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

‘I wish you wouldn’t adhere to bringing that up again. That was all such a long time ago.’

‘Well you know Kelly, your horse, Tinkers Revenge saved my bloody life. I placed a bet on it at a hundred to one.’

‘Did you really, did you really.’

‘Yes I really did.’

‘Did you put a lot of money on him.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘You must have won a lot of money.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘I mean you could have won thousands.’

‘Yes I did. And as a matter of fact even planned to have Bewley’s post you a weekly box of fudge. But didn’t, thinking that it would make you extremely fat’

‘I see. Well, it would have done. Of course you were extremely decent to me at school. I’m sorry you came down in your life as you did. But you do seem to be doing alright now.’

‘Yes I am. At least not having to work as a stable lad or an indoor servant.’

‘You must not hold that against me Kildare. I did everything possible to make your life reasonable when you were down on your luck.’

‘Yes you did Kelly. Yes you did.’

‘Well we have another similar horse running. With even greater prospects. At Phoenix Park. Ulidia Princess The Second.’

‘Are the brakes off Kelly.’

‘I hate that expression. It implies deceit.’

‘My goodness Kelly you are taking a moral view of racing aren’t you.’

‘Well. Yes I do rather.’

‘Well I shall pop a moral bet on him, in memory of our school and previous squire and servant relationship.’

‘I don’t find that at all funny, you know Kildare. Throughout I looked upon you as my friend and I so behaved.’

‘Ah so you did Kelly, so you did. Well I must rush on. And Kelly you know, you are not at all a badly turned out chap. Very smart. Yes.’

‘Well I’m part of my father’s business now.’

‘Good.’

‘And what do you do, Kildare.’

‘Ah. Well. I may be breeding up a nag or two myself.’

‘Well Kildare, obviously you have improved yourself. This is my office right here.’

‘Ah.’

‘Please I should appreciate it, if you were to call in on me anytime. Really anytime. I should so like for us to keep in touch.’

‘I shall Kelly. I promise I shall. Ta ta.’

‘Goodbye Kildare.’

Astonishing, one noticed actual tears in Kelly’s eyes. Dear me. In spite of his awful parents he seems to have turned out decent enough. I suppose none of us really has to be as odious as our fathers. If the opportunity arises to be otherwise. Stand here a moment on the corner of Duke Street. Hard to know which way to turn in Dublin. There’s the turf accountant’s next to The Bailey. One must put something on old Kelly’s horse. Meanwhile why not perhaps stroll through the Trinity College squares. Heavens who’s poking me in the back.

‘Grosser Gott. It is you.’

‘O my goodness, Miss von B, my countess.’

‘Why did you not say you were coming to Dublin.’

‘Well as a matter of fact, I didn’t know myself. My you look awfully pretty,’

‘Thank you. I am just crossing here to go back to work after my quick coffee for lunch.’

‘Well won’t you join me. Later. For an aperitif at the Shel-bourne. What about six.’

‘Ah, my bog trotter, you are on.’

‘Ta ta.’

My goodness, one is meeting folk today. Plus seeing an awful lot of old familiar faces. Even the Master of Foxhounds whose horse one stole. An occasion to carefully make one avert one’s face. And turning in this gateway of Trinity College. One thinking of Mr Arland. Across the wooden blocks and out across the cobbles of the front square. And as I go closer and closer to the back gates. Past the green velvet lawns of the colleges. The sun coming out. The rugby pitch, churned up. Three gentlemen practising kicking goals in the mud. Why not go to Mr Arland’s address. At least perhaps find if something may have befallen him. He could be sick. Injured or worse. Even as one knows that somehow his letter seemed not to encourage one to visit.

Darcy Dancer walking past the buildings, Zoology, Chemistry, Pathology, Anatomy. And towards the back college gates. Porter in hunting cap outside the lodge, a watch chain across his waistcoat. Saluting as if one were a respected student in good standing on the college books. This turreted emporium looming across the street looking like something out of Constantinople. It’s said they were once Turkish baths. I suppose just one more desperate foreign innovation imported to hopelessly founder in the uncharted commercial seas of Dublin.

Sky darkening. Men just up the street, lurking in the doorway of the corner pub. Scarves wrapped up round their necks and eyeing me suspiciously from under their caps. One’s heart nearly breaks standing here. On these ancient worn granite steps. This is the number. This is the door. Past Magennis Place. Down Mount Street and its bleak perspectives. The grime and the gloom. Pointing washed away between the bricks and the drainpipe from the roof gutter leaking down by the door. One’s hand dare hardly reach to bang this knocker again. No sound inside. No sign. Not even his name. Yet must bang again. Wait. I may be mistaken. But his letter said he lived on the first floor of a Georgian house, with a broken iron balcony. Across from the back of Westland Row train station. And there it is, just as he said, the gentlemen’s convenience tucked into the wall with a rather dignified arched cut stone elevation. Bang once more. A sound. Feet coming. Slowly. Now in the hall. Latch pulled back. Door opening.

‘Kildare.’

‘Yes.’

‘Heavens I hardly expected to find you. I was expecting it to be the laundry man.’

‘I do apologize calling unbidden upon you like this.’

‘Well dear me, you have. And so you may as well come in. I was only at this very moment in the middle of a message to you.’

‘Mr Arland, you’re limping.’

‘Yes. My hip. Went on me. Just as I was off to see you. Not as fit as you, Kildare, I’m sure. Come. Please don’t expect a palace. Or indeed much more than a hovel.’

Slowly up the stairs. In the musky odours. Laths showing through plaster broken on the walls. Around the landing past a sickly green door, a sign, The Trans World International Engineering Company, half scribbled and printed on a warped piece of cardboard hanging suspended under a rusted thumb tack. High up over the stairwell, a roof skylight throwing down pale gloomy light. On the head and back of this man who so much by his kind words, his example, his advice and warm sympathies, bids me think that there was ahead in one’s life a noble reason to live.

‘Well Kildare, please forgive these conditions to which you are about to be exposed.’

Key stuck in the door. Mr Arland pushing it open. A hand gesturing one in. His room. My god. This is awful. Unmade grey sheets on a narrow bed. A cooking stove. Frying pan full of grease. Clumps of wet turf smouldering in a tiny grate. A lone bare light bulb hanging by its cobwebbed wire from the ceiling. A steamer trunk. Lieut. N. P. Arland, rnvr, in the corner. A warped cupboard, its panels cracked. A shirt by a bottle of milk. Sausages and two eggs next to a hairbrush on his broken dresser. Sheets of paper strewn amid newspapers and books. A gnawed piece of bread.

‘The condition of my room I fear is not exactly what one might expect of an ex naval officer, Kildare. And I do most abjectly apologize. Standing you up. I was coming to meet you. As you see I am still dressed for the occasion. But I fear my hip, when it goes like this, unless rested, only gets worse. As you see here on my College Historical Society notepaper to which I helped myself copiously as an undergraduate, my message to you. A nuisance the time it takes me now to get up and down the stairs. Do. Sit there. Alas the only chair. I’ll park here on the bed. Well dear me. It is good to see you. It is really. I wish it were in more auspicious surroundings.’