The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

18

Sunday this mild mellow week. Buds crashing out sappy green on the trees. Crocuses exploding yellow across suburban gardens. Balthazar B went through Ballsbridge on the Dalkey tram. To tug the bell chain hanging against the cold cut stone.

Miss Fitzdare stood smiling half way in the gleaming hall. Of this house rising greyly and ivy clad from great rhododendrons and sweeping lawns. A hushed raven haired maid in her fresh black frock and white lace collar to take my coat with her trembling hand. This massive hall of this big house. A fire flaming flanked by pink marble praying angels. Gilt framed mirrors. Two steely figures of armour, haunted slits for eyes. And Miss Fitzdare wears her purple twin set again. The thick tweed grey skirt and her string of pearls. Tall chiming clock rings one.

"You are awfully prompt. Do come this way. And meet uncle and aunt."

Brass knobbed heavy mahogany door ajar. Polished and glistening faintly red. Held open by the raven haired maid. Tints of blues and whites in this sprawling drawing room. Cabinets of porcelain. A harpsicord in a white arched alcove. This thin grey haired lady. Slowly twisting her lips between her smiles. Offering her long blue veined hand. A short round gentleman in thick rust tweeds. Purple silk hanky and gorse coloured tie.

"Aunt Miriam this is Balthazar."

"I've heard so much about you."

"My uncle Frederic. Everyone calls him General. Bal-thazar." "How do you do General."

"I do splendidly when my gout doesn't play up. Do please sit. And what can we warm you up with. Whisky, gin, sherry."

"Well sherry if I may sir."

"You may by jove. Medium dry or that stuff they say is sherry that's very dry.' "Medium. Please."

"Ah, that's a good fellow, know your sherry. Miriam. Sherry.'

"Yes today. We'll have a wee bit. Doctor Romney says I'm to leave off but I think today."

The General standing at a high sideboard of bottles, trays and decanters. Pouring the light brown liquid into thin crystal glasses. His brief smile as the silver tray passes to each. Between two facing long light green sofas. The raven haired girl peeks back into the room as she quietly closes the great door. This grey haired lady raises her chin and lowers eye lids to speak.

"Mr. B I understand you're new to Dublin. How do you find it. Our dear dirty city."

"Most charming."

"O good. Elizabeth tells us you race."

"Yes I do get to the courses now and again. Not much recently however."

"O. You'll be here for Horse Show week. You must not miss that."

"I sincerely hope so."

"Wonderful time of year. We're at our best then. Always brings one back to times when things were not as they are now. Very sad. So much has passed from us."

"Now Miriam, that's not the attitude. What does Mr. B want to know about that for. He's young. He wants to enjoy himself now. Of course we've had a lot of louts and rabblerousers about but things have settled down. Let them blow up a telephone kiosk now and again and they're quite happy. Are you interested in the stars, Mr. B."

"Yes I am."

"Good. After lunch then. We'll show you about. Would you like to see my astronomical laboratory."

"Very much sir. I had an uncle who was very interested in the sky."

"Good. Ah. There we are. The gong. Brought that back from India. Served out there. When I was Brigadier. Bring in your sherry with you."

Two wide white doors folding back. A long dining table. A fire bursting with flaming black chunks of coal. Two tall windows. Look out across lawns and gardens. Pebbled paths. A stone wall and beyond the tops of blossoming apple trees. Little blue dishes of salt set in silver holders with birdlike paws.

"Sit you all down."

The General at the head of table, Miriam at the foot. Prawn cocktail and thin slices of brown bread. Faint tinge of green in white wine poured. A leg of steaming lamb carried in by a big chested girl of blue eyes and large pouting lips. The General carves. The whole silent afternoon outside. White plates with thin little weavings of gold handed down the table. Roasted potatoes. And sprouts moist in butter. A claret wine of gentle red.

"Elizabeth you ought to have Balthazar come when we're having ham. We feed our pigs on peaches you know. When youVe tasted a chappie so fed, I think you'll agree you never realised what ham could be. What.' "I'd very much like that."

"We leave that then to you, Lizzie. Good larder is a man's salvation. People nowadays don't take any trouble. Not the way we used to. Of course then one gets on. Dashed cold winter, what. One of worst in memory. When you get to my age you feel it you know. Get a bit of damned deafness too, it's the wind. Gets up a pressure. You take port my boy."

"Yes sir."

"Good show. Got a bit there decanted. Laid down when I was a subaltern. Yes. A man's best years you know are the thirties. Plenty of polo, outdoors, that's the way of life. The end comes at fifty. You know then there's no going back. If 183 you don't go forward you don't go damn anywhere. What. Yes after fifty it's all over, you know."

"O Frederic, really."

"Can't overlook the facts Miriam. A man's a man till fifty. You might stretch it a year this way or that but largely speaking, that's when a man puts away his gun. Takes out his port. Of course a lot of it is in the mind you know. Half the battle is keeping up appearances. And appearances be damned as well. A shrew for its weight is more fierce than a tiger. It will seize upon a worm and devour it in an instant."

"Frederic please, not while we're eating."

"Shrew of course will easily die of shock. Poor little fellows. Now I don't suppose either of you two zoologists knew that one."

"No sir, that's fascinating."

"Eat their own weight in food every three hours."

"Now Frederic that's not a pleasing subject."

"There you are my boy. Get your innings in while you're young. Ladyfolk have you later on you know. Hound you about a bit. O we'll wait till the reincarnation. Hope I get a good regiment. Cat's got your tongue Elizabeth."

"No uncle. I'm just amused as I always am at your chatter."

"O ravings of a poor old soldier. But when I was a boy we had to tow the line. Not like these days. My father lined us up as boys. Hair had to be properly combed. Hands clean both sides. Chores done at six fifteen A.M. None of your nonsense. Walk with a straight back. See your face in the tip of your shoes or my goodness you would soon get what for across your what you sit on. Where did you serve my boy."

"I was a friendly alien sir. French."

"Pity. The discipline, routine. Good for every lad you know. Not to be shunned. Have a good swallow more now of that wine. One of the lingering pleasures. If one leaves out bridge. We had an awfully funny situation out here not too long ago. Chaps were full of it at the club. Said the papers played it up marvellously. One of your fellow students. Went completely haywire. They thought it was the yellow men from the East. When it was only a chap got lost in the gardens. Likely story. Caused quite a bit of stir.'

The flowing blood up to Miss Fitzdare's pallid face. Her cheeks blossoming bright red. The General sawing across a grey slab of lamb, Miriam ringing the little bell at her place. And the vast breasted servant called Briget going round with the wine once more. Dripping a drop on Balthazar's silk cuff. Briget put her fingers to her lips.

"O excuse me sir."

A smile from Balthazar. As a golden clock on the mantel rings chimes. A portrait of a lady in scarlet robes and ermine. The General clears his throat in his napkin. Miss Fitzdare's face goes crimson again.

