashing on the wall.

‘Good lord, don’t. Don’t. You’re breaking up my studio.’

‘Well Madam, you want me to kill it, don’t you.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Well then you must be prepared for a little mayhem. Rats are deucedly clever and almost impossible to corner and kill.’

‘But does that require for you to wreak absolute havoc.’

‘Well a little havoc at least. You would not enjoy for it to bite you in bed.’

Darcy Dancer grabbing another bottle. Rat scurrying out from behind paintings and heading across the open floor. Lois screaming and jumping on the table. Darcy Dancer unleashing his missile. End over end. Bouncing as it glances off the stove. And flies across the room smashing into the bookcase. Knocking over a little group of ceramic figures standing between books on the shelves.

‘O god, o god, you Irish. No matter what you do, you somehow always manage to be destructive don’t you.’

‘Damn it Madam, do please try to control your ethnic slurs when I am in fact doing my damnedest best to kill a bloody rat here for you.’

‘Well I would appreciate at least if you would leave me a place to live in afterwards.’

‘Well, you go kill him then. He’s right behind your painting pallet leaning there.’

‘I shall attempt to do no such thing. I am mortally terrified of rats. Here’s your cocoa.’

‘Thank you.’

‘O dear. My trials. My tribulations. Now I shan’t sleep a wink the entire night. When indeed tomorrow I shall need to be at my most productive.’

‘Well the rat should cause no difficulty, if you treat him as you did one of your cats and feed him properly.’

‘I’ll do no such thing. He must be got rid of.’

‘Why Madam.’

‘Why. I’ll tell you why. To conserve my creative energy. I’ll have you know I am in the middle of my blue spheroid period if you must know. And also have an important commission to undertake. You see, occasionally some fortune does at least show promise of soon coming into my life.’

‘Well I’m delighted. What is it.’

‘I shan’t say who, as the matter is only exploratory at this stage. But I have been offered, by someone who can afford, one rather large portrait commission. And if it in fact happens I shall be at least temporarily quite well off. And I always find those things one talks about too much have the habit of not happening. O god, there’s the rat again.’

‘Madam for god’s sake don’t bloody panic like that.’

Darcy Dancer spilling the hot cocoa on his fist jumping to his feet. The rat running in behind canvases propped against the wall. Darcy Dancer grabbing the broom. Hot on its heels. Lois shrieking as her canvases overturn. And O god I feel something soft underfoot. A long tube. With its distinctly wrong end splitting open. Flake white it says on the label. Jetting out a long wiggling fat worm of paint. And whoops. The cap’s off this, alizarine crimson. And O shit, burnt sienna too. And cobalt bloody blue, squeezed out everywhere under my feet.

‘Stop. Stop. For god’s sake stop. You’re ruining me. You’re stepping on top of my paint, squeezing out all my tubes.’

‘Damn it Madam, why do you leave them here on the floor where they can’t be seen.’

‘Stop. Stand still. Now you’re trampling it all over. O my god, you’ve got it on to my Afghan rug. The only precious thing I possess in the world. On my very good only single heirloom. Which lay in front of my father’s desk at the Admiralty and upon which some of England’s most distinguished feet have stood. I’m ruined.’

‘Do shut up Madam. Don’t be so obtuse. Please.’

‘Obtuse. Whomever do you think you’re speaking to, you little upstart. I could outwit you in any endeavour you care to mention.’

‘Except killing rats of course.’

‘How utterly pretentious. You haven’t, have you, changed. Assuming superiority. O god, the rat. There he is. Peering at me. He’s stalking me.’

‘Just stay where you are and don’t move.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Rats can jump at your throat.’

‘O god do something. But don’t have the paint go everywhere.’

‘I’ve got paint all over my shoes.’

‘Well dear stupid boy take them off.’

‘O christ. Now I’ve got bloody paint all over my socks.’

‘You fool you fool, take them off.’

‘O shit now I have paint all over my feet.’

‘O god. O dear god. Hit the rat, hit him, he’s crouched going to jump at me.’

‘This should put paid to him. Soon as I take aim.’

‘O my god don’t throw my very last full tube of flake white at him when you’ve already squeezed out the others. Do you know how much a tube costs. Do you.’

‘But I hit him. Did you see that. I bloody well sent that footling rat for six.’

‘Yes. And now he’s right back under this bed. O god, this is worse than being bombed in Bloomsbury by the bloody Germans.’

‘Watch it, Lois he’s after you. There he is again. The rat.’

