The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

8

The day dry and fit for fine hunting. Everyone who was anyone among the gentry and peasantry was hacking, walking or staggering to the pub at the crossroads from all over the countryside. With members of the hunt, their mounts plaited beribboned groomed and gleaming.

The early activity at Andromeda Park was feverish. With the clank of spurs and boots down the halls. Shouts around the stable yard for bindings for manes and bandages for tails. Crooks rummaged through my father’s wardrobe and fetched out a pair of cavalry twill breeches and polo boots. And a top hatted Mr Arland looked rather smart up on Petunia, overly fat though she was.

Our little contingent left in the blazing blazing blue of mid morning, preceded by Luke and Foxy’s father and followed by Miss von B, Mr Arland and lastly my exhausted self and Foxy. The latter up on top of the eighteen hands high Thunder and Lightning whose tail was tied with a great scarlet bow. Warning all to stay well out of kicking distance.

Beneath the bright chirp of birds up in the tall pines, making our way along the drive. To where it turned between the thick rhododendrons. And upon my shouted instructions we went through a gate to short cut across the old deer park field. Hooves pounding on the velvet soft pasture to the entrance gates. Where most of the lodge had recently further collapsed with a tree fallen through the roof and now could hardly be seen under this new mountain of beech branches and ivy.

Heading westwards. By a babbling swift flowing brook. Then along a straight road with its little hills. From the top of each, one could survey miles across meadows, bogs and lakes. The yellow and moss green lichen spotting the grey stone walls which went criss crossing the distant green. Tiny puffs of clouds sailing the horizon. A chill in the slight breeze. And joined now by other members of the hunt heading out their gateways or coming down lanes and connecting roads. The sound of horses’ hooves thickening. Past two cows and three grazing goats and the cart of a shawled old lady, a nail stuck in the end of a stick prodding it into the haunches of her donkey. As Miss von B turned back to stare in disapproval. Till finally ahead were the pink walls of the pub on the village crossroads. And the scarlet coated hunt servants armed with their horn handled hunting whips.

Miss von B’s face this morning looked pale. Last night when she finally fell asleep she lay snoring. Her head deep sunk backwards and her long flowing hair across the crisp linen pillow. I lay crouched under the mountain of her blankets. A rather unpleasant stale smelling breath coming from her open mouth. Wondering what I had learned about women. And she cried out something like wo sint do, followed by much other German sounding words. Tossing herself up and over again on her side. As I watched the light of dawn breaking on the tinted blue window panes. Her bottom, two big cool mounds pressed against my knees. And now I see her lean forward over the neck of her horse to fix her stirrup. Her blonde hair all neatly gathered in a hair net under her bowler. Her thighs snug in her white leather breeches parted over her saddle. The whole thing strange that was down there between her legs. If every woman had one. Soft and wet inside. Covered by crinkly curly hairs. Where she pushed my hand and brought it back again each time I pulled it away. And she leaned on her elbow watching me in the shadows undress. I said please don’t look. While I filled her pot with pee. And as I shivered towards the bed she threw back her head and shook her hair. She climbed all over me, her head crushing down with kisses and German words whispering in my ears out of her lips. Furiously pumping on top of me. Telling me later in my long silence to speak. When I couldn’t think of a thing to say. About her brothers and parents killed. And her husband, a blue eyed army lieutenant, crushed under the tracks of a tank. And a second brown eyed husband, a captain disappeared somewhere around Smolensk on the Russian front Her family’s town house flattened by a bomb. And their country Schloss desecrated. Soldiers shooting holes in the eyes of family portraits and trying on their silk underwear and sleeping with their muddy boots on their silk sheets while swilling champagne from the cellars. Rape drunkenness and death. And that she lied to Mr Arland. She had escaped from Poland. With her diamonds up her arse and twat. Through Czechoslovakia. Hiding in Prague deep down in the cellars under the old town square. And in Vienna in another cold basement. To Salzburg. Till she got to Switzerland, to Italy, France and to Spain. And seasick all the way on a ship she finally landed nearly destitute in Dublin. And there, calling herself Miss von B, she established in an attic where she slept, ate and designed and made fashionable ladies’ hats. She met my father surrounded by women in a pub they called the gilded cage. After he had a winning day at the races. Stood buying everyone drinks and quaffing black velvet. Said he needed a hous keeper who could saddle and ride a horse. He peeled off her first three months’ wages and the next day she bequeathed her hat business to the landlord and stood freezing in the gloomy cold station for twelve hours waiting for the train. And when she saw me first she thought I had such startling and stunning eyes.

