The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

6

His foot treading on one of Foxy’s bottles, Crooks in the dawn of the day of the bog fight, sailed on his backside and tumbled on his head down the stairs and broke his left arm and right collarbone. M’ss von B heading out for her early morning canter found him groaning at the bottom of the landing that overlooked the grove of beeches.

For many days Crooks looked very poorly indeed perambulating about the house. His face pallid, his arm in a black sling and with one of my father’s old purple velvet smoking jackets thrown over his shoulders. He sat many hours at the side of the kitchen range sipping Catherine’s cabbage soup and referring the reputedly medicinal contents of a pewter flask frequently to his lips. While Miss von B held sway in the reception rooms above as she stood with her whip over Norah and Sheila on their knees scrubbing their way across the tiles of the front hall. And Crooks, shooing at the cat when it sharpened its claws on the leg of the kitchen table, would announce.

‘Of course, when I am back on my feet there will be changes in this house and soon.’

Out in the barn, Foxy was another mass of welts, bumps and bruises, seated on his milking stool slapping away the kicks of the cow.

‘I’ll get them. All four of them cunts. One at a bloody time.’

Foxy groomed my pony, blacked its hoofs and plaited its mane and turned me out in some splendour each hunting day and I’d find him evenings before by lantern light in the tack room rubbing my boots and leathers.

‘But Foxy it will be the worse for you if you try to get revenge.’

‘Ah it’ll be one full moon and before it’s half up in the sky, I’ll be gone out of here and be far away. All I’m getting in this place is pennies for wages anyway. Join the circus or something like that. It’ll be here now soon at the village. Have you been pulling your prick like I told you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did the juice come out.’

‘No.’

‘You want to keep pulling. Just a few little tugs is not enough.’

The bog fight still the talk of the countryside all these months later. With the maids still snickering behind their hands. And Crooks thinking I had with Foxy put the bottles on the stairs. Now each full moon, with the moist slates on the barn roofs shining silver, I watch out the window across to where I can just see through a valley made by the tree tops. And beyond, the distant darknesses of the rest of the world. Leaving me standing here as the gales come roaring out of the west and bang doors somewhere through the night, making my life all fearful and lonely. And that I, like Foxy should go out and away from Andromeda Park forever.

Appearing white faced and chilled but far more dapper than usual with a reddish moustache sprouting on his upper lip, Mr Arland patted me reassuringly on the back. Repairing as we did now to the salon, daily aired and recently spick and span with its furnishings dusted and the warped cover of the grand piano gleamingly polished. At the big map table in front of a roaring log fire we sat and on the large globe of the world traced the ancient excursions of St Brendan.

‘Ah yes Kildare, to be sure, St Brendan discovered the new world long before Columbus did. Quite extraordinary how scholars jump to their sometimes premature conclusions. Even the Vikings were on those nether shores five hundred years before that chap the Spaniard. Although dear me, does it really matter when one considers America’s total and abysmal lack of culture.’

And Sexton, prior to rushing as he did all over the house with his vases in the wake of Miss von B was one morning in the flower room cutting and pruning his stems. And arranging his winter greeneries, holly, wild berries and bog grasses, when he held up a catkin.

‘Now this unisexual inflorescence would do that intellectual humbug Arland a world of good presenting it to his inamorata he’s paying court to away over there on the outskirts of town.’

‘What do you mean by that Sexton.’

‘I mean the young blue eyed lady with the long golden hair who rides to the hounds like a little queen. Sure she’s a distant relation of the Thormonds if not the Darcys. And Baptista Consuelo are her christian names. Now wasn’t that fool Arland refused as he asked for her hand in marriage. And he hardly knows the girl.’

‘Mr Arland is not a humbug nor a fool.’

‘Ah little you know. He was a fool a fool, sine dubio, a fool. Refused he was as he knelt, knelt would you believe it, on the very steps of her house with his nosegay. Sure the decent people inside didn’t know what to do answering the door to that besotted suitor. He was lucky it was pouring rain which kept the crowd to a minimum who were spying on the ridiculous spectacle from behind every curtain and abutment.’

‘Mr Arland never did that.’

