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

7

In the blackness of the library one woke near dawn. Knocking over the tray of cheese. Kicking the lumps in all directions. Leave a feast behind for our resident rodents. Already scrabbling somewhere. Slits of faint grey moonlight through the shutters. The fire dead. The chamber stony cold. Feeling to find candles and matches, and creaky limbed stumbling over the disarray. To make one’s blind dreary dazed way to bed.

The flame of the candle wick extinguished halfway up the stairs with the damp. Out the landing window the skies broken and the clouds racing under the moonlight. The shining silver bark on the grove of beeches. Carry apologies to her. On a salver as silver as those haunting trees. Find her in her bed up somewhere high in this house. Genuflect in all the courtesies known to mankind to gain her forgiveness. Put my arms around her. And surely be told to go away. Instead push open my mother’s bedroom door. Back into one’s own lonely life. To awake another morning to fight anew. Lie mine own head on the pillow. On the cold linen.

In the tossing turning ferment of my sleep, one dreamt of Mr Arland my tutor. I went searching in Dublin to find him. Where he lived in desperate digs down a dreary commercial street, having taken some humble schoolmasterish employment. He said as I came up his rather dingy stairs, ah Kildare you find me rather without kit, yet I do still have the utensils for tea. Come join me in keeping body and soul together and both our hopes warm on my gas ring.

‘Good morning sir.’

Dingbats with breakfast, banging the tray noisily and kicking open the door. Her arm bandaged. Her eyes glancing around the room at my clothes flung everywhere.

‘There’s a great mess this morning in the library sir. A cat and chickens got in. Tore out the books. They had a right old fair for themselves.’

‘Dear me. Is that a fact.’

‘With Kitty and Norah sick, and Leila not allowed by Crooks in there I will have to clean it up myself.’

‘And on your way there Mollie to do that please tell Luke to groom Petunia for hunting.’

‘It’s fierce windy still this morning sir to walk out in the mud after all the rain to the stables and catch me death of the new monia. When I’m doing all the work and the rest on their backs.’

One wanted so much to shout to big tits frizzy head that she’d better tell him or be sacked, never mind the new old or any of her monia. Obviously the household overnight had turned into the usual hospital as it instantly does when anyone chooses to sniffle and cough, and they all follow suit to take a leisurely holiday one after the other. Indolence and bickering. The only bloody thing they have in common. And while they would not do a stroke of extra work, they’d crawl a mile backwards to rub one another the wrong way.

‘Ah you’re quite right Mollie, make sure then to pop on a pair of boots and sou’wester.’

Following extending her chest out at me as she did these days, and exhaling deep sighs as she opened the shutters, one did rather long for the fumes of summer, its mossy bliss and sweet perfumes. A whiff of which strongly comes off Dingbats. Who seems to linger longer each time bringing breakfast. Giving me sidelong glances. And one did at the moment under the covers have a rock hard obelisk poking up centre bed into the counterpane. And still inebriated just enough to want to plunge it somewhere soft and cosy for safe keeping. Ye gads. Dingbats. Amazing how one’s standards can plummet. And dear me if I did. Try to put it in her I’d have, instead of a mental institution, a holiday camp on my hands. As surely she’d never do another stroke of work.

‘Would there be anything else now to your liking and satisfaction sir.’

‘No thank you very much, Mollie.’

‘Ah then you’d want me to be going. If there’s nothing else you might want.’

Now there, if ever there was, is a stream of suggestive remarks. Tell her to strip down. To her freckled skin. View her marvellously strapping legs gaiting about. Then she could say her act of contrition first in the middle of the floor. Before jumping with big tits bouncing on top of me in bed. Even though cohabitation with one’s household does lead to insubordination, it at least provides a chance of some good blood getting about the peasantry. Help instil in them some spark of nobility and serenity of spirit. Instead of the malcontent surly impertinent insolence one hears from Dingbats departing in the hall.

‘Sent out into the wet. Before I even have me breakfast sticking to me ribs.’

