J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘I think father, the young man may have been struck dumb. Or suffered amnesia or such. He may require the treatment of a hospital. He was ranting something when found but hasn’t spoken since. He could quite possibly be retarded as well. I don’t suppose the disgraceful diary in his pocket means anything. The truth of the Daring Dancer’s activities. He could have found it. But he’s recovering well and is much stronger.’

‘Shall we see how he is again in the morning. Wouldn’t do now anyway to move him.’

Mornings, afternoons and evenings, there were choir voices singing. Chanting. So peaceful. The sound comes. A bell rings. Feet pass to and fro in the corridor under long webs of vaulted criss crossed ceilings and gothic arches. When lights were out one listened to the gales outside lashing rain against the panes of glass. The world seemed kept away. And the plainsong made me feel I was floating while I was dying. All through the grey days. Turned dark in my heart. Unable to speak. To these ecclesiastic gentlemen. Who seemed so calm civil and kind. Planning each night to say something and then in the cold light of day a stillness would stay my lips. Watching as I would the sunny pink of the rare sun coming in over my shoulder and warmly bathing the wall. Where a Christ is nailed on a cross. Just above a table and chair. As now this morning the door opens. And a tall cassocked figure steps in.

‘My name is Father Damian. It is I who found you out there against the wall. Now can’t you tell me how you got there. You’ve been here nearly a fortnight now. We would like to know who you are. So that we can help find or contact your parents or next of kin. Surely someone is missing you. You do speak. We know. Someone heard you last night in your sleep. And indeed you were mumbling when I found you. But we shan’t force you. But it would help us if you tried. Perhaps in your own good time. As the robin builds its nest. Have you run away from somewhere. Have you been in an institution. Do you speak Irish. No. Well I’m sure we won’t get anywhere trying you in Latin or Greek. But I’ll be back again. In the meantime you’re not to worry. We shall take care of you here. You understand that don’t you. Good. Well we can get a lot out of you anyway with yes and no. Yes. Good.’

The white uniformed lady who no longer had to push the bed pan under me twice a day, now smilingly helped me hobble on my first trip out into the hall. To make my way in overlarge slippers and faded white pyjamas and dressing gown thirty paces down the flagstone corridor. To a damp water closet with a cistern high up which dripped water down on my back as I sat. Till finally I got warmly dressed again. In my own clothes now cleaned and ironed and my diary back in my pocket. When I was put in a massive kitchen and given potatoes to peel and eggs to break each dawn into a great cauldron. I could with astonishing dexterity break one in each hand but of course did lose many shells in the mass of yolks. Father Damian came.

‘Good morning. Hard at work. You look much better. You’re feeling that way are you. Good. I think we might try to get you out and about a bit. And perhaps there won’t be so much shell then in the scrambled egg. Would you like to do some gardening. Good. Just let me know if you do not feel up to it.’

Darcy Dancer with an old man they called Deaners. Raking up the leaves and scuffling the winter weeds away between the pebbles. And often in dereliction of one’s duties sitting long moments on a garden bench in the fragrant fresh air and rare sunlight. Cheerful chirps of birds. Living on their wings. Here in these walled gardens. Perching over the gravel paths. In their winter darkened feathers. And the jackdaw who daily took a leisurely drink out of a roof gutter, went high flying beyond the turrets of this large building. With its big halls. Thick walls. And bells tolling. Where now at dawn before work began I attended at mass. Shuffling chilled from my bed into the chapel across a courtyard. Kneeling in the rear of all these black gowned figures filling the pews. An organ playing. Their voices singing Latin. And my soothed mind full of Miss von B and where could she be. In the big town of Dublin. With each week now passing. To await yet another. Feeling at least my strength returning if not my courage. Grunting to Deaners who never stopped asking me a lot of foolish questions. Was I out of the looney bin. Did I come from the land. And why didn’t I get a move on me just sitting there on my backside while he was doing all the sweeping up of the rotted leaves and spreading all the manure.

Then a wet old morning pushing a barrow of cut branches down the gravel path to where I’d dump them on top of the manure heap and where, when no one was looking I could squat day dreaming a leisurely hour or so hidden by the shrubbery and trees, my back suddenly stiffened and my pace quickened and I was altogether, albeit momentarily, a very energetic gardener’s helper indeed. For there right behind me came the voice of Father Damian.

‘Well now. We’ve been watching you.’

As one stops in one’s tracks. O my goodness. Here it comes. They’re going to fling me out. Shirking at work. Three helpings at meals. And putting lumps of clay in Deaners’ hat when he took it off. And laughing like a drain when he put it back on.

‘Young man you work with great intelligence. Now run and fetch me this list of books from the library. There’s a good lad.’

I was blissfully thunderstruck. And perfectly willing to be thought mentally capable. And now my afternoons were spent working in the library. Stacking and carrying books. Or when the librarian’s absence permitted, plopping myself behind a partition to most pleasantly and soothingly read these splendid tomes. Till a week later I sat on the verge of tears. Deaners at lunch saying that he heard tell they were on to me and that it was my last morning of gardening. And I saw once more the wet and winter cold stretching cross country. Instead of enjoying early mass and the murmuring prayers and the thundering organ sounds. And when Father Damian came in. I was ready to vocally beg there and then for another chance. Till a great smile across his face.

‘Now my boy. You are. Aren’t you. Finally going to speak to me. You’re an educated lad. And dare I say it, clearly of good background. I have recommended that you be entirely relieved of your gardening duties and that you be permanently assigned to the library and that you be permitted to attend classes here.’

‘Please sir.’

‘Ah good lord, at last. At last.’

‘Sir.’

‘Call me Father.’

‘Father. I am a runaway orphan.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m from the west. My father while he lived was a butler.’

‘So that explains this elegant voice. You are a rather surprising discovery. To turn up on Christmas morning. However we won’t read anything into that coincidence. You are clearly a young man of ability. We can do something for you here. But we should have to certainly make an effort to find those who as your next of kin may be responsible for you.’

‘There are none sir.’

‘I see. Are you Catholic.’

‘No sir.’

‘That’s a bit awkward. But doesn’t seem to prevent your devoutness at chapel. Well. That’s between ourselves. And we won’t press the matter further. But we must have information in order to seek permission from those in authority that we can provide for your further education. It’s not often one comes upon a young man whose aura and carriage gives promise of, how shall we say it. Future importance, perhaps.’

Promoted to cataloguing books in the library one now not only had a measure of authority but even a proprietory interest when sorting and restacking the shelves of dusty volumes. One also graduated to the end of a table in the large dining hall. With a group of young novices in training for the priesthood. Two of whom distinctly of peasant farming origins, constantly made snide remarks and behaved at every opportunity towards me in their most unpleasant ways.