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

4

A mild moist westerly wind fading the snow and ice away. Dripping from the trees. And the dining room ceiling. The moisture blackened roof slates drying a lighter blue. The drains and gutters gurgling. The front parkland glowing emerald green again in an afternoon sun. The unfrozen cows hauled with chains to the side of the field and buried.

Before the beams crack and walls finally crumble I thought that I would move into my mother’s apartments. Calculating to recline there of a morning on the soft satins of her chaise longue. My languorous limbs enveloped in my silk dressing gown. Where one could await the news of any new disaster in some comfort. Dear me, and how pathetically did one dream of such serenity. In the cock crowing silence, my head against a pillow, not a bother on my mind. And there deep in eiderdown ensconced, having breakfasted peacefully abed and one’s ablution hour over, to then, in the delicious pain pleasure throes of ennui, peruse the pages of some light and preferably silly novel. Populated with insufferably haughty top layer la de da people living in similar country houses but with unsimilar tiresome pursuits and debacles to mine own. Such as, while savouring biting into an unburned piece of toast slathered with a particularly tasty and unmouldy gooseberry jam, Dingbats went running through the halls screaming she’d been scalded with soup thrown at her by cook in the kitchen.

‘I am this minute scalded. I am this minute scalded to death.’

Then there appeared in what seemed nearly the next minute, an envelope clearly penned by Leila and delivered to me by an arm bandaged Dingbats with breakfast. She of course also wearing her expression of the most depressed of the apostles at the last supper. As well she might having forgotten napkin, the salt, the butter, cream and a cup to drink from. But did remember to make sure that nearly everything one touched was either tacky with honey or slippery with grease. I must confess I was so damn tempted to upend my tray and shout something quite rigorously untoward and blasphemous. But one could so plainly see the poor creature despite her big tits and fear of rats and dogs, had not more than five brain cells in her head.

‘Ah Mollie, I do think we are minus salt, butter, cream, a cup and saucer and napkin.’

‘Are they not there on the tray sir.’

‘No in fact apparently they are not there.’

‘O. I put them on I did.’

Clearly a ghost with wings had stolen them on the way from the kitchen and now one was going to spend enough time while my cold breakfast was getting ice cold, discussing it. And in one’s impatience one does do dastardly things. I pointed silently downwards to the kitchen. Suggesting Dingbats to go there. Before I much noisily rose from my bloody bed and booted her well larded arse stairwards. Damn insolent creature by the tone of her voice I knew was suggesting I could do without the salt, the butter, the cream and a cup to drink from. And one overheard her mumbling just as she was closing the door.

‘I haven’t had me own breakfast yet.’

Good lord, not back here long enough to catch my breath, with hardly a single moment of peace and with such brazen ungratefulness, one wonders why on earth I bother to stay. Debts mounting hourly. A most recent insalubrious communication from the local bank manager with clearly an increasingly careless regard for his social betters, demanding to see me. At least one will dig out a spoonful of this still lukewarm congealed porridge while I open this envelope addressed unmistakably under Crooks’ instruction.

Master Reginald,

c/o The Apartments of

Delia, Her Late Ladyship.

And well you might know he would choose to have such message written on one of the last few sheets of engraved notepaper left in the house. And that put into one of the last few engraved envelopes. And that sealed with my mother’s grandfather’s wax seal. With a coat of arms that one hates to admit this tender hour of the morning, may be quite bogus.

I beg to inform you kind sir that your obedient and humble servant is due to the recent apparition presently indefinitely indisposed.

CROOKS

Just as one needed, in the soothing interests of one’s spirit, some very top butlering these mornings, you might be damn sure that nothing of the sort could be expected. Having as I had just elaborately enumerated and posted new unbreakable rules for the household and estate. Instructing that only one pound of butter and one quart of cream be allotted per meal at servants’ meals. Of course including tea this still means four bloody pounds of butter, and one ruddy gallon of cream down the hatch, plus endless grumbling from the men in from the yard. That nothing of the kind could happen in my mother’s day. Further to which Sexton, of course enlightened me.

‘Ah there would be complaint no matter what but sure harmless enough are the passing remarks that you’re a Protestant alright, and next you’ll be counting out the raisins baked in the bread.’

