The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

12

The lobby of the Shelbourne this Sunday morning. Step outside under a fresh blue sky, the sun pink through the branches of the trees in St Stephen’s Green. And I came back into the warmth to see Mr Arland looking awfully sleepy disembarking from the lift. Crossing to where I stood watching and listening to an irate wife berate her husband for dropping a heavy bag right on her toe. Had she not been so fat she could have hopped about in pain. Mr Arland bowing to me and the doorman handing him a message.

‘Well Kildare, this is from your father.’

‘What does he want.’

‘That’s not the tone in which to inquire.’

‘Well I can’t feel that whatever the communication is that it will do me any good.’

‘O dear Kildare. You are being needlessly negatory. You are to be at an address not far from here at noon.’

Much of the night long I lay thinking the garda might burst in the door to arrest me. Or the gunman with a bandaged head to shoot me. Finally woke in my bed my left eye opening first. The tumble of thick crimson lace covered eiderdown made me think it was a big blood covered wave. Pitching and tossing a raft upon which I sat with an enormous naked woman. Who kept grabbing at me with long hideous leathery claws. Till I began seeing across the room and out my window to the grey green purple hills of the Dublin mountains.

Sheltered from the wind one could feel the sun’s warmth on one’s face as we walked along the street. Till we were nearly run down by two horsecabs racing around the corner. Mr Arland said it was probably a Dubliners’ friendly chariot race. That traditionally on Saturday night drunken bets were made on contests conducted on even drunker Sunday mornings. Now down this Dawson Street. At the end of its vista under clean new clouds, the iron fence of Trinity College and the University rooftops beyond the trees. Mr Arland’s eyes glowing bright and his walk jaunty.

‘Kildare I’ve never told anyone this, but I one night stole all the ripe tomatoes out of the Provost’s greenhouse.’

‘Oooo naughty sir.’

‘Well I was an impecunious scholar, quite starving at the time. And nearly killed myself climbing over the walls. I did however upon my receiving my first income have sent to the Provost a basket of tomatoes from a reputable greengrocer.’

And entering this place of worship. A tall chilly vestibule. Names and legends on marble plaques up high on the walls. March straight up to the very top pews. The name Arland on a brass plate. The service just begun. These few parishioners. Mr Arland whispering.

‘Kildare, there is nothing quite so empty as a protestant church in Dublin except one outside Dublin.’

The party last night only a short distance away from these voices so devoutly singing. Mr Arland joins them with gusto. Makes me feel quite awful, an out and out sinner, in this religious atmosphere. Anyone with the least perception looking at me could easily tell I’ve been steeped in filth and morbid corruption. And I even have another erection. With the voice of this visiting English vicar intoning.

‘Almighty God, upholder of purity, fountain of all goodness, we humbly beseech thee to bless our gracious King and all the Royal family. Imbue them with thy holy spirit, enrich them with thy heavenly grace, prosper them with all happiness.’

Mr Arland with his hands resting before him on the pew. Had such a look of relief on his face pushing in my door this morning in his dressing gown and slippers to see me gnawing through a bacon rasher couched thickly on a buttery bit of toast and sipping my tea. And I must now whisper to him. Especially following some of the political statements last night.

‘I say sir, does this reverend gentleman not know he is in Ireland. Should he not bless instead our gracious leader, the Taoiseach.’

‘Kildare. We shall have politics later following service.’

During the further hymn singing Mr Arland’s voice could loudly be heard lingering on the notes as the other voices had ended. Now the reverend’s words reverberating from the rafters.

‘Good Lord deliver us from all sedition, privy conspiracy and rebellion. Strengthen us in righteousness, give thy servant our most gracious King and Governor grace to execute justice and to maintain truth.’

And the man I battered from behind last night. Said he was heading over the border this morning and may now instead be looking for me. Mr Arland wondering why I keep turning around. Terror awful as it is does at least put a liveliness in one’s step. Like it did when my sisters chased me making growling noises which made me go all the faster. The gunman said he would take the government over. Must be persons like him who made Uncle Willie say, ah we may be a country deprived of its totality by the British but it is them Irish gobshites as come in from the country and stand around in their bad taste in the highest government circles that we should be deprived of.

The church bell ringing. Sexton always blessed himself at that sound, no matter what the hour. And when the bell in the tower at Andromeda Park would toll, he would tell me to make the sign of the cross so no one could say then I was a heathen. And here I now stand a fornicator. Reading what I see written there on the side of the altar nave in gold lettering.

The Right Hon. Theosphilus

Lord Newtown of Newtown Butler

Bequeath to the Poor of St Ann’s

Parish Thirteen Pounds Per Annum

to be Distributed in Bread at

Five shillings each week.

