The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

10

Stylishly wrapping a towel at my throat and after peering to see that no one was about to witness my rather tattered dressing gown, I hurried to bathe in the piping hot waters of a monstrous tub down at the end of the hall. The steamy slightly brown water came blazing out of the taps. Lying back in the liquid comfort, my red knob was soon sticking out of the water like a periscope. If Miss von B were here she would lunge with her mouth upon it and I think I might howl with rapture. As I did anyway when I pulled it Feeling warm once more.

All spiffy and tingling just that little bit with moral evil, I went down in the iron cage of the lift. Watching the green uniformed attendant with his little lever lowering me from floor to floor. Thinking apropos of nothing at all that Nurse Ruby was forever pulling my sister Beatrice Blossom’s pigtails and making her cry. Just as she used to play with my penis and make me laugh. And Miss von B. She wanted to kiss me goodbye as we stood with the breeze blowing in the front hall. I kept leaning back quite naughtily out of her reach. And then, the moment Catherine retreated from delivering our sandwiches and Mr Arland had gone down the steps to mount the cart, she grabbed me. Said I was looking elegant. Her lips soft. Quite substantial tears came into her eyes. I was glad. Clearly it meant I would be missed.

In the lobby, within the space of only a few minutes, I saw three monocles being worn and shudderingly thought each time it was my father. I lurked by one of the pillars and watched into the great high ceilinged lounge. Crowded now with tweedy gentlemen looking like human branches of hawthorn. They sat, walked and loudly talked. The constant refrain, yes yes, quite quite. And when not discoursing on horses, they seemed to be speaking of snipe, fox, grouse, salmon or pheasant. And it appeared that they were, as Mr Arland suggested, hysterically pukka. And had hunting fishing and shooting appointment books instead of souls. And matters of cultural beauty could not possibly cross their outdoor minds. Except if it had wings. And then it would be promptly blasted from the sky.

I followed Mr Arland through a small cosy sitting and writing room of flower covered deep soft sofas. Up stairs to a balcony and out into a hall and down stairs again and into another hall. Through curtained french doors we stepped into a blue large room, white splendid medallions on the walls. The colour seemed that of our faded blue north east parlour when on winter sunny mornings the sun flooded in our tinted window panes. A blonde lady with her undulating curves held voluptuously in a long blatantly orange gown, swept in. Her gently bouncing alabaster bosoms nakedly swelling forth and nearly popping out. Her nose repeatedly sniffing upwards and hooking a little as if she were smelling a fume drifting in over her left shoulder. She joins a red haired moustachioed gentleman at the bar who bows deeply, kissing her hand. A cigarette between her lips wagging up and down. Her voice reverberating.

‘Ronald, Ronald. You are so pleasantly flattering with your attentions. Especially when I feel I shall faint with the noise and the people. Buy me a drink quickly.’

‘For you madam, only a bottle of the house’s best champagne will do.’

‘O Ronald darling you are dear dear.’

In here under the soft white marble mantel, a turf fire roared. The cold black bleak city shut out. Hiding all those poor and hungering, all those cold and lonely. And hunched backs carrying their tattered garments. The gentleman called Ronald dressed for dinner. His dark elegance and long ivory cigarette holder. As we sit at our glass topped table in our wicker chairs. In this warmth and safety. One other gentleman in the corner reading a book which, judging by his concentration, must be saucy indeed. The waiter retreating backwards out of our presence. To bring us sherry. Mr Arland with his one usual grey suit, sporting a tie I had not seen before.

‘What is that tie, Mr Arland.’

‘Trinity College. I wear it while in Dublin, Kildare. In some places it would get you excellent service, in others perhaps, you might get a kick in the pantaloon.’

Following our first sherry and upon completion of half our second, the lady in the fiery gown was tippling back the last drops of her champagne. And then both Mr Arland and I faltered in our conversation. For it appeared that the shapely lady had pulled down that part of her dress which previously covered and now prominently exposed her left breast. Pressing it up with her hand, showing it to Ronald.

‘You see Ronald can’t you, where that wretched stallion bit me. I can’t help that I arouse horses. Look, one two three teeth marks, quite black and blue. Even geldings get into a frenzy when they sniff me.’

Ronald then, quite deliberately slowly I thought, took a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket. Placing them half way down his nose. He leaned deeply over to make a lengthy inspection. All the while making suitable sympathetic noises through a large gap between his protruding front teeth.

‘Indeed quite so my dear, you were well and truly bitten. Clearly however, if I may say so, judging by the tooth marks, by a thoroughbred.’

‘Yes, a Derby winner, he just missed my nipple.’

‘Yes, he did. I rather noticed that.’

Following more of Ronald’s scrutiny and a final appreciative pat, the breast was replaced under its coverings. The gentleman in the corner, no longer regarding his book, absolutely gaped with his mouth open wide enough for doves to fly in. And the waiter and bartender brought their eyes back down again from the ceiling. Mr Arland and I departed through the passage crossing the little sitting room once more.

‘That lady back there Kildare, acts also upon the Dublin stage. Where her performances are not nearly so good. And that chap Ronald, I’ll tell you more about later.’

The dining room waiters in plenty scurried around us. For starters we had saumon fumé. I ordered steak, spinach and chips. And felt quite pleasantly inebriated taking a glassful of the Pommard Mr Arland ordered with his roast beef, as I, even with my rudimentary French, pointed out mistakes in the French menu. Mr Arland saying wistfully.

