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

‘Goodbye Sexton.’

‘Goodbye Master Darcy. And while you’re up in Dublin I’ll be having a visit from the Professor Botanist from Trinity College. And it won’t be long before we’re up to our noses in the very latest horticultural exotics. Take heed now of the man who stepped out into the world liberally endowed with morals and money. And remember that as fast as your man lost the first he lost the second even faster.’

The station master blowing his whistle. Sexton looming next to him, his breath chilled white on the air and waving that long arm. Dear man, through any bleakness, always seems to have his own hopeful world. And some beacon lighting up his future. As mine seethes with worries.

‘Goodbye Sexton. I shall take heed.’

‘And by the way, Master Darcy. Petunia is in foal.’

The train squealing, squeaking. Finally edging forward slowly slow. Moving, stopping. Moving again. Pulling past the grey little station. Sweet smell of turf burning. Past the station master’s thatched cottage. Wash drying frozen stiff on a line over his little garden. Smoke curling out of the cottage chimney. The deep snows on the countryside when I came. All melted away on the fields grey green. Out there in the coverts, foxes long finished mating. Hope always arises with the days getting longer. Even out there on this passing bereft boggy emptiness. One only wishes one’s fellow passenger wasn’t reading Stubb’s Gazette. Roll call of the county’s debtors. Clears his throat each time he turns a page and Again as he writes something down. Looks so awfully like a solicitor. Wears same odious demeanour as one’s former agent threatening a writ on me. Whose lawyers are still sending letters. I do believe I got a sound kick up the agent’s arse when someone was trying to twist my testicles in the post hunt mélée. Soon now south, will be the purple dark hills. The first signs of Dublin beyond the abandoned ditches over the heathery boglands. Even as the cold ash branches shake by in the train’s breeze, already feel the quickening pace of the city.

Darcy Dancer crossing the black and white tiles of the station. A porter leading the way and the people streaming everywhere.

‘Sir just follow me now sir. To the entrance. I’ll have a taxi for you. Not a bit of worry about that now.’

Darcy Dancer stepping towards a motor taxi. Driver jumping round his vehicle to open up. Door falling off its hinges into the gutter.

‘Ah I’d let you use the other door now sir only it’s jammed shut. Get in now sir, only needs tying back on with a bit of string.’

Porter tugging at the cover of the boot. Comes away in his hands. Of course in this vehicle one will be damn lucky to reach even the morgue just around the corner. Plus the window’s cracked and the bottom of this seat is gone. Smells like a stable. Be safer taking a horse cab with a runaway horse between the shafts. As it is, one will oneself end up in the city morgue.

Taxi crossing the Liffey. Guinness boats waiting. Loading their big oak barrels. The heavy clip clop of the massive draught horses pulling more barrels on their clattering carts. Tara Street. Past the baths. Where Mr Arland said he had swum in its swimming pool. Wall and railings of Trinity College. Nosing out down Dame Street. Same massive red faced guard directing traffic with his white gloves as if he were conducting a Beethoven symphony. The Provost’s House. Sits so elegantly in Protestant glory. Jammet’s just there behind its so discreetly curtained front windows. As we head up this stylish boulevard of Grafton Street. Mitchell’s grey granite monument to coffee cakes and tea. All of it still here just as I’d left it. There’s where Miss von B works. Without zee dust, zee dirt and zee decayed mice stinking up her bathwater. Turn left at the Green. Ah, awaiting one. The canopy of the Shelbourne Hotel. O dear. The driver is now kicking at the bloody hinges to get me out. And now the doorman. Both tugging. O god. Off it comes. Landing them backwards right on top of a poor begging tinker.

‘Ah Jasus can’t you give a decent ould woman minding her own business on the pavement some peace, and fuck off the fool pair of you.’

The doorman standing brushing himself off. And kicking out at the tinker lady. Sending her box of pennies flying into the gutter.

‘Get out of the way you. Good day to you Mr Kildare. And don’t mind the mayhem. Long time now since we’ve had the pleasure.’

Darcy Dancer depositing himself on the pavement. Reaching into his pocket. Shilling tips for doorman and taxi driver. And handing over half a crown to the tinker lady.

‘Ah sir you’re a most decent and fine gentleman. God bless you. And may the sun never set on your glowing riches. And may you never back a losing horse.’

Darcy Dancer led through the hotel door. Soft carpets. Late morning smell of coffee. Tinkle of cups. Scurrying porters dancing attendance. One must suppose they remember me with such welcome, having finally paid on my last visit the largest unpaid bill in their history. Massive debt has always been the fastest and surest way to achieve fame in the better places of Dublin.

‘It is very good to have you back with us again Mr Kildare.’

Past pillars in lobby, and preceded by this gentleman in his striped trousers, one is ushered into the lift. Such a nice comfortable feeling when one is followed by two pages, one carrying my portmanteau and the other transporting my selection of morning newspapers on a tray. So marvellous to ascend in this cage. The wires pulling us up through the well of the great staircase. Past the shiny mahogany balustrades. Alight at our floor. Maids in black quietly lurking in the carpeted corridor, watching my entourage enter into the quiet recess of this cosy comforting room.

‘Now Mr Kildare we trust on short notice this apartment meets with your approval.’

‘Very satisfactory indeed.’

‘I suppose you’re up in town to attend the theatre. Or is it to buy or sell a few cattle. Or would it be horses now.’

‘I sincerely hope it will be one or the other or indeed all three.’

One of course stays at the Hibernian to attend theatre and at the Shelbourne to buy horses. Best anyway to supply an enigmatic answer that can be taken in the most number of numerous ways. Essential that one does not give the impression one is where one is for no damn good reason at all. And here so hauntingly ensconced in my crimson carpeted room for the mere fact it pleasantly presently pleases me. Out one’s window over the tree tops. Seagulls softly sailing beneath the blue grey clouds, edges glowing pink. Ducks circling the sky to land on the pond in the Green. The whole city at one’s feet. The roof tops and misty haze of smoking chimneys, spread all the way to the Wicklows rising purple in the distance. Mountain peak high with the Sugar Loaf. The tangy fermenting smell of the Guinness brew that keeps this whole metropolis alive and all its brains revived each day. Perhaps even fevered each night, putting them snoring asleep with their perishing dreams. Pubs with money pouring in and beer pouring out, makes every one of them a little bank. And the telephone ringing.

‘Mr Kildare, your champagne is ready in the downstairs drawing room.’

‘Thank you. I shall be down shortly.’

Could clonk someone unconscious with this telephone. It is, when one thinks of it, a marvellous instrument. If one had them installed all over the house. Imagine the nice new unbelievable confusion it would be possible to cause. Quick wash and brush up. Descend again from heaven on high down into the voices. Some of them nearly hysterically snooty like my sisters. Eleven o’clock chiming the perfect time for having one’s champagne. Aloof from the early Monday morning traffic out in the lobby. Sink back into this flowered sofa chair. Down here in the deserted quiet and peace of this room. God what bliss miles away from the turbulence of Andromeda Park. Beneath this comforting ceiling. And if one overlooked the cads, racecourse touts, amateur abortionists, mountebanks, medical students and gas meter readers, at least the few remaining would mostly be lords, ladies and squires, either heading in from the country or back out again. And now a hotel page intoning. Right into this very room.