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

9

Darcy Dancer, a glass of port to his lips. The front hall door opening wide. A roar of draught up the chimney. Two ladies standing, their gloved hands politely up, smiles vanishing on their faces as Gearoid’s quickly widened on his greasy one.

‘Ah jasus wasn’t it a good hooley gone great they had in here.’

‘Well, isn’t anyone going to say hello to us.’

Darcy Dancer turning round to the sound of this familiar voice. My god. My sisters.

‘How do you do.’

‘O dear, how formal. We are your sisters you know.’

‘Yes of course, indeed how are you. Forgive me. We’ve had an entirely unpremeditated small disagreement here this evening.’

‘Well you must forgive us for not giving you more warning. But we thought as we’re now back in Dublin we’d pop down and see the old place.’

‘Delighted to have you both I’m sure.’

‘Well we are glad to be home, especially for the hunting as a matter of fact.’

‘And so nice to have you both.’

‘I’m afraid this person here has presumed to help us with our luggage. And I’m afraid we’re rather short of change.’

How of course are they to know that Gearoid, with the face like a toad, is a now and again unofficial footman at Andromeda Park, and officially permitted as a one time farmer to wear his cap and muddy boots in the house and to stink to high heaven of horse piss, stables and farmyards, while making familiar with guests and as an equal helping himself to copious of his host’s wines and beers in order to keep himself happily half out of his senses. And how are they to know this goggly eyed, shabbily attired crew before them are the same lot who in our mother’s day ministered in such impeccable splendour. I suppose if they ever dreamt of this place over all these years it must be one ruddy rude awakening. As good grief tennis racquets in their luggage. What on earth are they expecting. Of course in one’s sunnier moments one did think of restoring the tennis court to playing condition. And needless to say soon find oneself lobbing balls up into the rain sodden clouds as one splashed muddily underfoot splattering one’s white playing garments and sending gobbets of muck unhelpfully into one’s partner’s eyes. Perhaps from childhood, one is overly alarmed by their sense of presumed ownership being as the pair of them purloined my toys and constantly plotted to frighten me out of my wits. Even to threatening to snip my penis off with a scissors. And now, by the sound of their first few words, they return such utter Sassenachs. And I am as Sexton says. Undisputed Pasha of Andromeda Park. At least one is relieved to find them quite mature looking ladies of attractive facial appearance. Hope to god their high flown vowels, gay laughter and light jokes, will distract the Mental Marquis’s rabid gaze and attention from Leila. Which is so utterly enlarging the hole at the bottom of my sinking soul. And of course, as would embarrassingly happen, my sisters’ names, on the tip of my tongue, have gone both flying straight out of my head. Quite maddening as one does at least want to make a decent impression. But bloody hell the Marquis has cocked his other leg forward, changed his drink from one hand to the other and is now smilingly pointing out Leila’s most admired painting to her. As my blood drains away into a groaning yawning abyss of jealousy. And O god. I am completely ignoring my sisters. But that bloody man is there brazen and blatant, clicking his heels on the tiles and clearly adoring to hear himself talk while his engorged prick is absolutely forcing his breeches out a mile. Leaving me in deep spiritual snooker. Yes, that’s where you are my dear chap. Blue bloody bananas, how incredibly stupid it was to have invited him to dinner tonight. But then he did kick one or two interlopers in the arse and one was flattered by his back slapping camaraderie and jollity in nearly regarding me as a long lost friend. Of course it will relieve oneself of one’s sisters’ prying questions. For instance, where are our dear mother’s jewels. To which I would adore to lay hand to, myself. Of course the Marquis does occasionally display a sensitivity of spirit that comes of deep melancholia. And his words did rather cheer me up.

‘I say there Kildare. Can you imagine the bloody insolence coming into a man’s house causing a disturbance like this. Demands a boot up a few holes. But damn it. I do seem to accost you at the most delicate of times. How are you my dear chap. Not seen each other I do believe since last we met at the barber’s. Following your delicately relieving me of a fiver in the Royal Hibernian Hotel. Caught me incognito you did. As I was reflecting on St Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians. But you’re the first man who’s ever touched me for a fiver and repaid it by god. But apropos of this season’s hunting don’t you think it nice that we have a Master of Foxhounds with the signal advantage of having particularly strong piss to release in our various badger and fox holes. And by god cause any fox getting a sniff to definitely avoid seeking shelter therein and to go on merrily chased running for his life. Don’t you think that a damn good thing Kildare. Except that the thirsty chap has to damn near quaff all one’s whisky to do his required peeing.’

Of course I did fervently think that an absolutely marvellous benefit. And indeed did watch close up the Master unravel his astonishingly long penis and take several of his pisses, till he lurchingly missed a hole and stank up my boot. One can’t suppose the Marquis is all bad. In fact his taste in women appears to be too damn good. He’s awfully hairy arsed of course. And I’m sure he knows it was me galloping along the old avenue of lime trees, and thundering down upon him to jump flying over on the Master’s stolen horse as he rogered Baptista on the mossy ground. The vision of him pumping away between Baptista’s unbooted flailing legs, totally unconcerned for my mount’s hoofs scraping the top of his balding head, will go with me to the grave. Provided the Royal Hibernian Hotel keyhole sight of him with his chastisement equipages and his besaddled hind quarters being whipped as she giggled and gasped around the room doesn’t blot it out. And I cannot bear to contemplate him even standing near Leila never mind being nudely on top of her. Especially as the bastard is used to riding such big enormous horses. Perhaps one’s sisters changing décolleté for dinner out of their rather less than fashionable clothes may attract him. My god it wouldn’t be the worst thing to end up with a brother in law with sixteen thousand walled in acres, possessed of a damn good trout lake, salmon river and a castle where your voice echoes in the front hall.