One does shrink in horror at the bias of such bigoted words, but not much milk comes out of the udders of two dead cows, even Catholic ones. And unless I galvanize this mob into some semblance of corporate efficiency they’ll all be lucky to be eating potato and cabbage soup. Of course one is one’s own worst enemy. To feel abed of a morning that one’s blankets and counterpane somehow shielded one from the rigours of facing another day. Of turd congealed sewers. Of hungry coughing sick and dying animals. Of fences broken. The muddy deep ruts of carts where timber had been stolen. Every tool if not broken, twisted out of shape. Or worse, lost. Game poached. Beasts strayed. Or a neighbouring farmer’s cunningly trespassing cattle. And before one even arises to get out into the fields, so much internally is already amiss. A knock right now on the door. Dingbats with the missing items of my breakfast.

‘You’ve still forgotten the cream and butter Mollie.’

‘Ah sir it is the new kitchen rules to stop the wastage.’

‘Did you have cream and butter for your breakfast.’

‘I haven’t had me breakfast.’

‘Will you have cream and butter for your breakfast.’

‘I might.’

‘Well I might too, if you please.’

If nothing else, Dingbats’ four brain cells, recently five, clearly could energize enough to provide an instant countenance of insubordination. Flouncing about in her tracks, big tits shaking and closing the door behind her with far more than enough force to shut it. God knows what they were all doing in this house all the time I wasn’t here. Rereading Crooks’ message, one takes a damn poor view of his word indefinite. Find him in urgent hysterics blinded over another vision of my virginal mother draped in her array of pearls arisen from the dead. Better I suppose than finding him having abruptly terminated his employ by committing hara kiri in our butler’s suicide room. Where from whence Crooks now claims, the previous butler who had hung himself from the ceiling, came making a nightly ghostly appearance with ampoules of whisky. And as Sexton said to me in the garden.

‘Sure it’s nothing more than proof incarnate with the residue of bottles and glasses and stains staring anybody in the face that your man Crooks is a raving alcoholic.’

Three days of continuous rain later. Fields flooded. Buckets all over the house under leaks. And waking from a dream. Of having discovered my mother’s jewels. From their years secreted. A glowing glittering ransom. Of diamonds, necklaces, her tiara, strings and strings of pearls, ruby and emerald bracelets, all stacked in their steel chest. And at last found. To release me. From all future want and impoverishment. Naturally I reared up in bed shouting something like hooray and Crooks jumped back, trembling and rattling the breakfast tray. A white bandage, as if a truce had been declared, tied conspicuously over his striped trouser at the knee. Doing me the honour of personally attending to my morning nutriment.

‘Master Reginald are you alright.’

‘Sorry Crooks. I was in a dream.’

‘You reared up at me. For a second there I thought I was to get the belt of a clout.’

‘Yes well I think I was momentarily excited.’

‘No harm done. Breakfast now, here hot and ready when you are. And I shall be back presently to take instruction concerning our Tuesday impending lawn meet here at Andromeda Park.’

A hobbling Crooks in a regalia hardly suitable for top drawer butlering. But at least everything in place on my tray and carefully spreading my napkin for me. As he leaned over the bed his boiled detachable shirt front bent straining like a bow to perhaps catapult off and reveal his rugby jersey beneath. Even as one eye looked east as the other peered due north west one could see how quite red eyed he was. And grunting disapproval at the displacement of my mother’s things. Kept most irritatingly screwing up his nose each time he reached to replace a small artifact to its former position.

‘Permit me Master Reginald if you will, to preserve the arrangements your mother her late Ladyship Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond would have desired to be kept.’

Dear me, such equally pretentious palaver can pour from Crooks sober as well as drunk. Flinging titles about left, right and centre. And together with his attempting to preserve every furnishing in my mother’s rooms as it had been, plus his hindering interference in removing my mother’s collection of bath salts I’d become fond of using, did make me think it merciful for us all if he were soon found swinging from a rope in the butler’s suicide room.

‘Where are the bath salts Crooks.’

‘Ah the bath salts, the bath salts, the bath salts.’

‘Yes the bath salts.’

‘They are from Paris.’

‘I know they are from Paris, Crooks.’

‘Created by André the greatest of great perfume makers, fragrances fit only for a queen.’

