The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

28

Rashers Ronald beaming a great smile. Guiding Darcy Dancer by the elbow. These two gentlemen proceeding forward into the mirrored lounge. Presided over by the ceiling’s central dome of glass. Ministering waiters passing quietly between tables with their trays. Rashers bowing to the seemingly unaccompanied ladies of all ages. Seated in their finery. Wrists ablaze with gems.

‘Of course my dear chap, and excuse me for whispering but I must keep my voice down. Imagine the Marquis poor devil being exposed like that. Publicly on display. Not only with his bit of blonde fluff but his ruddy pudenda and all. Rum luck. Worse than having one’s prick out pissing off the top of Nelson’s Pillar during the holy hour. Damn tragedy for the aristocracy. Fortunately this hotel is most elegantly populated. Incident will spread only in the best circles like wildfire over the entire country. But allow me to point out. Seated over there, that’s her ladyship. Often referred to as Her Grace the greasemonkey. Her age is quite indeterminate. But her acreage encouragingly is not. Seven hundred and eighty seven statute. Plus salmon banks and two trout lakes. She loves tinkering with the underside of motor cars. Wears out three or four pairs of white flannel overalls and gloves a week. Handbag full of spanners. She always carries a spare exhaust pipe or two in her luggage. Even siphons her wine out of the bottle at dinner. And unless one has one’s own rubber tube you don’t get a drop. She can sometimes be so tiresomely rural. But her most amiable quality is she takes it both back and front. Awfully useful when two chaps want to have a go at her together. See by your tailoring, you’re from the country of course. With no disparagement thereby meant, my good chap.’

‘Yes I am as a matter of fact.’

‘And where my good chap are you staying in town.’

‘Here.’

‘What. In the hotel.’

‘Yes.’

‘Masterly. Absolutely masterly. Dear me you are a professional. If one has to stoop to the wretchedness of plying one’s youthful beauty for mere filthy lucre, why not then be damn efficient about it. I’m of course presently at no fixed address. My previous fixed one was down what one can only euphemistically refer to as a beneath lower basement flat. Damn place was more like a mining shaft. Now just stand here a moment, and just let the ladies see us. It does so cheer me up this place. Especially as one does have one’s such rapid ups and downs. A recent black gentleman posing as a Prince from the Sudan beat me to that choice dowager there. She my dear chap is just straight forwardly just damn rich. My father was an army General. That’s really all my trouble. Damn old fool never made Field Marshal due to several late career reverses on the field of battle. And was merely knighted. Poor sod just fishes and shoots, retired on his pension. Leaving his son a commoner. With not even the helpful courtesy entitlement of being an Honourable. Dooming me to fortune hunting. Which pursuit I must make quite clear, I do try to conduct in as romantic and moral a manner as possible. Now there, in the corner. For God’s sake don’t stare. But she, the dear girl, buried two husbands, is just in her early fifties. Never know it. Handsome isn’t she. Slender and long legged. And where it counts, fleshed nicely fore and aft. And never mind her thin lips, she gives absolutely the most marvellous gamorouche. Has some damn nice thoroughbreds. Has had two winners at Aintree Grand National. Her father, ancient old crusty bugger he is too, manufactures an established industrial commodity. Of his own originating. Amazing considering the only thing ever invented in this country was soda water. Dear girl will fall heir to the ruddy lot. Factory covers six acres of floor space. Must always have your financial facts straight. So many businesses go to the wall these days you’ve got to be careful. One’s beauty doesn’t always last you know. A mature chap like myself is fattening slightly under the jawbones as I push into the latter end of my twenty third year. And of course with so many of the less discerning old hag ladies admiring young men’s bodies, one has to strike while the rod’s hot. If you catch my meaning.’

Darcy Dancer at the top of the stairs. Rashers Ronald at the bottom smiling back up. As I hesitate. Looking down. In fear. Plunging into hell. After the most despicable incident of one’s life. Only thing worse than blackmail is not succeeding at it. But now my nobility of person tarnished. Ready for the devil. Feel like a lone chicken at Andromeda Park. After the fox had killed all the others. And the bird perched high up in the rafters of the barn. Waiting for death. As the fox waited sitting below. Till at last this feathered tidbit would fall in frozen terror down into its jaws. Just as I fall. In shallowness and deceit. Planning to perpetrate ignominious shenanigans. In the company of this fellow. So totally abbreviated in his code and conduct. Without scruples. Already claiming me as an accomplice. When I should demur. Depart.