‘He did. He did. He did, I’m telling you. Sure he’s a perfect stranger to the girl and what would she want with the likes of him when she could have the biggest earl, cattle dealer or duke she fancies in the district. Sure it’s divitiae virum faciunt everywhere these days.’

Before Christmas as the wet early afternoon days grew dark, Mr Arland escorted me in the governess’s cart drawn by Petunia to the great castle for dancing class. And the first of twelve to be held following lunch on Monday Wednesday and Thursday of each week. Bundled up in rugs and hatted with sou’westers, we fast trotted the five miles by the winding road, the breeze blowing at us warmed by the steamy fat quarters of Petunia. Passing as we did around that half of the village green where I saw the large stone house behind its tall clipped hedge and iron fence. A gravel walk between neat square lawns up to the granite steps. And when Mr Arland turned to look back staring at the grey building, his eyes moist with wind and mist, there came no reprimand as I asked.

‘Mr Arland what is the literal of divitiae virum faciunt.’

‘Riches make the man.’

Not till we finally came in under the arch of the gate lodge of the great castle, clip clopping over the pebbled drive under vaulted silver branches of the beech trees, would Mr Arland arouse from his silence. And as the road dipped downwards he said, let’s have a run. And snapping the whip we’d go hair flying over the remaining winding road through the park land. To rein to a stop on the gravel in front of the entrance door. And there before us with its great towers and turrets rising in grey stone splendour stood the castle I had so often seen in the distance across the countryside.

Mr Arland lifting and thumping the knocker, an iron fist on an iron arm. Letting it fall pounding on the thick slabs of oaken wood. And we waited and waited till he pulled on a gleaming brass knob set in the wall.

‘I prefer not to have to use this bell as it rouses too many of the servants who shortly will be at many windows nosey to see, who it is who is calling upon the high the good and the mighty.’

Inside, the sound of heavy beams, chains and shackles being loosed. Scrapes and bumps as the massive portal opens. And we entered this fortified vestibule to go up steps and through another pair of oaken doors and out into a huge hall, its vaulted ceiling high as clouds, its walls hung with flags, weapons of war, portraits and emblems, and the whole chamber as big nearly as all the rooms of Andromeda Park put together. A tall bent grave faced butler called Simpers received us and took our coats. It was said he always examined the cut and fabric of each garment, and would, with apparel offending his sensibilities, hang them in a place which he thought suitable to their inferiority. And I saw him hesitate with Mr Arland’s naval great coat before deciding that it deserved to be hung well. And before Simpers returned, Mr Arland gave me a little bow and smile.

‘Kildare, don’t sneeze, don’t fall, don’t trip and don’t associate with those who do. But waltz well. Ta ta.’

Mr Arland brushing down his waistcoat and lapels, disappeared through a door to another room off the hall where he was lecturing several collected ladies on the architecture of the Byzantine. And I was left standing there in the monstrous semi darkness as Simpers with his permanent stoop shuffled out of the shadows and led me away from these towering walls hung with their vast tapestries, ancient killing implements and where beneath these trophies and in the glow of a log fire I felt awfully sad about Mr Arland and his love spurned by the blue eyed girl with the golden hair who lived in the town in the grey stone house overlooking the village green.

Behind Simpers I went by a door up a candlelit stair hung with portraits to a landing. Then by another door up another staircase to a dark long hall and by pink carpet past endless bedroom doors and intersecting corridors. And yet by another door and up more stairs of more portraits to finally emerge in a large attic hall half way down which was a large room with a skylight and the windows barred. Here, with music crackling out of a great horn of a gramophone, a blond curly haired gentleman stood attired in light blue tights with three prominent little bumps bulging between the fork of his legs where no horse yet had bitten away what men usually had there. And flexing the muscles of his thighs he lisped in his high pitched voice.

‘Ah my last little victim has arrived. And who may I ask are you.’

‘I am Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.’

‘Ah you are already a dancer. Good. O.K. Pay attention. I am the Count Brutus Blandus MacBuzeranti O’Biottus and although I am named after the Greek comic poet I shall stand for no nonsense or comedy. And you will obey me. You will not speak. You will stand like so poised. And you will be fearful of your very life. Understand.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, sir, you say.’