‘Now there you be your ladyships. Weep not. And both of you sine dubio let me tell you are a sight for my one sore eye, dominus vobiscum.’

Sexton. Saviour of his master, and utterly in his element. Having all those years ago danced so much previous attendance on my sisters. His little goddesses he called them. For whom he now runs twice back and forth, both arms loaded with the rest of their luggage which Gearoid, spotting a nearby whiskey bottle, suddenly found too heavy to carry. And the amount of which my god does ruddy indicate much more than a short stay. Two vast steamer trunks. Five suitcases. And at least eleven hat boxes clearly means as many as a half dozen race meetings. Sexton, obviously intending to continue severe social elevation of my sisters’ entitlements. And thank god, reminds one of their names.

‘Ah Lady Christabel. Ah Lady Lavinia. Sine dubio too long has this great house been denied the great beauty you took from it upon your departure and now bring back to it upon your return.’

‘Oh how nice of you to say, Sexton.’

One must confess. It was pretty damn nice and just in the ruddy nick of time. And Crooks thank god, blessedly minus soiled bandages and not looking like some down and out alcoholic person, has emerged too. Into the desperation of one’s inadequacy. And bowing to each of them.

‘Lady Christabel. Lady Lavinia. Welcome home. I trust your journey did you no discomfort that your ready and waiting hot baths will not completely dispel.’

My god. Listen to him. Why don’t I get some of this ruddy elegant attention occasionally. He really is on his best behaviour. Of course the Marquis does rather tone up the atmosphere. And damn him, is pretentiously conducting Leila around to further paintings, spouting out what god awful guff one can not imagine. As I’m damn sure the only culture he’s ever been acquainted with is the curvature of his prick. Which bloody hell is now even more pointed in his breeches. Somehow one wishes one had Crooks’ crossed eyes. When no one can even remotely guess where you’re looking. Can be such a help sometimes. Since I can see so straight. At this painful sight resulting in one’s most painful sour demeanour. And then the next awful embarrassment. Triggered off by Crooks.

‘Shall I show their ladyships to their rooms.’

With Christabel stretching her neck out of an emerald green satin scarf and pointing her nose upwards, taking it upon herself to suggest.

‘Thank you Crooks, Mummy’s old rooms will do for me.’

‘I’m afraid your ladyship, I venture to regret that her late ladyship’s apartments are already occupied.’

Even then one should have quite clearly known it was already obvious how the wind was blowing. And to get a further blast of it as one was an hour later descending dressed, for drinks to be served in the library. Overhearing one’s sisters just at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I think I shall any moment scream aloud.’

‘Why Christabel.’

‘Because Lavinia, it is so damn cold in this house and so wretchedly dirty and dusty.’

Of course no dirt or dust on them as they did appear, teeth flashing at the Marquis, well washed and brushed up. Although mountainously goose pimpled and blue on their much exposed anatomies. The Marquis immediately taking to announcing over his full whisky glass a rather boastful account of his most recent hunting mishap. While Christabel and Lavinia, fanning their arses feverishly at the fire, tittered and titillated over their sherries. The Marquis obviously just waiting to roll his vowels concerning his horse rolling on him as each time Leila came in the library from whence she was removing two candelabra for the dining room. His eyes flicking up at her. Ignoring my sisters’ adoration. And my distinct irritation. I must say even as rich as he is rumoured to be one does even vaguely, and very vaguely think one should hint of a substantial dowry available with the better built of one’s sisters. Who by present cleavages would appear to be Lavinia. Perhaps a little plumpish on the upper arm. No matter. She’s slightly taller than Christabel. And broader in the beam. That helps in breeding. But I do think she has, on further real scrutiny, smaller tits. Yes she does. Of course who’s ever to notice when for the rest of their Irish sojourn I’m sure both will be bundled up in long flowing armour plated thick tweed suits. And boots of one sort or another. But O god one just knows, that those self same mounds on the chest of Leila would be revealed as such rare delicate gems. Nor are my sisters’ good legs apparent in these most awful ankle boots edged with sheep fur they’re still bloody wearing, thinking they can’t be seen under their gowns. Obviously not taking any bloody chances with the temperatures in the dining room. Of course their best points are their accents. British in the extreme. Damn Marquis ought to appreciate that. But of course doesn’t. Arse is the only thing on his ruddy mind. They must have both said jolly good show twenty times in the last five minutes. And would no doubt have said it fifty times if they weren’t so busy smiling their heads off at him. And then had the nerve to look about at me at what one irritatingly suspects are one’s occasionally more than slightly broguish vowels. And that’s now the second bloody full glass of whisky he’s downed. Just as one turns around. First he’s there toying and touching a brimming drink you think he’s never going to put to his lips. And then presto. The glass is empty. Perhaps one ought to bolster one’s own spirit, and quaff an equal amount. Then in the luxury of loose tongues remind his lordship of his station in life. Not ruddy done to prance about with one’s prick pointing at someone else’s servant. Divert his attention back to one’s sisters. In the shabby hope that mauling about in a drunken coupling somewhere discreet upstairs he might get one of them pregnant. Ah, at long last, Crooks. And look at this. White gloves. We are on parade tonight.