My fingertips pressing into a thick smear of butter on the bottom of my tray as I reached to lift it. The cream sour that I poured on my porridge. Yolks fried solid on my eggs. And although congealed in their fat, at least my sausages weren’t wrapped in hairs. But on lifting the cover to the pot, a dead summer mummified fly was on top of my raspberry jam. In one’s awful blackdog doldrums. I thought damn it eat the damn thing. Serve a penance. For my snobberies. Perhaps one has as pasha indeed put on the dog in a somewhat exaggerated fashion. But damn it all why must anyone take something so triflingly innocuous so seriously. Just like the overly sensitive papist she must be. How otherwise could one take offence at my most well meant remark. Even to think that she had the makings of a lady but was not yet quite a lady in absolutely all respects should be taken as a compliment. And with standards so low as they are it is so easy to improve oneself above one’s station in Ireland. Certainly her wrists, hands and fingernails could be better groomed. A jewel or two on her fingers. Her lapses into brogue eliminated. And in proper dress she could pass off as a lady in any but the most discerning of drawing rooms.

Darcy Dancer attired in ratcatcher, heading down the grand stairs. Squinting his eyes at the light. A crow tapping at the window and flying away into the beeches. Hand on the banister. A boot squeaking. Taking a whip from the console table beneath the painting of one’s grand aunt. I had not intended till one’s own lawn meet to go hunting. But by god to wake in such sour gloom one has to clear the mind of cobwebs and despair. Plus it always encourages an air of excitement in the household. That perhaps I shall come back with a broken neck and Crooks can unlock the wine cellar and the household have a one great last grand hooley over my corpse in the hall. And be stretched dead as a ruddy door nail under the watchful eye of this painting, its austere dignity and bright colours so admired by Leila. And O my god, there. At the front hall grate, a bucket of ash by her side, only these few paces away. Crouched, sweeping up. She ignores the footfall of my boots going by. Cuffs of her uniform rolled back. The muscle flexed in her arm. Her cold looking hand shovels out a heap of powdery ash. The draught of air from the door blows it about. And up in her face. Serves her bloody well right. Getting on her high horse with me. Yet O god. So near her. To pass. Within a touch. And be our worlds apart. Crooks at the open front door with my cap. Out there awaits the cold grey day. How do I tell her. There on her knees. Forgive me.

Mounting in front of the house, one was at least slightly improved in spirit. Petunia’s hoofs had a high shine and one’s leathers were supple and gleaming. Stirrups the proper length. The air blowing cold on the face down the drive did buck me up. And at the end of the grove of rhododendrons I jumped Petunia over the fence. Trotting out cross country under the low cloud. A drying wind blowing. Thump of Petunia’s hoofs on the ground did stir one for my first appearance in so many years. Let’s go old girl. Hear the hounds. Find him. Chase him. Heat up the blood. And charge across the green.

Darcy Dancer emerging from a rocky boreen. Turning left. See down this hill. The hunt collecting at the crossroads. A few familiar faces raising whip hands in greeting. Clattering now down the asphalt to the pub. Where half the hunt are in there stoking up their courage. Muddy booted locals, their backs leaning propping up the walls. Sniggering remarks to one another under their shadowy caps. Johnny Gearoid struggling to hold the reins of several horses, while attempting to pull his forelock at me, and getting knocked for his trouble this way and that, his friendly fat red greasy face under his greasy hat.

‘How are you boss. How is it going.’

‘How is it going with you Gearoid.’

‘Fine. Fine. No complaint. None. But could you spare a tanner or two now for a pint of stout.’

Rather a lot of lipstick on the mouths of the ladies. Two of whom had American accents. And a distinctly spiv looking type from England in a large motor car, snapping pictures of a few rather overly smart, and distinctly of an upstart aspect, interlopers, clearly down for the day from Dublin. And my gracious they were preening and posing on their mounts. Thinking much of themselves. One supposes from now on infiltrators will be much in abundance. As they clearly regard me and my ancient mended tweeds, down their noses between their horses’ ears. One was reassured by the other motley array composing the field.

‘Ah hello Darcy Dancer, you’re indeed a much taller sight for sore eyes.’

