J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Darcy Dancer, clothes flying in ribbons. Stretching legs fore and aft. Over this lumpy pasture. Heart pounding in chest. Lungs hoarse with the cold air. The baying hounds. Closer and closer. O my god there goes that ruddy twisty fox again. Out to save his brush. Steering the hounds in a circle and the ruddy foxy fellow must be following me and now is deucedly detouring ahead cleverly shifting the entire mob of his domesticated pursuers to scenting a poor old escaped schoolboy like me.

The fox leaping the stream. Pausing on the other side to grin from ear to ear and backward all the way down his throat. Knowing that I’m now the victim. With the hooves pounding. And a huntsman and Master coming up over the brow of the hill. And Mr Fox scampering off. Leaving it to me to give his pursuers yet another merry burst of chase. With the ditch to leap. Easily nine feet across and nine feet down and which I’ll never get over. And in whose murky slime I may drown if I try. Goodness. Here they come. Got to slip down the side. And hide. Dear me. I’ve been seen. How shall I present myself. As a fellow fox hunter from a neighbouring hunt. I say chaps, that fox has given you some very pretty sport, ran a fine line there. O dear. That statement sounds so utterly forced. Coming as it must from way down in these squelching boggy climes here. And especially when made to participators in such an elegant hunt as the Moonhound Mad Hatters. Maybe it’s just safer to just crouch among the dying stalks of weeds by this bank. Try not to be noticed and certainly not known.

‘I say, it is someone. Huntsman come here. There is some nuisance minded fellow who has headed the fox. Brazen cheek and nerve. Who are you down there. Speak up. Or I shall dismount and come give you a few swipes of whip. Poaching are you. You scruffy young wretch. Who are you damn it. Speak up.’

‘I am nobody sir.’

‘You are damn well someone to turn our fox off his line. Get yourself on your way before I get down and give you a blazing good hiding.’

‘I’m a member of the hunt.’

‘You uncouth fellow, how dare you try to take the mickey out of me. Hunt member be damned.’

‘I’m a hunt supporter too.’

‘A hunt supporter, are you. A bloody layabout thief is more likely. Ruin a day’s sport. You deserve a good thumping. Get up out of that ditch.’

Another scarlet coat thundering up. The horse’s nostrils exploding twin barrels of steam. Copper gleam of hunting horn hanging from the huntsman’s neck.

‘What’s the difficulty here Master.’

‘This fellow deliberately interfered with the fox.’

‘I did not.’

‘You blasted well did. Huntsman, you go on. I’ll attend to this young ruffian. Now you. Get up. And be damn quick about it. And move off out of here.’

Darcy Dancer climbing back up the bank. Clutching clumps of grass to pull himself forward to the top. The Master manoeuvring his horse near and raising the whip. Bringing it down across Darcy Dancer’s shoulders. Felt like a feather through all my pairs of underwear. And he’s raising his arm again. Whoever this big bully thinks he is.

‘How dare you strike me.’

‘Get on with you. And don’t you attempt to ape my accent you peasant cur. Get on. Or I’ll give you another one across your face for your trouble.’

Darcy Dancer on his feet. Suddenly throwing both his arms up in the air. Right under the head of this horse shying upwards, front legs pawing at the sky. The Master straining back tightly gripping the reins. And Darcy Dancer reaching and grabbing the Master’s whip and yanking it with one great pull out of his hand. The massive chestnut gelding elevating near vertical. High up on its hind legs. The Master losing the reins and tumbling off in a somersault over the tail. Landing on top of his head, his cap visor crushed down on his nose. And a yellow pair of braces hitched to his breeches across his pink tunic under his red coat. The horse galloping away back firing kicks and farts over the pasture. Darcy that Dancer chasing after him. Up the hill and down again into the corner of the field. To grab the reins as he began to graze.

The Master just on his feet standing. As I come cantering over the rise. High and haughty in the saddle. Wave an arm to signal my departure to this Master now bloody nosed and limping. And no doubt desperately trying to gather some measure of speed towards me. Before remaining right where he is insanely enraged. Even have his leather cylindrical port case. Hope it is still full of a good vintage of that dark liquid.

‘Get down from my horse. Come back here. You scoundrel. You villain.’