The organist playing Handel. His organ concerto. All lighthearted and thrilling. The parishioners leaving, so clean and perfumed smelling. The wax polished balcony. Unlike the damp mouldering chapels in the country with flakes of plaster dropping from the ceiling on one’s shoulders and the smell of urine scented tweed. And the whole congregation stinking of horse piss. And maybe even moss growing out of people’s ears. Down this side aisle, another plaque. Dedicated to a man who took part in the defence of T.C.D. in 1916 and was mentioned in dispatches.

‘Well Kildare, you may not politically but do you feel spiritually improved.’

‘No sir.’

‘O well, at least God cannot complain we did not attend upon him.’

In the breezy street outside, Mr Arland gave a little bow to an elderly lady who lifted her lorgnette to regard and smile at him. And then looking at his watch, said we had just enough time to walk around a couple of streets. Which kept me looking at every fedora I saw atop a macintosh coming along. And I thought we passed the doorway which led upwards to last night’s party. But Mr Arland said nothing. Nor I thought should I. Even though I should like to know what happened with that awfully curvacious lady actress. And we stood at the top of Grafton Street and crossed over to the park. Mr Arland looking up at the granite memorial arch. And reading out to me.

‘Fortissimis Suis Militibus Hoc Monumentum Eblana Dedicavit MCMVII. An opportunity for you Kildare. To translate. Or is it a little early in the day for that.’

‘Yes. I think it is sir.’

‘You sound somewhat blue Kildare. Did anything happen. Was everything all right last night.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I was rather remiss to let you attend.’

‘I did though bully you sir.’

‘Yes you did, Kildare.’

Mr Arland quacked at the ducks on the pond and later, as we passed by the entrance of the Shelbourne he dropped coins into the hands of the tinker women squatting in position with their babes in arms on the empty Sunday morning pavement. He seemed so cheerful. And as he left me just outside the gate of the strange little cemetery he said was for Huguenots, he even rubbed his hands together and rose up on his toes. Telling me to take my third turning to the left. He would meet me back at the hotel for tea. And walking now, words kept going through my mind again and again. No greater anger hath any man but that. And then words came to finish it. That he belt another into insensibility with a curtain railing upon the back of the head. And as more of these distressing phrases and thoughts scratched at my brain I murmured to them. I’m awfully sorry but I’m not going to let you in. And I was able to smile remembering apropos of nothing at all, one of Mr Arland’s comments about tipping.

‘The secret is Kildare, how to keep your charm and still remain a mean stingy son of a bitch.’

The door. Painted dark green. A brass number and a polished gleaming brass plate with a name blurred beyond reading. A dark haired girl in black with a white lace apron and lace cap. A big curl falling over her forehead and into one blue eye and her reddened hand brushing it aside. Black and white marble tiled hall. Colder than cool. A brass stand of canes and umbrellas. An ivory handled one I recognize as my father’s. A crystal chandelier in the ceiling. A side table with a silver dish. And two big keys resting on a pair of gloves.

‘Are you the gentlemen was come to see Mr Kildare.’

‘Yes. I am.’

So strange to hear my name and the name of my father. As if he lived here. Within these grey walls. In this strange big gloomy house. A large painting over the stairs of rocks and cliffs and cattle grazing under the glowering sky. And further up. As one looks along the rising carpeted stairs with each step held by shiny brass rods. And the gleaming mahogany banister. To see a woman. Tall with brown hair and thin angular face. In a long white flowing gown, retreating quickly back out of my sight. As the blood rushed to my face. And the servant girl with a nod of her head.

‘Come this way sir with me now.’

Up the soft steps. Smells of cooking. Lamb if I’m not mistaken, and mint sauce. My father’s most favourite meal was roast with Yorkshire pudding. But Catherine could never make the pudding. Try as she did. The soggy messes arriving which my father ordered returned to the kitchen. Where Crooks said it always meant a bowl or two smashed as Catherine wailed that no one appreciated her.

Top of the landing we turned and walked forward to a door. Past a tiny painting. Two horses abreast in a race. Called Andromeda Beating Adolphus. Which last I saw hanging on the wall just outside my mother’s bedroom. The girl knocking.

‘Come in.’

My father’s voice. And the girl turning the ebony knob and ushering me into this blue tinted drawing room with a roaring turf fire. On the white marble mantelpiece the clock tinkling the hour of noon. Its enamelled roman numeralled face surrounded by ormolu flowers birds and cherubs. And its little pictures at which I often looked, as it sat chiming in the north east parlour of Andromeda Park. My father seated in a chair. His monocle glipting. Behind him a tall window facing out on an iron balustrade over the street. The sweet aroma of Irish whiskey. A pair of reading glasses resting across a folded newspaper. Great double white doors opening back into another room with a window facing out to the backs of other shadowy Georgian buildings. The door closing behind me. Sunlight suddenly spreading over the faded carpet.