‘They mean well but it would be so much better and accurate if things were said in English.’

‘What if they were said in Irish, Mr Arland.’

‘The gentry would starve Kildare.’

Great crimson drapes drawn closed across the windows. The faint sweet smells of cooking sprouts, cabbage and other green things. Sauces pouring from the sauce boats. Wines of sacred vintages cradled carefully across the carpets. Altogether the sort of setting of which Crooks would approve. The most distinguished looking of black tail coated waiters, giving their lofty orders down through a chain of command. Till it reached some little boy who had to run and do all the dirty work. And was stationed standing by some empty table adding polishing touches to the silverware and sneaking looks at the nearby guests. Or rushing back and forth following urgent hisses from under waiters to fetch this or that. As still other little boys went pageing by mournfully intoning people’s names.

Throughout the meal I still had the uncomfortable feeling that my father was somewhere near. Half expecting him to suddenly turn round and be one of those tweedy thin gentlemen who kept pausing to look at the Fox Hunting fixtures posted on the wall in the hall. Mr Arland eating with gusto. Smiling at me, and shaking his head in agreement as I smiled back and chewed down another chunk I’d sliced off my slab of blood rare steak. Dublin suddenly most agreeable. Mr Arland happily putting his nose over the edge of his Pommard. But I could tell he was still distressed over Baptista Consuelo and he would apropos of nothing at all refer to the subject of fox hunting. Asking me of lady Masters of Foxhounds.

‘Sir they do frequently want to have that honour, especially as the one who leads the hunt gets no splatter. And a lady might then appear at the end of a day’s hunting just as splendidly fresh and radiant as she was at the beginning.’

I was nearly on the verge of launching into the more scandalous aspects of hunting. Of how ladies with their blood up were constantly attempting to entice even the Master at the end of the day into some seemly copse and there dismounted to have lively congress with him upon the cold wet moss and grass. But I was so distracted with the arrival of my favourite pudding, trifle. And while Mr Arland was having cheese, port and a cigar, I with fork and spoon rapidly shovelled it with accompanying scads of thick cream, most deliciously between my lips. But soon as I was finished, Mr Arland, never one to waste time when he could be imparting knowledge, discoursed upon the Constitution of the United States. When suddenly who should leap up from a distant corner in the room smiling ear to ear. And waving as he came, cross over to our table. Barging quite unceremoniously between the other diners. One of whose elbows was knocked sending a fork into that part of his face where there was no mouth. And leaving I think four little bloody puncture holes. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus pausing to somewhat hysterically commiserate and apologize. Until he finally reached us flushed and red faced but bubbling with excitement.

‘Hello, ah hello. How are my dear friends. How good to see you. And how are you, my former little victim. The very worst you were. Yes, the very worst little pupil that I have ever had the insanity to try to teach. Who now looks so grown up. Have you yet got the élan of the gazelle, my little darling. O I know I push by accident of course that poor man’s fork into his head. But his elbow it is too far stuck out. But surely you have come to attend my marvellous party I am giving this evening to celebrate the opening of my new school. But of course my dear friends you are coming.’

Mr Arland and I sat there waiting till the Count was out of breath. Which was clearly not going to be tonight. As he shifted his weight from leg to leg, and continued to be heard by the entire dining room. Many of whom were whispering in somewhat awestruck tones that the Count had received thirty curtain calls when he last danced in Milan. I found the attention paid us quite pleasing. And even Mr Arland, not one to be showy or grand, was sitting just that little bit more upright. The Count’s blond handsome looks and white flashing teeth. And I could see at the table from whence he had come that there sat a dark haired woman of austere beauty.

‘O but I must go. But come. Of course you shall. And bring all your nice friends with you. And even those who may not be so nice.’

The Count reeled off an address which he said was merely around the corner. And dancingly returning across the dining room he executed an attitude alongée on point followed by a grand jeté. Some of the more cultivated and easily amused diners politely clapped but most ducked. The Count bowing before he sat down at his table across from the dark beauty. Who reached out to pat her hand on his and smilingly formed her lips into a kiss. And they kissed. While we retired to the lounge for coffee. I told Mr Arland how the Count used to scream at us, ‘Let us have for god’s sake the perpendicularity, the natural elegance the ethereal lightness, the carriage of the body and arms, the motions graceful and easy.’ But Mr Arland seemed rather in a dither. And said, completely straying from the point in question, that the Count was not so entitled, and might merely be a papal count but that there was no doubt but he was related to some very splendid people indeed and could, if one stretched the point, be considered ennobled.

‘Of course, I can’t bring you to a party, Kildare. Not that sort of party.’

‘What sort of party.’

‘Well I don’t really know, but I’m sure it’s that sort of party.’

‘Sir. O but you can.’

I insisted, when Mr Arland had said that we had already been too extravagant, that he should sample some of the house’s best brandy. And I had the waiter go fetch from their cellar such a suitably dusty bottle. Mr Arland said that kind of party could give one a reputation. And people like the Dublin actress attended them and that Ronald was a chancer and a notorious fortune hunter. And that he’d marry a witch if she had the price of a pint of stout and that he was most suitably nick named Rashers Ronald. And each time I reached to refill Mr Arland’s glass he would put his hand forward to the rim. But then he would smile.

‘Now now Kildare, you are a devil. I really have had quite enough.’