‘Sir, Master Reginald, dinner is whenever you are.’

The dining room lit like a ballroom. And the fire blazing so hot in the grate Lavinia said her back was getting sunburned. Serves her right. Crooks barking out orders. As if he were really on some ruddy parade ground. Or even on the bridge of a ship. The latter distinctly in a hurricane. Leila, Kitty and Norah, and even Dingbats. Bumping into each other. Cutlery continually clattering on the floor. But only two plates breaking. Which Dingbats accomplished taking away his lordship’s too soon, to which she clung as he tried to grab it back. A nice exhibition of impeccable appetite if not manners.

‘Hey where the hell again my dear do you think you’re going with that when a chap is as famished as I am from hunting all day.’

‘I am sorry your majesty.’

‘I’m not a bloody king.’

‘Pardon me sir.’

‘I’m a potato digging bog trotter like the rest of you. Just have a few more acres than most to do it in.’

Of course my sisters loved every word out of his mouth. Even laughed as he ladled a little gravy on his pate. And rubbed it in to make as he said, his hair sprout. Of course he was not known as the Mental Marquis for nothing. And I must confess myself finding him occasionally damn funny. But one’s amusement wore damn thin each time he actually stopped talking waiting for Leila to come back into the room.

‘Ah wait, we must wait, till all our beautiful ears are listening.’

Shovelled in along with his Brussels sprouts, eight slabs of lamb he consumed. Pucks of potatoes. Quaffed two bottles of my best claret. Interrupted three of my best jokes. Of which I only know four. And he of course would take ages helping himself to anything Leila was serving. Remarking on how marvellously steady she was holding the dish. When anyone could see she was shaking like a leaf. And finally one found it a solace when my sisters withdrew. And I found it increasingly difficult to remain civil and execute one’s duties as a host. Crooks with the cigars and Leila placing the port on the table.

‘Ah there now Kildare is a combination. Exquisite decanter held by an exquisite hand.’

One simply could not look at Leila’s face. In case she was pleased by this quite pedestrian observation. Plus she did have chilblains. Crooks did however close proceedings with one of his sepulchral announcements concerning the decanter’s contents.

‘Laid down the day upon which you were born sir.’

‘Ah Crooks are you referring to me or his Lordship.’

‘To you of course sir.’

‘Ah I do apologize Crooks but you will forgive me for saying so, I did think you were looking at his Lordship.’

Needless to say we were all getting crosseyed. Crooks happily not taking my comment amiss. Clapping his hands going back in through the pantry door and whispering to those assembled there.

‘Get your ears back away from here listening at the door, the lot of you. Be quick about it.’

The Marquis knowing of his eager audience beaming in a broad smile pouring himself a port and pushing the decanter at me. The wind bellowing and rumbling up the chimney just as one imagined one heard a slate crash off the roof somewhere. Or was it a member of the staff crying rape. All sounds were getting to sound the same.

‘Kildare, dear chap. Jolly good dinner. Jolly damn good port. Jolly damn good as my own. But let’s get down to brass tacks here, as hunting men. She is, quite without doubt Kildare, the most exquisitely alluring elegantly beautiful creature I have ever seen. And what’s more with a surname quite out of the context of being a servant. Surely you’re not keeping her here like this are you. I mean forgive me my dear chap I have no intention to meddle in your domestic affairs, none whatever. But come come. Out with it now. The lady, for that’s clearly what she is, knows about art.’

‘She does quite.’

‘Does quite. Does more than does quite, damn it. Telling me about the Florentine, she was. Giotto, Donatello, bloody Michelangelo. This o and that o. Of course I was mostly tight as a newt when I was in Florence. And the dear creature has hardly even been to Tralee yet. Got a mind as impressive as her beauty. Damn good port this. I mean to say dear boy, one does get one’s fill of empty chatterboxes occasionally. So nice to talk a moment of the finer things. But the middle ages are over. Can’t keep a girl locked away. I mean to say a man is now and again caught with his kilt up, like any man who likes a gallop.’

‘I can’t see what exactly you’re driving at sir.’

‘Damn it Kildare I’m not your grandfather, call me Horatio, that’s my Christian name. I know behind my back I’m called something else. But there’s a lass for which one lays down one’s future. Of course I’ve got my past plethora of indiscretions. Of course I have. Skeletons clacking in the rear vestibule pantry closet, and that sort of thing. One does get in an occasional spot of bother as a fledgling flying officer. Then as you rise up in rank you tend to try to stop your junior officers making the same sort of high flying fools of themselves. I could do with going up for a spin in a Spitfire tonight. What about that Kildare. I’ll come over in an aircraft one of these days. You’ve got enough level meadow for a landing field. Have a few wizard bloody prangs. Take you upstairs. Buzzing the bloody peasants hereabout downstairs. But now admit it. What’s a young devil like you doing with a girl here as a skivvy whose sidelong glances could one day change the course of nations.’

‘I’m afraid I rather do regard your remarks as being transparent.’