‘Yes sir.’

The seven of us, four girls and three boys swirled around on the dusty floor. The Count pounding the worn broken keys of an upright piano. His metronome ticking and his shrill cries. With four white candles flickering in the breeze of his gesticulating arms.

‘Dance you silly little children, dance with the élan of the gazelle before I must tear my hair out in agony.’

Tea brought at four. Two great silver trays of scones steamy hot under linen napkins. Golden yellow beaming balls of butter. Honey, damson and gooseberry jams. Soda bread, ham, chicken and egg sandwiches. Silver pitchers of cream. The Count holding the back of his hand stiffly out under his chin to catch drips from his cup. And he stood to bow to our host’s mother who called.

‘How Blandus are they getting on.’

‘Ah the little darlings they are so wonderful. Simply wonderful. Look at them there, won’t you, so serenely sitting. But dance, never, they are too much like cattle, the ankles far too thick, my dear lady. Since I am a genius, it is such a waste of my most precious time. Better to teach them to plough and milk the cows. Ah but I am descended from fighters, and I will not my dear dear lady give the poor darlings up as a lost cause. Until of course I am exasperated beyond the redemption.’

A brougham came to call and drawn by two prancing greys, I was fetched back with three other little dancers two girls and a boy who regarded me with the deepest suspicion and I asked to be dropped at the front gates of Andromeda Park from where I could run free and wild by a short cut through the woods scaring up pheasants lurking in the dark passages under the rhododendrons.

And Miss von B upon my closing the front door came strolling out of the blue parlour, her high heels clicking on the tiles and her silk stockinged legs with long sinewy muscles splayed as she stopped and took her ivory cigarette holder from her mouth and blew a puff of smoke upwards into the chill of the entrance hall.

‘Ah what use is to clean. You have just come in like to a barn and make more muddy mess. While I am hoping perhaps to progress in ziss house while that Crook is hors de combat. But when everything spick and span it is quick again dirt and smear.’

‘It is my mother’s house and I shall do as I please.’

‘Ah, of course. Once upon a time. It was your mother’s perhaps. But now your father’s maybe.’

‘It is not. It is mine. Anyway he never comes here.’

‘Ah it is no business of mine but perhaps to avoid, how do you say, the misunderstanding, we should change the subject. You have learned by now, have you not, the waltz.’

‘I have not.’

‘What, you have not. But how come.’

‘I do not prefer dancing.’

‘O but you will never meet a nice girl.’

‘I don’t want to meet a nice girl.’

‘Ah but that is a pity. Because of course, you must sometime find a wife.’

‘I am never going to get married.’

‘Ah what a shame. Someday you would live with your wife here in this house.’

‘I am not going to ever live in this house.’

‘Ah but then what are you going to do.’

‘I am going to be a bishop.’

‘Ah a bishop. So. But before you become a bishop what will you do.’

‘I will be the Master of Foxhounds.’

‘Ah. Ah.’

‘Or maybe a jockey.’

‘Perhaps it is that Foxy who has taught you to be so marvellous a rider. He says he has the horse for me.’

‘I should not if I were you go on that horse.’

‘Ah he would run away.’

‘Yes and he would kill you.’

‘Ah tut tut, he perhaps would not kill me. But it is so friendly for Foxy to recommend a horse who would try.’

‘Foxy is not particularly keen on members of the household as a matter of fact.’

‘I should remind you I am not a member of the household I am a private person here who is in charge. As a guest you might say.’

‘You are not a guest.’

‘Ah perhaps not exactly. But your father would prefer it so.’

‘Why did you come here.’

‘That is perhaps not your business.’

‘Why did my father hire you.’

‘Ah again perhaps it is not your business.’

‘Why do you always carry your whip and make Norah and Sheila work so hard.’

‘They are lazy. But why I carry my whip. That also is not your business.’

‘Should you persist in being what I regard as uncommonly rude to me I shall turn every member of this household against you and drive you out.’

‘What is that you say.’

‘You have heard what I have said.’

‘That is outrage. Outrage. You. Who are you, Bonaparte already.’

‘I am a most cunning fellow. But because I am so young and have not come of age I have not got the power to dismiss you. Therefore I must use other means at my disposal.’