When I was sure that Mr Arland had indeed had a sufficiency, I had our coats fetched from our rooms and it was not at all difficult to get him out the door. To freshen up a bit with the night air. But I did indeed once or twice quite forcibly push him forward in front of me. Past the still begging tinkers who thrice blessed him. And the more he started to laugh, the more I pushed. Till I was really shoving him, right, as the saying goes, around the corner. But we had to walk yet another street. Which seemed quite pleasantly and thoroughly protestant. With a big grey Masonic lodge. And societies for the protection of Indigent Widows of the Gentry. Then crossing over into another narrow street we came to the door. Open on the latch.

Again I had to push Mr Arland forward. And also upwards as he kept stumbling still highly amused on the narrow stairs. Groping as we were noisily through musty blackness from landing to landing. Till at the very top we could hear voices and singing and light flooding out. We stood in the doorway. And then came the Count’s voice over the throng of assembled heads.

‘Hello my darlings. Come in come in. Of course you will know no one here. And it does not matter. Nobody I know admits knowing anyone else I know. Shall we just leave it that way and get you drinks.’

Candles burning in this low ceilinged room. Sound of corks popping. A bottle of stout shoved in my hand. Hanging between gilded framed mirrors, four illumined oil portraits of Popes of the Roman Catholic Church. One of St Gregory the Great. His light blue painted eyes staring out over the pillow stacked chaise longue. And there, away in a tapestried corner were the courtesan and her red haired friend Rashers Ronald from the Shelbourne rooms. While another blonde lady was eyeing me. Making me most uncomfortable And as I eyed her right back, she crossed the room towards me pushing between the tight packed people.

‘You’re a bit young aren’t you, dear boy, to be here amid all these flagrantly perverted people. But I like your eyes. Are you with your parents.’

‘I was in fact invited with my tutor.’

‘You were what.’

‘I suppose as part of my education. There he is, the tall gentleman talking with that lady who’s wearing that large blue hat.’

‘O you are a rich young man then are you. Having a tutor.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘O you must be. Although you certainly don’t look it. But you sound to the manner born. I am an impoverished artist late of Bloomsbury, Bloomsbury Place, Bloomsbury Square, London as it happens. And I want you to buy my paintings.’

‘I should be quite happy to see them but I do not have much money to buy.’

‘I think you must be lying or else you’re totally bereft of culture.’

‘And you madam are lacking in manners.’

Darcy Dancer stepping back a little from this lady whose face juts forward. And turning to apologize as his heels landed on a rather robust young woman’s toes. Who shoves him off. Right up against the artist advancing upon him in her green voluminous sweater. A look of some consternation in her eyes. Streaks of grey in her bundled blonde hair. Moist red lips and quite good quality teeth. A pronounced strong nose and flared nostrils and a blue vein throbbing on her temple. And pleasantly sweet smelling breath as it wafts on my face.

‘I say who the hell are you. I really want to know. I have a son older than you are and I would not let him attend such a gathering as this. But you do have rather feminine eyes. They attracted my attention the instant you walked into the room. Yes you’re quite extraordinary looking. Who are you.’

‘I’m from the country.’

‘That’s quite clear from that coat and suit you’re wearing, and your rather overly large ears. Not that I’m that pristine, but your hair is washed I hope. Let me smell. O I say it’s quite clean. At least you’re not one of those awfully dirty Anglo Irish always doing something greasy with axles or water pumps or if they’re not wringing chickens’ necks in the drawing room then they’re sticking their arms up cows’ arses.’

‘You are impertinent, madam.’

‘Impertinent. Good lord, you’ve got your damn nerve coming in here among many of my personal friends and telling me, a lady three times your age that I am impertinent. Who the hell are you.’

‘And you’ve already asked me that three times and I have my good reasons for declining to say.’

‘Cheeky little chap, aren’t you. It’s your immaturity of course. But I think I like you. Yes, there’s just the merest trace of hair on your upper lip. You shall have whiskers soon, won’t you. I am one of those dangerous women they call divorcees. Whose husband was a confirmed pederast. Which put it into my head to corrupt little boys such as you before he did.’

‘Why don’t you try it.’

‘What. What did you say. Try it. Surely you little fellow, you’re having me on. I wouldn’t dare. Corrupt you.’

‘I thought not. You’re all talk aren’t you. That silly kind of thing ladies like you of the Bohemian set think is the modern fashion.’

‘In one second I think I shall slap your little face.’

‘And should you madam, I will in turn, slap yours.’

‘Just who the hell are you, you brat.’

‘My father frequently refers to me as a bastard, but I don’t suppose that information will enlighten you much.’

‘It enlightens me a great deal. But I think you should be got out of here.’

This lady leaning close to Darcy Dancer’s ear, her lips touching to whisper. The softness of her mouth. Makes me rather shiver pleasantly. Just as Thunder and Lightning must do when Foxy on cold winter nights rubbed and squeezed his ears to make him warm and calm.

‘Dear boy, there is an unwholesome element. Not to mention the many mediocre minds present. But see those men. They are gunmen. Quite ruthless. Not the sort of type a young man such as you ought to be rubbing elbows with. The Count should be ashamed of himself for inviting you. Come. Come with me immediately.’

‘Why should I.’

‘Because I shall, dear boy, besides showing you my etchings, make you the most marvellous cocoa you have ever had.’