‘O god, god for heaven’s sake do something. I think he’s growling and snarling at me. This is absolutely the most wretched night of my absolutely entire life. And you’re back on my Afghan rug again. Get off.’

‘Blithering hell, I could have clonked him one just then if you’d only calm down and let me.’

‘I was to hang that as a backdrop for my large commission which I haven’t even got yet. O how wretched. O how I cruel. I shall just lie here now in a heap and the. Please go home. Go away. At least a rat will not destroy my entire professional life.’

‘Certainly, Madam if you feel that way.’

‘No rat however awful can be as hideously horrifying as what you have wrought upon my future as an artist.’

‘Well damn you Madam as an artist. I was trying to save you as a human being. From possible bubonic plague. I will of course leave you with the rat, since you prefer.’

Lois, legs in Wellington boots hanging over the edge of her bed. Hands up clutched covering her face, as she lies crumpled in a heap. Church bell ringing the half hour. A shudder of wind across the skylight. And a moan down the stove chimney.

‘O god. Blackmail. Sheer absolute cruel blackmail. Ruin me. Run off. Leave me. Go ahead. After making you cocoa with the milk I intended for breakfast. After I’ve put turf in my stove to be hospitable. And opened up my chimney flue. You cruel wretched creature. I might have known.’

‘Madam I think you’re absolutely nuts.’

‘Nuts am I. Nuts. You call me nuts. I am not nuts. I have never been nuts. That’s one of those stupid American expressions.’

‘Clearly you know what it means.’

‘Of course I know what it stupidly well means.’

‘Well do you or don’t you want me to go. I am perfectly content not to go on attempting to kill your rat. And of course I shall see to your carpet being cleaned.’

‘Cleaned. Are you mad. Absolutely raving mad. How. Do you expect me to entrust a precious heirloom to an Irish cleaner’s. Where I’ve already had my one and only tweed suit washed and boiled by imbeciles and given back to me to wear. Shrunken so dreadfully that it is fit only for a midget or to use as rags to wipe my brushes. Cleaned. My god.’

‘Madam, I sigh. My socks and shoes of course are also discoloured. Honestly I simply don’t know what to do. Or suggest. Aside from hoping that you would accede to painting my portrait on my horse and in hunting clothes and that this might be considered as some form of tiny restitution.’

‘Well, at least at last you’re thinking in the right direction.’

‘Shall we agree then. To a full portrait. On my horse.’

‘Of course a canvas that size must be specially made and is frightfully expensive. And indeed to include your horse. Not to mention the amount of paint required.’

‘I assure you Madam.’

‘Please do stop calling me Madam. Surely you can accept that we are familiar enough now for Christian names.’

‘Lois, I assure you money is no object.’

‘Well, you’re showing promise as patron. My other commission permitting, I shall try to fit you in.’

‘Thank you. I am so grateful. And of course one hopes you will do it while I am in residence at Andromeda Park. One will put at your disposal the necessary room or rooms in which to paint. Ah the rat seems quiet. Now do you think Lois we might please, retire together to bed.’

‘It doesn’t take you long to change from your role as patron. Does it.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I’m not some sort of nymphomaniac. I’ve already said four times. I’m celibate. Why prey on me. Why not find some pure little innocent girl your own age. Although she may not suck your cock, you might terminate her virginity for her. I can’t believe you’re now inviting yourself into my bed.’

‘Well I don’t see any other beds in the room.’

‘Ha ha, that is awfully funny.’

‘Well one is rather tired. And it would keep you protected. Rats are vicious creatures. Especially ones as large as that.’

‘This is utter blackmail. Is your commission blackmail too. You do this to me. Are you desperate.’

‘Well yes I’m equally as desperate as perhaps you hopefully might be.’

‘Don’t you dare call me desperate. And don’t start removing your clothes. You are the most exasperatingly presumptuous young man aren’t you. I certainly think you are. And as bourgeois as it may sound, you’re clearly exhibiting the result of a long lack of proper parental influence and control. One hates to bring up personalities but I had heard your father did seem to desert you.’

‘What he did do Madam, was to sell off cattle, land and go off with certain valuable furnishings, not his property, and set up with a mistress here in Dublin.’

‘You did though didn’t you have the care and counsel of that goose stepping phony Austrian nazi Princess Miss von B who it appears is again about town.’

‘That remark I think is highly uncalled for. She was a brilliant housekeeper and is a genuine aristocrat.’

‘Yes who gave you genuine love bites if I remember correctly. Yet you do seem to remain so naively innocent.’

