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

8

Although one does not mind being a cad, one simply did not have it in one to be an unmitigated cad. And before sheepishly returning to Andromeda Park one circled back cross country to where one had abandoned the poor creature Baptista. Leading her mare who appeared from its hang dog look to be pretty well knackered and as shiveringly cold as I was.

‘I’ll have the big house likes of ye off me land, I’m telling you now.’

Another farmer gone hysterically ape with his pitch fork dancing a jig up and down on his pathetic acres to which Petunia’s dung, plopping out of her quarters, must have been the first beneficial thing that had happened to them in years. And having trudged through bog and clambered over stone walls again and come across stray hounds, one had of course expected to find Baptista up to her ample arse in muck throwing her arms about one in grateful tears. But she was nowhere in sight.

The sky clearing, a still night descending. The sight of the first twinkling cold star on the south west horizon as Darcy Dancer, Baptista’s mare in tow, cut across through the ancient oak wood and rhododendrons on the overgrown old farm road. Frost on the grass. Fog hovering over the low lands across the countryside. The sound of the river through the mist. By the mossy mounds and ivied broken walls of these abandoned cottages. The ruin of the old stone bridge ahead. The sound of a voice. Singing. Petunia shying to an abrupt stop. Baptista’s mare rearing up, pawing the air and nearly braining me. Horses backing away. And god. There is something there again. Something moved. My heart is pounding and Petunia’s thumping. And bloody Baptista’s mare bolting, tearing the reins out of my hand. And now it will surely break every leg crashing away through the thick undergrowth. Enough has happened today without my hair not only standing up on the back of one’s head but I’m sure it will shortly be turning snowy white.

Darcy Dancer giving chase. Baptista’s mare disappearing in the dusk. In the distance, a fox barking. Just to let me know. With every shivering stride home. What an awful arse one has been today. Hands and feet blue numbed with cold. Only sensible thing left is to sink in the safety of one’s hot bath. Except for my privates, thorns nearly in every other part of one’s anatomy. What one wouldn’t give to be back amid Dublin debauchery. Lois her tits wagging and her castanets clacking. Instead of crossing through these beech woods. Mouldy death and gloom. Shutters closed on the back windows of Andromeda Park. Lower one’s head in the darkness of the tunnel to the stables. A relief to hear one’s horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Soon a long recline in a steaming tub. Expunge the offending splinters and thorns out of one’s epidermis. And my god, out of one’s soul.

Darcy Dancer passing the stable window. Luke, Henry and Thomas toasting themselves in front of the roaring tack room fire puffing on cigarettes. The three of them jumping up. From where their arses were planted on soft seats of hay stuffed in buckets. Nearly as fast as Henry did in his last discontent when Thomas left a bottle on a shelf labelled apple juice and filled with piss. Be the first effort they’ll have made since lunch. Be dredging up their best blandishments to improve one’s sour appraisal of their idleness.

‘Sir was it a good hunt you had. Sure Petunia will be glad to be in her box. Looks like she had a few miles under her belly at the gallop.’

Darcy Dancer walking up the incline and turning to enter the house by the side door. The heavy ancient latch. Polished by so many hands. See how many others are lolling about.

‘Ah sir you’re back.’

‘That would appear to be the case Crooks.’

Crooks coming out of the kitchen with two decanters of port, in bandaged hands. Soupstained no doubt. And you’d think his hand crushed in the dumb waiter would have long since healed. He does so like to remind one of his injuries.

‘Well excuse me sir for incommoding you at this moment of the evening Master Reginald. There’s an urgent gathering upstairs. In the front hall in their muddy boots. Hunt members wanting to have a serious word with you. Barged right in the door past me they did. And I thought it best to have refreshments served to assist in calming them.’

‘Not with my bloody port I hope. Tell them to please fuck off.’

‘I couldn’t do that sir now. Not in that language. By the bloodthirsty looking condition of them they’d set upon me.’

‘Well then tell them in the rudest way you can. To bugger off. And draw my bath please.’

The faint candle light. On the great slabs of stone. The smell of damp. Crooks trembling. O god, he’s going to collapse. Just as one is hoping to run into Leila. Contemplating in one’s mind her small swelling bicep. And the blue vein in her arm with its white tiny knot of an artery. When once she went by me carrying a water filled vase. The only member of this household I’ve ever known to roll up her sleeves. And now the whole entire world seems to intervene between us.