My two muddy cow flop spattered feet firmly planted in the stirrup irons. Pop open and back the leather cap. Pull out the bottle. And feel the welcome sting of this fortified wine warming down my throat. Plunge a couple of heels hard into this gelding’s flanks. Giddy yap you steed. Hope you have plenty of go left in you. Because you’re going to run run whether you have or not. Down this hill at the full gallop. And leave there plonk in the meadow that poor florid faced Master, angered gasping out of his wretched mind. Foxy said testicles withered on old men. And I hope that pompous bully’s may have already dropped off. Wagging his one arm in the air as if the other were broke. And imagine. Screaming. Would you ever believe such indubitable bloody optimism. For me to get off his horse. With life suddenly again all so ruddy wonderful.

‘How dare you drink my port. Dismount I say, you low cunt you. You shan’t get out of this field.’

Darcy Dancer rounding this strong willing chestnut gelding. Turn him on a six pence. Face all sixteen hands high of him squarely into that even taller impenetrable bank of briars. Show this Master a thing or two about making a hole in a hedge. High enough up so no one else can follow. Foxy Slattery is able to go between two molecules so I’m going to bust between two atoms. Gather you together nicely now. Giddy bloody yap. Up you sod. Jump. Tear these ruddy bramble tops asunder. Soar through and over. And none by god will come in our wake. Nicely done. You good hot and steamy chap. Snugly under me. With your owner well knocked out of his haughtiness back there. Be in an awful evil temper if he has a broken arm as well. Need to see the bonesetter. The Jolly Straightener they call him. Practises all over the countryside. Gets you on a couch and as you lie there, he circles you some distance away sizing up the fracture. And each time around helps himself to a generous swig of whiskey. To yet come round again and say, oh it’s a nasty one, a real bad one that, ah bad enough indeed to make your poor wife a widow. Or deprive a mother of her son. Hope the Jolly Straightener scares the Master. As he does everybody, stiff. But his genius for fixing fractures brings many to him from miles around. To have busted collarbones to broken arses mended. All my limbs thank god through these last three days are still sound. And pray now I’ll never be identified. With all the mud on my face that Master could never know it was me. Take a look back. Goodness. Some straggling cowards have caught the Huntsman up. Standing round him now the middle of the field. Taking his instruction. Planning their campaign of urgent pursuit. Well you bastards. I’ll tell you one little thing. I would indeed be entirely delighted if you tried. But you’ll never catch me.

‘Away my four footed friend. Away.’

Darcy that Dancer with a length of white thorn ripped from a tree. Landing swishing thwacks on the quarters of this steed. Head stretched forward galloping. Straining at the bit. Foam breaking from his mouth. Hooves pounding slapping the dried tall sharp pointed stalks of rushes. Flying over ditches. Up hillocks, down the other side. Slam splashing through the cow pats. Scooping out the turf to catapult it back into the sky. Crashing through the withered bracken and fern. Past the tall rusty dock weeds, brushing off their winter brown leaves of seed. Blue green of the grass growing fat up this double bank. Whoopee. Leap. And plunge straight down. Horse’s belly asplash in the stream. And up the other side. You stout hearted fellow. Sloshing through this bog. To high firm ground. On all your bloody fours. Make the wind whistle. I know this country now. Fly your ears like wings. Keep west. Scare the pheasants up. Towards those rising wooded lands ahead. The rooks and jackdaws. From tree tops. In their cloaks of black shiny feathers calling me. Like a dream. That all fox hunters have. To meet one’s end in the sport one loves so well. With a busted neck I could get vaulting this monstrous fallen beech. Up. Up. Good boy. Thank god. So many times thanked today. And not that far now in miles. Past the white grey bark of these beech. That old stone bridge there on the road. Where Foxy told me a man called Pulling Tom always stood. Without much brains. Who each evening if he wasn’t in the bushes yanking his prick was instead scratching and scratching his head. Because he said he was thinking. And he’d be asked what he was thinking. And he said he was thinking he was scratching his head. And that Master now should be without wits. Imagine. Left miles out in the middle of nowhere. With a total stranger taking away your horse. How utterly humiliating. Not to say profoundly irritating and inconvenient in the extreme. But indeed, for such a foul ignoble person, so splendidly well deserved.