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

25

One walked the dismal empty streets. Saw Sheena, Rashers’s whore from the catacombs, plying for trade under the railway trestle. Called on Mr Arland, no answer, his window dark and I went down the quays. Past ships. One sailing out silent in the swell. Port and starboard lights. Red and green like Christmas. Crossed over the canal lock. Walked by the great coal bunkers and gas works as I had once before on such a night of sorrow.

‘Ah yes. The note will be delivered to await the gentleman’s next arrival in the Common Room.’

At Trinity College’s front gate, I had stopped at the porter’s lodge, a fire aglow in the cosy interior. And suddenly approaching, limping from under the gas lamp, there was Mr Arland. We went to sit for a coffee in the wicker chairs and under palm fronds in the welcome warmth of Jury’s Hotel down Dame Street. He spoke of the American girl, Clara Macventworth, and I could see he was again so sad.

‘Kildare, I suppose I never knew it possible even to remotely fall in love again. Especially as she seemed forever going off somewhere. To Rome, Madrid or the south of France. Now she’s moved out of my building to another address. The appointments we make to meet, either she turns up hours late to rush away, or turns up not at all. Said she was ill and needed an urgent operation and was leaving to go to the American Hospital in Paris. And then I saw her, only yesterday, arm in arm with another man, laughing and gay on the steps of the Gresham Hotel.’

Sorrow looming in the world everywhere. Somehow there upon Mr Arland’s face, the same resigned anguish one had seen with Baptista. And the crushing sorrow with Clarissa. Women. Pretty women do, when they want to, demolish men. As he stared down at his cup of coffee.

‘Mr Arland, I do think this lady has done you an injustice.’

‘No Kildare. One does that to oneself. And even when one expects little, it is always prudent to expect much less.’

‘Mr Arland now you promise, you will, won’t you, come and stay with me at Andromeda Park.’

‘I promise, Kildare. I promise. But I wonder if it is not for some men to always stub their toes on women and make arses and fools of themselves.’

‘In that case, I shall, when you come, provide ladies galore.’

‘Kildare ah, you do cheer one up. I truly sense you’ve become now in your destiny, a man of the world who will outflank his adversities.’

Returned to my room back in the Shelbourne. Took a solitary supper. As I lay abed, listened to a conceit on the wireless. Staring through the shadows out my window. Towards the night clouds. My own voice pleading. Don’t be dead. Rashers. Help peel back these fingers agrip squeezing all joy out of one’s heart. Please come back. Rashers please. To the land where even if we waste all our time in hope, at least some of our laughter is not in vain.

Next morning under the squawk of seagulls, I stood on the summit of the little stone bridge in the Green. In memory of Rashers, threw down a carnation in the water which floated slowly away pushed by the breeze. Then took a taxi to alight under three golden balls. Of this dark shuttered shop. An ancient toothless crone pawning clothes beckoning me ahead of her. The proprietor summoning me past a woman, her young thick black hair streaked with grey, three tiny shoeless children in tow.

‘Ah after you sir, please now. He’d have us know there’s plenty of time for the likes of us.’

Into a private cubby hole. For the attentions of the gentry. Funereally suited broker lifting up the suitcase of one’s silver on the counter. Could hear Sexton’s voice. Ah an Irishman would do anything for ready money, sell his birthright as quick as spit. So that he could take his ease at Dublin’s crustacean counters, feasting his life away, with destiny behind him instead of in front, Master Darcy keep away from bad company.

‘Ah it’s fine stuff that is now sir. The very finest of the very best. Heirlooms, generations in his family, escutcheon engraved on them handles. Deposited by the peer himself, Ronald Ronald, the Earl of Rashers. Who said his equerry in waiting might be calling, which I assume is your distinguished self.’

One did manage to smile. At the pawnbroker’s so appropriate title. Of that bloody lovable impostor. Never missing an opportunity as he ascended in his self styled nobility to reduce his victims in rank. And now sadden me further to hand over nearly the remainder of Leila’s money. To retrieve my own property. Helped by the taxi man to load it in his desperately soiled boot. The whole rear of his vehicle swaying as the rear wheel verged on wobbling off.

