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

23

Centre lobby, Baptista and I quite formally and conspicuously put out our hands to shake. The Manager coming out of the lounge nearly made me nip behind a pillar. But again nodding benignly in my direction. And bowing to Baptista. Who did stick me for the bill for dinner. Conveniently forgetting at the opportune time it was she who invited me.

‘Hello there Baptista.’

‘O hello.’

Dear me she does attract much attention from the gentlemen. Batting her eyes as she smiles looks of vague recognition in various directions and at those who one imagines must be the late night revelling members of Dublin’s smart set. Playing her little role so well, one was on the verge of believing her words.

‘Do call on us, won’t you, if you come to England. We are positively infected with snipe and Harold would so like to see you.’

We parted. And on this, the advent of the greatest carnal conviviality one could ever conjure in one’s wildest ranthest dreams, I portrayed a glacial calm. Busying myself with the porter, pretending one was interested in a tip for the next day’s races. One wasn’t listening as he reeled off a series of possible winners. But I certainly was looking and not wanting to believe my eyes. To suddenly see. Over the porter’s shoulder and just pushing her way in the door, to plant herself squarely in the middle of the lobby with her mutt. None other than the lady from Greystones. And one had to believe one’s ears. She had of course already called me everything under the sun, but she further loudly announced.

‘So there you are. I’ve finally caught up with you at last, haven’t I. The wicked shall be inflicted with their just punishment.’

Holding her umbrella like a lance, her dog clutched under one arm, she charged. As an American lady screamed. The lance digging me straight in the solar plexus. But happily making no progress whatever through my black thornproof Manx tweed waistcoat. But nevertheless what a bloody nice how do you do. I was about to pretend to faint, which wasn’t too difficult as I was in fact fainting. But I retained enough vestige of sensibility to put hands over my stomach, as I went down. Groaning. Holding to the tip of the umbrella so that it could better appear speared deeply into me. Closed my eyes. Let a sigh of breath from my lips. To sound distinctly like my last. As the porter, quite uncharacteristically, got quite over excited.

‘Good god. She’s kilt him dead. And Mr Kildare is private secretary and equerry emeritus to the Earl of Ronald Ronald. Sure he’ll have a fit to hear of this in Monte Carlo.’

I lay as dead as I possibly could. In spite of my tendency to want to get up and correct this ridiculous role one was being given by that unbelievable bastard Rashers. But at least the two porters were busy escorting the lady from Greystones out of my vicinity, and thankfully, to just the other side of the front doors. One just barely hearing her voice.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that to that heinous gentleman all afternoon.’

I did play the role of murder victim so perfectly that I had to jump up from the surprisingly comfortable carpet to stop the porter telephoning an ambulance and the Guards.

‘I’m alright I assure you. Just winded me. I only ask you return her umbrella and please, don’t let that lady back in. Thank you so much. Goodnight.’

Collecting my key. Jumping three at a time up the stairs. Till naturally I had to pull a ligament. And limp the rest of the way to the third floor. O god. Dare I. Now do what I’ve actually wanted to do. For years previous. And for these last hours especially. To mount upon her quarters which mounds one can pound till dawn do us part. Giddyyap dear girl. Could have used another brandy. Feel now limping in these empty halls that one is the only one left awake in this entire hotel. If I can only make it. Discreetly over this bright crimson carpet. Without being seen. Or shouted at. Or assaulted. Or collapsing in leg pain. Can you imagine. What if that maniac from Greystones ever finds out where I live. Lead an entire fife and drum band up the front drive. Placards aloft.

REPENT THOSE WHO SIN IN CHIROPODY.

Darcy Dancer stopping outside the shiny brass numerals on the door of number three one nine. Facing out the back of the hotel, Baptista must require a noiseless night. My private, dear me, is engorged like a crowbar that could splinter straight through this mahogany door. Don’t knock. She said. The door would be open. Turn the knob. And it is. Open. And now it’s pitch black closing it behind me. What a bloody strange smell. Horses and stables. After the marvellous fragrance of her perfume. My god she must have all her saddlery and equipage ready for being whipped back and forth across her floor. I say. Damn strange sort of snort she’s making. Must mean we get down to basics straight off. As equines do. My god she must be insatiably randy. I’m about to sample some real debauchery. Can hear Rashers say. Keep your morals up dear boy, never let your psyche sink into this Dublin abyss of iniquity, get thee Satan behind me is the catchword.