"Balthazar, do please say if you would like more lamb.' "Thank you I have had a sufficiency."

"Come come my boy. From my memory of rooms at Trinity it's damn chilly there. A person needs a good Sunday lunch. In my time scholars used to come charging through college on horseback waving sabres a propos of nothing at all. But a deuced good fright thrown into servants and porters. Junior Dean got killed, hit on the head with a grate. Some rough times indeed. Wasn't safe at night, college bloods armed with daggers. Just a little that was before my time. But the chaps left their mark."

Balthazar B remaining to light a cigar with the General at table. As they sampled port. The ladies lightfooted back to the withdrawing room. And there came the tinkle of the harpsicord. Purple shadows of the evening stretching out across the gardens. An old fading moon blunted in the sky. "You know my boy, you'll pardon me I'm an interfering old rascal. Meddle in right where I have no business to. But our Elizabeth has taken a great interest in you. Took us long enough to get her to get you here. Fine girl. Miriam and I love having her with us. She has a wonderful nature that girl. How many of your women these days would spend three afternoons and evenings in the poor wards. Not many I can tell you. Yes, go down the aisles of some of them. Only way they know whether a wretched creature is dead is to smell them. Often said it's not the kind of work for a young lady. She won't listen, insists going right on. Can't say she's wrong to go her own way. Some of these people haven't been out of their garments all their lives. Come into hospital, can't get the clothes off them. Here, little more port for you."

'Thank you sir."

"They have to cut the clothes off. Put a sling around them and with a derrick they dip them in a vat. Sometimes the shock's too much. These old creatures get so frightened they die on the spot. Nothing as bad as it was in India but still pretty bad. Prostitutes in off the streets, when they get a cure they stay on as nurses to pay off their debt. You know about Elizabeth's work."

"No sir, I'm afraid I don't."

"O. Perhaps I've breached a confidence. Hope not. Strange girl our Elizabeth. Very rare girl."

"Yes she is sir."

"Looks like her mother. Mother died you know. Burned up in a fire. Quite awful. Elizabeth was only twelve. Poor little creature cried for weeks. We had her here. Beautiful woman her mother. Great horsewoman. Cost her her life. Saving horses in a burning stable. Brave woman. Elizabeth's the same. Well come now, that's been enough of this chitter chatter. Shall we join the ladies. Then we'll take you up. Might spot Mars on the horizon. Give it another hour or so."

The General rising. Neatly folding and rolling his napkin, pushing it in its silver ring. So strangely reminiscent of Beefy. There seems no end of Miss Fitzdare. And all explained, those times when I was rather bitter lipped. Hoping I would have nerve enough to ask her come for tea. Or join me at the Shelbourne Rooms for drinks. Thought there was some other man. Those afternoons she disappears. Like the one who gave her cakes in Mitchell's. And like another who stared at her during zoology practical. Rushing to give her sharpened pencils, to lend a scalpel or hold the door for her. Smiling eagerly and remarking of the weather. And once as I was leaving he came pushing behind me, punching a fist into my back. I turned and he gave an unpleasant sneer and smirk. I suddenly wished I had muscles. Big fists to smite him one upon the intelligence. Instead I raised my eyebrow, and stood aside to let him pass if he pleased. And angered more he stood on the gravel, eyes smouldering. Then one Sunday Beefy said he had seen this ruffian in a cinema in O'Connell Street waiting with Miss Fitzdare.

Now I walk with her. And touch her hand. As we go about in the district. After lunch and harpsicord. Along Sydney Parade Avenue. To the strand of Dublin Bay. The tide out across the strange grey flatlands and scattering sea birds. We step down the granite steps to the sand. Make footprints there. A grey whiteness across the water to Howth. Night comes east. I want to say marry me.

And returning to the big house. To go up a spiral stair to a great room. Gleaming brass knobs and telescope. Copper domed roof. A shutter opened at the sky. The General twirling handles. Miss Fitzdare laughing at my surprise. At the craters in the moon and the orange sparkling light of Mars. At seven at the door. Her white slender fingers and gleaming nails. Leaning against the cut stone, Miss Fitzdare said goodbye.

"I hope it wasn't all too dull for you."

"I enjoyed every moment. Thank you so much for having me.' "Be careful how you go now."

"Heh heh. I shall keep to the tram tracks. See you tomorrow. At lectures. I'm feeling academic again. Do thank your uncle for showing me his stars. And I should be delighted if you would come and have tea at my rooms."

"I'd love to."

Waving from the gate. This high iron fence set in the stone. Goodbye grey house back in the shadows somewhere. Up there on the first floor will be your bedroom, Fitzdare. At night do you stand and look out over the gardens. And see dreams in the branches of the trees. Dying old men to whom you give your pale hand. Listen to their tales of life. Of wives long dead. Of scattering many children. And they see your splendid blue white beauty with a last gratefulness in their dim eyes. Wrap up their scrawny bones from bed. Pack them away in the ground.

Balthazar B this night rode the roaring tram back to Dublin. In mild darkness and an eastern breeze from sea. Along the Merrion Road. To go lighted and merry on this iron wheeled vehicle. And at the bridge to alight down the steps from the greeny upholstered seats. As the father of one child.

Balthazar strolled along the Grand Canal Dock. By dark pouring waters and shimmering light. Past the bridge into Rings End and Irishtown. It says Shelbourne on that pub. The pleasure of being all alone with the air gently on the face. Her mother burned to death in fire. Across that waste ground, ships setting sail for sea. Lighted portholes. Never know which is red for port or green for starboard. Just see the blue eyes and black hair of you Fitzdare. Sparkle of your teeth. All your grace. Now I walk back again. To look at these great walls of blackened bricks. The gas works. Sooty grime and fire in there through these bars. Dark shadows. Men moving with their lighted ends of cigarettes. Fitzdare. Will ever we wed. All flowing veils. Trumpets blow out across England to our country house in Somerset. Away in the soft green peace Fitzdare. You will touch the stems of flowers every day. On hall stands through the house. Bring your horses with you. We'll fox them all at Ascot.

Misery Hill. A name down these black streets. And a walk along here by the water on a narrow edge of granite by this plank wall of a coal bunker. And suddenly a shadow is looming up above my head. A figure with an arm raised and in a hand a lump of coal. Good God. Someone to kill me. Knock me on the head. That I would fall to this granite, to take my money and roll me into the greasy water.

Balthazar raised up a shielding arm. And the figure high in the bunker teetered and fell from sight. An old grey bewhiskered face. Staring and mad. And all I can do is run. Away from here. To the Liffey. By all the long rusting sides of ships. And rats nipping over the wet gleaming cobble stones.