‘And sir as for the matter of this port. This is for the dining room and library, seeing as you have been calling for it recently. And the two extra for dinner. Lady Christabel and Lavinia should be at this very moment arrived at the station and Sexton has gone to fetch them.’

‘Good god.’

‘A cable came while you were out hunting. Shall supper be at your convenience.’

‘Yes. I think most certainly yes. After a day like today.’

Crooks ushered first up the servants’ stairs. Darcy Dancer following. In case with an attack of sudden staggers he should collapse. Sound of voices down the main hall. Shouldn’t be surprised if Crooks doesn’t drink half a decanter and spill the other as he did one night on the carpet outside my bedroom door. One distinctly felt the thwack of a large spoon upon the top of one’s head at the mention of one’s sisters. Eye gouging. Secateurs clipping one’s ear lobes. Hair pulling. Bath splashing. Attempted drownings and hangings. Shoves, pushes and punches. Toys and teddy bears ripped from one’s hands. And upon their being shipped away to better things of England, not lost upon me are all the intervening years of peace.

Darcy Dancer soaking back in the hot waters of the bath. Window panes steamed over. The fire at last beginning to glow in the grate. At the finish of a day’s hunting, agreeably tired, one should be purring with the joy of still being alive. Instead of haunted with singing ghosts and a killer stallion at large. And that uncomfortable feeling that while one has been away the day that nothing at all has been done by anybody. With the exception of course of Sexton, Leila and old Edna Annie. When one sees a member of the household or estate not with their hands actively on some tool, and wielding it in the motion and manner for which it is meant, one must suspect the worst malingering. And my god added to it all now could be the two more mouths of my sisters not to mention the mouths of any horses they may fancy to hunt. Where and how in this world does one make a monstrous amount of money. Or get to own something like a brewery. O god it’s ruddy shocking how the terrors of impoverishment and ruin do gnaw at one’s vitals.

Darcy Dancer in dressing gown, standing on the landing listening to the din in the front hall. Proceeding further downwards and stopping. Sound of distant feet pounding up and down the back stairs to the kitchen. The clatter of boots on the tiles. Sounds like a ruddy bash in progress. Candles blazing. The utter incredible nerve. With the whole ruddy household running hither and thither ferrying cakes, barmbracks. And my god big tits Dingbats, lugging by the neck two utterly heirloom precious bottles of brandy rolling her eyes demented with the delight of it all.

‘And where Mollie are you taking those bottles.’

‘They be brandy sir.’

‘I know they’re brandy. Which happens to be pale and extremely old.’

‘It’s for inside there.’

‘Take them back to the cellar.’

‘Sir there’s a thirst on them visitors in there that would make you think their bellies were screaming their throats were cut.’

‘Well their bellies can go on screaming.’

Dingbats turning on her heel. Heavily pounding off back down the hall. Feel the floor joists tremble. Lots of ruddy power could be harnessed from her haunches. Tie her up to one of those machines they use pumping water in China. Burn off some of the butter she gorges. And by the smell of her she has worked up one of her more highly musty pongy sweats. Surprisingly quite stimulating to the gonads. But this is no time for an erection in one’s front hall.

Darcy Dancer with an imperious sweep proceeding out amidst all these unheeding elbows so busily bent upending glasses to their mouths. Hunt servants in a decidedly sheepish little huddle by the fire. Not one of them noticing me in the pale blue, brown and white racing colours of my dressing gown. Nor my black, white polka dotted silk scarf at my throat. Astonishing how one can suddenly feel a complete interloper in one’s own house as a gang of invaders make jolly familiar. People making themselves entirely at home as if they were bloody well invited, most of whom I have never spoken to and some I’ve not even seen before. And wouldn’t you know, like a gang of starved rats partaking from a table laid centre hall. Stuffing their empty bellies. Slurping up my tea, slathering on my butter and munching up my breads and already quaffing my wines and liquors. Behaving as favoured guests with one another at one’s own conspicuous expense. But o my god, my port. There. The hunt secretary’s hand already reaching for a decanter to take a refill. So much for damn Crooks’ reassuranees. Bloody servants love to be generous with one’s viands and most precious tipple. Especially pouring the latter down the throats of perfect strangers. One does not mind being bled white by the consumption of bread and butter but it is a little bit bloody much to reach that anaemic condition when it’s one’s most anciently preserved and cherished wines being gulped.