The lady casting her eyes for Darcy Dancer to follow across the room. Past a hefty bruiser wearing a red carnation in his buttonhole. A gentleman they said was a champion boxer. And a red haired beauty they said was his girlfriend who used shoes to bang his head as he used fists to bang her face. They were called all over Dublin the Bruises United. And to three gentlemen in caps and macintoshes standing about sucking on the ends of cigarettes, looking furtively at the doorway and indeed unpleasantly in my direction. Certainly cocoa as a beverage is not to be dismissed lightly. And always was, after wild blackberry jam that Nannie Nurse Ruby specially made for me, my second favourite food. Coming hot in a jug up from the kitchens snug under a tea cosy on the chill winter nights, when Nannie Ruby told me my bedtime stories of big green dragon monsters and wise old billy goats. There stands Rashers Ronald brushing a speck from his dinner clothes as he loftily intones to a shabby rain coated gent beside him.

‘Would you mind awfully getting out of my life, I prefer the company of people creative in the arts rather than criminal in the crafts.’

And now bodies jumping in the centre of this smoky room. The floor as well as the whole building shaking. A roaring shout.

‘Give him violence or give him death but don’t give the greedy fucker another bottle of stout.’

‘You’ll give me another bottle of stout by gob or I am going to kick the living bejesus out of you back and forth across the border till not a vestige of that division is left, you cunt, you.’

This wavy haired gentleman in a mustard coloured sweater, his fist gripped tightly round the neck of a Guinness. And mounting and standing on the delicate fabric of a chaise longue.

‘Shut up now while I’m talking to you. And let me hereby assert to every bollocks here assembled, my inalienable, indefeasible and sovereign right to drink and fuck myself to death from one end of the national territory to the other so help me satan and to let it be said once and for all across Ireland that never in the history of the nation has so much been drunk by so few or so few fucked by so many. More power to the intelligentsia. Up the Republic.’

A chair suddenly flying from the direction of the three outspoken gentlemen. Goes crashing through the window and falling to the street below. Where, unhappily, as was reported by someone leaning out watching it, it landed on a guest just arriving with a parcel of drink. And knocked to the pavement, bottles smashing, he lay in a large pool of dark foaming beer. A voice calling down.

‘Binky darling, o what a nuisance for you, are you hurt.’

And brown foam slipping down the sides of the glasses held in all these hands. Two voices singing. Someone shouting pipe down. And between the weaving heads and parting shoulders I see in a more peaceful corner, an animated Mr Arland talking to none other than the courtesan. He really looks so jolly pleased. Must be telling her my best jokes for normally he is never that hilarious. And the Dublin actress is laughing. Bosoms heaving with her alabaster arms nearly flapping out of her flame radiant dress. Could cross over to say that a kind lady was snatching me from the present mayhem to preserve my virtuousness. But poor Mr Arland, after all his mortifications at the hands of that bitch Baptista, I’m sure does not want to be disturbed. Especially in what might be some new romance in his life. Just as I would not approach when lonely he played our corroding out of tune piano. The compositions of Sergei Vassilievitch Rachmaninoff as Mr Arland insisted he be called. Nor may he see this lady artist as my saviour and might feel he personally should escort me back to the Shelbourne.

‘Come with me. And call me Lois dear boy. You see I told you. About these men. They are quite frightening. But what would you know of an artist’s fears or suffering. And the awful sacrifices one makes for one’s work. Especially when one is without patrons. My milk bill, gas bill, my rent Who’s going to pay them.’

Darcy Dancer following Lois out to the landing and into a back room. The sound of heavy breathing and rolling and pitching bodies in the darkness. Digging in the heaving shadows, Lois unearthing her coat. Tugging it from beneath a lady and gentleman who were seemingly transported in a groaning moaning paroxysm.

‘How dare you do that on my coat you filthy people. Get off. You see don’t you, dear boy, the kind of monstrous shamelessness I am rescuing you from.’

Lois pulling me back with her into the hall. I held her leather string pouch and helped hold her heavy garment as she plunged her arms into the sleeves. She stands pinioning the front together with elongated wooden buttons and then pulled a hood up over her head.

‘Only good thing my husband left me. He used to wear it on the bridge of his ship. He was a lieutenant commander dear boy. Ah but I’ve got you now, haven’t I.’

A strange dreamy smile coming over her face. She grabbed me by the head and shoved her tongue deep into my ear where it went burrowing around. We nearly fell down the stairs and her saliva left me quite deaf for a moment and I wondered if she could taste my wax. And I look at her legs. Where I had never seen a lady wear trousers before.

‘Don’t look at me as if you think I’m bizarre dear boy. I just am.’

On the landing below, past another room from which came the smell of incense, she stuck her tongue again deep in my ear. And as we proceeded downwards, she reached upwards backwards to apply a momentary squeeze to my privates. My heart surprised me as it pounded with some excitement descending the last flight and out the door to the street. On the pavement more guests arrived and stood standing over the gent Binky as he sat groggily regaining his senses. With his raincoat open showing him entirely stark naked underneath. And he cried out when spotting my Bohemian artist friend.

‘Lois, my dear, where are you going you naughty girl with that frightfully attractive young innocent looking boy.’

‘Never you mind Binky, it’s a pity you can’t keep out of the way of falling chairs.’

‘I may be felled my dear but I shall be erected soon.’

Lois hurrying Darcy Dancer past several shops and doorways and a pub with polished brass fittings outside. We turn left and up this shadowy thoroughfare, hardly a soul on the street, save a tiny barefoot boy yelling out to sell his newspapers to a man staggering in front of a furniture shop window, speaking earnestly and gesticulating vehemently to his reflection in the glass.

‘O god dear boy, everywhere people are roving insane out of their minds in this city.’