Of course it’s an indelible characteristic of servants to first please themselves before pleasing oneself. And although utterly infuriating, I let Crooks hold on to his precious bath salts. Expressions such as fit only for a queen had nothing to do with my decision. But one could sense Crooks on the verge of making a remark in that risqué direction. But of course taking my acquiescence as encouragement he also promptly rearranged the bedroom to its original and inconvenient manner. One even finding he would shove my brush and comb and studs out of sight somewhere in the bureau drawer, making my dressing for dinner unnecessarily maddening. Avoided only when I decided to dine taking supper on a tray upstairs with a fire. And already prepared for bed in gown and slippers, ready to disappear buried in blankets and counterpane with my digestion undisturbed.

‘Crooks I shall take supper here tonight.’

‘Very good sir. It will be lamb this evening.’

‘Then do you think we could have a suitable claret.’

‘We’re in a bad way in the cellars.’

‘O dear, please, do find what you can.’

‘I’ve been scraping and scrimping every way imaginable to keep this household in one piece.’

‘I did only say Crooks find what you can.’

‘After long service such as mine, Master Reginald, you take to heart the tone of words as much as you would their mere meaning.’

‘Well I apologize for my tone then. And I do think you’re due some improvement in your clothes Crooks. We must look smart for the lawn meet.’

One regretted instantly having ever opened one’s mouth. Crooks putting on his most painful expression of deeply injured pride. As if one had accused him of rape, murder and sacrilege.

‘I beg your pardon Master Reginald, but these garments are fit for the likes of any of them turning up here on their high horses I assure you.’

One deliberately decided not to take lunch. As the beetle browed agent was the next on the list of sons of bitches one was to play pop with. Close off to him the comfortable mecca of the rent office where he has been holding court. Dispensing petty cash which when totalled over last week amounted to more than his wages. But by god with a thousand more trees gone missing, it will be more than injured pride he will get. Needless to say since my return he was little to be found in evidence except to report via Luke that Midnight Shadow had left a trail of destruction across the countryside. Running amok in sheep, cattle and cows, and driving the whole parish shivering in fear behind their doors.

And one caught him brazenly in the rent room opening the safe with his own set of keys. A fire blazing cosily in the stove. A tray on the desk with a bottle of best claret, slab of roast beef, vegetables and pudding. So much for Crooks’ scraping and scrimping. No bloody wonder things are in a bloody bad way in the cellars. And would you believe it, a cigar singularly resting on e’s best Meissen.

‘Ah, it’s you is it sir. Back once more from Dublin’s fair city is it. I was just getting down to a bit of business thinking you would be at your own lunch and not wanting to be disturbed.’

‘I understand there are legal threats over the runaway horse.’

‘More than threats they be sir. And it’s only facts of the matter, only the facts now as I’m telling you to your face sir. Writs for damages ready to be served by every solicitor able to read and write in the town.’

‘I suppose there will be further shenanigans from the owners of every mare that Midnight Shadow had committed rape on the sloping quarters of their luckless nags.’

‘They’d be cheering instead of complaining of that now. Only there isn’t a mare in miles that could take the shaft of that monster.’

‘Well hooray that at least is a blessing.’

‘But I’m only suggesting now that a mere fistful of fivers slipped at the right time into the right hands would soothe many a ruffled feather before things get legally antagonized as you might say. And I was at the safe here for that purpose.’

‘I’ll attend to the safe in future if you don’t mind. And there won’t be any fistful of fivers given into the right hands. And I would appreciate your leaving that set of keys. I also want all account books available for inspection. From your scribblings posted there on the wall, the list of stock, feedstuffs, timber and machinery is not only incomplete, it is, from my having counted the cattle and checked the barns and woods, also entirely fictitious.’

‘I will not be spoken to in that manner, I won’t. With years trying to get blood out of a stone in this place. I won’t be spoken to with the likes of them remarks. Not from you nor nobody like you. You’ll have my notice of resignation.’

‘And I’ll accept your notice.’

‘Who are you suddenly. Tell me. Thinking you can run this place and you still just out of short pants. And the likes of you who wouldn’t know a bullock from a heifer.’

‘I think it is more required I know a rascal from a yeoman.’

‘I’m due thirty acres by the old school house on the main road for my services over the years. And I’ll have that from you.’

