The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

9

The weather stayed cold crisp and sunny an entire fortnight. With mornings of frost whitened meadows. I was getting used now to being squire of Andromeda Park. And that my father would not suddenly enter the door and thereupon I would have to hurriedly stand. With Crooks indisposed with severe gout, I enjoyed to walk the corridors listening to the sound of my heels striking the floors. Sheila or Norah stopping momentarily in their work to address me with the time of day. My only childish action was whenever I heard the haunting squeal of swan wings. I’d rush to the window to watch these great white birds cruise across the sky, all their strength and power whistling just above the trees of the front lawn. And the sight filled me with loneliness and a feeling I would like to be gone somewhere far away.

And then on a grey rainy cold morning, the mailman came urgently on his bicycle with a special letter. My father from whom no one had heard except that when after more cattle and fields were sold, money orders arrived to pay the servants and men, was now writing to tell Mr Arland that I must attend a young gentlemen’s school close to Dublin, and that his services upon my gaining entry would no longer be required. Although I was furious and Mr Arland was extremely sad at the news, he counselled me that I should go. And when he complained he could not sleep these recent nights over the pub, I invited him to take a room at Andromeda Park.

Three weeks later we departed just before lunch, bundled up and wrapped in scarves. Miss von B as she stood tweedily attired in the hall making sure again and again that I had all my necessities and that I was smart looking, held her fists clenched at her sides and her lips drawn tight as if she were about to cry. Outside on the steps Sexton presented himself to say goodbye, giving us four winter stored apples he had brightly polished. I could sniff the usual smell of soot and motor oil on his hair and I perceived moisture in his eye as he touched his patch and seemed overly hearty expressing his words.

‘Up there in the roaring metropolis you’ll soon be getting Latin aplenty Master Darcy sine dubio. And Mr Arland, what harm was there in our little differences. God bless the both of you now and safe journey.’

Our bags followed on a float driven by Luke and Foxy’s father. And Mr Arland in his naval great coat sitting high in the governess’s cart was chewing the last of the apples as we arrived at the faded grey station. Standing lonely and bereft as it did down at the end of the tree lined drive, its apron of gravel surrounded with its neatly tilled flower beds. Its large clock suspended over the platform was said to have the most accurate time in the county. That is if anyone had the correct time to compare it to.

Although we’d learned earlier by the crossroads telephone that the train for certain had left the previous town, we waited two hours. And every time Mr Arland opened his coat and pushed into his waistcoat pocket for the silver box to take a liberal pinch of snuff, he would also take from his baggy grey suit, his big gold watch to regard the hour. And with his battered briefcase resting against his ankle, he would peer up at the station timepiece.

‘Good lord that damn clock is losing a minute every ten minutes and it was made in Leicester.’

And when finally we first heard and then saw the puffing engine rounding the bend between the hills, there was a great self important flurry from the platform porter. And the Station Master with his whistle and green flag kept shouting.

‘All aboard now, don’t keep the train waiting.’

The man sitting on a box of pigeons stood up and spat into the stones between the tracks. Another sitting on a crated squealing pig, dragged it along the platform. Then a gentleman lugging a suitcase perforated with holes and full of squawking chickens said to these other two owners that their livestock could just as soon be dead cooked and eaten after themselves were already killed with the waiting, and then he pointed towards the locomotive and then announced.

‘Sure that yoke would be flying if it only had a bit of coal.’

There were faces I recognized from the town. The bald headed and dour demeanoured owner of the drapery shop who was rumoured to be buying some of our land. And others whom I saw look at me and then lean over and make whispers in each other’s ears. Quite disrespectful and most uncomfortable making. Especially with some of the monstrous bills we owed. But one elderly gentleman, who said he served my grandfather for forty years in the stables of Andromeda Park, had the courtesy to salute us and hold open the train door as we boarded. And with turf being flung into the boilers we made eastwards at a steady pace along the banks of the canal and between the stretching dark bog lands, stopping at the little stations to collect the patiently waiting passengers some of whose faces were blue with cold.

