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

‘I wonder Crooks could you see if the library fire is bright as I shall be there presently sitting.’

Crooks of course on one occasion did take the opportunity to pretend he was in a ducal house exercising his lofty command in delegating the precise division of duties. And he did split his infinitives calling and clapping and finally pulling the bell to summon one of his charges to pump the bellows at the library fire. But with Kitty, Norah and Dingbats repaired to an attic bedroom where Foxy Slattery’s brother had brought them up biscuits, tea, scones and jams and where they sat around a fire smoking those Woodbine cigarettes, and I believe telling quite salacious stories, the servants’ bells clinked and clanged unheeded down in the kitchen hall. Serving only to annoy Catherine, who of course much mumbled to herself these days having her own small farm to worry about. Dear old soul did do me many a kindness. Dear me I think that one could easily get bitter. End up forever pursuing the things of enjoyment in life without much enjoyment. Must not lose sight of the fact that menials have their own worries. And at least less a nuisance is Christabel once off her arse. She did succeed in putting a new born calf sucking to its mother. Always remember her kinder to animals than she was to humans. But of course my sisters as a pair did as soon as our nanny’s back was turned try to poke out my eyes. Explaining, we want a blind little baby brother so we can lead him around by the hand. Or if I were to crawl on the front lawn or hall, they would drive their prams over on top of me. We want a dead little baby brother so that we can hold a funeral. And while I screamed, and if Nanny weren’t on her instant way, they would kick me. We want a wounded little baby brother so that we can play hospital. And not a toy could I pick up that they wouldn’t rip it away out of my hands. Leaving me screaming. We want an unhappy little baby brother so that we can make him happy again. And dear me one nearly feels one is still facing these previous inclemencies of body and soul. Only my poor dear man, Mr Arland ever succeeded in making me feel that someone cared some little bit for my welfare. There we were all those many hours in a chill dusty schoolroom lodged in under the servants’ stairs. Even he grew moderately impatient trying to pound some Latin into my so obtuse brain. The lonely sadness in the man, so much like the sadness I felt myself. Being able to do or say something to cheer him cushioned and encouraged my own spirits. And then how cruel life was to him. Mocking all his kindly ways. Baptista Consuelo spurning his so shyly proffered attentions. Then death tearing his dearest love from his life. No god could ever make another Clarissa for him to cherish. Or such a Clarissa who had loved him. Whither now has he gone. His homoeopathy book to cure his bodily ills. But no book to cure his grief. Where e’er he walk. That solemn man. Under what tiny piece of sky. Does he wander in his own abyss of sorrow. How find him. Hear him speak. Make me in my own sad dilemma. Not so sad.

Darcy Dancer in hunting coat, breeches, boots, coming down the main stairs. Rain stopped. The wind still howling. Pause here on the landing. The bark on the grove of beech, wet and dark to the west and silvery to the east. High in the tip top branches crows squawking. So often one stands here to look out. And see visions. Something I saw in a dream during the night. That I was an older man. Looking back into the past. Seeing a life that one had so long ago lived. Yet a life older than one’s childhood. Before I had gone away to other lands in search of my fortune. And now returned a rich man. To an Andromeda Park standing empty. Roof caved in. All its inmates gone. Ivy growing through the walls. And I walked past the kitchen. The blackened hearth and stove cold, that years ago glowed warm. Stepping slowly on the wet stone. Between the mildewed and crumbling corridor walls which once kept the chill damps at bay. The brass servants’ bells hanging from their coiled springs, corroded green and grey. And I stopped at Edna Annie’s basement room, where her whole life was spent going about her lonely ancient chores. A fuchsia hedge growing through her broken window. The bedstead rusting. The rain dripping through the ceiling and falling on possessions one cherished once. A sailor doll of blue long lashed eyes, so many times warmly hugged and kissed and cuddled closely abed. And which lay unsheltered, broken armed and cracked on the rat holed mattress. Its little head upturned. A rain drop for a tear in one of its eyes. And I stood there. Tears in my own eyes. Till a sound behind me made me turn. A mist. Sound of water. And the hunting lame girl killed by the old stone bridge over the river was standing there. And instead of white she wore top hat and flowing dark hunting garments. Her face smiling. With the splendid white teeth. And lips of Leila. Slowly lifting her skirts above her slender legs. Slowly over her knees, higher on her thighs. And there in the ruins. She spoke. Her soft voice coming from her dark haired beauty. I am the mistress of Andromeda Park. She said. Then I woke. Shivering and cold.

Darcy Dancer stopping further down near the bottom of the stairs. The arriving voices. Distant bark of hounds. A breeze blowing through the house. Hunt members pouring in the door. The front hall with tables laden. Sausages, hardboiled eggs, smoked salmon, soda breads, barmbracks, butters, beers, creams, port, sherry, brandy. How far now the day that will dawn on the last drop of wine and the last morsel left.

Major Bottom already with a brimming glass of port to hand, striding up to Darcy Dancer. His grey brows going up and down as his ruddy face contorted in his attempt to smile.

‘One would have thought Kildare, with the condition of the land, the hunting would be cancelled. Instead of making mires of small farmers’ pastures. But it’s damn jolly good of you to lay on such warm hospitality. But with the wind drying, clearing the sky and the fields brightening in a bit of sun during the morning, perhaps not too much damage will be done.’

Of course the truth of the matter is the hunt secretary couldn’t give a damn about making mires of small farmers’ pastures and in fact delighted in parading his big bloody hoofed horse straight across their winter sown wheat. But not before he’s drunk all my best port and turned the whole ruddy hunt breakfast into a luncheon party. Good heavens. Motor car horns sounding outside on the drive, and pulling up in front of the house. Horses rearing and bucking at the beeping. Who on earth could be arriving. Doors opening. Unloading folk. And who clearly climb up the steps. And wade into the hall. O my lord. A voice. O my god. No ruddy mistaking it. That one has heard uttering so many a time previously. Bellowing above the rising din in Dublin. My goodness, what on earth do I owe all this to. Being visited. One does so miserably dupe oneself with the false notion that people are fond of one for oneself and not for something which will be to their exclusive benefit, as indeed one finds dismayingly is always the case. People are, on the whole, aren’t they, such a ruddy reprehensible lot.

‘By jove, as bloody sure as most bloody houses in suburban Ireland are called Sorrento, damn chilly journey has given me a roaring appetite. Enough to eat a cold pail of muddy unpeeled potatoes.’

Rashers Ronald. In the most outlandish of outlandish tweeds. His ever ready smiling face, front teeth protruding even further and the gap wider between them. Through which he occasionally resoundingly whistles. Cheeks and nose brightened. No doubt by clearly alcoholic refreshments, numerously taken at many stops on his journey here. A signally orange wool tie. With a totally contradictory stiff white collar attached to his light blue shirt. A sprig of bog heather as a nosegay. And although one does slightly quake at his unexpected appearance, a smile does erupt in one’s heart at seeing him. Crossing these black and white tiles. Grinning ever so mischievously and ever so slightly shy, proffering his hand outstretched to shake. Which I do believe I have never previously shaken before. His English vowels superseding those Irish where it mattered most.