‘Exactly why Madam, your company helps acquaint me with the ways of the world. Perhaps as a philistine imperialist member of the squirarchy, you can help cultivate in me a true artistic spirit.’

‘I doubt it very much. But you do, don’t you possess the most astonishing nerve. Taking off your clothes like this. And waving that in my face in that manner. I still think your face is so Flemish. And you are callous, don’t you know how hard it is for me to resist wanting your very well endowed cock inside me. Don’t you. Making me face temptation like this. And how difficult it makes it for me.’

‘Madam you think it’s difficult for you. You’re not the only one. Country gendemen suffer. I’ve had months of celibacy too. When before one’s very eyes one’s very own bulls and stallions not to mention roosters, are, to put it in the vulgar vernacular, freely fucking my heifers, fillies and hens.’

‘What. How could celibacy be a hardship. In your thousands of acres. Snap your fingers for breakfast, just summon, and tea served you. Butler, cook, maids. Suffer. I’ll go suffer there. Quite gladly.’

‘It’s not quite a snap of the fingers, Lois. It’s a pull on the servants’ bell and often one has to dislodge to rise from one’s chair to do it.’

‘O dear, poor you. My family were never quite large country house owners, but I would certainly not consider it dislodgement to get out of my chair to pull on the servants’ bell. If you invite me, I shall gladly do it for you. And speaking of pulling. I mean can’t you pull yourself off. You’ve got rather big and strong hands to masturbate with. I’ll watch you if you like. I mean it’s just like milking a cow. But do not dear boy ejaculate on my floor. Where I think you’ve already done enough.’

‘Lois don’t you understand. That you are a beautiful and desirable woman. Are you oblivious to that. And this. Just look at it. Nearly twice the size of my normal erections. The mere presence of you exciting this extra length and breadth.’

‘Dear boy. Did anyone ever tell you, you should be an actor. You do give quite an incredible performance. Are you in fact larger than usual. You wouldn’t be pulling my leg would you. And you are, I must confess, so well endowed. Do pull your foreskin further back. Pity I don’t have my gouache and brushes to hand. One could capture the marvellous cone shape the end of your cock has. My American patron I’m sure would be enthralled.’

‘Wouldn’t that be what is commonly referred to as a dirty picture.’

‘Dear boy, I’ll have you know I have never compromised my artistic integrity. And I am in no way being pornographic or obscene. But I do have this awfully uncomfortable sneaking suspicion, that behind your affected innocence, you are laughing at me. Are you.’

‘No no Madam, sincerely I am not.’

‘O god. I am defeated. Get into bed, will you. And damn you anyway. I shall take off my clothes. But only on the understanding that it is for the sharing of our bodily warmth.’

‘But yes, of course. Heavens. One. Two. Three sweaters.’

‘Yes. And my long Johns.’

‘You know Madam, I have always admired the stunningly beautiful breasts you have. They are the most exquisite I have ever seen. I mean they are astonishing.’

‘Don’t you dare ruin that remark by saying for my age.’

‘No no. For any age. Ageless.’

‘Well they are I suppose among my few prized possessions.’

‘Why are you smiling madam.’

‘Just recalling the last time you were here. And instead of making love, you had to hit that awful IRA man over the head with a hammer or something, clonked senseless while he was raping me.’

‘It was in fact with a big pole. That monster one over there as a matter of fact. And indeed Madam, you see, I have returned yet again. To save you from yet another rat.’

‘O god. Alright. Stop waving it in my face. You have, without intending a pun, made your point. You may. Get in bed.’

‘May I make love to you.’

‘No.’

‘Then I shan’t get into bed. I shall instead say thank you so much for the cocoa, get dressed and say goodbye. To both you and the rat.’

‘O god. You are a spoilt brat. Blackmailing me. Alright. Yes you may make love to me. Now let me by to light a candle. I just hope to god it’s not the wrong time of the month. I am the most silly stupid creature on god’s earth. To chuck out the window as I am doing. All the accumulated precious months of my celibacy. Don’t you know that such conservation of the sexual emotion gives succour to the frisson necessary to create.’

‘O dear I had no idea, Lois, honestly.’

‘Self denial is the treasury from which one draws the golden thread of truth from one’s inner spirit. Is the world now to be denied the possibility of my producing some of my greatest work. And whose fault shall it be. Whose.’

‘O dear. Mine Madam. Utterly and solely mine. Please might I just squeeze in the bed. Move over please.’

‘Just so long as you understand the implications of what you are compelling me to do.’

‘I do. I so absolutely do understand. But can’t you immediately reimpose your sanction and catch up with your stored up celibacy when I entrain back to the country.’