‘What. Bloody hell, Kildare. I don’t like the sound of that word one bit. But since I’m drinking your damn fine port let’s not quarrel about that, especially when the subject of brains is at stake. Now don’t you agree that a woman’s mind is of some importance. I mean let’s face it man to man. You put your old what for up their well meant for and you do your best done for and then you want to be immediately a mile away shooting snipe. Wouldn’t it be better to be able to have a civilized word with a woman one has just pranged. What the deuce is the matter with you Kildare. Don’t you see what I’m talking about here. It’s a matter of principle.’

Of course both of us calling for still more port were finally quite tight. And totally forgetting my sisters. Till Crooks appropriately clearing his throat at the door reminded one. As much as one found the Marquis’ designs on Leila a bitter thought one does admit it could brighten her future. And also rid me of one of my very best reasons for remaining alive. Which does make one considerably angry especially as he keeps dropping more than a little of his cigar ash on the carpet. But one does still find him amusing. As well as suddenly sad. Sitting there. Staring into space. Looking terribly lonely.

‘You see Kildare. Fraud, artifice, overreaching and deception are fundamental to democracy. Therefore I believe in socialism. You know what that is do you. Fair shares for all you know. We’ve been kicking the damn peasants around for too long. Now they’re trying to kick us. I don’t mind them poaching a few of my bloody salmon but some damn rogue has killed about two hundred of my trees. Hammered a copper nail into each wretched one. Our way of life is going you know. We want to be ready. When socialism comes. Yes siree as they say in Amerikay. You know power to the ruddy people and all that kind of cod’s bloody wallop. It’s a pity, but brains are not going to matter in the future you know. Fault of too much damn thinking getting nobody anywhere in the past. The war you know. Made too many people realize you had to kick someone in the goolies if you wanted him to do something. Man to man Kildare, what does a brainy chap like you think of socialism.’

‘I have not as a matter of fact recently thought about it.’

‘Well you think about it Kildare. But by god when you’ve got a female item like that gaoled out in this neck of the god forsaken bog.’

‘I’ll thank you not to refer to her as an item.’

‘What. What. Good god. You’re not, are you. Smitten too. By jove you are. You well and truly are. Your face may be affected by the wine dear chap but a bloodier blush than that I’ve never seen. Now look here Kildare. Just shut up and listen won’t you for a moment. Girl like that. Should be in London and Paris. I’ve got a proposition to make you. Now here it is in a nutshell. You agree to my taking her, quite properly chaperoned of course, over to my place where she can be trained up, and if a spade’s to be called a spade, also groomed damn it, and polished. Made fit for society. And not bloody high society am I talking about here. I mean good bloody sound society. And if you’d only shut up and listen Kildare. The girl already knows some French. And we’d teach her some Italian too. Chi nasce bella nasce maritata. If you get my meaning. I mean someone’s going to steal her Kildare. And it may as well be a damn decent kindly chap like me.’

Who the hell does he bloody well think he is. Expecting me to hand her over like a sack of oats, just because his damn decent kindly prick’s been recently rigid over their lofty cultural conversation. All he is, is just a bloody Marquis. And all she is, is just a bloody servant. O god. How the hell do I tell him to fuck off to mid Sahara. And there having erected the appropriate scaffolding go and cohabit with a camel. I even see her face when I stare at the wall across this room. Every damn place I look. Outside on the stones. Her eyes, lips, teeth. Gems in the moss. While I think of her. And am so desperate to know. If she thinks of me.

‘Sir, you rang.’

‘Yes. Bring a bottle of champagne. His Lordship and I also require a sabre.’

Of course Crooks, returning cobwebbed from the gunroom was half an hour finding the latter and nearly jumped through the ceiling as the Marquis sent the blade whistling through the air knocking off the champagne bottle’s top and cork with a single cut.

‘Forgive me your grace for me jump.’

‘That’s alright Crooks. I’m not a duke yet but I’m a bloody good swordsman, what.’

‘You are indeed and no mistake sir.’

‘Bring some to the ladies Crooks, please. Tell them we’ll be joining them.’

‘Very good sir.’

‘No on second thoughts, wait. They may drink it all.’

‘This is a fairly big damn room you know, Kildare. What you need down that end either side of the window are a couple of Regency carved giltwood girandoles. Just happen to have a pair collecting dust. Commemorating Nelson’s victory at the battle of the Nile. As you scoop up your pudding, you contemplate his sterling triumph knocking any of those wogs for a loop. Don’t want to be a spiv about it, but I could let you have them at a decent price if you’ve a mind. Damn decent price in fact. Bit of decorative ornate gold leaf would cheer this place up. And you ought to have a Kingwood parquetry commode right there. Also happen to have one which would suit. Or is that damn presumptuous of me.’

‘O no. Not at all. I like people to come into my house and cast their eyes around and comment freely upon one’s shortcomings. Especially when they appear to have a warehouse full of exactly the items necessary to correct one’s poor taste. Gives one, how shall I say it, a certain confidence that one day in the future, provided I avail of the splendid bargains being offered, my house will be properly furnished. Nice to have something like that to aspire to.’

‘You know Kildare. I like you. Think we could be damn good friends as a matter of fact. Ah, and I deserve that. Damn it. Quite right. You Thormonds always did know how to grasp the nettle. As if it were some pulchritudinous lady’s limb. And, as I understand from quite a few voices, you were indeed trying to do out hunting today. That Baptista dear boy. Bit of a trollop. Don’t look at me in all innocence. As if your eyes are going to fall out. And don’t turn your nose up at my girandoles. Sixteen hundred quid, the pair. Seven fifty for the commode. No. Let’s make that thirteen for the girandoles, five for the commode. Both cheap at the price.’