One of the flaming red haired Slasher sisters. Who at least seems to approve of my appearance. And is eager to be off. Backing her horse right into the Mental Marquis of Farranistic, who with the Mad Major emerging from the pub, were busily clapping each other heartily on the back. Amnesia Murphy the farmer of course since his head was bounced off a rock years ago, did not know me from Adam and gave me a muddy look. But Father Damian, my mother’s most admiring cleric looking rather splendid himself in top hat and ecclesiastic garb under his hunting coat, remarked on my transformation as he called it, from prince to king of my principality. Clearly one invites that sort to tea very soon. But of course the most ebullient of welcoming words came from the hunt secretary knowing my sensibilities should be kept soothed to contribute a large subscription and to clearly encourage one to provide port sumptuously at the Andromeda Park’s lawn meet. As he normally always consumed at least a bottle.

‘I say there Kildare, damn jolly good to see you out Long time no see.’

One did object to this silly American Indian affectation of the hunt secretary. Long time no see. Like in the constipation affecting many of Andromeda Park household staff. One tends to assume the rather wretched thought. Long time no shit. But one does know that to pass these long winter evenings, tomes were laid open all over these remote parts of Ireland, with landowners nightly reading into the dawn about America’s civil war and the cowboys and Indians. Ah but all was British to the nth degree it would appear, upon my introduction to the recently imported Master from England, barrelled up as he was with surnames.

‘And meet our new Master, Kildare. Wing Commander Buster Lawrelton Ryecrisp Brillianton.’

‘Jolly good to meet you Kildare. Look forward to your lawn meet next Tuesday. Be a wizard prang I’m sure. Hear there’s a lot of fine hunting over your estate.’

I did think his reference to my estate rather too pointed. And my word, imagine, wizard prang. Where on earth does he think he is. One is tempted to disclose that one has a personal mad house he might take off and land in as well as a mad stallion at large to bite off his display of sandwich and brandy pouches. But one could see the man would not listen an instant, so overly concerned is he with the impression he is making on the ladies with his far too overly thoroughbred horse, pink coat, white leather breeches, ivory handled whip and other Londonish appurtances. And dear me with two grooms in attendance. One driving a strangely shaped motor vehicle of a renowned make containing, as the hunt secretary put it, a veritable Bodleian library of cocktails. This latter remark of course being the most erudite thing heard in the county for a century.

‘Jolly good day for a scent.’

I say, gracious me, that’s a rather nice bit of alright. A very superior attractive golden tressed lady just trotted by on that rather even more attractive skittish bay mare. I must catch her up and take her up smartly on her remark.

‘Yes indeed, jolly good day for a scent.’

One had only a moment to see her strangely familiar face as we moved off single line down a track and were then but a moment at the first draw when a fox was found and we were off and running like antelopes. On a line towards the big hill above the great bog. Seventeen in the field. Pounding across a great meadow. Swept by the fresh winds. Blowing the gloomy cobwebs out of the mind. Wafting the clinging doldrums away into the sky behind. Mists wet the face. Soft turf under the hoofs flying up backwards in the sky. The whipper in, first casualty. His mount catching a front leg in a deep rabbit hole. Shooting like an arrow head first and astonishingly perpendicular, clearly a foot into the ground. His two legs thrusting like a frog’s into the air. His poor hobbling horse barely able to stand on three remaining legs, awaiting a belt of a sledge hammer on the brain to be put by some local farmer out of its misery.

‘Gung bloody ruddy ho.’

The secretary shouting out at the height of his apogee, as he was catapulted up into the sky. His horse having somersaulted caught on an old bedstead hidden at the top of the first wall. It was quite remarkable his head over heels trajectory landing him quite embarrassingly but mercifully arse splatteringly centre of an enormous not too long deposited cow pat. He did at least have the sporting sense of spirit to express his euphoria at the safe but distinctly brown landing. And to later bravely groan out to the golden tressed lady offering the only assistance.

‘Carry on my dear. Landed on a spot of brown I did. Soiled me but jolly well broke my fall.’

Of course even I from a distance could see the vanquished secretary might have a broken leg and, from his one arm hanging limp, also an arm. But attended to by a sensible chap who was closing gates the secretary was now being helped to his feet. While his horse, still running and stumbling in its reins, did a complete somersault over the next wall as if to demonstrate a victory roll to the new Master. And gracious me those American ladies, heading for the same gap, both trying to stay on the Master’s tail, crashing together, their mounts both thumping to the ground and throwing them flying. So marvellously entertaining. Both ladies of course in search of titled husbands. Perhaps if one could rid them of their awful whining accents, one would be tempted to marry one of them for her money.

