J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

And

I loved

Her

As a bright orange dawn broke I crept from between the covers and tiptoed out. Leaving Miss von B finally asleep, her breathing making a strange high pitched sound like a singing bird. In my room, under my chilly blankets, I stared out the corner of the window at a now snow threatening sky till Crooks brought me tea. His crossed eyes as ever made it rather more than impossible to discern what expression he was wearing and what on earth was going on in his mind.

‘There are the two boiled eggs this morning, Master Reginald. To keep your pecker up.’

Of course one could make no other comment than thank you. And I applied one of the more common egg cutters of an inferior nature kept in the kitchen. Decapitating the brown shell to dig out silver spoonfuls of the deep orange yolk swimming in melted butter.

The sun suddenly blazing golden white on my bedroom wall. And the beads of moisture on the blue tinted glass window panes hung like strings of diamonds. Through the night with the foxes barking, I was held clutched by her. Her body and bosoms pressed warm on my back. She wakened again and again from her sleep to clutch me even tighter. Her whispering voice all hoarse from crying. You’re not gone. And other words in German I could not decipher. Our tall candle now a stump and nearly burnt out. I wanted so much to tell her that everything was going to be alright. She seemed so exhausted. Her eyes swollen and red. But magically, still so tenderly attractive. Her dress she wore was black and hung on a hanger inside her cupboard door which had opened in the night. And I thought it was a ghost. With a whole face of eyes and fountainy head of hair.

Darcy Dancer descending the main staircase this morning. Someone’s feet departing from the front hall. Where the fire was blazing. And somewhere outside a faint roar of a cow for its calf. I had gone into the whim room for a brief think. Kept seeing Miss von B hanging suspended, hung by her neck. Her eyes popping and tongue hanging out. And indeed I opened the whim room window to look down to see that her body wasn’t already thrown there lying broken and lifeless on the front steps.

Passing the dining room door I thought I heard a noise. And peeked in. Sheila with a tray just departing pushing through to the pantry. My father in a brown shooting tweed sitting at the head of the table presiding over a dish of rashers and eggs. A bottle standing near by which said Powers Gold Label. And a half full glass of whiskey next to his cup and saucer of tea. A great bunch of household keys on a plate and the wine cellar book open beside him. And as I stepped back to leave and close the door, I winced at the sound of his voice.

‘Who gave you the damn leave to drink these wines.’

‘They are the property of this house and therefore mine.’

‘Like blasted hell they are. What do you think you are running, a private whorehouse here. Shut that door. Damn you. And who do you think you are to contravene my orders and interfere in the affairs of running this estate. Burning down a school. Shooting shot guns at people. And think you’re squire here. Well I’ll bloody well squire you, you little bastard.’

‘Why don’t you shut up. You thief.’

Amazing how few words one has to use to gain one’s desired effect. As this odious person pushing his chair back slowly gets up. Crumpling his napkin in his fist. I could of course just wait till he lunges and slam the door shut in his face. Have the concussion of the entire monstrously heavy mahogany swinging on its hinges stop him in his tracks.

‘You little bastard, I’ve had just about all I shall take from that insolent mouth of yours.’

Most amazing thing, his flies are open. As he strides, hunched forward. Approaching me with the napkin clutched in his hand. Although I moved away along by the sideboard I was horrified I was not immediately making my hasty departure. But in fact it appeared he was just judiciously closing the door from which I had just as judiciously stepped aside. He then turned and crossed to the pantry door and bolted it. Returning now to confront me across the gleaming surface of the table. Including the silver mounted fluted glass mustard pot. Which I may yet have to use flinging it and its contents at his head as he stands there so deliberately holding back his coat as he unbuckles and removes his gun belt.

‘I’m going to teach you a lesson.’

His lips drawn in a mean tight line, approaching me around the table as I back away. And I don’t know how on earth he did it so accurately. But the first swipe he took at me with the belt came whizzing around and caught him right across his own face which paled. A hissing noise coming out of his mouth with his eagerness to land a blow on me. I merely pulled out the chairs from under the table to impede him. He slapped and pushed at them. And while jumping one he stumbled to a fall breaking a brace between a chair’s legs. I kept moving gracefully. Not even bothering to stop to open a door.

‘You damn little cunt you. I’ll flail you alive.’

Darcy Dancer dodging left and right. The swishes of belt landing everywhere. Just a matter of a discomforting but safe distance behind me. And once wrapping around a decanter neck to snap it off the side table to land it thumping on the floor. Round and round the table one went. The candelabra crashed over and candles flying. His thin red veined face getting redder. As I dragged one chair behind me as my adversary tried to extend the lashes of his belt past the obstacle and I raced bumping and crashing it down one end of the table and up the other.

‘If I ever catch you, you little bastard, I’ll kill you.’

Stopped in front of the chimneypiece, more objets d’art were sent from their repose to their desecration as he struck out trying to reach me across the table. The seats fallen out of nearly all the chairs. Over one of which this crazed madman crashed straight into the sideboard. Everything trembled as it was sent back against the wall. And the massive painting of the Irish Wolfhound, Prince of Errold, the great great grandfather of Kern and Olav, crashed down. The bottom edge of the giant frame breaking an array of Meissen vegetable dishes and crushing the silver tea service recently put sparkling there by Miss von B. And just as my pursuer stopped and was estimating the pawn shop value of these drastically cheapened items, a sympathetic vibration also brought crashing down another monstrous painting of one of my mother’s uncles, a founder member of the Kildare Street Club. One did not mind this latter loss. A tiresome looking chap anyway. Especially the supercilious manner in which he appeared to gloat down in his dress colonel’s uniform. And one thing had become absolutely apparent in one’s life. That even despite my recent bed ridden state and all my other shortcomings, and even the boggish demeanour Miss von B says I display in peeing off the front steps, that at least there were few if any persons abroad anywhere now capable of catching me on foot, wheels or horseback.

‘I’ll bloody your bloody head yet.’

‘You will like bloody hell.’

‘You little bastard. Fucking christ.’

Happily and exactly upon these latter two hissed words, he put his foot through another section of flooring previously opened up by the heavy member of the Garda Siochana. And indeed even penetrated the ceiling below. Landing on one knee while the other completely disappeared beyond floor level. And as he tried to pull up his foot he pitched forward right on his face. His monocle dropping out of his eye and rolling in a circle into the hole.

‘Fucking damn christ you little bastard I am going to get you if it’s the last bloody damn thing I do on earth.’