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

Darcy Dancer vaulting over a vast fallen beech, uprooted and lying across the old boathouse path. Mushrooms and fungus sprouting on the decaying bark. Pushing further through the overgrown bramble. What an awful mistake, how could she ever find her way here. Mossy ground soft and muddy underfoot. Boathouse door open. Hanging askew on its hinges. Scurry of a rat. The old boat my grandfather fished from, the sides broken and rotted through and half sunk in the water. Oars still in the oarlocks. And go out of this darkness, creaking up this stair. To where in this small room above, other trysts and other rendezvous must have been kept.

Darcy Dancer standing. A shiver. The mirror cracked on the wicker table on the landing. The door ajar. Catch my breath back into my lungs. Push open the door. There. O god. Empty. Empty. Just as I thought. I’ve come late. And she’s not come at all.

Darcy Dancer stepping into the room. Crossing to the bow front leaded window. The little piles of wood worm dust on the floor. The big sill I used to climb and lay upon as a child and watched out on the summer water. To the buzzing of bees and whines of flies. Memorized my first poem here. That Mr Arland bid me read for its celebration of lyric rural Irish beauty. All about the nobility of the nettle, the thistle and the dock. All weeds as it happens. But I suppose you would, if you were a hard put peasant without an Ardagh Chalice you found ploughing in the field or a rusty old tin to piss in, even compose a poem to ragwort.

‘Hello.’

Darcy Dancer spinning round. That soft voice. There. Seated in the wicker chair behind the door of this cobwebbed room. Under this ceiling. Under this roof. Under all these tall trees along the shore. In the darkened late afternoon rising wind. And the rattling of a shutter. And patter of rain on the tiny panes of window. She sits. Long black lashes of her moss green eyes. Nearly hidden in the shadows. The swans. Sound of their wings smacking the water. To go away. Taking their whiteness up into the sky again. Flying lonely to other lonely lakes.

‘You came.’

‘Yes. I’ve come.’

A black cloche hat on her black hair. The rough navy blue material of her skirt. Her hands folded whiter and softer looking now than when first I saw them red swollen as she carried dishes in the dining room. Thick brown woollen scarf around her neck. Her black coat buttoned tight. The alabaster silken skin of her face. A blush of red on her cheeks from the cold. A sudden chill sunshine sweeping across the lake. Comes in the window. Lights the dead leaves strewn on the floor. Brings the gleam of green back to her sombre eyes. The steam of my breath on the air. The sun goes. Room all grey again. Does she hear my voice caught back into my lungs. So demure she sits on the old wet stained broken wicker chair. So pale and slender thin in another bit of sunlight. Breaking out through the clouds and splashing on the broken legged table under the window. Her knees together. Black stockings above her boots.

‘I didn’t think you would come. Or that I’d already find you here. The paths are so overgrown.’

‘I’ve come here many times. By a way from around the other side of the lake.’

‘You’ve been here just alone.’

‘Yes. Now what do you want to say to me.’

‘I don’t know. Except that I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Please. Don’t touch my hand. And please, don’t be offended. It’s not because I don’t want you to. There’s nothing more in this whole world than my wanting you to.’

‘Then why not.’

‘Because it is too late now.’

‘How can it be too late.’

‘You know nothing about me. And if you did, you would not any longer want to be with me. I am not pure and innocent as I appear. I know you have made something romantic of me. As all men seem to. What has happened to me in my life perhaps does not show worn wrinkles yet on my face. But inside me there are the wounds and scars.’

‘But why cannot I hold you or touch you.’

‘Because I could not stop myself letting you make love to me. From the first moment you came in the front hall that bitter cold winter night, so shy and kindly. Your eyes without greed and without suspicion. From that moment, I knew if you wanted to have my body, that I would give it to you.’

‘And why now, can’t you.’

‘Because I am leaving. And please, can’t we just leave it at that. I saw how you were when the blonde lady who is most attractive, came into the hall. Suddenly all the sad way you look sometimes seemed to lift. Almost as if you loved her. I feel you may have had many women and romances.’

‘But I do not And have not’

‘And I was angry. And jealous of her. And I hate being jealous. It makes me suddenly do things of which later I’m so ashamed.’

‘And you broke the vase.’

‘Yes. That is why. And why I must pay you for it.’

‘Of course you mustn’t. This is so mournful. Leila. So very mournful.’

‘That is the first time you have ever used my name. And that is mournful.’

‘Could we not make love. Even sometime.’

‘Please. Don’t ask me to do that.’

‘I must. Because I want to so much. And you say you are leaving. I must not let you go. And what would happen to you. Out in the world.’

‘But it is where I come from. Out in the world.’

‘But have you a job or somewhere to stay.’

‘When I go, you need not ever worry. I am well able to take care of myself. I’ve lived rough. I have run away many times from many places. I’ve been with travelling people on the side of the road. I went begging with them in the towns. And I could beg as much money in an afternoon than any ten of them could beg in a month. And they didn’t want me to go away from them. They’d watch me day and night. Take any money off me. Even kept me short of food. It is how I have this cough in my lungs. But to keep my teeth good I’d chew as much carrots and turnips as I could. I’m not complaining but the men would be forever pestering. And you’d never know whether they were more of a nuisance when they were drunk or when they were sober. But one day in Birr where we were begging I got away. I went as if I were begging at the station. I had extra shillings hid in my shoes and knew the time of the train. Asked the station master to let me use the bogs. He wouldn’t let the rest of them come. I got on the train to Dublin.’

‘And what did you do in Dublin.’

‘I got a job. A waitress in a cinema cafe in Grafton Street. Ah but I must not just sit here telling the tale of my life.’

‘I ran away once. And was a waif too on the road. Why do you smile.’

‘Because I would like to believe you but I think that I shouldn’t.’

‘I was found dying and delirious by some kindly monks. May I. Just to hold your hand. And I want so much to hold you close.’

‘No. Please. Please don’t.’

‘Why. Surely just to touch you.’

‘I should tell you too. I have already had a child. Who was torn out of my arms. A little boy I shall never see again. And I have also sold myself on the street. And I have had diseases. You see. You are. Although you pretend not. You are shocked. You want to run away out of this room, don’t you. Don’t you.’

‘But I have not run out of this room.’

‘I cannot tell you more now than I’ve told you. But I have reasons now to go away. And you must not ask me what they are. But there is one more thing I want to say. With all my heart. With all my soul and with all my sins. Even as I know my already spoken words one by one have closed all the little gates that lead to the garden of your heart. And all I want to say.

Is

I

Love

You