‘Do please, my good chap. Proceed to join me. Indeed you must. As I am totally impecuniously unable to cater for myself. You’ll find the Buttery this time of day a most suitably charming place.’

Darcy Dancer stepping down the thick carpeted steps. To go below ground into this late afternoon darkness. Where is she now. My Miss von B. In another man’s eyes. In his arms. Turn left into shadows full of tinkling glasses. Scents of perfumes. Voices murmuring. Through the shoulders and laughter. Follow Rashers. Right up to the bar.

‘Now. Dear me. My friend I must allow you to ask me what it is I am drinking. And from the bottom of my heart I do apologize for the seeming extravagance but I would so like to have my usual champagne. It has become a habit with me. The vitamin C it contains I believe creates a dependency. Or else it’s the vitamin D. In any event I failed at applied physiology. O god the sadness sometimes of one’s life. With only its very briefest sparks of joy. When one has had a big winner at the races.’

Darcy Dancer ordering a bottle of champagne. Such a nice dry name, Heidsieck. From a bartendering chap who would appear to be momentarily suspicious of me. When I demanded it be put on my hotel bill. Until my suitably haughty demeanour put him at his ease. And he hefts up a two handled silver chalice with panels of gold wire filigree. Clanks in ice. And places the bottle to rest snugly in among the chill cubes. With Rashers lighting another borrowed cigarette in his holder.

‘Now my dear chap. You see. Although ice is utterly new to the country, the style of my own wine cooler is not. It is an enlarged replica of the Ardagh Chalice. Had it made by the best of silversmiths as soon as the invention of frigid water came to pass. Most precious thing I possess. Would not part with it for the world. Every time I have stood outside the pawn shop with it, its semi precious blue and red gems have shed silver gilt tears. I simply couldn’t do the mean thing. But I do rush on. Who on earth in Dublin are you anyway. Not that one doesn’t think you already such a splendid young chancer. Please. Don’t object. Just as you are about to do. To that word. Be instead proud of it. Now, my young fine feathered friend who are you.’

‘I’d really rather not say.’

‘Triumphant Absolutely triumphant. Precisely as you should. You have said. That you’d really rather not say. The nuance is perfect. One already senses the hint of your debrett entitlement, the rolling endless acres of grazing. The fox hunting. The polo. The bloodstock. The right people left and right.’

‘I think you are rather making over much of it. I merely said I’d rather not say who I am.’

‘Ah you are touchy my dear chap. But it is the way in which you said it. But then in our line of adventuring mountebankism it is best if one can use the old nom de guerre instead of the old nom de famille and thereby keep the old incognito intact. But between professionals dear chap there should be an exchange of confidences. Especially while the champagne is cooling. Now let me tell you the plans. We shall take our refreshment here till the noise and the people dictate otherwise hoping of course to avoid the doom of closing time. But a bash at which we shall attend should present itself long before that. Ah shall we now fill our glasses. Awaken our senses to this pale golden wine. There. Ah my god, what bliss. Now to my distant future plans. In my fortune hunting you especially will be pleased to hear that I have laid hold of a lady. Whose stout build I did not object to nor from whose full false upper and lower dentures did I cower. Owns the freeholds of three Dublin pubs. Two of them in squalid but good trading positions in North Dublin. She has another pub in the country. The profits from which purchased all the others. Together with her in wedlock we shall convert her eighty acres to a small stud farm. Of course I don’t want you to think for one second that I am an unfeeling person. I am not. I would worship the very expensive deep pile carpets the lady walked on. But as recently as this morning I was shirtily refused my daily ration of cigarettes from her tobacconist’s shop. Shows one churlishness is always but a breath away. And I hope you won’t mind dear chap getting me a mere pack of ten. That kind of thing would send one in pursuit of rich American divorcees. By god then you’d soon see some bloodstock in my ruddy paddocks. But my dear chap the secret is never be less than compassionate. How do. How are you. So desperately glad to see you.’

