J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Like elephant tusk these are.’

‘But that’s what we Irish use to dig our potatoes with.’

Miss von B flicked bath water in my face and then frowned and made a mock funny expression with her mouth. It was quite damn easy to keep her amused in fact. And the muscles flexed along her forearm and the white neat scar there. She’s so absolutely right. They were indeed rather long and thick. Resting my head back against the soft slipperiness of the copper I could see Miss von B was really putting her all into pressing together the scissor handles. And when she leaned back on her heels to take a much needed rest she was more than somewhat impressed with the Thormond coat of arms emblazoned on the bath. At least it was a little evidence of our ancestral haughtiness that one must not lightly overlook. One did not want to resurrect our social fencing match but I thought it was as well that it was made known especially in view of her coronet on her pedicure instruments.

‘Ah I shall agree my sweet fellow it is quite haughty. And of course it has the simplicity of those escutcheons which carry the most ancient distinctions.’

Quite obviously one must accept that one is the product of one’s antecedents and Miss von B had previously rather made one feel rather socially less esteemed. So her observation certainly made me feel much much better. Although good god, with one so lazily warm in the bath, I was feeling so damn good anyway. Recovered from death. Clonking the gunman and nearly committing my first murder. A temporary horse thief and highwayman. But then one must suppose that everyone really is trying to knock or demean you somehow. And whatever it is one may profess to be. How pleasant for a change, to have a little social flattery. So many have so little of anything. Like poor Lois. All she wanted she said, was someone to love and love her. And good lord, it seems that simply everyone is running around looking for that. Makes for such a ruddy mêlée. With people bumping indiscreetly into each other all over the place.

‘And now shall we wash your hair.’

‘Yes please, indeed do.’

‘And we hope we shall not get too much of Edna Annie’s strong soap in your eyes.’

‘Madam when you were in Dublin, what was your life like.’

‘It was work. It was sometimes funny, sometimes sad and sometimes highly irritating. Now just put back your head.’

‘When was it irritating.’

‘When these women come in for their hats who think they are the cat’s whiskers. Now close your eyes.’

‘Surely that must have been unpleasant, having social inferiors in a position to command you about.’

‘O perhaps. How is one to mind about such things. If you want their money, then you must give them what they want. And you cannot then pretend to be better than them.’

‘And did you have gentlemen friends.’

‘Ah but that is none of your business. Back again with your pretty head please.’

‘I am merely inquiring about your life. In which, if you don’t mind my saying, it is not in the least unusual, considering our relationship, that I should take an interest.’

‘Ah well then. My life. I shall speak of. But not the gentlemen in it. For there is a rule which women are unwise to break. And that is to talk of men to other men. There were of course parties. Every night. They bring back drink from the pub. Everyone becoming drunk. So boring. They sing, then they argue. Then they fight. Then they wash off the blood, shake hands. And drink again. And then fight. Night after night it is like that.’

‘Dear me.’

‘The next afternoon they meet in the pub to talk of the night before. Of how much they drink, about who was fighting, about how many teeth knocked out or fingers broken. It is like a race they are in. Who has drunk the most. Who slaps his wife the hardest. It is like a club. Which the members have joined so that they all go to hell together. They are all so proud of the hangover they say that morning they wake up with. Like it was a halo. How they give their wife a fist in the gob. Or they say a boot in the hole if she protest that they broke down the front door to get in the house. So many such simple sad little people. Who read the gas meter. Who own a shop. Who have maybe some business. Or uncle who leave them money. And there is a crazy lady artist always inviting them to her studio to paint their privates.’

‘Are these people not what one calls Bohemians.’

‘Bohemians. Ha ha. They say they are poets when they are pigs. Pee everywhere and shit anywhere. They are imbeciles. They say they write books. When they only sharpen pencils and pull corks out of bottles of stout. Their moments of glory are when they can find someone they can insult.’

‘You do madam, don’t you, rather paint an unpretty picture.’

‘Well perhaps it might only have been like that on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays.’

‘What about Thursday.’

‘They sleep that day.’

Miss von B rinsing Darcy Dancer’s hair. Pouring glasses of mouse tainted chilly water out of the tap. Sweeping back the wet locks from my forehead. Kissing me moistly on the brow. And just staring down at me peeping up out of the bath. I did not let her kiss me on the mouth for fear of my disease and she kissed me on the neck shoulders and bosoms. Then soaped me all over with Edna Annie’s nearly dissolved big bar of yellow soap. That that ancient lady made every month down in her laundry. Who was now said to be beyond a century in age but could still see a wren at a hundred yards or hear a pin drop at fifty.

‘Now my darling. Keep your head up out of the water.’

‘Madam, I do hope you never grow old.’

‘Ah but I shall. Isn’t it sad.’

‘Yes.’

Miss von B’s hand pushed up over me. Making big hills of suds on the water. As I arched up my back for her to make suds all over my privates as she whispered.

‘Ah my darling my past might be unhappy but this, this is all so very exciting.’

Her hand pressed over my mouth when my moaning suddenly turned to screaming. In what must have been a death defying tumult, furore, fuss bother and frenzy of a thunderstorm of the emotions as I writhed in certain ecstasy. Nearly I do believe flapping like a fish out of water. Clearly Miss von B was a past master at this kind of pleasure giving. But I did not want to sound too desperately thankful, feeling as I was rather like a libertine in my licentious life. But my god it did feel so awfully utterly good.

‘Ah my little one it is like a gushing fountain.’

And the warm waters. Her soft soothing touches of fingers and hands. The smooth wondrous skin of her throat. The velvet pink lips parting across her teeth as she smiled. And the tiniest of golden little hairs on her flesh. Who could care a tinker’s curse about the low morality rampant across Ireland. Or of Lois painting privates. Or of hunt members taking each other by the ears or arse and entangling goodo upon the grass all over the ruddy countryside. Where one in spite of sighting the fox, was quite liable to be compelled at almost any time to rein up and shout, hark, what new wantonness do I perceive with rear cheeks naked in yonder copse. To make the innocent stars dance in consternation.

And the

Fox

Run

In shame

Stars afloat in the deep black sky. The night grown cold. From bathroom to bedroom shivering we went. Over the rattling floorboards. Miss von B drying, powdering and pampering me and now tucking me up in bed as I grabbed, felt and squeezed her in a playful manner.

‘There you are now like a good boy. My special, my most dear little bog trotter, as you say.’

‘Madam, when you call me such things there is nothing about you that I can love. I am at least as much of an aristocrat as you are. Because I don’t believe you enjoy any distinctions to which I may not be entitled myself.’