The gesticulating gentleman struck one or two classically proper stage poses and obviously had a sense of theatre. But as I tried to slow down to watch his performance Lois pulls me forward along another alley with a fragrant smell of coffee. And then left again. Street called Chatham Row. Ahead a great grey granite building Lois says is a hospital. How will I ever remember the way to get back to the Shelbourne. A voice from somewhere calling.

‘A pennv, the oranges.’

As I pause Lois again catching and pulling me by the arm. Moving as quickly around another corner. At an alley entrance she stops. Turning to look back. Her voice coming out of her nose.

‘I’m sorry to rush like this but I simply hate being followed as I sometimes am. By these hordes of sexually frustrated people. Such a bore. And that old wicked queen. Serves him right to get banged on the head with a chair. He’d just love to get his hands on you. The Count should be ashamed. Inviting you, and your tutor taking you, a mere totally innocent boy. Thank God I was there. Think what might otherwise have happened. Someone should tell your mother.’

‘I do appreciate your rescuing me. Madam.’

‘And so you should be. And why do you keep using that madam. You’re not a shop assistant are you.’

‘No madam.’

‘Well then stop it. My name is Lois.’

Up this dark narrow alley. Past tall warehouse doors. A chill wind blowing up behind our backs. The wails and hisses of a screaming cat fight. And bells tolling as I count up to nine, ten, eleven. The only life now through the empty city streets. Illumined by the near lamplight ahead stuck high on a wall, its gas mantel flickering. Lois rummaging in her leather pouch. Taking out a key on a long white string. And pushing it in the lock of this pale green door on which a brass number says four. I waited standing on the wet glistening cobbles till she reached and pulled me rather forcibly in. And a draught of wind suddenly slammed the door thunderously shut. Lois stumbled backwards falling over milk bottles. And landed with a thud on her bottom. I really laughed.

‘You think that’s funny. I certainly don’t appreciate your sense of humour. Here help me up damn you.’

‘I apologize madam, I really do, but you did go down as if felled by an axe.’

‘I’ll fell you with an axe. And stop that damn madam. And get me up. I think I may have crushed a vertebra. Or dislocated my hip. O god, does, anyone know, does anyone realize, the trials and tribulations of the sincere and dedicated artist.’

Darcy Dancer in this darkness, lifting Lois upwards under the armpits. Only a few hours in Dublin and I’ve attended a party and am dragging a lady limply along this hall knocking over more bottles and trying to lower her gently seated on the bottom step of the stairs.

‘At least I’m glad to see you are quite strong.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well I think I’m alright. It’s my diet which has been so poor. So wretched. I’m quite nearly starving sometimes you know. That’s why I go to those awful parties. To eat. And one hardly ever can because all they do is drink. Every penny I earn must go towards buying more paint and canvas.’

Lois slowly getting to her feet and holding a banister rail to lead Darcy Dancer feeling his way up the narrow steep staircase. The sound of a box of matches opening. And Lois strikes one once, twice and three times. And finally a flame. To light four candles. A large tall room. A big pot bellied iron stove in the centre. Glassy blackness beyond a great skylight. Paintings stacked everywhere.

‘I nearly have a good mind to send you away laughing at me like that. And not to let you see my etchings. But of course I will give you some hot cocoa. Well, don’t just stand there. Take off your coat.’

Clusters of massive testicles in great wild tropical curvatures of colour with penises cascading down them like waterfalls. The canvases leaning overlapping along the walls. By the blackened rusty stove, three steps up to a high dais. Before it an easel holding a full length portrait of the Count. Missing an unfinished arm and a lower leg. The rest of his muscular body wearing only his extremely smooth skin, posed against a deep green flowing drapery. His privates most shockingly prominent not to say bulging out of his blond curling pubic hair. And strewn on the floor water colour drawings of a quite black individual, with uncommonly not to say improbably whopping sexual organs.

‘This is where I sleep dear boy.’

A wide quilt covered bed stacked with brightly coloured pillows. Upon which Lois throws her great heavy duffel coat. And then sits to pull off her green sweater. A long sleeved tight pink garment underneath.

‘You have a lot of pictures of naked men.’

‘They are not naked men. Studies, dear boy. Studies of the male nude.’

A table with a jar of marmalade and half a loaf of bread. A fish skeleton on a plate. In a corner by a small window a sink stacked full of dishes. Lois putting out her chest as she arose again. Pressing her hands down across her backside.

‘Thank god I’ve not broken bones. That’s all I’d need on top of everything else.’

She crosses to open the door of the stove. Pushing in long pieces of black turf as smoke poured out. And as she slams it closed, a grey sleek cat jumps miaowing up on the table. Lois waving it off and lifting her arms to scratch.

‘Have you got bugs madam.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

‘Well you call me dear boy.’

‘Well then I shall stop. And I have not got bugs. But I should apologize for scratching. It is my woolly long underwear. I must wear at least two pairs. To keep warm when I’m working. This is my outside one I dyed pink. Now let me look at you. Just sit there. Yes. On the stool. Now just turn a little to the left. You have the most exquisite face. Your most perfectly straight nose. And such marvellously large peasant hands.’

‘I am not a peasant.’

‘Ah but we know that. You are a proper little country gent. With the most magnificent mediaeval profile. Elizabethan. Quite beyond anything one might expect would come out of the Irish countryside. I want you to pose.’

‘For a study.’

‘My dear boy, you do catch on rather fast, don’t you. Of course I shouldn’t want to embarrass you. But art demands the elimination of the squeamish little restrictions and conventions society has so barbarously imposed upon us.’