With my sleeve I wiped clear the steam of my breath collecting on the window. Out in the gathering darkness all one could see were shadows and sometimes a lonely light. My feet growing cold, I daydreamed of von B. Mostly of her body. And just as we finished eating our buttery ham thick sandwiches a priest came in to our compartment and regarded me out of the corner of his eye. In some strange way I seemed to irritate him. Perhaps upsetting him with my lascivious thoughts. He would squiggle up his nose and frown and make nasty faces. And especially so when I took out and wrote in my recently begun blue leather diary. I had found it in back of one of the cupboards of medical instruments with its pages empty and under another diary my mother’s father had kept and in which I found great interest to read. I carried both and mine was locked with a silver tiny clip. And because this could easily be broken open I thought it would be prudent on the frontis page to write.

Herein lies the truth of The Daring Dancer’s activities and a curse shall be on him and his heirs who shall open without my warrant and peruse these pages.

The click clack of the train slowing as we made another stop. Then the mournful whistle wailing as we approached road crossings. A gentleman entered in a stiff wing collar, and sat with the priest across from us. His red glowing face lit by the ceiling light. And perhaps many whiskeys. By the cut of his jib not to mention cutaway coat, striped trousers and black gartered socks, he appeared to be of the legal profession. And from time to time he regards Mr Arland who only lifts his head up from his book to try to read the name as we pull into yet another tiny station.

The legal gentleman seemed to entirely approve of me and once smiled as I wrote in my diary. Which really alarmed me to blushing because I was writing that last night I had four emissions with H.R.H. which initials I used to refer to Miss von B. We stopped at sidings along the great bog to load turf into the tender from the great stacks by the track. And I detected a certain smugness in the legal gentleman who cleared his throat as the conductor who was coming by the carriages asking for the lend of a hand, but who when looking into our window, instead saluted from his cap. Then the legal gent spoke for the first and last time, giving us a flash of his best French.

‘Premier class passengers are not asked to help unless they volunteer.’

We heard concerned voices shifting boxes. And back along the train there was the roaring moaning of cattle as they were beaten up into a livestock car. Then the train slowly chugging underway again and I thought back to that fox hunting day of von B beating Baptista. And making, with those splendid lashes landing on the latter, the occupants of Andromeda Park, persona non grata. And we chose to miss a meeting or two of the hunt. Who had four more fixtures during the splendid weather. Which produced grumblings around the stables at the lack of action. All except for Foxy, who said as he cantered Thunder and Lightning around the farm buildings.

‘You can the rest of you do what yez like but I’m going to hump after that fucking fox.’

And off he would gallop. And from Foxy came the information that it was rumoured that Baptista’s solicitors in the town were intending to call half the hunt as witnesses when they went to trial to ask for damages for assault. Although no writ had yet arrived upon the heels of their threatening letters to Miss von B, more of these unpleasant communications continued to come. Over which Mr Arland and I would pore in the schoolroom between bouts of geography and my recent course on American history.

Dear Madam,

Our client is not satisfied to grant further unappreciated courtesy to await further your obtaining legal representation, the time for which is now long past due, and we call upon you to remit the damages required and give the written apology demanded, or we shall, per our client’s instructions, institute proceedings without further notice.

Yours faithfully,

Fibbs, Kelly, Orgle and Fluthered

I could not help but feel as Mr Arland toyed with and touched these distressing letters that he made seem that they were in some remote way secret coded friendly messages to him from Baptista Consuelo. I kept imagining that he might pick one up and kiss her solicitors’ signature which I had seen times before provocatively suggesting legal redress against my father for selling some outlying land which some small farmer, claiming squatters’ rights, had decided to quietly fence off for himself. But as we all sat over Catherine’s piping hot buttery scones and damson jam served by a limping Crooks for tea he dutifully upon lengthy consultations with Miss von B composed replies. And in his high mock pompous voice, putting the final sheet in front of me. Saying.

‘I think that out of some authorities who write on such matters, we may have produced here a thorn or two for them Kildare.’