‘You’ll more likely get the end of my boot to put you out of this room if you’re not singularly careful.’

‘I’ll not forfeit my rights. Call yourself a gentleman do you. Threatening me with violence are you. I’ll get the Guards to you. And a writ. I’ll give you a writ for your trouble. Accuse me of embezzlement will you. Fraud is it. When I’ve been patching this place together so the buckeen likes of you and yours can twiddle their toes in the bathwater to go lie on your backsides in silk under the crystal chandeliers. Recruiting hardworking young ladies to sweat for you.’

The agent wisely sidling round to the other side of the rent table. As one must confess I was just then aiming a fist straight at his beetled brows to knock his bowler hat flying. Which of course he had the insolence to persist wearing in my presence. Tugging it now jammed down over his ears. Throwing keys on the table and pulling open a drawer taking what appears to be a parcel wrapped in mouldering brown paper. Delicious to see his eyes glancing at his lunch tray. Cork pulled and the full bottle lying in such magnificent comfort in its wicker basket. Whose label upside down I could at last read. Chateau Cos d’Estournel. And which I must say, did give me an immediate ruddy roaring appetite.

‘I’ll have freehold my thirty acres out of you and more before I’m finished.’

‘You get out that door this second, or by god I will throw you through it.’

‘I’ve been slandered. Threatened with violence. I’ll put a writ on you.’

‘Get out. Or you’ll be murdered long before you get to a solicitor.’

‘A writ. Gentleman you call yourself.’

A series of distant doors heard slamming. Darcy Dancer ensconced at the rent table. Elbows sawing back and forth cutting nice chunks from the thick slab of beef. Napkin tucked over his gold pinned polka dot pink and blue cravat. A spot of sun beaming in the barred window. Bringing to light three ancient bullet holes in the portrait of my grandfather which were meant for and missed his then very alive head. My lips at the edge of this, his armorially engraved glass. Sipping the musky smooth velvety brick red nobility of this wine. And hugely bursting into laughter between nearly every mouthful. A quarter pound of butter in a dish. Half a loaf of Catherine’s soda bread like the most delicious cake. Swirling the claret to perfume the air and further tempt one’s mouth. The roast beef a little overcooked but refreshingly tasty nonetheless. Just as one found most unrefreshing the bitter hatred suddenly erupting from the agent which had obviously lurked smouldering in him over all these years hidden beneath his smarmy smiles and obsequious genuflections. However he did rather conjure up a very nice image indeed. Twiddling toes on one’s backside swaddled in silk. Awfully nice. And perhaps even popping grapes down one’s gullet while watching up into the celestial bliss of one’s crystal chandeliers. Quite delightsome. Before of course such ceiling glassware unhinges out of its rotted anchorage and plummets straight down on to one’s previously idyllic countenance.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

‘Do come in Mollie.’

Dingbats transfixed in the doorway with another tray. Containing a bottle of port, Cointreau and brandy. Saw me with cigar alight and nearly dropped the lot as she looked around the room, glancing even under the rent table and beyond the old oak filing cabinets. Now looking suspiciously side to side for more ghosts as she puts the liquors down and quite quickly moves again backwards to the door. Blessing herself in the usual manner.

‘Was it you it was wasn’t it I brought the lunch to.’

‘I think so Mollie.’

‘I could have swore. I’d swear. And you’d think I was a liar that it was himself the agent, so help me god was here in the flesh ordered lunch. If my mind is not playing me tricks.’

‘Your mind Mollie is playing you tricks.’

The men having spent the previous day with ropes wandering the countryside hoping to somehow entangle the wild stallion and blindfolded get him back to the stable were all now, even including old Pete and Willie both retired and pushing ninety, sitting around in the tack room, plotting useless strategies, the premier one being that of merrily wasting time. One realized one would have to head out oneself. And after such a good lunch, claret, brandy and cigar why not join them in the fun. One did attempt to put the task to them in the most indirect way possible.

‘Well I think perhaps we might give that old stallion a try again, keep him on his toes.’