‘Don’t you continue to be so damn smart, you.’

‘I’m really not. I mean it is after all, the fact of the matter is it not.’

‘No it’s not. And do you know what I think dear boy.’

‘What do you think Lois.’

‘Someone should take you in hand. Before you become one of these horse racing playboys. I think you would selfishly say or selfishly do just about anything just to get what you want.’

‘Well even as a racing enthusiast and modest horse breeder, there do exist some gentlemanly limits beyond which I’d consider it highly improper to go.’

‘O god I would like music and my gramophone is broken, and I can’t afford to have it shipped back to England to be fixed.’

‘Ah but Lois I shall play the solo part in a D minor symphony on top of you. Call it a horn concerto, if you like.’

‘You shall certainly not. I shall be on top if you don’t mind. You may be funny but you are also being extremely unromantic. And while you are exercising your gentlemanly inclinations also include a thought for when my arthritis prevents me from painting. I may need in the not too distant future, a small perhaps semi grace and favour residence. I certainly think you should have regard for the long term aspect of being a patron.’

‘Well there are unoccupied cottages. Indeed that I do have. Outlying perhaps. In need of renovation. I mean a new thatch and a patch and window pane or two. Could make one of them quite liveable.’

‘I see. Chuck me into some damp labourer’s hovel. Exactly what my arthritis needs.’

‘No no. It could be smartened up and prettified. My gardener is a marvellous hand at such things. I have a cemetery as well.’

‘You what.’

‘I mean it is ancient. And nearly full. But so attractive. Has a ninth century ruin of a church.’

‘I said I had arthritis. I did not say I was dying.’

‘No of course you didn’t, Lois. But we all must go sometime. And I suggest it only in the interests of providing you with a final resting place.’

‘Do you simply think that because I am older than you. That I am at death’s door. Is that what you think.’

‘No no. Not. Never. Nein, nao, nu, nyet, nie, nae, ne, nem.’

‘And what are you mumbling.’

‘I am just saying no in a few other languages. My tutor frequently set me various exercises in comparative linguistics. And the word no happens to be one I still remember.’

‘O god. Here one is. Selling off my body to you, for some protection against a heinous rodent. Compromising my soul. And in return, instead of dignified retirement one day, I am being offered burial.’

‘Lois, please. I think you’re a long way off from finally packing it in. I really do. You have such a marvellous figure and you do feel so marvellously naked in my arms.’

‘This is just a blatant exploitation of my body.’

‘Well if it is, why don’t we really make the most of it. Sorry I didn’t quite mean to say that.’

‘You said it. O god, get it over with, you brazen bold boy.’

Lois squeezing, digging in her fingernails into Darcy Dancer’s back. As she writhes and sticks her tongue in his ear and rolls over on top of him. Her arms pinning him down as she shakes her braided long pigtails loose. A cat wailing outside. That should keep the rat quiet. And one supposes, what does it matter. Another bit of land, a cottage, a fraction of one’s birthright. Slap a little lime wash on the walls, sweep out the cobwebs. After all in spite of all her high falutin intellectual flights of fancy she is a decent enough sort. One simply cannot understand how she retains such a splendid physique. If it weren’t for the sometimes utterly mad expression worn on her face, she could, be classed as quite beautiful. And in spite of making no effort as she does to look in the least smart or feminine. Her tongue darting out her mouth and licking around her lips does resemble some sort of lizard. Even so I don’t suppose she deserves to have heaped upon her one lie on top of another. How can one ever afford, broke as one is, to commission a painting. One’s staff’s last fortnight’s wages unpaid. The resounding loud scraping sounds at the bottom of all one’s barrels. My mother’s jewels. I see sparkling and glowing in a great iron chest which becomes a nightmare when I wake up. Her pearls. Long gone black without a woman’s skin to give them life. Her rings, bracelets. Where do they lie. To be unearthed and bring one back to solvency. And one must remind oneself yet again. That so much of my mother’s family riches came from an act of kindness. Of one’s great great grandfather. Who one hot summer’s day came riding cross country on his horse to the flooded ford of a wide stream. To there find an old gentleman stranded, wheels stuck in the mud trying to get his pair of horses and carriage across. And my ancestor dismounted and after an hour or two’s digging, pushing, shoving and tying and adding his own horse to tugging, finally pulled the old gentleman’s carriage across the stream. The old gentleman tipped his hat and thanked him. And my ancestor bowed and smiled. Till many years later he was one day summoned up to Dublin. To climb the stairs of a big old house to an office. Whose windows overlooked the green velvet lawns of Trinity College’s Provost’s garden. And to there find an agent and a lawyer with deeds and papers and to learn from them that he’d been bequeathed by the old gendeman two great tracts of land of two thousand Irish acres. On one tract stood nearly the whole of a midlands town. And on another, part of Dublin. No wonder one rushes to every litde old lady’s elbow to safely usher her across the roadway. Such compassion as a forbear had, I suppose still flows in my veins. But my god, administering such similar kindness. Help Lois to reimpose her celibacy. Kill her rat. Would only get me bequeathed her obscene pictures swirling with male private parts. Which in turn would get me arrested and imprisoned. And she’ll no doubt strangle me for all the crimson, blue and green paint she finds my feet are presently wiping off all over her sheets. Taste her saliva. She does have such sweet breath. To sniff back comfortingly into one’s nostrils. Makes all sorts of contorted gyrations and groans. Getting up on top of me. Which duly reminds that I must my god, win at the races. Borrow or beg to bet on Awfully Stupid Kelly’s Ulidia Princess The Second. So much has happened can’t remember where he said it was running. Leopardstown or Phoenix Park. My god, she’s finally got down. Changing from one orifice to another. And biting and painfully chewing one’s balls in between. Now feels as if she’s nearly swallowing me up. Shaking my prick in her mouth from one cheek to the other, teeth sawing back and forth. Pigtails flying like an autogyro. And O my god, licking her chops sucking out the last single drop. Must be her impoverished condition.