‘I haven’t seen them yet.’

‘See. Are you doubting their middle eighteenth century authenticity.’

‘Well they could be falling to bits.’

‘Well as a matter of fact they are but it’s a damn bloody reasonable price I’m asking. Good carpenter put them right.’

And finally on the way to join the ladies in the east parlour. Heading along the hall to the slow military clomp of his Lordship’s riding boots.

‘By the way Kildare how are you off for shotguns, have a pair of side lock ejector Purdeys.’

‘I’m fine for shotguns at the moment, but there wouldn’t be a bend in the barrels.’

‘You’re cheeky Kildare. Very cheeky. Offer you a bargain and you riposte with a bloody slander on Purdeys.’

Crooks following his tray held much higher than he usually manages bearing the champagne and glasses. And patiently waiting for his Lordship to sell me a few more console tables for bare spots along the hall wall. I’m not sure that the damn man is not trying to unload all his castle junk and take more than a few quid from me at the same time. This house must give him the impression I have more money than my ancestors had taste. And if that’s his conclusion, instead of in his trees, the Marquis must have had put in the baldest part of his head a bloody copper nail which is killing off his excess spivvy brain cells. Dear me, who knows, but just like me, he may not, for all his land presently have a jade pot to piss in. Although his ruddy father the Duke owns enough to start a couple of small nations. But one does have the impression seeing him standing there that he is utterly happy and utterly contented puffing on his cigar. Just as must be his horse utterly uncomplaining presently out in the stables munching up my hot bran, beetroot, hay and oats. Of course Dingbats did rather heap whipped cream in place of mayonnaise on his salmon. And then of course in one’s bonhomie inebriation of winy bliss to make up for it, as one does, and to make matters even worse for oneself, one did do the unbelievably stupid thing. And offer the Marquis a bed.

‘Kind of you Kildare but my hunter Rapscallion will take me home. Can fall asleep on that old fellow, and wake up on my front steps. But hold on why not, now that you mention it. I think I would damn welcome a bed. Just as my poor old tired horse would welcome not to have to hack miles in the dark.’

And now Crooks is going to any second collapse with his Lordship going off on another tack.

‘But by god, what’s this Kildare, a Tiepolo. Surely not. But by jove, it is, is it. No. Not. Maybe from the school at best. Want to sell. Good price.’

Poor Crooks his arms beginning to waver under the weight of the tray. When one thinks of it, Crooks is sometimes a real dedicated servant. When he is not goosing another member of the staff. My god when one does think of it, poor sod is up there in his celibate cell for years on end. Of course one would mercifully hope that he was past it at his age. And not poking plaster out of the walls in search of self satisfaction. As one is nearly doing oneself except that any fervent attempt would certainly crash this whole place to the ground. Crooks does seem to take pleasure from the Marquis remarking on furnishings and paintings. And is shaking his head up and down in assent at even ms bloody wheeling and dealing, as if he knew the girandoles were the answer to our prayers.

Darcy Dancer and his Lordship followed by Crooks entering the north east parlour. Lavinia and Christabel purple with cold huddling forward over the fire. And would you believe it, both now wearing what to my eye looks like my mother’s evening slippers. Indeed they are. Bloody, bloody nerve. Must have gone into my apartments and bloody rummaged around in my mother’s closets. And as his Lordship and I nearly fall in the door cigar first, Lavinia plumping down on the settee swinging up her dress with her pasterns showing. Two of them holding open copies of Tatler and Sketch. Clearly they must have been straining their eyes reading in the light of two candles.

‘Good gracious me. I did think we had been abandoned.’

‘Ah my lovely ladies. It is I who have I fear been transgressing good manners with a too long prolonged talk on politics and furniture and pictures to your more than tolerant brother.’

‘O dear, you were both being brainy.’

‘Well, attempts. Attempts. At best.’

Of course one does take one’s dinner and always awakes next morning not remembering a single topic or word of conversation one had the entire previous and agreeable evening. Proof that the exercise of one’s intellect is not needed to aid one’s pleasant digestion. But dear me, what ladies won’t hysterically do when sniffing even the vaguest hopes of becoming a Marchioness, not to mention ultimately a Duchess. If of course the Mental Marquis’ equally dotty father, the present Duke, demises. Astonishing how women size men up. Not quite like they would the best cut of beef in a butcher’s. But by memorizing every ruddy line of lineage in Debrett. Don’t care if your hair is falling out of your head and growing in profusion on your arse. Or if you’re wobbling along like a frog on two flat feet providing you’re doing it on your own endlessly extensive acreage. Or even if your toes are webbed. Which of course is awfully nice if you’re intending to beget children who shall wish to go fast as swimmers.

Christabel demurely lowering Tatler and Sketch as if it were some article of strip tease, which indeed she thinks it is the way she is batting her eyes.

‘O how wonderful champagne. But whatever happened to the bottle, Crooks.’

‘It was madam, sabred by his Lordship.’