Lois surveying Darcy Dancer, holding her head a little to the side. Putting her hand on her hip and sucking air between her lips. With her duffel coat and the big green sweater off, she had quite surprisingly pronounced breasts. I had, when first confronting her, thought she was entirely without bosoms. And now behind her another bunch of bottles. Which must have once held stout. Each time she steps backwards while surveying me I get quite excited thinking that she might land crashing on her arse.again. But just at the last rotten second she notices them. Until suddenly she snapped her fingers.

‘I think I have got it. Yes, I have. There is absolutely something Flemish in your face. It must be in your ancestry. Transcending of course the underlying peasant aspect. But that’s it. I’ve found it. Flemish.’

Lois raising her chin. And now this insight it seems sending her stepping way back. Just marvellously far enough this time. To go yet with another almighty crash, falling back into and among the stout bottles. Darcy Dancer putting his hand up squeezing into his cheeks and pressing hard across his mouth to keep it closed. As one’s lungs were full to bursting and exploding. Too unbelievable that a lady of her mature age should be so stupidly awkward. Especially to trod on her own drawings and the defenceless black man’s cock and testicles. She must be a bloody exhibitionist.

‘O my god. Bother and damn. O my god. I think I may really be hurt. But if you laugh again I shall never forgive you.’

Her accent extremely high pitched and nasal. I was naturally thinking it was quite typical of her that she should shout rather exaggeratedly English epithets.

‘O pish and pother.’

Which she did really loudly as she fell again trying to get up. Her face quite red. One did for the first time feel a flash of sympathy. For she was really doing her damndest to get back on her feet.

‘You fucking little bastard you. I absolutely think your monstrous sense of humour absolutely Irish.’

‘I didn’t do a thing.’

‘Do a thing. Why you’re laughing.’

‘Only moderately as anyone might with a reasonable sense of humour.’

‘And at a poor woman. Well help me up, blast you. I think I am badly injured. I do believe the neck of one of those horrid stout bottles may have penetrated my anus. And it hasn’t done my constipation the least bit of good. O god bombs in Bloomsbury were nothing compared to this awful place.’

Darcy Dancer again taking Lois by the armpits. Like lugging a calf to put her upright once more. Her hand feeling down around her bottom, as she shakes herself.

‘Hasn’t anyone ever taught you dear boy that it is the height of rudeness to find another’s misfortune amusing. And it is totally improper not to show your elders at least that much respect. Well answer me. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that.’

‘Please don’t shout at me.’

‘Well damn you, I shall shout. I am most angry. You seem not to exhibit any regard for the feelings of others. And are you going to pose for me or not.’

‘Now.’

‘Of course, now.’

‘You mean without my clothes.’

‘Of course.’

‘I hardly know you madam well enough. To pose that way. Besides you haven’t given me my cocoa yet.’

‘You have your damn nerve, haven’t you.’

‘On the contrary I am merely being candid as one has always been brought up to be.’

‘And who brought you up, your nannie.’

‘As a matter of fact, she did.’

Darcy Dancer and Lois in a blazing confrontation of eyeballs. Standing across the loose floorboards flecked with blue, pink, orange, green and grey. And now the sound of rain tapping the skylight. Mr Arland sometimes spoke of what he said would be my indoctrination into the outside world. Beyond the halls, walls and pastures of Andromeda Park. Now I am at large. And after a quick look at the gathering of the Count’s party it was alarming to discover how bogus were man’s interests and concerns. With everyone, if not prattling on about themselves, then loud voiced expressing their quite pretentious one sided opinions. Clearly most adults with the exception perhaps of Mr Arland and Uncle Willie, were assumed of the most hollow attributes. And it is obvious one must deal with them accordingly.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, take off your things. And I shall prepare myself.’

Darcy Dancer standing in his dark serge double breasted suit. Made by Mr Kaighan as he came with his sample cloths, tapes and chalks to measure me each October. As I must I think, take a pace backwards. Put one’s elbow to rest on this white long bookcase crammed with volumes and piled on top with ceramics, bottles of linseed oil and turpentine. Round stove with its crooked chimney pipe going upwards high into the wall where it left a wide smoke stain to the ceiling. Rain now drumming on the glass, coming down in one god awful downpour. Drips dropping into the room. Lois, a hand on her hip puts one leg forward and pushes out her chest. Right in front of my hopefully angelic face. A raindrop landing on my nose.

Faint bells toll lonesome out over the city. And madam whatever her surname is, is taking her pink outer garment by the hem and pulling it up over her head and holding it by the sleeves as it hangs down in front of her. And gives me a long hard stare. I am extremely good at staring back. Even as a baby I could make my nannie Ruby drop her eyes if they too long confronted mine.

‘Take off your jacket.’

‘It’s raining on me.’

‘Just step to one side.’

‘It is a bit chilly.’

‘O don’t complain. And look at you. French cuffs and gold cuff links. At your age.’

‘I am an imperialist member of the squirearchy and imperialists, madam, dress this way.’

‘O we are grand aren’t we.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘And a cheeky little bugger that’s what you are. Daring to engage me in a staring match. I can outstare any man. Even while I must grope round to do so.’

‘You shan’t, I regret to say, outstare me madam. And do be careful of bottles.’