Needless to say we were the first time coming upon that old stallion again running for our lives in all directions. Those at least who couldn’t climb a tree. Out of which I nearly fell laughing watching Luke go splashing face first into the bog. And luckily for him totally submerging long enough that Midnight Shadow seeing him disappear chose another victim in sight. One suspected of course that the four footed monster was completely enjoying himself. Routing us all, taking a sleeve here, a lock of hair there, the bottom out of someone’s trousers or landing a kick as he did in Mick’s belly which deposited its luncheon contents over the meadow. And then the beast rearing and with a triumphant victory roar taking off gale force cross country, black mane and tail flying.

‘Are you alright Mick.’

‘Not a bother on me, just a bit of this ould blood leaking up me throat that spit out now here all over the grass will grow great clover. Sure all I need is a kick in the backside now to put me stomach back out where it was.’

Although one could level a litany of criticisms, it had to be said that no matter what physical evil or maim seemed to befall the man that one never did hear even the most minor complaint. But after crashing through hedgerows, trampling forest meadows and bog lands mile after mile, one was oneself not only too exhausted to complain but hardly able to speak. And one was damned if one was going to do another inch of search this night or suffer such efforts to worry further of what murder and mayhem the savage animal might still do. But one thing one was sure of. Just as the stallion could not be trapped or caught, that if ever the damn creature could with its monster tool put a decent civilized kind mare in foal, you could end up lucky with a sane two year old such as would be just wild enough to have a stride and jump in him that would leave every other nag gasping furlongs behind in the Grand National.

An owl hooting. Darcy Dancer returning up the front steps of Andromeda Park. The great door scraping open to internal darkness. Boots kicked off in the hall. The sweet scent of turf smoke from the fire. Go wearily feeling my way climbing the stairs in stockinged feet. Hair congealed with salty sweat. Mud spattered up and down one’s brow. Blood dried down cheeks. The stiffened strains in one’s guts. Dublin life has softened the muscles, weakened tendons, shortened the breath and nearly civilized my mind into finding life out in this wild wilderness grossly uncomfortable. And a sorry beaten mess one feels.

‘I am Master Reginald having the towels as of old aired for you in the oven.’

‘That is much appreciated Crooks.’

‘Sir now you shouldn’t take a mad horse to heart. Sure with miles to gallop he’d be dead tired like yourself and bring harm to no one this night. And you’d find him tamed and exhausted enough to bring in in the morning.’

Darcy Dancer stretched in a hot bath. The window and mirrors steamed. The candle guttering. In safe at last But Crooks doesn’t know his ear from his elbow about horses. Or about that death on four legs marauding out there in the bleak black dark. Close one’s eyes for a sacred moment of warm peace. Except for a rat or hopefully a giant mouse gnawing at a timber somewhere. Time for toe twiddling prior to reclining a backside in the silks. Creaking floorboard in the hall. The bathroom door is opening.

‘Glory be to god.’

A gasp from Dingbats coming some few unnecessarily prolonged seconds after dropping the oven hot towels on the floor. Blessing herself and mumbling some indecipherable expression in Irish before running out the door. Dingbats has seen another ghost. Lying here quite rude to be sure. With my pole up like a periscope. Which warm soothing waters always seem to do to me. Teach her a saucy lesson not to barge in doors without knocking. But one does hope that after reciting the act of contrition and saying a rosary or two she might again reappear with my dinner. Which of course she did.

‘Dinner is served sir. Shall the tray go on the table there.’

‘Half an hour late Mollie.’

‘Sir there’s been terrors of stories told down the kitchen about the mad horse. Sure he could come back and get at us up the stairs of the house.’

‘I shouldn’t worry Mollie. But you might come back yourself and up the stairs with the condiments, wine glass and fork.’

‘There are too many shocks for me in this house to remember me name, never mind the condermints or whatever they’re called.’

Her frizzy red hair previously well camouflaging her brow and eyes now brushed in a new off the face style. Maybe so she can see more nudity. I did think sight of me in the bath did do something improving to Dingbats’ behaviour although not to her overpowering musky smell. One knows of course of the chastening effect the nakedness of the master or mistress of a house seems to have on staff. Putting them into a good humour for days on end. And now rather than a stupid frown overcoming Dingbats’ face, as usually happened when racking her brain for some asinine excuse, one found her mischievously smiling. Rendering of course her asinine excuse.

