J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Please of course not.’

‘You usually do mind so much.’

‘What is wrong with you. What has happened.’

‘I have run away from school.’

‘But you have just but gone.’

‘Yes. I have just but gone. But I did not choose to like it. Therefore I did just but go. What are you reading there.’

Crooks knocking. Shuffling in. Sporting now his shoes. On both his reluctantly moving feet. His collar closed and the knot of his black tie neatly tightened. At tea time my mother always required the whole household to be especially on their toes. As it was she said the very most important time of day. When even the tower bell was rung. To announce and summon those darjeeling or lapsang suchong minded guests from their various suites. For a reawakening of the spirit when the aftermath of lunch produced drowsiness. And the soul required just the mildest bit of stirring. Being as it was that reflective time midway before one must preside over a long many coursed dinner, and precede that by one’s early evening bath, the laying on of powders and scent, the hair coiffed and the dilemma of choosing gowns and the jewels with which to be adorned.

‘There you are Master Reginald. Brought you a fresh pot. Bramble jam in the saucer. Fresh whipped cream in the bowl. And more toast. Will there be anything else.’

‘Thank you Crooks. Close the shutters. Light the mantel candles. And I think that will be all. Except you can draw me my bath.’

‘In the copper.’

‘Yes in the copper.’

A smile on Darcy Dancer’s muddy face. With his cheeks fat with chewing. Trouser split down from my thigh and over my knee. The whole naked side of my scratched leg. Blotted with great bruises. Like the sky so often is. Blackened by a cloud floating across the bright blue. Welcome soothing red heat blasting out of these logs blazing. Darkness fallen. Wind blowing. Rain taps on the panes. Upon the graves of the dead. And I did not die lonely out there under that sky. Beyond these shutters banging closed. When you have no roof, no walls, no tea and no scrumptious other thing. Each night a long long night. Clutching oneself. Asking when will dawn ever make the black darkness be over. And my feet, hands, knees, arms and back be no longer cold. All glowing now. With tea.

‘You haven’t madam shown the least inclination towards embracing me. Am I so disreputable and soiled looking.’

‘Well you might at least not bring the bog into the drawing room.’

‘Ah that is precisely how I thought you might feel. Despite your superficial display of tolerance.’

Miss von B, her tweed jacket taken from her shoulders. The title of her book. Called Priests and People in Ireland. And leaning herself back now. Cushioned, as I am in the swan’s down. The shoulders puffed up in her pleated grey wool dress. Making them unpleasantly broad. Perhaps she really is a sadist. With thonged whips. To lash bare flesh. Her bosoms only a reaching hand away. She inwardly winces each time I move. Or turns to stare a moment, drawing her lips tight as she did when in one single gulp I took my cup and drank it held with my soiled torn hand. I did however at first try not to cram the entire piece of barmbrack in my mouth. Only hungrily snapped off most of it but even that last little piece did not stay long in my fingers. And as I rammed it in it made her further tense. Till I thought she may have been pleased when I chewing so vigorously, bit my tongue.

‘O fuck.’

‘Serves you so right. To stuff your mouth.’

First Crooks leaves me on the doorstep. Then find the agent using the hall as if it were a train station. Now Miss von B behaving in a most certainly shirty manner. Life does somehow allow one unhappiness to beget yet another. Start tumbling down all over you. One merely must then simply seek the nearest soothing comfort at hand. And enfold oneself there. Shift backwards into this swan’s down softness. Watch with concealed enjoyment as she shrivels in distaste as each big lump of cake hardened mud is dislodged from me crumbling on the floor.

‘Madam, are you a sadist.’

‘What do you mean.’

‘Are you in favour of cruelty. And of wiping certain races out.’

‘If I think you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, I should slap your face.’

‘I’m merely inquiring.’

‘And I am merely telling you I will slap your face should you ask such a question again.’

‘O well perhaps that answers me.’

‘Where have you been. To whom have you been talking.’

‘No one in particular.’

‘My god you should come back looking like that. And asking me such questions.’

‘We have my good madam, been ratted upon.’

‘What do you mean.’

‘Someone of the household has well and truly snitched. My father has accused me of fornicating with you.’

‘And what is fornicating.’

‘It is, to use a vulgar but better known term, what is popularly referred to as fucking.’

‘Grosser Gott.’

‘Quite.’

‘You I hope have said it is untrue of course.’

‘Of course, that’s what I immediately said. Totally untrue. Absolutely the most filthy and disgusting kind of fiction.’

‘O god, how sad life can get so immediately after a moment when it was perhaps beautiful even if only for the shortest of time.’

‘Have you madam fucked many others. Or put another way, how many others have you fucked. Has my father been one of them.’

The blood leaving Miss von B’s face. Tightens her finger about the handle of her tea cup. One wants to be so mean to her. To make her cry. And sob. And be defenceless and begging for help. Instead of being back here as she’s been so comfortably these past miserable days.

‘You are again I think in your most unpleasant mood. But I will answer your question. As to fucking. And that is what you mean. Yes.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘I have, to use the phrase, fucked my share. Not your father. Nor anyone I did not respect. And certain things have happened to me. That I will not discuss at this time.’

‘You have been raped, madam.’

‘I have warned you, I shall slap your face. If you ask such questions again. What has become of you. Why are you like this. Sitting there, in rags. Like you were a tramp. You make me so angry.’

Miss von B standing. Putting her long angular fingers to brush back a strand of hair loose at her temple. A crumb on her wool dress tweezed between two fingers and put on her saucer. Lifts her tweed coat over her arm. Turns and places her book on the hunt table. She abruptly leaves. In what one would term a huff. Rather banging the door which shook the window panes. And Crooks took an unseemly delay to appear after I rang. Approaching me across the parlour floor using a bowing motion. As if he were a water pump.

‘You called Master Reginald.’

‘Yes Crooks. Decant our best laid bottle of Chateau Margaux. As well as that of our most ancient Chateau d’Yquem. Tell Catherine to prepare a roast side of beef. Rare. And not burned to a cinder. Nor perfectly raw either. And together with suitable gravy, choicest of spuds, selected sprouts, I want served an immortal meal.’

‘I shall, of course, Master Reginald, as the available ingredients might allow do precisely as you instruct. For two.’

‘For two.’

Following three more cups of tea and barmbrack and four slices of toast slathered in bramble jam I repaired to my room. To disrobe. To find most of me in my dressing mirror quite white except where the bruises were quite blue. The rain now blowing in gusts outside. And proceeded with some dispatch skipping over the rattling floorboards to bathe with all my scratches stinging. Could feel the smooth copper of the bath replenishing my blood. Making me quite chipper. Dressing for dinner. Till Crooks knocked. To announce that Miss von B sent her regrets and would not be joining me. In this my celebration of my most astonishing homecoming. Calling for my silk shirt removed from its protective tissues to stop it gathering dust. And also in view of the mournful news. Told me by Norah as she brought me towels from the kitchen oven. And said through the door. That the mighty and wilfully spirited Thunder and Lightning had been kicked to death when put to cover a young mare. Another blow fallen. Another revenue gone. About the only damn use that such news can be, is to older gentlemen to make them specially mindful of the antics of young ladies. But never mind. Distinctly more pleasant hours are upon me. My bath bringing out my embedded thorns and I squeezed and pinched away the pus. And as I descended the beech grove stairs heading for the library for a sherry before the fire, Crooks was backing his way with a tray out the door.