Darcy Dancer fetching the two decanters away to a sideboard around the hall corner. Followed rapidly by the bow legged hunt secretary Major Bottom clomping across the tiles in his boots, a cream bun and a glass of port clutched in his hands.

‘Ah there you are Kildare my good chap. Damn good port. Quite right to get it out of the way of the uninitiated. Sorry to have to come at you like this but in a man to man fashion I’d like to have a word with you. That loose stallion of yours and all that. And I have it on some authority that a lady’s horse was stampeded and she was left abandoned. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Jolly fine vintage this port. And you know it’s not been since your mother was hunting that I’ve been in this house.’

Coming up behind Major Bottom, another face one vaguely remembers from a race track somewhere. By the look a horse trainer down from County Dublin. His blond slathered back hair conspicuously parted in the middle. And objectionably long sideburns. Type who’s made a few bob being in the know on a few races and now thinks he’s god’s gift to county hunting society. And who’s this type pushing in front of him.

‘I contradict what the hunt secretary has just said sir. And I say we have a definite bone to pick with you. Letting a stallion run wild. And then the damn shabby treatment of a lady.’

And my word this objectionable sort does think the world of himself and has the obtuse nerve to be pompously attempting to sound like an administrator of justice interjecting in front of the secretary, with the horse trainer at his elbow and with more hangers on collecting behind them. To all stand listening to the present utter silence. And the lot of them to a man with glasses of whisky and cream cake in thick gobs stuck to their faces.

‘Well sir, you heard what I said, shameful shocking treatment of a lady.’

O my god this is coming from one of those ruddy bloody asses who’s got up on top of a horse to hunt and with accent improved thinks he need never again make his living selling lavatory articles door to door in the hinterlands of Dun Laoghaire or Dalymount.

‘Why don’t you bugger off and go about your usual business which is I am sure supplying purgatives to those who like yourself need them.’

‘I say look here sir we are not going to mince words. I’m in fact a major supplier in the sanitary fitting line. And you stampeded a lady’s mount is what we have heard.’

‘Well hear this then. Clear out the lot of you.’

‘I say sir that’s simply not good enough. We want an apology.’

‘What you’ll get from me is your head stuffed in one of your crappers and a good swift boot of my foot in your goolies if you don’t get out.’

‘I say you are a rude bounder sir.’

‘You heard me, out. Before I bodily throw you out.’

The hunt secretary Major Bottom frowning his thick bushy brows and loudly clearing his throat while licking away the whipped cream impeding the vowels attempting to get out of his mouth.

‘We must remain civil about this matter Kildare.’

The sanitary supplier placing his feet well apart. Striking a stance. His eyes flicking left and right to see if his seconders were still behind him. The horse trainer nodding encouragement. The sanitary supplier taking another step forward.

‘And I say I should not be so tricky if I were you Kildare sir.’

‘Tricky. I’ll show you who’s being tricky you twit.’

Darcy Dancer grabbing the sanitary supplier by the lapels, shoving him backwards. The group parting behind him as his arse thumps on the tiles. Major Bottom stepping around the back of Darcy Dancer to grab an unguarded decanter to pour port.

‘I say Kildare that’s highly uncalled for.’

Darcy Dancer striding away out into the front hall. Where hands were still reaching sweeping trays clean.

‘Everyone out. The party’s over.’

Crooks coming momentarily out of the shadows to take up the cry.

‘You heard the master now. You’ve had it. The bash is over.’

The horse trainer and sanitary supplier, followed by their group of hangers on, creeping up behind Darcy Dancer. The horse trainer leaping on his back. Closing a head lock across Darcy’s throat. Darcy Dancer bringing an elbow back into the horse trainer’s belly. The head lock loosening and Darcy Dancer sending the horse trainer flying forward over his shoulder. The horse trainer crashing on the tea table, skidding across it and off the other side. Taking in his wake the cloth, the tea, jam, scones, cakes. Together with the butters and bottles. The sanitary supplier, his mouth gaping.

