J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Ah my darling. Ah my dear little darling. It is your rudder. Your weathercock. I am only going to measure. Not to strike you.’

‘Well thank god for that. I honestly thought you were going to give me a thwack. And you do, you know at times, really confuse me so that I hardly know what to expect next.’

‘Ah but this time. All is different. Come up close now.’

‘I won’t actually. Not till you absolutely promise this isn’t just a trick.’

‘It is not believe me. We shall see how many inches long it is. I promise. No trick.’

‘You promise.’

‘But of course my sweet. Once we have your measurement then when I make for you your social recommendation we will put how long it is and I will sign it. Hold still. My it is very stuck up and extremely upper class, according to both the width and the length. Ah you see, that is how long it is. Clearly you qualify for the Almanach de Gotha. Alright get me paper.’

Of course how was one to know Miss von B was again only joking. She is so very good at pretending. But damn. I did stupidly get her a piece of Andromeda Park notepaper. Upon which she drew an extremely risqué silhouette of one’s personal part thereon. Writing in big letters underneath. BOGTROTTER. Which when showing it to me she laughingly pulled away.

‘But my sweet do you not now know that with this important paper you may enter the very best of social circles.’

I promptly pushed the offending document right up into her face. Promptly starting another fight. Grabbing her hands. As she strove again exerting all her strength to throw me over. But this time I had her half trapped under the thick pile of bedcovers and she just suddenly gave up and I fell an easy winner on top. To then climb in bed beside her. That wonderful feeling of feeling her touching all up and down me. And we kissed each other everywhere. Rolling about locking and unlocking our arms. I adored the way her head arched back on the pillow and the sinews stretched along her throat out to her shoulders as her jaw opened and her head turned back and forth and a frown came above her eyes as she groaned. One cannot imagine this activity ever being called impurity. As Foxy said it was preached from every altar in Ireland. Sins of the flesh. And hers so smooth on her long stemmed body. Beneath me. That I entwine open armed. Once full of hunger. Once fleeing saving her life. Her voice quiet and soft. When telling her tales of fear. Without a sorrow. Or regret. You want so much to live. When all around you want you to die. She speaks with her greyest, her bluest her greenest of eyes. Press lips on the soft cheeks. See her now. As I will last remember her. If ever I go away. And no longer can gather up. All her white tall body. Her bones. Her eyes. Lay with them held. By every soft pressure of flesh. If this makes me a sinner. Here I am then god. Blackened in joy under your celestial blue.

‘What my darling, what is that.’

‘It’s I think a carriage. On the drive.’

‘Who could it be.’

‘No one this time of night. It’s gone past to the servants’ entrance. It could be Luke or anyone coming back from the pub.’

‘O god you are so sweet. That you have made love for me beautiful once more. That our bodies should touch so natural and just be as they should. If only you were not so young.’

‘I am lord of the manor madam.’

‘But you are young too.’

‘I am a man.’

‘Yes. O well. Perhaps I shall just take some young hours of your life and in exchange I shall give you the rest of mine.’

‘Would you.’

‘No I would not. For nothing can win my sweet in a race against age. This is all we can ever have. It is not wise to seek more. But I would be so proud to walk at your side. If we were together in life. But we have, even for such a short a time, we have lived. What more can there be but to just make it as long as we can. There was the swallow bird who last summer fly in my window. He sit up there on the big brass curtain rod. And all his family, they sit all seven out on the drain along the roof making a white path shitting down the wall. And first when he come in, his little breast was beating in such fear as to how he could get out again. And his terror was so sad. But he swoop and swerve. His flight so brave. Till he find the space to fly free. And then he was gone. And he, that swift graceful bird, my little sweet, is what I think of whenever I think of you.’

Sleep coming. Quietly to my eyes. Miss von B and I. Side by side. Rest my head back across her outstretched arm. The sweet smell up in under her hair. When the whole world goes and fades away. Right up into the little plaster trio of feathers in each cornice of the room. If I lie absolutely still Miss von B may not chuck me out till morning. And may just let me fly around like the swallow under her covers. One has had rather a fine day. I might even record all the details in my diary just as my great grandfather did for the sake of his heirs. And perhaps even make as he did some philosophical observations. Except not even once did he make a saucy comment. Seemed only to care for hunting, shooting and fishing. Or in the case of the agricultural, of making improvements. Which he would do by periodically convening the estate workers to make known information recently obtained by scientists. Which he said thus put the knowledge of an educated class at the disposal of a class who derived little information from reading. He had his own remedies for cattle disease. With all kinds of mixtures either boiled or cold. Of oil, turpentine, sulphur, permanganate of potash. And gave his annual address to the tenantry, servants and staff of the estate. When he spoke of his great delight. To go in and out among you, not as a stranger but an old familiar friend. And he would end by saying. I trust that with god’s help I shall not be found an unworthy descendant of the old stock. And be assured it is my most earnest desire to promote the well being of my tenantry and to deserve in my own person their respect and attachment.

Feel Miss von B’s toe wiggling against mine. Probably to appreciate the splendid pedicure she gave me. Tasted milk out of her breast. The lush salty silky sweetness between her legs. The gunman I clonked on the head and if he never woke up. I’m a murderer. Be accused as an arsonist. If the school burned all the way to the ground. In any event Awfully Stupid is certainly never going to be stupid enough again to let someone walk away with his box of fudge. Even when they swear hysterically on three stacks of bibles that they’ll bring it back in just a moment. The sounds. The corridors of that school. The feet. That walk. So lonely along a hall. And get louder and louder as they approach.

‘Mein Gott, who’s at the door.’

‘Open this.’

‘O my darling who is it. Who is out there.’

‘This is Reginald Kildare. And you have madam, I believe that little bastard in there with you. Do you agree. Or must I have this door broken down to see for myself.’

‘No. You do not have to break it down. No. You do not have to.’

‘And I’ll see you, you little bastard, first thing in the morning in the library.’

The footsteps walking away. And my great grandfather’s words. That the prosperous state of the tenantry was due to a just and considerate agent which had added to the reputation of a noble name handed down through a long line of ancestors and had placed him on high vantage ground. And he trusted that by such esteem he should do his duty to all who stood before him. And I had dreamt that I had made an annual address to the staff. As they all stood stark naked in the front hall applauding me with huzzas. As I stammered out some feeble apology for my erection. Now I must begin saying something to Miss von B. Whose tight grip on my arm is squeezing even tighter. And from her there came just a strange little sound. Like an animal out in the dark woods when a predator tears life from them and they let out their squeal of death. And Miss von B sat up. In the moonlight so pale and white. Her splendid breasts shadowly trembling on her chest. Upon the softness I so cherished to lay my cheek. Hands now to her eyes making fists at the side of her face. Which shook each time she brought her arms up and the breath stuttered into her lungs. Her whole back bending and shaking as she sobbed. Her voice. Begging. O please please please, don’t let it happen. I beg of you don’t let it happen. Please please please. And I did not have to tell her to stand over there close to tears. The whole of her. Inside and out. Weeping. Anguish pleading in her eyes. And I listened. My own deepest sorrow stirring.