J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Come come, pay up now. I won’t have any of this shoddy dodging.’

The hunt secretary collecting people’s caps. Making a stack of notes in his hand. I thought he was going about it rather rudely. In the loud offensive way in which he asked for mine and that of my party. There being perhaps some feelings regarding my father not having contributed to the hunt for some time. Nor since my mother’s death did we plant coverts or hold a hunt ball. In a manner overly familiar, the Master of Foxhounds on an enormous bay mare came up to greet Miss von B. Along with him trotted the first whip also smiling with a large assembly of teeth which I’m sure were bought off some itinerant dental salesman who was temporarily out of his size. And together with the huntsman and a hunt servant, all made a distinct fuss, mouthing compliments concerning my housekeeper’s smart appearance. I found their fawning close proximity rather tiresome. While Miss von B rather revelled in it.

‘Ah Princess you are looking so devastatingly radiantly beautiful.’

‘But you are just too kind, Master.’

‘The stones in the walls, ma’am, you make them smile.’

‘Ha you give me how do you say, the blarney.’

Just before moving off a group of riders stopped near by in a field. Some with saddle flasks at their lips. And village boys running with the bottles to refill them at the pub. Till one of them fell clean backwards out of his stirrups off his horse. Landing with the flask still held to his lips where supine he drained it. Upon seeing this, a ruddy faced chap known as the Major although he was never involved in anything the least military, cantered over. Sitting high on his horse accusing the prostrate gent of inebriation. Who now slowly arose from the moist morning grass and staggered a little about the field. The Major shouting.

‘Go home sir, you are unfit to hunt.’

‘Bugger you.’

‘I said go home sir, you are drunk and a danger to the field.’

‘Bugger you you stuffed twit.’

‘Having long emerged from my school days, I shall not be buggered sir, and direct you to depart without giving more disgrace than you already have. And I say go home. You are too drunk to hunt.’

‘You mean I’m too drunk not to hunt. And who the hell are you telling me.’

‘I am a member of the hunt committee.’

‘Well fuck the committee and bugger you.’

‘There are ladies sir, mind your language, there are ladies.’

‘There are crumpet and fluff and brazen arses and horny old devils like you sniffing their saddles.’

‘I shall teach you a lesson sir.’

The Major raising his whip brought it lashing down knocking your man’s bowler off to the ground. Whereupon your squiffy chap on the turf rounded with his own whip to land a swipe across the nose of the Major’s mount. The big grey gelding rearing bucking and kicking. Sending the Major skywards and eastwards pitched on his back, boots in the air. The locals deserted the crossroads with this sign of action. And came aswarm over the walls of the field, smiling and giving each other joyous digs in the ribs. As there was nothing to be enjoyed more than seeing the gentry go berserk. In the quickly man made arena the florid faced Major gathered himself from the ground. Tightly stretching his whip between his white gloved hands he circled round the squiffy chap. And the two of these red coated gentlemen started belabouring and slashing each other from toe to ear. As their shouts roared out over the countryside.

‘Cunt.’

‘Cad.’

‘Cunt.’

‘Cad.’

It was rare to see such delightful justice being done. For, according to Foxy, both protagonists were eegits of the highest order and the meanest bastards imaginable you could find in the district. Where they’d been for years guilty of giving nothing away free. I manoeuvred my small mare Molly to a nice vantage point, a grassy mound, to witness from. And right next to a highly perfumed Baptista Consuelo. Madly licking her lips at every blow. And as a clean swat of the lash landed across the Major’s left cheek she gave a sucking hiss of her lips followed by a satisfied smile. Just as Miss von B came trotting and reining up between us. Turning to me as if the whole thing were my fault.

‘Ah grosser Gott such savages.’

Baptista Consuelo looking round to Miss von B and pulling her mount back a pace. She seemed to let the morning air purr down the nostrils of her bumpy little nose as she uttered her vowels in a very superior manner indeed.

‘I think it most jolly good that one gentleman chastise another should he need it.’

‘And you, you little bitch should get a good hoof up the backside.’

‘Why you dirty foreigner, you, speak to me like that.’

‘It is of course darling the language which exactly you deserve.’

Baptista Consuelo turning her nose up and backing her chestnut stallion away. Just as the squiffy chap with his horse grazing near, was lashed to the ground. The locals cheering and the gentry handclapping. The Major, florid cheeks puffing, and adjusting his stance for maximum leverage, continuing to flog your man.

‘Tally bloody ho, take that you sod. And that.’

‘O god, what are you doing to me.’

‘I’m thrashing you sir.’

‘You cunt.’

‘You cad.’

The squiffy chap rolling arms wrapped round his head. The gentry’s pukka shout of shame and a chorus of encouragement from the locals as the Major landed a boot thump in the ribs. Your man curling up from the concussion and then lying groaning and still. The crowd fading back. And Mr Arland’s voice.

‘You sir, are a pathetic bully and coward striking a man who is down.’

‘Poppycock sir. Ho got no more than he richly deserves. And perhaps you too should like a whipping.’

‘If I get down sir, from my horse, I assure you that you will never again get up on yours.’

The hair standing up on the back of my head at Mr Arland’s quietly delivered words. The Major grunting and turning away. Foxy said the randy Major would jump up on his own grandmother in her coffin and had put every scullery maid in his house up the pole. And he was widely known for his particular skill in administering indoor punishment to servants. When he wasn’t otherwise busy himself dressing up as a woman. And was now prancing about the meadow with victorious self importance. Stopping only to pose in the gaze of the mounted ladies. With Baptista looking down admiringly as he slapped the ivory of his whip into his white gloved hand.

‘I should venture to suggest that that should teach the sozzled insolent chap some manners. And I apologize to the ladies if this unbecoming fracas gave offence.’

The Master and Huntsman leading the field off down the road and into a boreen. Through rusting iron gates and across two fields. To the first covert which drew nothing save pigeons. Nor the second in a grove by a bog from which snipe flew in their shifting flight. But the third, a wood atop a stone strewn hill roused a fox. Skidaddling goodo pronto. The Huntsman blew his horn. The echoes sounding back from the nearby hills. The chase was on with the usual curses flying amid the whoops and hollers, and the rather more staid remarks of the elder members.

‘I say there, I do believe that that ruddy fox is departing.’

‘Yoikes, yoikes.’

‘After the bloody little bugger.’

Uncle Willie said hounds take their character from their Huntsman and this pack was splendidly disciplined. The sunshine bright up on their backs. Barking and bounding off north west, nose to ground, white tips of sterns bobbing. Foxy on Thunder and Lightning leaping to the forefront of the field between Huntsman and Master. On the heel of these, the brave contingent, already pounding half way down across a great spreading meadow. Hooves slapping the grass. Chunks of dark tan turf flying up behind in the sky.