J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Whenever I looked up in his direction, the priest in our train compartment seemed as if he were about to suddenly speak or more probably shout at me. Clearly to him both Mr Arland and I were agnostics at large or something, or even worse, protestants. Whom Sexton said, were at least well bathed and honest while any good catholic worth his salt didn’t go near a bath tub and would treacherously lie sooner than look at you. And Crooks and Sexton were easily the most devout among our male staff, both wearing crucifixes under their tunics which they oftentimes took out and kissed. And I thought any day I’d see the two of them dancing a jig down the hall each with a winter bouquet of Sexton’s night scented flowers and screaming hail mary up at heaven. But all that happened back that night confronting Crooks, was that my erection went down and when feeling around in the dark for the atlas I fell over a broom sticking out wedged between a table and the wall in the schoolroom. But it was the first time ever that I heard Crooks pray for my mother’s resurrection. It was not however, the first I had heard of him speaking of his miraculous visions. Vouched for on one occasion by Sexton, who only that I knew he was somewhat touched with an equal mania, I might have nearly believed them both. Their urgent hysterics about the apparition told all over the farmyard, that my mother had appeared where the altar used to be in the ancient ruin of the chapel in the cemetery. Or Sexton when he stood in his potting shed imploring with his hands.

‘Ah it was a blinding brightness of light and that immaculate lady, sine dubio, the very virgin replica of the Blessed Virgin herself, stood there with her fair hand raised till the explosive vision blinded us. I myself with me only one good eye left threw meself prostrate to the ground. Then when I looked back up, there stood a vase right out of Catherine’s kitchen cupboard with the loveliest of deep red roses in it. A miracle.’

And on this bumping ride now. The train to Dublin. Photographs of the great hotels enveloped in smoke over the legal gent’s head, as the priest puffs on a cigarette. And all the waste land and barren bogs out there in the darkness. And upon the journey from Andromeda Park to the station we were discussing the niceties of legal jargon when I asked Mr Arland if it were not proper for me to address Miss von B by her title. He frowned slightly as he said.

‘Of course in mere courtesy you might. However, although she is, Kildare, according to the Almanach de Gotha , high born, I regret to say that, in fact, she is not entitled to be referred to in the style and manner of Her Royal Highness.’

We had on that subject a good jolly laugh when letter composing. For Mr Arland, when we sat alone without Miss von B, further and better revising our letters to those naughty solicitors, would place his pointing finger under the words Her Royal Highness and then double up his hand into a shaking fist. And how in this carriage he slumps a little, there in the corner, his head nodding off to sleep, his book open across his grey knee with the thumb of his pale scholarly hand held between the pages and I could see the nosey priest trying to see its long complicated title.

A Domestic Homoeopathy

Its Legitimate Sphere of Practice

Together with Rules for Diet and Regimen

Mr Arland often read and quoted to me from this volume with such advices as, ‘Nightmare often occurs after a hearty supper.’ Although he said he should be sorry to no longer be my tutor, I felt he might be glad to be departing. Especially with his advances towards Baptista Consuelo so poorly and unsportingly received. But recently he seemed to have come out of his tendency to long silences. Which I felt had resulted from his deep and spurned love for that little bitch. He had moreover, met me, as nearly every bloody member of the household now had, on one of my rather late evening expeditions to Miss von B. I was about to babble out a whole stream of ridiculous excuses as to why I was to be found tiptoeing in my dressing gown upwards on the beech grove stairs, my noisy slippers tucked under each armpit, when he bowed in the candlelight and instead made his excuse to me.

‘Ah Kildare, I am unable to sleep and I am on my way to the library to choose a book. And ah I see you were just like me as a boy. I too often went at night to go catch moths attracted by a light I’d put at an attic window.’

‘Ah yes, Mr Arland, yes, precisely what I am doing. As a matter of fact. Catching moths.’

‘Of course you’ll find moths more plentiful in summer. But have a good catch, Kildare, goodnight.’

Now Mr Arland slumped over in his seat lets out a little snore. Which clearly the priest does not appreciate but at which the legal gent kindly smiles. Just as Mr Arland did that night on the stairs. When I knew that I had blundered by saying anything about catching moths. But I am sure he felt it beneficial for me to have it off with Miss von B even though he could not contribute to the furtherance of that aspect of my education by his tutoring. And noting the fact in my diary, I was astonished as to how well used I was becoming to sleeping with her. We could get nice and jolly warm together. And I liked her stories. About the Barons Princes and Duchesses, and the naughty goings on in the tottering Royal Houses of Europe. And the way she would suddenly in the middle of them jump up and go guzzling and kissing all over me with her mouth. I could nearly think of nothing now but climbing on top of her each night or she upon me as we did occasionally till dawn or our utter fatigue finally intervened. Resulting then in my being unable to stand up during the daytime. Sitting there in the schoolroom or across the table from Mr Arland in the library, with my pained and strained prick pushing my trousers out like a tent. And at lunch when I walked bent over behind Mr Arland to the dining room, he turned to regard me.

‘Good grief Kildare, what on earth’s the matter, you’re bent over like an old man, are you alright.’

‘I believe I may just have a small rupture.’

‘Good lord, we had better summon the doctor.’

‘O no I’ll be quite alright, it easily passes off.’

‘Rupture Kildare, does not pass off. Indeed you can get a strangulated hernia.’

‘O I’m sure it’s perhaps not rupture. Colic or something. Quite temporary.’

‘Colic, o well, my Domestic Homoeopathy Manual has just the jolly job for you. Hot flannels applied on the belly. And you must abstain from green vegetable and other flatulent food.’

Yet, having it off with Miss von B had so much changed one’s life. For a start my voice was considerably deeper. And I was able to wear my foreskin back. It was worrying however that nearly nothing else entered one’s mind. And there might be something going wrong with my brain. For even as I used to do, watching the rooks, or tramping for a walk up over spy glass hill, everywhere in front of one’s eyes was the moaning writhing body of Miss von B. And I must admit that not everything was pleasure. Those first few times I blushed and shivered and trembled and at times was revolted. Indeed a whole fortnight passed before I was able to avoid vomiting usually once before heading up the stairs and again in her room and again when I returned to mine. And dear me, once right on top of her. Later of course, when I returned to the privacy of my own chamber, I did nearly laugh my head off. It was the extraordinary panicky manner in which she tried to get out of the way of that evening’s digested dinner. Since I was in her we were rather pinned together, and she would move one way just as I was trying to move the opposite. I had also to get used to one or two regrettable things in the way of her personal smells occasioned when she could not bathe. When, as a result of a two week visit from the plumber who went round scratching his head and twisting and banging the pipes, finally had water flying out of everywhere but where it should. Although she retired behind a screen to put some contraption up her I always found it rather disconcerting especially as she would with equanimity loose farts. However when she did this under the covers she did explain that if such gas should therein remain bottled up there could result one awful battle to finally bust it out. As I got used to her ways I laid a few myself and we would both lie there listening together to see who could make the most interesting bang. She was most remarkably handy with her tongue as well. And would put it around things and in places that most surprised me. And just so that she would not think I was as sordid as she was I thought it appropriate to mildly remonstrate.