J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘For god’s sake don’t let that tree surgeon at me. I’m merely temporarily incapacitated and I don’t want to be permanently disembowelled.’

‘Tally ho.’

Someone said it was the first sensible utterance heard in a long while. And it was out of the Master’s lips who was pointing with his whip. At the ruddy fox. Who, would you believe it. Was now suddenly in the midst of us. And wouldn’t he know it was the safest place. Running in a circle from the converging hounds through horses’ legs and even some human. Of those recently dismounted to assist the Major. And Baptista now striking out with her fist at von B. Who was a consummate expert with her crop. Swatting Consuelo again and again. And even thwacking one back handed across Baptista’s face where a red welt blossomed smarting across her cheeks and nose.

‘O my god you’ve struck me. Someone please, kill her the filthy bitch. She’s not fit to be out with civilized people.’

‘You, you little bitch, are the bitch.’

‘I’ll show you yet who’s the bitch.’

Baptista raising her own whip. Slamming her heels deep into the sweat stained flanks of her chestnut stallion. This sixteen hand monster charging forward straight at Miss von B who raised her own whip and spun my father’s once polo schooled horse round. Both whips landing. Foam flying from the equine mouths as they churned in a circle digging deep gouges in the turf. The mud bespattered Major, hands waving as he stood.

‘I say ladies, ladies. What is the difficulty here.’

The Major attempting to rapid step out of where he stood between. Turning round and round to avoid the orbits of the flying hooves. Arms raised to ward off the stray blows landing from the lashing leathers. Which the Major quickly decided was the least of it as these quadruped wild tramplings and stampeding could be curtains not only for him but for everybody.

‘I say, quicko, let’s have orderliness.’

‘Ah jasus in a second you won’t have your quicko testicles.’

‘Who said that. Out with it. Who said that.’

A dowager lady riding side saddle, a winter hot house rose in her lapel, her black skirt spreading midships on her horse and the shadow of her veil across her face, let out a holler as her mare bolted and ran away with her. And two more horses bucked and threw their riders. Just as Miss von B, her vast diamond sparkling from its setting in the gold pin stuck through the folds of white satin at her throat, took a grab of Baptista’s lapels, and both ladies’ bowlers bounced off. Poor Mr Arland, his hands over his face. Von B pulling Baptista forward. Makes one remember the strong tapering muscles in her arms bigger than mine. And all the polishing and dusting and holding open of large books she does.

‘Let go of me you filthy foreigner.’

‘You common commoner, I shall teach you a lesson. You will not again try to ride me down.’

‘Let go.’

‘Ladies, this is most ungracious, can we not determine what is the difficulty here.’

A dismounted local squire rumoured to be erudite, stepping innocently forward to mediate and as Baptista’s mount reared with a massive erection he wisely jumped instantly backwards. With the great chestnut stallion taking bites out of the air. Von B backing away her mount and again catching Baptista by the collar, dragging the fist flailing girl backwards from her horse. The long blonde tresses, stuck with large tortoiseshell combs now hanging loose around her head as she fell. Landing smack on her bottom, hands and legs asprawl on the squelching boggy ground. And her mount galloping off rigid pricked, blasting farts, its hind hooves kicking in the sky.

All but Foxy and the Mental Marquis of the brave contingent took off after Charlie the Fox. And both the nervous and coward contingent contentedly remained behind to watch the fight. All nicely arranged in the sunshine in a safe semi circle. Foxy sitting there among the gentry, a great grin on his face. And I believe I heard him shout at the height of the mêlée.

‘Up the Republic.’

And just as the huntsman’s horn away in a copse beyond the bog sounded the quick pulsating notes of a tremolo to signal that the hounds had killed the fox, Baptista was feeling around her on the grass for a stone. Gathering up instead a fistful of grass to throw at von B.

‘You horrid horrid person you.’

‘You brat you are spoiled.’

‘You are a whorish servant.’

‘Ha ha, you make me weep.’

‘You disgusting foreigner.’

‘Now you make me laugh.’

‘My Lord Marquis just don’t sit there, shoot her, you’ve got guns.’

‘My dear Baptista, I also retain the very vaguest of morals One mustn’t fire upon unready ladies.’

‘She’s no lady. She’s a tramp.’

Baptista knelt on the moist turf her knees staining brown. Mr Arland dismounted, was crossing to where she’d lost her bowler and picking this up and brushing it clean with his sleeve he approached, bowing gently forward, his own top hat with suitable respect sweeping from his head, and leaning down to the rising Baptista he proferred his assisting hand.

‘Please may I at least as a possible peacemaker return your hat and help you to your feet.’

‘As for you, leave my hat alone and get your hands away from me you wretched damn tutor to those land stealing Kildares.’

On the edge of this barren bog. And on the inclining side of this rushy meadow, some yellow little gorse blossoms opened by the sun. The sweet of their coconut scent lost on this crisp air. Through which this girl’s two eyes were blazing hatred. Making me feel as if great welts were blotching all over my skin. And Mr Arland, poor Mr Arland, my noble kind tutor, who froze in his tracks. And stood there dumbly. And then slowly took back his outstretched hand and put back his opera hat on his head. And as someone had now led back and held Baptista’s recaptured horse and she unravelled a stirrup, I could in the clear winter light see the sparkle of moisture in Mr Arland’s eyes. And his voice was something I heard in me saying.

O god

I’m hurt

The weather stayed cold crisp and sunny an entire fortnight. With mornings of frost whitened meadows. I was getting used now to being squire of Andromeda Park. And that my father would not suddenly enter the door and thereupon I would have to hurriedly stand. With Crooks indisposed with severe gout, I enjoyed to walk the corridors listening to the sound of my heels striking the floors. Sheila or Norah stopping momentarily in their work to address me with the time of day. My only childish action was whenever I heard the haunting squeal of swan wings. I’d rush to the window to watch these great white birds cruise across the sky, all their strength and power whistling just above the trees of the front lawn. And the sight filled me with loneliness and a feeling I would like to be gone somewhere far away.

And then on a grey rainy cold morning, the mailman came urgently on his bicycle with a special letter. My father from whom no one had heard except that when after more cattle and fields were sold, money orders arrived to pay the servants and men, was now writing to tell Mr Arland that I must attend a young gentlemen’s school close to Dublin, and that his services upon my gaining entry would no longer be required. Although I was furious and Mr Arland was extremely sad at the news, he counselled me that I should go. And when he complained he could not sleep these recent nights over the pub, I invited him to take a room at Andromeda Park.

Three weeks later we departed just before lunch, bundled up and wrapped in scarves. Miss von B as she stood tweedily attired in the hall making sure again and again that I had all my necessities and that I was smart looking, held her fists clenched at her sides and her lips drawn tight as if she were about to cry. Outside on the steps Sexton presented himself to say goodbye, giving us four winter stored apples he had brightly polished. I could sniff the usual smell of soot and motor oil on his hair and I perceived moisture in his eye as he touched his patch and seemed overly hearty expressing his words.