Rashers greeting new arrivals. Appearing between our every sip of champagne. Faces one sees at the races. And in other pubs and in other lobbies. Streets like the halls of some vast country house. All just as Miss von B once said it was. Except they’ve not fought, washed off the blood, shook hands and fought again. And o my God. There just entered, I see through the waving heads. The Marquis in his tartans and the blonde tresses of Baptista Consuelo. Amid the crowd and din. Back slaps and laughter. Sit here. Swept away. Out to sea. On a raft of blossoming dreams with all these people. Their gaiety. And the self assurance of those who have won at the races. Drinks coming hard and fast. One wants so much to know. Where are you. Miss von B. And to ask. Where is Mr Arland. Where is his Clarissa.

‘But I think the time has come for you to say something, my good young chap. For a start, what shall I call you. I really must call you something.’

‘Macgillicudy.’

‘Ah. One could never ask for a name more portending in promise of great future fortune hunting than that. Let us drink to it. Macgillicudy. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘To both our fortunes. To white ties. To our swallow tail coats. To that girl in pink. Just over there. When I was a handsome undergraduate at that university down the street. In my rooms in New Square. I had every morning. Two young ladies call. And she, radiantly beautiful dear girl, from a family of rich fishmongers, was one. Both were members of the school of modern languages. The other girl was the daughter of an eminent surgeon. But one does sometimes prefer the successful mercantile class of Dublin society. Surgeons are such bullies when they get you on the operating table knocked out cold. Slashing you often in the most vulnerably wrong places, in a hurry to play golf. Of course I speak from wretched experience as a failed medical student. Doing my bit of stabbing as well. But my dear chap. These girls were vying to make me breakfast. While I disported bollocks naked in the altogether. One’s frozen testicles giving one’s penis the most marvellous pneumatic bounce as one went to close the shutters to passing prying eyes. Hungering over my rashers. The latter after which of course I am unfortunately named. And women are so marvellous. The way they will utterly tolerate jealousy to snare some poor bugger. June in Trinity week, on the day of the College Races, I rogered both in continuo. As one groaned the other rejoiced. We three, we loved each other. I shall remember that day till I die. Trinity Week Dance at the Gresham Hotel. Both of them. One on each of my arms. So staggeringly beautiful in their gowns. Days my dear chap. Days never to come again. The Lawn Tennis Championships in College Park. God. Too soon does ecstatic beauty and joy pass from one’s life. Too soon. And damn too soon without warning does sadness descend. To pinion in death the most utter beauty of all.’

Tears welling in Rashers’ eyes. As he turns his head away. Lips quivering. The light of his smile faded. The world dark. Heads turn and talk. With hardly a murmur of love. Or whisper of compassion. Or a thought for those sorrowing or hungering. Just horses. Bashes. Hunt balls. Last night’s larks. And champagne.

‘Forgive me my dear chap. That was most uncalled for. What I have just said. I do think I was attempting to impress you. One’s youthful moments of love. I suppose fills one some times with the most terrible longing. To go back. Back on those graceful college squares. But I don’t tell you these things to be a showoff. Rather be it known I am a man of compassion. I say it with all sincerity. Persistent pecuniary impoverishment has driven one to the precipice of the unprincipled. And I have jumped downwards. And one upon occasion has even landed among the gurrier element. Among whom I have, in too numerous an extremity, had to reside at the Iveagh House. That most practical but somewhat humbling premises over on Bride Street. Ah but let me introduce, my friend here.’

A massive man. Lurching like a tottering tower. A pink cravat at his velvet collared throat. Brows frowning, eyes blinking to see in my direction. And attempting to fix somewhere on one’s face. As he bows.

‘This is Macgillicudy, Leo.’

‘I am charmed. Charmed to meet you sir. Have a drink.’

‘Of course Macgillicudy, Leo paints ladies’ portraits with every bit as much artistry as he does when he fucks them.’

‘I object Ronald to your mentioning my two professions as if one depended on the other. However, bartender replace that bottle in Ronald’s cooler if you please. With another of the same brand and vintage. And who is this. Behind me. You madam. Please. Don’t split your infinitives and leave your gerunds dangling so uncomfortably close.’

A woman in black standing behind this giant man’s shoulders. Who pushes forward between the elbows. A black sequined purse clutched in her hand. Her mouth darkened with lip paint.

‘I shall not from you you big bear, take any of your semantic battering in this Buttery.’

‘Ah madam you are in every respect in the ablative absolute. And I beg your forgiveness.’