‘So you’re on time you little bastard. You’re getting to be a big bastard. Saw you last night. Behaving boisterously. Pushing Mr Arland out of the Shelbourne entrance. Stand or sit.’

‘Stand.’

‘Now you listen to me you little bugger. You’re sleeping with Miss von B.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t beg my pardon. You’re sleeping with Miss von B. You little bastard. Don’t come the hound with me. I’d send her packing only she’s keeping the roof of that place on.’

‘Which you’ve been taking off all these many years.’

‘What. Speak to me in that fashion.’

‘It is the way you are speaking to me.’

‘And what’s more, until you attain the age of twenty one, it’s the way I’ll go on speaking. It is in fact the case. You are sleeping with her.’

‘It is not. And I am not.’

‘Useless to deny. I have it on good authority.’

‘On whose authority.’

‘Never mind whose. Can’t have that sort of goings on.’

‘Crooks has told you one of his silly imagined stories I suppose.’

‘Never mind who told me. In any case it is the duty of any member of the staff to inform me of irregularities in the household. Especially regarding fornication. And so you shall be taken away. And continue your further education without the benefit of the lady’s bed.’

‘You stole egg cutters. Wedgwood, Meissen. You even stole my mother’s toilet service. And that clock there. You are a dirty slimy Catholic. You gamble. You sell off our hay and breeding stock.’

The sunshine growing even brighter on the carpet. My father raising his fist and then bringing it down not with a crash but with his knuckles whitening as he pressed it against the top of the mellow faded mahogany table beside him. Which on its single stem and tripod legs tipped over spilling his glass of whiskey on the floor splattering his newspaper and spectacles. The various tiny globules would make them difficult to focus through. If anyone were using them watching me. Standing here. In front of this mean nasty man. Being sentenced. For the very deed my father has many times done.

‘You little bastard. You confounded little Protestant bastard. What do you know about running a farm. You still need your arse wiped. I’ll get up from this chair and smash your face if I hear anything more like that out of you. You tell Mr Arland I want to see him. By six tonight. Go on. Get out of here.’

‘I have heard it said that you yourself have cohabited with members of the household staff.’

‘Get out of here you little bastard before I throw you out.’

Cheeks deeply reddened on Darcy Dancer’s father’s face. The vein in his neck swelling blue straining tight against his white stiff collar, a black tie with small red polka dots and a blue striped shirt. A crimson waistcoat with brass hunt buttons. Thought I heard the floorboards squeak with someone standing outside the door. And the door the opposite end of the hall closing just as I came out. To be back now once more in the world all alone.

Darcy Dancer feeling the smooth banister under his palm. Servant girl in the front hall, waiting at the foot of the stairs. Her red hands turning over one another against her lace apron. Stands back from me afraid to come too close. Hurries ahead to open the door. Step out now. Hear everything shut behind me. No cocoa last night. And today I thought I had been invited for lunch. If you want to make a lasting impression in the hunting field the most heinous thing to do is to let your horse stand on a hound. The howling he sets up has everyone looking at you. As I feel eyes are on me as I walk away along this street. Just as I watched my father once in the garden of Andromeda Park, looking at the last of the autumn flowers. He pulled one and then plucked the petals away one by one. The month of October. When the spiders weave their gossamer across the tip top blades of grass when the meadows become all a white waving sea of sparkling threads. In a big bowl full of hatred can you ever find a spoonful of love. Or put the petals of a flower back together again. Maybe instead I should intercede with some saint. As Foxy says everyone does. To ask god for your favour. To make my father dead.

Darcy Dancer walking along this street. Head down, hands plunged in pockets. Feet kicking ahead of him. Past these tall red bricked houses. Turn and go into a large square. Its centre all full of trees. Over there an entrance open it says to a museum. Through the iron gate. The lawns so green. The glass swing doors and a style which clicks me in. Look up. The massive horns of this great elk. And a stuffed Irish wolfhound, even bigger than Kern and Olav. Under glass, the tiny skeleton of a mouse. Like one which used to come right up on my bedside table at Andromeda Park and eat the remains of my porridge oats stuck to the side of my bowl and noisily bang back and forth over my spoon. Called him porky he was so fat. And these thin little bones are all he was underneath. And as I look down my hands are trembling. All my whole entire body feels cold. How long now will I have dismal days. Could be all through the years till I am the age of twenty one. Commit suicide. Hang myself with a bridle from a rafter in the stables. Or jump on a sword. Maybe it would be better to die more slowly. And swallow deadly nightshade. Or cast myself into the cold deep waters of the Lough and be eaten away by the giant vicious pike.

