J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

The first minor casualties were the Slasher sisters. Two raving redheads, who both fell off in a deep flowing brook. Smiling, they remounted, water spilling from their boots and wet hair flying. And lips loosing rather not nice words. They charged up the hill. Fighting Murphy the Farmer was next. His horse going down at the gallop in a rabbit hole. And poor rider, he was flung like an arrow head first into the ground. Where he lay, believed to be soundly dead. Till someone hoping to borrow a nip from his small brandy bottle awakened him. He was soon up and mounted again and minus only his memory which it was agreed he never used anyway. And back at the crossroads this morning one saw various sober persons secreted behind hedges vomiting. And others minus their flasks, taking their courage in great gulps of whiskey in the pub. Some of whom now formed the courageous gang looking for a way through the thick tall tangle of ash briar and blackthorn at the top of the field. Till Foxy crashed a hole in the hedge big enough to bring an army through. And the Mad Vet himself said.

‘That pup Slattery would ride an elephant between two atoms stuck together.’

I kept mostly in the middle of the field with my Molly who did not like to get her feet wet or her coat scratched by briars. Being as she was a rather proud and delicate lady. Miss von B I could see ahead at the rear of the brave contingent. The twin acorns of her gleaming arse bobbing over her saddle. And closely behind Baptista. Who kept turning to look back at her most unpleasantly. And I stretched Molly’s legs galloping two fields with the nervous contingent before dropping back to lurk a little behind in the forefront of the cowards. To see that Mr Arland came to no early harm. And no one sniggered at him now aboard the barrel shaped Petunia.

‘Are you alright Mr Arland.’

‘Thank you yes Kildare. I am merely trepidatious.’

‘Uncle Willie says always take your first fall as soon as you can to get rid of your fear.’

‘Unfortunately Kildare having only one life, I think I may prefer to stay mounted and frightened out of my wits.’

The Major smugly smiling to each side of him at the ladies as he now passed forward through the field, having officiated over the farmer Murphy who since his amnesia was on every side proclaiming he was an African prince with a harem, instead, as someone said, a bog trotter with a paddock of scrawny pigs. And the Major while galloping by circulated the news.

‘That silly sod Murphy thinks now he’s a rich nigger.’

I sat on a hillock pausing in the sunshine with Molly puffing somewhat out of condition and viewing the Major just as he galloped up and over a high mound near by roaring ‘Gung Ho’ and then plummeted down the other side. Where his horse most wisely, but extremely abruptly, refused at a very wide deep ditch on the edge of the bog. And the Major, without wings was sent aloft. Landing stretched full face in the oozing deeply brown mud. Accompanied by the echoes of his Gung and Ho. And as he half raised himself up from the clinging muck the, humorously inclined Mad Vet cantering past, suggested loudly.

‘Sir it appears that it is you who is now the nigger.’

I twice caught sight of the poor fox Making his skulking way along the edge of a wood. Jumping a little to left and right. His red and brown coat so plain against the green. The sight of which would instantly alert these blood thirsty pursuers howling and shouting in the wake of his scent. With the pack of paws and hoofed avalanche of horses pounding upon his canine heels. To be in a breath atomized by flashing fangs. Sad fellow.

With most of the brave field gone ahead, the Major, his mouth spitting mud, was dragged by the boot heels back up to dry green land. He stood up, his hands pressed at the kidneys. And then with a long groan, keeled over backwards into the bog again. Baptista holding his horse and still levelling her best dirty looks in Miss von B’s direction and that of any member of the Andromeda Park contingent. The Major now mostly surrounded by the elder ladies making their inane remarks. And very much distracting the Major’s attention from his task of sloughing off his person the bigger chunks of clay. As in her haughty supercilious manner Baptista looking down at the Major keeps loudly uttering.

‘O I say what foul awfully bad luck.’

And the Major mumbling as he dug further copious muck from ear hole and nostril.

‘Yes quite.’

The baying of the hounds now seemed to have changed direction. And Baptista, right as we were enjoying the splendid view of the stricken and ooze encrusted Major, barged straight into Miss von B. Who spun round and gave the quarters of Consuelo’s horse such a slap of her whip that I thought I saw smoke rise where it burned into the hair and I would have sworn that Baptista this time farted in fear as her horse bolted, for she gave, as Uncle Willie called it, a backside bark and left behind a fume something entirely unhorsey. And as the sweeter air from green things swept it away, one was rather aware that it could be a fracas between females soon. This day already being most full of the unexpected. Just as last night had amply been full of most useful discovery.

I tried my best to warn everyone out of the way as Baptista came galloping back, her steed blasting out steamy puffs from its nostrils and her riding crop raised to strike Miss von B. And as the horse’s hooves began thrashing round his prostrate figure a loud scream came up from the mud and the Major. As Baptista Consuelo’s swipe missed. The ducking von B, in the same instant caught the young golden blonde beauty with the most marvellously disguised back hander which landed a stunning swat across Baptista’s backside just as that part gleamed exposed from under her jacket flap. The splash of mud from the flying horses totally obliterating the Major. Whose protesting voice now seemed to come out of nowhere.

‘Stop it. I’m secretary of the hunt. Stop it.’

The fox had doubled back. And must have crossed over this bit of bog. For the scent mad hounds were sailing at us. And even trying, to sniff under the mud bathing Major. Now came thundering the whole field, the brave contingent foremost. The nervous contingent following not far behind. Even caught up were a few of the cowards, all pounding straight towards this newest mêlée. Foxy still in front of the Master who was shouting most angrily and now obscenely shrieking for him to stay back out of the way.

‘Get behind me you brazen cunt.’

Fighting Murphy the Farmer said if his senses still served him there was no doubt that a devilishly clever fox had put the hunt to rout. And reined up together on a knoll over the débâcle were the parson and priest friends of my mother who were both clearly disturbed by the curses flying and the imminent maim about to be wrought. The parson tendered a glinting silver cup of refreshment to the priest as these two clerics made ready to help each other administer the last rites of their respective churches to those recently quickly becoming in need of same. Two bogged down riders were already making unbrave noises as they sank atop their struggling horses. While Luke and Foxy’s father were either side of the rather eccentric Lord otherwise known as the Mental Marquis in a yellow hunting cap who carried American six shooters hidden under his coat and always volunteered his vocation as being that of a debauchee. Following him close was the mad veterinary surgeon carrying a vastly long amputation knife in a sheath stuck down his boot, so, as he said, to give quick treatment to any hunt member who had hopelessly mangled a limb in the field. Being that it always made the injured chap lighter carrying him to the hospital. And when the begrimed Major saw this bloodthirsty gentleman closing down upon him he was vociferous.