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

10

The day of the lawn meet. Dawning. On a bad bad old day. A night storm bringing a thaw with its gales and buckets of rain and flooded pastures. Slates off the cow house. Chimney toppled, ancient oaks out in the park uprooted, and utter utter misery festering in my heart. As one makes fervent plans to abandon this crumbling pile of stone and devote the rest of my life to whoring and reckless extravagance in the better fleshpots somewhere miles from the gossiping tongues of this rain sodden parish. Yesterday, a hint of disapproval in Sexton’s voice as he stole up behind my shoulder in the corner of the orchard as I watched the rooster cohabiting with a hen just as it was growing dark and you’d think the rooster would be thinking instead of a night’s sleep.

‘Sure you’ll be carrying on like the Duke of Portland in Welbeck Abbey, with shutters closed and no one seeing you for days on end.’

‘Many things Sexton to look after in the office, keeps me in.’

‘And now wasn’t that something. Our little beauty Leila, our St Joan of Arc. Masterly, masterly. Now twisting that eegit Marquis around her tiny finger. Did you hear about that.’

‘I heard, Sexton.’

‘Writing to her he is. She’ll soon move in the highest circles in the land. She’ll rule nations that one. Gone from here in a trice. Saw the envelope meself. The coat of arms there emblazoned in the red wax.’

‘And it does seem to me, Sexton all quite improper.’

‘What, to write to a beautiful woman. When was that ever improper.’

‘I am merely suggesting Sexton that she merely works here in a not particularly esteemed position.’

‘And didn’t she acquit herself in that that evening after the hunt. Let me tell you it wasn’t, was it, as if Apollo was playing his lyre to the muses. Ha ha. Cromwell at Drogheda was more like it. Except now the boot is on the other foot. Struck in defence of you. Fought by your side. Saved you by her loyalty. Ah now Master Darcy, with all due respect to your Protestant forebears, an Irish lass can rise to the heights. Sure who hasn’t in low moments prayed dear god, teach me how to accept the awful scourge of being Irish and that so many other lucky nations and lucky men are not. I’ve thought it I have. Plenty. When they’d shoot you down in England upon the sound of your voice.’

That darkening evening I found myself walking away from Sexton, passing his Stations of the Cross. Veronica wiping the face of Jesus. Jesus falls for the second time. Yes. Leila. Loyal. If you were ever needing my care I would come she said. And she did. And now. Like the gay sound of some summer laughter on the air. She may be gone. Leaving me bereft as I wake yet another morn. So hard to disturb my bones from a bed. That at least keeps the frost off my knees. But not out of my heart. Silent in the household. Always a sign that everyone is warmly collected in the kitchen shining the seats of the chairs. Bent over tea, bread and butter, fried eggs, rashers, sausages. One even has given up making loud noises of my approach. To scare them back outside to work again. At least getting them as far as the underground tunnel. With all its blessings and grievous drawbacks. Built to avoid the aromas of manures or the sight of servants. But certainly more used as an idlers’ paradise, with a smell of contented tobacco smoke coming out the high end.

‘Sir. Sir. It’s your breakfast out here I’m waiting with.’

A thump on the door. Darcy Dancer turning to face the slit of light creeping on the carpet. Yanking up blankets close around the throat. This pre dawn moment one does lie muscles stiff in bed utterly shattered and beaten. And back a week ago, one thought it was another dream. Or nightmare. But the cheeky ruddy nerve. The Marquis galloping off in the night Having run amok among one’s female servants. The whole ruddy lot could end up pregnant beyond belief. The place a maternity hospital. Full of his illegitimate heirs.

‘Come in.’

Dingbats, tripping into the room and clattering the crockery on the tray. The faint hall candlelight behind her. Her hair uncombed, looking like it’d been struck by lightning. My shutters rattling. Closed hopefully against new ill winds. Barred against the hysterical bank manager’s letters. And a dream I had last night of the agent and the timber merchant cutting down a giant old beech, and his men swarming over it like a nest of ants, taking it away. Then seeing just beyond the ridge that the whole parkland was denuded. Stumps of oaks, elms, sycamores, chestnuts, the meadows scarred and rutted.

‘It be dark. It would be drowning rats, such a fierce wild night sir. Wait now while I feel for the box of matches and light the candle.’

On the chimney piece three candles alight. Discomforting my eyes. The rest of the night awake with a ton slate coming adrift on the roof. The rumbling slide. The crash on the front steps below. Pity it didn’t wait to hit the agent’s lawyer or even better the bailiff who’s soon to be banging on the door. Instead of leaving a gaping hole up there somewhere for the rain.

‘Would I put the tray here now, sir.’

‘Is it clean Mollie on the bottom.’

‘Sure it’s the one I fell down with and wiped later I did.’