The huntsman and pack had put the fox to ground on a rise of furze bushes. And I was pleased to see approaching the blond tressed lady who had offered the secretary assistance, and who had mentioned the jolly good scent.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

Somehow I could not, racking my brains, put a name to this attractive face. And so stunningly pretty. Large eyes, and long lashes. And one was quite taken aback when she smiled and without the merest of introductions called to me from a couple of lengths away. And O my god I know now. Dear me who it is. Those blue eyes. None other than Baptista Consuelo. Of course I’m sure she doesn’t recall after these few years seeing me as she lay on her back with the hairy arsed Mental Marquis pumping between her legs when one unavoidably had to jump the pair of them prostrate upon each other aisle centre down an overgrown avenue of lime trees.

‘And how are you, Darcy Dancer.’

‘I am fine thank you. And how are you.’

‘I am bored thank you. And I’m beginning to think you don’t know who I am. You don’t, you don’t, do you.’

‘Well as a matter of fact, I do. And it was sporting of you to offer assistance to our downed secretary.’

‘People are so bloody selfish aren’t they. I simply could not put my pleasure before coming to the aid of another who might need it. Of course I know you’re only pretending to remember me. I am Baptista Consuelo. You had a tutor, such an amusing man I thought. A Mr Ireland or something.’

‘Mr Arland.’

‘Yes that’s it. Arland. Couldn’t ride, could he.’

What could one say as she smiled again, the steam of her horse rising round her. Amazing how one could have been such ardent enemies once. And now out hunting to adopt a friendliness forced upon one by one’s impossible randiness. Further inflamed of course by that scene. Of the Mental Marquis’s perspiring skull. His very hairy cheeks of his arse. And pounding away between her flailing legs. Qearly she has lost some of her aloof stuck up nature with which she had tortured my dear Mr Arland. Who never in his desperate unrequited love for her, had a single cheerful moment to be amusing. She does have indeed a pair of good strong thighs.

‘I hope you’re coming to the lawn meet.’

‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away Darcy Dancer.’

O my god. I am rather sucking up to her. But what is one going to do for a lady. Someone to whom one could make naughties without suffering the gnawing pangs of love. Perhaps knock her off her horse down some ravine after this fox is dug out of its earth. And the two of us could sensibly on my coat do some things together. But to now want to reach to place my squeezing hand on one of her thighs, is a total shock to my sensibilities. When one thinks of all the revenges one should take for her treatment of Mr Arland. Of course the Mental Marquis of Farranistic does have vast estates. Does rather make ladies open their legs. And my poor Mr Arland had not a pot to piss in. And she must be back from England, by the sound of her. One could get the gossip from Sexton. One is sure she has across the water been madly attempting to meet someone of social stature. In her desperation to get married. But clearly the sort who would finally succeed in doing so will be a less socially acceptable type but considerably rich. A merchant perhaps considerably much older than herself. Showering her with gifts of jewels, houses and racehorses. Her quarters if anything are enlarged somewhat. But what an awful shockingly ambitious urge they give one in their pneumatic moundiness peeking out under her flapping coat, to plunge in there between them. Deeply. Just as our fox has gone to ground, dug in as the field waits for him to be dug out.

‘Of course I am now Mrs O’Shawrassy McFlynn O’Toole. My husband is in textiles.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s back in Manchester. I absolutely hate Manchester.’

‘O dear.’

‘One can’t see one’s hand held in front of one’s face for the smoke.’

‘I see.’

‘In fact you can’t see. Ha, ha. Ah but let us ride together. Darcy Dancer. You are aren’t you I believe the namesake of that racehorse.’

