J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Darcy Dancer backing slowly away from the great gates. To turn and walk now along this high stone wall with the tall tapering branches of the trees arching out over the road ahead. Growing from their deep roots in their ancient park lands. O my god, where am I going. In this ceaseless rain. And a gale rising. Further and further away from the apron of gravel over which I have on wheels and hooves come into and gone from Andromeda Park. The place where for all its dilapidations did at least keep the harsh physical strife of life to a minimum in its great rooms and halls. Thought I heard the big canine lungs of a wolfhound bark. Don’t let me die. Miss von B. Please. If I could only know where you are tonight. Right now this moment. Your long soft body. Clutched so closely to mine. Your voice panting your cries in my ear. Remember everything about you but your feet. And O my god. Now other men may have you. Flesh to your flesh. Where mine once touched. And Uncle Willie said ladies find it so awfully difficult to be faithful. When any prick in proximity will do.

Darcy Dancer following the high estate wall turning away inland off the road. Cross this ditch. Push through these shrubbery beech. Save for the motor car not one person, cart or bicycle has passed me all this way. Along all these miles of empty road. The whole countryside locked up. Behind doors and shutters. Afeared of goblins and fairies. And tinkers too. Passed the tiny shell of one of their tents. Embers of a fire glowing outside. Sealing themselves away for the night. Warm and snug with the bugs beetles and lice. Foxy said what harm is it for a few of them little creatures to be crawling on you. Sure aren’t them living things just like yourself. Nurse Ruby said fairies were angels Lucifer cast out of heaven. Saw one the other night on horseback galloping up over the moonlit fields as I looked out of a hayshed. Fairies come and steal. Take away the old people. A farmer’s wife milking a cow in a doorway jumped up when she saw my head peeking at her over the wall. She ran screaming back to her cottage her boots splattering mud up all over her frock. After a good swig of warm milk from her pail I heard her shouting blue murder for Sean. And I decamped rather rapidly. Disappearing like the fastest fairy who ever lived.

Darcy Dancer proceeding through the dense shrubbery along this wall. Tramping further and further. Nowhere to climb over. And find some hay to sleep in for the night. Rain keeps falling. Wet through hat and hair to my scalp. Feel so weak. So numb. Face hot. Heart thumping. Should have stayed in the town. In the butcher’s house. Or spent seven shillings and six pence for a room. Can’t walk any more. Lost out here now, so far from the road. Soon sink covered in the brown stale slime of some bog. Can’t go on. Because I’m dying. Death comes slowly up sleepily from one’s toes. Tells you. Who seeks me. Beseeches my presence. Knows where I am. Follows me in my big black footsteps. Up these stone stairs. Yes right here. Where you are in your broken hearted sorrow. Where no one seeks you. Beseeches your presence. Knows where you are. Dying alone. Beyond this big iron gate in the wall. Squealing on its hinges. And like the sound of my dear beloved wolfhounds. O God I am in delirium. And it’s Christmas eve. An avenue of yew trees. Choir voices. In this place to die. My body stretched on this soft moss. Miss von B. You too were very very sad. Weren’t you. Made me so full of pain to watch. Like you were that night in bed. Your back bent in sadness. When I left your arms. Your eyes swollen up big and red. To make you wear a veil. Black lace tucked in under your black silk stock pinned by your gold and diamond pin. Please come to my funeral. If ever I’m found. No address. Nor my name. Just my love words written in my diary. And a flat little snowdrop flower I pressed. To remember you by. Is all I can say. All I can send. To wherever you are. And if they bring me back. To bury me. Even lonely out under the meadows of Andromeda Park. By the tall ancient boughed trees. Will you come all black and elegant. Tears streaming from your eyes.

Will you

My lady

Sunlight streaming over the wall and through the bars of a gate. A cassocked figure leaning over the form of Darcy Dancer curled and crouched on the mossy grass. The black sleeved hand gently pushing on a shoulder.

‘Come now. Can you hear me. Wake up now. Wake up. Who are you. What are you doing here. Please speak. Can you hear me.’

Darcy Dancer groaning. Tuck in his arms and legs. Further away from the chill. But yes. I hear and see the sun in my eyes. Which way is it to heaven. I know that’s the way I’m walking now. Miss von B watched me go. She was just at my funeral. Wore her bowler she wears to hunt. So sad, she was nearly carried. By the elbows. Crooks on one side, Sexton on the other. Holding her. Her feet dragging. Sobs racking her. My coffin borne on the shoulders of the grooms. Slide down. Dead and done. In my grave. Held the bars of a gate as I died. Begging God not to let me. Yet like this. It’s so quiet just to be asleep. Till morning. Wake in time for Mr Arland. Coming down the hall now to the schoolroom. Books tucked up under his arm. His smile. Greet him. Just as he said I was once. A plutocrat in the pluperfect. His small admonitions. Young persons Kildare, should conduct themselves discreetly. And Mr Arland, please sir, is there anything indiscreet in the promiscuous exercises of etymological parsing. Don’t try to be funny, Kildare. Please sir, I am being absolutely serious and I am so glad that you were able to get to my funeral. You look so smartly turned out too. And hello Clarissa. What a very stylish looking couple you and Mr Arland make. So nice of you both to come all this way on the train. And be so smilingly happy, happy together. Waiting to wed. Soon. soon. How sad then, you must on such a splendid note, attend my obsequies. Yes it is rather a pity. Who said that. Uncommonly rude thing. I shall damn you sir demand satisfaction and climb right up out of my coffin. If someone, who is unnecessarily holding same will just let go of my shoulder. Let go. Is that you Sexton, did you hear me. Do please stop pushing on my shoulder.

‘Now. Now. You’re alright. Can you hear me. Who are you.’

That sunny cold Christmas morning three dark figures carrying Darcy Dancer by legs and arms along a gravel path. A fourth cassocked figure opening a heavy door. Into a stone flagged hall. And down a long corridor. Through cooking and waxy smells. And into a small vaulted white ceilinged room. A dim red glowing filament of an electric bulb burning straight above my head.

For six days Darcy Dancer laid abed. Face pressed in a creaking pillow and dark hair sticking out from thick mauve blankets. A thin faced man calling twice a day leaning over to put his hand on my brow. Quietly asking questions. As all these men in black and some with collars, come and go. Making me horrified to think that heaven might really be a Roman Catholic place after all.

‘Who are you young man. What is your name. Where do your parents live. You can understand me can’t you. You understand what I am saying. Can you write. You have been very sick. We need to know who you are. Do you speak Romany. Are you a travelling person. You have nothing to fear from us.’

For four more days I watched the light fade to darkness out the tall narrow pane of window. And then send a bright shaft across my little cell as breakfast came in the morning. Brought by a woman in a white uniform who had my first evening put hot soup on a spoon between my lips. The granite stone arch of this ceiling. Squeaking pallet under my back. Other faces come. They look. Nod, whisper and go away. And then two more tall priestly gentlemen in black.