‘I would slap your little face. How dare you.’

‘I am a daring chap as a matter of fact.’

‘Ziss. Ziss madhouse.’

‘If you stay here, you too shall become mad.’

‘Your father is my employer. Until he tells me so to go I shall stay. You of course who have grown a few inches too fast perhaps. Your head it gets too much full of your importance.’

‘You watch out, you.’

‘Ah you set a trap. Like for Crooks.’

‘Good day to you.’

‘Good day to you too Master Reginald Bonaparte.’

At night before sleep, as Foxy recommended, I pulled and pulled my penis. With the sheets stiffened in the morning with white stains. Awaking with visions of that other night and day of the red haired woman out across the bogs. And returning home shivering rescued by Sexton, clip clopping up under the mists into the hills again. Past a little group of tinkers at their meal around a fire, like the multi coloured petals of a flower. They watched as we went by from under their tousled heads of hair. Their days spent beneath rainy skies on the chill wet grass. Clustering close to a kettle brewing over burning sticks and ashes. To all go lie asleep huddled tight in under their tiny canvas covering. While their ponies hobbled grazing along the road.

Miss von B made a sudden stir out hunting. Changing from her own usual regalia. To riding side saddle wearing my mother’s habit and on my mother’s mare. Crooks the following day retrieved the outfit to hide it, shouting loudly, up and down the kitchen hall.

‘The sheer brazen cheek of that woman to dare to sully my ladyship’s robes.’

And an evening following hunting and her long hot bath, Miss von B was down in the kitchen hall pinning notices on a board under the servants’ bells. With dire warnings should her breakfast be late brought to her bedroom. Crooks now limping and quaking in anger again. Buttons missing from his stained livery and with his leg recently sprained in another fall. And following his long silences as he served me as I sat solitary in the dining room, he would always bark out after I’d finished my pudding.

‘Kummel Master Reginald.’

‘No thank you Crooks.’

‘Cigar Master Reginald.’

‘No thank you Crooks.’

And then in his specially deep voice, reserved for these occasions, he would lean in close to my ear.

‘Well that awful woman thinks that she should now dine with you and she has posted a notice to that effect. Which I, knowing of your preferences, Master Reginald, took the liberty of tearing up.’

And now whenever Crooks and von B confronted there would be conducted loud shouting matches. The two of them raising and waving their arms. With Sheila running for her life and Norah raising her eyebrows high over her bright green eyes, mumbling, it’s a loony bin, it’s a loony bin. And I would always speed to the locality to take up my listening post. For as Foxy now said life in Andromeda Park was quickly becoming every man for himself. And the more recent news one had of the goings on, the better.

‘You have no right madam, while my back is turned to enter the wine cellar and remove bottles without my leave.’

‘And why not.’

‘Because not only are you assuming prerogatives beyond your station madam but I must make a note of all bottles in the cellar book.’

‘Ha ha, the cellar book. I laugh. It is so much, how do you say fraud, ziss cellar book.’

‘Fraud. Before I consult my solicitor, let me tell you a thing or two madam. I won’t be spoken to in that or a similar manner under the roof of this house where I have served faithfully my dear mistress, the Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond.’

‘Your mistress Madam Kildare you mean.’

‘I mean my mistress loved by all, the most wonderful charming beautiful lady that ever strode or rode across this county.’

‘Of course it is sad but she is dead.’

‘She is not dead. As sure as the god above, she lives and breathes in this house. She walks these halls at night. She dances in the ballroom. And she is appalled. Absolutely appalled by you, madam.’

‘O god what nuts. Already I know you are all mad.’

And as I sat one evening in the dining room with the winds howling and shutters rattling and Miss von B taking her meals alone served by Norah in the small morning room just across and down the hall, I dropped a potato on the polished table. And as I reached to wipe away the steamy stain it made, Crooks gave a great sigh of his whiskey perfumed breath.

‘Ah Master Reginald now, no need for you to bother doing that. A wipe from me in a thrice will take care of it. It’s that woman of course with her rules has us all extremely upset. She will soon be cleaning and polishing the pebbles on the drive. And I do think and fear that I will, should she continue to stay, give in my notice.’