‘I say good god, the man’s a demon. Clearly the lady’s correct in her accusation.’

Darcy Dancer pointing towards the door. As the horse trainer congealed in jams, glass and honey, stumbles up on his hands and knees. Wide eyed Dingbats’s hands to her fully jammed mouth which might have been aghast but was still busily chewing. Crooks carefully retreating out of harm’s way into the back hallway. Major Bottom strolling up, his port glass refilled.

‘That’s a poor show Kildare. Not what one would expect from the Thormonds. We should settle this like gentlemen.’

The horse trainer getting to his feet, slowly wiping his honey congealed hands together, and murmuring a stream of oaths as he attempted to dislodge an entire pound of butter adhering to his breeches.

‘By god I do rather resent this. From a stripling only out of short pants. I’ll fight you Kildare. Sure you’ll not get away with another lucky shove like that I’m telling you.’

‘I’ll give you more than a shove, I’ll bloody well give you a thrashing.’

Major Bottom coming forward, his port well to the side out of harm’s way as his free arm is held across Darcy Dancer’s chest to hold him back. The Major raising his voice.

‘Sir I think that challenge is highly inadvisable, remember we’re guests in this man’s house.’

A band of accomplices gathering behind the horse trainer as he adopted a hand to hand combat pose of an Asian flavour, making lunges as he emitted loud grunts, one of which got awfully loud as one foot squeezed deeply into the butter only recently dislodged from his breeches. Darcy Dancer pressing away the hunt secretary’s arm.

‘You take one more buttered foot forward you simpleton and I’ll break your back across my knee.’

‘Simpleton is it. I’ll show you who’s a simpleton. You’ll not break my back, you’ll not.’

Most of the indoor staff of Andromeda Park retreating behind Crooks who was edging his way back behind them making the whole contingent resemble a big many legged bug crawling backwards. Along with a cold blast, more figures arriving in the front door. Voices on the sidelines taking up viewing positions.

‘Ah your man is an expert in the oriental art of self defence and he’ll soon put paid to that Kildare.’

‘Ah I wouldn’t be too sure about that now. By the way that Kildare flipped your man flying, I’d say he’d be getting a lesson from a gentleman well versed in the Gaelic art of pure mayhem and murder.’

Hunt members closing closer about the protagonists some with whips raised, others clutching crockery to let fly. One swinging his fist prematurely and landing it on the face of another hunt member as Darcy Dancer landed him back a punch to send him sailing on his arse, blood exploding out of his nose. Town idlers among the hunt followers, making haste to descend upon the strewn sandwiches and cakes. A cry clearly from Crooks.

‘Hit him in the haggis Master Reginald.’

And a louder cry going up in the shadows. The black beetle browed agent with three others emerging from the door of the long unused west parlour. The timber merchant from the town taking up the rear at whom one had to discharge shot when he was generously helping himself to oak trees not that many years back.

‘Come on lads. Together. At the buckeen. We’ll take him.’

Gearoid with a bottle in one hand and a candelabrum held aloft in the other.

‘Ah it’s the charge of the Light Brigade all over again. I’m telling you.’

The middle of the hall, tea cups breaking on the tiles. Candles knocked over. Hunt members rushing to pile on top of Darcy Dancer. The scrum of bodies teetering. Grunts and thumps. Boots skidding on the tiles. Green and blue collars of red coats torn in the grabbings. Kitty and Norah arriving around the hall corner ferrying trays heaped with more sandwiches up from the kitchen. Dumping them on the floor. Amid the screams and shouts, slabs of bread, beef and ham flying.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph there’s murther and slaughter.’

The indoor staff of Andromeda Park retreating back. Kitty and Norah halfway up the grand staircase. Dingbats crouched shivering next to Crooks. Both peeking out over a heavy marble topped console table pushed out from the wall. Proving Crooks had plenty strength enough when needed. His Dublin accent slipping as he announced.

‘Ah now don’t lay a hand to me I’m an invalid I am.’