‘Ah sir them condermints must have jumped off the tray in the kitchen as they were all there just this minute ago.’

One would swear too that her chest was sticking out somewhat further. And still on her freckled face was what one could only describe as a Mona Lisa smile. Which I fear gave her countenance a rather sickly appearance, especially as she was now conspicuously licking her tongue around her lips. And engaging me in what for her was unusually familiar conversation.

‘It’s a better sort of evening sir, this evening now with the stars out.’

O my god, how does one now get a moment of privacy. Previously she seemed to be quivering in fear and couldn’t wait to get out of one’s presence and now one is informed the stars are out.

‘Ah you don’t say Mollie. Pity the shutters are closed.’

‘I’ll open them sir.’

‘No. Please don’t bother. I’ll look at the stars I think later. Thank you very much Mollie.’

Mollie departing and after feasting I was woefully suffering randy pangs conjuring up previous Dublin nights. Of a naked svelte castanet clacking Lois in her studio. One regretting all her portraits of me were in the nude. Otherwise one could hang one right here. Hammer it in with nails safe from Crooks’ removal. So soothing now to have in my hand a glass of Trockenbeerenauslese. Poured from the very last bottle of this nectar left in the cellar. And to be for chaste distraction perusing my mother’s scrapbooks and about to dig into my first spoonful of rice pudding in which I fully intended to count the raisins. So pretty too to contemplate the strange evening beauty the candle light gives to the wild bog flowers there in their vase so delicate and rare. As if one had never really seen that porcelain before.

Darcy Dancer, legs folded gently in his slippers. Thick white Aran Island stockings warmly on his feet. In air that must be growing chilled in the starry night. Turning to this page of my mother’s memories. O god damn it, a knock on the door, what is it now. It’s altogether too soon to collect my tray. One does lose all one’s savoir faire. And makes one. shout in my loudest voice. O god damn it. It will be Dingbats out in the hall squeaking that she is in a hurry to get to bed and has come for my tray. But there seems utter prolonged silence. Yet someone still remains outside lurking. Forcing me, wouldn’t you know it, angrily to get up and see. I’ll drag old smelly Mona Lisa Dingbats in by her latest styled frizzy red hair. Which is perhaps exactly what she wants me to do. My god. My heart stopped in my chest. Leila, here in the hall darkness. Her eyes averting shyly.

‘I’ve come to collect your tray sir.’

‘Please I am sorry I rather shouted, please do come in.’

Leila reaching to close the door to the chill draught blowing in from the hall. Unlike Dingbats who would let the wind blow me out the window. Leila glancing about at the changes Crooks had this very evening wrought. My mother’s firescreen back against and shielding her chaise longue.

‘I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘O no, please, by no means, you didn’t.’

‘But you’re not finished.’

‘O but I am nearly.’

‘I’ll come back.’

The dignified presence of her straight slim shy form standing in the shadows just inside the door. So comforting at a very moment when one was feeling immensely sad. Having transported oneself into the past. Solemn with the sweet strange pain of another’s memories. Pressed tiny flowers of primrose, violet and snowdrops. Between vellum pages affixed with faded photographs. Conjuring up my mother’s face and voice. Her kisses I knew as a child. Upon my face abed in the dark as she returned from hunting. And in these years of her life long before I was ever born. Her parasols. Her beribboned straw hats. Her gentle gaiety and laughter in this house. These pictures of her so gaily posed. On front lawns of great houses. Sporting and carefree at Aix Les Bains in sun and demurely risque in bathing costume. Her cold mouldering coffin there beyond amid the yew trees. When once there were these chaps in polo tournaments changing horses between chukkas. Be now such old men. Chewing cigars in their clubs. Gout in their joints. When once they swirled and danced attendance upon my mother. Their autographs she collected at parties and hunt balls. Her standing next to a stalwart mounted on a motor bike. Then animated at race meetings. Her smile. Gone from her flesh. Covered purple in the snows that night of my return. And long lain now. Faded in the grin of death. In dust lie quietly. Where all vanity vanishes. Where too my own life will go. Out hunting. As hers did. Flung down from her horse. And placed peacefully. Back into the land she loved.

‘I have intruded, sir.’

‘No. Honestly you haven’t.’