Lavinia looking at Christabel as if this were some custom they were soon to have to come to terms with in this loony bin and the less inquiry the better. God. There the two of them are. Possessed of breasts and quite hysterically pukka vowels. And not that many years ago they were trying to stuff me into their toy pram. Calling me their own little baby. Nearly suffocating me with covers over my face as I struggled to get out And then when our mother died would call me their own little orphan. Exhibiting me to guests and saying, now watch, watch how we can make him cry. Then putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, they’d say, your mummy is dead isn’t she, your mummy is dead little brother and she will never, never come back again, will she. And of course I would cry. But the pain of this was never as searing as it had been when my mother still lived and they’d say your mother has gone away and left you little brother, little boy. And then I would get down on my knees and join my hands and sobbingly pray aloud, O please dear god, I beg you please bring my mummy back. And then they’d say, she’s out in the hall, we just heard her come back from hunting. As many times as they had previously played this trick on me I would still arise and rush out into the dark hall desperate with hope. And where, as I stood there sobbing, they’d say, O dear she’s not here she really has gone. So racked and wretched was I that I would press my face and body against the wall. Listening to the sound of winds shuddering up the chimney. All else in the empty hall a howling silence. And when it did finally happen that my mother came through the door to the I imagined for the longest time it was a dream, even to watching her coffin placed away. Down slowly in the ground. And so strange then that I shed not a single tear.

‘O this is nice champagne. Dear brother. If you don’t mind my calling you that, and also asking, whatever has got you so lost in reverie. Brainy matters I’m sure.’

‘No, not particularly. In this rather dumb part of the midlands it does not do to think too much.’

‘O dear we are cynical. Dear brother.’

One did attempt all the usual avenues of polite conversation, that not discussing horses and hunting allowed. Which meant, one is ashamed to admit, of hardly being able to say a word. But the words said did soon present the Mental Marquis, his head sunk back on the sofa cushion, his eyes slowly closing and faded out of consciousness, uproariously snoring. One did feel a little sorry for one’s sisters although they would understand that even drinking cauldrons of coffee, no one can keep their eyes open after hunting all day. Happily instead of taking umbrage, they laughed.

‘Dead to the world. And I think we ought to achieve the same dear brother and retire. It has been a long day. I’ve ordered breakfast for eight and a horse at ten. And if any of the motor cars are working again, and the petrol is to spare, we might motor to visit about. Who is there now who’s chauffeuring.’

‘I’m afraid the cars are laid up.’

‘O what a nuisance.’

Dreadful feeling. Only once have they voiced during the evening that it was nice to be home again. Christabel clearly thinks this place is utterly at her beck and call. And ah, that was a grimace of distinct distaste. As my god I do believe the Marquis not only snored, but at the very apogee of his nasal wind also shuddered in all his limbs and exploded in a sonorous manner a regrettably long and what is to my aware nostrils a lethal fart. Producing on one’s sisters’ faces a look of having just been slapped. Indicating that they might like his ruddy title considerably a whole lot, but certainly do like much less than a little, his impending fume. I knew that something terrible was going to happen tonight. And this is a sound and smell of more to come.

‘Well upon that note, sisters.’

‘Yes indeed upon that note we bid you adieu.’

‘I do with all apologies say goodnight on behalf of his Lordship.’

‘Yes quite. Goodnight.’

‘And goodnight, Dancer.’

The parlour door closing. The hounds loosing long mournful wails out in the night. Lavinia’s voice so much less strident and softer than Christabel’s. And I suspect perhaps even comes of a kinder heart which still holds some affection towards me. And she and I at the other end of the wood were always seeing a leprechaun sitting on the end of a long log and as we got close and he ran we would find a great old spider’s web and an old shoe. And then when I could at a very early age finally outdistance her either on my own legs or that of a horse, she chose of all my names to call me Dancer, after that great steeplechaser, for whom I was christened.

‘Kildare. My god Kildare. I must have dozed off. Did I fart. I did. Hope the ladies weren’t offended. One thing to remember about the fart it does no one any permanent physical damage. Unless to the perpetrator himself who attempts to hold it. Have another glass of that damn good champagne. Wake me up.’

One was tempted to tell the Marquis attired out hunting in black coat and bowler, he could be mistaken for a groom. He is of course entitled to wear pink as a former MFH. Adopts these little tricks to trip people up. Who want to talk to him because of his entitlement but who otherwise would ignore him. His hunter Rapscallion reputed to be eighteen hands one. Nearly as big as Midnight Shadow. Who if anyone could ever get near enough to the beast to make a measurement official, might find him eighteen hands two.

‘You’re staring at me Kildare. I know one does look a bit of a scruff. Keeps the arse lickers up from Dublin at bay. And a man’s mind on his hunting instead of damn whores. You know, not a bad little place you have here. Came as a child a few times with my dear old mother. Time flies. Damn it you know if one discounts the happiness of fox hunting, the world when you look at it is pretty damn sad isn’t it. I drink too much. I’ll be dead in five years or less. Damn sad when you think of it. Damn bloody sad. Bones shovelled in an old coffin. Piper playing a lament. But let’s bloody well hear some of the damn Count.’

‘Count what or Count who.’

‘The Count of course. You’ve got a gramophone. Damn Count is called for.’

‘Well I fear you do have me foxed.’

‘I mean the bloody tenor of course. What’s wrong with you Kildare. McCormack. The great John. Garden where the fucking praties grow. Walk me by the fucking Grecian Bend. You mean you don’t have his records. Don’t tell me that.’

The clock tower bell striking two a.m. when it was not yet midnight. The Marquis deprived of the Count sang in an astonishingly good voice some very common Irish songs which to my mind had their origins in Tin Pan Alley. But quite entertaining nonetheless. Tears welling in his eyes as the words the sun or moon or something sank on Galway Bay. He sabred another bottle of champagne, nearly taking off my head and exploding and splashing the wine around the room. Broke the face of the clock on the chimney piece with flying glass.

