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

Darcy Dancer going to the window. Pulling back the shutter. Has there ever been a colder night. And down there in the moonlight. Has there ever been a madder one. The Mental Marquis. Galloping. Tally fucking ho. His hair flying. Atop his horse. Lashing his whip back across Rapscallion’s quarters. And up, up and over the fence. There he goes. Down the front lawn. Fading in the shadows. Pounding the frosty ground.

Darcy Dancer paddling back to bed. Stretching down deep beneath the covers. When is this night ever going to end. Pull up the blankets over my head. Cover ears. Ah dat’s better. Peace and quiet reigns again. And leaves me so tortured. Prick pained without love. Close eyes. Stare away the dark. The Mental Marquis said. Although expensive for her own soul, how cheap a whore’s price is. Cynicism hurts and stings. The closest thing to truth. And will I ever hold her. Touch my fingertips across her pale soft cheek. Kiss her brow. Will I ever put my hand deep clutching in her black hair.

Before I

Shut away

This brain

The last thing

That dies

In this body

The last thing

That lives

The day of the lawn meet. Dawning. On a bad bad old day. A night storm bringing a thaw with its gales and buckets of rain and flooded pastures. Slates off the cow house. Chimney toppled, ancient oaks out in the park uprooted, and utter utter misery festering in my heart. As one makes fervent plans to abandon this crumbling pile of stone and devote the rest of my life to whoring and reckless extravagance in the better fleshpots somewhere miles from the gossiping tongues of this rain sodden parish. Yesterday, a hint of disapproval in Sexton’s voice as he stole up behind my shoulder in the corner of the orchard as I watched the rooster cohabiting with a hen just as it was growing dark and you’d think the rooster would be thinking instead of a night’s sleep.

‘Sure you’ll be carrying on like the Duke of Portland in Welbeck Abbey, with shutters closed and no one seeing you for days on end.’

‘Many things Sexton to look after in the office, keeps me in.’

‘And now wasn’t that something. Our little beauty Leila, our St Joan of Arc. Masterly, masterly. Now twisting that eegit Marquis around her tiny finger. Did you hear about that.’

‘I heard, Sexton.’

‘Writing to her he is. She’ll soon move in the highest circles in the land. She’ll rule nations that one. Gone from here in a trice. Saw the envelope meself. The coat of arms there emblazoned in the red wax.’

‘And it does seem to me, Sexton all quite improper.’

‘What, to write to a beautiful woman. When was that ever improper.’

‘I am merely suggesting Sexton that she merely works here in a not particularly esteemed position.’

‘And didn’t she acquit herself in that that evening after the hunt. Let me tell you it wasn’t, was it, as if Apollo was playing his lyre to the muses. Ha ha. Cromwell at Drogheda was more like it. Except now the boot is on the other foot. Struck in defence of you. Fought by your side. Saved you by her loyalty. Ah now Master Darcy, with all due respect to your Protestant forebears, an Irish lass can rise to the heights. Sure who hasn’t in low moments prayed dear god, teach me how to accept the awful scourge of being Irish and that so many other lucky nations and lucky men are not. I’ve thought it I have. Plenty. When they’d shoot you down in England upon the sound of your voice.’

That darkening evening I found myself walking away from Sexton, passing his Stations of the Cross. Veronica wiping the face of Jesus. Jesus falls for the second time. Yes. Leila. Loyal. If you were ever needing my care I would come she said. And she did. And now. Like the gay sound of some summer laughter on the air. She may be gone. Leaving me bereft as I wake yet another morn. So hard to disturb my bones from a bed. That at least keeps the frost off my knees. But not out of my heart. Silent in the household. Always a sign that everyone is warmly collected in the kitchen shining the seats of the chairs. Bent over tea, bread and butter, fried eggs, rashers, sausages. One even has given up making loud noises of my approach. To scare them back outside to work again. At least getting them as far as the underground tunnel. With all its blessings and grievous drawbacks. Built to avoid the aromas of manures or the sight of servants. But certainly more used as an idlers’ paradise, with a smell of contented tobacco smoke coming out the high end.

‘Sir. Sir. It’s your breakfast out here I’m waiting with.’

A thump on the door. Darcy Dancer turning to face the slit of light creeping on the carpet. Yanking up blankets close around the throat. This pre dawn moment one does lie muscles stiff in bed utterly shattered and beaten. And back a week ago, one thought it was another dream. Or nightmare. But the cheeky ruddy nerve. The Marquis galloping off in the night Having run amok among one’s female servants. The whole ruddy lot could end up pregnant beyond belief. The place a maternity hospital. Full of his illegitimate heirs.

‘Come in.’

Dingbats, tripping into the room and clattering the crockery on the tray. The faint hall candlelight behind her. Her hair uncombed, looking like it’d been struck by lightning. My shutters rattling. Closed hopefully against new ill winds. Barred against the hysterical bank manager’s letters. And a dream I had last night of the agent and the timber merchant cutting down a giant old beech, and his men swarming over it like a nest of ants, taking it away. Then seeing just beyond the ridge that the whole parkland was denuded. Stumps of oaks, elms, sycamores, chestnuts, the meadows scarred and rutted.

‘It be dark. It would be drowning rats, such a fierce wild night sir. Wait now while I feel for the box of matches and light the candle.’

On the chimney piece three candles alight. Discomforting my eyes. The rest of the night awake with a ton slate coming adrift on the roof. The rumbling slide. The crash on the front steps below. Pity it didn’t wait to hit the agent’s lawyer or even better the bailiff who’s soon to be banging on the door. Instead of leaving a gaping hole up there somewhere for the rain.

‘Would I put the tray here now, sir.’

‘Is it clean Mollie on the bottom.’

‘Sure it’s the one I fell down with and wiped later I did.’

One has to take every precaution. This day after my sisters announced they were having a ball. Can you imagine. To meet amusing people they said. Bloody hell the house is full of amusing people. A ruddy vaudeville. Dingbats herself two mornings ago on the servants’ stairs carrying a tray, fell tumbling down head over heels covered in butter, coffee, sugar and cream. Claiming she was goosed on the top step by Crooks who, laughing so hard himself, fell after her. Both promptly spending the day in bed. And after the night of the Mental Marquis, rape was the talk of all the staff. And Kitty and Norah locking doors. Giggling. Hoping no doubt someone would break in and jump on them. Crooks rumoured seen past midnight without the merest trace of a hobble or limp, flitting and pirouetting down the hallway in a flowing gown and lady’s Ascot hat. Isn’t that bloody amusing enough. Transvestites anonymous. Without having a ball. Of course outside, there’s a circus. Luke tossed by the bull into manure slops, and getting up running like a blind piccaninny. Straight into a loose pig he clung to and was then dragged into the stable where he ended up covered in barley seed. Crooks then flouncing about the house with a walking stick, and imitating Miss von B’s most officious manner.

‘I won’t have outdoor staff using the indoor comforts of this house, not while I’m butler here, I won’t.’