J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Ah you like the buckles on my shoes. Did you also like the song.’

‘Yes it was quite nice.’

‘Come with me have another brandy. It is so marvellous. It is only now my fifth.’

‘I think it may be as a matter of fact your seventh.’

‘Ah as all the English gentlemen say, that is what they always say. As a matter of fact.’

‘I am distinctly not English. And really I should be going Miss von B. I must search out kit for Mr Arland.’

‘But one, just one little brandy. It is so nice here. It is the first night that I have found it pleasant. Peace, it is as beautiful as war is horrible. And why did you come to look at me when I bath. Is it because you want to see what a woman looks like.’

‘This is a rather mournful line of questioning you are pursuing Miss von B. It really is.’

‘What did you see.’

‘Nothing. I was merely.’

‘Merely, merely what. What merely.’

‘Merely. I was merely.’

‘Ah merely. Merely what. So you were there. Of course you were there. How dare you. Spy upon me. Disgraceful. And your father should know. But then. Ah then. I am not what you call the tattle tale. But it is what is wrong with this place. So much taboo. Like a woman’s body. Maybe it is because it is so wet and cold.’

‘I am rather now proceeding to bed Miss von B.’

‘O well who cares. Goodnight. Bye bye. Sweet dreams. Toodle ooo. So long sonny boy. Baby.’

‘I do think you are being rather vulgar.’

‘Ha. Vulgar. I am being nuts. That’s what I am being. And are you still to be a bishop.’

‘Goodnight.’

Darcy Dancer bowing. Taking a pewter chamberstick from the chimneypiece to light the way. Turning towards the door. One last look at her slender legs crossed. Her calves come out of bigger stronger thighs. She licks her lips as she speaks. And Foxy brought me all the way over the countryside to nearly get killed in the bogs. To teach me about women. And my sisters’ naked bodies that Nurse Ruby would never let me see. The sting of her slaps raining down on my legs. Each time she washed around my prick and it stuck up in her face. Creaking of floorboards. Open the door now quickly so that I can catch whoever is crouched there listening. Nothing but the cold breeze of wind pouring in from the hall. And perhaps it is rude of me to be so abrupt.

‘Miss von B.’

‘Yes.’

‘O it is nothing.’

‘Is there something you wish to say. You must say it.’

‘I hope I have not been discourteous.’

‘But of course you have been. But then I have been provocative. But why do we not both go together. We go by the same light and not waste two candles.’

‘That is a very good idea.’

‘Well then I shall finish my brandy.’

‘O do please.’

‘And then I shall be promptly right with you.’

‘O there’s no hurry, none at all.’

‘Ah but we must not diddle dawdle though, must we.’

‘No perhaps we must not.’

‘Then I come.’

‘Shall we use my light’or yours.’

Miss von B blows out her candle. Crossing from the sofa to put her cigarette into the fire, her glass on the mantelpiece and her ivory holder back in her purse. She walks, her hips swaying, and I think her lips smiling too, right straight at me. As my hand shakes holding the chamberstick. The chain of her opera bag over her wrist. Some curls of her hair loose from the bun at the back of her head. And my candle light throwing shadows across her face. If I stand up on my toes I’ll be taller than she. Only it makes such awful cramps in the backs of one’s legs. I keep swallowing down my throat. She stops. Takes off her shoes.

‘That’s better. Isn’t this how you and that Foxy go around the house.’

‘You are making fun of me.’

‘No. I am being what is known as discreet. We should not make a sound. Take off your shoes. Now we go. Blow out the candle.’

Turning right out the salon. On the cold stone floor. Towards the beech grove stairs. In the chill air of the front hall. Sound of rain up high on the skylight. She takes my hand. Presses her breast up against my arm. Soft and like something you feel when your fingers want to touch. Wind blowing against the landing window. When summer comes the tree tops out there will be full of screeching jackdaws. And I was rather angry for that moment when I saw Mr Arland’s eyes viewing Miss von B’s lower limbs. They say love hits you a blinding flash between the eyes if you are a gentleman. And between the legs if you are not. Making me at this moment a rather shameless cad. Right here on the landing. Where she’s putting her arms around me. A shoe in each hand. Pressing her face on mine. And opening her lips and parting mine. Her tongue pushing long and big and hard into my mouth. Embraced with the housekeeper. Fattened with the butter she eats and the cascades of cream she pours over everything. Her breath breathing against my neck. Her tongue digging in my ear. Just as I drop a shoe. The heel landing ouch right on my toe. And whoops. Now goes the chamberstick bounding back down the stairs.

‘Are you alright my little darling.’

‘Yes.’

‘Quick now my lovely. Come.’

Darcy Dancer’s hand held up to Miss von B leading the way. My shoe left behind. Plus a chamberstick over which Crooks is not likely to fall especially with his legs in their invalid condition and the memory of his last bottle skidding keeping him in some seclusion. But his midnight melancholia could sometimes drive him to pouring cold water over his head and crawling on all fours along the midnight halls. And perhaps right past Miss von B’s room, into which I follow her. And to where she had moved after much demanding complaint. With its canopied brass bedstead on which my sister Beatrice Blossom had slept. And with whom on the pink silk of the love seat along the wall, I played draughts on summer evenings. Her favourite dolls kept in the heavy iron chest. That Crooks said came from a Spanish ship which sailed in the Armada. Birds and sprays of flowers on the wall paper. Blue and green on white. And I’m so trembling. Just me and my heart. The shadow of von B at the door and hear the click of the key turning in the lock. She must see the shape of me shaking here with my back against the window sill. Breathing in the dark. The movements of her arms. Buttons opening. Stepping out of her skirt. The rustle of her clothes. A white slip like a ghost rising up and coming off over her head. Her hands behind. And her undergarment falls away. Her bosoms out right here in the room. My penis hurting hard in my trousers. Heart now jumping when before it was only thumping. What I saw that night is right up close and warm to me. With the splatter of rain on the window panes. Imprisoned. And really worried out of one’s wits.

‘Where are you going.’

‘Miss von B I must go.’

‘Go. Silly child. Why do you go.’

‘I must soap my boots.’

‘Luke the groom or Foxy will soap your boots.’

‘Neither of them do it properly.’

‘Are you frightened.’

‘No.’

‘You are. You must not be. Come. I am going to get in bed before I turn to ice. Ach du grosser Gott, there is no warm bottle. I have got the key. You must stay. I will not let you out.’

‘You are imprisoning me. That is quite illegal.’

‘Ha ha. I did not make you come here.’

‘You did.’

‘I did not. And I do frequently lock the door at night. Once the dog come in and push his big cold nose on my face and I jump up to scream.’

‘If I come into bed with you, is it not the case that with such intimacy you might then take advantage of me.’

‘What. What do you mean.’

‘I mean that you might assume you are no longer a servant.’