J. Donleavy - Leila - Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Yours faithfully,

Fibbs, Orgle, and Justin, Case, Fluthered

Imagine elevating a low fellow like Quinn to the dignity of esquire. One remembers this firm when their name was somewhat different, tussling with us over something previously disagreeable. And now they again think they can put the wind up me. How abysmal the world suddenly is just before lunch this morning. With a sudden predominance of Protestant names in the obituary column of the newspaper. To which the religious clue was given by a scientifically motivated gentleman donating his body to the College of Surgeons. While a list of much loved and deeply regretted Catholics were complacently content to proclaim their joyful reunion in heavenly places. Clearly certain their papist corpses will luxuriate in eternal happiness. And one suspects there are more than a few Catholics in the company of Fibbs and Orgle. By god I shall out of the library’s legal tomes hurl such torts, rebuttals, grievances and summonses in reply, they will be sitting around their rickety old offices wondering what counterclaim to use to wipe their arses with.

‘Will there be anything else Master Reginald, sir.’

‘Please Crooks throw this letter in the fire.’

Lunch was a singularly solemn affair. The ceiling nearly ready to collapse from the unsolved chronic leak somewhere higher in the house. And Dingbats dropping the sauce boat breaking on the table. Its oily contents flooding across the mahogany. Then using a priceless lace doily heirloom to wipe it up. And refusing to come out of the pantry again because one had quite under one’s breath expostulated, o god, at her. Seeing the mess Crooks pretended a heart attack. As soon as a moment of escape presented itself, I donned boots and sou’wester to oversee the men build a stockade to drive the stallion into. And that collapsed like a pack of cards as soon as someone leaned against it. The rest of the afternoon one retreated indoors taking tea in the north east parlour with rain splashing the windows and the wind howling. Viewing the ceramic tomes Crooks had found Leila reading. Waking then after falling asleep, a rug drawn up over me. So carefully folded and tucked, I tortured myself thinking it Leila who had come collecting my tray. I bathed. Dressed for dinner. Sat in the salon and pecked at the piano. And then in some melancholy took supper. With one of Dingbats’ long frizzy hairs wrapped around one of my sausages, and another stuck in the mashed potato. You’d imagine presenting oneself as I did in black tie that some semblance of civilization would arise from my effort.

‘Port, please, Crooks, in the library.’

One sat watching the glowing turf flames, sipping strength from this dark noble silky wine. Thinking of words Sexton had said and one always imagined applied to someone else.

‘Far from being land poor, the poor devil was impoverished by his staff, a consistent bunch of no do gooders and layabouts who ever feathered their own nests.’

Sexton talking about the years ago occupant of the great castle. And only this morning I took to task Slattery and Luke sheltering idly under the stable eaves and then minutes later I chanced to overhear Luke grumbling the other side of the orchard wall.

‘Sure himself up there in the bedroom has spent himself enraged over the breakfast he’s been served and is out here next in the stables later biting our heads off. And sure he never thinks a second that between the time he’s had his breakfast in his dayroom that in the three hours the poor likes of us have been out here being soaked in the inclemency.’

To prevent the final crumbling of one’s spirit, I called for still more port. And quaffed far too much. I was in fact talking to myself standing in front of the library mirror as if in parliamentary debate, the fate of the nation at stake, shaking my fist, showing my teeth. And altogether reminding myself that I was an imperialist, a squire, pasha of Andromeda Park, and would never, never be dragged down to being a common sort. I do like the sound of my own voice. But just slip over to the door now between tirades in case anyone is lurking in the vicinity listening. Not a soul. Empty halls in all directions. Must confess one is just that little bit piqued no one is crouched overhearing. Will push aside this brass keyhole cover so the interested may peek through. I did I thought strike one or two impressive posturings. While one was expressing some rather eloquent turns of phrase. The sort of thing one would never hear in the Dail Eireann but one might encounter in the House of Lords.

Darcy Dancer tugging the servants’ bell. Turning to the library shelves. Pulling out volumes. Opening them and shouting out the title and author. Slamming them shut. Flinging the volume flying, pages fluttering across the room. Knocking over the tripod of the telescope at the window. More and more books pulled out Tossed over his shoulder. Chucked up into the air.

‘If someone wants to bloody read, let them by god read. Ah. My dear Mr Arland’s favourite reference to health. A Domestic Homeopathy . Let us gentlemen deal with. Ah constipation. A condition widespread in this household. Brought on by the continued unrelenting wolfing down of buckets of butter and cream. Yes, on page two twenty three. Confined bowels. And the great torpor thereto. With the sensation as if they were paralysed. If opium does not afford speedy relief. Then by god an enema. Otherwise the whole staff is full of shit.’

Darcy Dancer shouting. The door coming ajar. Crooks’ head peeking in. His crossed eyes momentarily uncrossed. Night cap on his head. One of my father’s wool dressing gowns wrapped around him. And a pair of Wellington boots on his feet. Thinking I suppose there was a fire.

‘I beg your pardon sir, did you ring.’

‘Crooks I’m drunk. Of course I rang. Do please observe that the port there is about running out. More port.’

‘I shall decant another bottle immediately sir, but.’

‘No buts. No ands. Nothing but port.’

‘Very good sir.’

‘And to hell with this place.’

‘I beg your pardon sir.’

‘I said to hell with this place.’

‘Very good sir.’

Door closing. Darcy Dancer reeling. Tripping forward over volumes on the floor, stumbling into the fire grate. Catching a hand on the mantel, and leaning down to pick up a fire iron. Slowly pulling himself up to stand again. Raising the fire iron above his head.

‘I say Hilderson, your day and night alarum clock is about to no longer sound alarums day or night.’

‘Please sir, you mustn’t.’

‘Who doth it be. Who goes there. Who doth it be who tells me. What I can. Or what I can’t.’

Darcy Dancer swaying, turning himself towards the door. Slowly lowering down the fire iron from behind his head. Jacket open, the bow of his tie hanging loose. Leila standing. Her eyes moistly sparkling in the yellow candle light. A swatch of her black hair slanted across the corner of her brow. Her dark uniform. Her two feet placed together.

‘It is I who tells you.’

Darcy Dancer, the poker hanging at his side. Staring across the books stacked on the library table. These golden letters of the alphabet written up high under each shelf. The peeling leather bindings. The gramophone in the corner. The wind. Still whines. The shutters still shake. Rain drops splatter the window panes. Above the sill where a pair of grey doves came once on a grey August morning, with their dark tails and light grey breasts and whiter heads and they flew to sit in the deep dark green of the pine trees. Just like the pair of silver two pronged strawberry forks under glass on their blue velvet in that case. Tolerate ridicule now. As you would tolerate praise. In this room of sorrow. Room of even sadder days. Who doth it be. Who goes there. Who doth it be who tells me.