‘Baptista. Baptista.’

O jesus. What is she trying to do. Making that bloody noise. But my god this is exciting. In the pitch black. And even in the slight aroma of horse piss. Just feel my way to enough free space. Get off my jacket, waistcoat, tie. And drop my trousers. To the utter relief of my explosive penis. Ah. Dat ist besser or something to that German effect as Miss von B used to say.

Darcy Dancer feeling his way towards the bed across the soft carpet. Distant sounds of newsboys shouting Herald and Mail. Imagine this time of night. Still trying to sell a paper. Suppose it would be to a drunk, lurching his way across the forlorn midnight wastes of the city. I’m close. Whatever has happened to her marvellous perfume. I distinctly sniff snuff on the air. Or is it that her saddles need cleaning.

‘Baptista. Baptista. Holy heavens. This damn bloody chair. Put on the bloody light. Baptista, where are you. Is it you. I’ve fractured a foot.’

‘It damn well is not sir, Baptista or any damn remote resemblance. Who the devil are you sir. In my room.’

‘My god. I am most awfully frightfully sorry. I do believe I am in the wrong room.’

‘Damn bloody right you are sir. And I’ll appreciate your getting the damn hell out.’

‘Yes indeed. I do beg your pardon. I’m just trying to find my way. My garments, I’m just looking for them.’

‘Garments. What exactly are you at sir.’

‘Don’t turn on the light please.’

‘I bloody well shall turn on the light and call the Manager if necessary.’

‘I promise you it’s not necessary.’

‘I’ll be the damn judge of that sir.’

The bedside lamp throwing soft bathing rays upon Darcy Dancer, one sock in hand hanging down over a rapidly subsiding recently tumesced penis. The figure in bed bolt upright. Like a gleaming sabre. Which speaking of sabres. Plus the tasselled nightcap gold embellished with heraldic arms atop his head. As well as his fitting a ruddy monocle in his eye. It is. O my god. The highly decorated ex Indian Army cavalry Colonel, and once our former Master of Foxhounds, equally famous for shooting poachers out of his trees and then as they fell with their teeth still sunk in the apples, chasing them slashing a sabre at their disappearing backsides hysterically escaping over his high walls. And god, there is a stack of saddles and what looks like a scabbard. Got to keep my back to him or he may recognize me. Equally risky if he doesn’t. Because I may then get a sabre up the arse.

‘Who the hell are you sir Turn around.’

‘I’m trying to put on my socks.’

‘I said turn around or I shall make a citizen’s arrest. And come out from behind that chair. I say sir. You’re damn naked. And don’t I know your face. Isn’t your father a member of my club.’

‘No. I’m sure not. I’m an orphan.’

‘Don’t come the hound with me sir. By jove, I know who you are, you’re that Kildare. Andromeda Park. What the bloody damn hell are you doing coming in my damn door, this hour of the night. And knocking over my damn snuff.’

‘I really am most awfully frightfully sorry. I’m afraid I’ve mistaken my floor.’

‘Number’s plain enough. Damn woke me up out of my sleep. I should have stayed tonight at the club. Are you becoming some kind of damn sodomite. If you are, do bloody well see to it you find your own bloody right room for that kind of caper.’

‘I am not, as a matter of fact, sir, of that persuasion but if I may say so, perhaps you shouldn’t leave your door open.’

‘Don’t you tell me not to leave my door open. When there was a bloody damn fire alarm the other morning. With the door stuck. Damn unreliable locks. Damn prefer a trespasser to being burned to a crisp. By the by, are you hunting Friday.’

‘Yes indeed in fact.’

‘Good show. Scent’s never perfect in this bloody weather, but we’ll have some fair sport. Now don’t bloody well barge in again will you. There’s good chap. Goodnight to you.’

‘Goodnight Master.’