One has to take every precaution. This day after my sisters announced they were having a ball. Can you imagine. To meet amusing people they said. Bloody hell the house is full of amusing people. A ruddy vaudeville. Dingbats herself two mornings ago on the servants’ stairs carrying a tray, fell tumbling down head over heels covered in butter, coffee, sugar and cream. Claiming she was goosed on the top step by Crooks who, laughing so hard himself, fell after her. Both promptly spending the day in bed. And after the night of the Mental Marquis, rape was the talk of all the staff. And Kitty and Norah locking doors. Giggling. Hoping no doubt someone would break in and jump on them. Crooks rumoured seen past midnight without the merest trace of a hobble or limp, flitting and pirouetting down the hallway in a flowing gown and lady’s Ascot hat. Isn’t that bloody amusing enough. Transvestites anonymous. Without having a ball. Of course outside, there’s a circus. Luke tossed by the bull into manure slops, and getting up running like a blind piccaninny. Straight into a loose pig he clung to and was then dragged into the stable where he ended up covered in barley seed. Crooks then flouncing about the house with a walking stick, and imitating Miss von B’s most officious manner.

‘I won’t have outdoor staff using the indoor comforts of this house, not while I’m butler here, I won’t.’

And Luke in the hospital. Because washing the muck and barley off himself and never having been in a bathtub before in his life, slipped and broke his arse bone. Crooks loftily announcing.

‘Serves him right taking the presumption of cleansing himself in the manner to which he is clearly not accustomed.’

And the ferocious bull was all the talk of the house till Foxy Slattery’s younger brother to whom Foxy must have taught every trick thought he’d have a go with him. And got flung up into the branches of a tree. Then the little eegit caused a fire in the tack room chimney while heaping up logs and toasting himself asleep. The tiresome little scoundrel then pouring lamp oil on it to put it out. The only thing he seems to know how to do is every five minutes sneak into the house to get biscuits from the kitchen. Or if Catherine is resting after her lunch, to fry up a cauldron of eggs, bacon and sausages, enough for an army. And then into the jams and preserves, and after scooping out half their contents the little fucker tightens the caps on everything in the larder so that cook can’t open them. Till Dingbats tried breaking them open with a poker and serves me broken glass in my breakfast honey and jam. Meet amusing bloody people. My god. Someone too, of course, was also being amusing supposing to entertain me by placing a rubber mouse in my bed, not realizing that such creatures were already scampering across my face very much alive and waking me from sleep in the middle of the night. Meet bloody amusing people. My dears. They’re right here under your noses. Of course they’re no doubt wanting their potential suitors, at whom they invariably were turning up their noses, to all be arrayed at their disposal along the ballroom walls. That is if Lavinia wasn’t already hiding behind various pieces of drawing room furniture, as she did when Crooks came to announce a caller who was it appeared, enamoured of her, and of whom it would also appear she was not enamoured, while Christabel at the same time was throwing herself with a screech prostrate in a faint on the soaked garden lawn to attract his attention.

‘Now there’s plenty of light sir.’

Darcy Dancer pulling himself up from under the covers. Dingbats lighting the bedside candles. And would you believe. Performing a curtsey. Her concern over my upper nudity would not appear to be as great as it is over Crooks’ alleged prodding finger.

‘And now while the door is open behind me, should I be back to you sir momentarily. With the more of anything you may want.’

‘There’s yesterday’s newspaper in the library, if you’d bring it please Mollie.’

‘Very good sir, I’ll be back, momentarily.’

Dingbats withdrawing. Tiptoeing towards the door. She closes with a new silence I’ve certainly not heard before. And of course one will wait momentarily. And wonder momentarily whyever she is increasing her vocabulary so formidably. Especially with a word unheard of in this household since I’m sure it was built. There was of course momentarily a risqué moment with one’s chest exposed in the dim light. O god and why does not my loyal lady ever bring me breakfast. Ever come in that door to my lonely dark. And she. She is what I want. Your lovely purple ribbon. On your lovely black hair. To take up its satin in my fingers. To undo. O god. As I might. Your body. To lie it stretched soft sinewy beneath mine. Souls clutched in warmth. Side of a slender neck to kiss. A brow to touch and tender. And have nothing. Except all these days to try to shut out all the thoughts of her. The jealousy. Like a great massive void. Cloaks my brain. Not once, not even once to speak to her all these days. Not even thank her. Except to see her come and go in the dining room. The inane conversation of my sisters. I’m sure appalling her ears. Of the dances and balls in London. The horses and hunting in Leicestershire. Racing at Newmarket. And the most grim and terrible embarrassment of all. Lavinia suggesting that she smelled. One knew Leila heard by the cold implacable fury rigid on her face, followed by her sudden departure, with a crash of crockery in the pantry, and resounding slam of a door. Dingbats leapt backwards into the dining room with a blob of whipped cream between the eyes as Crooks, his shoes and lower trousers splattered with trifle, reappeared, his one eye staring directly east and the other at the northwest corner of the ceiling which at that unfavourable moment started to leak.

‘Forgive me sir, and your ladyships, but the pudding lately prepared for this evening is regrettably indisposed.’