Lois slowly swaying her hips. As I do believe she is attempting something in the nature of a tropical dance. Her eyes I thought averted momentarily as she opens the buttons at the neck of her woolly underwear. Pulling it down around her shoulders and hanging it from her waist. With yet another pale blue sleeveless sweater underneath. Which she pulls up over her head. Leaving her upper part quite naked. Tax her with the matter of perhaps corrupting the morals of a minor. About which I am rather widely read from legal tomes I have referred to while endeavouring to satisfy my passing interest in filthy curiosities. A trace of a smile on her lips. As she thinks this rude ruse will make me avert my eyes. Not so madam. I shall stare you into your grave before I allow my eyes to examine your breasts. Of course one catches sight of them on the upper retina. Mr Arland says images get inverted going through one’s lens. Perhaps I should impart to her advice. According to Mr Arland’s Domestic Homoeopathy. When there is torpor of the bowels and there is the sensation of being paralysed there, take three globules of opium. Obstinate cases require tepid water enema. And last night about this time I was in the arms of Miss von B who is not constipated. And shits she says like a meteor scooting among the stars. Although I supplied this latter description, it was in fact what she was trying to say.

‘You are, aren’t you, quite stubborn, dear boy.’

‘Indeed yes, madam.’

To take a train ride to Dublin. And although a little frightening it is thoroughly exciting to find yet another lady so soon to present herself quite and absolutely from the waist up divested of covering. These are smaller but quite sharply pointed breasts. Not quite so rounded and big as those of Miss von B. But longer nipples. Foxy says those big breasts you see on a lady were not of the best. That it’s the small tidy bags that make a good milker over the years. Keep distracting one’s mind during this staring. Then suddenly concentrate and with my smouldering gaze strike terror in her. The room is warming. The rain and drip has stopped. Lois is clearly faltering. Any moment now this rank imperialist will panic her to being outstared. Mr Arland will wonder where I am. But for the matter of that I might ask where is he. Since I do believe I may in fact take some time to show this rather over confident pretentious lady a thing or two.

‘Do you not like my tits dear boy. You may come and feel them if you wish.’

‘I’m quite all right thank you. I am going to outstare you first madam.’

‘It’s all quite natural dear boy. Your mother had breasts. And I have breasts. And you mustn’t look as if you think I’m deranged. And you may call me Lois.’

‘Stop talking and looking for excuses to get out of our staring match.’

‘Of course dear boy, I can’t waste time like this. I’ll let you win the staring match just this once. It is essential for the task at hand that you be able to see all of me. Perhaps not quite what your tutor had in mind for you on your tour, I don’t suspect. But I’m ready now to paint you. Please. I’m putting more turf in the stove. It should be quite tolerable. Do take off your things.’

Darcy Dancer toying with his buttons in the candlelight. Lois’s underwear hanging down over her trousers as she pulls open a drawer and takes out two tapers and lights them by the candle. Now quite brazenly she’s pulling down her gentleman’s trousers and peeling off her white long woolly underwear. Sinewy long tapering legs. Shiny white shapely and smooth. Her reptile like mouth. Tongue shooting out and licking all over her lips. Like a film Uncle Willie had taken me to once in the town. When a great long black snake came out from behind a rock and a woman charmed it with holy water and kissed it. All the catholics in the audience clapped and cheered. Uncle Willie said under his breath. What awful shit. Show her I can take off my clothes too. Only I have a really wretched hole in my underwear. Which is not in the least imperial. Mr Arland is really going to wonder where on earth I am now. And as I’m nearly without my clothes he’d have a further fit if he knew. This may well serve me as experience for the future. When I may in regalia have to stand for long hours having my portrait painted. Especially with this creature with her brushes in one hand and sketching pad in another, waggingly gyrating her bosoms in a dance. Women lately are always trying to do this to me. Make me naked and nervous. When I’d prefer to be normal and ordinary. The thumping of my heart on my bare chest. And worse, she’ll see my penis sticking up at the skylight. Maybe make her faint backwards and go down again in the bottles, or crashing stark naked among her easels and tubes of paint. With bunches of brushes falling on her and sticking up out of her ears and arse maybe. Might even loosen up her bowels.

‘That’s very good. Climb up now on the dais. I shall do some very swift ink and colour washes of you. Yes, just stand there. Straight, with the left leg flexed just that little bit. And stick it out. No not that. It’s not what I’m referring to at all. Although, it is a quite adequate one, if I may say so. It’s your arse I refer to. Your right cheek. Yes. Tense it. Yes that’s it. Now I’m afraid that that must subside. You have an erection. It simply won’t do. It’s contrary to the whole flow of line. Please make it go down.’

‘I can’t, I don’t know how.’

‘You simply must learn to control yourself. If we’re to do any serious work at all. I know my body may excite you. But don’t let it.’

‘I’m trying not to let it madam.’

‘Surely if you are so good at staring matches you can learn that discipline at least.’

‘I don’t think I can. No one has ever asked me to do this before.’

‘Well I’m asking you now. So please make an effort. Ignore my nakedness. Think of something which is non stimulating. Look at my cat Fergus there. If he stimulates you, neutered as the poor creature is, you are then really evil minded. Commerce is the only really obscene thing. But dear boy for you to get an erection just as I am about to make masterpieces is an insult to the whole creative concept.’

‘This kind of art is new to me.’

‘Well let’s hope you’re learning something then. Ah yes, that’s a good boy, I see it is going down. That’s very good. Very good. Now just hold it like that. There’s a real pet. O you are being very jolly good.’

‘Thank you madam.’

‘Alright now. I’m nearly there. If you would only just subside it that little bit more. O drat. It’s going up again. You’re ruining the whole line.’

