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

Darcy Dancer in black tweed, a blue polka dot tie and silk hanky peeking above a pocket. A candelabrum placed on the window sill of the staircase landing. Making it all feel a little safer proceeding down these steps. Flame reflecting on the panes of the window. And right here where I stood once. A tiny innocent boy. When from the front hall foot of the stairs, my so called father, a sour cruel look on his face, called me a little bastard. And one does wonder. What now do all these portraits think. The long departed dead. Staring down from the mouldering walls. Grand aunt of my mother’s. Painted as she regally sat on a dais in the ballroom. Her haughty beautiful face. A ringlet halo of hair. The indistinction close up of the thick mottled lumps of colour which come into miraculous focus as one stands away. The sumptuous finery of her black lace gown. Bejewelled straps across her pink shoulders. Sparkling necklace of pearls and diamonds upon her bosom. If artistic standards are to be considered, this is undoubtedly one of the finer pictures escaping theft by my father. Who upon being advised that certain paintings could indeed be genuinely by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo then assiduously denuded the walls of same.

Darcy Dancer passing by the open door of the library alight inside with another candelabra. Stopping further down the hall. To push open these large hinge squeaking double doors. The massive cold darkness of the ballroom. Two bats aloft darting back and forth. Streak of moonlight across the dusty floor. Slanting in a window where the shutter hangs broken. I should so dearly like to hold some very grand great party. Invite the better local ladies and gentlemen if any are still to be found. The ballroom chandeliers sparkling light once again. If an orchestra is out of the question make music on the old gramophone. Whoever wrote the note placed in my bedroom could manage the invitations. Do. O do come. Won’t you. At home. For the champagne. Our buckets full of caviar. And your broken ankles. You most certainly will get my dears, dancing through the floor.

Darcy Dancer sipping his sherry in the chill fireless library. Poured from the decanter in all its nut fragrant pale brown gleaming glory. Warming the innards and the boulevards of one’s memories as I glance by the spines of these leather worn ancient musty tomes that Mr Arland and I would crack open on the many rainy winter days, delighting over their fusty language of pompous travels and pretentious recall. Of socially distinguished gentlemen pulling their legs out of sharks’ mouths and wrestling heroically with monstrous pythons. My how people did then take themselves so seriously. Of course there were accounts of intrepid Shackleton, especially admired by Mr Arland perhaps because of his Irish connections. And dear me before freezing to death here I had better soon be proceeding to supper in the dining room. Ah a creak of floorboards. A knock at last.

‘Master Reginald, when you’re ready, supper is served.’

‘Ah indeed. Thank you Crooks, I am in fact quite ready.’

The shutters closed. A fire at least taking the chill off the dining room. Crooks equally at the ready with my chair. Something to be said for having dear old servants surrounding one who although frequently forgetting, do occasionally at least try to acquit themselves agreeably. Having been such a deliberately appallingly bad servant oneself, one of course knew of the endless opportunities a servant could find for making life utterly miserable for his employer.

Cabbage soup. Boiled potatoes. And stew with carrots and turnips. Not awfully exciting. But so starved am I one simply can’t mind at the moment, having all I can do to not dive grabbing into the food like a pig famished.

‘The likes of youse is no use at all when youse won’t learn left from right when youse is tolt.’

I was surprised to overhear Crooks mimicking in the guttural overtones of a Dublin accent as he grumpily ordered Leila about in the pantry. One could not help feel that there was just a touch of jealousy at this new girl’s albeit nervous efficiency. As she stood behind Crooks with Brussels sprouts one attempted to observe her but could only discreetly just catch sight of red swollen hands shaking gripped tight on the steaming heaped bowl, and the serving spoon banging. Crooks as he finished pouring wine at my right, snapping his fingers for her to come around to my left side. And just to casually lighten the atmosphere I pointed to the stained and soaked seat of one of the dining room chairs against the wall.

‘Crooks what befell that chair.’

‘Ah more than a sup of rain has made a recent habit of coming through the ceiling. The chamber above is getting a spill from the chamber yet above again. Poor old Chippendale. When the snow melts Master Reginald you’d want to be dining here in a tent.’

Unable to dance his attendance on his toes, Crooks holding his chin awfully high, and behaving with an autocratic attempt at efficiency one had never witnessed before. Announcing in sepulchral tones the year of vintage as he poured the decanted premier grand cru Margaux with its bouquet shrinking back in the glass from the cold. He was also very voluble indeed. Especially with his elaborate excuses over the more noticeable dilapidations of the house. And once such great bitter enemies, it was enthralling to now hear Crooks recall our previous housekeeper, Miss von B, in glowing terms. Elevating her from that regrettable bitch to Princess, and tossing in her Royal Highness when invoking her name. And as he waved Leila to collect my plate he then stopped by the sideboard, placed his towel dramatically over his arm, and then took a Napoleonic stance to stare vacantly up at the ceiling.

‘Ah isolated in these lonely hills. If only her Royal Highness, the Princess, was here. Magnificent seamstress. Ah she could sew. Mends in the heels of socks like sparkling jewels. Linen folded with such perfection, would bring tears to the eyes.’

And last night in Dublin I had a dream that Miss von B had come galloping on her horse, back to Andromeda Park. Coming up the front park lawn and jumping the fence to the drive. Dismounting and striding up the front steps to march into the front hall. Confronting me there in her rather severely styled fox hunting raiment, as a massive military band ceremoniously played outside. Trumpeters sounding, drums beating. Her blonde hair snugly netted gleaming, her velvety cheeks pinkly glowing. The front hall suddenly silent as a church. Then a soft music playing a lament. I trembled and trembled and shook and shook. Waking and staring about my hotel bedroom in the dark. A milkman passing, his horse faintly clip clopping up Dawson Street.

‘Master Reginald, we’ve gone short of the d’Yquem that you and her Royal Highness so esteemed. There were great calls on it these past months. Decant a little port perhaps.’

‘Please don’t bother Crooks.’

‘Not a bit of bother, not a bit. Port.’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Then port it shall be. Now I’d have the blue parlour fire going but for the jackdaws with a nest halfway down the chimney. I’ve had a chair put in front of the fire in the front hall.’

I was quite surprised at my twinge of thoughtfulness concerning the staff’s need to get off to bed. And pouring cream on top of the whipped cream of my second helping of trifle, I did not go on to have three helpings. Somehow too, the new girl’s thinness gave one the uncomfortable feeling that it was inappropriate to gorge myself any further.

Darcy Dancer crossing the front hall towards the new girl mending the fire, which out of the shadows sent its dancing licking flame of colour up to the ceiling. And was doing it properly too, putting logs on from the sides and one across the back at the top, leaving the middle with embers to glow out. I pretended to examine the guest book on the hall table, my mind aflood with questions conjured up to ask her. All sounding so damn stupid and foolish. Like I understand young lady you are a lonely abandoned orphan who now works here. And how do you like it. But even as I thanked her she just cast me a nervous glance and hurried away. At least one was saved sounding like a patronizing ass.