Dear me. She seems to have no timidity. And seems to know considerable personal about me. I wonder does she know that I have actually seen her bare arsed in a Royal Hibernian Hotel bedroom whipping the besaddled Marquis crawling before her across the floor. Ye gads. Tally ho. We’re off. I shall burst my fly open with the present obelisk one sports. O god what a mercurial lot ladies are. Never bloody well know what they want. Wanting everything. And getting something. Always wanting something else. How shall one ever find a suitable wife with a decent dowry. One to whom one might read aloud of an evening in the library. Whose sensibilities are refined enough that she would know an ode from an octave, and an octave from an orangutan. Yet possessed of nerve on the hunting field. And who did not neigh like a horse like some do. A lady interested in madrigals. The finer things. Paintings and porcelains. Opera and ballet. One to take up the responsibilities of being mistress of an estate. Seeing that one’s housekeeper sees to the linens. Commanding the servants suitably. Putting a stop to the malingering and indolence down every hall way. And to do so in such a fashion that it did not induce the cook to pop deadly nightshade in the cabbage soup. And not to go nuts. As Miss von B used to say. I did I suppose fall madly but not perhaps too fatally in love with her. And my god what tits she had. Her waist I could nearly join my hands around. And slender yet well fleshed strong limbs. She could nearly best me when we upon occasion wrestled together. Indeed she did once pin me to the carpet. Of course I was distracted by her utter nudity at the time. Tussling with naked ladies especially one’s housekeeper, being entirely new to me. Her skin so smooth, and always so freshly clean. Marvellous to witness her sedately squatting to perform her gracefully executed ablutions upon her more intimate bifurcations. And then she would rub cream into her glowing limbs and torso. One does feel that women of this island are so gauche in their intimate matters. And those such as Miss von B from the better families on the continent are so elegant. Of course in that part of the world, they are much cleaner and neater than we are. Miss von B was, or at least her collection of photographs professed her to be, raised in the better and larger castles. She did rather let her superiority be known. More than once addressing me as you dirty filthy Irish little bastard. She was, I hope, merely trying to be charming. As she would go wiping about with her white gloves. The household keys jangling. Vas ist das. Das ist dust. Der dirt. Dee grime. Der stink. One was indeed at times awfully smelly of course. But I don’t think deserving of some of her less flattering references. Dear me when the blood gets up having a gallop, the thoughts one thinks out hunting. One would plunge it up anything at all. Like blind Mick McGinty does up the back of his heifer instead of his wife. But one must never allow oneself to suffer the misery of falling in love again. Shove it in. Bang. Bang. Take that you lovely darling. Bang bang. But leave my ruddy soul alone. When one thinks of it. I have indeed been up many ladies. At least four or so. Maybe five. But who’s counting. As each was nearly more unsuitable than the other. And too many of them by half old enough to be my mother. The married lady I went to bed with on Howth Head had such enormous nipples. Which I tweezed lightly between my fingers on her grand staircase. Not that I hold age or large nipples against her or any mother who had them. But as one is quickly approaching one’s own prime one does definitely choose a mare whose breasts are pinkly budding and whose loins and legs are at their galloping best. So many lying down cows getting up step on their own teats. My dear you’re awfully long in the udder. No. I must put it up a female whose body is stately enough to adore. I shall never stoop so low as to consider a servant. Leila’s luscious lips or even fine legs would be entirely wrong. Her beauties simply wouldn’t be right. Perhaps if she had a decent conformation, pasterns, hocks, loins, quarters, neck and shoulder in the right manner, I would do well to choose someone plain of face but dependable. A parson’s daughter. Found somewhere in England. Raised in a modest manor house on the edge of a village. In short a decent sort. Fond of hymn singing. Who would, when the verger was ill, light candles for her father before services. And whose blemishes might in themselves be attractive. A type who would not be spoiled by the seeming grandeur of a large house. A wholesome steady sort, interested in bee keeping, jam making and gardening. Beautiful ladies do appear in the end to be such a nuisance. They do I suppose give one a cachet while parading in public. While giving one a pain in the arse in private. And damn all they do is to attract the envious attention of other men. And what good does that do the pleasures of one’s own prick. Which after all should have priority in one’s passions.

‘You must, Darcy Dancer, come over and see me sometime. I’m only an hour away by motor car.’