Then how swift the darkening afternoon came. Like a great strange thunderclap. Exploding in my life. Hotel bill paid, decamping from the Shelbourne. Amid the late tea time lobby bustle.

‘All packed sir ready whenever you are.’

Getting back in my taxi, one could not believe one’s eyes. To look out the departing back window in case the lady from Greystones was chasing us and instead see the Royal Rat, Buster the Beastly and Danno the Damned, all escorting a fur coated Baptista out the front door of the Shelbourne Hotel. And as we pulled past the small Huguenot cemetery gate, Horatio the actor, an arm stuck through the bars, was declaiming to the long dead buried inside.

‘Will you look at that crazy nut sir, isn’t he everywhere in town, speaking his mind to no one in particular.’

The whole of this city. Its crazy carnival. Leave it to its fog lowering on this rotten cold Dublin winter night. Leila, Every moment to think of her. So gone. Mists coming up the Liffey. Approach up the long grey ramp. Rough blocks of stone topping the wall. Up to the station. Porter flickering me suspicious glances with clank and weight of my luggage. A solitary cattle dealer buying a ticket in front of one. The last train of the day out to the country. And whispers that coal was firing the boiler of the train. At the barrier my ticket being punched.

‘Ah god you’re on the Meteorite, it’s going to be a fast trip west tonight sir.’

Then the long wait, as the Meteorite and its creaking squealing cars, waved ahead by a lantern, finally backed their way into the station platform. How dim the lights glow. Grey sacks of mail. Wind sweeps along the platform. Stamp one’s feet waiting in the chill. The sweet smell of turf in the air. Nun climbing in ahead of me to the first class compartment. A woman wrapped up in her tweeds in the corner. Beckoning the nun.

‘Ah there’s plenty of room. Come sit here beside me, sure I had a sister worked for the nuns and I know all about them.’

The train slowly pulling out. Pale yellow light flickers in the carriage. A farmer and his wife jumping aboard. Nearly look like tinkers. Sitting roaring and raging in the corner that there was no drink to be had on the train. The wife listening in stoic silence wrapping her ancient tatty fur coat tighter around her as they both puff cigarettes. The farmer continuing to curse and blather. Finally asking me.

‘Hey boss give us the time on your watch boss.’

Halfway chugging in the darkness across the final bog lands. A boom. The train lurched. I had fallen asleep. Head against the cold glass of the window. Clanks and squeals and screech of wheels. Sparks flying. As we slowly came to a stop. The conductor with a lantern announcing.

‘All disembark.’

The boiler blown up. Right out here in the bog. So much for the Meteorite. At a standstill. Could not now see the time on my watch. Nor the hand in front of my face. Out of a nearby cottage, a civil old farmer insisting he carry my case, led us knee deep through the muck and water, scaring up the snipe across the bog. Finally taking the nun, tweedy lady and myself on his donkey and cart out to the main road. Where we stood in wind and drizzle. My arms nearly broken carrying the silver. Till a travelling salesman stopped and took us in his car to the main street of the town. And I went to knock up a taxi. Visiting three doors before I could find one which happened to be on its way from the west through the town and actually had petrol in its tanks, not to mention wheels and an engine that worked. And appropriately enough. A hearse. The eager to please gombeen man from the town of Sligo, putting my bags up on the catafalque. He was also a butcher, an ironmonger, a publican and an undertaker. One learned a thing or two about the quality of coffins.

‘Ah now sir, believe me when I tell you to your surprise, no better coffin was ever made than one of the American oak.’

On the road passing a horse and carriage. A whiff of candle fume in the air from its lights. Driving up through the rhododendrons. A motor car ahead and now the lights of another behind. My god. In front of the house, myriad vehicles. As well as lurking members of the Garda Siochana. The front lawn fence down and cars parked. And more being directed. Doors opening and closing. Lights beyond the cracks in the shutters of nearly every window. People in top hats, tails and tiaras packed at the door. And in my soiled appearance, actually shoving and pushing me out of the way. From entering my own house, as one went nearly backwards down the ruddy steps again. And then to face a commissionaire inside the door.