‘Well madam when you start to talk about it, it seems right away to go up again.’

‘Well damn it, make it go down. Just look around you. And I hope to god you’re not homosexually inclined. See. All those other nice calm penises. I was nude in front of them too. And yet not one of them erected. Don’t you think if they were able to do it. That you too can. Try.’

‘Yes. I shall.’

‘I suppose you think I’m eccentric.’

‘No.’

‘Well I am. I have long ago forsaken all things bourgeois. Ah now, you are trying. It’s coming down nicely. Don’t shift your leg like that.’

‘It itches me madam.’

‘I work in instantaneous strokes. Your moving faults the tension of the line. Of course nobody understands. I love the way your foreskin comes down over your penis like the closed petals of a flower. Imagine that they cut such a beautiful thing off in the silly interests of hygiene. And o god, there you go, up again.’

‘Well it’s you madam drawing my attention to it every time when you say things like that.’

‘Well there’s simply nothing else for it. I shall just have to put down my brushes and wank you off then. That’s all there is to it. Or else I simply can’t go on. Or do you have an objection.’

‘I guess not madam if it furthers the cause of art.’

‘You are a rather clever little one, you know. Far more astute than you let on. Got the touch of the devil about you. But please don’t take this as an overture. Or assume for one second that one is enjoying having to do this. What are those bruises on your neck.’

‘O nothing.’

‘And while I’m doing this you’re not to touch me.’

‘I wasn’t intending to.’

‘Well, just in case you might think of doing so I’m telling you to keep your hands to yourself if you don’t mind. My goodness I can see you really are jolly well erected aren’t you. And quite considerably endowed. A pity it ruins the line. And such nicely ripened testicles too. It’s the imbalance created by the blatantly horizontal I can’t stand. That’s where art stops and obscenity begins. When something juts out like this. I’m not being too ungentle am I.’

‘O no you’re fine.’

‘And please, if you don’t mind, warn me when you’re ejaculating. I’d prefer to swallow it, rather than have it go all over my floor. Dirty filthy as it already may be. Stale sperm can make such an awful smell.’

‘I wish madam you wouldn’t go on talking while we’re doing this.’

‘Well I’m not making love to you you know. Be sure of that.’

‘Yes I am and thank you.’

‘For god’s sake don’t thank me. And since we are rather getting to know one another better don’t you think it’s time you called me by my christian name at least. If you don’t like Lois, my second christian name is Euphemia. And I do hope you’re not going to be a long time coming. It’s quite tiring on the arm.’

Lois with flecks of dandruff in the hair parting mid way down her scalp. The streaks of blonde and brown and the wiry strands of grey all drawn back and a brown shoelace tying up a plaited pigtail wound in a bun at the back of her head. From which a bit of blue ribbon hangs down. Get nearly killed going to a bog to learn about life. And now I am getting very first hand information in this grown up lady’s studio with my prick being pulled by her hand. If poor old Foxy could see me now. Up here on exhibition. Like the time he told me of the titled lady judge who went squeezing all the balls of all bulls at the fair. Her hands are strong. Stroking in long gentle strokes. Then stops to say she’s not making love to me. Uses four fingers and her thumb underneath. Certainly an improper grip for milking a cow. Send the milk missing the pail. And I could go gushing all over her face. And Mr Arland’s face was quite flushed in the company of the courtesan. Kept referring to the Count’s party as a bash. And even as he was getting quite tipsy, said we’ll have a bash at that bash. And then as we got round one corner he said even before I pushed him, ‘Let’s bash on regardless.’ Dublin so dark dreary and dank. One has got to be rich. Or be hungry like this woman. Who was as we walked here, popping chunks of butterscotch in her mouth. Without offering me a piece. And who now as I try not to groan, is eating me. Could take it into her head to murder me by biting it. Foxy said you fast bleed to death. Be twitching around on this floor knocking over more of her bottles in my death throes. And who now would care, or be torn with sadness. Or light up torches for my funeral. Or beat drums. Or lay me to dusty rest in the vaults of the Thormonds. Please god even though I am an atheist protestant take care of my sisters. Send Sexton to heaven where he so dearly wants to go. And where he hopes to have his first rest from his long lifetime of religious duty. Tending roses and kneeling at the feet of his adored Blessed Virgin Mother. Over the garden wall I once heard him say to Crooks that never once did his prick ever trouble his conscience, as it did many the blackguard he knew. And Crooks said that when he was active his own prick sure troubled a lot of sheep. And he told him of the farmer across the lake who kept devout and unsoiled by women but that in this holy state he wore nearly all the wool off the arses of his ewes. And Sexton said at least it wasn’t as bad as having a woman with her gab wear all the flesh off your ears. For the sake of art I am sucked. Pleasure coming just like one waits for pain to strike. When the town dentist with his evil looking instruments was looming all over me, his smile widening as he descended upon my mouth and plunged his drill whirring into my tooth. I must soon say goodnight. And get me out of here. This lady’s breathing comes strongly down her nose and right at this moment she’s in a complete frenzy as my head goes back hollering. Pump my personality into her. Loosen her bowels. As she is bent forward bosoms hanging from her chest, nude all the way down to her pair of white shoes. Stopped holding her hand over her mouth. And rather sloping in her quarters. She goes rushing to spit in the sink. With the knobs of her spine showing down her back. Her bottom trembling, she looked so foolish heading across the floor.

Like the

Whole world’s

Population was

Pushing