Locals leaning against the pub wall and standing in little groups huddled whispering under their dark rain stained and weather beaten trilbys. Their collars upturned in the sunshine and taking long sucks on their cigarettes. Girl pumping a pail full of water at the village pump. Her big pink knickers showing on her fat legs as she bent over. The green telephone kiosk to which a person not afeared of speaking over wires, was dispatched from Andromeda Park, to ring westwards to find out when the train was coming. And when with the birds singing I was climbing out of her bed, Miss von B said don’t go, don’t leave me. Her soft blonde skin, a mole on her throat growing little blonde hairs. And her eyes in her face looked as if at any moment she might laugh. But down deep in all the specks and flecks of colour they were eyes full of fear. And I slipped from the covers and stood with one foot tripping over the piss pot on the rug. And she said why did you have to do that. And I said shut up.

The masked singers, the wren men, came and went into the pub with their tambourines and spoons. The dogs barking and wailing in the pub yard when they began to play. And the hounds arrived. Noses in a row sticking out the slats of the cart. From down the road with a clatter of cantering hooves, Baptista Consuelo approached. Accompanied by three top hatted pink coated gentlemen. And as her horse went prancing by. It chose to blast out several farts. Right at our Andromeda Park contingent. Bang, boom, bang, boom. Bringing, I thought, some dispirit across Mr Arland’s face. Haughtiness upon this champion hunting dav was quite prevalent. But I discerned at close range that Baptista had a somewhat stupid looking and quite unnoble little upturned nose. Unlike the firm straight features and nicely curved nostrils of Miss von B. Who was also astonishingly strong and able to hold my arms pinned. As she did while banging down on top of me in some kind of crazed delirium out from under which I tried to get in case she’d suddenly gone nuts like everyone else in the household. But after some prolonged gasps groans and wails she lay quite content for a while before trying it again. And during these between times with my head and ear pressed on the soft soothing flesh of her breast, I felt a lazy cosy comfort as her arm tucked me in.

‘Come come, pay up now. I won’t have any of this shoddy dodging.’

The hunt secretary collecting people’s caps. Making a stack of notes in his hand. I thought he was going about it rather rudely. In the loud offensive way in which he asked for mine and that of my party. There being perhaps some feelings regarding my father not having contributed to the hunt for some time. Nor since my mother’s death did we plant coverts or hold a hunt ball. In a manner overly familiar, the Master of Foxhounds on an enormous bay mare came up to greet Miss von B. Along with him trotted the first whip also smiling with a large assembly of teeth which I’m sure were bought off some itinerant dental salesman who was temporarily out of his size. And together with the huntsman and a hunt servant, all made a distinct fuss, mouthing compliments concerning my housekeeper’s smart appearance. I found their fawning close proximity rather tiresome. While Miss von B rather revelled in it.

‘Ah Princess you are looking so devastatingly radiantly beautiful.’

‘But you are just too kind, Master.’

‘The stones in the walls, ma’am, you make them smile.’

‘Ha you give me how do you say, the blarney.’

Just before moving off a group of riders stopped near by in a field. Some with saddle flasks at their lips. And village boys running with the bottles to refill them at the pub. Till one of them fell clean backwards out of his stirrups off his horse. Landing with the flask still held to his lips where supine he drained it. Upon seeing this, a ruddy faced chap known as the Major although he was never involved in anything the least military, cantered over. Sitting high on his horse accusing the prostrate gent of inebriation. Who now slowly arose from the moist morning grass and staggered a little about the field. The Major shouting.

‘Go home sir, you are unfit to hunt.’

‘Bugger you.’

‘I said go home sir, you are drunk and a danger to the field.’

‘Bugger you you stuffed twit.’

‘Having long emerged from my school days, I shall not be buggered sir, and direct you to depart without giving more disgrace than you already have. And I say go home. You are too drunk to hunt.’

‘You mean I’m too drunk not to hunt. And who the hell are you telling me.’