Feel the champagne less and less as one consumes more and more. Wonder now in the heady delight, was there ever such a thing as loneliness, and despair. Up out on the street darkness overtaking the late afternoon. These voices bubbling. The laughter. Turn one’s ears in any direction. Hear of horses, hernias, holocaust, heroes, harlots, hashish and hell. An abyss widening all round. To jump across. Or be swallowed up. And one is swallowed. As more and more of these euphoric come. To whom I am introduced. As the son of a baronet. Then a baron. Till the present bottle of champagne emptied. And one was a viscount, up to town selling cattle. A moment ago I was an earl, up to town for a new scarlet coat. And now, Rashers Ronald has just conferred upon me the entitlement The Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade up to town for the racing. Said I was the highest ranking peer there. That Major Jones the Mental Marquis was merely titled in the French peerage. And this black engowned lady. Comes swaying close.

‘You darling. You absolurely gorgeous darling. What eyes. Absolurely magic. Absolurely medieval. Good lord. You’re a leprechaun. Out of what celtic ether have you come. I invite you right this very moment absolurely virginal as you are to later take me in your arms.’

‘Well thank you.’

‘Thank me. Don’t dare thank me like that. Even though I have said I shall go willingly I shall fight bitterly but helplessly. I’m to be taken. Conquered. Swept away.’

‘Well I am not quite, I mean I’m rather not, I should say.’

‘What indeed should you say. Have you something to say. Have you.’

‘No. I haven’t.’

‘Ah that is what I love. Silence. Still waters my dear boy run deep. With my body enclosed about your own. You darling absolurely gorgeous creature. Crush you to death like a woodland flower. Squeeze from you your nectar. Who bred you. What vibrant man stallion covered your mother. Stunning creature she must have been. Of course in mourning with my hair dyed black, one does look gloomy, wearing only black gems. Is that why you are wide eyed looking at me. Do you know who I am.’

‘No.’

‘I am one of four scandalous sisters. And better known as the Black Widow. Now only three of us are left. As Ireland’s most beautiful creatures we are totally wasted on this utter desert. What have we to choose from but boorish big handed farmers. All with their favourite hounds peeing round the baseboards of their bedrooms and sharing their fleas with their masters in bed. Wouldn’t you like to put your hand upon my breast. Press your lips to my throat. As I lay.’

‘Well,’

‘I mean figuratively my dear boy. Figuratively. Well. Would you.’

‘Well.’

‘Well bloody what.’

‘Well madam I just don’t know what to say to your overtures.’

‘Overtures. What overtures. I speak my dear boy. Of love. Indeed not Irish love steeped in the greed of money. I mean great love. Love that destroys dynasties. Love that sacrifices thrones.’

‘But could that not be lust you speak of madam.’

‘Do you have the nerve to stand there in this Buttery and use the word lust to me.’

‘Well.’

‘There you go again. You’re totally repetitive. Must I take out your tongue and teach it to speak. Must I.’

‘Why are you doing this to me madam.’

‘Doing to you. I’m not doing a damn thing to you.’

‘Well you are rather acting like a femme galante.’

‘Of course I am. Because you are the most darling gorgeous creature I’ve seen for days. Don’t you find me as attractive as I find you.’

‘Yes. But you are extremely forward too.’

‘Can a woman be any other way in a land of wife beaters and onanists. I say Ronald I shall have champagne.’

‘Of course you shall my darling. And you have I see haven’t you, met my most marvellous friend. His Lordship the Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. Not that either of us give a damn about Debrett. But I saw him darling, perform the most excruciatingly delightful triumph above our heads, on the black and white lino tiles of this hotel’s lobby. Which has long been the altar upon which the most sacred of Irish society have been either worshipped or sacrificed. A treat.’

Darcy Dancer hardly able to move. Crunched elbow to elbow. The lady Black Widow turning to other faces. Voices roaring. Eyes smarting in the smoke. Drinking one’s dreams. The present future rearing marvellously. And racing away out of one’s past. A green tweeded gentleman. Called the White Prince. His face as black as a lump of Welsh coal. Rashers’s wine cooler again and again refilled. Bottle after bottle. Making him look ever more benign. Leaning in towards my ear to confide.