More hunt members and followers, agent and accomplices climbing the heap burying Darcy Dancer. Bringing him kicking, tearing, punching to the floor. Bottles on the sidelines emptied down throats and wielded as weapons. Ear twisting, eye gouging. Hair uprooted. Knees pummelled into crotches. Boots socked into ribs front, back and sides. Whips snapping. A door knob stuffed in a mouth. A hard leather toe sinking into the spine of the horse trainer. Huntsman blowing the horn. An English lady hunt visitor retreating backwards eyebrows raised behind a glass of cherry brandy.

‘Dear me, the noise, the people.’

‘Bejesus you’re killing me when it’s him we’re after.’

‘I say the bugger’s strong. Get him.’

‘Constrict his oesophagus.’

‘God save the king.’

‘Bugger the king. Up Ireland.’

‘Put the boot into him.’

‘Bloody hell I’ve just busted my toes.’

‘You cowards.’

A dull lethal thud landing on someone’s pink coated back. The victim spilling out his breath, slumping forward on his face. Another hunt member turning round to raise his arms to ward off a blow aimed at his head. The further upraised iron poker which had just flattened his associate, descending on an upraised wrist. A howl of pain as an ulna, radius and metacarpals fractured in twenty places. A voice of reason.

‘For Jesus sake almighty tear that fucking thing out of that woman’s hands.’

‘You cowards.’

Leila sleeves rolled up two handed belting the thrashing mound of backs. Aiming her poker swipes at another rolling to escape across the tiles. The attackers covering Darcy Dancer unpeeling and turning, to protect their heads. Darcy Dancer left on the floor with one head squeezed in a scissor grip between his legs and another with his arm locked across its throat gasping, tongue hanging out and a face turning deeper and deeper blue.

‘Your man’s choked for the love of Jesus will you let go before he needs the last rites.’

A mud splattered Mental Marquis striding in the door, turning momentarily to fill a tall glass with brandy, and putting it to his lips, draining it to a drop and reaching for a refill as he surveys the battle.

‘Ah this is developing into a nice bit of damn evil amusement. And who, may I ask of somebody who knows, is that utterly beautiful creature wielding that warhammer so brilliantly.’

Leila swinging her poker back and forth, advancing upon the retreating phalanx of hunt members and interlopers. The hunting priest followed by his elegantly ecclesiastic parson friend coming in the door. Both accoutred half in clerical garb and half in their hunting kits tailored in Paris.

‘Stop this violence. O glory be to god what infamy is this afoot. That you should break this man’s priceless china and delft.’

‘Get out of the way parson. And you too father. Or you’ll have Meissen in the eyeball.’

Urgent pounding. The front door slamming open into someone’s face and shut again with a scream over someone’s foot. The parson pushed forward to his knees. The hunting priest, his collar popped up across his eyes blinding him. Farmer Amnesia Murphy’s coat pulled over his head, raging around in circles like a fighting bull. The Mad Major waving his red coat as a cape taking Murphy through a faena. Someone present familiar with Spanish.

‘Olé.’

The Slasher sisters parked near the fire quietly munching sandwiches. The fat faces of Kitty and Norah back again peering around the corner of the back hall. And a shout from the front door.

‘Step back. Back I’m telling you.’

Sexton, his hob nailed boots skating on the tiles, a bill hook raised in his massive hands, its curved blade glinting.

‘Move another muscle any of you or touch another hair of the head of the master of this house and you’ll not only get a hit of this across the humerus that will send your infraspinus fossa flying but your noggins when I’m done splitting them won’t know which side they’re buttered on. I’m telling you.’

The silvery shiny sharpness of Sexton’s hook cocked back over his shoulder hovering in the smoky air. The assembly coming to a rigid standstill. Major Bottom wiping a splotch of cream from his face. Kern and Olav roaring and barking out front. Leila, veins standing out on her neck, her lungs pumping up and down in her chest, her whitened knuckles still holding the poker aloft. Sexton turning his one eye around the hall.

‘Ah god this is a time when arma pacis fulcra. Dominus vobiscum.’

‘Stuff that bloody popery.’

‘Who said that. Come on and bejesus I’ll swipe this right through you in bellum lethale.’

In the raging silence, Darcy Dancer loosening his grip on his two unconscious adversaries. Both lying stretched and still. Any moment now Sexton’s going to decline a series of Latin very irregular verbs. As far away as could be from amo amas amat. At least in the sea of staff betrayal two have remained loyal. And dear god what a wonderful blissful ensoothement it is to feel that one has for a change not only some brave brawn but also beatific beauty on one’s side in this world.