Balthazar B chased along the Quay, chest choked with a beating heart. Detouring from walls, shadowy cranes and dark doorways. Heading west for the life and lights of the city. Past gangways up to merchant ships. White shirted figures in the portholes. Others leaning with lighted cigarettes looking down from the ship's railings. A warehouse ahead. Keep out on the clear road. Away from harm.

At the corner of the shed Balthazar B gasped as he bumped into and confronted a figure. Of strange lighted eyes. And a round suddenly smiling face, so unsurprised.

"Beefy."

"Balthazar."

"Beefy what are you doing here, you frightened the life out of me, I was nearly murdered a few minutes ago."

"I am looking for sin."

Balthazar staring at these two unflickering globes. Jacket askew on his shoulders. Tie loosened from his collar. All the strange rumours. About this man. Who reads divinity. That Fitzdare would never say. To find him here. As he finds me.

"I was nearly hit on the head with a lump of coal."

"Dear boy. There are no rules down here on the Quay. No rules. Do you understand. I have come for sin. I know where to find it. Come with me."

"Beefy what do you mean."

"Deepest most sordid sin. I have been to the latrines. But I am randy again. I have other places too. Come. The deepest and most sordid sin purifies. I bugger old men. I lay old ladies. Some of them are dying when I do it."

Balthazar looking into these burning eyes. A tremor of fear takes a fluttering hold of the heart. The lips smile. A ship hoots.

"My God Beefy, I don't know what to say."

"My pleasures are utterly beautiful Balthazar. Sacred. I mingle my elegance with their wretchedness. This city is a sewer flowing with rancor and decomposed flesh, rotting through all these streets. Disease eats out these hearts. Bodies full of poison. I come with my beauty. I bugger them. And do appalling things. And I invite you to come too.' "I was rather planning an early evening."

"I shock you."

"You terrify me out of my wits, Beefy."

"Ah. I thought so. But I will introduce you slowly to the pleasurings. Very slowly. You will thank me. When you get into the grisliness. That you can savour such things as I can show you. The sin. I love the sin. That's what I most desire. You look so left out of it all Balthazar."

"Would you care to come back to my rooms with me and have some cocoa Beefy."

Along the Liffey quays this night, puddles of water on the cobble stoned street. Lonely lamplights. Coal dust and barrels, crates and bundles of wire. Great shadow of the gas tank rearing in the sky. A whiff and sniff and smell of pine timber. Beefy reaching up his arm to put a hand on Balthazar's shoulder. To look with easy warm eyes on this pale blond apprehensive face.

"Balthazar, my dear man. I am most awfully sorry. I could not resist to shock you. Do you know you are a most handsome fellow. You are in fact very beautiful. Your beauty would lend so well to my planned defilement. Look at you. Fve never seen anything like your saintliness. Have you been seeing Miss Fitzdare."

"I had lunch with Miss Fitzdare and her aunt and uncle."

"O my God how charming. Did you sit poised on the settee."

"Yes."

"Did Miss Fitzdare tinkle the wires of her harpsicord."

"Yes."

"I knew it. For joy. I knew it. She is a lovely creature. But think what wonderful defilement you could lend your spirit to tonight. Sunday. After all the prayers are said. But I think it's so splendid. You and Fitzdare. It crucifies me, your blond and her black beauty. O my God."

"Please come and have cocoa, Beefy."

Wild shadows against a sky faintly purple. Clouds rolling with moonlit edges. The blast of a ship's whistle. A hawser splashing in the water. Up in the crystal night the ship's red light. Trembling engines as the great black silhouette moves out on the flowing river.

"Ah but I must go. Upon my appointed rounds."

"I have cream to go on top of the cocoa."

"I must not be distracted from my mission. Sinful desire consumes me. The most malodorous and desecrated defilement is waiting. Only fifteen steps away. Come. Please. Just along here. Let me show you. You see nothing. But wait. We go now up into this doorway. It will amaze you. You will thrill to this creature."

An opening broken door up wide greasy granite steps. A stench of death. The choking wail and sob of a child. A lurking face. A girl. Half her face in the light. A tiny bow of ribbon tied in her hair. Her hands clutching a broken black shiny bag.

"Ah Balthazar this is my queen. She waits for me here. Her name is Rebecca. Isn't she beautiful. But she does not think so herself. But Rebecca, you are."

"Go on now I'm not."

"Rebecca, I want you to meet my friend. He is beautiful too, isn't he."

"Ah he is."

"But it is I who have a horn on me this evil night. Rebecca you have the most splendid eyes to gaze upon this horn of mine."

"O go on with you I think you're crazy."

"And you have limbs. Fine limbs. I could eat up your white beauty Rebecca you know that I could, don't you. Wait Bal-thazar, don't go. You must not leave. Rebecca will fetch her sister for you."

"Ah sure you've got the gentleman upset, can't you see he's upset.'

"Balthazar you're not upset. I would never want that. Isn't it marvellous here."

"I think I must go Beefy."

"Come. With us. Rebecca too will come. And so will her sister. We'll go over the fence at the back gate. Even though needs be a spear up the rear. And I will take Rebecca and her sister to my rooms. We will all like it there. Come now, Rebecca. Let us get your sister. And I beg you Balthazar don't desert me now."

Their feet sounding up the broken stairs. Past a great tall window on the landing, its frame buckled, string and bits of rag blowing in the breezes. A three legged dog hobbling down between their legs. Bits of bicycles and broken prams along a wall. The dim slit of light under doors. Where dark Dublin lies sleeping.

On the attic landing Rebecca pushed through a door into a great darkened room. Rags and bones and suitcases in a corner, hunks of plaster hanging from the ceiling. A man sitting hunched forward on a chair staring silently into the red dying embers of a fire who slowly turns a head to nod at Beefy and Beefy nodding a smile to Balthazar.

A table covered in newspaper, cups and crusts of bread. By a red candle burning on a cardboard altar near a window a thin dark girl sits huddled reading in the flickering light. Rebecca whispers in her ear. And they both look at seven heads sticking from the covers of a great mattress on the floor. The dark girl steps behind a torn curtain and emerges with a handbag. Pulling a sweater over her shoulders as she turns towards the sleeping figures under a picture of a bleeding heart encased in thorns.

Balthazar B descended last out of this broken gutted building, taking deep breaths as they walked under a black railway trestle towards Trinity down an empty desolate lane. By locked up shops and closed pubs. Along Fenian Street taken that night with Beefy when I first met Fitzdare. The heads of death lurk in all the black skulls of houses. The girl dark and small with beady black eyes. A gold cross upon her throat.

Blue dress, blue sweater, her elbows poking out the sleeves.

And I feel so bereft of Fitzdare. So alien to this wisp of girl.

"What's your name.'

"My name is Breda. What is your name."

"My name is Balthazar.'

"Are you a student.'

"Yes. What are you."