‘Damn sorry about that Kildare. Fucking up your chattels in this way. Can’t always make a clean cut. But let’s drink.’

Turf embers glowing in the grate. The room growing chill. The Mental Marquis, mud spattered on his stock, his boots off, stretched back deep in the swansdown.

‘Beware of the women Kildare. I speak as a man already had by three wives. During which time it took five damn expensive mistresses to give me some kind of damn comfort. No children, that’s the pity. I’ve got a bastard here and there alright. Of course the mistresses would have me marry them too. To be bloody twelfth marchioness or is that thirteenth. Even if it’s a title in courtesy only, that’s a hell of a lot of damn marchionesses, what. One damn well ends up like a factory manufacturing marchionesses till they’ll bloody be tuppence a dozen. What. And all running off with the family jewels. Bloody last one got off with four necklaces, three bracelets, two rings, never mind a mass of earrings and an emerald and diamond stomacher brooch. That alone could have when I’m finally skint, kept me in comfort in some nice little boarding house in Folkestone till I get cremated. One’s not a piker of course. Just want the dear girls to leave a little something for the next marchioness, that’s all. Instead of buggering off on my emolument to Monte Carlo, Spain and a lot of other woggish places. One hates to be feeding, housing, clothing another man’s piece of ass, as the Americans refer quite aptly to such slices. Bloody hell, Kildare I support the bloody lot, lock, stock and bloody barrel. I’m being impoverished is the sum of it. And if one of them ever bloody well remarries I’ll gladly eat my hat. In fact I’ll eat all my bloody hats, including my coronet and flying helmet and goggles without salt. Lock’s stock and bloody barrel if you get the pun of the first. And as one has been sparse on top that means more damn headwear than my old abused guts could digest in a hurry. Makes a man realize that pranging a down to earth prostitute is man’s cheapest way to satisfaction. And you know, you are an agreeable chap to listen like this. To my rantings. But I suppose any man who takes a fiver off me the way you did knows the ways of the world. And damn if you’re not a dozen years my junior. Always feel a con man chancer is deserving of the deepest respect.’

‘I think I must beg your pardon.’

‘Now don’t bloody well be offended Kildare. You have the makings of a great con man chancer. Without people like you the whole world would be in revolution. Thieving is the escape valve of the lower orders.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You’re a commoner Kildare. A bogman. Pure and simple. But since you use a bog to shoot snipe in, it makes all the difference.’

Having been a past below stairs servant and groom one did not easily tolerate his Lordship’s remarks. But amazing the presumption a title gives. He went on rambling as we proceeded out to the stables to see Rapscallion. One thing to be said, he really adored his horse.

‘Look at that kind eye, Kildare. That noble head.’

His nag however was back at the knee, upright in the pasterns, dipping in the back and sloping in the quarters. Never mind, fondness makes up for all that. And outside owls hooting, we had a look up at the stars utterly splendid cold and daunting to one’s tiny presence taking a long piss on the lawn. And at last to bed. His Lordship an arm around my shoulder and leading him lurching up the stairs. In candle smoke smell, snuffing them out behind us with a long handled church snuffer. Down the hall to my old bedroom. The Marquis pausing, muddy boots grasped to his breast as he leaned towards the last candle.

‘Kildare you’re a brick you know. Con man chancer but a brick. But you don’t ruddy know how to snuff out candles. Squeeze the flame. Wet your fingers.’

His Lordship’s quizzical eyes. The dried spots of mud on his lapels. A frown furrowing on his brow. Putting a hand up to the side of his head.

‘My ruddy ears ring all the time, Kildare. Too much aircraft engine noise during the war. Makes you sometimes want to blow your head off.’

A candle already alight in my old bedroom. And Crooks of course, wouldn’t you know, has placed with a glass and decanter of water, a bottle of my very best pure Scotch whisky on the bedside cupboard. Not that one begrudges it. But bloody hell yes, one does begrudge it.

‘Kildare, that’s a damn decent highland malt there. This is very hospitable of you. I must put you up for my club in London. Only a handful of very very select members. Took over an old battle scarred house. Popped a couple of hunchback brothers down the cellars, one cooks the other does the portering and waiting. As we are not heavily endowed as a club, fees are a bit steep. But the ruddy wine and privacy is unexampled. Except for the hunchback brothers fighting in the basement. Bit of occasional early morning screaming, shouting and slamming doors over which one is to put out the garbage. Give you a bed in London. Into which, provided you don’t fuss up the other handful of members you can comfort yourself with a bit of crumpet of an evening. But don’t get the bloody idea I’m a ponce or it’s a whorehouse. Hope I’m not giving you that impression Kildare.’

‘Well no not quite yet as a matter of fact. But of course I’m still listening.’

‘Ha I like you, Kildare. I damn well like you. Consider yourself a member. Phonecall by four p.m. will get you a supper. But roll in any time for pot luck. Along with suitable bare breasted ladies on the game, we invite a guest of honour quarterly and amusingly insult the ruddy shit out of him at the end of the table. Of course the food and wine are so good the ruddy fellow is too busy eating and drinking to give a damn. It’s how of course one is accepted to membership. Nice old commodious house too. Donated it to the common cause. The old boy the Duke doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve named it the Putney Club, after him. Man must have a reliable place to bring his occasional fly by night bird. And if you don’t intend her to be permanent in your coop, other members who are momentarily short of the avian species, why they go aerial with her if you get my meaning. But it’s no ruddy whorehouse remember. Nice young chap like you, the world lies before you Kildare. The world. Never forget that. Don’t get skint like me.’