A gust of wind rattling the shutters. A whiff of turf smoke down the chimney. The mirrors of the candle lamp throwing shadows on the walls. How does one make one’s voice sound casual. To ask. Out of one’s deepest loneliness. Join me in a glass of wine. As she steps across the room. Bending to the low table. Pausing. Her dark head turning. To the scrapbook open at a large picture of top hatted gentlemen and frilly frocked ladies at Goodwood week. Another picture beneath of my mother in her long white flouncing skirts ready to play tennis. And on the page opposite her signed dance card at a grand ball in England. Among her friends. In her flowing gown. Her pearls, her tiara, and jewels glittering. And a poem drawn in a rust faded ink in my mother’s large neat hand.

Before wedding bells chime

How I do love this time

Would it could never change

This sweetness of my dream

Of being sweet seventeen.

‘I think the poem and she are so beautiful.’

Still with my glass of wine raised in my hand. And I nearly dropped it. Finding her words spoken as if she were standing inside my soul. Caught so unaware. And speechless. As I was just three previous days ago. When from the main staircase landing where always I pause to look out at the so stately silver boughed grove of beeches. I had just turned from the window to step down the remaining stairs. To see Leila standing on the black and white tiles of the front hall. She seemed suddenly taller. Her well turned slender black stockinged legs. Black hair swept back from her face, her chin raised. And I hardly know any other word one can choose but aristocratic, to describe her at that moment. As she looked up at the painting of my mother’s grand aunt. I froze frightened to move. The seconds dragging on. And still she stood there looking. Desperately not wanting to disturb her, I tried to retreat back up around the landing. Promptly of course kicking and clattering loose a carpet rod with my heel. And startled, she saw me. I felt so mortified to have intruded upon her in her quiet communion. I wanted to say. Please. Do. Go on watching. It’s my favourite painting. But even as she rushed away, I knew, that though we had yet to speak, it was as if we had already spoken. A spiritual language that only ancient friends can speak. And go as silent companions touching in each other’s lives. And there she stands now staring me straight in the eye. The chilblained redness it caused me pain to see in her trembling hands. And nervous as she clearly is, I am even more so. My dressing gown sticking out in an inexplicable randiness so that I must move behind the back of the chair. A cow moaning somewhere in the distance. The thump thump of a chimney cowl spinning. Her face flushed pink in the fire and mirrored candle light. The white skin of her neck a bright red.

‘I should not have taken such a liberty. To say that. But I could not help seeing, open as it was the other day to the page on your dresser. And some might think such a poem trivial but it so clearly came from the heart.’

The precise, confident sound of her voice. Yet so soft and sweet. Her words. Intrude. The word trivial. Coming from her soft moist lips. Leaving me awed that she should have the solemnity of spirit to think them in her mind. Under her thick black hair. Behind the alabaster beauty of her face. Surprising me so much I find my mouth opening and not a word of my own coming out. Clearly now she thinks she has overstepped her position. Before one could reply suitably. Moving her shaking hands behind her back in embarrassment. Watch her fingers move plates to balance the tray and lift it deftly. Her black stockings on her slender but strong legs. How does one deal with disaster that steals so stealthily into one’s life. So at a loss. What does one say. Stay. Put back that tray. Don’t please go towards the door. Speak your beautiful voice again. Don’t avert your eyes. As past me you go. Berry bright luscious lips pressed together as if any moment tears will pour from your eyes. Head bent. Door closing. Your feet. Gone. Leaving me more crushed and dismal now than ever. Offending you. Cruelly bruised your spirit. Nothing seems to go right in this place. Everything becoming like a dirge forever playing in one’s heart. Her words. Said again. Intrude. Trivial. How can I ever find other words to say to you back. And what I could not ever admit. Those previous three days ago. That after watching you in the hall. That later that day. At a water trough. And closing an old iron gate into a low rushy field. My hand on the wall. An evening sun coming over the rising western hills, warming one’s back. And suddenly I felt as if shot. That every energy left in me would burst forth in tears. Your name on my lips. Leila. And again. Leila. And good god it cannot. It must not. It will not Happen. That I stand here. Tonight. As I did that afternoon. Trying to make you know. I want to touch. Place my fingers against you. Press lips to your hair. Leave them there.

Like the snow lies

On the tree branches bent

To breaking