Dear Sirs,

I write in response to your latest letter and on behalf of Her Royal Highness, The Princess Schlesgluckwigboomsonderstein, that she is, due to a recent indisposition, unable to make the trip to Dublin to instruct her legal advisers not only in answer to your client’s claims but also in the matter of the malicious slanders uttered in the disparagement of Her Royal Highness in her present vocation and further reckless imputations of unchastity published in the hunting field by your client with the words hereinafter following. To wit: ‘You are a whorish servant.’

And additionally:

‘She’s no lady, she’s a tramp.’

Yours faithfully,

Mister Arland

(Tutor in residence to Master Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.)

Touching this cold clammy train window. The thick leather strap which holds it closed scratched and worn. And now miles back there those evenings after dinner, when it wasn’t quite jolly for us three to be in cahoots constructing these letters, it was for me altogether quite mournful. As I took the imputation of Her Royal Highness’s unchastity much to heart. Especially as I did now, more than occasionally, sneakily detour to sleep in her bed. But with Mr Arland making one of his funny faces and placing his head on one side to say.

‘Ah I think that that nice flourish, imputation of unchastity, may, when the enormity of its ramifications penetrate their thick country skulls, put those rural legal chaps to rout.’

One would at these words be amused and the flush of embarrassment I was sure was on my face would fade. While at the mention of Baptista, Kelly, Fibbs, Fluthered or Orgle, Miss von B merely sniffed down her nose and gave a high pitched false laugh. And with Crooks finally hors de combat with two gouty feet, she was these days a power of activity and made what she said was a pre spring clean. The great big ring of clanging jangling keys on her forearm, pulling open the long closed cupboards in the walls of the ballroom and putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed the shelves full of ancient medical instruments. Her eyes growing wide as she said in her excitement Vas is diss, when her German accent became quite pronounced. And I replied with some relish.

‘Ah Princess Gluckswittlebocksonderboomstein, dem ist der blood letting blades, dat snap out to cut zee two rows of incisions to let zee patient’s or victim’s, however you prefer, to let zair blood flow mit some profusion.’

She would when I used that accent try to clobber me behind the ear. The strength of her was quite amazing. And once I saw stars followed I was pleased to feel, by her kisses bringing me back to life. And then I would with forceps and other evil looking contraptions, try to apply and attempt to operate with them on the more intimate parts of Miss von B’s body and she, quite unreasonably scared I thought, would shriek and run, bosoms bouncing, as I chased her all about the ballroom, making my most horrid faces and looming in my most contorted and frightening manner. Till caught she would say, as I flung her down on a dusty window seat with our feet entwining in the great heavy drapes and my hand searching to tug down her undergarments.

‘Not here, not here, you little fool.’

Now with every click clack of this cold train I get further away from von B. Who wanted to tie me up and whip me. And when I let her once and it hurt, I asked her was she not disgusted with her behaviour. And especially of indoctrinating one so young as myself. She said that all the better bred older ladies of the deeper continent kept young boys to whip and make love to them. In Vienna it was quite the custom. And she asked would I ever wed. I said no and certainly I would not contemplate such a thing as marriage to an older lady. Not if they did that kind of thing. But with all my responsibilities these days I thought that a wife, one of the quality of Miss von B, would be quite suitable. And save me paying wages. She is so good at cleaning and keeping everything in its place. She sews, mends and crochets. And even knows considerable about cooking except that Catherine hates the sight of her in the kitchen. She is an accomplished horse woman, and jolly good at diagnosing their troubles. Pity she is quite unknowledgeable when it comes to cattle. Had to tell her the difference between a Friesian and Hereford. Of course I could teach her these agricultural things. Just as she has taught me how to make love to ladies. Touch them where they like it most. With these my fingers, which wipe the window and I watch out into the passing black night. And look at my fingernails she manicured. On my third trip to Dublin. Way back there now in the countryside, Andromeda Park sitting lonely on its hill. Strange, how when you leave a whole world behind, you worry that who will see that gates are closed in the far off meadows and mend where the fences are broken. Her Royal Highness will keep the home fires burning. Especially if Crooks will uncomplainingly serve her tea. Although not really himself, he was quite attentive as we dined those evenings. And seemed, always at the end of the day, to be able to manage to arise from bed and bring up from the cellars to table some of our most very best wines, in particular the great booming reds of the Côte de Nuits which he briefly aired and decanted for drinking. But I had noticed recently that not only had he become considerably more cross eyed but that he was particularly monosyllabic with me. Holding awkwardly out from his side his previously broken left arm and answering. Yes master Reginald. No master Reginald. I’ll see to it, master Reginald. And one late evening as I was heading to fetch my atlas from the schoolroom to get an impromptu geography lesson from Her Royal Highness nakedly waiting for me upstairs, I stopped to watch the three bats flying in the front hall. When Crooks, stooped forward in his dressing gown and slippers, confronted me in the moonlit darkness. I must admit that there was prevalent a religious mania which seemed to affect to some degree, all the servants, especially those in their less menial and more polite pursuits above stairs. And this I now detected in Crooks as he growled and then with his whiskey smelling breath spouted polysyllabic at me.