‘Crooks please, you must not entertain such a thought.’

‘I shall. Believe me I shall. She is quite making my life miserable. I have run this household all these years, O but I simply can’t repeat what I have already said so often.’

‘Crooks you know I had nothing to do with putting bottles for you to slip on, on the stairs.’

‘I heard it told from Foxy’s father’s lips that indeed you were innocent of that blackguard’s attempt at murder. But that interfering woman and I cannot stay in the same house.’

Foxy came riding on the hunt. And where we met at the pub on the four roads, he won bets drinking pints of porter while standing on his head. With folk later screaming at him as he barged by on the untameable Thunder and Lightning, smashing through hedge and fence, scattering sheep and cattle and sending protesting farmers running for their lives.

I rode along with Miss von B and others of the nervous contingent who took up the near rear of the field, next to the terrified contingent who lagged building back walls and closing gates. I saw Baptista Consuelo. On a silver grey mare. A light tinge of red on her cheeks. A bowler set on her golden hair, her smile radiant and blue eyes sparkling in the fresh blowing breeze. And poor Mr Arland with the locals came cycling the roads after us. Dismounting in his naval great coat to approach while we waited for the hounds to raise a fox. As again and again they failed to keep a scent. Mr Arland looked many times in his little queen’s direction and once, as he approached, she with a kick of her spurs cantered away. And I wondered if beauty did make a woman very mean.

Sunshine broke out over the fields. Suddenly the hue and cry went up as the hounds found a fox. And the horses and their thundering made the whole earth shake. Foxy in front of the master flailing the quarters of Thunder and Lightning. The brave contingent in hot pursuit. Down across a pasture towards a high bank and ditch. And suddenly one saw a horse and rider somersaulting through the air and both thudding to the ground. And as I got closer I could see it was Foxy, still tightly gripped to his rein, Thunder kicking and lashing hoofs in all directions and one knocking Foxy flat. I approached thinking he was done for. But again he was up and mounted and hammering away with his crop.

‘Come on get going you four legged cunt.’

Back in the stables that evening, Foxy said Thunder’s kick was only a feather tap on the belly and with the briar scratches on his face caked over with dried blood, he finished rubbing down the legs of my pony with his clumps of straw. Beckoning me as I stood taking my saddle and reins to the tack room.

‘Come here till I tell you now while the time’s ripe. Let me back in the house behind you. Sure I could be carrying up an extra basket of turf for your fire and none would be the wiser. And maybe I’ll show you something you won’t forget.’

Foxy following me lugging a basket of turf. Catherine giving him a dirty look out the door as we passed the kitchen. And an even dirtier look and a distinct growl from Crooks on the landing next to the schoolroom. And up the servants’ staircase we went and down the hall to my ablution room.

‘Take off your boots now and come this way.’

In stockinged feet following Foxy up two more flights and tiptoe along the cul de sac hall with all its closed up servants’ rooms. Foxy carrying a chair to a small window aperture shaped in a fleur de lis high on the wall. A faint light glowing beyond inside. The sound of a splash and water. Foxy standing on the upholstered chair his finger over his lips for me to climb up behind him to look.

Darcy Dancer holding on to Foxy Slattery’s hard muscled shoulder. As they peered in through the glass and through an open closet door. And diagonally across and under a bed tapestry and downwards, there was Miss von B lying stretched with her face and bosoms floating in the steaming bath water.

‘Got to wait till she gets out before we can catch a good sight of her. Anytime about evening that I could get into the house I’ve had my eye full of plenty from here I’m telling you.’

Miss von B pulling herself up by her hands on the edge of the tub. Her bosoms expanding forward.

‘Ah now look at that. Didn’t I tell you. O what I wouldn’t give to get a handful of one of them.’

Miss von B climbing out of the copper bath.

‘O Jesus O Jesus now will you look at that.’

The gleaming whiteness standing drying in the candlelight. Seeming so much bigger and more of her than when she wore clothes. The white curving contours shining wet and dabbed and rubbed pink and bright. The chair wobbling with the shifting weight of an excited Foxy.

‘Ah Jesus it would put sight in a blind eye. Will you get that now. Will you look at them fine bags on her.’