"I work in a pub out towards Howth. I'm a barmaid. I'm not her sister. She enjoys a lie. I come from Cavan. I was just into Dublin to help take care of her little brothers and sisters. She's the oldest, she's twenty three. Her mother died three months ago. I know of your friend. He's been good to her family but he's a holy terror in other ways. You don't look the sort as would be down the Quays associating with strange women. Are you afraid of me."

"No."

"You won't say much. I don't mind. You're English, that's the way you all are. Never say what's on your mind. How will he ever get us over that big fence."

Beefy high up balanced between the fence spears. A hand held down to Rebecca. She reached up, one foot on Balthazar's shoulder. Beefy with a great grunt and heave lifted her and their hands parted to drop her back down again into the arms of Balthazar. As Beefy lowered himself into Trinity and grinned through the fence bars.

"Come now."

"Ah no. I'm not climbing up that again."

"You must make her Balthazar, grab her arm and twist it."

"Ah you're not to twist me arm."

"Chuck her in the gutter Balthazar, this is no time for niceties."

"I'll give him one in the jewels if he does."

"We must get them over Balthazar. Put them through the most amazing antics you have ever seen. Here let's try to squeeze them between the bars."

"Beefy the porter's lodge is just there. We'll be seen.'

"You'll squeeze neither of us between the bars I'm telling you."

"Just look at them. The two of them. Think of the defilement."

"Come on Breda, let's go on out of this now."

"Stop them Balthazar, stop them, I'm coming over. We must never let the two beauties go. It will be as splendid as running wild through a hospital of incurables. Get them back."

Balthazar stood and watched Beefy chase the girls down Lincoln Place into Westland Row. Where they have an Academy of Music and where Miss Fitzdare may have learned the harpsicord. They returned hand in hand in the darkness. Beefy's eyes coming near, alight with pleasure. So strange he treats them with such soft grace. Between the threats of violence. So brilliant in scholarship. So fearless at sport.

"I have it Balthazar. I have it. We shall enter by taxi. It is all agreed. Grandly through the front gates. Under the noses of porters. And be in my rooms in Botany Bay in due course and defilement."

In the shadows of Wicklow Street just past a window display of spring fashions in Switzers a taxi was loaded with the women. A white five pound note passed by Beefy to the taxi man. The girls covered in a rug squeezed down between the knees of the gentlemen. Beefy handed his silver flask to Balthazar to take brandy at this delicate moment. Poised for fluent entrance without the flicker of a lid, or murmur of lie. To present at the great wooden gates. And safely pass.

The taxi proceeding around these bleak corners of commerce. Down an incline between pubs and banking houses. And out on the broad stretch of Dame Street. Leads west to the Atlantic. East to the black high arched portal of this ancient seat of learning. The massive grey pillars and porches of the Bank of Ireland. The taxi heading across the tram tracks. Over a bump. Under that blue gold clock high above. And Beefy is giggling as Rebecca's head is rather burrowing where it shouldn't be.

"Stop it Rebecca. This is a tender moment when one's countenance must wear a bland look of ecclesiastic purity. Demanding of a salute from those who serve."

Beefy rearing in his seat eyes widening in horror as the taxi fails to decrease speed. And slams to a stop against the wooden barricade. Two porters come out. Slowly inspecting the dent in the timber they come to the window and peer at a motionless Beefy. They go to pull up the iron pins and lift back the main door. We move forward. Porters lean over ever so slightly. Beefy nods. They touch their caps. And now we trundle across the cobble stones.

"By God we've done it Balthazar. By God we've done as nice a piece of elemental underhandedness as could be expected in a vehicle which should not be allowed out on the roads. Just lie low now girls until big uncle Beefy gets you safely into his randy quarters. Who's for brandy. Ah Balthazar. You know I'm enjoying your company. You give me a sense of destiny. I rather mean to say my character is all shot to hell. I'm skidding along now on infamy. Heading for my holy orders. With my trustees screaming. My granny stony hearted. My vile despicable propensities raging. Of course I shall take my holy orders. But not before I've had my fill of the diabolical."

"Beefy I don't like the look of things. I have a strange feeling we got by the porters too easily. Can't we have cocoa and go out again."

"Balthazar you are an awfully polite man you know. But not one for filling in the silences in conversation, are you. Taxi man, apply your brakes now, that doorway right there. Get close in. That's a good man."

Beefy debarking with rug. Holding it aloft between car door and the dark stony entrance. To let the damsels discreetly pass. Into chill darkness and move up three landings guiding with hands on the smooth banisters and creaking stairs. Beefy whispering close.

"Ah Balthazar aren't you excited tonight. With these two lasses. You can engage in any proclivity you fancy.'

"I heard what you said and don't be thinking I don't know all them big words mean the same thing."

"I love you Rebecca. I love you."

"You love yourself."

"You see Balthazar these girls are clever. Far above the ordinary. You know, this isn't a time to bring this up, but I rather funked it in the military. Could never organise an assault. Would say to the chaps. This is your captain speaking, can you hear me chappies, there are the buggers beyond the ridge, let them have it by God, mortar them good and proper. Forsooth I set off a barrage to give them what for beyond the ridge. After the preliminary softening up I told the chappies to rush them. I put my umbrella up to march out setting a good example, through the rain of shells. Men didn't like it at all. Thought I was putting on the dog. But the enemy were so stunned to see me marching at them under my snake skin handled umbrella that they ceased firing. Just as well. The unhappy thing was, I was attacking my own men. I was an absolutely dead loss at war. Soon as they got rid of me they started winning like mad. But you know, let me say confidentially, I tried to soldier well. Even now when I pass Horse Guards' Parade in London, hear the band, the crunch of heels on the gravel, a reverberation goes through me and I thrill to an instant erection. I mean some chaps express their loyalties in other ways. But that little signal, that pure salute. One's private little pole. Standing outright and quivering. Has always made me feel that my love of regiment, my loyalty to the Monarch, was a swelling splendour of heartfelt salutation. Wait girls, for your captain. This fearful trip is not yet done. Until we are safely inside."

Beefy opening the door. Ushering in his guests. He goes from room to room announcing an all clear and switching on a light. Breda staring around these booklined walls. Hung with risque tapestries and silver ornaments. Crossed sabres over the mantel. Four shotguns locked against a wall. A great carpet woven with the facial and saucy aspects of a Persian gentleman in all expressions from sadness to outright laughter. In every nook and cranny, crystal splendours. Bound volumes. Ecclesiastical Policy. Eucharistic Faith and Practice. A Short History of the Doctrine of Atonement.

"That woman there on the wall is my granny. Who has made much of what you see here possible. Often I kneel of an evening, light a candle and look up to her and pray my thanks. She is as flint hearted as she looks. But do help yourselves to the bowl of raisins one and all. And allow me to pour. Rebecca, whisky."

"Ah you're a cod. Sure this place is like one of them black gentlemen have."