‘I am a member of the hunt committee.’

‘Well fuck the committee and bugger you.’

‘There are ladies sir, mind your language, there are ladies.’

‘There are crumpet and fluff and brazen arses and horny old devils like you sniffing their saddles.’

‘I shall teach you a lesson sir.’

The Major raising his whip brought it lashing down knocking your man’s bowler off to the ground. Whereupon your squiffy chap on the turf rounded with his own whip to land a swipe across the nose of the Major’s mount. The big grey gelding rearing bucking and kicking. Sending the Major skywards and eastwards pitched on his back, boots in the air. The locals deserted the crossroads with this sign of action. And came aswarm over the walls of the field, smiling and giving each other joyous digs in the ribs. As there was nothing to be enjoyed more than seeing the gentry go berserk. In the quickly man made arena the florid faced Major gathered himself from the ground. Tightly stretching his whip between his white gloved hands he circled round the squiffy chap. And the two of these red coated gentlemen started belabouring and slashing each other from toe to ear. As their shouts roared out over the countryside.

‘Cunt.’

‘Cad.’

‘Cunt.’

‘Cad.’

It was rare to see such delightful justice being done. For, according to Foxy, both protagonists were eegits of the highest order and the meanest bastards imaginable you could find in the district. Where they’d been for years guilty of giving nothing away free. I manoeuvred my small mare Molly to a nice vantage point, a grassy mound, to witness from. And right next to a highly perfumed Baptista Consuelo. Madly licking her lips at every blow. And as a clean swat of the lash landed across the Major’s left cheek she gave a sucking hiss of her lips followed by a satisfied smile. Just as Miss von B came trotting and reining up between us. Turning to me as if the whole thing were my fault.

‘Ah grosser Gott such savages.’

Baptista Consuelo looking round to Miss von B and pulling her mount back a pace. She seemed to let the morning air purr down the nostrils of her bumpy little nose as she uttered her vowels in a very superior manner indeed.

‘I think it most jolly good that one gentleman chastise another should he need it.’

‘And you, you little bitch should get a good hoof up the backside.’

‘Why you dirty foreigner, you, speak to me like that.’

‘It is of course darling the language which exactly you deserve.’

Baptista Consuelo turning her nose up and backing her chestnut stallion away. Just as the squiffy chap with his horse grazing near, was lashed to the ground. The locals cheering and the gentry handclapping. The Major, florid cheeks puffing, and adjusting his stance for maximum leverage, continuing to flog your man.

‘Tally bloody ho, take that you sod. And that.’

‘O god, what are you doing to me.’

‘I’m thrashing you sir.’

‘You cunt.’

‘You cad.’

The squiffy chap rolling arms wrapped round his head. The gentry’s pukka shout of shame and a chorus of encouragement from the locals as the Major landed a boot thump in the ribs. Your man curling up from the concussion and then lying groaning and still. The crowd fading back. And Mr Arland’s voice.

‘You sir, are a pathetic bully and coward striking a man who is down.’

‘Poppycock sir. Ho got no more than he richly deserves. And perhaps you too should like a whipping.’

‘If I get down sir, from my horse, I assure you that you will never again get up on yours.’

The hair standing up on the back of my head at Mr Arland’s quietly delivered words. The Major grunting and turning away. Foxy said the randy Major would jump up on his own grandmother in her coffin and had put every scullery maid in his house up the pole. And he was widely known for his particular skill in administering indoor punishment to servants. When he wasn’t otherwise busy himself dressing up as a woman. And was now prancing about the meadow with victorious self importance. Stopping only to pose in the gaze of the mounted ladies. With Baptista looking down admiringly as he slapped the ivory of his whip into his white gloved hand.

‘I should venture to suggest that that should teach the sozzled insolent chap some manners. And I apologize to the ladies if this unbecoming fracas gave offence.’

The Master and Huntsman leading the field off down the road and into a boreen. Through rusting iron gates and across two fields. To the first covert which drew nothing save pigeons. Nor the second in a grove by a bog from which snipe flew in their shifting flight. But the third, a wood atop a stone strewn hill roused a fox. Skidaddling goodo pronto. The Huntsman blew his horn. The echoes sounding back from the nearby hills. The chase was on with the usual curses flying amid the whoops and hollers, and the rather more staid remarks of the elder members.