Miss von B her foot up against the edge of the copper tub, breasts shaking gently as she spread cream up along her thighs, knees and elbows. And pushes her feet in red slippers to move out of sight. Foxy groaning as he stretches craning to look. The fabric of the chair creaking and the cracking sound of wood. With a loud collapsing crash. A whisper coming from Foxy out of the blackness.

‘Fucking cunt.’

And from the other side of the partition, a voice sounding nervous in the stillness.

‘Who’s dat.’

As I fell backwards. Landing on the fundament. My legs suddenly without feeling. With more challenging shouts from within the bedroom. And just as I was sensing in the dark with my hands to see if the bottom part of me was still there, my legs began to feel again. With pounding sounded coming up the servants’ staircase. Foxy already taking his leave on all fours. With only one way to go or be trapped back down the cul de sac hall. Or turn left along the corridor now echoing the steps of an approaching von B or else a recent new ghost wearing slippers.

Darcy Dancer pressing back into a bedroom doorway. Foxy crouching next to a large glass fronted cabinet. Stored with stacks of dishes of patterns and styles disused over the years. Crooks arriving at the top of the stairs dimly silhouetted by the moonlit landing window below. Until the light of a candle held high in the hand of von B wrapped in a towel throws more shadows down the hall. And illumines to Crooks the sight of Foxy pressed up to the side of the dresser.

‘I’ve got you, you brazen hooligan.’

‘Like hell you have you ould crippled cunt.’

Foxy springing up and out with a growl. Colliding with Crooks’s and the two of them in a whirl engripped, falling backwards against the dish cabinet. Crooks hanging on for dear life. Foxy dragging him back and forth on the clamouring floorboards as Crooks loses and regains his hold and in one grand embracement locking his arms around Foxy as the two fall with a massive thump against the cabinet which smashes against the handrail of the banister and breaks it from its anchorage in the wall.

‘You ould stupid eegit let loose or I’ll fucking well brain you.’

‘I’ve got you now.’

Crooks’s strange shrieking grunts with his arms grabbed around Foxy as the pair of them again and again crash into the cabinet. Von B raising her candle higher over a nicely rounded pair of shoulders. The tall dark shadow of the piece of furniture and its entire breakable contents slowly moves, creaking, breaking and with a splintering of wood pitches through the balustrade. A female screech as the cabinet plummets. A moment’s silence before it crashes. And a thunder as dishes, bowls, sauce boats and egg cups shatter in pieces everywhere down the flight of stairs below. With Crooks still bellowing and holding on.

‘You’ll not get away from me this time you blackguard.’

From my redoubt I had a rear view of the silhouetted bifurcation of Miss von B’s legs. Wondering when she was going to shout stop. As she did the day out on the bogs. While Foxy tore at Crooks’s grip and dragged him thumping down the stairs to the landing. Where with one massive wrench Foxy broke free. Sending Crooks flying and momentarily stunned against the clanking rusting metal of a suit of armour from which as a tiny boy I always thought I saw eyes peering out. As Foxy stood with all his escape routes blocked. The cabinet wedged between wall and banister. Von B above and sounds of more feet coming up the servants’ stairs.

‘You’ll none of you get me you bunch of cunts.’

Foxy turning and facing the casement window, took two steps backwards and with his arms and elbows held up in front of his face, leaped crashing through. To descend three storeys down into the darkness. With the sound of breaking branches followed by a thud and thump. With Miss von B suddenly apoplexed bare arsed without her towel. And Crooks surfacing from his dazed condition on the floor.

‘That should be final good riddance to that blackguard. Bury him we will. And be delivered forever of his infernal nuisance.’

Crooks getting to his feet. Turning to pick up and hang back the metal codpiece knocked off the suit of armour. And carefully stepping over the pieces of glass from the smashed casement as he wrings his hands in the fresh breeze blowing in this recently widely opened window. And slowly raising his head to look up. To see the apparition standing in its candle light at the top of the stairs.

‘Jesus Mary and Joseph. As if death out the window isn’t enough. Haven’t we got up there the kraut herself in the buff.’

Naked

As the day

The

Almighty

Made her