J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Uncle Willie sat with me in the recently dusted library, where the spines of the old bound volumes had been wiped and polished by Miss von B. His blue sad eyes under bushy black brows looked round the shelves and his big hands took a glass of whiskey brought by Crooks.

‘Ah in spite of the depredations the old place is holding together. It would still take a lot to tumble all this in a heap.’

‘Crooks is threatening to give his notice if Miss von B the housekeeper stays.’

‘Ah don’t mind Crooks. He’ll go to his grave here. And you wouldn’t be doing too badly either if you went to yours beyond as well.’

‘I don’t want to stay here to die.’

‘Sure this is yours. To keep you living. Every last pillar and post and beyond there for well over a thousand good fattening Irish acres or more.’

‘Do I own these books too.’

‘Ah your mother’s father was a great one for the books. He got them I’m told from all over. Sure them’s yours. Along with every blade of grass every stone and brick and beast breathing out there on the land. In trust as you might say. Ah in spite of all the housekeepers it misses the hand of your mother. It needs a mistress like that marvellous woman. But now you’re growing into a young man. I hear tell you’ve been raising some hell out there in the bogs. Ah don’t mind that a bit. Sow your wild oats. Sure your father’s still sowing his.’

And as Uncle Willie slammed the carriage door closed and put down his window to say it’s been grand grand grand, he kissed me on the brow as another carriage came up the drive. My mother’s two strange clerical friends. To call. And I sent a reluctant Crooks quickly for Miss von B to assist receive them. And ordered tea in the blue parlour. Where the four of us sat. With Miss von B in a pink flowered dress talking excitedly of opera. And the two clerics frowning their eyebrows as their eyes, between mention of Verdi and Wagner, swept the empty spaces and table tops that had once held the objets d’art they so often had declared they adored. And when I said that my father had stolen these things from the house. And I would demand their return. There was much awkward silence and reference to their large gold waistcoat watches. Till they politely bowing and stuffing hankies back up their sleeves, took their leave.

‘That was not proper for you to say, that your father steal from this house.’

‘He’s a dirty thief.’

‘Grosser Gott, shame on you.’

On the suddenly grey cold misty Christmas morning all the household and estate workers assembled in the front hall. Kern and Olav getting many pats on the head and wagging their big grey tails. Mr Arland came by his bicycle early to stay to Christmas dinner. He stood nearby sniffing from his knuckle his little speckle of snuff and overseeing as I shook the hands and gave each an envelope out of the black strongbox brought from the town bank the day before. First in line was Foxy’s father now able to limp about. With two red healing imprints of a hammer’s head on his brow. Followed by Luke the groom who wore a bandage over where his ear had been sewn back on. And last came the ancient white haired washer woman Edna Annie with her gnarled face and hands, who never left her two steamy laundry rooms where she ate and slept. Now made her little bow and gave her toothless smile.

‘Ah may the god almighty save and love you you’re the spitting image of the mother.’

Shortly after Crooks rang the dinner gong Miss von B appeared from around the grand staircase just as Mr Arland and I, proceeding to the dining room, came along the hall. We stood aside for her. She wore a flannel skirt, string of pearls and a flimsy blue blouse through which one could see the white shapes of her undergarments and there was a heavy perfume in her wake. She awaited my seating and as I gently tucked in her chair she gave me her first smile ever. I nodded but couldn’t smile back. But found myself stealing glances at her sitting there to my right, her hair brushed back straight from her forehead, and a gold bauble hanging from the lobe of each ear. As I felt a thumping in my beating heart, she was suddenly and strangely looking pretty. With Mr Arland on my left glumly looking sad.

In the course of my carving I sent a goose leg skidding into Miss von B’s lap. She tweezed it up with her napkin covered fingers and without a murmur placed it on her plate. And finally in my embarrassed anguish, I dismembered the bird, chopping off the remaining limbs piece by piece. Crooks clearing his throat in a pained manner and pretending to look out the shuttered window as the grease and gravy slopped all over. Till he finally retreated to serve the wine. The bottle wrapped in white linen and each drip carefully blotted from the pouring. And then his chin loftily raised surveying matters before ushering Sheila and Norah to serve the sprouts. Seemingly the nude sight of Miss von B did something for his morale and he mostly now passed her silently by. While Mr Arland asked in his best quizzical manner.

‘I understand Miss von B that you rather had a difficult time escaping from Warsaw.’

‘What do you mean, I have not escaped from anywhere.’

‘O I am sorry, someone had told me you had.’

‘Do not believe all you hear Mr Arland. There is much rumour and story I am sure.’

Darkness fallen and the tallow candles, made by Catherine, lit and smoking in the hall. Coffee and brandy served by Crooks in the salon. The polite conversation continuing as I drank my lemon barley water and the fire blazed. Miss von B seated on the sofa. Her long angular fingers brushing a speck from the recently laundered flowered cover. And smoothing her skirt down, her legs stretched crossed, with two tiny mends now on her silk stockings, from which I caught Mr Arland withdrawing his eyes as he stood sipping his brandy at the corner of the mantelpiece. We spoke of horses and hunting and Mr Arland referred once more to the prewar beauty of Warsaw and Miss von B said somewhat testily that she came from the Salzkammergut and was born in the small town of Durnstein on the Danube. And was not and had never been from Poland. And later that evening we played each other in chess, Mr Arland finally winning against a battling Miss von B and I thought, as I enjoyed the evening’s society that perhaps this would be the only family I might ever know.

Mr Arland said he had to be up early in the morning. If he were to be ready in time to come and see us all off to the meet. He rose and bowed at the salon door to Miss von B who inclined her head gently in his direction. He thanked me in the front hall as I helped him on with his naval great coat.

‘You know you are, Kildare coming along quite nicely. Your chess game is lively. And despite a little slip here and there with the goose and a few other small lapses regarding your French irregular verbs, you promise to be a most worthwhile member of society. Indeed to use your sobriquet, one might say, the destinies of Darcy Dancer, gentleman, are foretold. And I must thank you again, and for the marvellous cravat. I shall wear it often.’

The sound of rain on the skylight. Faint embers of the hall fire. Mr Arland keeps so secret all his woes. To return back to his lonely room. Into which he would never invite me. And once I saw his cracked ceiling as he kept me waiting in the governess’s cart outside when we were on our way to the big castle and he had detoured to collect prints to show the ladies he lectured. And he told me. When I was stammering over some words. That he had stammered. So much so that he could not speak. And remained mostly silent during all his school years. Until upon entering University, he had changed his rural Irish accent to an English one. And never stammered again.

‘Kildare, I wonder might I trouble you with the request of a favour. I fear of a rather personal nature.’