J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Most certainly Mr Arland.’

‘It is somewhat of an imposition but would it be asking too much. I should like for tomorrow’s hunt to borrow kit, should there be any spare lurking in the household.’

‘Ah Mr Arland shall you come out with us tomorrow. After the fox.’

‘Yes Kildare, after the fox.’

‘That would be so splendid. You’ll be my guest and most welcome. We have drawers and closets full of breeches, jackets. I’m sure we’ll fit you out. Crooks will see to everything. I didn’t know you hunted.’

‘Well Kildare, I don’t actually. To tell the honest awful truth. At most I’ve been on a horse. And when given a little luck, have stayed thereon. And I might just manage I think not to give too much offence if I turned up.’

‘The scent should be good tomorrow. O that’s exciting. You’re coming out. That really is.’

‘I’m not quite so sure about that, Kildare. As I think I am very likely to break my neck.’

‘Foxy will have a very safe mount for you. We’ll saddle up Petunia.’

‘Thank you Kildare.’

Watching from the open door Mr Arland affixing his candle lantern to the front of his handle bars and disappear down the little hill beyond the rhododendrons. The world so dark wild and windy out there that you could not think that it would ever blossom so green again under grey skies at morning.

And Mr Arland now, who would come, perhaps even hard riding by day on the chase and hard drinking by night. And who had brought me once to have my hair cut. To the fox hunting barber he said was the most erudite in the county and with whom he often discoursed in the pub. And Mr Arland asking him why he hadn’t seen him having a pint for some time. And the barber stopped cutting my hair and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Now I’ll tell you Mr Arland, I had to give up the hunting and abandon the drink for a bit, as I drank so much the scissors of a morning was jumping like a live fish out of me hand.’

And as I sat there I felt the nip of the leaping shears taking bites out of my scalp. With Mr Arland grinning behind his sleeve.

And tonight to walk back over these worn, chipped and cracked black and white tiles. Push ajar this heavy mahogany door into the salon. Its warmth of fire and light. Miss von B, a tome open across her lap, turning the pages.

‘Miss von B may I offer you further refreshment in the way of another liqueur.’

‘O I couldn’t. It is my third brandy.’

‘It will as a matter of fact be your fourth. But of course I’m not counting.’

‘Ha ha.’

Darcy Dancer taking the stopper from the decanter. Crossing the creaking boards under the carpet to pour the pale brown liquid with its sweet aroma into the balloon shaped glass.

‘Miss von B I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of hearing you laugh before.’

‘The occasions are perhaps rare, I admit. Nothing has been very funny for some while. Today it has been very nice. And you, you can be a perfect little gentleman when you choose.’

‘I hope you have not been too unhappy here.’

‘Ah but anywhere you can be unhappy.’

‘Have you been very unhappy somewhere.’

‘I have seen much and been through much. So much awful things. Here at least there is a little peace.’

‘And madness.’

‘Ha yes. But it is mostly foolish madness. It is not evil madness. Maybe there is evil madness but I do not see it yet. You turn the water tap it say cold and out come hot. It is dirty and the people are stupid but what matter. Maybe it is better that way.’

‘Mr Arland is not stupid. Nor is Sexton.’

‘Mr Arland no he is not. He is very clever. He speaks such perfect German, such perfect French. But Sexton O tempora O mores, he says. With this black mess on his hair. It come off all over the cabinets in the flower room and everywhere it gets on the vases. He is charming. But quite insane.’

‘He would not appreciate it to hear you say that Miss von B.’

‘No Sexton, poor man he would not. He is so easily upset. Ah but it is beautiful, the hills, the fields so green. And when sometimes you want it to be, life can be so slow. That you do not do today what you won’t do tomorrow.’

‘That is because cattle never stop eating and the grass never stops growing.’

‘Yes perhaps that is why.’

‘And we have rainbows.’

‘Yes you have. And it was nice that you call me when the priest and parson come. You and I, I think we could be friends. Perhaps. But you should not call your father a thief.’

‘That’s what he is. If he is stealing what is mine. And all this belongs to me.’

‘Ah you are a funny little one.’

‘I’m not so little. And I don’t think I am so funny.’

‘Ah but you are. Come. Sit by me here on the sofa. I will not bite you.’

Two candles guttering out on the mantel. And the glow of the fire waving on the moss green brocaded cloth of the walls. The wind still blowing hard beyond the panes and shutters. Darcy Dancer placing a log on the fire and pushing the big embers together. Letting the tongs lean against the cold marble chimneypiece. To go sit on the sofa. My jacket tight, my sleeves short and trousers hiked up round my ankles. And Miss von B pats a seat beside her.

‘Ah but you can sit closer than that. Come. Here. Beside me.’

‘I don’t mean to be unfriendly Miss von B but I do think I am close enough. I have an aversion to being too close to people.’

‘Ah what is that word aversion. I do not think I know it.’

‘It means repugnance. I have a slight repugnance to other people.’

‘Ah repugnance, now my English is not that specialized. This repugnance, what is that.’

‘I suppose incompatibility. Not getting on with others.’

‘Ah but you get on. Perhaps it has not been too good between us. But it has been better like now and today.’

‘Why does Mr Arland think you come from Poland.’

‘As a matter of fact, as you say, that is a long story. I shall tell you sometime. But now you tell me something.’

‘What.’

‘About that day in the bogs. You don’t want to tell.’

‘No.’

‘I understand you were over there to learn something about life.’

‘Who told you that.’

‘Ah I have perhaps ways of learning these things. You have such big innocent eyes. With the beard coming on your face. Your voice it is getting deeper. And you do not know about women.’

‘I know about women.’

‘Ha ha, you know nothing.’

‘I do.’

‘I could teach you about women. As Mr Arland, he teach you Latin. But you might make it difficult.’

‘What would you teach me.’

‘You are so young. And there is so much to learn. Perhaps it would be better for a start, that I ask you what you would like to know.’

‘Are women cruel.’

Miss von B taking her long ivory cigarette holder which stuck out from her gold mesh opera bag. Delicately pushing a cigarette in its end. As she raises it held between the very tips of her fingers. She stands up to step to the chimneypiece. Putting down her glass and leaning to light the cigarette in the flame of a candle held in the blue pink and gold candelabrum just as the clock tinkled the time. And she regarded the tiny watch on her wrist.

‘Ah that clock is only two hours wrong.’

Picking up her glass again and turning, as she used to do in the front hall, and lifting her chin to blow out a puff of smoke. She crosses to the decanter.

‘May I, Master Reginald.’

‘O yes of course.’

Her eyelids flutter as she removes the stopper. Closes her fingers around the neck. Lifts and pours out the liquid into her glass. Squinting as smoke from her cigarette curls back in her eye. Squaring her shoulders back. Her chest rising and her bosoms stretching out white under the light blue gauzy fabric of her blouse. And she downs nearly all the brandy in one gulp. As something gets awfully stiff and pointing distinctly upwards in my trousers.