‘I am already skint.’

‘O. Sorry to hear that. Damn nuisance for you. Damn sorry. O that is a pity, isn’t it. Well we have reduced memberships at the club. I’ll bring it up with the secretary. No need Kildare to worry. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Pop of cork out of the whisky bottle. The Mental Marquis pouring himself a drink. Darcy Dancer, hand on the door knob.

‘And O, by the way Kildare, Bangkok that’s the place where you might plan to go and have a damn good fucking. Marvellous place for the ladies, both for the ones already there and the ones you bring with you. Cool season is November to February. Young man like you wants to be properly schooled in these things. Only damn sensible thing my father did was to recommend it to me. It’s a great art you know. And one never gets done finished learning. I mean you know about fucking. Never get finished. I mean learning about damn good fucking. Goodnight Kildare.’

‘Goodnight.’

One proceeded feeling one’s way by the wall, back down the hall. Bangkok, good lord. Damn good fucking. I mean to say, chap obviously thinks me a rank amateur. Certainly there is no question as to what Leila’s paltry fate would be at his hands. Shoved half naked into his London club. Members sitting around dinner with harlots’ knickers over their heads. Jumped upon and pranged by the other members who had gone inebriatingly aerial. The hunchbacks no doubt rushing about with wind socks and suitable flags giving the signal and direction for take off.

Darcy Dancer removing his clothes in the damp chill. Peeking out the window shutters. A clear cold sky. The moon shining. My mother’s wardrobe door open. Two of her gowns draped over the back of a chair. One’s sisters do take signal liberties. What a day. What a night. Nearly asleep on my feet. O god. If only I could press my lips to Leila’s. Instead of crawling alone down between these icy sheets. Ah, thank god. A hot water bottle. If it’s not leaking one can anticipate a modicum of sensual voluptuous comfort. I suppose everyone is looking for a beautiful but decent minded woman. That she should be entirely thoroughbred in her figure, cultured in her mind and gay in her demeanour. Who would when one required it, put her hand on top of one’s own and say soothingly to calm one’s worries, there you are, you mustn’t trouble my dear, we will, both of us manage somehow. O god, to know that such a creature does exist. To know that she lives and breathes under one’s own roof. Where one wakes each day. And now sleeps. Sleeps. In a dream. Of the most delicious sensation. Enveloped in the soft arms and legs of one’s past housekeeper. Ensnaking warm cosy comforting limbs of Miss von B. Her soft if somewhat commodious aperture. Into which one could dip so delicately. Holding her smooth silken miles of skin. Her voice in my ear. Vast ist diss Bangkok. You little naughty creature. Vy you need go Bangkok. Your bang bang cock so nice right here. You baby. Ah. Yes I scream. In your ear. You hear. My dear. Mein Bauernlummel.

‘Shush you fucking noisy heifer.’

A voice out in the hall. Darcy Dancer squeezing a pillow, sitting bolt upright in bed. My god I think I heard most god awful screams and screechings. And naked feet pounding. Stopping just outside my door. Huffing and puffing breathing.

‘Will you come back now you bloody wench.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’ve already been after interfering a finger in my sacred tabernacle.’

‘Begorra I’ll interfere more than a finger with me stone rigid credential bulging up your essential.’

Feet proceeding again. And speeding elsewhere. Going around the turning in the hall. And upstairs in what is commonly referred to as a damn quick hurry. Leila. Her feet would never make such heavy pounding. O god. Dingbats. No. Norah. Or Kitty. But one thing is bloody certain. It’s his Lordship whose vowels are pretending to be a bogman under that stage Irish brogue. Clearly thinks he’s in his London club. Taking off in his Spitfire. With his hunchbacks clattering dustbins, signalling him down the ruddy runway. Shove my overtaxed senses back under pillow and eiderdown. Stay here. Until I smell floorboards or joists burning. Or the authentic screams of my sisters. Crying rape. Or O my god. Must have dozed asleep again. Hoofs thumping the gravel.

Darcy Dancer going to the window. Pulling back the shutter. Has there ever been a colder night. And down there in the moonlight. Has there ever been a madder one. The Mental Marquis. Galloping. Tally fucking ho. His hair flying. Atop his horse. Lashing his whip back across Rapscallion’s quarters. And up, up and over the fence. There he goes. Down the front lawn. Fading in the shadows. Pounding the frosty ground.

Darcy Dancer paddling back to bed. Stretching down deep beneath the covers. When is this night ever going to end. Pull up the blankets over my head. Cover ears. Ah dat’s better. Peace and quiet reigns again. And leaves me so tortured. Prick pained without love. Close eyes. Stare away the dark. The Mental Marquis said. Although expensive for her own soul, how cheap a whore’s price is. Cynicism hurts and stings. The closest thing to truth. And will I ever hold her. Touch my fingertips across her pale soft cheek. Kiss her brow. Will I ever put my hand deep clutching in her black hair.

Before I

Shut away

This brain

The last thing

That dies

In this body

The last thing

That lives