‘Of course my dear chap, that’s the secret, one gets a first bottle and my Ardagh Chalice does the rest.’

‘But who are all these people.’

‘Ah. Marvellous question that. Marvellous. Your naïveté is stunning dear chap. Never lose it. In a nut shell. They are for the most part the multitude and many from the landless class. And then there are the singular and few of the landed class. The former mingling with and chancing their arms with the latter. He, with his ears sticking out, is a gas meter reader. Whom I dare say is in search of intellectual stimulus. Or more likely, free drink. That bousy looking chap who just poured his drink over his head is a housepainter from Crumlin. That more obnoxious bastard there is a wall plasterer from Dolphin’s Barn. Who propounds his sensitive nature as he curries favour among the bloodstock breeders from Meath and Kildare. But ah. There. That chap. He has just come in from the Stock Exchange. Over in Anglesea Street. Of course it’s only a ruddy room with a circle of chairs enclosing barely enough space to decently fart in. But dear me, nice work if you can get it.’

‘But why are they all here like this.’

‘Ah marvellous question that. Marvellous. But for your recent performance one would by your question think that you were only the most recently arrived of arrivistes. They want, my dear chap. Simply to get each other’s goat. However that chap. The stunted one, thin and all hunched up. Euphemistically one refers to him as the Royal Rat. He wants your money first. Made his first roulette wheel out of an old car tyre. Since then the Royal Rat has in various dungeon basements, helped relieve chaps of their fivers. He actually pawned his dying mother’s bed. Chucked her on to an old pile of burlap to breathe her last. I thought it damn cruel. Sensible chaps like myself of course take a damn dim view of him having profitlessly to the spirit, encouraged as he does the frittering away of chaps’ inheritances in his dingy dank casino. But ah, dissipation. That’s what it’s all about. Hold death away by intemperance, unchastity and extravagance. Then death is welcomed. Those entering these Buttery precincts do so to squander their fortunes to the wind. Scattering fivers like autumn leaves. It’s too sad sometimes. To then see them slink off with their tails between their legs. That’s the marvellous thing about not having been left a bean. One does not spend. One only helps to spend.’

A baggy grey suited chap. Cigarette dangling between his lips. Pushing himself forward to squeeze in behind Rashers’ back. His hand up to the side of his mouth as he whispers. And Rashers turns and roars.

‘You blatant cunt. And I hate using the word. But regrettably it is the only one which applies. Coming to whisper about the plight of the creative artist in my ear. Can one imagine anything more ghastly. In the Buttery. As if I gave one boring damn about your awful nonsense. Had a rhyme published in your local country village newspaper, have you. And now you bring your abysmal ignorance to Dublin. Expecting for your pathetic lyric scribbles to be patted on the back and be thrown free lamb chops from one’s dining table. Fuck off.’

The baggy grey suited chap. A sickly smile on his face, blending back into the voices. The teeth. The eyes. The laughs. And sighs. Rashers transporting a cigarette from some one’s gold preferred case into the end of his ivory holder. Dragging the air down the length of former elephant tusk. His haughty musical voice sounding from his rather rabbit looking mouth.

‘The arts like Catholicism is a disease of the mind, my dear chap. Although I was born a papist I was saved from its worst corroding consequences by a childhood in India among the untouchables. A decent public school situated on a well known English river saved me as well. But of course one stands by the Romanists when Orange men up north there are thundering their drums and threatening to interfere indiscriminately with Catholic testicles. One then shall fight. One doesn’t give a damn how one’s human rights are infringed. It’s one’s animal rights one doesn’t want mucked about. But damn. One does above all prefer the rich ladies. Even to willingly placing one’s lips upon their au blet thighs. Leaving thereon the white indentation of one’s fevered mouth. And even some small pleasure is to be found in one’s pressured caress of the unresilient flesh of riper ladies’ haunches. Better than contretemps any time. Dear me. But the bad name of the Irish spreads all over the world and is only improved when they become a laughing stock.’

‘I hope you realize Mister Ronald that I am Irish and some of your remarks are not awfully flattering.’