Dear me that is an invitation. If one only had one’s motor car I was foolish enough to sell in Dublin. I must knock her in the ditch before the day is finished. She has my tongue hanging out. After all married ladies are best in avoiding the worst. And meanwhile if only one could persuade oneself to be satisfied with some not altogether homely type and not a Leila taking insult at the drop of a hat or floating of a feather. And perform her duties good naturedly. And my coat is flying open. One’s buttons are hanging off by a thread. If one dismounted at the moment I should be most embarrassed by my obelisk. I must say one does get unaccountably enraged if things happen at one’s inconvenience. I simply must put it up some lady soon. And not be driven to fantasizing about one’s female servants. Jumping up from bed and grabbing Dingbats. Taking her uniform off. Monstrous boobies bursting forth into one’s hands. As she demurely murmurs what are you doing to me sire. Shoving her down on the chaise longue. Get your arse spread across that you. And shut up. I’m going to give you jolly what for. In the form of galloping jollies. Up the joyful bifurcation. Very good sir. Damn right very good sir. O god. I’m out of my mind with lust. A deadly serious situation. Which must be controlled. One wants so much to be a carnal tour de force without being a complete arse hole as well. Last night’s port is giving me this day’s randiness. There on the horizon. The great castle has come into view. And the earl’s flag flying. By the sound of the hunt hollering ahead we shall be in the bog by the woods on the edge of Thormondstown. A lasso would be the thing. Hurled to settle gently around Baptista’s shoulders and then yank her down off her horse. Then bang, bang. O god. Petunia. Whoops there you go. Nicely over this dreadful wire. O my god. They’re coming down like ninepins behind one. On their bunch of damn foolish horses that can’t see what they’re looking at. Such amateurishness doesn’t bear thinking about. I must hold out. For an elegant wife. One with the common touch. Who could as my mother did go amongst the peasantry, and would, invited into their cottages, not wince at their primitive ways and their seemingly endless inexplicable stupidities. Who would be tolerant of their pagan ancient ignorances. Cheer them in their doldrums. Commiserate when the lower orders, as they do, laugh and point at each other when seeing someone suffering pain. As one witnessed visiting the ancient old lady O’Grady down a mile from one’s own front gate. Her five pet chickens picking up crumbs from her earthen floor. Named saint this and that. And as she sat on the hob as one took tea with her, she pointed and roared as her spinster fifty year old daughter agonizingly contorted over a toothache. I must say I did myself chuckle inwardly a bit. It is in fact bloody rather enjoyably funny when another is groaning away in torment. And unable to contain myself, I too started roaring. As old lady O’Grady started slapping her thigh with such force she fell off the hob. O dear. I suppose these days, to find such a tolerant mate, as who could find such a scene perfectly acceptable, is a little too much to ask for. With evidence already so blatant in the land, of ordinary people putting on airs. Keeping up with the Kellys. Even to raising their voices in the lobby of the Royal Hibernian Hotel. About crates of champagne being delivered to their front suburban doorsteps. Blast them all to hell. I simply must get Baptista in the furze somewhere beyond there, now that we are on firm land again out of this awful bog we’ve been mucking through. Wouldn’t take all that long. To smash a bull’s eye on that easy target. Bang bang.

Darcy Dancer following at a gallop the upraised white rear of Baptista Consuelo bouncing in front. Streaking up the hillside. A blood curdling scream ahead. And another. To scream in lust, rage or high spirits is acceptable but to scream in utter fear on the hunt is simply not done. Must be one of these ruddy interlopers whose nerve is being severely tested. But dear me riders are scattering in all directions. The hounds even fleeing. Huntsman will soon split the copper of his horn with his blowing. The whipper in trotting on foot lashing out around him. As if he were whipping enslaved souls in hell. O my god. That’s awful. One of the American ladies, her mare being mounted from the rear by another entirely naked monstrous horse. O no. It’s him. My god Midnight Shadow. On the attack.

‘Help. I’m being ravished.’

‘Begorra madam you must own a canyon if you can fit the like of that up you.’

Midnight Shadow, teeth out, hind hoofs gouging emerald clumps skywards from the land, locking its forelegs around the quarters of the Virginian lady’s mare. Her yellow gloved hands outstretched as she pitched forward once more to the ground as this stallion killer humped away with his vast shaft. The yelp of hounds being stepped on. Riders scattered in all directions. Those at least who were still aloft on their mounts. And the unstuck escaping like scurrying crabs over the grass.