Darcy Dancer standing at the window of his room. The wind blowing hard. The skies clear and pinpoints of stars sparkling. As one again dismantles one’s clothes to a state of undress. And one does sometimes wonder, when certain days will ever come to an end. That bitch Baptista. It’s the last bloody damn low trick that she will ever play. The price of a bottle of cognac from the vintagetime of Charlemagne. That alone on the bill for dinner could have bought ten calves. Stupid silly girl. My god if I ever get the chance. I’ll get even. One should beware of anyone who hunts a stallion for a start. Make abysmally bad jumpers. Absolutely dislike having their balls scratched by briars and other hedgerow sharpnesses. And she had the gall to tickle mine own goolies with her toes. Knew bloody exactly where she was sending me. At least I can creep now into my own bed. Try to sleep. Jump the women one has slept with, like sheep over a hurdle in one’s mind. Till their buttocks fade away. That’s one, that’s two. Maybe that’s the third. And one has hardly any more to count. No debauchery. And this, as well, is going to be a night without sleep. Bleary eyed to face another day of struggle. Bloody Baptista. She’s like the bite of a horse. Striking out with its teeth. As you stand at what you fatefully thought was a safe distance. One did on the way back from the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds, angrily kick, with one of my better legs, the door of some innocent Americans who were having a middle of the night chat. It really got them terrified out of bed. One simply has to take one’s rage out on someone. And it may as well be on those from a country whose culture could never be regarded as in the least refined. Porters no doubt creeping about still searching for the culprit. Thought I heard a floorboard squeak. A seagull still awake out on the roof gutter. And I know exactly the thing I should like to see. Right at this moment. Her whole big fat behind. Enclosed firmly by my ancient man trap, too long hidden down in its old cellar cupboard. God. Just to see that superior smile wiped off her face with those massive spiked clutches clamped on her big bloody arse. Another squeak. Christ the porters may have tracked my footprints on the carpet. My god am I imagining it, or is there female laughing right outside this door. O god. Could it ever be. Yet again. The ruddy lady. From bloody ruddy Greystones. Go away. Hasn’t enough already happened to me on this day. Is that my name. Whispered. Damn it. My god there is someone out there. Giggling.

‘I say. Who is that.’

‘It’s me. Baptista. Open up please.’

‘No. Leave me bloody well alone, will you.’

‘Don’t be such a dismal sport. Well if you don’t open you’re in for a ruckus. I shall kick the door.’

Darcy Dancer opening the door. In ancient albeit silk pyjamas. Frayed to a transparency at the crutch. Worn by one’s mother’s father. And Baptista still in her clothes, a black peasant shawl over her shoulders. Waltzes in my bloody door. And nearly falls over holding her ruddy stomach, laughing. Lurching as if crippled and guffawing around the room. And going into even more paroxysms enjoying the look on my face.

‘O dear. Dear. O forgive me. I can’t, simply can’t help it. That was the funniest thing I have ever heard. Imagine asking if you were hunting on Friday.’

‘You bloody well were listening.’

‘Of course.’

‘Now what do you want.’

‘You of course.’

‘You plotted that deliberately.’

‘You know, Darcy, darling, you do surprise me. You are, as a person, really not as bad as I have always imagined.’

‘I think you really should shut up you know.’

‘Darling there’s absolutely nothing to complain about. You should be cheering that I’m here. O dear. You’re not. I am so sad, that you’re sad.’

‘And I have damn good reason. Everything in my life is collapsing.’

‘O you poor poor darling. Can I do something.’

‘Well you could have for a start, and one is not being in the least niggardly, nor making I assure you, an ungentlemanly issue of it, but you did invite me to dinner.’

‘O dear is that monumental bill weighing upon your conscience.’

‘No, upon my head.’

‘But darling why didn’t you say something. I would have put it on my bill.’

‘Well you didn’t.’

‘Surely you’re not that hard up.’

‘I am. In fact, if you must know, I am now wondering how I am ever going to get out of this hotel.’

‘Well stop wondering. Or you’ll put me to wonder if I’m going to get a chance to commit adultery. Turn out the light. And do tell me. Was our former Master of Foxhounds wearing his five hunt buttons on his pink and white striped pyjamas. You no doubt interrupted him chasing a fox in his sleep. Now watch darling. I’m taking off my clothes, if you don’t mind. Can you see. And darling, the Colonel also once laughed so much at a huntsman who splashed head first into a drink, that he himself toppled like an ancient monument off his horse. Top hat first. And when he regained his feet up to his knees in the black silt, he had the most marvellous long green tresses of watercress hanging like hair over each ear. Hunting does break one’s neck, arm or leg but it does so help uphold one’s sense of humour.’