‘I say there, I do believe that that ruddy fox is departing.’

‘Yoikes, yoikes.’

‘After the bloody little bugger.’

Uncle Willie said hounds take their character from their Huntsman and this pack was splendidly disciplined. The sunshine bright up on their backs. Barking and bounding off north west, nose to ground, white tips of sterns bobbing. Foxy on Thunder and Lightning leaping to the forefront of the field between Huntsman and Master. On the heel of these, the brave contingent, already pounding half way down across a great spreading meadow. Hooves slapping the grass. Chunks of dark tan turf flying up behind in the sky.

The first minor casualties were the Slasher sisters. Two raving redheads, who both fell off in a deep flowing brook. Smiling, they remounted, water spilling from their boots and wet hair flying. And lips loosing rather not nice words. They charged up the hill. Fighting Murphy the Farmer was next. His horse going down at the gallop in a rabbit hole. And poor rider, he was flung like an arrow head first into the ground. Where he lay, believed to be soundly dead. Till someone hoping to borrow a nip from his small brandy bottle awakened him. He was soon up and mounted again and minus only his memory which it was agreed he never used anyway. And back at the crossroads this morning one saw various sober persons secreted behind hedges vomiting. And others minus their flasks, taking their courage in great gulps of whiskey in the pub. Some of whom now formed the courageous gang looking for a way through the thick tall tangle of ash briar and blackthorn at the top of the field. Till Foxy crashed a hole in the hedge big enough to bring an army through. And the Mad Vet himself said.

‘That pup Slattery would ride an elephant between two atoms stuck together.’

I kept mostly in the middle of the field with my Molly who did not like to get her feet wet or her coat scratched by briars. Being as she was a rather proud and delicate lady. Miss von B I could see ahead at the rear of the brave contingent. The twin acorns of her gleaming arse bobbing over her saddle. And closely behind Baptista. Who kept turning to look back at her most unpleasantly. And I stretched Molly’s legs galloping two fields with the nervous contingent before dropping back to lurk a little behind in the forefront of the cowards. To see that Mr Arland came to no early harm. And no one sniggered at him now aboard the barrel shaped Petunia.

‘Are you alright Mr Arland.’

‘Thank you yes Kildare. I am merely trepidatious.’

‘Uncle Willie says always take your first fall as soon as you can to get rid of your fear.’

‘Unfortunately Kildare having only one life, I think I may prefer to stay mounted and frightened out of my wits.’

The Major smugly smiling to each side of him at the ladies as he now passed forward through the field, having officiated over the farmer Murphy who since his amnesia was on every side proclaiming he was an African prince with a harem, instead, as someone said, a bog trotter with a paddock of scrawny pigs. And the Major while galloping by circulated the news.

‘That silly sod Murphy thinks now he’s a rich nigger.’

I sat on a hillock pausing in the sunshine with Molly puffing somewhat out of condition and viewing the Major just as he galloped up and over a high mound near by roaring ‘Gung Ho’ and then plummeted down the other side. Where his horse most wisely, but extremely abruptly, refused at a very wide deep ditch on the edge of the bog. And the Major, without wings was sent aloft. Landing stretched full face in the oozing deeply brown mud. Accompanied by the echoes of his Gung and Ho. And as he half raised himself up from the clinging muck the, humorously inclined Mad Vet cantering past, suggested loudly.

‘Sir it appears that it is you who is now the nigger.’

I twice caught sight of the poor fox Making his skulking way along the edge of a wood. Jumping a little to left and right. His red and brown coat so plain against the green. The sight of which would instantly alert these blood thirsty pursuers howling and shouting in the wake of his scent. With the pack of paws and hoofed avalanche of horses pounding upon his canine heels. To be in a breath atomized by flashing fangs. Sad fellow.

With most of the brave field gone ahead, the Major, his mouth spitting mud, was dragged by the boot heels back up to dry green land. He stood up, his hands pressed at the kidneys. And then with a long groan, keeled over backwards into the bog again. Baptista holding his horse and still levelling her best dirty looks in Miss von B’s direction and that of any member of the Andromeda Park contingent. The Major now mostly surrounded by the elder ladies making their inane remarks. And very much distracting the Major’s attention from his task of sloughing off his person the bigger chunks of clay. As in her haughty supercilious manner Baptista looking down at the Major keeps loudly uttering.