‘Get off my land you fucking Protestants.’

A crouched farmer with the barrel of a gun stuck over the wall discharging shot. The Master’s horse rearing up at a salvo and tumbling him backwards arse first on top of Amnesia Murphy previously a mile back deposited wedged in the fork of a tree. A sound of the distinct crunch of bones and a long low groan. And it would appear Amnesia Murphy, who had long forgotten to pay tradesmen’s bills for miles around, could still remember he was a Catholic.

‘Begorra I want the last rites. I’m kilt.’

The huntsman, fist to his face, attempting to stifle his guffaws. The whipper in doubled over convulsed. Even the irate farmer standing up grinning behind his stone rampart, to promptly get a muddy sod smack in the face. The Mental Marquis failing off the side of his horse trying to empty the contents of his flask of brandy. And even prostrate on the ground was still drinking without dropping a drop. Mr Fox, should he glance backwards from the bog whither he was so wisely flown taking the hounds in his wake, would surely too have a rare droll old time.

‘Help.’

Baptista, her reins flying loose disappearing in a hollow on the landscape, clinging to her mare’s mane. Darcy Dancer that gentleman galloping after her. Petunia blasting farts from her quarters down the hillside. The other side of a ploughed field Baptista’s mare breaking through a briar hedge. Head for that hole. Shield one’s face. The thorns ripping past. One does wish chivalry didn’t accost one at such times. But of course appearances must be kept up even in the worst mêlée. Otherwise the whole hunt could quickly give the impression of a collection of abject cowards.

Baptista hanging half off flying down a long slope, boots out of her stirrups, arms now wrapped around her mount’s neck. At a turf ripping speed up and over a wall and pounding in a cloud of steam across a gorsey field. O my god if I recall correctly from previous hunts over this terrain behind that next wall lies the deepest of ditches. Clearly a lady is about to be in further deep distress. And what a bunch of namby pambies back there. Of course one was as clearly scared as anyone. Knowing Midnight Shadow of old. And relieved to be heading in a direction which happens to be homewards. Leaving far behind silhouetted on the gentle meadow mound a complete ruddy circus of terrified hunt members to whom one does not want to admit ownership of the lethal monster in their midst.

Darcy Dancer nearly catching up Baptista as her mount struggled belly deep thrashing across the ditch and scrambles up the other side, her bun hanging loose from her hair net. Dear me, Petunia is getting stuck. I’ll say that for the dear girl, she’s not easy to shift out of the saddle. And holy ruddy hell while I’m being nearly bucked off with Petunia peering down into this abyss, she’s reaching some sure footing on high ground.

Darcy Dancer back tracking to take a running jump across the ditch. Petunia refusing at the edge. Darcy Dancer catapulted forward over Petunia’s head. In a somersault plunging completely submerged. Picking himself up chill, splattered and battered, soaked to the skin. A gallon of bog water down the throat. Lost my cap. My whip. H two O as Sexton calls it is pouring out the top of one’s boots. Blobs of mud caked dripping from face to feet. And crawl and claw up the sides of the ditch to finally stand at the top. With Petunia galloping loose and Baptista utterly out of sight. A brace of ducks overhead. Minding their own business. As I should have minded mine. And left chivalry to the devil.

Darcy Dancer chasing Petunia across two Irish miles of moorland until she finally stood up to her belly quietly grazing the edge of a bog. And in one long swallow downing the sweet winy contents of one’s port pouch still intact. To lead Petunia back across drier land to the shelter of a quiet glade in some pines. Shield from the chilling breeze. Empty my boots and squeeze the buckets of water out of one’s clothes, numbness creeping into one’s bones. Both of us nearly exhausted.

Darcy Dancer redonning his underwear. Waistcoat, jacket and breeches hanging over the branches of a tree. The matches in one’s pocket too wet to start a fire. Lean against Petunia for warmth. O my god Midnight Shadow may have already killed people only a mile or two away. And all he was trying to do was have a daylight orgasm up the what for of some American lady’s in season mare. Which was exactly what one was thinking of doing to Baptista. Which would be as calming for me in my nervous state of celibacy just as it would be calming for Midnight Shadow.