‘Well madam you’ve certainly thoroughly destroyed mine.’

‘O dear. I hope you’re not that upset. Or shy. Not to look this way. And you will won’t you, since I’m quite without clothes, let me get in that awfully narrow bed. And not let me freeze. It’s a frosty night out. I am a little, if perhaps, more than a trifle strongly made in my quarters. But even in this light, doesn’t what you see cheer you up. And put your mind to more pleasurable things. Now my dear darling shove over.’

Nice to get horse piss out of the nostrils. And feel warm flesh and sniff marvellous perfume. Rid of the fear of a sabre up the rear. One was beginning to feel like the Mental Marquis’ father, the Duke. As well as being some kind of Count Mac-Buzuranti paederast creeping around hotel bedrooms. This arse upon which I now clutch my sinking fingers seems nearly to have been the bane of my entire life. And may, by its firm if over generous rotundity disturb the balance of my mind for all time. Her hands run up and down my back. Her open mouth she puts on mine. Tongue wagging and digging against my tongue all the way to my back teeth. Nearly down my throat. Grabs me tight by the cock. And god. Ouch. Squeezes, twisting my balls. Won’t be able to tell one from the other now. She bites. Married to someone in trade. So considerably below my rank in life. And here in our mutual loneliness we are joined in this present increasingly sweaty endeavour. Crack open one lid. Look up. Can’t believe my eye. When carriages came to Andromeda Park. Cook would look up. And out from between the basement window bars and would draw attention to anyone whose higher station in life was not befitted by their conveyance. And she took no notice whatever of those whose lower station was embellished by their grander vehicle. And Baptista. Throwing the covers back. Lowering ample quarters right down over my pole. Wastes not a second to sit on top. In the shadows. Perched pretty. Like a swallow tucked up under a barn rafter. Ready to fly in the first light of dawn. To snap from the sky insects like me. And be as ominous as any shark in the sea. Comes swiftly devouring. Wagging her breasts. Cantering. Bed springs squealing. Galloping. Slapping me stingingly on the thighs. Giddyyap boyo. She has her nerve. Giddyyap boyo. And no modesty. And thank god, no whip. Or I’d be lashed senseless. Hear swan wings. Great groaning strokes they make on the wind. Wolfhound howls. Who doth it be who hoots. Beyond. Where’s Leila. She is somewhere under some space of sky. Whose hair dark as night goes agleam shining through my mind. Were only these your noises of love. Hear Rashers’ voice. Degradation. That’s what I want to be saved from, dear boy. Sound of a heavy footfall in hall. I hear. In the middle of her groaning gyrations. A pounding heavy thump shaking mahogany door. O my god. What on earth now. Is this new most awful event. The Manager. Could be in force. All the page boys. Waiters. Bartenders. And the Society of Dublin Laity for the Stamping Out of Adultery.

‘Damn it, you in there Kildare.’

That voice. Out there. Of which blissfully groaning Baptista is so utterly oblivious, belongs to the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds.

‘Sir do you hear me in there.’

O my god. Now what have I done to bring him charging down hotel hallways in search of me with his sabre. His head streaming tresses of watercress. Happily, by the sound of Baptista, he’ll already think I’m in throes of death. And no further bloody cuts and thrusts are needed. Good heavens, the lady from Greystones might be commandeering him. To ensure I’ve had the very last private orgasm of my life.

‘I say in there, what’s all that commotion. Sir. I demand an answer.’

‘Please go away.’

‘I shall be glad to. As soon as you sir return my property.’

‘What property.’

‘You sir, have gone off in my socks and damn shoes and I am sir returning yours.’

