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

‘And my dear, did you see that green faced lady, whose horse rolled on her.’

‘Served her right for not baling out.’

This last remark emitted by his Lordship. Now swirling the claret around in his glass before putting it under his nose and tipping it backwards gurgling down his throat. By the door slams Crooks must have seen to Foxy’s brother in the pantry. As the food now appeared without the ladies bringing it being so red cheeked. Flushed all over the face like that did make the girls more attractive. And Dingbats was contusing her big tits ever so slightly against my shoulder. And smelling somewhat fusty, but not completely unpleasantly. One should make a household rule of at least one bath per fortnight per person. Or at least monthly. I’m sure they would figure some way to avoid such cleanliness. But Dingbats’ reastiness did have a fumy musky quality which I was absolutely astonished provoked the most rigid erection under the table. Making me hesitate to rise to help Crooks prise open the cigar humidor. But one had to leap to action as the poor bugger was going to send the fucking thing skidding to kingdom come across the sideboard any second and knock over the decanters of port. And while I took hold of the snap ring on the humidor to gently prise it up, Crooks whispered to me in what I thought was a conspiratorially approving manner concerning the pantry altercation of Foxy’s brother.

‘Excuse me. But a bloody little bugger, sir. He had out his John Charles Thomas, stiff as a board, showing it to the girls and I assure you sir there will be no further nonsense of that kind while I’m in charge. You have my word on that.’

Kitty now doing a curtsey with the bowl as she served his Lordship seconds. Helping himself to about six potatoes, and even, if you please, fishing around underneath for the big ones. And as he did so, chewing upon a slab of lamb as thick as the top front door step. Not that I’m watching how much he drinks or counting how much he eats. But he does damn well quaff gallons and stuff down plenty. It’s his fourth ruddy helping of lamb. As he attempts to address his remarks to Christabel across the table.

‘Don’t want to be an ill sport about it or ruin your appetite my dear but you also did rather come across my front you know at that double bank.’

‘O dear. Did I. But of course I did. Well I am sorry. But of course there were those loose ponies all over the place. But I do promise I hadn’t in the least meant to inconvenience you.’

‘Ah not to worry my dear, not to worry. It was a wizard prang. And Kildare you missed it, where bloody hell were you.’

‘O I was searching for my lost horse.’

‘Well just so long as you weren’t off in a copse with one of the ladies. Ha, ha. For a moment there, it was like a catastrophe at Beecher’s brook in the National. Marvellous pile up. Too funny for words. With too many damn foolish out hunting without nerves or brakes. And the fisticuffs jolly disappointing.’

Amazing how people quickly forget what really happened out on the hunt. Events reported to suit themselves. At any rate I wasn’t going to tell him if he already didn’t know that I nearly had my brains kicked out by Baptista and then had them blown out by Miss von B. But it seemed the perfect moment, as Mr Arland had taught me, to raise my glass to the latter lady to skoal her in the Swedish manner.

‘Your Highness, skoal.’

‘Skoal, Mr Kildare.’

But Miss von B’s eyes did not, as they should have, before replacing her glass to the table, linger for just that perfect length of time looking back into mine. Mostly perhaps because everyone reacted like scalded cats to my use of the title, your Highness. Of course his Lordship was more concerned with it not appearing that I might have one up on him in tableside manners albeit of the Arctic Circle variety. And he bloody well went most inappropriately skoaling everyone as if he were host. And in the process, putting away in his pot belly another three bottles of claret.

‘Even though I don’t know whether Stockholm or Oslo is the capital, I do think these Swedes a damn interesting race, don’t you Kildare. Like the way they’ve rather chucked some of the tighter morals out of the cockpit. Not that loose morals should be everybody’s cup of tea. But their endless stony silences with each other are to be admired. Wonderful the way a whole nation locks themselves away in huts up their fiords to be alone and to think. Listening to the trees falling down in the forest. Scratching their arses up there at the North Pole. Damn interesting.’

One could sense Miss von B utterly itching to say something to his Lordship, not the least that fiords were ocean inlets and not forests, but each remark out of his mouth received such an approved reaction of hear hear from Rashers, that she never got the chance to speak. Or perhaps, better said, to jump down his throat. Anyway Crooks putting the port safely on the table. And after his Lordship has polished it off one might reasonably contemplate its being not too long before bed. I’ve already nodded off twice asleep. Kitty now serving out the ice cream. Dingbats following with the sauce. And everyone unbelievably, except myself and Miss von B, taking a second helping. Perhaps coaxed by his Lordship’s comment.

‘How jolly damn good. Best ice cream I’ve ever tasted.’

Of course one was quite prepared to believe his Lordship. That Catherine’s ice cream was a dream. But doing as I most carefully always do, when I am about to eat in this household, I lean and sniff first. And there was no doubt that upon my plate was ice cream. But one smelling of the distinct essence of lightly congealed giblets and other barnyard avian innard derivatives used for the making of gravy which one had liberally applied to the lamb, sprouts and potatoes from Dingbats’s previous sauceboat. The others obviously thinking those nice little chunks floating in the creamy dark brown were chips of choicest chocolate to be savoured. Which the household had got its hands upon. His Lordship having ladled it on liberally, continuing to shovel the whole concoction up.

‘My kitchen should have this recipe Crooks. What about it.’

‘No trouble at all your Grace. None whatever. Be pleased to accommodate you.’

Amazingly how long one awaited some uproar or even slight question. Although after the first few mouthfuls Rashers, who continued eating, did stag looking suspiciously up the table at me. And Dingbats coming round with seconds of sauce my sisters and Miss von B politely declined. As each mouthful went more and more slowly into each mouth and there got chewed or melted or whatever what. However my sisters finally were looking at each other and making not at all nice faces back down at their plates. But his Lordship, whatever is amiss with the man’s taste bloody buds, even bloody well is on his third helping. As Crooks elevates him to a dukedom.

An agitated Crooks bursting back into the dining room. Rubbing his hands together and then sweeping up the tails of his hunting coat. And frothing I thought the merest bit at the mouth. And licking his lips, his eyes neatly focused, one beaming each side of the Mental Marquis’ head and at the most opposite angle to each other I have ever seen them achieve.

‘Your Grace forgive us. I fear there has been a mistake. That is the gravy from the lamb sir. On your ice cream.’

‘Well get me the bloody recipe for the gravy then my dear man.’

What’s sauce

For the goose

Is bloody well

Damn savoury

For the gander

The poor ladies having withdrawn to the east parlour where they were rapidly freezing to death, gave up waiting upon us and retired to bed. Sending their apologies via Crooks. Who was, with his every syllable on the verge of laughter, only just able to get the words out of his mouth at the dining room door.