O god one did wish one’s sisters would soon go elsewhere. With their now written commands following breakfast in bed. Making suggestions as to decor, mealtimes, servants’ rosterings and issuing orders all over the place. Each wanting their own private apartments and the silver on their dressing tables daily polished. And my best horses to hunt. Complaining about the lack of hot water, and the overabundance of cold sheets, their bedroom fires untended and draughty rooms. That tea was late to the parlour. And that it was Indian and not the China with lemon they preferred. Dingbats at least this morning seems all intent upon dancing better attendance upon one. Having in the middle of the night one of her more normal occurrences. With Kitty banging at my door in her nightdress. Come quickly sir with the shotgun, a vampire bat is flying round Mollie’s head and a rat has her cornered in her room. Of course we were all minus our ear drums as a result. With the explosion sending the bat to kingdom come along with two panes out of the window. And the whole household peeking out their doors thinking the world had just ended. The only constructive thing being, that it was obvious to anyone watching Dingbats jump and leap up and down on her mattress that she did have such a great pair of tits, of which any poor understocked farmer would be immensely proud to find on his best cow. And here she is now. In my bedroom door. Actually breathing heavily. Back sooner than one expected. And believe it or not with the newspaper.

‘Sir here you are now and did you ever hear tell of what happened to that man Hitler. They say he’s living. In secret seclusion. Not ten miles from here.’

‘I’m sure he is Mollie.’

‘And is there anything else now I can do sir.’

‘No thank you, Mollie.’

‘Draw your bath.’

‘Ah yes, you might indeed.’

Awfully difficult to know what prompts a servant’s sudden diligence. There’s no doubt one’s previous nudity helped her to take one more seriously. Although god, this is bloody last month’s paper. They are such an utterly stupid lot. Certainly one’s sisters would agree. Yesterday, while I took tea in the estate office, they had theirs in the blue parlour. And which on this particularly mournful occasion, Leila brought. And concerning which, joining them later for drinks before dinner, Lavinia bitterly complained.

‘She’s insolent. She should be let go. She’s talking back. Not only refusing to do what she’s told. Do you know what she did. Threw the tea strainer at me from the door. Nearly struck me. Then she lifted up her uniform at me. Above her thighs. After bringing us Indian tea again. And having been told China.’

I must say I was tempted to say it was a pity the whole thing wasn’t dumped on them. To get them up off their grand arses which only shifted out of their beds to either recline in feather upholstery or sit on a horse. And then I did say it.

‘It’s a pity she didn’t dump it on you to get you up off your continually leisurely arses.’

‘Well damn you brother, for your privileged information, she did dump it on us.’

Then monopolizing the gramophone in the library. And playing their ruddy rumba over and over again. Bloody Brazil. Which record if I hear it just once more, I shall break. Then switching the wireless on and off when they see fit. And more often than not absenting themselves and running down the battery requiring its recharging in town. Their imperious descent of the grand staircase. And as they did so, invariably issuing in their lofty grand manner some inane request to any servant seen in the vicinity. Especially Crooks.

‘I wonder Crooks could you see if the library fire is bright as I shall be there presently sitting.’

Crooks of course on one occasion did take the opportunity to pretend he was in a ducal house exercising his lofty command in delegating the precise division of duties. And he did split his infinitives calling and clapping and finally pulling the bell to summon one of his charges to pump the bellows at the library fire. But with Kitty, Norah and Dingbats repaired to an attic bedroom where Foxy Slattery’s brother had brought them up biscuits, tea, scones and jams and where they sat around a fire smoking those Woodbine cigarettes, and I believe telling quite salacious stories, the servants’ bells clinked and clanged unheeded down in the kitchen hall. Serving only to annoy Catherine, who of course much mumbled to herself these days having her own small farm to worry about. Dear old soul did do me many a kindness. Dear me I think that one could easily get bitter. End up forever pursuing the things of enjoyment in life without much enjoyment. Must not lose sight of the fact that menials have their own worries. And at least less a nuisance is Christabel once off her arse. She did succeed in putting a new born calf sucking to its mother. Always remember her kinder to animals than she was to humans. But of course my sisters as a pair did as soon as our nanny’s back was turned try to poke out my eyes. Explaining, we want a blind little baby brother so we can lead him around by the hand. Or if I were to crawl on the front lawn or hall, they would drive their prams over on top of me. We want a dead little baby brother so that we can hold a funeral. And while I screamed, and if Nanny weren’t on her instant way, they would kick me. We want a wounded little baby brother so that we can play hospital. And not a toy could I pick up that they wouldn’t rip it away out of my hands. Leaving me screaming. We want an unhappy little baby brother so that we can make him happy again. And dear me one nearly feels one is still facing these previous inclemencies of body and soul. Only my poor dear man, Mr Arland ever succeeded in making me feel that someone cared some little bit for my welfare. There we were all those many hours in a chill dusty schoolroom lodged in under the servants’ stairs. Even he grew moderately impatient trying to pound some Latin into my so obtuse brain. The lonely sadness in the man, so much like the sadness I felt myself. Being able to do or say something to cheer him cushioned and encouraged my own spirits. And then how cruel life was to him. Mocking all his kindly ways. Baptista Consuelo spurning his so shyly proffered attentions. Then death tearing his dearest love from his life. No god could ever make another Clarissa for him to cherish. Or such a Clarissa who had loved him. Whither now has he gone. His homoeopathy book to cure his bodily ills. But no book to cure his grief. Where e’er he walk. That solemn man. Under what tiny piece of sky. Does he wander in his own abyss of sorrow. How find him. Hear him speak. Make me in my own sad dilemma. Not so sad.