As I did my shoe and sock transaction between a crack in the door with the Colonel, she laughed her head off into the pillow. Bloody damn girl is easily amused. In the morning a seagull perched crying on the windowsill. Dreamt my ancient man trap was clamped firmly on Baptista’s arse. But wakened by her snores, my fingers were gripped there instead. A soft fuzz at the back of her neck. Long blonde tresses aflow over her shoulder. Roar of trams. Cars honk down on the street. Sun through the curtains. Now the mortification to face Baptista awake, naked and sober, a skin’s breadth away. And here I am already prodding her with an erection as she lolls like a log. One felt the pleasure one might get out of her in bed, that her sort would soon see how the bloody hell she could make you pay for it. And dearly. And miserably. And if anyone in Ireland gets wind of this night, such news will go twitching lace curtain to lace curtain around Thormondstown out the relishing lips of the butcher’s, chemist’s not to mention the ironmonger’s wife. Women in terms of guile and cunning can and do, I suppose, make mincemeat out of men. And now at stroke of twelve noon the phone is ringing. Just as one attempts some sodomy.

‘Sorry to disturb you Mr Kildare, this is the Manager. I have left several notes to ask you to step into my office. Might you be available before lunch this morning. It is in fact a rather large sum concerned.’

Baptista rolling over. Her ample breasts with two dark tipped hardened nipples. Slight alarm on her face, as she slowly wakes and pulls up the blankets. The bottle of brandy. Manager seeing that appear listed under wines, spirits, beers and mineral waters and brought forward on my account, must think I’ve decided so long as I’m going to leave an unpaid bill, I may as well ensure it is whoppingly astronomical. By now room service will instructed to be stopped. Better rush to have one’s last bath. Before they cut off the hot water as well. Perhaps they wouldn’t dare. And one might order a morsel or two of breakfast. Before being published with banner headlines in Stubbs’ Gazette. And every creditor in the country. Including Smyth’s of the Green closes in. Suggest to the Manager I work off my indebtedness washing dishes in the kitchen. Or buttering for the cavalry Colonel. I suppose it’s always worse to worry about something. Better to just face it head on. Hide Baptista under the bed as they wheel in my tea, toast, sausages and eggs. The sun’s beaming. A beautiful day out. And god, with the erection I’ve got. One may as well have one last insertion and exertion. Wrapped now, in a towel propped out like a nomad’s tent. Pitched in a damn big desert. And she’s so nonchalantly yawning at the back of her hand. Must say her face looks more than slightly older than it did last night. And her arse much younger.

‘What’s the matter, my dear boy. You’ve got such a look of concern on your pretty face.’

‘Just a matter I must attend to.’

‘Is there anything I can do. You seem quite upset.’

‘That was the Manager on the telephone. He wants me to pay my bill. Right now. It appears.’

‘O dear. But you mustn’t get upset over such a trifling matter. Why not just pay it.’

‘Because I’m bloody well broke, that’s why.’

‘Well you need only need get my chequebook.

‘What do you mean.’

‘I’ll pay it for you. Or are you too proud for that perhaps.’

‘If you must know, I am, as a matter of fact.’

‘Dear me this does make it such a nice little predicament for you doesn’t it. Your prick itching for years and now you’ve at last made love to me. Do please don’t stop your grooming. Or had I not to use that romantic word love. Reminds me of a story of my childhood. Just in case dear boy you’d like to know of my growing up among the gentry as a little innocent girl. Of course this is before foxhunting became finally my entrée, if one can call it that, into the fringes of county society. And you were hardly then out of your layette. It was on a beautiful warm sunny summer’s day that your sisters were holding a dansant at Andromeda Park. A tea dance of course but so described in French on one of the engraved invitations which I was not sent. Of course my mother insisted it was an oversight. That I had every right to present myself to the Darcy Thormond Kildares. And so, unbidden, having come all the way out from town, in my best frilly party dress and party shoes and pushed by our handyman up your front steps, and quite trembling in terror already, your sister Christabel saw me, and imperiously levelling her arm and pointing her finger in my direction, said, in about the loudest voice I shall ever hear for the rest of my life. I did not invite her. Of course someone did come after me. But I had already run in hysterics. Right out across your front lawn. I even had a present to present. I ended up being found in the bog unconscious with exhaustion. My gift still clutched to my breast. And which I still carry with me. Wherever I go in this world. You will find it there. In my toiletry purse. And next to my chequebook.’

A scribble

Upon which

Can buy

You now