‘Take your hands from interfering under me skirt.’

A shout and a slap from beyond the console table. Dingbats standing up in high dudgeon. Crooks cringing in low. Eyes turning. Dingbats brushing down her uniform. Crooks rising, chest out shoulders back.

‘Lay hand to me girl, how dare you. I have never never before been accused of such a heinous thing in my entire career of service you insolent wench. And you go this instant and get the brooms.’

‘I was. I was interfered with.’

Dingbats flouncing off down the hall. Crooks loudly clearing his throat adjusting his tie and doing up his waistcoat buttons. Sexton herding the remaining assembly out before him. Past those allowed to stay. Gently nodding to the Slasher sisters, the Mad Major, ecclesiastics and Mental Marquis..

‘Now the lot of the rest of you be off before you’re all minus your ears.’

‘Lapdog of the gentry, that’s what you are. Arselicker of the gentry.’

Sexton prodding the agent in the spine with the handle of his hook. The agent sneeringly raising his fist and scurrying out of the way of Sexton’s lunge.

‘And the crooked likes of you were conceived, born and bred from the bowels of the devil and him an evil damn devil at that. Fuck off out of here now. And pardon the language ladies.’

Candles relit, Crooks stepping forward over the remaining incommoded bodies removing the still held glasses and clutched bottles. As the two asphyxiated on the floor suddenly revive, sitting up, the hunting priest in a priestly manner making the sign of the cross and blessing with mumbled prayers over these remaining highly irate currently prostrate Protestants. Wondering what foul popery was afoot. Sexton shouting to those still able to walk down the front steps.

‘And don’t set foot this way again or you’ll get the same. I’m telling you.’

Chill blasts of breeze in the door. Fire blazing bright. Darcy Dancer dressing gown retied. Standing one foot in a sock the other in a slipper. Sleeves and lapels ripped. Crooks dabbing a napkin on the buttery finger marks.

‘Imagine, me a rapist. The utter cheek of the trollop.’

‘You mustn’t mind Crooks.’

‘Locked away in the pig curing room a night or two she should be, Master Reginald, with her imagination getting plenty of exercise with the ghosts raping her.’

The parson carefully picking up pieces of a shattered plate. And into a piece of sideboard crystal pouring himself a glass of port. Holding it aloft crossing the tiles. His beige silk handkerchief hanging from his sleeve.

‘Well well Kildare. You’re in residence. Well well. Not the best surely. Not the best. But really. One would think in this modern day and age one could expect better manners to be about. But is there not something inherently unseemly emerging from the behaviour of the Dublin middle classes. Too many of whom I believe were down hunting today. Your mother would have been quite beyond herself with indignation. Thank heavens she’s safely resting in peace from such.’

Dingbats sweeping up. Raising dust, delft clanking and her broom knocking the furniture. The remaining household, all except Edna Annie, peeking around corners into the front hall. Raised voices out in the dark. Horses being mounted. Fast trotting hoof falls heard in the still cold night far off along down the drive. And more coming close of new arrivals.

‘I do so thank you Sexton. Quite honestly they nearly had me done for. Had it not been for you and Leila.’

‘Ah that is a one who’s a great brave lass. Just look at her now. Not a bother on her. There busily engaged in conversation with the Mental Marquis. And Master Darcy lucky for you I was in me cottage sitting semper fidelis in front of the fire studying me seed catalogue and heard the rapid commotion of hoofs going by on the road. Like the Boer War. I knew by the rush there was something afoot. Could hear the din miles away. And I went like the wind on me bishop’s bike.’

Darcy Dancer turning. Towards the corner of the hall. Leila, her poker lowered. Soft silken skin flushed. Her arm brushing back her curls of dark gleaming hair. O my god. She’s smiling. Standing beneath the painting she so admires. And one’s heart is stopped. So painfully to see. To helplessly watch. Her paying attention to his silly loftiness. The Marquis. One leg cocked forward. And would you believe it, a bloody hand on his hip. I’ll break his bloody titled arse if he thinks for one second that I’ll tolerate his familiarity with a member of my staff.

And my loyal

Lady

From whom

Every unblessed day

Keeps

My love