The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

5

In the late dying afternoon, a bird happily chirping just out the window of this dark strange room. One heard hoofs clip clopping far off on the surface of the hard road. Coming slowly nearer and nearer. The squeal and clang of a gate and wheels grinding over the pebbles to halt outside. Then a loud rapping on the cottage door. My head still swirling as I lifted up on my arms. And voices raised outside.

‘He fell I’m telling you.’

‘Be gob never mind there are pieces of you missing, if you’ve touched a hair of that lad’s head I’ll do you here and now. Till you’re nothing more than rudis indigestaque moles.’

‘Gospel now, the lad took a tumble.’

‘Gospel is it. I’ll give you gospel and it won’t be from St Luke or the Corinthians. Nor will it do your inferiority complex a bit of good.’

A smile of greeting on Sexton’s face. His hair gleaming black and wavy. A rug over his arm. As he steps across the earthen floor. And this large bosomy red headed lady wiping her hands in her apron.

‘Ah it was only a little blood spilled out of his ear and a cut there he got on the head.’

‘That bully of a husband of yours out there. Sure the lad is still in short trousers. And be gob you’re priviledged to be having gentry under the roof of this hovel. How are you Master Reginald.’

‘I’m groggy a bit. But I’m alright.’

‘Didn’t I warn you. Tell you. Keep away from the filthy likes of that Slattery leading you in your pure innocence astray. The dirty filthy pup. We had four of us to beat the truth out of him. Come now and we’ll get you back to the sylvan setting and dignities of Andromeda Park and far away from the dreadful bogs out here.’

‘I knew he was gentry. I knew it.’

‘Madam you should be overflowing with gratitude that a Darcy Darcy Thormond related by the best of bloods back to the last kings of Ulster, has crossed the threshold of your humble abode.’

‘O I am. I knew by them good boots he’s wearing, sopping muddy wet as they were.’

‘Come Master Reginald. I’ll give you a hand now. Forsooth we are to forthwith about to depart. Without being so much as offered a cup of tea. And I leave whores and sinners to suffer what hell the hereafter has in store for them.’

‘Who are you calling a whore.’

‘Now woman who said anyone was a whore.’

‘You did. You smarmy boot licker to the pagan gentry. Don’t you call me a whore.’

‘O lord what fools these mortals be.’

‘Well this mortal will rattle an iron pot off your head. Get out of here now.’

‘I will be gob. Sine mora. Get out and glad. And take this innocent boy away from the lickerishness concupiscence salacity and harlotry.’

‘That’s all you’re good for is them big words. You dirty Casanova.’

Sexton turning back from the half door. A chicken scurrying out and two more shooting in. Followed by a marauding rooster. The rug tightened around Darcy Dancer’s shoulders. The gleaming white plates and cups and saucers on the dresser. Steam curling up from the kettle’s spout on the hearth. The woman her arms hanging out from her sides. Her bosoms set like two great prows of battleships cutting through waves seen in the war pictures of the illustrated magazine.

‘What was that you said.’

‘I said and you heard me, you dirty Casanova.’

‘Casanova is it.’

‘Cycling up to the young girls at every crossroad all over the countryside. To get them take a ride with you across your dirty filthy handle bars.’

‘No bog harlot will call me that. Not while my adoration is daily offered to the blessed virgin who stands righteous above me in her beautiful purity, you won’t, be gob make that slander of me I’m telling you.’

‘I will. And tell you to fuck off out of here as well. Casanova.’

‘Be gob woman Lord have mercy on the souls of your livestock if that’s the kind of lingo they hear. But I’ve said to you now. Don’t repeat that aspersion. Call me a homo, a paederast, a sodomite but be gob don’t use the word Casanova to me again.’

‘Casanova.’

The tears flooding into Sexton’s eye. His fist raised shaking as he steps across the floor. A dog barking and a long groan of a beast out in the farmyard. The woman raising her own fist and with the other reaching for a pot on the mahogany sideboard behind her. Sexton grabbing for her upraised arm.

‘Get off me you. You big hulking dirty Casanova.’

Two fisted the woman sinking her clutching fingers into Sexton’s hair. The writhing figures crashing backwards into the wall. Turning, twisting, pulling and tearing. Looming about in the shadows panting and grunting. Gasps from Sexton as his eye patch comes off.

‘O merciful lord almighty god.’

A bell like clink and clang as a flying elbow pokes a metal tureen to the ground. And the chickens run scurrying out of the way back and forth, jumping to the sills of the windows to flap there against the panes.

‘Get your hands off me tits you viper.’

‘Bear false witness against me will you, you swamp trollop.’

‘Get your disgusting interfering claws off me personals.’

‘I’m merely clutching at the rubbery fat of you, madam.’

The back of Sexton’s coat rent down its seam. His shoulders covered in whitewash from the walls. The woman’s hands losing their grip as Sexton, arms free, let loose long looping swings at the red haired head huddling to fend off the blows.

‘Mick, Mick the holy greasy terror is having me kilt. Come Mick.’

