J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘It was me.’

‘Go on. You’re codding.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Ah god then, you’re well on your way. And the faster your legs go, the better. That mean bunch are out to hang by the neck the one who did that. Sure you’re well able for Dublin then. But mind now how you go out on your own. Cover up who you are with a tall story. Told once you’ll believe it yourself. Rob only just before dawn and pass the time of day to everyone you see now on the roads like there wasn’t a bother on you. You’d be as well now not letting them know you’re gentry. Sure it’s no extra trouble to call them sir. And you won’t come to any harm. And mind, let me tell you something. You’re the only one who’s ever treated me decent and I won’t forget it. And I’ll even tell you something else you should know. But I won’t.’

By the first chill light of a grey still dawn, Foxy Slattery at the old pump house door, took leave of me. As I stood on the thickening frost and backed away over the stiffened mud and cow flop. He stood there ecclesiastically with his serious suspicious face. As if he were thinking of how to rob you while keeping on good terms. His black priestly garment stuck with hay and straw. His face all scars. And he suddenly beckoned me back. Lifted my bandage to look at my cut.

‘Ah it’s only an old scratch on you. Sure pull this thing off and let the healing air and sun to it.’

Foxy seemed sad to see me go. As I reached the old wall, climbing over it, I turned to look back. In the doorway, a lonely figure. Still see him at the door. Then as I came to the top of the hill, he was gone and the door was closed. And I heard mewing sounds and calls. Four swans flying overhead in formation. They go south. I go east. Out to the world. Maybe even across the high seas. And I know what Foxy wanted to tell me. Something you can easily tell. From just a warm smile and glow in someone’s eyes. That my father is Uncle Willie. Who stood that day by the mound of mud. Head wet with rain. Eyes dropping his tears. Upon the sods.

Burying

The beauty

Of my

Mother

That late morning, to pass down a sloping field making foot tracks on the moist meadow to the bank of a stream. Cup my hands to drink the water. Big grey rat jumps off a log. Swims away like a fish. Distant wheels hammering on the road.

Darcy Dancer clutching the moss, climbing up to await a boy trotting closer with his donkey and cart. Hitching a ride up and down hills along the meandering byway. Without a word spoken. Save growls and grunts at the big eared shaggy little beast whose tiny hooves pecked away the miles. And when I said thanks at a fork in the road the boy gave me his nod.

That evening nearing the outskirts of a town. A suspicious Garda Siochana looked at me twice. And the third time he turned I had already disappeared over a wall by a hospital. And ran like the devil through a graveyard. Whose tombstones just sitting outside the hospital windows must make the sickly want to recover. When I offered it, Foxy would take nothing of my money of six pounds, thirteen shillings and eight pence. And now I adhere to his advice. To pass the time of day with strangers. With a remark on the weather. But make yourself scarce when you see the law.

Darcy Dancer in gloves, boots and Aran Islander’s hat. These two chillier days proceeding cross country. Last night as I stood still a badger walked right between my legs. And passing once two farmers standing scratching their heads surveying the innards of an automobile. As its wires showered out sparks and its exhaust exploded smoke. And along with the time of day I proffered my help.

‘Ah me young lad it’s not help we need. Sure you’d have a horse pull a plough a mile before you’d get this yoke to roll a foot down a hill. Mechanical failure is a fatal disease rampant across Ireland. And if you were needing to get somewhere you’d be better off with a pair of legs.’

And somehow one was comforted by this farmer’s words. For all I carried with me were my idle hopes. And the cut on my face still sore but at last healing. As I went now in circles with road signs twisted pointing every way but the right way. Meeting farmers driving their cattle to and from milking. Or cows loose grazing the long acre of ditches and hedges bordering the road. Or straying sheep and lambs scattering ahead of me. And the world, each step I took, was a green place under the sky. Waiting till the sun might shine. Or trying to catch a hare supposed to be slow running downhill. Who left me spreadeagled empty handed flat on my face. To look up and see two farmers standing near by in a field. And recall the words of Sexton.

‘Ah there’s a way an Irishman stands in a field that you would know by the manner of how he stood that he was buying land and for that you’d know who was selling.’

And the third day following the bank of a river along a railroad track I ventured into a town. Mid morning coming to a bridge and a woman passed with a basketful of groceries. And dropped a potato on the path. I picked it up. And she nervously looked around over both her shoulders. And when I smilingly put it back in her basket she whispered.

‘Ah I am grateful to you. Would you like to come home with me.’

A side street terraced with villas with little front gardens. One called Ivy another St Kevin’s. Statues of Sexton’s Blessed Virgin inside over the doorway. Two little chill smudged faced children across the street watching us entering. A narrow long hall.

‘Ah you’re a good looking likely lad. Would you like the smoke of a cigarette.’

One got extremely uneasy as she began to behave in a rather strange manner. Licking her lips and suddenly shoving me up against the wall to kiss me. In the middle of her assault she stopped to bless herself as the Angelus rang. Then asked would I come say the rosary with her in the bedroom. And that she’d give me a pound to dig her garden out back. I simply don’t know how I managed it but between her prayers to the holy ghost and her tugging at my fly buttons and trying to stick her tongue down my throat, I suggested gently that a plate full of bread and butter and a pot of tea would be welcome. But seated comfortably in the tiny kitchen and my teeth clamped in the middle of my first slice of bread, she leaped on me. We fell backwards on the floor. Her denture came out. She was panting saying let’s do it the way they do it in the films. Wrestling out of her arms I grabbed for my bag and the thickest slice of buttered bread and ran out the back door. And chased by her I had to crash through ruddy shrubbery and climb up over a tall wall at the bottom of the garden. Losing my gloves and dropping on the other side into the yard of an abattoir.

Darcy Dancer nights lying awake above a pub in a room like Mr Arland’s must have been. Found a job within a minute of my escape. And now daily heading to work. My hands raw and blistered. Blood on my clothes. With the religious maniac’s house just the other side of the wall. The round pleasant faced butcher paid me three and six pence my first afternoon. And seven shillings a day for sweeping, cleaning, washing and carrying beef entrails out of his abattoir. Each night returning to a suspicious lady publican watching me from the cold dining room door as I ate. Wondering perhaps if I were a tinker. With just my old battered bag slung over my shoulder and no gentlemanly luggage. And then at the end of the week must have thought I was a spiv when I took out my pound notes to pay. But breakfasts, with the landlady out of sight, I swept up the bacon, eggs, tea, jam, butter, with one’s elegancies totally deteriorating as I licked my plates clean. To be finally seen one morning.

‘Is that the kind of manners you were taught at home.’