The crack of a twig and a nearly blood curdling laugh behind him. Darcy Dancer quickly turning around. There mounted calmly as you please, framed by the pine’s boughs, her head back roaring, Baptista. Hair net in place and just a flake or two of mud splattered upon her immaculate person.

‘O you are aren’t you such a mirthful sight I can’t help laughing. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t, if you don’t mind, think it’s at all funny.’

‘You must forgive me. But you do look so completely ridiculous.’

Baptista popping down to the ground. Standing snapping her whip against her thigh. And there we were. Nice as you please. Together. Alone. In the glade. Me in utter muddy half naked ignominy. My obelisk about as rigid as any obelisk can get without its exploding altogether and conspicuously propping out my rather tattered underwear. Our mounts side by side gobbling up the grass. The foam at the sides of their mouths turning green.

Darcy Dancer struggling on one leg trying to get back into his breeches, hobbling to Baptista’s giggling as he stuck a frozen foot through the wet fabric. Baptista coming forward to lend a hand. And one turns one’s obelisk pointing in her direction and reaches arms around her in playful affection before one falls flat upon one’s face.

‘And what on earth do you think you’re doing Darcy Dancer.’

‘Might we not rest on the grass while our mounts graze a little. They must be exhausted.’

‘Of course I’m appreciative of your efforts to rescue me but I don’t mind saying. You have your nerve. To think I would get down in the mud with you. While people by those distant screams are indicating that their very lives are still in danger.’

Darcy Dancer eyeing her highly undeserved hunt buttons and staring at these lips and large eyes. So full of their past deceits. What utter pish and pother. Who the bloody hell wants to lay hand to you anyway. O god I’ve trod again in the nettles. Always so prevalently sprouting in the garden of one’s carnal desire. Stinging my poor bare feet with the hottest pain. Which they just barely feel being so god damn presently frozen.

‘You are in your primitive way an amusing young lad.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You would wouldn’t you like to seduce me. Married as I am. That’s shut you up hasn’t it. You are rather handsome you know. But far far too young for me, not physically of course. But intellectually, and actually, if the truth were to be known, I rather prefer men who are brainier than myself and you are but a callow youth. A country bumpkin. While I have been a habituée of sophisticates. You do understand don’t you. Well why don’t you say something.’

‘Because madam I am totally speechless at your pathetically incredible presumptions, but one does allow for them, being as you so regrettably are, of the common mediocrity.’

Darcy Dancer pulling on boots and jacket and striding off to the grazing Petunia. Taking up her reins and prodding her in the ribs and on the run jumping into the saddle. Galloping off and passing Baptista’s mare, leaning out to land an almighty swat on the quarters as the two horses pounded out of the glade breaking branches and trampling the shrubs of gorse and blackthorn.

‘How dare you, come back, come back.’

Hanging from the western clouds a grey veil of rain approaching. And south, a streak of golden sun slicing across the distant meadows and hilltops. With three rainbows blazing one on top of another across the eastern sky. And a faint sound. Huntsman calling the hounds. While she’s back there abandoned. A nice wet trek of a mile or two through uncharted countryside will quick cure her of her sophistications acquired in Manchester. One of course should have flung her down and pricked her arse goodo in the gorse. Her bloody over ample quarters need trimming down anyway. To begin with she arrived late to hunt and then promptly headed the fox into the bog without so much as an apology to the Master or huntsman. And can you imagine anyone getting so full of themselves in the English industrial midlands. I mean one can understand if she said she had spent a few weeks in London rounding off her rougher small town Irish edges and then if she had to go north she could at least have gone to Harrogate which according to my dear Mr Arland does have an adequate preponderance of the better sorts. But for her to now think she was on stage with the top crust in the county well, she would be entirely better off boasting she was a scouse from Liverpool. And at least then be able to be taken as being the genuine article. Too many of those solicitors and shopkeepers on the edge of town whose front gardens have completely gone to their heads, thinking they are as oneself, an actual member of the landed gentry. When hardly yet distinct from tradesfolk. And for the matter of that.

Even from

Lesser educated

Apes

In the animal

Kingdom