‘And who shall I say sir.’

‘Say.’

‘Yes the name sir. To announce you sir.’

‘You are not announcing me.’

‘I’m sorry but have you an invitation sir.’

‘I have not an invitation. And do please get out of my way.’

‘Sir I must please have your name sir.’

‘The name is Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare. And this is my ruddy bloody house.’

The Garda did leap to my aid. And Crooks one spotted. Looking astonishingly regal, but something like a dissatisfied host among all these myriad strangers. As his eyes surveyed in their three different directions.

‘Ah Master Reginald. What an utter relief to see you. Imagine a hired commissionaire. A bloody Brit, forgive the expression. From bloody England. With them false epaulettes. Ersatz is the word. After all the years of me faithful service. I am disgusted.’

‘Please calm down Crooks and tell me what on earth is going on.’

‘It’s the ball sir.’

‘What bloody ball.’

‘I respectfully submit the ladies, Christabel and Lavinia, your sisters sir. The cream of the land have been invited but by the look of it already, it will be an assemblage of gatecrashers and interlopers before the night’s done.’

‘Good heavens Crooks what’s that music.’

‘The orchestra sir.’

‘That’s Haydn’s symphony number forty in F major.’

‘Well master Reginald it could be his fiftieth for all I know. They have even got the old organ opened up from in behind the wall in the ballroom. And the pipes hooting with that lad down in the basement, pumping the bellows for the pressure.’

‘Damn thing’s out of tune.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking sir.’

‘And what lad.’

‘Ah a lad that’s been living rough down the cellars for months sir. Caught him when you were gone. He’d do polishing a boot here and there now and again. Train him up, I will.’

Chandeliers lit. On every console table, candelabra that had not seen the light of day for many a year. Damask white, the tables. Crystal. Tureens. The great punch bowl. The old lead lined caskets full of ice and bottles of champagne. Strangers everywhere. Except for the hunt secretary with his brimful glass. My god I am about to be eaten, drunk and waltzed out of house and home. And into utter destitution.

‘This is a mighty damn good show Kildare. Nice to see the right sort all back together again. And see the old place looking its best. Didn’t I see you up in Dublin, having a chat with Baptista.’

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken. Excuse me. I must, as you can see, dress.’

Out of the rapidly increasing din of voices, candle smell and smoke, to mount the stairs. Past Dingbats coming down. One arm bandaged. Beads of sweat uncharacteristically on her brow. As she is actually going right by me without a sign of recognition.

‘I say Mollie.’

‘O god. It’s you sir. Forgive me.’

‘Where’s the fire.’

‘If I may say so sir, in every bedroom. In the sitting rooms. In the bathrooms. And I am kilt with the running back and forth. Tis good to see you back. This place has never seen the like. With old Pete and Willie dead as well. I am just after hearing that the boiler for the hot water is blown up in the kitchen. And I am to get the other boiler going. And I have been this very night again assaulted. Interfering up me, by him, Crooks.’

‘Ah Mollie, my dear. Well, so nice to be reminded so soon that by the sound of things, one is home.’

Old Pete and Willie, one’s ancient retired pair of tack room habitués. Sitting puffing on their pipes. Like old pieces of furniture in one’s life, always there. Now gone. And clearly one of my sisters was taking her final step to displace me out of my mother’s apartments. A new wardrobe shoved into the dressing room. Peach silk sheets emblazoned with coronets on the bed. And following my cold bath, shivering in front of my fire in my dressing gown, Sexton arriving at the door. In his Sunday best.

‘Master Darcy, welcome home, I’m glad you’re back. Ah god they come at us, the guests, s’il vous plait like a thousand horsemen. A line of them nearly now down to the front gates. And a bit of sad news. Pete and Willie sir, both have had it. Happened in the orchard. Wasn’t I watching Pete in a beam of sunshine him taking relief of his bladder against the wall. On one of my prize roses. And he keeled over. Sure I knew it wasn’t an act by the way he fell. I rushed to him. And old Willie came in the gate. And as soon as I said to him. Pete’s gone. He’s gone Willie. Says I. I turn then. At the thump beside me. Willie too. Fell. In his tracks. Stone dead when I put my hand to him.’

