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

Darcy Dancer giving chase. Baptista’s mare disappearing in the dusk. In the distance, a fox barking. Just to let me know. With every shivering stride home. What an awful arse one has been today. Hands and feet blue numbed with cold. Only sensible thing left is to sink in the safety of one’s hot bath. Except for my privates, thorns nearly in every other part of one’s anatomy. What one wouldn’t give to be back amid Dublin debauchery. Lois her tits wagging and her castanets clacking. Instead of crossing through these beech woods. Mouldy death and gloom. Shutters closed on the back windows of Andromeda Park. Lower one’s head in the darkness of the tunnel to the stables. A relief to hear one’s horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Soon a long recline in a steaming tub. Expunge the offending splinters and thorns out of one’s epidermis. And my god, out of one’s soul.

Darcy Dancer passing the stable window. Luke, Henry and Thomas toasting themselves in front of the roaring tack room fire puffing on cigarettes. The three of them jumping up. From where their arses were planted on soft seats of hay stuffed in buckets. Nearly as fast as Henry did in his last discontent when Thomas left a bottle on a shelf labelled apple juice and filled with piss. Be the first effort they’ll have made since lunch. Be dredging up their best blandishments to improve one’s sour appraisal of their idleness.

‘Sir was it a good hunt you had. Sure Petunia will be glad to be in her box. Looks like she had a few miles under her belly at the gallop.’

Darcy Dancer walking up the incline and turning to enter the house by the side door. The heavy ancient latch. Polished by so many hands. See how many others are lolling about.

‘Ah sir you’re back.’

‘That would appear to be the case Crooks.’

Crooks coming out of the kitchen with two decanters of port, in bandaged hands. Soupstained no doubt. And you’d think his hand crushed in the dumb waiter would have long since healed. He does so like to remind one of his injuries.

‘Well excuse me sir for incommoding you at this moment of the evening Master Reginald. There’s an urgent gathering upstairs. In the front hall in their muddy boots. Hunt members wanting to have a serious word with you. Barged right in the door past me they did. And I thought it best to have refreshments served to assist in calming them.’

‘Not with my bloody port I hope. Tell them to please fuck off.’

‘I couldn’t do that sir now. Not in that language. By the bloodthirsty looking condition of them they’d set upon me.’

‘Well then tell them in the rudest way you can. To bugger off. And draw my bath please.’

The faint candle light. On the great slabs of stone. The smell of damp. Crooks trembling. O god, he’s going to collapse. Just as one is hoping to run into Leila. Contemplating in one’s mind her small swelling bicep. And the blue vein in her arm with its white tiny knot of an artery. When once she went by me carrying a water filled vase. The only member of this household I’ve ever known to roll up her sleeves. And now the whole entire world seems to intervene between us.

‘And sir as for the matter of this port. This is for the dining room and library, seeing as you have been calling for it recently. And the two extra for dinner. Lady Christabel and Lavinia should be at this very moment arrived at the station and Sexton has gone to fetch them.’

‘Good god.’

‘A cable came while you were out hunting. Shall supper be at your convenience.’

‘Yes. I think most certainly yes. After a day like today.’

Crooks ushered first up the servants’ stairs. Darcy Dancer following. In case with an attack of sudden staggers he should collapse. Sound of voices down the main hall. Shouldn’t be surprised if Crooks doesn’t drink half a decanter and spill the other as he did one night on the carpet outside my bedroom door. One distinctly felt the thwack of a large spoon upon the top of one’s head at the mention of one’s sisters. Eye gouging. Secateurs clipping one’s ear lobes. Hair pulling. Bath splashing. Attempted drownings and hangings. Shoves, pushes and punches. Toys and teddy bears ripped from one’s hands. And upon their being shipped away to better things of England, not lost upon me are all the intervening years of peace.

Darcy Dancer soaking back in the hot waters of the bath. Window panes steamed over. The fire at last beginning to glow in the grate. At the finish of a day’s hunting, agreeably tired, one should be purring with the joy of still being alive. Instead of haunted with singing ghosts and a killer stallion at large. And that uncomfortable feeling that while one has been away the day that nothing at all has been done by anybody. With the exception of course of Sexton, Leila and old Edna Annie. When one sees a member of the household or estate not with their hands actively on some tool, and wielding it in the motion and manner for which it is meant, one must suspect the worst malingering. And my god added to it all now could be the two more mouths of my sisters not to mention the mouths of any horses they may fancy to hunt. Where and how in this world does one make a monstrous amount of money. Or get to own something like a brewery. O god it’s ruddy shocking how the terrors of impoverishment and ruin do gnaw at one’s vitals.

Darcy Dancer in dressing gown, standing on the landing listening to the din in the front hall. Proceeding further downwards and stopping. Sound of distant feet pounding up and down the back stairs to the kitchen. The clatter of boots on the tiles. Sounds like a ruddy bash in progress. Candles blazing. The utter incredible nerve. With the whole ruddy household running hither and thither ferrying cakes, barmbracks. And my god big tits Dingbats, lugging by the neck two utterly heirloom precious bottles of brandy rolling her eyes demented with the delight of it all.

‘And where Mollie are you taking those bottles.’

‘They be brandy sir.’

‘I know they’re brandy. Which happens to be pale and extremely old.’

‘It’s for inside there.’

‘Take them back to the cellar.’

‘Sir there’s a thirst on them visitors in there that would make you think their bellies were screaming their throats were cut.’

‘Well their bellies can go on screaming.’

Dingbats turning on her heel. Heavily pounding off back down the hall. Feel the floor joists tremble. Lots of ruddy power could be harnessed from her haunches. Tie her up to one of those machines they use pumping water in China. Burn off some of the butter she gorges. And by the smell of her she has worked up one of her more highly musty pongy sweats. Surprisingly quite stimulating to the gonads. But this is no time for an erection in one’s front hall.

Darcy Dancer with an imperious sweep proceeding out amidst all these unheeding elbows so busily bent upending glasses to their mouths. Hunt servants in a decidedly sheepish little huddle by the fire. Not one of them noticing me in the pale blue, brown and white racing colours of my dressing gown. Nor my black, white polka dotted silk scarf at my throat. Astonishing how one can suddenly feel a complete interloper in one’s own house as a gang of invaders make jolly familiar. People making themselves entirely at home as if they were bloody well invited, most of whom I have never spoken to and some I’ve not even seen before. And wouldn’t you know, like a gang of starved rats partaking from a table laid centre hall. Stuffing their empty bellies. Slurping up my tea, slathering on my butter and munching up my breads and already quaffing my wines and liquors. Behaving as favoured guests with one another at one’s own conspicuous expense. But o my god, my port. There. The hunt secretary’s hand already reaching for a decanter to take a refill. So much for damn Crooks’ reassuranees. Bloody servants love to be generous with one’s viands and most precious tipple. Especially pouring the latter down the throats of perfect strangers. One does not mind being bled white by the consumption of bread and butter but it is a little bit bloody much to reach that anaemic condition when it’s one’s most anciently preserved and cherished wines being gulped.