J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Up there in the roaring metropolis you’ll soon be getting Latin aplenty Master Darcy sine dubio. And Mr Arland, what harm was there in our little differences. God bless the both of you now and safe journey.’

Our bags followed on a float driven by Luke and Foxy’s father. And Mr Arland in his naval great coat sitting high in the governess’s cart was chewing the last of the apples as we arrived at the faded grey station. Standing lonely and bereft as it did down at the end of the tree lined drive, its apron of gravel surrounded with its neatly tilled flower beds. Its large clock suspended over the platform was said to have the most accurate time in the county. That is if anyone had the correct time to compare it to.

Although we’d learned earlier by the crossroads telephone that the train for certain had left the previous town, we waited two hours. And every time Mr Arland opened his coat and pushed into his waistcoat pocket for the silver box to take a liberal pinch of snuff, he would also take from his baggy grey suit, his big gold watch to regard the hour. And with his battered briefcase resting against his ankle, he would peer up at the station timepiece.

‘Good lord that damn clock is losing a minute every ten minutes and it was made in Leicester.’

And when finally we first heard and then saw the puffing engine rounding the bend between the hills, there was a great self important flurry from the platform porter. And the Station Master with his whistle and green flag kept shouting.

‘All aboard now, don’t keep the train waiting.’

The man sitting on a box of pigeons stood up and spat into the stones between the tracks. Another sitting on a crated squealing pig, dragged it along the platform. Then a gentleman lugging a suitcase perforated with holes and full of squawking chickens said to these other two owners that their livestock could just as soon be dead cooked and eaten after themselves were already killed with the waiting, and then he pointed towards the locomotive and then announced.

‘Sure that yoke would be flying if it only had a bit of coal.’

There were faces I recognized from the town. The bald headed and dour demeanoured owner of the drapery shop who was rumoured to be buying some of our land. And others whom I saw look at me and then lean over and make whispers in each other’s ears. Quite disrespectful and most uncomfortable making. Especially with some of the monstrous bills we owed. But one elderly gentleman, who said he served my grandfather for forty years in the stables of Andromeda Park, had the courtesy to salute us and hold open the train door as we boarded. And with turf being flung into the boilers we made eastwards at a steady pace along the banks of the canal and between the stretching dark bog lands, stopping at the little stations to collect the patiently waiting passengers some of whose faces were blue with cold.

With my sleeve I wiped clear the steam of my breath collecting on the window. Out in the gathering darkness all one could see were shadows and sometimes a lonely light. My feet growing cold, I daydreamed of von B. Mostly of her body. And just as we finished eating our buttery ham thick sandwiches a priest came in to our compartment and regarded me out of the corner of his eye. In some strange way I seemed to irritate him. Perhaps upsetting him with my lascivious thoughts. He would squiggle up his nose and frown and make nasty faces. And especially so when I took out and wrote in my recently begun blue leather diary. I had found it in back of one of the cupboards of medical instruments with its pages empty and under another diary my mother’s father had kept and in which I found great interest to read. I carried both and mine was locked with a silver tiny clip. And because this could easily be broken open I thought it would be prudent on the frontis page to write.

Herein lies the truth of The Daring Dancer’s activities and a curse shall be on him and his heirs who shall open without my warrant and peruse these pages.

The click clack of the train slowing as we made another stop. Then the mournful whistle wailing as we approached road crossings. A gentleman entered in a stiff wing collar, and sat with the priest across from us. His red glowing face lit by the ceiling light. And perhaps many whiskeys. By the cut of his jib not to mention cutaway coat, striped trousers and black gartered socks, he appeared to be of the legal profession. And from time to time he regards Mr Arland who only lifts his head up from his book to try to read the name as we pull into yet another tiny station.

The legal gentleman seemed to entirely approve of me and once smiled as I wrote in my diary. Which really alarmed me to blushing because I was writing that last night I had four emissions with H.R.H. which initials I used to refer to Miss von B. We stopped at sidings along the great bog to load turf into the tender from the great stacks by the track. And I detected a certain smugness in the legal gentleman who cleared his throat as the conductor who was coming by the carriages asking for the lend of a hand, but who when looking into our window, instead saluted from his cap. Then the legal gent spoke for the first and last time, giving us a flash of his best French.

‘Premier class passengers are not asked to help unless they volunteer.’

We heard concerned voices shifting boxes. And back along the train there was the roaring moaning of cattle as they were beaten up into a livestock car. Then the train slowly chugging underway again and I thought back to that fox hunting day of von B beating Baptista. And making, with those splendid lashes landing on the latter, the occupants of Andromeda Park, persona non grata. And we chose to miss a meeting or two of the hunt. Who had four more fixtures during the splendid weather. Which produced grumblings around the stables at the lack of action. All except for Foxy, who said as he cantered Thunder and Lightning around the farm buildings.

‘You can the rest of you do what yez like but I’m going to hump after that fucking fox.’

And off he would gallop. And from Foxy came the information that it was rumoured that Baptista’s solicitors in the town were intending to call half the hunt as witnesses when they went to trial to ask for damages for assault. Although no writ had yet arrived upon the heels of their threatening letters to Miss von B, more of these unpleasant communications continued to come. Over which Mr Arland and I would pore in the schoolroom between bouts of geography and my recent course on American history.

Dear Madam,

Our client is not satisfied to grant further unappreciated courtesy to await further your obtaining legal representation, the time for which is now long past due, and we call upon you to remit the damages required and give the written apology demanded, or we shall, per our client’s instructions, institute proceedings without further notice.

Yours faithfully,

Fibbs, Kelly, Orgle and Fluthered

I could not help but feel as Mr Arland toyed with and touched these distressing letters that he made seem that they were in some remote way secret coded friendly messages to him from Baptista Consuelo. I kept imagining that he might pick one up and kiss her solicitors’ signature which I had seen times before provocatively suggesting legal redress against my father for selling some outlying land which some small farmer, claiming squatters’ rights, had decided to quietly fence off for himself. But as we all sat over Catherine’s piping hot buttery scones and damson jam served by a limping Crooks for tea he dutifully upon lengthy consultations with Miss von B composed replies. And in his high mock pompous voice, putting the final sheet in front of me. Saying.

‘I think that out of some authorities who write on such matters, we may have produced here a thorn or two for them Kildare.’