J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘I am feeling much better thank you, Sexton. But surely one can’t say that you are exactly expostulating the most cheerful of views.’

‘Views born in the bitterness of life they are. But I’m glad to hear that you’re feeling better. It was as near a wake as ever I’ve seen. With the lot of them wailing down there in the kitchens you’d think you’d been already put cold out there under the meadow.’

‘That is in its way complimentary Sexton. They could have been laughing and rejoicing.’

‘Ah never Master Darcy. Sure like your mother they worship the ground you walk on. And speaking of walking I’m glad you’re up doing it. Because let me tell you. The sooner you’re about the estate the better. The depredations. The depredations would make you reel with consternation. That filthy little cur the agent. And there’ll be others in on it with him. The looting and banditry. What’s he doing but selling them fifty tall straight oaks. Planted by your great great grandfather and aged by the centuries. Majestic they are. Standing there in adoration of the great majesty above. Who gave them the ground in which to grow. The sacrilegiousness. It’s sickening. Never mind the tuppence ha’penny that shrewd snake in the grass says he’s not getting. O he’s getting it alright. And it will be more than tuppence ha’penny he’ll be keeping for himself. Be damned if it isn’t.’

‘You mustn’t upset yourself Sexton. It is making you unduly red in the face.’

‘Well I won’t stand idly by and stomach that vulgar treatment of nature’s beauty. Never mind the scurrilous wholesale robbery done thereby. I was up over there and told them there’d be repercussions. I told them. And six of them great majestic oaks down already. In the garden out there I can hear them up beyond, poor trees, screaming in agony on the ground.’

‘O Sexton, you do get distressed don’t you.’

‘Well Master Darcy, I’ve spent nearly all my years with the growing living things and the beauties of God. And sure in this country where treachery and deceit were invented, and where if the crowd of them could find any semblance of beauty not doing a soul any harm, they’d have an axe to it in an instant swinging it lashing in every blessed direction till not a sacred contour of its beauty was left.’

‘Well perhaps Sexton we can at least change to another mournful subject. Thunder and Lightning is no more.’

‘Pulverized he was by that mare. All his power beat out in seconds. In the hounds’ belly now, every bit but the biggest bones of him. And speaking about hounds. And mentioning hunts. Ah god there tells a story. Mournful and disgraceful enough too. Didn’t some tinker rascal who could jump a horse over the moon and thread four hooves through the eye of a needle, steal off with the master’s horse, over a parish or two there beyond. And the whole hunt after him. The cowards and all. Coming-out of their saddles, busting their heads on branches. And now rumour has it. And a filthy disgusting rumour it is too. That the entire lot of them pursuing the villain went cascading down that old lime avenue over there and other side of Thormondstown. The foul demeaning stories coming out of there. Slandering that lovely blue eyed beauty. Haven’t I said she’s a distant relation of the Thormonds. Haven’t I told you that.’

‘You’ve told me that, I believe Sexton.’

‘Well slurring her name they are. All over the countryside. Licking their lips. Whispering. Disseminating the most unspeakable of the unspeakable. I wouldn’t repeat it. Never never in a million years would I repeat it.’

‘Repeat what Sexton.’

‘What them rabble rousers of them mad bloody hatters, or cappers, or natters or whatever they call them bloody selves. Are saying.’

‘What for heaven’s sake Sexton are they saying.’

‘That she was compromised. Compromised I’m telling you. Besmirched.’

‘Dear me. What a dastardly business. But how. How could anyone compromise such an elegant young lady, Sexton.’

‘Well in not more than two dozen words now. I’ll tell you how. Didn’t the entire hunt chasing this rascal come upon her and that Mental Marquis. In the middle of the lime avenue. With every last horse having to jump the pair of them stark naked together entwined on the grass. That’s what they’re saying. With the hounds, the fox, the huntsman, whipper in, and the Master looking for his horse, all thundering over them. Ah god I hate to have to use such an expression but next they’ll be saying that the fox ran up the poor girl’s hole.’

‘O dear what a bother isn’t it Sexton.’

‘Well let me tell you Master Darcy if a one of them comes repeating that story to my face they’ll get a fist in the gob for their trouble. Ruining the girl’s pure virgin name, that’s what the gossipy swine are doing. Tongues never still. Wagging and wagging. In one shopkeeper’s ear and out to a dozen others. And in a thrice don’t they have the whole story all over Ireland.’

Under the sheets to muffle my sounds I did laugh rather heartily the moment Sexton stepped back out again into the hall. Indeed I nearly kicked the bottom of the bed out. And finally did. With Miss von B bringing me beef tea, tucking it all back in again. Although kindly she was continuing to be distant. I did dizzily recall the intimacy of her rolling me over upon my stomach and intruding a cold thermometer into where I thought it was quite indiscreet in front of Norah. But Miss von B as I groaned my reluctance insisted that it was the only proper place to take a temperature. It seemed a long time before she pulled it out again, reading it in front of the wall sconces brought up from the dining room. One admired her lack of squeamishness. For two more days when I wasn’t feeling like an overly cosseted baby, I felt like a long piece of overly boiled cabbage. As the household rallied about leaving me with little peace. In with breakfast. Out with lunch. Back with tea. And flowers and visitors and tidbits in between. But there are times when it requires just too much energy to protest.

Saturday morning. With a red dawn and this day growing crisp and sunny. In a long mauve dressing gown with chocolate brown borders and facings, Darcy Dancer sitting by his fire. Sporting these, my mother’s racing colours. While suitably and contentedly reading Priests and People in Ireland. Of the low morality rampant in the Mecklenburg Street area of Dublin. Ladies of ill fame. Children kidnapped into vice. And in which volume it frequently appeared that Catholics did behave quite disgracefully. Of course one is always glad to be Protestant. But there are times when one is extremely glad. However I read with much interest of the Discalced Carmelites and how these gentlemen had established an oratory in honour of the divine child, Jesus of Prague, in whose devotion wonderful graces might be obtained. And I must confess, just for the novelty of it I prayed as one heard Sexton praying, to this Jesus of Prague to bring me back my strength. As every time I went now to pee or move my bowels, my legs were deucedly weak under me. And while I sat absorbed earnestly praying I heard the floor board squeak. And perceived from an eye. Miss von B at the door ajar. As she peeked in.

‘Please. Madam. Please. Come in.’

Miss von B in her brown hunting coat and white breeches. One gloved hand holding the glove of the other. The blonde buns of hair caught by a net either side of her head. And the red mark of her bowler striped across her brow. Her cheeks ruddy. Her riding boots black and so gleaming. Her bosoms swell up beneath her dark brown sweater and a gold pin stuck in the silk stock at her throat.

‘Ah I do not want to disturb you. Each time I come. There is already someone here. How are you.’