‘You my dear chap. You. Macgillicudy. Marquis of Delgany. Prince of Kilquade. You are a genius. It matters not at all that you are Irish. And if I were not tainted that way myself, I would be bereft of my unerring sense of theatricality which enabled me during my too few undergraduate years to win wagers by running up and down Grafton Street in the thick of the morning shopping throngs. With one’s corpus spongiosum hanging loose wagging up and down. Which thankfully it did thereby riveting the attention of all. Which prevented one’s face being recognized. Let me fill up your glass, Macgillicudy. And by god I am Irish, you know. It was those damn penal laws gave us our wretched inferiority. Then my good chap, with the flight of the Wild Geese departing for saucier shores. It left what you now see surrounding you here in this Buttery. And the greatest of ironies. Protestants liberated us. Freed us from the British yoke. And then by god left installed straight down Molesworth Street our marvellous gobshite bureaucracy. But it’s a blessing. While they have their thrilling time putting their sticky fingers into tight government circles, us sybarites can play splendid with our perversions and appetites. Of course my father accused me of ratting on the war. Disinherited me of his pitiful chattels. Said if I would not fight for king and country I could not have his spoons and saucepans. I of course promptly purloined his Purdey shotguns and delivered them to the appropriate broker. Bash on regardless. That is the cry dear chap. Through the funerals of friends. Trampling the rose gardens of enemies. Bash on regardless. The cry of any self respecting member of the élite.’

The Buttery suddenly emptying. Darcy Dancer following Rashers Ronald up the steps to the street. The Black Widow just behind me. The portrait painter Leo waving a bottle of champagne and roaring out something about diphthongs from the hotel entrance. Baptista tugging the Marquis behind her by the kilt. The stockbroker removing a club from under his coat and flattening unconscious in the gutter the plasterer from Dolphin’s Barn. A punch out of nowhere landing on the face of the grey baggy suited artistic chap as he made an attempt to enter a motor car. His cigarette smashed flat between his teeth. The élite piling in over the prostrate bodies. The waiting vehicles packed like sardines. And now roaring off with springs squealing laden with entwined bodies. A pair of lady’s feet sticking out in front of the driver’s face. Speeding over the roadway in the black night. Swerving around corners. Shadowy gable rooftops flash by out the window. Someone distinctly tampering with my fly buttons. Here I am. Flying. Through this low life. In some strange secret womb of the damned. In this city. Not a time to be particular. Impossible to tell if a male or female hand is tinkering with my balls. Whose brain knows or cares. The Black Widow pointed a finger at me. Her voice. Loud and clear.

Bring him

He’s

Divine

The crystal clear night. Stars out. Speaking. Deep in their black blue beyond. Smell of burning rubber. Wind pouring in the window. Limbs poking in all directions. A voice groaning in rapture. Another screaming in fucking discomfort. Someone said there’s Bull Island. Lips kissing my throat. Unable to move to see who it is. And whoever it was, has now let go of my balls. And is pulling my prick. Just as we all crush backwards motoring up a steep hill. Thought I saw the masts of boats. And I do. Down there in the harbour.

Darcy Dancer retwisting his arms and legs back into shape as the bodies separate. Up here in the salty air the line of motor cars unload. A rocky hill covered in heather and gorse. Stand in front of this rhododendron shrouded big house perched up over the sea. Try to adjust one’s dress. Finally saw the hand coming out of my flies. Belonging to a chap called Cecil. Who winked at me. Step down through the oily leaved shrubbery. With this arriving crowd. Towards this massive door opening. And this stark naked man whom last I saw on a pavement flattened in a puddle of stout. And now erect once more bowing in the guests.

‘Come in my dear darlings. Binky greets you. Come in. Quickly before I’m frozen.’

A long wide hall of black and white tiles. A grand staircase circling upwards at the far end. Through an ante room. One of Lois’s pudenda paintings on the wall. And further. This large drawing room. The guests gathered. Corks popping. A gramophone playing. And beyond the shuttered windows hear the ocean waves below go crash, go booming. The Black Widow woman. Comes with her thin wristed arm aloft to take me waltzing out across the floor. Kissing my neck. And three gentlemen on the side lines growl.

‘Don’t mind them dear boy. They’re jealous fliers from the Royal Air Force. You are what I have been waiting for this whole entire evening, you absolurely gorgeous darling. So young, so young, so young. But that is not an invitation for you to say that I am so old so old.’

‘I was not about to say that.’

