J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘They are madam. And were yours as good, you would mind your own business.’

‘You can vacate you can.’

So much for back chat. People, it would appear are highly unappreciative of a clever turn of phrase. But worse that same day the religious maniac was up on the other side of the wall staring down at me. Would have had to be standing on a ladder. Seemed the whole damn country wanted to look at me for one reason or another. Sending me on my way next day to another town.

Money nearly all but spent, I slept huddling in hay barns. And warming on sheltery hillsides in any sunshine of the morning. Legs stiff and tired. Gloves lost. And even stuck my hands into freshly plopped hot cow dung. Foxy said that it was a great fast way to get the knuckles warm. Let the muck dry on you like a pair of mittens. And a better fit than you’d ever get from a pair you’d buy. But I looked bad enough already without appearing as some stinking handed monster. And washed and further chilled my hands in the first stream I came to.

The worst were the dogs running out from farmyards and growling round one’s legs. Or barking through gates. And then the weariness. With every time one looked up. The never ending fields hedges hills and bogs ahead. East south east. Losing track of the days. Each night colder. Ever growing hungrier. And then from a hillside saw a hunt in the distance. The scarlet coats passing amid the trees. Saw the start. The run. The hounds in full cry. And the death. And I moved off to be gone nearly hiding and feeling like a criminal. Striding up hills I remembered the strong silky fleshed mountain climbing thighs of Miss von B. Muscles swelling back strongly from her knees. And I dreamt of the light play of her fingers over my arms, shoulders and up and down my back. O my god. The comfort. Peace. The sinking of my own lips softly upon her mouth. And am I soon going to die. Shivering now. On the verge of tears.

Felt some little cheer as I stood looking at a road sign. A village called Prosperous. First uplifting word one had seen all these days and lonely nights. Driven by the wet winds. The damp now chill through to my back. And in the first light of dawn hitching another lift southwards on a cart. A farmer with two monstrous sows. Warming myself standing between them, honking snorting and grunting.

The farmer gave me a shilling helping him drive his pigs up a back alley into a butcher’s. And this latter fat chap with his bloodied apron when I asked for work, hired me for four more shillings. And I felt now so at home to lug out guts and sweep and hose down the reddened cobbles and carry boxes of bones. The shed steaming with cattle entrails freshly dead. Pigs squealing. Beasts kicking and mooing. A hammer landing between their eyes. A groan and sigh flopping to their knees and falling over on their sides. The butcher slitting their throats cutting open their bellies and winching up the carcass. Who now and again would chat with me.

‘Well now me lad I am pleased with your work. Not idle a second. Where are you from with an accent the like of that that anyone would think you was English gentry.’

‘I am the son of a butler, sir, who is in service in a big house and it was required of me to speak grandly.’

‘Is that a fact, now. Did they have grand goings on in the big house.’

‘Yes they did.’

‘And I suppose ladies dressed in finery.’

‘Yes and gentlemen with violins and harps played and everyone danced in a big golden ballroom.’

‘Fancy that now, fancy that. Sure it’s a long way then for you to be here in this up to your knees in guts.’

‘I don’t mind sir.’

‘Would you like a situation here. Teach you a bit of butchering. A lively lad like yourself, would be well able for the job.’

‘I am very grateful to you sir. And for your kindness. But I would sir, prefer to work with horses.’

‘Ah well I can’t help you there.’

‘Would you know of anywhere.’

‘Well lad your best bet now, is to head for the Curragh. That’s your man. They’ve got horses aplenty all over the place. But you look that bit shook to me you do. Come home now with me till you get a good feed.’

The kindly butcher’s wife gave me tea. In the kitchen of their snug little house. As much as I could eat of bacon and eggs. Till I went back out on the road. Foolishly saying when they asked me to stay that I had a place to sleep. But first having an altogether jolly time making the butcher beat his fist on his knee telling them stories of the big mansion. Of the gowns and tiaras of the ladies. And that my father was called Bonkers.

‘Bonkers is it. That’s a funny enough name if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Yes Bonkers. And although I do not want to speak disrespectfully he is very tottery. Always spilling soup on the floor and then slipping on it. He once tipped gravy all over the head of a very grand titled red haired lady till her tresses were quite brown. She jumped up with shock of course. Knocked the entire contents of a bowl of cabbage into the lap of the Protestant bishop. Naturally the scalding vegetable in his lap made him jump too and upend the potato tureen out of another servant’s hands.’

One wondered if the butcher would break his knee pounding it with his fist laughing as he did. And rain was falling as I went out up the dark lane. Past these little cottage houses. In each the glow of a fire inside through the curtains. Turf smoke rising up into the night and the breeze wafting down its sweet smell. A dog curled up whimpering in a doorway. Who growled as I walked past. Who’d serve as only a canapé for Kern or Olav. If they snapped their big jaws on him.

Reaching the shadowy road winding into the blackness beyond the town, I shivered. With my heart thumping. Keep my legs moving. Find a barn to sleep. Feel as I felt that night when I collapsed at dinner. My bowels may at any moment move. Find a spot by a wall. Won’t be as there is at Andromeda Park, a lavatory knob to flush. Just sticking up by one’s hand from the mahogany seat. Yank upwards and the great flushing gushings come to wash all the turds away. To leave the porcelain clean. Where words said. Dent and Hellyer, Red Lion Square. And now the cold night wind freezes my bottom. And my bowels won’t move.

Darcy Dancer hunched up, hat pulled down around the ears. Head in the direction the butcher told me. Look back at a sound. See a blaze of light in the sky. An engine of a motor car approaching. Two beams of lights blinding my eyes. The long heavy vehicle shaking the road. Roaring past and cutting shadows up against a black sky through the trees ahead. The silver bark of their tall looming shapes. An oasis in there behind these great high stone walls. Where there could be some friendly understanding Protestant fellow squire who would welcome a cold lonely member of the gentry temporarily bereft on the road.

An archway over a great gate flanked by lodges. Escutcheon carved in stone. Wish I could go in there. Down that long long drive. Under the big old trees. Thump a knocker on the castle door. A kindly butler comes shuffling. My good fellow I’m lost on the road. Do you mind if I just pop in. Join his lordship for a nightcap in front of the library fire. In the butler’s eyes, a glowing sign of recognition. Ah. Upon my word sir. If it isn’t one of the Darcy Thormonds. Do by all means come in. By jolly jove Bitters I shall, yes. And what sir can I get you to drink. Whiskey please. Very good sir. O that’s far too much. O no, that’s alright, I’ll drink it, save you pouring it back into the bottle. Thank you Bitters. You’re most welcome sir and I’m sorry his Lordship has retired but he hopes you will make yourself entirely at home. Thank you profusely Bitters, indeed I shall. What time will you breakfast in the morning sir. Ten, please. Very good, would you like the usual six eggs sunnyside, with the usual ham slabs, pucks of tomatoes, heaps of sausages, buckets of tea and bowls full of honey and marmalades. Thank you, yes Bitters, the usual. And along with your hot cocoa what selection of books would you like by your bedside from the library sir. O Marco Polo will do, and perhaps that awfully interesting chap Darwin who says we’re just a bunch of ruddy bloody chimps might not come amiss.