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

‘Ah yes. The note will be delivered to await the gentleman’s next arrival in the Common Room.’

At Trinity College’s front gate, I had stopped at the porter’s lodge, a fire aglow in the cosy interior. And suddenly approaching, limping from under the gas lamp, there was Mr Arland. We went to sit for a coffee in the wicker chairs and under palm fronds in the welcome warmth of Jury’s Hotel down Dame Street. He spoke of the American girl, Clara Macventworth, and I could see he was again so sad.

‘Kildare, I suppose I never knew it possible even to remotely fall in love again. Especially as she seemed forever going off somewhere. To Rome, Madrid or the south of France. Now she’s moved out of my building to another address. The appointments we make to meet, either she turns up hours late to rush away, or turns up not at all. Said she was ill and needed an urgent operation and was leaving to go to the American Hospital in Paris. And then I saw her, only yesterday, arm in arm with another man, laughing and gay on the steps of the Gresham Hotel.’

Sorrow looming in the world everywhere. Somehow there upon Mr Arland’s face, the same resigned anguish one had seen with Baptista. And the crushing sorrow with Clarissa. Women. Pretty women do, when they want to, demolish men. As he stared down at his cup of coffee.

‘Mr Arland, I do think this lady has done you an injustice.’

‘No Kildare. One does that to oneself. And even when one expects little, it is always prudent to expect much less.’

‘Mr Arland now you promise, you will, won’t you, come and stay with me at Andromeda Park.’

‘I promise, Kildare. I promise. But I wonder if it is not for some men to always stub their toes on women and make arses and fools of themselves.’

‘In that case, I shall, when you come, provide ladies galore.’

‘Kildare ah, you do cheer one up. I truly sense you’ve become now in your destiny, a man of the world who will outflank his adversities.’

Returned to my room back in the Shelbourne. Took a solitary supper. As I lay abed, listened to a conceit on the wireless. Staring through the shadows out my window. Towards the night clouds. My own voice pleading. Don’t be dead. Rashers. Help peel back these fingers agrip squeezing all joy out of one’s heart. Please come back. Rashers please. To the land where even if we waste all our time in hope, at least some of our laughter is not in vain.

Next morning under the squawk of seagulls, I stood on the summit of the little stone bridge in the Green. In memory of Rashers, threw down a carnation in the water which floated slowly away pushed by the breeze. Then took a taxi to alight under three golden balls. Of this dark shuttered shop. An ancient toothless crone pawning clothes beckoning me ahead of her. The proprietor summoning me past a woman, her young thick black hair streaked with grey, three tiny shoeless children in tow.

‘Ah after you sir, please now. He’d have us know there’s plenty of time for the likes of us.’

Into a private cubby hole. For the attentions of the gentry. Funereally suited broker lifting up the suitcase of one’s silver on the counter. Could hear Sexton’s voice. Ah an Irishman would do anything for ready money, sell his birthright as quick as spit. So that he could take his ease at Dublin’s crustacean counters, feasting his life away, with destiny behind him instead of in front, Master Darcy keep away from bad company.

‘Ah it’s fine stuff that is now sir. The very finest of the very best. Heirlooms, generations in his family, escutcheon engraved on them handles. Deposited by the peer himself, Ronald Ronald, the Earl of Rashers. Who said his equerry in waiting might be calling, which I assume is your distinguished self.’

One did manage to smile. At the pawnbroker’s so appropriate title. Of that bloody lovable impostor. Never missing an opportunity as he ascended in his self styled nobility to reduce his victims in rank. And now sadden me further to hand over nearly the remainder of Leila’s money. To retrieve my own property. Helped by the taxi man to load it in his desperately soiled boot. The whole rear of his vehicle swaying as the rear wheel verged on wobbling off.

Then how swift the darkening afternoon came. Like a great strange thunderclap. Exploding in my life. Hotel bill paid, decamping from the Shelbourne. Amid the late tea time lobby bustle.

‘All packed sir ready whenever you are.’

Getting back in my taxi, one could not believe one’s eyes. To look out the departing back window in case the lady from Greystones was chasing us and instead see the Royal Rat, Buster the Beastly and Danno the Damned, all escorting a fur coated Baptista out the front door of the Shelbourne Hotel. And as we pulled past the small Huguenot cemetery gate, Horatio the actor, an arm stuck through the bars, was declaiming to the long dead buried inside.

‘Will you look at that crazy nut sir, isn’t he everywhere in town, speaking his mind to no one in particular.’

The whole of this city. Its crazy carnival. Leave it to its fog lowering on this rotten cold Dublin winter night. Leila, Every moment to think of her. So gone. Mists coming up the Liffey. Approach up the long grey ramp. Rough blocks of stone topping the wall. Up to the station. Porter flickering me suspicious glances with clank and weight of my luggage. A solitary cattle dealer buying a ticket in front of one. The last train of the day out to the country. And whispers that coal was firing the boiler of the train. At the barrier my ticket being punched.

‘Ah god you’re on the Meteorite, it’s going to be a fast trip west tonight sir.’

Then the long wait, as the Meteorite and its creaking squealing cars, waved ahead by a lantern, finally backed their way into the station platform. How dim the lights glow. Grey sacks of mail. Wind sweeps along the platform. Stamp one’s feet waiting in the chill. The sweet smell of turf in the air. Nun climbing in ahead of me to the first class compartment. A woman wrapped up in her tweeds in the corner. Beckoning the nun.

‘Ah there’s plenty of room. Come sit here beside me, sure I had a sister worked for the nuns and I know all about them.’

The train slowly pulling out. Pale yellow light flickers in the carriage. A farmer and his wife jumping aboard. Nearly look like tinkers. Sitting roaring and raging in the corner that there was no drink to be had on the train. The wife listening in stoic silence wrapping her ancient tatty fur coat tighter around her as they both puff cigarettes. The farmer continuing to curse and blather. Finally asking me.

‘Hey boss give us the time on your watch boss.’

Halfway chugging in the darkness across the final bog lands. A boom. The train lurched. I had fallen asleep. Head against the cold glass of the window. Clanks and squeals and screech of wheels. Sparks flying. As we slowly came to a stop. The conductor with a lantern announcing.

‘All disembark.’

The boiler blown up. Right out here in the bog. So much for the Meteorite. At a standstill. Could not now see the time on my watch. Nor the hand in front of my face. Out of a nearby cottage, a civil old farmer insisting he carry my case, led us knee deep through the muck and water, scaring up the snipe across the bog. Finally taking the nun, tweedy lady and myself on his donkey and cart out to the main road. Where we stood in wind and drizzle. My arms nearly broken carrying the silver. Till a travelling salesman stopped and took us in his car to the main street of the town. And I went to knock up a taxi. Visiting three doors before I could find one which happened to be on its way from the west through the town and actually had petrol in its tanks, not to mention wheels and an engine that worked. And appropriately enough. A hearse. The eager to please gombeen man from the town of Sligo, putting my bags up on the catafalque. He was also a butcher, an ironmonger, a publican and an undertaker. One learned a thing or two about the quality of coffins.