Darcy Dancer swirling on the parquet. Right past Lois in a mattress thick green sweater and skirt. Dancing with Binky. Whose skinny shanks and long spare body made one think of an undressed butler. Lois’s head resting with her eyes closed on his shoulder. As one ventures to ask this Black Widow.

‘Who is that person Binky. He looks like an undressed butler.’

‘But my dear, that’s what he is, my butler.’

‘Does he always go without his clothes.’

‘Only after ten p.m.’

Sound of more arriving guests. Arms stacked with parcels of bottles. And a roar of Leo the painter at the drawing room door.

‘Begorra Sodom and Gomorrah.’

And the Black Widow swirling Darcy Dancer in a wild spinning circle. The lights go whizzing past one’s eyes. The faces loom. And this largest of the three Royal Air Force gentlemen tapping me on the shoulder.

‘My turn to dance my dear fellow.’

Lady Black Widow facing him. Blocking him away. Raising her splendid profile.

‘Ah all you lovely men. And you, my dearest Wing Commander or is it Group Captain. Who fought and won the war. I do like you. I do so really absolurely like you. But you see. This gorgeous creature here. I love him.’

Snorts and harumphs erupting from this large broad shouldered chap. The Black Widow swirling me away. Round one last time and then out over the threshold. Away from the smouldering anger. And the getting of each other’s goat. Into the hall. Where a bottle was smashing down on the back of the head of the Royal Rat. Who pitched forward on his face. Roars and shouts raging. And a figure. My god. The gunman. Unleashing a fist. Socking the man with the bottle in his hand. Sending him flying footless back the length of the hall. Over a table. A white pottery lamp crashing to the floor. And the man crumpling into a stand of canes and umbrellas. Rashers in the centre of the mêlée announcing.

‘Bottles as weapons you cad are simply not cricket.’

Just as the front door opens. And the Count my former dancing master, surrounded by companions as he stands in a camel hair polo coat arms outstretched surveying the carnage. As one is led half way up this curving marble staircase of this big old house. To hear his voice ringing out.

‘O my dears. You have so naughtily disgraced yourselves again.’

The Black Widow tugging my arm. And one so wants to watch. As more fists are now suddenly flying. A gentleman in a rather loudly checked jacket and bright red, white and blue bow tie. My god is flattening people in their tracks. Hardly even see his fists move and hear a thwack and down they go absolutely flaked out.

‘O my dear Macgillicudy, let us get away. From the noise and the people. Come.’

‘Where are we going.’

‘Away from the battlefield. To where we may make love my dear boy. To where we may make love.’

Sound of wind groaning and whistling. Shiver along this dark hall. Led by the hand. Her skin feels cold. Her eyes look dark and then close up they were a yellowish green. Thundering crashes and more screaming below. And in the brief lull comes the music and dancing and jiggling. The Black Widow pushing closed an iron barred gate. It shuts with a heavy clank across the hall. She turns a key in the big lock.

‘You see my darling this is the party door. On that side are the noise and the people. On this side. It’s you and me. My husband who adores rough social gatherings also likes his privacy. We are as it were in our own little fortress. Protected if not from the sounds at least from the splattering gore. Should one lose this key there is no escape but a drop straight into the sea out the windows.’

Her bedroom hung with tapestry. A parrot in a cage. Large Blackamoor Figures either side of her chimney piece. We stood to kiss under a chandelier she said came from the Court of the Russian Tsars. And a shot gun leaning against the wall. Shoes all over the floor. She takes off her black dress. And silky black underthings. Flings them back over her shoulders. The shadows haunt and rise up through my bones. The sea thundering. The windows trembling. Stands with her naked bony body. Tiny slender waist. And the largest nipples I have ever seen. On her so white bosoms. That I am terrified to touch.

‘Why is that shot gun there.’

‘It is kept handy so my husband can shoot my lovers.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Take off your clothes my gorgeous darling. Don’t leave me naked like this just standing here.’

Felt for my fiver still intact in my waistcoat pocket. A light out there on the sea. Comes flashing up through the windows and across the walls. She waits there. Swaying. Or my head reels. Keel over into disaster. Get killed here tonight before I ever atone for all my past misdeeds. The first awful things one has done in life. Severed strands in the rope which held up Edna Annie’s laundry drying frame so that it would when she raised it, fall and crash the wet wash down on the old crone’s head. Felt dreadful for days. Even wept. Between laughing my head off. She used to frighten me as a little tiny boy. Grabbing my wrists and squeezing them cruelly hard when she’d find me on the servants’ stairs. Step now naked towards this Black Widow’s arms.

