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

Darcy Dancer fetching the two decanters away to a sideboard around the hall corner. Followed rapidly by the bow legged hunt secretary Major Bottom clomping across the tiles in his boots, a cream bun and a glass of port clutched in his hands.

‘Ah there you are Kildare my good chap. Damn good port. Quite right to get it out of the way of the uninitiated. Sorry to have to come at you like this but in a man to man fashion I’d like to have a word with you. That loose stallion of yours and all that. And I have it on some authority that a lady’s horse was stampeded and she was left abandoned. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Jolly fine vintage this port. And you know it’s not been since your mother was hunting that I’ve been in this house.’

Coming up behind Major Bottom, another face one vaguely remembers from a race track somewhere. By the look a horse trainer down from County Dublin. His blond slathered back hair conspicuously parted in the middle. And objectionably long sideburns. Type who’s made a few bob being in the know on a few races and now thinks he’s god’s gift to county hunting society. And who’s this type pushing in front of him.

‘I contradict what the hunt secretary has just said sir. And I say we have a definite bone to pick with you. Letting a stallion run wild. And then the damn shabby treatment of a lady.’

And my word this objectionable sort does think the world of himself and has the obtuse nerve to be pompously attempting to sound like an administrator of justice interjecting in front of the secretary, with the horse trainer at his elbow and with more hangers on collecting behind them. To all stand listening to the present utter silence. And the lot of them to a man with glasses of whisky and cream cake in thick gobs stuck to their faces.

‘Well sir, you heard what I said, shameful shocking treatment of a lady.’

O my god this is coming from one of those ruddy bloody asses who’s got up on top of a horse to hunt and with accent improved thinks he need never again make his living selling lavatory articles door to door in the hinterlands of Dun Laoghaire or Dalymount.

‘Why don’t you bugger off and go about your usual business which is I am sure supplying purgatives to those who like yourself need them.’

‘I say look here sir we are not going to mince words. I’m in fact a major supplier in the sanitary fitting line. And you stampeded a lady’s mount is what we have heard.’

‘Well hear this then. Clear out the lot of you.’

‘I say sir that’s simply not good enough. We want an apology.’

‘What you’ll get from me is your head stuffed in one of your crappers and a good swift boot of my foot in your goolies if you don’t get out.’

‘I say you are a rude bounder sir.’

‘You heard me, out. Before I bodily throw you out.’

The hunt secretary Major Bottom frowning his thick bushy brows and loudly clearing his throat while licking away the whipped cream impeding the vowels attempting to get out of his mouth.

‘We must remain civil about this matter Kildare.’

The sanitary supplier placing his feet well apart. Striking a stance. His eyes flicking left and right to see if his seconders were still behind him. The horse trainer nodding encouragement. The sanitary supplier taking another step forward.

‘And I say I should not be so tricky if I were you Kildare sir.’

‘Tricky. I’ll show you who’s being tricky you twit.’

Darcy Dancer grabbing the sanitary supplier by the lapels, shoving him backwards. The group parting behind him as his arse thumps on the tiles. Major Bottom stepping around the back of Darcy Dancer to grab an unguarded decanter to pour port.

‘I say Kildare that’s highly uncalled for.’

Darcy Dancer striding away out into the front hall. Where hands were still reaching sweeping trays clean.

‘Everyone out. The party’s over.’

Crooks coming momentarily out of the shadows to take up the cry.

‘You heard the master now. You’ve had it. The bash is over.’

The horse trainer and sanitary supplier, followed by their group of hangers on, creeping up behind Darcy Dancer. The horse trainer leaping on his back. Closing a head lock across Darcy’s throat. Darcy Dancer bringing an elbow back into the horse trainer’s belly. The head lock loosening and Darcy Dancer sending the horse trainer flying forward over his shoulder. The horse trainer crashing on the tea table, skidding across it and off the other side. Taking in his wake the cloth, the tea, jam, scones, cakes. Together with the butters and bottles. The sanitary supplier, his mouth gaping.

‘I say good god, the man’s a demon. Clearly the lady’s correct in her accusation.’

Darcy Dancer pointing towards the door. As the horse trainer congealed in jams, glass and honey, stumbles up on his hands and knees. Wide eyed Dingbats’s hands to her fully jammed mouth which might have been aghast but was still busily chewing. Crooks carefully retreating out of harm’s way into the back hallway. Major Bottom strolling up, his port glass refilled.

‘That’s a poor show Kildare. Not what one would expect from the Thormonds. We should settle this like gentlemen.’

The horse trainer getting to his feet, slowly wiping his honey congealed hands together, and murmuring a stream of oaths as he attempted to dislodge an entire pound of butter adhering to his breeches.

‘By god I do rather resent this. From a stripling only out of short pants. I’ll fight you Kildare. Sure you’ll not get away with another lucky shove like that I’m telling you.’

‘I’ll give you more than a shove, I’ll bloody well give you a thrashing.’

Major Bottom coming forward, his port well to the side out of harm’s way as his free arm is held across Darcy Dancer’s chest to hold him back. The Major raising his voice.

‘Sir I think that challenge is highly inadvisable, remember we’re guests in this man’s house.’

A band of accomplices gathering behind the horse trainer as he adopted a hand to hand combat pose of an Asian flavour, making lunges as he emitted loud grunts, one of which got awfully loud as one foot squeezed deeply into the butter only recently dislodged from his breeches. Darcy Dancer pressing away the hunt secretary’s arm.

‘You take one more buttered foot forward you simpleton and I’ll break your back across my knee.’

‘Simpleton is it. I’ll show you who’s a simpleton. You’ll not break my back, you’ll not.’

Most of the indoor staff of Andromeda Park retreating behind Crooks who was edging his way back behind them making the whole contingent resemble a big many legged bug crawling backwards. Along with a cold blast, more figures arriving in the front door. Voices on the sidelines taking up viewing positions.

‘Ah your man is an expert in the oriental art of self defence and he’ll soon put paid to that Kildare.’

‘Ah I wouldn’t be too sure about that now. By the way that Kildare flipped your man flying, I’d say he’d be getting a lesson from a gentleman well versed in the Gaelic art of pure mayhem and murder.’

Hunt members closing closer about the protagonists some with whips raised, others clutching crockery to let fly. One swinging his fist prematurely and landing it on the face of another hunt member as Darcy Dancer landed him back a punch to send him sailing on his arse, blood exploding out of his nose. Town idlers among the hunt followers, making haste to descend upon the strewn sandwiches and cakes. A cry clearly from Crooks.

‘Hit him in the haggis Master Reginald.’

And a louder cry going up in the shadows. The black beetle browed agent with three others emerging from the door of the long unused west parlour. The timber merchant from the town taking up the rear at whom one had to discharge shot when he was generously helping himself to oak trees not that many years back.