"I have my dear woman not been blessed by a dark complexion but I am a man of the divinity, do not forget that.

Must satisfy the Archbishop King's Professor that I am an habitual communicant of the Church of Ireland. Nor forget that before ordaining a candidate for the ministry you must have your medical certificate of health. Leave no doubt as to physical soundness in the performance of ministerial duties.

There Rebecca read that tome, The Problem of the Pastoral Epistles."

"What would I want with such protestant rubbish. Sure you'll burn to a crisp in hell, you will."

"Ah Rebecca you take the pope to heart. Did you know he was a share holder in your breweries."

"What kind of talk is that."

"Ah Rebecca, Rome is finished as a power. The pope is in voluntary liquidation and is making for Zurich but I thirst for a glance of your naked person, your fleshy realizable assets."

"You'll roast for centuries."

"But tonight let us not be squeamish. Blessed is the man who puts his pole into the ungodly and spits mighty spurts. O God I'm so painfully horny. Step lightly forward now in a rhythmic manner my dear. Off with your garments. Let us have some balletic expertise."

"I will in a tinker's tit, in front of everyone."

"Ah no vile language here, girl. British territorial prerogatives prevail within these Trinity walls. Be not base low mean and shabby. Strip off." "Will you listen to him. Strip off he says."

"Ah Rebecca can't you see I'm agog for your nude form. Breathlessly impatient for visiting vile humiliations upon you. Blessed are they who lay down their garments one by one in a manner of teasing dalliance for they will have a pole of plenty eight miles up them. In due ruddy course. Of course."

"You're a Presbyterian."

"Ah you've uttered the one thing that provokes me Rebecca and calls for, of course, rape. I must rape you. Don't try to struggle it will be useless."

"Sure I can scream the bricks down of this building."

"We must employ the gags. Can't have outcry when Beefy is scintillating through his magic mire of shame. Just here inside this cabinet, here we are, the gags, the silk pyjama cords. For trussing up. For the vile proddings."

Balthazar hands joined entwined, his back pressing against a series of volumes in the book case, A Theological Introduction and Texts to Religious Experience and Divine Diverticula. Breda looking from face to face. Beefy dropping his trousers. Rebecca pulling off her dress. Not to know what was funny or what was sad. Or what was rape and what was mad.

But only to tremble in terror. Visions of porters and authorities marching eighty abreast across Front Square. Crowbars held high. For breaking and entering. Hangman's nooses for stretching throats. And to dangle, one's university career at a dismal end.

Beefy raging with considerable nudity holding up his silk pyjama cords. Breda covering her eyes with well spaced fingers. Rebecca in a wild peal of laughter seizing this unforgettable instrument asway upon Beefy's chunky person. As I good heavens, feel constrained to look out the window. And Breda gasps.

"Ah God I've never seen the likes of a thing like that before. It's as big as a donkey's. Sure your man is a mule."

"Good God your toenails Rebecca, need cutting, I'll report you to the Society of Chiropodists. Ah but otherwise, isn't she my Rebecca, the most splendid creature. Pirouette my dear. Ah that raised some fine points. Of divinity if not law. But we're losing the sense of rape here. Cringe back a little my dear. If the Provost could only see us. Keeping up the fine traditions of the college. Numini et patriae asto. And now. For rape."

Beefy charging across the floor. Hands raised in a pose horrid and menacing. Pyjama cords draped in a priestly manner about his neck. Seizing Rebecca by the wrists, her legs buckling beneath her as a smile broke across her face and laughter trembled her knees.

"Rebecca you're ruining this deadly serious act. I am about to rape you. This won't do."

Rebecca doubling up with her hands held across her belly. Beefy bent pulling them apart. Shaking her into resistant action. As she went limp on the floor. Breda wide eyed and pushing back her sweater sleeves.

"You're getting awfully dusty Rebecca. It's not fair of you to behave this way. Resist. For God's sake. O dear what can I do, my charm melts all hearts, and everyone, men women and children open their legs to me. Into the bedroom, Rebecca. I will lash you to the bed. And in my best secular manner I will have at you like a beast bounding straight out of the bible. Numini et patriae asto. And don't spare the jujubes."

Balthazar swallowing constant lumps of air. Wiping his brow with handkerchief. The crumpled giggling figure of Rebecca carried into the bedroom. Jubilant jouncing coming out the half open door. To reach and pass the bowl of raisins across to Breda. To select of these dried grapes.

"What was that he was saying in that funny language."

"I stand on the side of God and my country."

"Sure in the condition he's in what God or country would have him."

"Would you have tea if I can find the kettle and leaves."

"Aren't you about to try anything with me."

"No."

"I'll have a cup then if you're making one. Can you tell me if your friend is completely round the bend."

"He's the most brilliant brain of the university."

"Is that a fact. Well if you ever knew what was on another person's mind you wouldn't know what to put on your own at all. He's one for devilment."

The door crashing open. Beefy, trousers down around his ankles, shuffling and hobbling in his socks. His private signal tied with a bow of pyjama cord waving in circumcised salute, poking out beyond the floating tails of his shirt. Breda shrinking back from this bullish grinning ruddy face.

"Balthazar. Where are you. See for yourself. Rebecca trussed up. Ready to give treats. My dear girl show some shame, how dare you stare at my instrument in that manner. We shall rape Rebecca. Then it shall be your turn. While you rape Rebecca Balthazar I shall truss this truculent lass to the other bed. And by God we'll rape you."

"I'm making tea for us, Beefy."

"O my gawd. You'd let such opportunities as I've prepared slip. For the sake of Empire dear man. For Monarch. We must on with the felony. You lass you're next, make no mistake about that."

"I'm not with you I'm with your friend here who's a well behaved gentleman."

"Stop. Do I sense here the shirty and utterly shabby nuance of criminal impertinence. And take your eyes off my instrument this instant."

"Sure it's not my fault if it's there put in front of me eyes."

"You are a saucy lass. I'm putting you down in my notebook. Needy of corrective measures."

"You fancy yourself. Standing around like that You should be ashamed of yourself."

Beefy, eyes so brown ablaze with merry evil, moving forward towards Breda. As she rose from her chair and slowly stepped backwards around the room. Past the shotguns, past foils stuck in an umbrella stand. Till she fell on the brass studded gleaming leather couch. Beefy's great instrument pressing at Breda's face as she waved it away. Balthazar scratching his head in the scullery doorway. This can't be college. An evening such as this. A hidden world never seen before. Until you think that this is the way it must really be. The carefree frolics of undergraduate years. That we grow up to live in steadier and sterner ways. Look back and say I was a naughty fellow in my younger days.

"Come my dear girl, it's as hard as a baby avocado, don't push it away, it likes you. Give the boy a treat."

"I will in me witless ways. Go on before I give you a bite of your balls and they'll be through bouncing anymore I can tell you."