‘Macgillicudy you’re so virginly beautiful. You have the body of a gazelle. Just the right thing for me. To wake me up out of doldrums. One can’t hide away from the world. Or close one’s eyes to life and live nevermore. Touch me.’

Stacks of magazines on the floor. Four large photographs on her dressing table. An escritoire with its pigeon holes stuffed with papers and its fall front piled high with more magazines. Her mouth opens wide. Pulls my head down upon hers. Miss von B said that even for such a short time that we were together. At least we lived. What more can there be. But to just make it as long as we can. And this Black Widow makes high pitched little grunts and groans. As we stand embraced. My prick pressed hard up into her belly. Her nipples sticking hard into my chest. And Black Widow. Wish you were. My Miss von B. As we were. Back in my life. Home. Together surrounded by my green parklands. Astride our mounts galloping in the fierce madness of the winds. Instead of this body. My desperate lust makes me clutch. With miles of utter meaninglessness between. Only the Marquis’s fiver left to stave off the impecunious days. Foolishly taking drinks up to my mouth through an entire afternoon. Amid the endless flattery. Lifting one’s spirit. From one round of drinks to the next. And now jump out of my skin. A voice screaming out in the room.

‘Fuck you ducks.’

‘Don’t mind. That’s just my parrot Stinky speaking. He simply insists on saying those words at the most inappropriate times.’

Stumbling over her shoes to the bed. Climb in and slide between the chilly sheets. Her love calls. Her purrings. To be on top of her. Pushing between her legs. Pressing. The feel of her fingers. And the circle of her muscles tightening. And thinking. Thinking of a day. Out hunting. Raring to go. With the field waiting. When the pompous Master of Foxhounds turned to tell me that in future I should not jump ahead of him. And I waited. To see him fly at a hedge. His horse tripping and somersaulting over wire. Sending the Master catapulting headlong in his scarlet coat between his mount’s ears. White breeches. White gloved. To splatter headlong into the brownest, creamiest lake of cow flop one had ever seen. Mixed to such magic consistency. To leave just a back bit of the mahogany of the Master’s boots unsullied. And one feels one has just plunged. Splat. Into life in Dublin. Just as Miss von B said it was. Drinking. Fighting. Washing off blood. Shaking hands. To rear up fighting again. And O god. In her groans. My lust. Dies. Taking something from my body. That fills me with fear in giving. As she screams to give her every drop. Shoot it into me. Gorgeous darling Macgillicudy. And I’m buried. In the sweet smell in under her hair. Her fingers pushing through mine. The chords of the sea. Lying here in the darkness. Listening to her voice.

‘My husband may come home. At any moment. Find us like this.’

‘Then I must go.’

‘O no I’m just joking. I just wanted to feel your body quiver. I’m sure he’s still in London. Where he’s supposed to be buying guns for a safari but is no doubt gambling and partying. Isn’t it all so foolishly sad. He worries I’ll squander his fortune before he does. He kept a taxi waiting for him once night and day for six weeks. God you are adorable. And I’ll never see you again. More probably you won’t want to see me. It’s always parting. And it’s not sweet sorrow, it’s damn misery. One man should be everything a woman needs. Only I need different men. And I need so many. The dearest, the loveliest and the wildest of my sisters. Found just one. And then threw herself out a window. Fell stabbed to death by the railing spikes on the pavement. In love poor girl with an impecunious scholarly gentleman. He lived holed up in squalid digs somewhere down Mount Street. What on earth could she see in him. And why. When every rich man in these isles was throwing his fortune at her feet. And she went walking, o god, can you imagine walking, holding hands with him.’

‘Why did she kill herself.’

‘I don’t know, over the stupidest triviality. And some stupid letter he wrote. He saw her through a window. While he was passing on Stephen’s Green. She was having dinner with just an old beau. And indeed flirtatious she was. He must have thought the worst. He wrote her a letter. And left next day on the mail boat. The letter came on Christmas eve. She was found. That marvellous girl was in her prettiest frock. A fence stuck through her lovely body. Because she must have loved him.’

‘What was your sister’s name.’

Clarissa