‘O I say what foul awfully bad luck.’

And the Major mumbling as he dug further copious muck from ear hole and nostril.

‘Yes quite.’

The baying of the hounds now seemed to have changed direction. And Baptista, right as we were enjoying the splendid view of the stricken and ooze encrusted Major, barged straight into Miss von B. Who spun round and gave the quarters of Consuelo’s horse such a slap of her whip that I thought I saw smoke rise where it burned into the hair and I would have sworn that Baptista this time farted in fear as her horse bolted, for she gave, as Uncle Willie called it, a backside bark and left behind a fume something entirely unhorsey. And as the sweeter air from green things swept it away, one was rather aware that it could be a fracas between females soon. This day already being most full of the unexpected. Just as last night had amply been full of most useful discovery.

I tried my best to warn everyone out of the way as Baptista came galloping back, her steed blasting out steamy puffs from its nostrils and her riding crop raised to strike Miss von B. And as the horse’s hooves began thrashing round his prostrate figure a loud scream came up from the mud and the Major. As Baptista Consuelo’s swipe missed. The ducking von B, in the same instant caught the young golden blonde beauty with the most marvellously disguised back hander which landed a stunning swat across Baptista’s backside just as that part gleamed exposed from under her jacket flap. The splash of mud from the flying horses totally obliterating the Major. Whose protesting voice now seemed to come out of nowhere.

‘Stop it. I’m secretary of the hunt. Stop it.’

The fox had doubled back. And must have crossed over this bit of bog. For the scent mad hounds were sailing at us. And even trying, to sniff under the mud bathing Major. Now came thundering the whole field, the brave contingent foremost. The nervous contingent following not far behind. Even caught up were a few of the cowards, all pounding straight towards this newest mêlée. Foxy still in front of the Master who was shouting most angrily and now obscenely shrieking for him to stay back out of the way.

‘Get behind me you brazen cunt.’

Fighting Murphy the Farmer said if his senses still served him there was no doubt that a devilishly clever fox had put the hunt to rout. And reined up together on a knoll over the débâcle were the parson and priest friends of my mother who were both clearly disturbed by the curses flying and the imminent maim about to be wrought. The parson tendered a glinting silver cup of refreshment to the priest as these two clerics made ready to help each other administer the last rites of their respective churches to those recently quickly becoming in need of same. Two bogged down riders were already making unbrave noises as they sank atop their struggling horses. While Luke and Foxy’s father were either side of the rather eccentric Lord otherwise known as the Mental Marquis in a yellow hunting cap who carried American six shooters hidden under his coat and always volunteered his vocation as being that of a debauchee. Following him close was the mad veterinary surgeon carrying a vastly long amputation knife in a sheath stuck down his boot, so, as he said, to give quick treatment to any hunt member who had hopelessly mangled a limb in the field. Being that it always made the injured chap lighter carrying him to the hospital. And when the begrimed Major saw this bloodthirsty gentleman closing down upon him he was vociferous.

‘For god’s sake don’t let that tree surgeon at me. I’m merely temporarily incapacitated and I don’t want to be permanently disembowelled.’

‘Tally ho.’

Someone said it was the first sensible utterance heard in a long while. And it was out of the Master’s lips who was pointing with his whip. At the ruddy fox. Who, would you believe it. Was now suddenly in the midst of us. And wouldn’t he know it was the safest place. Running in a circle from the converging hounds through horses’ legs and even some human. Of those recently dismounted to assist the Major. And Baptista now striking out with her fist at von B. Who was a consummate expert with her crop. Swatting Consuelo again and again. And even thwacking one back handed across Baptista’s face where a red welt blossomed smarting across her cheeks and nose.

‘O my god you’ve struck me. Someone please, kill her the filthy bitch. She’s not fit to be out with civilized people.’

‘You, you little bitch, are the bitch.’

‘I’ll show you yet who’s the bitch.’

Baptista raising her own whip. Slamming her heels deep into the sweat stained flanks of her chestnut stallion. This sixteen hand monster charging forward straight at Miss von B who raised her own whip and spun my father’s once polo schooled horse round. Both whips landing. Foam flying from the equine mouths as they churned in a circle digging deep gouges in the turf. The mud bespattered Major, hands waving as he stood.