"Blessed my dear are the non violent girls who blow. A sound from this horn delivereth me up to the heights of ecstasy. With such elevation I could spit on Mars. The explosive grandeur of tickling your tonsils would make this poor boy so happy. And also clear your complexion of any blotches.

"You'll get away with that thing or I'll stain you with the back of me hand. You're out of your mind."

As Beefy disappears to the bedroom. A sound. A sharp crack. Balthazar turning to look back in the scullery. The steaming spout of the kettle aimed against the window. The parted white and blue checked curtains. A busted pane of glass. Misted and streaked. To touch where it split and look out into the thickets of the new leaves. Something strange up in the tree. Strain one's eyes to see. A shadow entwined about a bough. And down there. O my God. Passing by the shed of cycles and motor bikes. A lantern swinging. Spreading light across the hard grey ground. Three figures approaching this way. One in dressing gown and slippers between two porters. They stop. They look up at this window.

"Beefy Beefy."

"I'm lingering. In the most spooky pleasuring."

"The Proctor. Coming."

"Nearly.' "O God. I mean it Beefy."

"Nonsense. Fm in elemental ecstasy."

"Please Beefy."

"Dear boy how can you, how can you, call, o rny goodness, at such a time, o Lord that's nice, awfully nice. Tell my trustees of your trouble. They deal with all my debts and tribulations. So that I may pursue without hinder. Divinity, first ranking of the professions. Followed sadly by law, medicine and literature. The rear taken up by science and music. First you get baptised, grow up and get sued. Life goes on till they saw off your leg. If you survive you can read a good book. My advice in life is to proceed in a blaze of contradictory remarks, and send one's trustees each year a valentine. Rome is finished as a power. The ecclesiastical torn torn says so. Church of Ireland is taking over everywhere. We are winning souls left right and evil. Right down the coast to Greystones. And doing awfully well in Dalkey. We must kick the indulgences and plastic relics out of this isle. Give them a nine first Fridays of my Lutheran horn up the hole instead. Tear back the camouflage of emerald purity. Thou art Beefy and upon your arse I shall build my bank. No one gives a damn about the organic unity of Christ. Or the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Rebecca, darling, the cardboard crucifixion is crumbling."

"You're mental."

Balthazar at the open crack of the door. As the gospel according to Beefy drones on. One's two hands held tightly together. If not altogether wringing. Certainly drained of blood. To tip toe into someone else's intimacy.

"Beefy, I think this is urgent, can you hear me."

"Single handedly I shall bring down Rome. Rebecca. Severe ideas are called for. Ukase. Deliver up delinquent attitudes. Papists will cower. Liberty loving protestants will march elbowing harlots out of the way, on to Belfast. Very militant. The Divine Founder will scream out the Coptic Rite and screw the eastern schisms."

"You're mental."

"Beefy they're coming. The porters."

"Really Balthazar. Can't you hear I'm in the middle of my outloud meditation. Kicking evil little bugs out of the conscience. After one has defiled numerous orphans, widows and motor mechanics. My God what did you say."

"I said the porters are coming."

"Pull that sash cord. That's the general alarm. Quickly Rebecca up. Keep all mouths closed and fast come with me. Gather up your garments. Into the scullery. No time for moderation. One grasps at a moral morsel and sinks promptly in a vast sea of human betrayal. And new rattings from every side. One sings loudly protestant praises. And porters get it into their heads to do their duty. No panic, quite safe. This way through the dust. Old Beefy knows how to disport. And retreat with a gusto unknown to modern man. Just when I was going to ask you to take down your trousers, Balthazar, and present your particulars to the pleasurings. God I'm going to soon show my age beyond my years. I'm such a young vital chappie. This way. Girls obey now to the letter. Not a murmur. Just do as you are told. And the whole misunderstanding will pass shortly. Been a slight breach of security. Soon patch it up. Keep an eye out Balthazar."

Beefy pulling on underwear with one hand, leading his two female guests with the other. Into the scullery. A scrabbling and scuffling. A banging. On the door. Beefy putting his finger to his lips for silence, as he tip toes back into the drawing room. And across to his bedroom. Emerging again in dressing gown. Locking the bedroom door. Dropping his key into the pocket of a long flowing black silk robe. Satiny slippers embellished with gold threaded crossed cues on his feet. And he looks down upon his person and smiles at the ashen faced Balthazar.

"Believe in me. Trust in me. I'll do all the talking. Make believe you are merely playing bezique at your London club. And the world lies around you sublime. See, I'm in my billiard slippers, means we are quite safe. You mustn't shake like that Balthazar. I've been through this before. Just a very ordinary nightmare. Shush. Now. Wait. They are at the door. Listening. O very crafty. But what they hear is silence. We are engrossed in a tutorial."

Three loud knocks on the door. Balthazar taking one deep breath after another. Beefy lighting up a large cigar. His eyes blinking in the smoke, slowly taking tomes from his shelves and opening them out on the table. All seems somehow to have happened before. Three more bangs on the door. And Beefy was on top of that girl. As her legs wagged in the air. A bare arse pumping up and down during his academic career. Of devious divinity. One must turn a blind eye to sacrilege.

Uncle Edouard said it was always wise to kick up a disturbing row if one were tapped unwarningly upon the shoulder. Three more loud bangs. A voice of authority.

"Open up this door.' Beefy tip toeing around in a circle, raising his eyebrows up and down with each step. His elegant nerve. When I should be content somewhere in Siberia now. Or strolling the afternoon by ice age morains in the countryside. Tracing fossil ferns with a light thrilling finger. And the warm voice of Fitzdare. O Lord.

"Open up. I know you have women in there. I am not going to stand out here in the cold all night. If this door is not opened presently, I shall have the clerk of works summoned to knock it down.' Beefy advancing close to the door. Listening. Taking a great long puff on his cigar. Shaking his head slowly up and down. Two squash rackets leaning against the wall. Beefy taking one in hand and sweeping it in a strong forehand volley. As three more knocks land. "Now please, be sensible in there and don't make this occasion more unpleasant than it already is."

Beefy smiling. Feinting deeply with a flexed right knee. A blurring back handed cross court three sided killing shot administered with a swish of breeze. And a gracefully slow follow through. While I tremble. With no way out. Save a window plummeting down three floors. With two broken legs one could not run. But better to stand by the window. Just in case. To look down. And see if it gets any nearer. Seemed so certain we were undetected through the front gate. My reputation of the rape of Donnybrook following after me. My God what is that out there in the tree.

"Beefy, come, look."

Beefy peering out into the night. The branches of the nearby tree. The tangled snaky boughs. Beefy taking his cigar out of his mouth. His eyes cold.

"That wretch. Out there spying in the tree. Betraying us.

Thinks he's going to delight in our apprehension. The jealous Greek scholar, the bogman Muggins. He's laughing. By God wait till I get my hands on him."