‘Have we coffins.’

‘There’s one spare alright. Over in the old mill house. Gave it a few last belts of the hammer. And both boxes are ready to rest comfortably their mortal contents. Wake the corpses tonight each in his cottage. Neither of them have kin. Ah all they had, the pair of them. Was each other. And another little piece of poor news now as well. The garden wall, forty yards of it, all twelve feet high fell like the slap of a hand out into the meadow.’

‘O god Sexton. Poor news. That’s disastrous news.’

‘Ah but now sir, with the good advices of the Professor Botanist of Trinity College Dublin, a plan is drawn for the expansion of the conservatory, and the new gardens, the greatest ever seen on this island.’

‘Sexton, for god’s sake, I know this is all meant well, but I am, I fear, aided and abetted by what is happening in this house this very night, about to have to dismiss all of you save those who still stay on and go bankrupt into starvation with me. We are in short all finished.’

‘Now how do you figure that now sir.’

‘Am I to put it more succinctly than that, Sexton. Would the word destitute help. My venture to Dublin produced nothing more than an expensive recovery of our silverware. And simply resulted in the further inclination in the steepness of the slope upon which I now find myself sliding at an ever increasing speed. I may hold out an impecunious week or two more.’

‘Now sir.’

‘No Sexton, there can be no argument. Even the agent is taking me to court. There’s not enough fodder for the cattle. And if there were, there’s no market for them anyway. No wages. I have exactly those few fivers you see there on that dresser left. And that is, I assure you Sexton, nothing to smile about.’

‘Ah now, in a minute, Master Darcy, in a minute. I can tell you something. If you’d like to continue with the roll call of misfortune.’

‘It’s simply too long.’

‘Well now I’ve examined my conscience Master Darcy. And the moment I think has arrived.’

‘What moment.’

‘Ah now, a particular moment. And we need go no further with this discussion. You’re to come with me in the morning. I can say no further than that. Other than you might bring a witness.’

‘Good lord Sexton, O jesus, not another blasted writ that someone is serving upon me or something.’

‘Hop not with anger now. Nothing of the kind. And I’ll forgive you your little slip of blasphemy in the meantime. We’ll meet in the morning. If it’s appropriate to you, I’ll knock at the library. Would before lunch do.’

‘O god Sexton, I don’t think I can sleep upon another bloody mystery.’

‘Ah, you will and your dreams should not be nightmares.’

In the front hall. Barrels of Guinness stout and cider. Not a soul one knows. As here one is, in a distinctly makeshift variety of grandpapa’s white tie and tails. Wandering towards the ballroom, orchestra thundering the rafters blasting out a lightning polka. Step through the open double doors. Even the brass hinges shined. One looks. And a more ruinous sight one could never see. Kitty, Norah and Dingbats ferrying trays. Couples swirling upon the waxed gleaming floor. Crinoline satin and silks. The conductor fanning the air with a baton. Streamers flying from the ceiling. Beneath the great black marble chimney piece, a massive log fire blazing. Every flower Andromeda Park possesses, obviously wrested in from the hothouse. And the dusty bottles up from the cellar. With their rat nibbled labels of what could be my very last most precious irreplaceable, Madeira, port, claret. Not to mention rum and brandy. The four charcoal cooked hams from Smyth’s of the Green, the goose liver páté, caviar. All already quickly disappearing. Buns being thrown. Hand clapping me on the back. A face I have never seen before.

‘You’re Kildare I understand. All this is jolly nice of you.’

Even though a total stranger, at least one single someone being pleasantly politic. And then the grand finale entrance of Lavinia and Christabel. Both in my mother’s gowns. A trumpet voluntary of the orchestra blasting as they swept in the door. Nearly expected the pair of them in American neon lighted tiaras. With Crooks white gloved behind them his arms wide as if he were presenting them at the Court of St James. Surprised the whole staff of Andromeda Park weren’t laying rose petals before them.