‘Good lord my God who hath made my legs weak and big toes pained, beseech you deliver us from fornication, and all other deadly sin and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil.’

‘Is that you Crooks.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you speaking to me Crooks.’

‘I speak to my God first before I shall speak to any earthly master. There’s too much and enough going on in this house already. What good would it do to speak to you Master Reginald.’

‘Well you are speaking to me.’

‘And I regret to see the bad evil influence of that hooligan Foxy coming to flower. And now with that kraut herself disembowelling the very house and sacrilegiously dislodging your great grand uncle’s medical instruments from their repository. O there will come the day.’

‘What are you trying to say Crooks.’

‘I’ll say it. And when I have it said and done, the good Lord will then judge. Meanwhile I can only beseech he deliver us from fornication.’

Crooks’s slippered footsteps shuffled off down the hall into darkness. And it always rather amazed and alarmed me at how unconcernedly he would, without being summoned, march at any old time through any old room of the house when the fancy took him as it obviously took him now, his voice mumbling as he went.

‘O this house, this house. Where I have served so faithfully my dear departed mistress, would that you o great god have the mercy to resurrect her. The all pure and holy Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond. God bless you dear. God bless you, you wonderful charming beautiful lady.’

Whenever I looked up in his direction, the priest in our train compartment seemed as if he were about to suddenly speak or more probably shout at me. Clearly to him both Mr Arland and I were agnostics at large or something, or even worse, protestants. Whom Sexton said, were at least well bathed and honest while any good catholic worth his salt didn’t go near a bath tub and would treacherously lie sooner than look at you. And Crooks and Sexton were easily the most devout among our male staff, both wearing crucifixes under their tunics which they oftentimes took out and kissed. And I thought any day I’d see the two of them dancing a jig down the hall each with a winter bouquet of Sexton’s night scented flowers and screaming hail mary up at heaven. But all that happened back that night confronting Crooks, was that my erection went down and when feeling around in the dark for the atlas I fell over a broom sticking out wedged between a table and the wall in the schoolroom. But it was the first time ever that I heard Crooks pray for my mother’s resurrection. It was not however, the first I had heard of him speaking of his miraculous visions. Vouched for on one occasion by Sexton, who only that I knew he was somewhat touched with an equal mania, I might have nearly believed them both. Their urgent hysterics about the apparition told all over the farmyard, that my mother had appeared where the altar used to be in the ancient ruin of the chapel in the cemetery. Or Sexton when he stood in his potting shed imploring with his hands.

‘Ah it was a blinding brightness of light and that immaculate lady, sine dubio, the very virgin replica of the Blessed Virgin herself, stood there with her fair hand raised till the explosive vision blinded us. I myself with me only one good eye left threw meself prostrate to the ground. Then when I looked back up, there stood a vase right out of Catherine’s kitchen cupboard with the loveliest of deep red roses in it. A miracle.’

