J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Yes Crooks, thought a few snipe wouldn’t come amiss.’

‘There should be plenty down in the bottoms. You’ll lock up well now Master Reginald. It wouldn’t do if any unauthorized person should have access in here. It’s this arsenal that keeps them having a second thought who would be contemplating getting past Kern and Olav with a mind to trespass in this house. And that scoundrel Foxy Slattery has been at the door with a chisel more than once.’

After lunch in my room and following a brief walk in the orchard and garden and through the farmyard where there seemed still fewer pigs and chickens in evidence, I returned with my legs decidedly springier and feeling quite refreshed. Went to take tea by the fire in the north east front parlour. Miss von B who said she had finally given up smoking and now had to occupy her mind, was seated with a local newspaper which was blotched and wet and brought personally for her by Luke all the way on his bicycle from the town in a miracle of speed and dispatch when an English ladies’ fashion magazine he’d been sent to collect didn’t arrive. The presence of a newspaper was in fact quite unprecedented. As my grandfather, who did not believe in modern communications, maintained that you could by human voice and ear, get enough news of anything that mattered within five miles of Andromeda Park to last you a lifetime and he would therefore have no newspaper or radio in his house. Much to the irritation of my father, my mother inherited this same principle. And now Miss von B totally hidden behind newsprint, was laughing. Rather uproariously I thought. And crossing and recrossing her legs most provocatively under her clinging grey wool dress. Perhaps she needs to take one hell of a hearty pee.

‘Would you mind awfully pouring me some more tea.’

‘Ah I am sorry.’

‘What has you so damned amused.’

‘Here, you should read. It is always of course, just like I say. The whole place is nuts.’

Miss von B’s finger pointing to the headline across the entire top of the page. Which I hold up between my two nervous hands. As one certainly does not know what and who, and especially including one’s self, will be the latest news these days.

SACRILEGIOUS ROBBERY

On Friday evening last, the Parish church near Thormondstown was broken into and robbed of vestments and a cask of the finest old Marsala Altar Wine. The empty cask was later found in the chapel graveyard. The Police are seeking to interview a man they think can help them in their further inquiries.

The man in question was seen by a witness who described him as ‘laggards drunk’ and who was spreadeagled on a memorial stone not far from the cask, singing ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’ in a riotous manner, considering the vicinity. Witness thought that in the interests of keeping the peace he should inquire as to what such person was doing on the grave stone. As the witness who wishes to remain anonymous, more closely approached, he was at first aghast to see that it was a priest who was there prostrated and he immediately suspected that the reverend gentleman was delirious as a result of foul play. However as he inquired of the prone figure as to whether he could be of assistance to him, he was met with shouts and arm waving and loudly told to F off. Realizing this was not the language of a man of god he attempted to ascertain the identity of the stretched out form and thought he recognized the face of a person he had seen upon occasion in the district who had a reputation of a violent nature. This impression was immediately reinforced with the prone figure becoming quickly erect and with further use of obscene language and threats witness thereupon realized the fruitlessness of pursuing further pacification.

However the witness in beating a quick retreat, was then without provocation attacked, taking upon his face a swipe of a fist and his backside sustaining a kick of a boot. Witness said that in the circumstances he was forced to run every which way hopping over the gravestones for his very life, and as a consequence went down into a hole involuntarily disturbing and desecrating the dead and badly twisting both ankles where he lay incapacitated till dawn. The fact that his pursuer was in priestly robes and spouting filthy language left him with a very bad taste in his mouth.

The garda should like the assistance of anyone who might have knowledge of the incident to help them in pursuing their further investigation.

I did think that Miss von B as she took the paper back again and slowly read aloud certain passages that she was rather making much of it all in ridiculing our simple country ways.

‘They are so funny.’

‘Well I’m glad you think so.’

‘Ah but you must forgive one. Imagine two broken ankles he gets falling into someone’s grave.’

‘They were sprained as a matter of fact. And how would you like it if someone trampled your skeleton.’

‘O dear you are so serious sometimes.’

But in any event I was quite certainly serious about the way Miss von B’s grey wool dress looked quite stunning with a very large thick leather belt and a big brass buckle tightening it snug around her. And I did not really mind her being so amused. And must confess my penis was painfully hard as I stared with great excitement at the way her girth made her waist so slender and her hips and bosoms swell so splendidly out. To use Miss von B’s unladylike word I was indeed randy. Even as I managed to change the subject of rural indiscretion to discussing my pedigree. As Miss von B had been previously leafing through the vellum volume describing it.

‘I am at least agreeably surprised by the Thormonds and the Darcys. But nowhere can I find the name Dancer.’

She of course quite cleverly ruined all the compliments by stating that so much Irish ancestry had been compromised by parlour and scullery maids, grooms, gardeners and gamekeepers. And that it could hardly be discerned by appearance as to who was mistress and master and who was servant or menial. I don’t know what on earth she thought we gentry did all the time, if indeed we had any free from our presumably constant putting it up our various female staff. I mean we really didn’t sit around all day as I only just happen to be doing with damn big erections. Or indeed, having the lady of the house get it put up her by stablemen, cowherds and shepherds. Her whole aspersion began to be quite heinous. Especially as to most of us being English, Jews or Danes and that the fine blood of those races had been horribly diluted by that of the native peasant Gael. I was quite alabaster faced with anger. I mean to say, one’s pedigree gives one confidence to keep others in their place. She did however finally smile in the firelight and say I was singularly possessed of an amazing resemblance to Uncle Willie. Whose most attractive eyes were further apart than my father’s and who also had my upper class jaw and cheekbones.

‘Ah yes, all is not completely lost. You have at least, the good bone structure.’

That late evening following supper in my room, and when Crooks had left my hot drink by my bedside, Miss von B came. She had quite marvellously and magically repaired my suit and darned so beautifully my socks worn in my cross country escape. But I of course despite my penis bulging in my trousers, could not help immediately resuming defence of my ancestry. The whole damn issue had already ruined my enjoyment of the rather tasty boiled bacon and cabbage and buttered spuds Catherine had dished up. But as I was about to let her have a socially redeeming salvo or two, she opened before me a black leather album embossed with a coat of arms and full of photographs.

‘I brought this for you to see.’

Bending close by me her soft grey breast touched my cheek. I couldn’t just grab her as I dearly wanted at that moment or I’d muck up her album. As her fingers turned the black sheets of pages of pictures of her when she was a little girl. With the castles and palaces where she grew up. And in front of which, festooned in furs in the winter snows, she sat in a horse drawn sled. Of course it was quite grandly embellished and there was a coronet obvious on the sled’s lantern lights which she did not allude to. In other pictures she was on skis, big boots on her feet. And then there she was in a hay meadow in front of a hunting lodge with balconies growing flowers. Smiling in her native costume. A bonnet on her head and holding a big scythe.