Sexton momentarily ceasing his blows, pressing both hands down on the back of the woman, and turning his face away upwards towards the heavenly deity.

‘Dear lord my god and saviour give me strength as well as your forgiveness to chastise this female savage.’

Out of the grey afternoon, sudden sunlight flashing in the tiny window. As more came flooding in the door behind a roaring Mick with a shovel. His one hand gripped holding it out with the long handled end stuck under his one good armpit, as the other empty sleeve of his coat flapped up and down.

‘Where are yez Agnes, where are yez.’

The two warring figures hair engripped, waltzing across the room. Mick blindly swiping with the shovel. Missing the antagonists and carving a wide wood naked furrow down the polished length of the sideboard. Splintering a butter churn and smashing divers potteries to smithereens.

‘Ah jesus. I missed. Holt him still Agnes till I get a smell of his location.’

Sexton, eyes closed and dentures stuck half out of his mouth. Hanging on to the woman as they tripped over a fallen chair and fell backwards. Crashing into the dresser. A hook catching in the torn tatters of clothing and the falling contorted bodies pulling the dresser plunging forward with cups, saucers, plates and platters crashing on the floor. Now turned white with spilt milk and the feathers of a chicken nailed flapping and cackling beneath the shattered shelves. While its winged comrade flutters down from the window sill to peck morsels from a loaf of bread.

‘Me dowry, me dowry. It’s ruined. Mick over here. Quick get a smell of him. I’ve a good holt. Dig him one with the shovel in the guts.’

Darcy Dancer clutching himself in the blanket. Trembling with cold. Squeezing backwards into the corner behind the door. To pray to someone. That Sexton stays alive to take me home.

‘Now Mick now.’

‘I’ll get him Agnes.’

Mick putting his nose forward sniffing. As his next step comes down squarely on a chicken. And he jumps back. With a swing of his body bringing the shovel whistling in a great arc. To slam in mid flight the squawking rooster across the room with glass shattering concussion into a photograph picture of a man in white raiment holding a hand up in blessing.

‘You eegit Mick you’ve smashed in the holy pontiff himself.’

‘Ah god I can’t see a thing at all without me eyes.’

‘Aren’t we in front of yez. Haven’t I a holt of him. His dentures has his mouth jammed. Now’s the time.’

‘In this heat of the house I can’t get me direction. Agnes let loose of the fucker and duck out of the way and I’ll cream him. Say where you are.’

‘I’m here, here. With the grease of his hair on me hands I can’t keep a holt of him.’

‘Ah god with the noise I don’t know where you are.’

‘I’m here you eegit. With him getting loose.’

‘I’m coming now. Say where you are.’

‘Here you eegit. Can’t you hear the landing of the punches on me all over.’

‘I’ll put paid to him. Say where you are.’

‘Haven’t I said I’m here. Stop the talk for mercy’s sake. Clout him one with the shovel.’

Agnes doubled over, arms crossed on her head. Sexton with the knuckles of one hand trying to reverse his dentures sticking backwards out of his mouth. Hammering his other fist downward on the crouched back of the woman. Mick holding the handle end of the shovel under his. chin and the handle length over his arm as he feels ahead with his hand advancing towards the sound of the struggle.

‘Is it him I’m feeling Agnes.’

‘You daft thing, wouldn’t you know by now the feel of your own wife. It’s him just to the left of you there now. The left, the left. Don’t you know the left. I’ve got holt of his arm and another on his belt. Carve his fucking head off.’

The rooster lying feebly flapping its wings as it slowly turns-on its back in a circle, feet sticking in the air pointing up at the smashed picture of the man in white raiment. A sheep dog rushing to bark in the door and cowering away again. And Sexton pulling out his dentures.

‘Ah god so you bog trotters use language will you and gang up on me like Judases betraying Jesus at the last supper.

Mick, the horizontal stump of his arm trembling in its sleeve, lifting the shovel up over Sexton’s bead. Darcy Dancer rushing forward from his corner. Crushing pebbles of sugar underfoot. Two pigs honking and snorting in the door, pink eats flapping over their eyes and biting and squealing at each other as they suck up the milk from the floor. Darcy Dancer pushing with two hands against Mick’s rear end. As the blind man’s rusty spear shaped shovel descends on the red haired woman’s back with a lung thudding thwack.

‘I’m kilt.’

‘O tempora o mores, no sweeter sound is there than, the thump of justice.

‘It’s, the young one Agnes gave me a shove.’

‘What’s wrong with ya, ya blind fool. Smash the holy father the pope and now murther your wife.’

The figures crumpled upon one another in a mass of entwining limbs. Gasps of air sucked in and breath heaving out of chests. A shadow at the door.

‘Vas is diss. Achtung. Stop. Stop. At once immediately. I call the police stop.’