Darcy Dancer wandering back out again on the street and woeful through the afternoon. Turning right and left. Passing these broken windows. Gaping fanlights over the open doorways. Grimy tattered curtains hanging down inside. A three legged dog with one eye, hopping along the gutter. The blackened red haunting buildings. This tenement street. A line of people behind a small coffin held on shoulders. Women on a stoop. Their hands on the black twisted railings. The voice of one coming across the cold air.

‘Ah the little darling girl was only nine autumns old, her mother poor creature she’s never out of black with all the dying.’

Ragged barefoot children lined along the kerbstones watching other children following the cortège neatly dressed. Take my feet away. Ghosts and ghosts are in there behind the panes. Secret within the walls of old red brick. Stalk through halls and up and down stairs they mumble. And they live. Cackling as they jump from the side of your eyes just when you think you see them. In this their city. All over here they roam. Their minds wear windows for eyes. The chimney tops are their ears. The slates their hair. Ghosts, ghosts watching. Watching as one moves by.

Darcy Dancer walked to the big grey granite blocks along the Liffey quays. Back up past the bridge Mr Arland and I trundled over last night. And all along that route, past Trinity College and its tall strong railings and along to my father’s club and past the little animal carvings on its stonework that I used to watch as a tiny boy. And even some long time ago Mr Arland in one of his rare heart to hearts said it would be useful for you Kildare, in order that you should know what to avoid, to acquire a knowledge of the worldly vices, of women, gambling, drinking and smoking. And now. A lover. And where is love. Disappeared like hoots of an owl. Means something for other people. And nothing for me.

The sky a darker greyer blue up this street to the Shelbourne. Just past tea time. The lobby flourishing inside with afternoon people. Gay and noisy. Turn right into the high ceilinged smoky lounge. The clink of cups. The din of chatter. The tall coated majestic waiters, trays aloft in their hands. As I look over the heads of people. To see for Mr Arland. Not in the middle. Nor there in those big sofas by the windows. Not in either corner. O my God if he’s not here. Or doesn’t come soon. Or never comes. That would be just doom.

Darcy Dancer, a frowning face turning away. Till suddenly right at one’s immediate side. A tugging. And laughter. Of a girl. To look and there nearly beneath my elbow, the blonde head and not that much further down the white alabaster bosoms of the actress. As these two temptations swell out of her pink low cut dress. And Mr Arland’s fingers let go of my coat.

‘Kildare, you’re awfully blind.’

‘My goodness, I didn’t see you. I was looking back there.’

‘And of course, we are here. Come sit. Have tea. And Clarissa, may I present to you Reginald Kildare, whose more intimate friends refer to him as Darcy Dancer.’

‘And I hope I can too, Darcy Dancer.’

‘Kildare, this is Clarissa.’

‘How do you do.’

‘Well for a start I’m on my third cup of tea with your tutor. Who has so kindly invited me to partake of. And I hear so much about you. That you’re very clever. Lazy at Latin. But a brilliant and brave horseman. And you’re going to be quite important some day. Not that you are not already but you know what I mean.’

‘I think, ma’am, Mr Arland is somewhat biased in my favour.’

‘Now Kildare what alternative have I but to be biased in your favour when you work so little and I teach you so hard. And now what would you like in the way of sandwiches. How about a smoked salmon, eh.’

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

‘And I being the lady present, Clarissa will pour you tea. And then I shall of course only be too delighted to ladle you salmon or cakes, or to comfortingly hold either of your hands. Or indeed mop your brow should it urgently be required and I had the necessary mop.’

The skin so soft on her long white magic fingers of this actress. The blue of a gem stone sparkling on her knuckle. Never before in my entire knowledge have I ever heard Mr Arland utter the word eh. Something has distinctly changed. Even his crossed leg has his foot gigging somewhat up and down. A movement he told me no gentleman ever makes. Since it might be deemed he had just nervously peed in his pants. And Mr Arland’s shirt changed from the one he wore this morning. Even his tie would give an appearance that its wearer might be at the race track. His hair brushed shining back along his temples. Shoe tips just this side of gleaming. And not a single speck of darkness under a fingernail. And his shoulder is but a hair’s breadth away from Clarissa. And as she leans forward to pour, her bosoms make me gulp.

‘And Darcy Dancer, you don’t mind do you, if I call you that.’

‘No.’