And on this bumping ride now. The train to Dublin. Photographs of the great hotels enveloped in smoke over the legal gent’s head, as the priest puffs on a cigarette. And all the waste land and barren bogs out there in the darkness. And upon the journey from Andromeda Park to the station we were discussing the niceties of legal jargon when I asked Mr Arland if it were not proper for me to address Miss von B by her title. He frowned slightly as he said.

‘Of course in mere courtesy you might. However, although she is, Kildare, according to the Almanach de Gotha, high born, I regret to say that, in fact, she is not entitled to be referred to in the style and manner of Her Royal Highness.’

We had on that subject a good jolly laugh when letter composing. For Mr Arland, when we sat alone without Miss von B, further and better revising our letters to those naughty solicitors, would place his pointing finger under the words Her Royal Highness and then double up his hand into a shaking fist. And how in this carriage he slumps a little, there in the corner, his head nodding off to sleep, his book open across his grey knee with the thumb of his pale scholarly hand held between the pages and I could see the nosey priest trying to see its long complicated title.

A Domestic Homoeopathy

Its Legitimate Sphere of Practice

Together with Rules for Diet and Regimen

Mr Arland often read and quoted to me from this volume with such advices as, ‘Nightmare often occurs after a hearty supper.’ Although he said he should be sorry to no longer be my tutor, I felt he might be glad to be departing. Especially with his advances towards Baptista Consuelo so poorly and unsportingly received. But recently he seemed to have come out of his tendency to long silences. Which I felt had resulted from his deep and spurned love for that little bitch. He had moreover, met me, as nearly every bloody member of the household now had, on one of my rather late evening expeditions to Miss von B. I was about to babble out a whole stream of ridiculous excuses as to why I was to be found tiptoeing in my dressing gown upwards on the beech grove stairs, my noisy slippers tucked under each armpit, when he bowed in the candlelight and instead made his excuse to me.

‘Ah Kildare, I am unable to sleep and I am on my way to the library to choose a book. And ah I see you were just like me as a boy. I too often went at night to go catch moths attracted by a light I’d put at an attic window.’

‘Ah yes, Mr Arland, yes, precisely what I am doing. As a matter of fact. Catching moths.’

‘Of course you’ll find moths more plentiful in summer. But have a good catch, Kildare, goodnight.’

Now Mr Arland slumped over in his seat lets out a little snore. Which clearly the priest does not appreciate but at which the legal gent kindly smiles. Just as Mr Arland did that night on the stairs. When I knew that I had blundered by saying anything about catching moths. But I am sure he felt it beneficial for me to have it off with Miss von B even though he could not contribute to the furtherance of that aspect of my education by his tutoring. And noting the fact in my diary, I was astonished as to how well used I was becoming to sleeping with her. We could get nice and jolly warm together. And I liked her stories. About the Barons Princes and Duchesses, and the naughty goings on in the tottering Royal Houses of Europe. And the way she would suddenly in the middle of them jump up and go guzzling and kissing all over me with her mouth. I could nearly think of nothing now but climbing on top of her each night or she upon me as we did occasionally till dawn or our utter fatigue finally intervened. Resulting then in my being unable to stand up during the daytime. Sitting there in the schoolroom or across the table from Mr Arland in the library, with my pained and strained prick pushing my trousers out like a tent. And at lunch when I walked bent over behind Mr Arland to the dining room, he turned to regard me.

‘Good grief Kildare, what on earth’s the matter, you’re bent over like an old man, are you alright.’

‘I believe I may just have a small rupture.’

‘Good lord, we had better summon the doctor.’

‘O no I’ll be quite alright, it easily passes off.’

‘Rupture Kildare, does not pass off. Indeed you can get a strangulated hernia.’

‘O I’m sure it’s perhaps not rupture. Colic or something. Quite temporary.’

‘Colic, o well, my Domestic Homoeopathy Manual has just the jolly job for you. Hot flannels applied on the belly. And you must abstain from green vegetable and other flatulent food.’

