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

‘Well Guards, one might then say up the Republic. Sorry. Perhaps that should be up the whole Republic. Or even way up. In every geographical direction. And down too perhaps with crime. As well as in that general genealogical and geological direction.’

‘Ah now you’ve said it and as Aloysius Sexton, sir, your gardener out there with the Latin would say, it’s all a matter of them semantics.’

Darcy Dancer watching from the parlour window. Rashers at his shoulder. The Guards standing on the drive, brushing back their hair and putting on their caps. And mounting their cycles. Waving back at us as they unsteadily pedal over the gravel and knock off the edges of the grass verges as they weave and wobble away down the drive. They’ll be lucky to get to the front gates, never mind leap frogging across a treacherous bog.

‘Ah Darcy, my dear boy, what a pretty sight it is out there. That all of that is yours, as far as the eye can see. Cattle grazing among your ancient trees. Where you may take your spiritual ease without being disturbed by an interloper in the pursuit of your comfortable habits. And without some awful gurrier presuming upon one’s presence. As in the case of my regrettable condition, to be endured back in Dublin. You wouldn’t mind, would you my dear boy, if I just sort of catch my breath a day or two more before returning to town to face the flotsam and jetsam of human kind. Of course you know, disaster if it doesn’t at first finish you, always then, goads one on. To tempt it again to do to one its utter worst. And then, what is appalling, it always does.’

It was clear as one looked downwards, that Rashers had already made himself enough at home to commandeer a new and bigger pair of shoes. And I suppose if I told him he was no longer welcome, he would merely get up on his hind legs and sing a heart stopping aria. To reduce me to tears. And beg him not to go.

‘Rashers but of course you may. Do please stay.’

One’s sisters appeared for lunch. Arriving in the library in tweeds and wrapped up with silk scarves at the throat. And very much sniffling, coughing and blowing their noses when they weren’t very much daintily sipping at their sherries. Cross examining me for the umpteenth time on the Marquis. His ancestry, his entitlements, his ablution rooms, his horses, and the number of acres they grazed upon. Christabel especially. And very much pretending to be off hand.

‘His father, the Duke has rather a lot of English and foreign estates, hasn’t he.’

Rashers wearing his most pleased grin exaggerating to the ladies about something he knew naught about. Volunteering to describe the Duke’s chateaux in France and ranches in Canada. Crooks, as he came and went, being very hangdog subdued. My sisters, so expert at it, ignoring him as he served them. And returning from the water closet I came upon him, just outside the door in the hall, his head hanging forward one hand pressed up against the wall. Putting a nicely etched handprint thereon and obviously making a remark meant for me to overhear.

‘To spare you a bit of attention for merely a moment, a man has to go hang himself before they’d know you’d exist at all in this house.’

Throughout lunch, Dingbats, blatantly staring at me from the sideboard, did manage to put one off one’s feed. And despite the fact that Foxy’s brother was wrestling with her in the hay, the rumour was going round reported to Sexton by Crooks, that she was planning to marry me. And obviously now had no time for the lovesick male staff who were moaning, I love thee Mollie, up the servants’ stairwell. Must say her reastiness and fustiness which one found previously stimulating is, in the warmth of the blazing fire, reaching a most disagreeable pitch. As she leans in close, serving the cabbage, her armpit yawning near one’s nose. And she has Lavinia and Christabel wincing in their turn. But one does admit it, that one did, more than betimes want to let her have it deep in the bifurcation. And now dear me wouldn’t you know, there’s Crooks, in the hall doorway. Good god. His fly is open. The big black buttons undone. And revealing not only a pink satiny fabric but the most particular darker pink part of his private as well.

‘Sir, coffee is in the library whenever you are.’

There was a small gasp from Kitty and she nearly did drop the seconds plate of mutton for Rashers but thank god no one else turned to notice. And one was much relieved to take a change of air in another room. While Lavinia was getting some ancient horse scrapbooks out for Rashers, I managed behind Christabel’s back to indicate to Crooks’ crossed eyes the need to attend to his dress. But then when casting his eyes downwards, and in the panicked effort to fish back in the exhibited portion of himself, he also managed quite promptly to spill the serving tray of coffee, sugar and cream straight over Christabel’s knees.

‘He did that deliberately, I know he did.’

Crooks rushed from the room. Penis back in his trousers, head in his hands. Rashers jumping up, thought it all just too damn funny, and was much prolonged collecting up the crystals of sugar and dabbing up the moisture absorbed in the area of Christabel’s thighs. When first they were all getting on so famously, how was one to know amid so many other domestic hostilities that such ill feeling had now developed between my sisters and the staff. Although one knew Leila refused even to be in the same room with them. Of course, when growing up, until I learned to bite them, they trounced me unmercifully. I later added a growl to my bite, which former often sufficed instead for having to sink my actual teeth into them. And a couple of roars from me would send them screaming running for their lives. They soon learned to stop tearing toys out of my hands, I can tell you. Of course I had to go and find Crooks, searching all over, down the cellars and parlours until finally finding him in the hall outside the ballroom doorway, crying beneath the portrait of my mother.

‘O my dear Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond, vouchsafe I implore thee to let me join thee out beyond the slabs far from the unkindnesses, and humbly lie by thy side to serve thee all our days in the eternal next world.’

‘Crooks, Crooks please, you mustn’t be so upset. Christabel was simply momentarily disconcerted.’

‘Spoke of me as she would a dog.’

‘Now now Crooks come with me. In here. Let’s get you sitting down for a start. There, there.’

‘She could have at least sir, directed her remark directly at me. Such behaviour never has and never would come from you sir. You are a compassionate man. A kind man. A feeling man. Like your mother was before you. Leave the door open. So I may see her. There she is. The most precious, beautiful and noble woman.’

Of course in the ballroom, one ended up opening a shutter and taking the dust cloth off a settee. Beseating Crooks with his feet up and bringing him a large brandy. Poor old stick, clearly would like to be a raving transvestite. And meanwhile he certainly does know how to acquit himself to be waited upon hand and foot, a pillow under his ankles, his collar open. I nearly was tempted to get him a cigar. But in spite of my alleged compassion one did think it would be going a little bit too far. Back in the library Christabel was now giving Rashers sidelong glances as he sat puffing his own cigar and twirling his own very large brandy. My, how he can, at the drop of someone else’s peacock feathered hat, so thoroughly enjoy life. Totally transforming the gloom. The pleased grin of his rabbit teeth flashing out under his moustache. One has never downright thought this before but he is quite a dashing figure. Sits there stretched out without rancour, regaling the ladies sipping their Drambuie, with risqué tales of last year’s Galway Races, Puck Fair, and Dublin’s night life. Hinting at the inhuman outrage committed down the depths of what appears to be a, by invitation only, midnight to midnight gathering in caves, cellars and tunnels located somewhere beneath one of the city’s most exclusive and elegant thoroughfares. And it would appear, so aptly called the catacombs. Christabel pretending not to want to hear of such bestial shenanigans but clearly in her faint protest, perking her ears eager for more.