Darcy Dancer in hunting coat, breeches, boots, coming down the main stairs. Rain stopped. The wind still howling. Pause here on the landing. The bark on the grove of beech, wet and dark to the west and silvery to the east. High in the tip top branches crows squawking. So often one stands here to look out. And see visions. Something I saw in a dream during the night. That I was an older man. Looking back into the past. Seeing a life that one had so long ago lived. Yet a life older than one’s childhood. Before I had gone away to other lands in search of my fortune. And now returned a rich man. To an Andromeda Park standing empty. Roof caved in. All its inmates gone. Ivy growing through the walls. And I walked past the kitchen. The blackened hearth and stove cold, that years ago glowed warm. Stepping slowly on the wet stone. Between the mildewed and crumbling corridor walls which once kept the chill damps at bay. The brass servants’ bells hanging from their coiled springs, corroded green and grey. And I stopped at Edna Annie’s basement room, where her whole life was spent going about her lonely ancient chores. A fuchsia hedge growing through her broken window. The bedstead rusting. The rain dripping through the ceiling and falling on possessions one cherished once. A sailor doll of blue long lashed eyes, so many times warmly hugged and kissed and cuddled closely abed. And which lay unsheltered, broken armed and cracked on the rat holed mattress. Its little head upturned. A rain drop for a tear in one of its eyes. And I stood there. Tears in my own eyes. Till a sound behind me made me turn. A mist. Sound of water. And the hunting lame girl killed by the old stone bridge over the river was standing there. And instead of white she wore top hat and flowing dark hunting garments. Her face smiling. With the splendid white teeth. And lips of Leila. Slowly lifting her skirts above her slender legs. Slowly over her knees, higher on her thighs. And there in the ruins. She spoke. Her soft voice coming from her dark haired beauty. I am the mistress of Andromeda Park. She said. Then I woke. Shivering and cold.

Darcy Dancer stopping further down near the bottom of the stairs. The arriving voices. Distant bark of hounds. A breeze blowing through the house. Hunt members pouring in the door. The front hall with tables laden. Sausages, hardboiled eggs, smoked salmon, soda breads, barmbracks, butters, beers, creams, port, sherry, brandy. How far now the day that will dawn on the last drop of wine and the last morsel left.

Major Bottom already with a brimming glass of port to hand, striding up to Darcy Dancer. His grey brows going up and down as his ruddy face contorted in his attempt to smile.

‘One would have thought Kildare, with the condition of the land, the hunting would be cancelled. Instead of making mires of small farmers’ pastures. But it’s damn jolly good of you to lay on such warm hospitality. But with the wind drying, clearing the sky and the fields brightening in a bit of sun during the morning, perhaps not too much damage will be done.’

Of course the truth of the matter is the hunt secretary couldn’t give a damn about making mires of small farmers’ pastures and in fact delighted in parading his big bloody hoofed horse straight across their winter sown wheat. But not before he’s drunk all my best port and turned the whole ruddy hunt breakfast into a luncheon party. Good heavens. Motor car horns sounding outside on the drive, and pulling up in front of the house. Horses rearing and bucking at the beeping. Who on earth could be arriving. Doors opening. Unloading folk. And who clearly climb up the steps. And wade into the hall. O my lord. A voice. O my god. No ruddy mistaking it. That one has heard uttering so many a time previously. Bellowing above the rising din in Dublin. My goodness, what on earth do I owe all this to. Being visited. One does so miserably dupe oneself with the false notion that people are fond of one for oneself and not for something which will be to their exclusive benefit, as indeed one finds dismayingly is always the case. People are, on the whole, aren’t they, such a ruddy reprehensible lot.

‘By jove, as bloody sure as most bloody houses in suburban Ireland are called Sorrento, damn chilly journey has given me a roaring appetite. Enough to eat a cold pail of muddy unpeeled potatoes.’

Rashers Ronald. In the most outlandish of outlandish tweeds. His ever ready smiling face, front teeth protruding even further and the gap wider between them. Through which he occasionally resoundingly whistles. Cheeks and nose brightened. No doubt by clearly alcoholic refreshments, numerously taken at many stops on his journey here. A signally orange wool tie. With a totally contradictory stiff white collar attached to his light blue shirt. A sprig of bog heather as a nosegay. And although one does slightly quake at his unexpected appearance, a smile does erupt in one’s heart at seeing him. Crossing these black and white tiles. Grinning ever so mischievously and ever so slightly shy, proffering his hand outstretched to shake. Which I do believe I have never previously shaken before. His English vowels superseding those Irish where it mattered most.

‘My dear chap Kildare. My dear chap. How good it is to see you again.’

‘Well this is a surprise, how nice to see you.’

‘Surprise. Nonsense. It’s shocking. Being as I am the fox. And spiritually naked as I usually am. And indulging in the foolish temerity to appear in the midst of fox hunters. But when confronting such foxhunting fixture prominently tacked to the lobby wall of the Shelbourne Hotel, and a knowledgeable chap at my shoulder informing me with an insistent jab of his index finger that it was none other than you who was residing at this most impressive country seat. I’ll be quite frank. I rushed here to presume upon our previous acquaintanceship. But also to return to you two fivers you were gracious enough to temporarily entrust to me. You see I stoop to grovel where others might merely pretend to fawn.’