‘Are you tired already darling.’

‘Lois for someone whose recent regime was celibacy you do demonstrate an uncommonly explosive enthusiasm. Which is also if I may say so, entirely unarthritic’

‘Well there is little point darling in not being wholehearted. And I’m not a cripple you know. Shall I try to get it up for you again.’

‘Well seemingly, for the time being at least, it does appear to be down, doesn’t it.’

‘Yes darling. Let us kiss it more. But what a lot of work you’re being dear boy. It’s still down and my jaw muscles are getting quite painfully tired.’

‘Is it your arthritis.’

‘I shall slap you. Of course it isn’t.’

‘Well can’t you get it in the jaw joints.’

‘No you can’t.’

‘Why. If you get it in other joints.’

‘I simply don’t know why, but I distinctly haven’t got it in my jaw joints anyway. You do don’t you, masquerading under your little boy innocence, possess a rather cynical impertinence. You who wanted to jump in bed with me. With this quite flaccid thing in an entirely unusable state.’

Lois on her hands and knees hovering over the prostrate Darcy Dancer. Kissing deep in the ears, at his throat, over the breasts, over the belly. Swaying biting like a hound tearing at a fox. Church bells again ringing. While one is hidden in here under Lois. Briefly away from the world. And far out over the city. Where somewhere Leila may be. O my god my love I clutch thee. Why is it not your white slender body. To which I ding. Your purple beribboned hair into which my fingers entwine. Your softly smiling lips upon which my mouth can press. Hold you grasped I still do, so bereft. And yet could hardly wait to get my mouth and hands to Lois’s breasts. And watch her ribs breathe on her so muscularly lean chest. But sounds as if instead of a simple cottage she wants me to supply a whole ruddy house. Suppose she could, if she didn’t require wages, be my artist in residence. Get her to lend a hand in odd jobs. Lime wash the boxes in the stables. Plenty of hay about upon which she can throw an artistic fit at the thought. My god she really is desperate. Tasting one’s cool goolies in her warm mouth. Climbing on top again. Before it’s even semi hard. Bending it. Heavens above. Riding me like she was in the Grand National. Over Beecher’s brook for the last time. And one jump to go. And fancy that, she’s switching to my knee. Grinding it up into her bifurcation. Growling. And screeching out. What a mad creature. She’d fuck the end of a carriage shaft. And she’ll put the fear of god into the poor old rodent. Throwing the bloody covers back. Slapping me on the thighs. Freezing the bloody hell out of both of us. Grunting. O my goodness where did they come from. She’s got her castanets. Her nipples bouncing up and down to their clack. Ah. But what magic. Miraculously getting me instantly as hard as an oak fence post. Quite wonderfully astonishing. Under starter’s orders again. The flag’s down. We’re off. Good lord the rat’s out. In the middle of the ruddy studio. On the Afghan rug. Ruddy well sitting back upon his hind legs. And bloody well eyes popping, his tiny ears twitching, watching us.

And

Clearly

Wanting

To join in

Too