Miss von B, riding whip in her hand. Smacking it into her glove. The end of the long thong falling over the tip of her black boot. As she stood legs astride in derby hat, white breeches and brown hunting coat. The antagonists slowly standing. Grabbing back pieces of their clothing still clutched in other hands. The pigs rooting and snorting for tid bits in under and around the upturned furniture.

‘What ist diss fight. You should be ashamed. Grown people. Do you not know any better.’

Miss von B’s blonde hair coiffeured in a net under her hat. Spurs on her boots. A gold pin stuck sparkling with a large diamond in the white scarf at her throat. Upon which she places her hand as the avian livestock flap in her direction to escape. And the woman of the big bosoms points her finger.

‘Isn’t she the fine one now coming in here. Giving orders. With the heathenish gang of you from over there in Thormondstown raping me.’

‘Achtung. Shut up you woman. What do you know about rape. I know about rape. Come. We go.’

Sexton bowing. The pink darkness of his toothless smile. Long scratches dripping blood down his concave cheeks.

‘Excuse me Countess for my temporarily suspended phonetics. Occasioned by the recent dislodgement of my false choppers both uppers and lowers.’

Sexton brushing his dentures off on his sleeve. Placing them back in his mouth and taking them out again.

‘Ah god haven’t they been maltreated out of shape by you savages. Let’s out of here now, Master Reginald and leave the habitués of these waterlogged banshee riddled bogs to stew in their ignorance. And madam, my esteemed Countess, a lady of your high standing and dignified status should not have to witness the unpleasant consequences of a common brawl.’

The red haired woman, holding her torn flowered garment together across her chest. Following Sexton out the cottage door, her neck craned forward spitting words between Sexton’s shoulder blades as he guided Darcy Dancer with a hand behind the dark haired head.

‘I’ll be suing you, you cycling romeo, for damages. And the sacrilege of smashing in the face of the pontiff.’

Miss von B shaking the rein of her horse as it pulls its head away to grab more grass. Her backside two gleaming mounds of white under her kid skin breeches as she pulls herself up over her saddle and shifts a thigh over the mare’s quarters to seat herself. Sexton helping Darcy Dancer up into the trap, wiping a place dry and placing him snug on the leather cushion and wrapping him tight in a blanket. The woman clutching the leg of a chair in her hand, holding it up shaking at Sexton who wags his finger down at the red fuming face.

‘Sue madam, sue if you like. Continue to conduct your hate and strife. Sure it will be good to hear evidence given concerning this occasion with all the attendant reasons, wherefors and whatfors. And as the searchlights of publicity is placed upon you in the dock and your faulty slanderous testimony is recorded in the books for all time, just remember that there is he, the eternal omnipotence above you, who shall be the final judge. And in the exercise of his great level headedness he will sure as hell put the flames scorching you in your rigor mortis.’

‘Don’t be talking as if yez are the only saint on earth. I’ll get the lawyers to you bunch for the damages. Trespassing, breaking and entering. Rape. Assaulting a blind disabled and altered cripple. I’ll have the writs out after you.’

Sexton face up to the skies. His palm raised to the fine falling mist. A sudden beaming ray of sun casting a shimmering blaze of purple green and orange in a rainbow out over the brown bog lands.

‘Dear god, to whom these days can we say, dearly beloved. Sure the Prince of Peace himself would break a leg running to escape from the likes of the pair of you. But look at the irony of that now. Beauty in the heavens. Over a miserable bit of landscape the likes of this.’

‘Well there’ll be bloodshed on earth, yet. Wait and see. I’ll get you.’

‘And if you do madam you’ll only be bringing grief to the pistils petals and stamens grown by a poor humble common gardener. Ah and who knows it may do your lunatic self esteem a world of good. But beware you don’t get a fatal fist in the gob first.’

The red haired woman throwing the chair leg whistling past Sexton’s ducking head as he slaps down the reins and the barrel shaped Petunia takes off galloping after Miss von B’s horse cantering ahead up the pot holed drive.

‘Go on you dirty romeo, go home and put more of your black filthy grease on your hair.’

Two small scraggly ash trees on either side of the gate out to the tar black shiny road. Which stretched straight out into the white mists descending from hills ahead. The emptiness in all directions. As we rolled over the steamy smell of Miss von B’s horse’s dung freshly plopped. And another rainbow now high above the first, spanning all the countryside from one end of the world to the other.

‘Ah Master Reginald, you’ve learned your first lesson in life. Unless you were better off where you’ve been, you’re always better off where you are. But no matter where you’ve been or where you are you’ll never know if you’ll be better off where you’re going. Are you right, now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks be to the sacred heart of Jesus your beautiful gentle mother wasn’t alive to witness any of that back there. But the real sad horror of it all. Is your blind man. He isn’t only missing an arm and like meself, an eye. But didn’t a mare he was after beating with a club throw him from her back on to the ground and then come with her teeth, and with one swift awful mouthful like the handiest surgeon who’d ever wielded a scalpel, bite completely off all the things most men are born with between their legs.’

And you’d

Not think

The pair of them

Back there

Would need this soon

Another sample of justice

Following that