J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Good morning to you sir. It’s grand to see you up and about.’

‘Thank you Luke. It’s a chilly draughty old morning.’

“Tis that sir.’

‘Gives one a mind to thank god for inventing fire.’

‘Ah now you’ve said it, sir. On these winter days you need the little bit of hell the lord puts flaming in a grate.’

‘Is Foxy about.’

‘He does be about. But always on the move you might say. Like you might see him. And then you don’t. Sure the nights they haven’t an idea where to look for him. And I haven’t clapped eyes on him this long time now. But try above beyond there where he had a mind to hauling some of them potatoes if there’s any left not rotten to be put in the cellars.’

‘Thank you Luke.’

‘And it’s a grand morning for a bit of shooting.’

Darcy Dancer proceeding into the farm tunnel. An arm encircling his gun. In this gloomy light walking over the wet cobbles and the damp dripping down the walls. All the years ago now this was built. All the backs bent with digging. All the stones lifted and placed by hand. The hours, days and years of work. Just so as Uncle Willie said, the likes of me could stand at my library and drawing room windows and look out on the undisturbed green gentleness above. And not have my view or mind discomforted by the movement of those who by their big handed hard toil, kept such gentry so agreeably rich and mildly pleased in comfort. Now walk past the stone where Foxy and I came out that night. And the entrance to the subterranean passage down steps where the big rats go scurrying. All the way to the dusty tombs. And all the silly rumour of jewels said to be hidden somewhere out there. That they were supposed secreted away from thieves. But really that they were concealed from my father by my mother. And Uncle Willie said laughingly that if ever I were in dire need he would perhaps give me a map and shovel to go digging. But it was a strange way he said it. Which was not laughing at all. In my delirious sleep I saw my mother. Appear at the foot of my bed in her evening gown. Just as I was allowed to look at her before some grand evening when she sometimes would come to the nursery and kiss me in bed. The diamond necklace around her throat and sparkling in pendants from her ears and bracelets over the white soft kid skin covering her arms to the elbows and glittering too with diamonds. And certainly one does not know now of the whereabouts of such gems. Perhaps there are monstrous massive Thormond or Darcy riches. A cache of gold, pearls, emeralds and rubies. With which I could buy back all our lands again. But like the end of every rainbow I ran to with my sisters, all I ever found was misty rain drops.

Darcy Dancer coming out of the tunnel. Hands up shielding from the sunlight. Ahead the old iron fence and stile and a cattle grid across the road. Air sweet in one’s nostrils. The sky swept bright. A magpie so black and gleaming white on the branch of that tree. Without its mate. Hope to god that doesn’t foretell a spot of ill ruddy luck. Coming too damn soon after quite a goodly batch of it. Interspersed I must frankly admit with some highly agreeable moments indeed. At the tender delicious hands of Miss von B. What a really good useful woman she is. To suddenly make the whole world falling in on one become a world of stunning bliss. She and I could get on awfully well together. She would have her permanent employ. Lots of embroidery to do when she got old like Edna Annie. And once one had absolute proof of her titles we could then perhaps elevate her accordingly. Ah a heron flies there. The big slow flapping wings. The long neck. A lonely bird. Sailing down the wind to the boggy shore of the lake. Dear me one was so tempted this morning to rush to Miss von B’s bedroom. Jump in under the covers beside her. Push my hands up under her bosoms and then try to join them together around her waist. Squeeze and feel her. And now I am equally tempted to blast these pigeons popping all over out of the trees. Only it would give warning of my approach.

Darcy Dancer, the brown and green flecks of colour in his tweeds. Boots up over his stockings, stepping lightly. Deer stalker set square on his head. Hear the sound of the saw. Makes one’s feet hurry to save every chip of wood. Were Mr Arland here he could have written one of his marvellously threatening letters. You rogues desist. Or something to that effect. And I must try to convey the distinct or indistinct appearance of a landowner who does not intend to be trifled with. And is capable of giving a good account of himself to anyone attempting to get too tiresomely tricky or impertinent. Pop them with a fisticuff or two on the jowls. Use footwork. To avoid them grabbing me. Some of these workmen are deucedly strong and can lift the weight of a weanling as they would a kitten. And just over there, and when I was just a tiny boy. Sean the arm, he was called, because of all his strength, went sawing a branch high up an oak broken in a storm. And sawed it off under himself to go crashing down swinging into a tree where he was impaled by the spoke of a broken branch going right through his heart and out of his back. Just like one of my grandfather’s butterflies in his trays stacked in the back of the cupboards in the ballroom.

Darcy Dancer moving up along the edge of parkland. And past a wild growth of rhododendrons. Approaching the grove of tall straight oaks. Where they grew on a gently rising ground. Wheel ruts criss crossing the mud. Three draught horses and a big heavy cart. A ramp and poles. A man smoking a cigarette. Wearing a grey weather beaten trilby hat. And long black coat. Two men with long staves levering a log towards the cart ramp. Two men at the foot of an oak. Each on the end of a great long saw. Their backs and shoulders swaying back and forth. At the foot of this majestic tree. Two great oaks already with branches smashed and their long boughs prostrate on the ground. And now another one nearly sawn half way through. As Sexton says. You can hear the screaming.

‘Stop that. Stop that sawing at once. And get off this land.’

‘Now who in heaven’s name might you be. As if I didn’t know.’

‘I am the owner of this land.’

‘Ah I didn’t know that now is that so.’

‘That is so.’

‘Is it the son of the house himself who would be telling me to stop sawing and to get off this land.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah me is it. Sure I’ve bought these trees. And having bought them, I will saw them down. And having sawn them down I’ll take them away. And not a soul will stop me.’

‘You’ll get back your money you paid.’

‘I will not have my money back. I’ll have me trees, that’s what I’ll have.’

‘You’ll have a sudden stream of swan shot tickling your bloody damn nose my good man.’

‘What. What are you about at all. Threaten me. With a firearm. You damn buckeen. I’ll put you across me knee and give your pelt a good hiding with the palm of me hand.’

Bang. All five men ducking. And just above your sixth man’s grey trilby, a branch severed cleanly from the tree. And falling crashing upon his head. Aside from crushing his already battered hat it made his knees buckle. As he angrily tried to knock it away with his arm.

‘What are you mad. Kill me is it. You madman. Fire at me. I’ll have the guards.’

‘You’ll have yourself, your tools, men, horses and cart off my land or the next barrel will, I regret to say, travel close enough to save you shaving your whiskers off for a lifetime.’

‘It’s assault with a deadly weapon. Grevious bodily harm and attempted murder. Sean, Billy, Mick you saw by god what happened.’

‘And if you have to be told again to clear off you’ll see more of what will happen. And not one more piece of insolence out of you.’