Yet, having it off with Miss von B had so much changed one’s life. For a start my voice was considerably deeper. And I was able to wear my foreskin back. It was worrying however that nearly nothing else entered one’s mind. And there might be something going wrong with my brain. For even as I used to do, watching the rooks, or tramping for a walk up over spy glass hill, everywhere in front of one’s eyes was the moaning writhing body of Miss von B. And I must admit that not everything was pleasure. Those first few times I blushed and shivered and trembled and at times was revolted. Indeed a whole fortnight passed before I was able to avoid vomiting usually once before heading up the stairs and again in her room and again when I returned to mine. And dear me, once right on top of her. Later of course, when I returned to the privacy of my own chamber, I did nearly laugh my head off. It was the extraordinary panicky manner in which she tried to get out of the way of that evening’s digested dinner. Since I was in her we were rather pinned together, and she would move one way just as I was trying to move the opposite. I had also to get used to one or two regrettable things in the way of her personal smells occasioned when she could not bathe. When, as a result of a two week visit from the plumber who went round scratching his head and twisting and banging the pipes, finally had water flying out of everywhere but where it should. Although she retired behind a screen to put some contraption up her I always found it rather disconcerting especially as she would with equanimity loose farts. However when she did this under the covers she did explain that if such gas should therein remain bottled up there could result one awful battle to finally bust it out. As I got used to her ways I laid a few myself and we would both lie there listening together to see who could make the most interesting bang. She was most remarkably handy with her tongue as well. And would put it around things and in places that most surprised me. And just so that she would not think I was as sordid as she was I thought it appropriate to mildly remonstrate.

‘Even though I like you doing that to me isn’t it filthy and disgusting.’

‘You Irish, your minds are as stupid as your bodies are usually dirty.’

The train now passing by bleak black rooftops and over a trestle bridge in the misty darkness. Lamplights up streets glowing on the shabby red bricked tiny houses. Smoke curling thick from chimneys into the hovering fog. And as the train pulled into the station, the legal gentleman again smiled at me. He also civilly bowed to Mr Arland who bowed back as he was leaving the carriage. The priest however appeared to like one even less now at the end of the journey and took his black case down from the rack with an impatient long sigh.

The great glass roof over us in the terminus. A porter, already shouting his services to the emerging first class passengers, pushed a noisy iron wheeled barrow in front of him and at Mr Arland’s direction took our luggage. Turning continually to speak back to us.

‘This way now gentlemen if you please.’

And Mr Arland absent mindedly turned right down grey granite steps. To then hear the porter calling after us from the top, to say he had a carriage waiting at the other entrance. Where he hefted our luggage up on the brougham’s roof and then made vague mutterings over his tip until Mr Arland gave him an extra shilling.

‘Well there you are Kildare, evidence of the greed overcoming modern society.’

The horsecab driver with his big crimson nose sticking out from under his top hat, folding his whip and climbing up on his perch to sit pulling an old piece of burlap across his legs. Giving his thin nag a feeble belt across the quarters, and off we trotted down this incline, the candle fluttering behind the gleaming glass of our sidelights. Turning right, out through great grey gates to suddenly stop. This morning Kern and Olav loped beside us all the way to the lodge and then just sat, their great hulking shaggy shapes, disconsolate as we disappeared down the road. And this city street aswarm with bicycles. Coming by in a great wave as we waited. And here and there were motor cars. The huge garda finally putting up his white gloved hand to halt them all. And we pulled out, passing this policeman nearly as tall as the roof of our horse carriage and as wide as a full grown bull across the shoulders.

‘Well Kildare, we made it multa gemens. Five hours nearly, to go sixty miles. Translate please.’

‘With many an agony.’

‘With many a groan Kildare, with many a groan.’