"Beefy open the door please. They're beginning to use force."

"An innocent man is never in a hurry Balthazar."

"But we're not innocent."

"In spirit and heart, yes. We are. That's why I wear this look of permanent bewilderment. Whoops, yes, that was rather a loud bang. Thought they might give up."

"I know you have women in there. I will not ask again that this door be opened. I am not going to stand out here all night."

Beefy advancing to the door. Drawing back the bolts. One high one low. Lifting his eyebrows as he turned the lock and pulled open the big black door. The Proctor in a brown ankle length bathrobe. Designed perhaps for such evening missions. Pair of red skiing socks and scuffed pair of leather slippers. A sky blue scarf wrapped high up round his throat and flowing over a shoulder. Rowed stroke or bow or something for Cambridge. A year when Oxford sank with all hands in the river. These two small porters look from under their blue bulging hard hats. Peering out from the college secrets piled up over the years. And one steps forward to put his lantern atop the turf cupboard.

"All right Beefy, where are the women."

"Sir, women."

"Yes, the women. Don't play games with me. Where are the women. I want this over without delay. You may as well come clean. Where are they."

"Sir, you do know Fm reading divinity."

"I should not attempt, if I were you, to start clouding the issue. Which is quite grave."

"Sir I'm afraid I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. With all respect, really sir. I do not."

"Don't try my patience."

"Honestly, Balthazar B here. Why we came back this evening to college, having missed vespers and taken a walk about Stephen's Green, and we set about slogging. Quite above board. Books there on the table. Mr. B's Littlego exam. Latin is giving him a good bit of trouble. Thought it would polish him up nicely if I took him through some of—"

"That's quite enough. I'm not going to stand here all night listening to your explanations. Either you admit now to the women or I shall go into that room and expose them myself. As distasteful as that may be. But you've only yourself to blame if this cannot be dealt with in a civil manner. I have not got all night. Come on. Don't trifle with me longer. I see. Very well. Let us have that door there opened."

A nod from the Proctor. A pointing finger raised. To these dark uniformed porters in their peaked hunting hats. Who step forward. Across this ornamentaled tapestried room. They turn the knob and push shoulders against the locked door.

"All right, Beefy, the key. Let us have the key."

"Sir, what key."

"The key Beefy."

"Sir as you know."

"I know nothing except this is most tiresome. Give me that key."

"Upon my word, sir, one has desperately been pursuing the doctrine of atonement, Christian ethics."

"You are really bringing me to the end of my endurance. I can see this little evening has all the appearances of a tutorial."

"Fructu non foliis arborem aestima, sir."

''Do not Latin me. There's quite sufficient fruit to be seen and judged here"

"Sir I think you should look out the window in the tree outside."

This tall handsome man, waves of quietly greying hair across his head. One hand tightly holding the wrist of the other. Stealing a frowning glance at the green ecclesiastic tomes. As he steps forward. Porter coughing into the hollow of his fist. A satin sash with bright red tassels round the Proctor's robe. To wake up again in one's own life. Delirious in this suicidal dilemma. Just as the golden moments are gone. Fading lighthearted elegances of a Sunday afternoon. As raindrops begin to hit the window panes.

"Beefy I'm warning you, either you produce these ladies instantly or something much worse will happen to you than you think will happen."

"Sir upon my crossed squash rackets I swear and with all due respect, you are barking up the wrong tulip tree. I mean really, how can I otherwise consider that you are not, without malice perhaps, but persistently, making unintentional slanderous accusations here. In front of witnesses."

"Are you daring to try me. Are you."

"Sir there is no need to shout."

"You do try me."

"No sir. I am distinctly not doing. Nor trying."

"All right break down that door."

"Please sir no."

"Break it in."

"O sir, you really shouldn't. This is awful."

"Quite."

"I don't think I can bear to watch. I am cut to the quick that my word should not be believed. What am I anyway but a mere student. Giving of my best. And getting back the worst."

"Keep quiet."

"Yes sir."

The two porters taking up positions. A signal and the dark shoulders crashed upon the door. A groan and raised eyebrows as the black portal refused to budge. A stepping back of three paces, another onslaught. Beefy covering his eyes. A splintering. Two panels cracked through. One porter down. Holding his shoulder in pain.

"Sir please, allow me, I can't bear to watch anymore. I've got the key here. I'll open the door. It's the principle of the thing. It really is. Not to be believed. To have had a command in a regiment with which, sir, I know you are acquainted. There. It's open. Get them. Eighty ladies. Twenty of them dusky. Before they get out the window."

The two porters rushing into the room. Pulling back the deep blue satin window drapes. Opening the clothing cupboard. Tearing blankets from the bed. Beefy giving a nervous start as something clatters on the floor. The pushing aside of stacks of towels and shirts. And finally standing hesitating over a great iron deed box. Room enough for two well packed midgets. The Proctor thin lipped, white faced. Stepping forward. Pointing with a finger.

"Open up that box."

"Sir, that is confidential."

"I said open it."

"Sir you have no warrant."

"I can tell you Beefy, that my anger shall be sufficient warrant at this moment."

"But sir there is no room for ladies in there. Not nice ladies anyway."

The porters triumphantly holding up the foot long key fallen from the bedcovers. Smiles as they plunge it into the top of the great box. Four hands turning it. A click inside. Lifting the heavy lid open, propping it back. The great locking teeth round the lid rim. And the porters standing staring silently down.

"Yes, what is it."

"I don't know sir. It must be thousands and thousands."

"Thousands of what."

"Pounds sir. Five pound notes. Hundreds of them."

"O dear. I'm not ready for more jokes."

"It's not joking sir. See for yourself."

"Good Lord. What's the meaning of this Beefy."

"Nothing is the meaning of it sir, except that you have searched my apartments, opened my confidential strong box and failed to find any crumpet, fluff or frill."

"How did this come to be here. All this money."

"I put it there sir."

"Are you completely out of your senses. You have no right to keep money in this quantity in a college room."

Beefy crossing to close down the great iron lid with a crunching bang. Turning the huge key. Lifting it out again and slipping the iron circle over his wrist. Making an about face. A clatter of slipper. A slow march back to the sitting room. Plumping into his leather sofa, Beefy crossed his carrot haired legs and opened a tome across his lap. Book One of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. Balthazar B reflecting apostate, down hearted and sad, raising his chin momentarily as the Proctor stepped back into the sitting room.

"Stand up Beefy."

"Sorry sir, just keeping up with my ethics."

"This is not over yet."

"O."

"I will get to the bottom of this. Meanwhile that money is to be put properly where it belongs, in a bank."

"I don't trust banks sir."

"I don't care whom you trust. Get that money out of here.

Who is your tutor."

"Professor Elegant sir."

"And yours, Mr. B."

"Professor Elegant sir."

"Professor Elegant has his work cut out. Be at my office tomorrow at three o'clock, both of you."