‘I say there, do you mind, if we squeeze by. There’s a good fellow, waiter. Thank you.’

My god. That passing imbecile. One now not only squeezed but nearly crushed out of the limelight. And referred to as a servant. In my own ballroom. Relegated to a corner. Picking up a glass. And then having to find a discarded bottle of champagne to fill it with. I suppose if one must sink. Best to go down in the deep in one continuous swallow. Quaff this in memory of Rashers. This is the way to do it. A grand finale. Instead of like a nearby neighbour who set off for a day’s hunting, leaving his magnifying glass on his freshly pressed The Times newspaper from London. And on the particular rare sunny afternoon, the paper ignited and burned his house to the ground. And before being in a similar circumstance, one will make oneself heard in this throbbing din.

‘I should like to know the entire meaning of this entire night, Lavinia.’

‘It’s absolutely none of my business, ask Christabel.’

‘I have just asked her. And she said it was none of her business. And rudely suggested I shut up.’

‘Well shut up then, why don’t you.’

Amazing. To have to grit one’s teeth wanting to strangle them. Even as I forthrightly accosted them both in the centre of their toadying clusters of admirers. Neither one of them even deigned so much as to introduce me. To what they imagined were clearly their superior friends. One could hear the commissionaire still reverberating announcing their arrivals. Which would clearly go on till past midnight. Even the occupants of the great castle, noteworthy intellectuals, turning up. Whom one had not ever met oneself, as they were always on their world travels. Even heard this whole bloody ruddy financial débâcle referred to as a social coup.

‘I do think, don’t you that Lavinia and Christabel have rather pulled it off. All in aid of finding husbands of course.’

Could spot the faces of Catherine the cook, Henry and Thomas, the herds, peeking in at the ballroom serving staircase. One suddenly remembering a nice little game my sisters taught me as a toddler. Go Darcy dear, to the barrels in the hall, turn the tap as we showed you. Rush I would, to reach, and struggle to finally twist the tap, and stand marvelling at the dark brew flooding down over my knees and creeping out making an enormous black shiny lake in the hall. To then get, as my sisters rejoiced in laughter, a furious chastisement from an angry nanny. And so strange now. To feel so utterly alone. At least I shall munch on a thick slice of ham. In a house that hardly any longer seems my own. Where, were Rashers here, at least, even with his perpetrations of diabolical liberties upon my basic good nature, I would be cheered. Instead of gloomily despondent. Amid the perfumes. The plethora of ladies’ flesh. The pop of corks. And even this nearby debutante, not at all unpretty, giving me an inviting eye, as the musicians finish playing what she refers to as a foxtrot.

Darcy Dancer walking from the ballroom. Orchestra striking up the Blue Danube Waltz. Passing the still arriving couples. A crowded front hall. Coats hats now stacked everywhere. Ladies’ loud giggles. Men’s laughter. Shouts of greetings. My hand to be put upon the banister. To climb these stairs. Wait till the morrow to pay my last respects to Pete and Willie. Retreat now and retire asleep. Sexton in the morning will probably demonstrate to me some brand new winter flower he’s invented to make our fortunes. Heard someone say the stars were out. Take a tired step up. One at a time. To stop. And shudder. Heart pounding in my chest. The commissionaire’s voice. So loud. So utterly clear. Echoing in the hall.

‘The Marquis and Marchioness of Farranistic.’

Turn. Step back down. Just one two three steps. Near where my grandmother’s portrait hangs. So solemnly watching. Look out into the bright candlelit hall. That face shyly smiling. Her fur taken from her white shoulders. Her slender elegant figure in a clinging shimmery black satin gown. A tiara of diamonds sparkling on her black hair. The Mental Marquis’ flushed face beaming above his white tie. Making an introduction. To all those who would listen nearby. Who I knew heard him saying. Allow me to introduce you to the fourteenth Marchioness.

My wife

Leila