J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘I say sir, does this reverend gentleman not know he is in Ireland. Should he not bless instead our gracious leader, the Taoiseach.’

‘Kildare. We shall have politics later following service.’

During the further hymn singing Mr Arland’s voice could loudly be heard lingering on the notes as the other voices had ended. Now the reverend’s words reverberating from the rafters.

‘Good Lord deliver us from all sedition, privy conspiracy and rebellion. Strengthen us in righteousness, give thy servant our most gracious King and Governor grace to execute justice and to maintain truth.’

And the man I battered from behind last night. Said he was heading over the border this morning and may now instead be looking for me. Mr Arland wondering why I keep turning around. Terror awful as it is does at least put a liveliness in one’s step. Like it did when my sisters chased me making growling noises which made me go all the faster. The gunman said he would take the government over. Must be persons like him who made Uncle Willie say, ah we may be a country deprived of its totality by the British but it is them Irish gobshites as come in from the country and stand around in their bad taste in the highest government circles that we should be deprived of.

The church bell ringing. Sexton always blessed himself at that sound, no matter what the hour. And when the bell in the tower at Andromeda Park would toll, he would tell me to make the sign of the cross so no one could say then I was a heathen. And here I now stand a fornicator. Reading what I see written there on the side of the altar nave in gold lettering.

The Right Hon. Theosphilus

Lord Newtown of Newtown Butler

Bequeath to the Poor of St Ann’s

Parish Thirteen Pounds Per Annum

to be Distributed in Bread at

Five shillings each week.

The organist playing Handel. His organ concerto. All lighthearted and thrilling. The parishioners leaving, so clean and perfumed smelling. The wax polished balcony. Unlike the damp mouldering chapels in the country with flakes of plaster dropping from the ceiling on one’s shoulders and the smell of urine scented tweed. And the whole congregation stinking of horse piss. And maybe even moss growing out of people’s ears. Down this side aisle, another plaque. Dedicated to a man who took part in the defence of T.C.D. in 1916 and was mentioned in dispatches.

‘Well Kildare, you may not politically but do you feel spiritually improved.’

‘No sir.’

‘O well, at least God cannot complain we did not attend upon him.’

In the breezy street outside, Mr Arland gave a little bow to an elderly lady who lifted her lorgnette to regard and smile at him. And then looking at his watch, said we had just enough time to walk around a couple of streets. Which kept me looking at every fedora I saw atop a macintosh coming along. And I thought we passed the doorway which led upwards to last night’s party. But Mr Arland said nothing. Nor I thought should I. Even though I should like to know what happened with that awfully curvacious lady actress. And we stood at the top of Grafton Street and crossed over to the park. Mr Arland looking up at the granite memorial arch. And reading out to me.

‘Fortissimis Suis Militibus Hoc Monumentum Eblana Dedicavit MCMVII. An opportunity for you Kildare. To translate. Or is it a little early in the day for that.’

‘Yes. I think it is sir.’

‘You sound somewhat blue Kildare. Did anything happen. Was everything all right last night.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I was rather remiss to let you attend.’

‘I did though bully you sir.’

‘Yes you did, Kildare.’

Mr Arland quacked at the ducks on the pond and later, as we passed by the entrance of the Shelbourne he dropped coins into the hands of the tinker women squatting in position with their babes in arms on the empty Sunday morning pavement. He seemed so cheerful. And as he left me just outside the gate of the strange little cemetery he said was for Huguenots, he even rubbed his hands together and rose up on his toes. Telling me to take my third turning to the left. He would meet me back at the hotel for tea. And walking now, words kept going through my mind again and again. No greater anger hath any man but that. And then words came to finish it. That he belt another into insensibility with a curtain railing upon the back of the head. And as more of these distressing phrases and thoughts scratched at my brain I murmured to them. I’m awfully sorry but I’m not going to let you in. And I was able to smile remembering apropos of nothing at all, one of Mr Arland’s comments about tipping.

‘The secret is Kildare, how to keep your charm and still remain a mean stingy son of a bitch.’

The door. Painted dark green. A brass number and a polished gleaming brass plate with a name blurred beyond reading. A dark haired girl in black with a white lace apron and lace cap. A big curl falling over her forehead and into one blue eye and her reddened hand brushing it aside. Black and white marble tiled hall. Colder than cool. A brass stand of canes and umbrellas. An ivory handled one I recognize as my father’s. A crystal chandelier in the ceiling. A side table with a silver dish. And two big keys resting on a pair of gloves.

‘Are you the gentlemen was come to see Mr Kildare.’

‘Yes. I am.’

So strange to hear my name and the name of my father. As if he lived here. Within these grey walls. In this strange big gloomy house. A large painting over the stairs of rocks and cliffs and cattle grazing under the glowering sky. And further up. As one looks along the rising carpeted stairs with each step held by shiny brass rods. And the gleaming mahogany banister. To see a woman. Tall with brown hair and thin angular face. In a long white flowing gown, retreating quickly back out of my sight. As the blood rushed to my face. And the servant girl with a nod of her head.

‘Come this way sir with me now.’

Up the soft steps. Smells of cooking. Lamb if I’m not mistaken, and mint sauce. My father’s most favourite meal was roast with Yorkshire pudding. But Catherine could never make the pudding. Try as she did. The soggy messes arriving which my father ordered returned to the kitchen. Where Crooks said it always meant a bowl or two smashed as Catherine wailed that no one appreciated her.

Top of the landing we turned and walked forward to a door. Past a tiny painting. Two horses abreast in a race. Called Andromeda Beating Adolphus. Which last I saw hanging on the wall just outside my mother’s bedroom. The girl knocking.

‘Come in.’

My father’s voice. And the girl turning the ebony knob and ushering me into this blue tinted drawing room with a roaring turf fire. On the white marble mantelpiece the clock tinkling the hour of noon. Its enamelled roman numeralled face surrounded by ormolu flowers birds and cherubs. And its little pictures at which I often looked, as it sat chiming in the north east parlour of Andromeda Park. My father seated in a chair. His monocle glipting. Behind him a tall window facing out on an iron balustrade over the street. The sweet aroma of Irish whiskey. A pair of reading glasses resting across a folded newspaper. Great double white doors opening back into another room with a window facing out to the backs of other shadowy Georgian buildings. The door closing behind me. Sunlight suddenly spreading over the faded carpet.

‘So you’re on time you little bastard. You’re getting to be a big bastard. Saw you last night. Behaving boisterously. Pushing Mr Arland out of the Shelbourne entrance. Stand or sit.’

‘Stand.’

‘Now you listen to me you little bugger. You’re sleeping with Miss von B.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t beg my pardon. You’re sleeping with Miss von B. You little bastard. Don’t come the hound with me. I’d send her packing only she’s keeping the roof of that place on.’