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

The secretary wagging his riding crop over both the protagonists and pushing back some of the local grinning populace. Who must have materialized acrawl out of the thicker hedgerows or from behind the larger mounds of moss and granite. And were now most contentedly pulling forelocks and nodding to hunt members as they took up discreet ringside positions watching the gentry punch each other to pieces. As more hunt stragglers arrived up the hill. Followed by a loud bellowing voice.

‘Ah much jolly nice. Not even a fox roused and yet mucho beaucoup frappe, I see.’

The Mental Marquis taking a swig from his brandy pouch. Not even offering one a drop. And his nerve. To assume such a nonchalant indifference having written members of my staff letters. I’m simply never going to let him land his airplane in one of my fields. But one must suppose that together with his aerial acquaintanceship with the downed Master, the Royal Air Force is here in strength. And dear me, we are taking sides aren’t we.

‘Kick him. Come on. You’ve got him now. Squeeze.’

And now the top hatted and today red coated Mental Marquis with reins dropped over his hunter’s neck is putting his hands to his mouth and shouting.

‘Hit him in the haggis. Twist his fucking halo out of orbit for him Jonathan dear chap. Can’t damn well tell who’s winning this fight. Seems we should simply let them get on with it Kildare, don’t you think.’

His Lordship still grinningly watching the battle. Wiping his crimson sleeve across his dripping nose. Taking up reins again. His massive horse, its eyes rolling in its head, snorting out its nostrils. Till suddenly overcoming the Mad Marquis’s face, a look of alarmed consternation. His brow creasing and his eyes looking concernedly askance. As he shifts his weight around in the saddle and slaps his whip against his thigh.

‘Good god Kildare, I just remembered. Left my bloody groom in the blazing horse box. Shut it up after I got the horse out. To stop the damn draught burning the ruddy thing to a pile of ashes more quickly than it might otherwise. Do you think the poor fellow might be a cinder by now.’

‘Wouldn’t he have yelled.’

‘No he wouldn’t. Hasn’t murmured a word for donkey’s years. That’s what I liked about the chap. Kept his mouth shut. So that you don’t even know he’s there. O well too late to worry about that now. But damn nuisance losing a good groom like that. Poor fight here don’t you think.’

And then just as one was turning one’s attention away from the mêlée there was Johnny Gearoid holding one’s mare. And how on earth did he two footed miraculously get here a dozen or so fields in from any road. No point in taxing one’s brain over that one. But obviously he’ll be looking for five shillings for his services. Knows just when to be around. Just like many of one’s staff. One always finds them so clever in the wrong way. Perhaps their saving grace is they’re too dumb to know what stupidity is and I suppose if they ever found out they’d be twice as dumb. But what are these words at one’s shoulder.

‘That’s the kind of thrashing the likes of you should get trying to rape a lady.’

Would you believe it. The words are addressed to me. Of course this ruddy smarmy pipsqueak has a moustache which twitches on his unpleasantly sneering face that one vaguely remembers from the battle of Andromeda Park front hall in the last mêlée. Son of a bitch sitting high up on his horse does not think he is in any danger with another imbroglio in progress, and is totally convinced he is nicely out of harm’s way. As one grabs hold of the silly man’s martingale. And goodness, imagine, bloody man is trying to lash me with his riding crop.

‘Let go of my horse or I’ll give you a bit of Swaine and Adeney across your uncouth bog face you Irish savage.’

Darcy Dancer, whip blows raining down on his head arms and shoulders, sinking his ten fingers agrip in the top of the man’s boot. And in one downward wrench dragging him plummeting to the ground. Man’s horse swerving around and kicking out its hind legs. Two hoofs catching the back of the secretary square on each rump and lifting him skywards to descend on top of the still battling Master and Mad Vet, now grunting and wheezing with exhaustion. Just as a shower of rain unleashes and two more peaceful rainbows blaze glowing purple orange gold and green in the eastern sky, one intersecting the other.

Darcy Dancer wrestling the moustachioed man to the ground. Dear me, by the facing on his collar, a Master of Foxhounds of a Leicestershire hunt. Must admit the son of a bitch is unexpectedly strong. With a good pair of lungs which he puts to good loud use as I wrench the cartilage within and nicely break two of his smaller fingers. Knee him for good measure in the kidneys. Elbow him for additional measure across the Adam’s apple. I’m a prince. You cunt. A prince at least in moral fibre. And now it’s just about time to render you unconscious with a fist between your eyes. And wham. Am I actually seeing stars. I am. In an astonishing looking solar system. Good heavens. One is actually floating. Around in one’s life. Yes there goes Sexton. Dressed as a cardinal. And O yes. There’s Mollie. Her tits being milked by Luke. Into a pail held by Crooks. O good, Catherine’s going to churn it into butter. Or am I waking. Staring up into her face.

‘Hello my little bog trotter, ah your eyes, they at last open. Are you alright. Can you move.’

‘Yes I can move.’

Her Highness covered in mud and debris. Her face scratched. The awful churned up muddy battlefield nearby empty. Just the darkening sky and cold breeze sweeping the hillside. And the faintest distant sound of the horn of the hunt.

‘What happened Madam.’

‘Ah what happened. Of course, you. You are what happened. And 1.1 am what happened. Coming to rescue you.’

‘My god, I’ve a lump the size of a hoof on the back of my head.’

‘She kicked you. Sent your hat flying.’

‘Who.’

‘That one. Consuelo. While you were on the ground. In the fight.’

‘My god.’

‘And I must say. There was another battle. Between this Consuelo and me. This time not with whips. But sock sock.’

‘O my god. Are you hurt.’

‘Of course not. I knock her silly.’

‘That was kind of you Miss von B.’

‘Kind. Never. It was stupid. I have lost my pin. I have torn my jacket, two precious buttons gone.’

‘O we’ll look. We’ll find it.’

‘Find. Never. My horse I hire. It had no go. Till now. And is gone. With your Petunia. Dragging away that little man.’

‘But we are at least here alone together.’

‘Ah that kick in the head has not lost you your presumptions. And there is some blood on your lip.’

‘Madam, you are using big English words. It is rather nice however to wake up out of one’s unconsciousness and find oneself in the kindly care of a beautiful woman.’

‘You little foolish arse. That cloud coming. It is going to rain again.’

‘I don’t mind madam, a little rain.’

‘You don’t mind. I mind. I am already wet enough.’

‘Don’t you have any romance left in you, madam.’

‘And what is left in you. I can tell what, looking into your eyes. And I think I am seeing the lust.’

‘Ah Madam you have a very cunning mind, but would you mind telling me, are you being honest and sincere.’

‘What a crazy question. The rain is pouring. I do not think I have to answer.’

‘But you must.’

‘But why must. Get up please.’

‘Because you have been unfaithful to me.’

‘What, Mein Gott. Unfaithful. To you. What right you got I be faithful to you. You impossible little pup.’

‘I’ll have you know, I am now a country squire, Pasha and lord of a thousand acres.’