‘I say ladies, ladies. What is the difficulty here.’

The Major attempting to rapid step out of where he stood between. Turning round and round to avoid the orbits of the flying hooves. Arms raised to ward off the stray blows landing from the lashing leathers. Which the Major quickly decided was the least of it as these quadruped wild tramplings and stampeding could be curtains not only for him but for everybody.

‘I say, quicko, let’s have orderliness.’

‘Ah jasus in a second you won’t have your quicko testicles.’

‘Who said that. Out with it. Who said that.’

A dowager lady riding side saddle, a winter hot house rose in her lapel, her black skirt spreading midships on her horse and the shadow of her veil across her face, let out a holler as her mare bolted and ran away with her. And two more horses bucked and threw their riders. Just as Miss von B, her vast diamond sparkling from its setting in the gold pin stuck through the folds of white satin at her throat, took a grab of Baptista’s lapels, and both ladies’ bowlers bounced off. Poor Mr Arland, his hands over his face. Von B pulling Baptista forward. Makes one remember the strong tapering muscles in her arms bigger than mine. And all the polishing and dusting and holding open of large books she does.

‘Let go of me you filthy foreigner.’

‘You common commoner, I shall teach you a lesson. You will not again try to ride me down.’

‘Let go.’

‘Ladies, this is most ungracious, can we not determine what is the difficulty here.’

A dismounted local squire rumoured to be erudite, stepping innocently forward to mediate and as Baptista’s mount reared with a massive erection he wisely jumped instantly backwards. With the great chestnut stallion taking bites out of the air. Von B backing away her mount and again catching Baptista by the collar, dragging the fist flailing girl backwards from her horse. The long blonde tresses, stuck with large tortoiseshell combs now hanging loose around her head as she fell. Landing smack on her bottom, hands and legs asprawl on the squelching boggy ground. And her mount galloping off rigid pricked, blasting farts, its hind hooves kicking in the sky.

All but Foxy and the Mental Marquis of the brave contingent took off after Charlie the Fox. And both the nervous and coward contingent contentedly remained behind to watch the fight. All nicely arranged in the sunshine in a safe semi circle. Foxy sitting there among the gentry, a great grin on his face. And I believe I heard him shout at the height of the mêlée.

‘Up the Republic.’

And just as the huntsman’s horn away in a copse beyond the bog sounded the quick pulsating notes of a tremolo to signal that the hounds had killed the fox, Baptista was feeling around her on the grass for a stone. Gathering up instead a fistful of grass to throw at von B.

‘You horrid horrid person you.’

‘You brat you are spoiled.’

‘You are a whorish servant.’

‘Ha ha, you make me weep.’

‘You disgusting foreigner.’

‘Now you make me laugh.’

‘My Lord Marquis just don’t sit there, shoot her, you’ve got guns.’

‘My dear Baptista, I also retain the very vaguest of morals One mustn’t fire upon unready ladies.’

‘She’s no lady. She’s a tramp.’

Baptista knelt on the moist turf her knees staining brown. Mr Arland dismounted, was crossing to where she’d lost her bowler and picking this up and brushing it clean with his sleeve he approached, bowing gently forward, his own top hat with suitable respect sweeping from his head, and leaning down to the rising Baptista he proferred his assisting hand.

‘Please may I at least as a possible peacemaker return your hat and help you to your feet.’

‘As for you, leave my hat alone and get your hands away from me you wretched damn tutor to those land stealing Kildares.’

On the edge of this barren bog. And on the inclining side of this rushy meadow, some yellow little gorse blossoms opened by the sun. The sweet of their coconut scent lost on this crisp air. Through which this girl’s two eyes were blazing hatred. Making me feel as if great welts were blotching all over my skin. And Mr Arland, poor Mr Arland, my noble kind tutor, who froze in his tracks. And stood there dumbly. And then slowly took back his outstretched hand and put back his opera hat on his head. And as someone had now led back and held Baptista’s recaptured horse and she unravelled a stirrup, I could in the clear winter light see the sparkle of moisture in Mr Arland’s eyes. And his voice was something I heard in me saying.

O god

I’m hurt