‘Well thank you very much.’

‘I’m not entirely sure but I think I detest foxhunting and those who pursue it. But then, who am I my dear chap, to cramp anyone’s bloodthirsty style, especially as one’s own mouth is so wide open for drinking and chewing. To think I had been promoting you as an outrageous chancer just like oneself. And I believe introducing you, in the interests of making one’s company at hand more agreeable of course, as the authentic Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. As nice as such titles are you clearly are already a squire needing no such embellishment. And by god, commodious and substantial are the words for this very nice mansion you occupy. Fair takes my poor debtor’s breath away. How are you my dear chap. How are you really. I sweep up in one little heap the debris of my fondest wishes left from so much disappointment in my life and humbly offer them to you from the labyrinths of my undeserving soul. And I do apologize for my flowery speech. And for not at least having brought you one of the better quality boxes of chocolates. You know with the chewy nougat and deliciously crumbling truffle centres and so forth.’

‘Crooks, please. Some champagne. For Mr Ronald.’

‘Of course sir.’

Crooks giving, as he withdraws a single pace backwards, the proper and merest nodding inclination of the head. People who rather cut a figure always seem to inspire Crooks to his very best butlering. Albeit Rashers does more vaguely resemble a race course tout. However Crooks did, being a past Dubliner, listen to Rashers with rapt attention, a twisted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Which with his crossed eyes, made him look a trifle daft. But suddenly endearing. Between of course his more obtuse irritating moments. Especially his continued attempts at putting his finger in places where the rest of the female staff find it most unwanted. Not to mention what he may do with his fingers during some of his more bizarre recent night time fetishes.

‘Of course my dear fellow I’m in utter awe. Clearly there is no need for you, as I have found the need in my line of adventuring mountebankism, to use the old nom de guerre instead of the old nom de famille and thereby keep the old incognito intact, if you follow me. But damn it, here you are, with ruddy eggs, barley, wheat, oats, milk and butter at a hand’s grasp. And yum yum yummy filet mignon within the tap of a sledge hammer, and a few slashes of a carving knife. Of course I expect to find a few damp patches on the wall and also a headless chicken or two rotting behind the drawing room drapes which are customarily found in the better Anglo Irish house.’

And as one stared out over Rashers Ronald’s shoulder, listening amused and calmed as one might be by a bird singing, there she was. Out of a blast of sunlight in the doorway. White gloved hand holding her bowler and whip. Blond hair coiffed back on her head. So soigné. Striding in her slightly military manner across the hall. Straight for me. My heart thumping uncontrollably in my chest. My private enlarging in my breeches. Even as one of my ears still listens to Rashers Ronald rambling on.

‘I would so adore to be a bookmaker. One of course with a couple or so shop fronts in say Duke or Anne Street. Even in spite of your enormous win my dear fellow. My betrothed keeps insisting she will back me. To the hilt. Which with her accountants shouting in unison that she shouldn’t, could mean the business end of the sword up one’s arse. I take a damn poor view of that short sighted attitude. But you must meet her. Before the dear gallant girl gets too much further the wrongish side of sixty. Two face lifts have kept her damn presentable. Leaves her expression a little sphinx like as a result. But who minds. Perhaps a little blet in the quarters and thighs. And knobbly hocks. A regrettable consequence of her grazing too much on her boxes of chocolates. The dear dear creature’s only failing, however. And added to her two previous tobacconist’s shops she now has three more. O but I bore you.’

‘No not at all.’

‘Well then I damn well bore myself. Except for the fact that my dear betrothed has now instead of three hundred, four hundred and fifteen acres, three roods and two perches. Of the very nicest possible well watered and fenced acres in County Dublin. Stabling for sixty. Fifteen horses in training. Five footmen, eight gardeners. Of course I exaggerate for the sake of accuracy. Knowing that anyone listening to what I’m saying will take it with a grain of salt. You know I’m convinced, there is something to this country life. But dear girl wants to know if my intentions are sincere. That I’m not after the easy way of Jammet’s restaurant life so to speak. That’s where we are dear boy, every evening in my utter struggle to impress her that my intentions are hallmarked sterling. I mean what more can I do but sit there paying the bill and holding back tears that would otherwise be pouring down my cheeks parting with the fiver it’s costing me. And all the while saying, I love you, darling. I love you. But the dear lady is taking such a long time to accept my proposal. I had to ruddy purloin this shirt and my present pair of socks from her butler. And can you imagine, damn chap had the sauce to request them back. I mean there I was on my way to take a pee having bid two spades during bridge. Damn uncomfortable feeling you know. Bad enough the collar’s ruddy too tight. Ah but you do listen to me don’t you. And you are wondering what I did, aren’t you. Well I took off my coat and handed him back his shirt and took off my shoes and handed him back his socks. And went back to the bridge table and bid three no trump. Taught the ruddy chap a lesson. Didn’t it. He then, gave them to me as a present neatly parcelled up in green tissue. But I mean my dear chap, I’m only the merest maybe thirty or forty or so years her junior. Why should my youth be such a hindrance. What matters is our common interest in horses, our companionship at the races. And what should be significant is we hold hands on our way there. Of course we couldn’t do that if it weren’t for her chauffeured car.’

