J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Which you’ve been taking off all these many years.’

‘What. Speak to me in that fashion.’

‘It is the way you are speaking to me.’

‘And what’s more, until you attain the age of twenty one, it’s the way I’ll go on speaking. It is in fact the case. You are sleeping with her.’

‘It is not. And I am not.’

‘Useless to deny. I have it on good authority.’

‘On whose authority.’

‘Never mind whose. Can’t have that sort of goings on.’

‘Crooks has told you one of his silly imagined stories I suppose.’

‘Never mind who told me. In any case it is the duty of any member of the staff to inform me of irregularities in the household. Especially regarding fornication. And so you shall be taken away. And continue your further education without the benefit of the lady’s bed.’

‘You stole egg cutters. Wedgwood, Meissen. You even stole my mother’s toilet service. And that clock there. You are a dirty slimy Catholic. You gamble. You sell off our hay and breeding stock.’

The sunshine growing even brighter on the carpet. My father raising his fist and then bringing it down not with a crash but with his knuckles whitening as he pressed it against the top of the mellow faded mahogany table beside him. Which on its single stem and tripod legs tipped over spilling his glass of whiskey on the floor splattering his newspaper and spectacles. The various tiny globules would make them difficult to focus through. If anyone were using them watching me. Standing here. In front of this mean nasty man. Being sentenced. For the very deed my father has many times done.

‘You little bastard. You confounded little Protestant bastard. What do you know about running a farm. You still need your arse wiped. I’ll get up from this chair and smash your face if I hear anything more like that out of you. You tell Mr Arland I want to see him. By six tonight. Go on. Get out of here.’

‘I have heard it said that you yourself have cohabited with members of the household staff.’

‘Get out of here you little bastard before I throw you out.’

Cheeks deeply reddened on Darcy Dancer’s father’s face. The vein in his neck swelling blue straining tight against his white stiff collar, a black tie with small red polka dots and a blue striped shirt. A crimson waistcoat with brass hunt buttons. Thought I heard the floorboards squeak with someone standing outside the door. And the door the opposite end of the hall closing just as I came out. To be back now once more in the world all alone.

Darcy Dancer feeling the smooth banister under his palm. Servant girl in the front hall, waiting at the foot of the stairs. Her red hands turning over one another against her lace apron. Stands back from me afraid to come too close. Hurries ahead to open the door. Step out now. Hear everything shut behind me. No cocoa last night. And today I thought I had been invited for lunch. If you want to make a lasting impression in the hunting field the most heinous thing to do is to let your horse stand on a hound. The howling he sets up has everyone looking at you. As I feel eyes are on me as I walk away along this street. Just as I watched my father once in the garden of Andromeda Park, looking at the last of the autumn flowers. He pulled one and then plucked the petals away one by one. The month of October. When the spiders weave their gossamer across the tip top blades of grass when the meadows become all a white waving sea of sparkling threads. In a big bowl full of hatred can you ever find a spoonful of love. Or put the petals of a flower back together again. Maybe instead I should intercede with some saint. As Foxy says everyone does. To ask god for your favour. To make my father dead.

Darcy Dancer walking along this street. Head down, hands plunged in pockets. Feet kicking ahead of him. Past these tall red bricked houses. Turn and go into a large square. Its centre all full of trees. Over there an entrance open it says to a museum. Through the iron gate. The lawns so green. The glass swing doors and a style which clicks me in. Look up. The massive horns of this great elk. And a stuffed Irish wolfhound, even bigger than Kern and Olav. Under glass, the tiny skeleton of a mouse. Like one which used to come right up on my bedside table at Andromeda Park and eat the remains of my porridge oats stuck to the side of my bowl and noisily bang back and forth over my spoon. Called him porky he was so fat. And these thin little bones are all he was underneath. And as I look down my hands are trembling. All my whole entire body feels cold. How long now will I have dismal days. Could be all through the years till I am the age of twenty one. Commit suicide. Hang myself with a bridle from a rafter in the stables. Or jump on a sword. Maybe it would be better to die more slowly. And swallow deadly nightshade. Or cast myself into the cold deep waters of the Lough and be eaten away by the giant vicious pike.

Darcy Dancer wandering back out again on the street and woeful through the afternoon. Turning right and left. Passing these broken windows. Gaping fanlights over the open doorways. Grimy tattered curtains hanging down inside. A three legged dog with one eye, hopping along the gutter. The blackened red haunting buildings. This tenement street. A line of people behind a small coffin held on shoulders. Women on a stoop. Their hands on the black twisted railings. The voice of one coming across the cold air.

‘Ah the little darling girl was only nine autumns old, her mother poor creature she’s never out of black with all the dying.’

Ragged barefoot children lined along the kerbstones watching other children following the cortège neatly dressed. Take my feet away. Ghosts and ghosts are in there behind the panes. Secret within the walls of old red brick. Stalk through halls and up and down stairs they mumble. And they live. Cackling as they jump from the side of your eyes just when you think you see them. In this their city. All over here they roam. Their minds wear windows for eyes. The chimney tops are their ears. The slates their hair. Ghosts, ghosts watching. Watching as one moves by.

Darcy Dancer walked to the big grey granite blocks along the Liffey quays. Back up past the bridge Mr Arland and I trundled over last night. And all along that route, past Trinity College and its tall strong railings and along to my father’s club and past the little animal carvings on its stonework that I used to watch as a tiny boy. And even some long time ago Mr Arland in one of his rare heart to hearts said it would be useful for you Kildare, in order that you should know what to avoid, to acquire a knowledge of the worldly vices, of women, gambling, drinking and smoking. And now. A lover. And where is love. Disappeared like hoots of an owl. Means something for other people. And nothing for me.

The sky a darker greyer blue up this street to the Shelbourne. Just past tea time. The lobby flourishing inside with afternoon people. Gay and noisy. Turn right into the high ceilinged smoky lounge. The clink of cups. The din of chatter. The tall coated majestic waiters, trays aloft in their hands. As I look over the heads of people. To see for Mr Arland. Not in the middle. Nor there in those big sofas by the windows. Not in either corner. O my God if he’s not here. Or doesn’t come soon. Or never comes. That would be just doom.

Darcy Dancer, a frowning face turning away. Till suddenly right at one’s immediate side. A tugging. And laughter. Of a girl. To look and there nearly beneath my elbow, the blonde head and not that much further down the white alabaster bosoms of the actress. As these two temptations swell out of her pink low cut dress. And Mr Arland’s fingers let go of my coat.

‘Kildare, you’re awfully blind.’

‘My goodness, I didn’t see you. I was looking back there.’