A sign at the door of a dirty red bricked building said Coroner’s Court. And next to it written on closed big dark wooden gates, City Morgue. Newsboys on the street corners shouting out Herald and Mail. Their tattered jackets too small and their white naked legs and blue white feet on the wet blocks of granite, phlegm streaming from their noses. The evening herd of cold pinched dark coated figures waiting to cross at the pavement’s edge, their breath making steam from their mouths. The strange purple of the sky. A ship hooting on the river. Great stack of barrels quayside being loaded by a ship’s derrick under lights. And bouncing on the cobbles, clattering huge carts tugged by massive horses. Followed here and there by impatient automobiles. Must be sadness where so many of the lower orders live inside the big broken windows. Behind these mournful unloved walls.

‘Kildare cheer up. It will appear much better to you in the morning, I assure you.’

‘It looks so appalling. Down those streets.’

‘In a moment or two and just over this bridge we shall be in a better part of town. A bath, a little supper in you, will put a completely new complexion on it. Now in that building there, once when the college baths were closed, I cleansed myself as an undergraduate.’

Past pubs, a coal merchant, gentleman’s clothiers and a shop selling yeast. And on the right, a massive edifice with porticoes and pillars blackened by age and bleached by rain. Another garda even as big as the previous one, his nose and face red in the cold mist, directing traffic outside the gates of the college. At which Mr Arland seemed longingly to look. Beyond the railings either side of the entrance path, a statue standing up out of lawns flat velvet and green. And we trotted on behind a tram, clanging its bell, roaring and grinding on its track. Indeed one felt without being jubilant, at least a little more hopeful. And now the tram with its two tiers of dim yellow lighted windows, turning as we head straight. The horses’ hooves slipping on the wet wooden blocks.

‘That Kildare is the Provost’s House and here we are now in the lap of elegance. On your left, Mitchell’s for yummy creamy cakes and tea. Now Brown Thomas’s for the best in silks, cashmeres, lace, linen and I suppose ladies’ knickerbockers. And coming on your right. Bewley’s Oriental emporium of coffee, spice buns, butter balls and jersey milk.’

Turning left at the top of the street. The winter shadowy trees of St Stephen’s Green. Trotting along, a sweet smell of turf smoke pushing down from the roof top chimney pots on the terraced row of tall Georgian houses. Standing cheek by jowl like the giant faces of people who sit with big empty eyes staring. Pulling up in front of a big red brick building. The doorman opening the horsecab, assisting Mr Arland to alight. Two porters attentively collecting down our luggage. Mr Arland plonking two half crowns into the jarvey’s upturned hand. And turning to me as we mounted the step under the hotel’s glass awning.

‘Well Kildare, whatever amenities this city may possess most are, to use that favoured expression of Sexton’s, sine dubio to be found right in here.’

There was welcoming warmth and bustle in the lobby of the hotel and faint smells of ladies’ perfume passing. And with some interest I regarded their legs. And with much interest their bottoms, especially those well delineated by snug tailoring. Mr Arland made reservations for dinner, while a boy much smaller than myself, hair slicked back and parted in the middle, carried my bags as the porter led me with his big key into the cage of the lift and up we went three floors. My room long and narrow. Thick crimson carpet on the floor. I could see out my window across the winter trees of the park and all the way to the far outskirts of the city. And beyond the faint outlines of the rising mountains. And there downward just below on the street, those tinker women to whom Mr Arland gave a coin, squatting on the wet pavement with the patched red and blue skin of their legs showing and babies held in their arms. And their toothless mouths begging.

‘Give us a couple of coppers mister, will you now, and may no burden after ever be too much for you.’

Darcy Dancer holding aside the curtains from the window. The sky clearer, the clouds moving. Patches of blue purple and pink. Down there, a lake and a summer house. And big dark buildings the other side of the large square of Stephen’s Green. Small figures scurrying along the park’s black fence. Without friendly company. In this city. Where my father somewhere is. And where behind walls and under roofs, books and records are kept. Juries sit and cases are heard by big important judges. Mr Arland seemed so pleased when we passed his University. There behind its high wall and railings. I hear a seagull cry. This port where ships come up the river. And away in the world across the water there has been all sorts of war. My feet still chilled and hands cold. And as I always wished at the whim room window, like my mother did when February came. That soon it would go.

And come

Summer

With your

Swallows

Swimming in

The air