Miss von B stepping close to Rashers’s elbow. Nodding to him as he stops in his speech, and she turns to smile at Darcy Dancer.

‘Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer, the genuine aristocrat. I presume.’

‘You do so presume correctly madam. But I would rather present myself as your faithful potato digging bog trotter at your service.’

My god, if I had not got those words out my mouth it would have stayed opened long and wide enough to become a swallow’s nest. If anything she is even more beautiful than I remember. Her teeth whitely shining between salmon pink soft lips. Glowing mahogany of her boot tops and their lower leather so black gleaming. Glimpse of yellow vest under her white silk stock pinned with a gold and emerald pin. Her long and sinewy legs within her breeches. Not a hair or thread out of place. And a god awful crash has just happened down the hall somewhere, no doubt of the usual irreplaceable crockery breaking.

‘Ha, by zee sound of zat the old place it has not changed so much.’

Rashers recoiling at this rude interruption and turning away, just as oneself did turn at the expensive sound. And catch sight of Leila disappearing down the hall towards the ballroom. And see deposited upon the hall tiles, in her wake, a large vase in some many considerable pieces. While here in front of me within the smell of her sweet breath, Miss von B. Stands almost as one had dreamt. That she had come back into this house. And of course as luck would have it, she is surveying me from head to foot.

‘Ah but that is just as we would expect, kaboom, something precious becomes no more. And so let me look at my trotter bogger.’

Who was instantly noticed in his effort to shield my most embarrassingly largest tumescence I am sure I have ever had the arousal to have. Puts me in the extreme weakest position possible to show her any indifference. And so obvious to anyone even remotely acquainted with the breeding of horses. One even feeling that the thinness of one’s riding crop, although being as ludicrously inadequate as it is would at least distract and give the appearance of a rival stiffness. Good lord what a hopeless image one conjures in the present desperation. To ask her to stay. Do sleep here tonight. My dear. And I shall, using my celibacy as a parachute, descend quietly upon your quarters and ruddy well prod them good and proper. And erase in one throbbing evening of love all the yearning hurt. Of your ignoring me back in Dublin. Ah but maybe one should not be so easy on her. As this now is my supreme moment to be utterly cool. As she has been in her so oft practised manner. And yet here I am, one’s equilibrium already betrayed by one’s inadvertent primal instinct. O god never mind tonight. What kind of awful day might this be ahead.

‘Ah the Rashers Rashers Ronald. You know.’

‘Indeed I do, madam.’

‘He is of course a fortune hunter. You do not seem to keep such worthwhile company.’

Crooks with glasses of champagne poured. Delivering on his tray a glass to the elbow of Rashers upon whose face one catches a glimpse of utter stricken sadness. As if as a once celebrated actor he’d been suddenly swept aside in the middle of his final curtain speech to be told that it was his last. And dear me, the front hall of Andromeda Park is thronged. Voices of the thirsty hungry horde raised. Mouths stuffed and throats gurgling like drains. One hates to think so ungenerously but I’m paying for it all.

‘Madam please do, take this glass. Crooks, didn’t you, you knew her Royal Highness was coming and had her champagne ready.’

‘Yes Master Reginald and it is felicitous to see you again your Highness and looking so well.’

‘Well thank you so much Mr Crooks.’

‘Always entirely delighted to be at your service your highness.’

Crooks withdrawing back into the fray. And bumping into Gearoid, who with a glass of Guinness in each hand, drinking from both spilled their contents down the front of his greasy rain coat. And at his elbow watching in smiling admiration, the Dublin Poet known in the vicinity of Harry Street as The Bard Wandered Over From Duke Street and in the vicinity of Duke Street, as The Bard Wandered Over From Harry Street. And often called Grafton, for short, this being the street connecting the two. His mouth now, instead of spouting verse, gaping open to pour back his tall glass of whisky. Dear god, the denizens of Dublin. These inhuman beings. Erupting out of the past. All come to have a bash. The few incorrigibles of the permanently dispossessed who closely cling to the flotsam and jetsam, still afloat on their recent fast dwindling legacies. The temporarily rich and momentarily praised heroes of ignominy. Who sail the storm tossed waves of the Dublin night. Could there be even more of them off the morning train. Or another load out of another motor car.

‘Ah but your eyes are lost in thinking, my too kind host, my boggy trotter.’

‘Yes I am madam. And although that term is occasionally funny I sometimes wish you might find some other droll expression to use.’

‘Ah still so sensitive you are. But why. Why are you not proud to be from zee bog.’

‘Simply because madam I am not from zee bog. The bog is more than two miles from this house.’

‘Ah, if you go round by the wood, but if you go as zee crow flies zee bog is right over there.’

A minor commotion of pushing and shouldering at the jammed up front door. And entering in their thick to the floor tweeds, the bunch of flowers. One after the other. The spinster sisters, Rose, Camellia, Marigold, Pansy and Iris. Holders of the world record for sisterly celibacy totalling more than three hundred years. Obviously come to sample my standard of home made bread, butter and jam. As they always do. And flying out of their camouflaged midst, my goodness, my dancing master. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus. Waltzing right this way.