‘Then I shall ask you Darcy Dancer, how would you like your tea, weak or strong.’

‘Weak please, thank you.’

‘Ah sensibilities. The certain sign of sensibilities. Weak tea. I have mine strong. But then I have no sensibilities. All I am is too noisy, too loud, and in the politest of places I show too much flesh. Isn’t it awful. And everyone is afraid of knowing me. Isn’t that true Mr Arland. I like calling you Mr Arland. It does something to make our tea together more serious and profound. Not something silly and nonsensical. Here you are Darcy Dancer. Do you take milk.’

‘A little please.’

‘And of course, as always after awful wars, there’s a shortage of sugar.’

‘I don’t take any thank you.’

‘Ah another sign. Of a young man intent upon grave but noble destinies. Maybe even guiding big nations. O dear but they’re all such a bore really, big nations. The horrid despicable things they do to the little nations. But then I was never any good at politics. They say don’t they, leave politics to men and leave famous men to beautiful women. And of course the women will do worse things to the men than nations do to nations. Or do they say that. Or is it that I’m just saying it. God I think I will say anything. Even though I am most respectably from Rathgar. And poor Mr Arland, Darcy, he’s just been so absolutely good and patient tolerating me. He is as I’m sure you already know, a treasure. Yes that’s exactly what he is. A real true treasure. And I adore him.’

The blood coming to Mr Arland’s cheeks. His eyes blinking and his lower lip moving back and forth over his upper. All the silvery greys in the blonde blonde of Clarissa’s hair. Her melodious voice, a tiny girl’s, full of sap and juice. And like my mother’s, the pure white white skin of her face. Un-wrinkled even when she frowns and smiles. Eyes of greeny grey flecked with brown, dancing and darting as she speaks. And we had tea all the way till nearly six o’clock. I had four cups, two big buttery pieces of toast coated with bramble jam and three cream cakes. People now in the lounge taking their sherry and whiskey. Talk of shooting and hunting fixtures. And I nearly forgot all my woe and what my father said. With Clarissa leaning forward, bosoms aflow to put her hand gently on my knee. And as she did whenever she laughed really hard, putting back her head and then all of her cascading forward. Then a moment later her other hand would move over a fraction of the inch of faded flowered pillow of the couch and grasp Mr Arland’s. And I thought, that at least upon this day, when so many ill moments pursued me from last night. That not all was bleak and miserable. I told Mr Arland my father would be pleased to see him as soon as possible. And at least by six o’clock. Which sent Mr Arland jumping to his feet.

‘Then good gracious Kildare, you should have told me, it’s nearly that time now.’

‘I’m sorry sir. I have I’m afraid been just rather happily daydreaming here.’

‘Darcy Dancer, what a nice thing to say. That I set you with all my silly chatter to daydreaming.’

‘O no ma’am, you are a most interesting person. I mean only that you really set me to pleasantly thinking.’

‘Ah that is more flattering.’

Mr Arland brushing away his crumbs. As I rose to say I would repair now to my room. And I requested permission of Mr Arland to attend the cinema. The one which we passed in the narrow street up to St Stephen’s Green. Where a film of the wild wild west was playing.

‘Of course you may, Kildare.’

When I bowed, Clarissa offered up her hand. And as much as I wanted to sink my kisses upon her flesh and go osculating up her arm, I merely brushed her metacarples lightly with my lips. And turned back to look as I left. To see Mr Arland standing over her and I could tell she was shaking her head yes to him. I rose upwards in the lift with an awful feeling. That I might not ever see Mr Arland again. Stood looking out my window. And prayed. That Mr Arland would not be disappointed in love. That this actress would not now ever again take out her breast in a public place. For that would, more than anything, certainly mortify Mr Arland. Who tried all these months to gain the notice of Baptista Consuelo. And got nothing but a look down her nose at him. As she sat so high and haughty on her horse. And I hear. Even now and so far away. Westwards. Over the bog lands. And further out across the gently rolling winter bare hills. The huntsman speaking to hounds. Horizons all around us. The huntsman shouting. Find him. Cheering the pack forward. Down on hillsides. Nostrils steaming, hooves thumping and thundering. Charlie is the fox. Puss is the hare. Try up old fellows try. Cool moist winds on the face. The warmth of horse between your thighs. The horn’s slow mournful wail of the covert drawing blank. Has Mr Arland found a vixen. Be killed instead of killing. Or a goddess ungodly come to him. To give life to his life. To go on living. Never have death. Through the tears in my eyes. My mother. Ankles so slender. Gold pin closing the silks around her throat. The still still way she lay. So dead. To leave woe.

And her

Blood bleeding

Red

When

The sky was

Blazing blue