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

27

One left Rashers contentedly reading his chuckling way through the volumes of Punch in the library. Crooks, before departing for the funeral, administering a bottle of champagne found hidden in a turf basket, while the new boy butler bowed and pulled his forelock, miraculously succeeding in lighting Rashers’ cigar.

In a pair of boots and sou’wester, Sexton drove me in the victoria to Pete’s and Willie’s cottages. Great grey clouds rolling in from the west. One coffin following the other, borne on the men’s shoulders on the long trek. The rain beginning to fall. The wind rising. The grieving household collected under the ancient tall yew tree in the cemetery. The last inches of the deep grave still being dug. The wet now slashing down in sheets across our faces. The vine and holly leaves rustling on the walls of the church ruin. Over the ancient names and dates, the gravestones dripping dark grey. Luke and Thomas under their battered brown hats, throwing shovels aside and jumping up out of the hole.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph anoint us in our hour of need.’

The need being boats instead of burial boxes. For as you might know, the digging men would hit a spring. Water pouring up as hard now from the bottom of the grave as it was pouring down from out of the sky above. Both coffins as they were lowered, bobbing up. Floating one on top of the other. Feet pushing and pressing them back down. Like trying to put a cork in a dyke. Shovels hurrying into the caly, heaving it on. Sexton advising me by my elbow, as we lowered a boulder and pushed a lumpful of sodden soil thumping on the elm box.

‘Ah Master Darcy, not only did old Pete and Willie the dancing, they be drowned as well.’

The muddy grave at last heaped high with sods. The funeral over. Gate squeaking shut. Watch the mourners disperse. They go, their dark backs, black on the green meadow. Fading away in the lashing gale and rain. As I go a bachelor to circle back out through the woods. Along by the lake. To smell the pine. The moist rot under the ancient old oaks. The haunted bridge. No lady in her veils there now. My mother’s jewels. Saved from my father’s squandering. Lets me stay here. To live. And maybe even the. Near the mosses and ferns. To listen again to Sexton. In his potting shed.

‘Ah Master Darcy, let me tell you, the winter long weight of the dark clouds would break a man. To keep you there in the big house behind your shutters. Incarcerated so that you wouldn’t know the sun had come out. And if you did, you’d be blinded by it and scurry back into the darkness.’

Now I turn off this path. From where the overgrown rhododendrons make so much dark under their leaves. Climb over the fallen beech. Carved into the bark. It says. Kill Kildare. Step upon the turf mould, and push through the briars. Towards this boathouse. I alone. Just another inmate of another great house. Whose roof beams may crack over the front hall. While the pasha and lord of the manor cowers within. Trembling in the delirium traumas. No doctor, parson or loving hand to come near me. Left to my own devices. A whisky bottle on the table for breakfast. To help fade into the oblivion. Drowning both sorrows and fortune. And I come here. The old row boat sunk deeper in the water. A rat scurries. Climb these stairs. Up to this room. Push open the door. The dusty floor. Blown with leaves. Rain spattering the window. The cobwebs and her wicker chair. Where she sat. In all her sins. Hear her voice. Your child torn out of your arms. Such sorrow never grows cold nor old. Only makes great long years for every tear to dry.

Darcy Dancer walking to the window. Wiping away the dust on the glass pane. Swans flying in to land on the lake. Floating down white from the skies through the billowing sheets of rain. That will leak from the dining room ceiling tonight. Into my soup. Call Crooks to place a suitable piece of Meissen to catch the drops. Put a sauceboat upside down on Rashers’ head to keep his hair dry. And that sound. Is cheering. Chirps of song. Defiant birds sheltering in under the boathouse eaves. Their anthems sung that spring will come. Bring sap alive in the whitethorn and briar. A horn. Blows. The hunt. Cheer on hounds, pounding after sly boots fox. They must be beyond up over the big meadow hill. The likes of Baptista and the Colonel. While I’m here with you. Dearest friend. Tread with me please, over the loamy dark ground. Upon which my cheek, which never touched yours, will rot in death. Nothing trivial did you ever say. And from anything your voice could ever speak, I would never run. Not out of this room. Not away. I would but wait. And will. For you to find me here near this thick bough of this fallen ancient beech. Alone in a lonely heart. Hush. The dark. On the shores of the lake. A star speaks. Go glad at death, sad at life. Through any years. While the sky is smoky grey with rain. And green and yellow with rainbows. And purple.

Like the ribbon

You wore

In your hair