"Sir are you going."

"What I do is not of your concern."

"I just thought sir that you should know there is something awfully strange out there up in a tree. If you look out the window sir."

The Proctor pushing apart the drapes. Peering out into the night. Taking a torch from under arm and shining it out the window. Turning back to these two attending porters awaiting their further instruction. To keep the college clear of misdemeanour. To track down abductors. Rout out the harbourers of females laid liberally on for riotous and indecent behaviour.

"Porters, go fetch that man out of that tree. Who seems to find matters in here so amusing. I should not smile Beefy, I'm not by any means finished with you. I am not satisfied that there is not something quite fishy here."

"I understand sir, completely."

"This university is not some kind of brothel.' "I quite agree sir. No brothel here. And I want you to know sir, that although it might not at this moment seem very evident to you, I know that my redeemer liveth. Sir.' "O quite. You're going to need him. Be assured of that."

Beefy joyfully leaping to the door. To put to the bolts once more. And a finger up to his lips. At the departing sound of steps down the wooden stairs. To the window now, they could see down to the foot of the tree. In the lightly descending rain the Proctor and porters waiting. In torch light and lantern glow. A student scrabbling down to the ground with long flowing hair. Brushing bark from his person. Turning to point up at this window. As one and all nip back.

"That evil snooping scoundrel. Been scrounging around me for months. One doesn't mind his constantly shitting and pissing out his window after dark. But as a leech on my life. Never."

"Let us out of here."

"O my God, the girls. Please stay right where you are and don't move till I tell you."

"We want to come out of here."

"Not yet. You must lie low for just a while longer. Ah Balthazar you are quite a person under fire. However, be ready, the last tribulation is about to unfold. An old college tradition. In circumstances such as this. They go away. For a few minutes. And then when one is up to one's neck again in lewd gymnastic indecency. They come crashing in the door. Not nice. So we'll just sit here at the table. Take up the tutoring where last left. Ah here we are, a little something on the constitution of Athens."

The door came asunder. With splintering door jambs and plaster. Three porters pouring through. Balthazar jumping to his feet emitting a slight shriek. Beefy relighting his cigar gone out in the former festivities. The third porter new to matters rushing the bedroom. Reappearing vacant faced and bemused. Beefy blowing a large smoke ring across the room. Which wreathed his granny's portrait and smashed out in wavering billows against the wall. Balthazar B with his hand held against his lower throat sat down again.

"Are you porters done. Dark beadles of injustice. How dare you burst in in this manner. Bringing plaster with you. Causing nuisance to a man who will one day follow quite closely upon the heels of Christ. He was an awfully good walker before they tacked him up."

"We are under orders sir."

"Well then. New orders. Vamoose. Take your lot out into the night. O yes, the Provost will hear of this. My trustees will certainly be assembling in front of the Bank of England over there in the land of fair play. And by God when the drummer begins to strike a cadence, they will march to the Holyhead, stepping of course right over Wales. Do you hear me. Put down that crowbar. Quite untoward. My trustees will be on the night boat soon and by God they will be scribbling out writs and the like, as well as many other beribboned documents."

"Very well sir, very well."

"You know I happen to be a scholar."

"Yes sir."

"Ranking of the fifth rank in this college. And a gentleman of the choir."

"We do sir know this.' "Scholar in classics, as well as a man who is to take holy orders. And you chaps break down doors and visit indiscriminate injury to the sensibilities of myself and Prince B. Your Highness my profound apologies. As your host one wants so much to blot out horrendous spiritual bruises which smite one in one's chambers. Quite odious."

"We are quite sorry sir to have incommoded you."

"All right. We all, here present, know our redeemer liveth. Let that suffice. I am tired."

"Goodnight sir."

Porters departing silent and open mouthed. Beefy examining his busted door. Sad bolts and latches hanging, screws twisted out of the splintered wood.

"Don't you find this all terribly unrefreshing Balthazar. Look what they've done to my poor door. What a waste of their broken shoulders to think they could outwit Beefy. Infantry captain extraordinary. I think cannibalism is next on my calendar of lusts."

"Let us out of here."

"Right with you girls now."

Beefy at the turf bin. Lifting up the lid top. Displaying the brown piles of turf. His hand choosing a crumbling piece.

"Quite real. You see Balthazar. Now. We close this up. And here, come watch, undo this and we draw back a little secret door. And the two morsels of our delight. Good evening girls."

In the shadows, sitting upon a low bench. Breda and Rebecca grim faced and unglad. Shuffling out sideways. Fitter patter of the rain. And the wind rising. The scullery window ashake. Helping the ladies back into the little game. Beefy so gallantly plays. With rules writ. For black bliss. Oblique and naughty. Smiling he bows. This boy of all those years ago. Whose purest voice raised such sweet threnody to sound across meadows blending the lightest green with daisies and buttercups. Taken by his friendly hand through woodlands gently away from fear. He made my Tillie well again.

"Get us out of here, I want to be gone out of here altogether."

"Girls I myself would dearly like to be lost at this moment. Amid the gaieties of the London season if possible. After all the recent rattings. Buggering up the stylish sauciness I had so hoped was to be our lot. And still can be."

"Til not be arrested in this college you chancer."

"Rebecca that's not an awfully nice thing to say. After risking all to keep you safe from harm. Allow me to take this strap from your tempting shoulder."

"You're the devil himself, you are."

"Please. Both of you are my honoured guests. Good grief. Abandon ship. The windows."

A woeful crash. The door falling flat into Beefy's chambers. Over it tramping three porters. A wave of dust rising. The Proctor rigid at the disembowelled entrance. All triumph buried unseen in the sad face. The sound of doors opening on the staircase landings below. To see what the earthquake is about. Windows squeaking, and others slamming shut. A college awake this night. For an awarding of a degree. In harlotry.

"Very well. I apologise to both of you young ladies. I'm sure you've been misled here. You Beefy, and you Mr. B. Attend tomorrow at three. My office. I shall appreciate your escorting these young ladies, again with my apologies, out of the university. A taxi has been summoned. That is all. Goodnight."

A roll of drums beating. Cannons firing salvos. In a coffin two blank parchments. Of ungranted degrees. Drawn on a gun carriage. Hooves echoing their clatter up and down Dublin streets. Sorrowing people wave their little flags and tap their tears. The wind awakes and blows. Bends and flattens highland grass. The bagpipes play. A purple music across the heather. Go down to death bravely. When you go. Neither to weep nor smile. Tomorrow will be a yesterday when nothing mattered at all. It rains tonight. This bishop born Beefy.

Anointed with his own gracious infamies. A high stepper in all doggish demeanours. We both are led by the scruff of the neck. To the black long taxi. A light lit inside. To reload the girls. In this college square they call Botany Bay.

Under

The wild

Hair

Of the trees.