‘Ah, so. So. And my dear you are wearing lavender water. Such fragrance. I smell you. I smell you. A mile away. You have done it. Reached maturity my dear. Quite captivating of you. You have managed such a mix. Of people my dear. Both the wickedly moral and respectably immoral. Clearly as we do no longer see you in the very naughty city of Dublin, we have had to come see you. Among these awful people with the blood thirst. Of course what you forget is how we miss your such young beautiful good looks. You must you know come to the Cats. Lois, who as you know is such a great artist could not tear herself off the canvas to come but she asks so much after you.’

The Count tossing his head and blond curls as he glanced in his fifty directions for every three words out of his mouth. Smiling and nudging Miss von B who glowered at the mention of Lois’ name. And the Count himself smelling to high heaven of lilac. One did put a drop of one’s mother’s lavender water under the tunic which one instantly regretted as the sweet scent fumed up one’s nostrils. Of course the smell of some members of this gathering would send one into a coma if one sniffed too much. And one does avoid attempting introductions of these nearby faces of these catacombers, out on a spree, knowing of course everyone is already numbed to death having met again for the fifth hundredth time. Not counting the numerous unremembered occasions with their brains afloat intoxicated out of their skulls. Or when confronting each other in the blackness of some closet, alleyway, larder or wine cellar, groping at orifices and protuberances which if they didn’t yield the satisfaction sought, were then punched, twisted, pulled or scratched.

Darcy Dancer excusing himself. With a shudder. Finally observing the pieces of vase on the floor. Which Mollie is busy chipping further with her furious sweeping. And O my lord. I suppose it is indeed bloody valuable. My mother’s treasured glass vase. With its intercalaire overlay and marqueterie de verre. Cracked forever. One does not know whether to save one’s tears for something worse. My sisters. Descending the stairs. Faces plastered with smiles as they enter down into the din. And smiles fade. Clearly regarding these Dublin interlopers as distinctly not amusing people but as heinous inhumans to be avoided. Especially Rashers Ronald from whose vicinity they have already decided to rush. But who it appears is not to be easily shaken off. Following right by their elbows as they take up new smiling poses at the sideboard. And by their hysterically animated voices, they are being presently utterly captivated by Count O’Biottus. Who has rushed to them. And every time I look at my sisters now, reminds yet of another string of awful perpetrations they wrought upon one. During a picnic, having shown me how to carefully do a pooh pooh in Nanny’s best summer bonnet as she went to fill a bottle at the lake. And in the course of waiting for Nanny to put it back on her head, she instead sat on it. And the water Nanny had gone to get was for a stew they had asked could they cook over the fire for little baby brother. That they had brought their own little special bag of chopped up sprigs of yew and laburnum. Which they heaped into their brew. It was the only time she ever slapped their faces. When Nanny sniffed the spoonful being lifted towards my lips. And I must say I do remember being extremely pleased. My sisters clutching each other screaming to high heaven, and saying in unison, we hate you Nanny, we hate you. Only the day previously they had taught me words to use to ask for another piece of cake at Mummy’s tea which would assure they said its being given me. And I strolled in. Delighted with my frills and patent leather shoes and relishing this rarity of being invited to the sacred sanctum of the blue parlour. My sisters pushing me in the back to exercise the words they’d rehearsed with me. Nice polite words they’d picked up from the stable yard. May I please Mummy have another piece of that fucking shit, please. But Mummy took the wind out of their sails. Of course you may my dearest, have another piece of this fucking shit, but next time you must ask for simply cake. But dear me, there now my sisters. Craning their necks to look Miss von B up and down. Staring at her white leather snugly encased thighs. And swell of her buttock. And resenting clearly the attention she is getting from both the ladies and the gentlemen.

‘How are you boss, it’s good to see you again.’

Darcy Dancer turning. To confront this shyly smiling face and mischievously sparkling eyes. Last seen so many years ago, hungry, cold, bedraggled and shunned by the world. And now in a smart, perhaps too checked jacket, his hair slicked back, cavalry twill jodhpur trousers. A rather overly colourful and overly shiny tie that one suspects might be American. And his shirt and collar not exactly pure white or ironed to perfection. But it is, none the less, Foxy Slattery himself.

‘Foxy what a surprise.’

‘I was to seeing the father over in the hospital. Only for the sake of the mother. And if you don’t mind me saying, he’s still the same old mean cruel bastard he always was. And I was just now down there for a look in the stables. A right old mess they are. In the care of me little brother. Worse than when I was looking after them. Dirty bad old hay. Dung everywhere but on the manure heap. Hear he’s a bit of a devil like meself. I’m training the odd horse now. Over at the Curragh. And I sell a motor car or two on the side. SAI three eight nine, eight seven nought six ZC, five two four two LI.’

‘Ah I don’t think I quite understand what you’re saying Foxy.’

‘Ah that’s the registration numbers on the cars parked outside. Now I’d be able to tell you the history of each one of them.’

‘Well Foxy, not really knowing of course but I suppose that is useful to know. And you do look as if you have little to complain about.’

