J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘What has our pukka boy there been up to today.’

I sat through meals in my secular attire silently looking down at my place. Just thankful to ruddy god that one had food three times a day and a warm place to sleep. With days now peacefully spent with much reading and scholarship in the library. The librarian with his massively thick spectacles seemed so often occupied with some vast work he was writing on the influence of the Old Testament on Gaelic literature that I indeed enjoyed a rather majestic privacy. Till one evening meal in the emptying dining hall. Just as I was leaving table. The more unpleasant of the two unpleasant clerics stopped in front of me. Who had so often passed his sour smirking asides in my direction. Just as I had often gritted my teeth instead of popping him a fist in his sneering face. And now he took his forbidden half smoked cigarette out of his mouth and threw it on the wide wooden scrubbed boards at my feet. To then lift his foot and with the sole of his shoe grind it into a small round smudge of ash and tobacco.

‘Clean that up pukka.’

‘No.’

‘Do as you are told, you phony snot. Or I’ll lay about you.’

‘No.’

‘So you are daring me. Come lads. Pukka is daring me. You are aren’t you. Pukka.’

‘Yes. I am. And I shall probably punch your face for you should you touch my person.’

The cleric’s muscles tightening across his cheeks, his teeth clenching in his jaw. His face grown white. A sickly smile slowly spreading on his lips. Staring at Darcy Dancer’s eyes staring back. The dishes clattering being collected from the distant tables. And the sound of my final evening chore when I worked in the kitchen. The barrels filled with leftover food being carted away out to the pigs.

‘I think we can settle this sudden display of bravery from our snooty pukka, outside. Is that right pukka.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then outside. Have you heard that now lads. He’s challenging me. Imagine. Pukka is challenging me. What about it lads. Any wagers as to how long he’ll last.’

‘Why don’t you leave him alone Healy. He’s done nothing to you.’

‘He’s said he’ll break my face. That’s what pukka has said. In his pukka phony English accent. And I’ll be damned if a son of some butler’s bloody well going to tell me that.’

Rearing in my face, acrimony. When each day now I attended vespers. Then following dinner, had my cherished solitary long reads in my cell. Poring over dictionaries I had from the library. Of quotations. Of English proverbs and of English etymology. No longer a vagabond. With somewhere finally to be content. And even fencing with a Latin epigram or two with Father Damian.

The gathering from the table pushing back chairs and standing. With a noise of doom. Healy leading the way trooping out of the dining hall. Along down a wide vaulted corridor lined with paintings of previous presiders over these vast ecclesiastic stacks of stone. Walking one’s last mile, one sees now every crack and stain. Turning into another long corridor. Past the narrow stone steps I take up a flight to the library. Now through a narrow dark passage to a door and out into a small walled courtyard. And all the way, behind me Healy’s associate whispering.

‘Healy is going to break every damn bone in your damn body, you snot. And make you scream for mercy.’

Faint flashes of moonlight high up on the wet stone. And a sprinkle of rain. Healy in the semi darkness turning to stand and wait in the middle of the little concrete yard. The clerics gathered in a black circle. And suddenly confronting Healy, Fitzpatrick, a bushy browed blue eyed big farmer’s son who seemed friendly disposed towards me and with whom on the playing field I once hopelessly kicked a soccer ball.

‘Let the lad go, Healy. He’s been ill. Why don’t you fight a bully like yourself for a change.’

‘He’s challenged me.’

‘Well bloody hell I’ll challenge you.’

‘This is none of your affair Fitzpatrick.’

‘It soon damn well might be.’

‘Well why don’t you stand aside and see for yourself. Pukka has his fists already doubled up.’

Darcy Dancer two fists hanging rigidly down at his sides. The knuckles white. Fitzpatrick stepping back.

‘Well then I would just like to see him beat bloody damn hell out of you.’

In the faint light, the rain gently falling. Moon must have a halo tonight. The soft gurgling of the drains. The water pouring down pipes from the massive lead gutters on the great roofs. The two protagonists squaring off the centre of the dark circle. Darcy Dancer holding up his fists. Healy raising up the open palm of his hand.

‘Well just look at that now. The great Joe Louis himself. Note how he adheres to the classic rudiments of boxing. The left forward. The right held back in reserve to deliver the knockout when that time comes.’

‘Why don’t you put up your own fists and fight Healy.’

‘I am. I am about to do that right now.’

Healy feinting left and right. Darcy Dancer jumping back. And the cleric just nudging Dancer’s nose with a wild swinging right hand that whistled past the eyes. The two circling round. Suddenly a flurry of fists. Lights flashing. And Darcy Dancer facing the concrete. The wet cement growing red with drops of blood.

‘You damn bully Healy.’

‘He asked for it and now he’s got it.’

‘That’s it, get up, get up pukka. You can do it.’

Darcy Dancer pushing himself slowly to hands and knees. The left leg crouching up. Then the right. Now rising to his feet. Lifting his hands again. And another fist crashing into his face stumbling him backwards. Across the courtyard. The circle of clerics parting. Healy pummelling with both fists. The circle of spectators crowding round as Dancer crashes back into the wall. And falling forward grabbing around Healy to hold on.

‘That’s it, hold on pukka, hold on.’

Darcy Dancer closing his right arm around the back of Healy’s neck. Gripping his right fist with his left. Pulling Healy’s head forward and down. Squeezing tight with all one’s might. Tighter and tighter. This gruesome hateful head further and further down. Scratching and tugging at me. His breath gasping.

‘That’s it pukka, that’s it. You’ve got him. In a head lock. Hold on. Hold on.’

‘Come on Healy kill him. Don’t let him do that to you. Trip him. Pull back.’

Darcy Dancer hauling this head downwards harder. And the two entangled figures fall to the cement. Squeeze tighter. Dig my knee deep up into his guts. And as Foxy says put every living ounce of your energy into it.

‘What is going on out here.’

A voice in the doorway. Figures scattering. Authority arrives just as I’m winning. And loosen my grip. To stand up. Across from this still leering face. Lashing another fist at me. And laughter from the doorway.

‘That’s it Healy, let the ruddy pukka have it. Nobody has come. It’s only me.’

‘And you. You’re bloody well going to get a fist in the face.’

The voice of Fitzpatrick. A skirmish at the doorway. And the phony voice of authority now pleading for mercy. As my lip gets smashed cut over my teeth. Another blow landing on my eye. Sends half the world black. Taste of blood in my mouth. Get just one punch into his belly with all my might. Send his damn reeking breath out of his throat as my knee nearly did along with his dinner. My head like Foxy’s getting used to being bludgeoned. Bright sharp pain of fists landing. High on my forehead. Crouch low, knees flexed, step forward. Hide if I can my head behind a shoulder. Cock my right arm right down by my hip. As Foxy showed me once. Swing now with all my almighty strength. Land a fist he’ll never forget deep into his ruddy guts.