J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘And of course, we are here. Come sit. Have tea. And Clarissa, may I present to you Reginald Kildare, whose more intimate friends refer to him as Darcy Dancer.’

‘And I hope I can too, Darcy Dancer.’

‘Kildare, this is Clarissa.’

‘How do you do.’

‘Well for a start I’m on my third cup of tea with your tutor. Who has so kindly invited me to partake of. And I hear so much about you. That you’re very clever. Lazy at Latin. But a brilliant and brave horseman. And you’re going to be quite important some day. Not that you are not already but you know what I mean.’

‘I think, ma’am, Mr Arland is somewhat biased in my favour.’

‘Now Kildare what alternative have I but to be biased in your favour when you work so little and I teach you so hard. And now what would you like in the way of sandwiches. How about a smoked salmon, eh.’

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

‘And I being the lady present, Clarissa will pour you tea. And then I shall of course only be too delighted to ladle you salmon or cakes, or to comfortingly hold either of your hands. Or indeed mop your brow should it urgently be required and I had the necessary mop.’

The skin so soft on her long white magic fingers of this actress. The blue of a gem stone sparkling on her knuckle. Never before in my entire knowledge have I ever heard Mr Arland utter the word eh. Something has distinctly changed. Even his crossed leg has his foot gigging somewhat up and down. A movement he told me no gentleman ever makes. Since it might be deemed he had just nervously peed in his pants. And Mr Arland’s shirt changed from the one he wore this morning. Even his tie would give an appearance that its wearer might be at the race track. His hair brushed shining back along his temples. Shoe tips just this side of gleaming. And not a single speck of darkness under a fingernail. And his shoulder is but a hair’s breadth away from Clarissa. And as she leans forward to pour, her bosoms make me gulp.

‘And Darcy Dancer, you don’t mind do you, if I call you that.’

‘No.’

‘Then I shall ask you Darcy Dancer, how would you like your tea, weak or strong.’

‘Weak please, thank you.’

‘Ah sensibilities. The certain sign of sensibilities. Weak tea. I have mine strong. But then I have no sensibilities. All I am is too noisy, too loud, and in the politest of places I show too much flesh. Isn’t it awful. And everyone is afraid of knowing me. Isn’t that true Mr Arland. I like calling you Mr Arland. It does something to make our tea together more serious and profound. Not something silly and nonsensical. Here you are Darcy Dancer. Do you take milk.’

‘A little please.’

‘And of course, as always after awful wars, there’s a shortage of sugar.’

‘I don’t take any thank you.’

‘Ah another sign. Of a young man intent upon grave but noble destinies. Maybe even guiding big nations. O dear but they’re all such a bore really, big nations. The horrid despicable things they do to the little nations. But then I was never any good at politics. They say don’t they, leave politics to men and leave famous men to beautiful women. And of course the women will do worse things to the men than nations do to nations. Or do they say that. Or is it that I’m just saying it. God I think I will say anything. Even though I am most respectably from Rathgar. And poor Mr Arland, Darcy, he’s just been so absolutely good and patient tolerating me. He is as I’m sure you already know, a treasure. Yes that’s exactly what he is. A real true treasure. And I adore him.’

The blood coming to Mr Arland’s cheeks. His eyes blinking and his lower lip moving back and forth over his upper. All the silvery greys in the blonde blonde of Clarissa’s hair. Her melodious voice, a tiny girl’s, full of sap and juice. And like my mother’s, the pure white white skin of her face. Un-wrinkled even when she frowns and smiles. Eyes of greeny grey flecked with brown, dancing and darting as she speaks. And we had tea all the way till nearly six o’clock. I had four cups, two big buttery pieces of toast coated with bramble jam and three cream cakes. People now in the lounge taking their sherry and whiskey. Talk of shooting and hunting fixtures. And I nearly forgot all my woe and what my father said. With Clarissa leaning forward, bosoms aflow to put her hand gently on my knee. And as she did whenever she laughed really hard, putting back her head and then all of her cascading forward. Then a moment later her other hand would move over a fraction of the inch of faded flowered pillow of the couch and grasp Mr Arland’s. And I thought, that at least upon this day, when so many ill moments pursued me from last night. That not all was bleak and miserable. I told Mr Arland my father would be pleased to see him as soon as possible. And at least by six o’clock. Which sent Mr Arland jumping to his feet.

‘Then good gracious Kildare, you should have told me, it’s nearly that time now.’

‘I’m sorry sir. I have I’m afraid been just rather happily daydreaming here.’

‘Darcy Dancer, what a nice thing to say. That I set you with all my silly chatter to daydreaming.’

‘O no ma’am, you are a most interesting person. I mean only that you really set me to pleasantly thinking.’

‘Ah that is more flattering.’

Mr Arland brushing away his crumbs. As I rose to say I would repair now to my room. And I requested permission of Mr Arland to attend the cinema. The one which we passed in the narrow street up to St Stephen’s Green. Where a film of the wild wild west was playing.

‘Of course you may, Kildare.’

When I bowed, Clarissa offered up her hand. And as much as I wanted to sink my kisses upon her flesh and go osculating up her arm, I merely brushed her metacarples lightly with my lips. And turned back to look as I left. To see Mr Arland standing over her and I could tell she was shaking her head yes to him. I rose upwards in the lift with an awful feeling. That I might not ever see Mr Arland again. Stood looking out my window. And prayed. That Mr Arland would not be disappointed in love. That this actress would not now ever again take out her breast in a public place. For that would, more than anything, certainly mortify Mr Arland. Who tried all these months to gain the notice of Baptista Consuelo. And got nothing but a look down her nose at him. As she sat so high and haughty on her horse. And I hear. Even now and so far away. Westwards. Over the bog lands. And further out across the gently rolling winter bare hills. The huntsman speaking to hounds. Horizons all around us. The huntsman shouting. Find him. Cheering the pack forward. Down on hillsides. Nostrils steaming, hooves thumping and thundering. Charlie is the fox. Puss is the hare. Try up old fellows try. Cool moist winds on the face. The warmth of horse between your thighs. The horn’s slow mournful wail of the covert drawing blank. Has Mr Arland found a vixen. Be killed instead of killing. Or a goddess ungodly come to him. To give life to his life. To go on living. Never have death. Through the tears in my eyes. My mother. Ankles so slender. Gold pin closing the silks around her throat. The still still way she lay. So dead. To leave woe.

And her

Blood bleeding

Red

When

The sky was

Blazing blue

Mr Arland knocking early on my door in the morning. And saying neither sad nor glad that he would await me in the lobby. And that we must hurry. I quickly brushed my hair in order to warm up my brain and found a long grey strand. Clearly turned that way from all my recent cares. It was all twisted and I plucked it out.

The lobby this morning full of traffic. Of business men arriving and country squires departing. Mr Arland being very businesslike checking through our hotel bill. Wouldn’t tell me how much it was as I tried to look but said it was substantial. We called at gentlemen’s outfitters the top of Grafton Street. Where Mr Arland said he obtained his silk Trinity ties. And where a most agreeable shop assistant officiated over my purchase of shirts socks and underwear. And we stepped back out on the street.