‘Had a few tough times. But for the moment, there’s not a bother on me. Made a bob or two. I wasn’t exactly a saint, but sure when the world with everyone in it was against me, you always treated me right. I’ll not forget you bringing me a sup of food out there beyond. When no one in this place cared whether I starved or died. I’ll remember that. Didn’t think you’d mind me stopping in a moment. I wouldn’t but for you treating me well, come into the big house like this otherwise. And I had to laugh. Crooks over there still got an eye on me and nearly fainted at the sight of me when I walked in. But the Kraut Miss von B, you’d think never clapped eyes on me before. But we did clap eyes on plenty of her in our time. But if there’s anything I can do for you now, legal or illegal, I’d want you to let me know.’

‘Thank you Foxy.’

‘Not much has changed in the old place. But there’s an odd face here now I’d know from Dublin. But I won’t outstay my welcome.’

‘Foxy you’re entirely welcome. Please, do have a drink.’

‘Ah I’m on me way now. And you’d already have your hands full with the lot of them here. And I’m keeping people away from talking to you. I’ll maybe grab a nip of something and say goodbye now and good luck. And any time you want to do business in the way of a motor car you know who to come to. And I’d have plenty of petrol for your tank and rubber for your wheels.’

Darcy Dancer watching Foxy Slattery stride away. Heels clicking on the tiles. And we did indeed the pair of us clap eyes on the beauteous Miss von B, lying stretched bosoms floating in the steaming bath water. And over there. Rashers Ronald. Wearing a more contented enthusiasm on his face. Sizing up the paintings and objets d’art with the practised eye of the pawn shop habitué. Dear me. He sees me. Of course he would know what one is thinking. He and the Mental Marquis would make a great pair. And here he comes smiling.

‘You are kitted out, my dear boy. Quite kitted out. Totally possessing all the nice appurtenances which allow for an unrivalled, nay an utterly unassailable role in life. At the very top. I mean I haven’t had a chance to fully count your servants yet. But I mean all, everything is very nicely splendid, thank you. If it were not utterly ignoble of me to do so, I would ask for my two fivers back. But the gentlemanly thing requires me to instead borrow them back from you. May I.’

Darcy Dancer taking the two crinkled white five pound notes from his side jacket pocket. Where they had been so contentedly crumpled. Placing them in this apologetic but none the less deliberate hand.

‘Damn decently sporting of you, Kildare. It really is. It’s a damn denomination so prized by serious race goers. And I mean do you think, I might also presume a little further on your splendid hospitality. You must say no of course, if it is of the slightest even of the teeniest weeniest slightest inconvenience to you. But as a matter of damn fact I’ve been chucked out of my wretched basement. And into another worse basement. In the catacombs. And frankly dear chap. In that place. The rodents, mayhem, murder and perversions are the very least of it. I just simply can’t take the irreverence. To the principles of behaviour one upholds. I don’t mind the physical insult, constantly assaulting one, it’s the social maim and injury one can’t stand. Having to rub more than one’s elbows with gurriers and newsboys. Who wouldn’t know an ode from an QX. Imagine one of them greeting me as an intimate on Grafton Street. And then with other collected awful tramps in abundance, having to spend the night in their filthy disgusting proximity. Foul personal habits appal me. Is it too much to ask. Just to be away a sojourn from all that. I will sleep on the floor. Just show me some hearth rug in some little out of the way corner. And my dear chap I only speak as fast as I do, not wanting to let you say no, until I’ve made, I hope, clear how desperate my absolute desperation actually is. Need just a few moments to simply my dear boy gain my confidence back to face my dear betrothed. While her accountants are persuaded in my favour to fund my efforts in taking up my professional duties as a bookmaker. Or rather, turf accountant, as those residing in Foxrock would better have it.’

My mouth when it opened first, simply did not speak. The stricken look again so overtaking poor Rashers’ face. How to tell him. That this oasis he perceives is a mirage. On the most disappointing of deserts. And just as Sexton would say. Ah it’s a great morning for delusions of grandeur. Plus I did nearly the handing him back his ten pounds. After the utter pleasured relief of putting in instead of taking money out of one’s pocket. A symbol of what was happening in my life. Wages for three for a week. And now. To add the thirst of one more throat to slake. The hunger of one more mouth to feed. How does one make that rare display of perfect manners which shields the truth behind it. Yet I know his discerning wits would find me out. Simply must gather up all my resources of firmness and even cruelty. But search all over one’s brain for the most uncruel words. To say the most cruel thing.

‘I’m terribly sorry Rashers, but I think that that would be a rather difficult idea at the moment. You see.’

One stopped. So utterly in one’s tracks. And in the din of other voices all around one’s ears. To see the vast tears aflood in his eyes. Their shiny tiny spheres breaking over the lids. Streaking down on his red ruddy cheeks.

‘I understand. And why I may not be wanted. I know I’m a chancer. A fraud, hoaxer, fortune hunter. And that our past acquaintanceship is trivial. I am sorry that I have asked you. What clearly I should not have asked.’

Rashers’s shoulders folding forward. His head slumping on his chest. His voice breaking into racking sobs. Tears spilling blotting their dark spots on his bright orange tie. My own heart welling up. With the only words. That could come to my mouth. And there remain mute. For only my mind to hear.

In the solemnity

Of pain

In the bright

Key

Of E major

Let music

Reign