J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Holy Christ.’

‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’

‘Begorra. Did you see that. What an almighty right hook into Healy’s belly.’

Healy bending over double. Wobbling. Staggering forward. Nearly falling to his knees. Then falling. His mouth exploding vomit. Someone shouting.

‘Get going lads there’s someone coming for sure.’

Darcy Dancer standing above this bully propped up on his fours. Before I depart give him something to remember me by. Bring a heel right crushingly down on the back of his hand. Make it a long ruddy time before it tightens itself in a fist again.

‘My hand. My hand.’

Healy howling in agony. A blissful sound. And now run. Last behind these figures. Back in through this door. The pounding feet echo down the hall. Just ahead someone trips. Headlong into a plinth and pedestal. Once carrying just these few seconds previously the marble bust of St Ignatius Loyola. Requires a detour with not indifferent haste, out this other door. Across the courtyard. Where I once dug and weeded the rose beds. The quickest way back to my cell. Shove open this heavy oak portal. Hammered together with copper nails turned green. And Christ. Crash into this figure pacing the hall reading his breviary.

‘Excuse me father.’

‘Damn you. Where do you think you’re going.’

‘To hell.’

Lights lighting up the windows. A hullabaloo arising. Darcy Dancer racing down through trees. Air colder. Snow beginning to fall. Moon behind the fast moving clouds. White specks on the white stone statues. The stations of the cross. Ghosts looming out here in the trees. The new pale blades of daffodils shoving up in the crush of frost under foot. Eye paining. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Lips bloody and bruised. Keep running. Till one is finally far away out on the other side of the road. Crossing the frozen dew of the meadows.

Without

A single hope

In the world

Any more

The night spent curled up in the warmth and snugness of a thatched store of hay. And one was not surprised at one’s rather sadistic impulse. And indeed rather enjoyed the thought of that bully maimed. And a dream of losing my shoes and coat in a big cinema. Later searching for the lost and found department. Up alleys and along doorless walls. An attractive girl I stopped to ask directions was curt with me. She later returned and apologized. And god even in my dream I seemed so relieved she had. Feeling as I was so awfully gruesomely crushed. Like Healy’s hand.

Two more nights were wet with soft moist winds. One sheltering under a leaking lean to. The next huddling under rusted sheets of corrugated iron. Eating raw cabbage and turnips. Then it snowed again. Left tracks behind me in my thieving. The whole damn countryside would soon be on my trail. Tried each big farm I came to. Ever enumerated all my gardening skills. And everyone suspiciously viewing my face turned me away.

Till one morning. Coming to the top of a gently rising hill. In the first sunshine for days. I stopped at a large gateway bordered with lawns. A straight avenue down between great arching beech trees. To a house with its windows shining and a gravel drive to its yellow door. Walking trepidatious between these railed fences. Green velvet paddocks. Mares with foals gambolling on the close cropped winter grass. A clocktower entrance to a stable yard. Where a red crinkly haired groom led a horse clattering across the cobbles.

‘Begging your pardon sir, but I am inquiring as to there being a position open for a stable lad.’

‘Well now I wouldn’t know. But there could be. As we had to kick a little bastard out of here yesterday. You’ll have to talk to himself the gaffer, over there by that stable.’

‘Thank you.’

Darcy Dancer crossing to a checked coated and capped gent in flared twill breeches and boots. Touching one’s forelock. And approaching this figure whose pinched reddened face held a cigarette nodding up and down between his thin lips.

‘And what do you want.’

‘Sir I would be inquiring as to know if you might be needing the services of a stable lad.’

‘Who sent you.’

‘I made bold to come myself sir.’

‘Who gave you that belt in the eye. And them bruises. We don’t want trouble makers around here.’

‘I was after having a fall sir.’

‘Fell me arse. Looks more like a beating you deserved. I’m just after putting my boot flying into a cur was sent out the gate you just came in. What do you know about horses. Who have you worked with before. Come on. Who.’

‘Well sir. Sure I am a butcher’s son but I have spent me time in the stables since I was a slip of a gossoon. Serving me time in the big house that was near where my father had his trade. I know a good bit.’

‘Lay hand to that fork. We’ll see what you know now. Go in there and muck out that box. We’ll see what kind of a job you do. Plenty of your type around thinking you know it all. Go on. What are you waiting for. Put your shoulder into it.’

Darcy Dancer entering the box. Laughter in the courtyard as this stallion reared and bucked and sent sparks flying off the wall with lashes of his hind legs. Ears flat back and his great yellow teeth bared to snap off my arm. Love and affection calms the horse. Provided you can administer these before you are bitten, trampled or kicked to death. Meanwhile step back out of harm’s way. Murmur quiet peaceful words. There, there now. Easy there. Quietly now. Good old fellow. Blow soft soothing breath up in your nostrils. And put on your head collar. There you are. My big evil fellow. Lead you out. So I won’t be killed. While attending to your toiletries.

‘Who told you take that horse out of that box.’

‘You asked me to clean it sir. And that big fellow not knowing me yet would as soon send me flying over the moon.’

‘Well ask first if you can remove a horse out of a box. And stand up straight when you talk to me.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You’re a little know it all I can tell.’

‘I’m sorry sir I didn’t understand you the first time. May I be taking the horse out of its box sir.’

‘Take him out. And into that box there. And next time you’d better know enough to ask.’

Darcy Dancer shovelling up the matted brown knobs of dung and heaping it in the barrow. Lugging and forking in yellow clean straw from a stack. Shaking it up with the fork. Spreading the golden fibres neatly and evenly across the floor. Heaping it gently up against the walls. And storing that little bit extra in the corners. The gaffer coming to peer in over the half door. And grunting begrudging approval.

‘Well you know how to do something anyway. Now there’s no quitting here till you’re told. You’ll sleep up there over that stable. We’ll give you a try for a few days. Twelve and six a week and your keep. What’s your name.’

‘Dancer O’Reilly sir.’

‘Named after the great stallion himself I suppose.’

‘It’s a fact I am sir.’

‘Dancer is it. Well I’m Matt. Named after me hard working father. And I’ve no bloody time for slackers.’

‘I’m not a one for slacking sir.’

‘Well we’ll see about that. Just let me catch you stepping out of line, and you’ll hop it from here in a hurry I can tell you.’

The loft room was up a narrow worm eaten wooden ladder. Musty and dusty, a pile of oats in the middle of the floor. Little brick built cubby holes in the walls for chickens to lay their eggs. A wooden bench of a bed with a horsehair mattress. Three old dirty grey blankets smelling of hay and straw. Under which one slept till wakened each morning by a gruff shout of a groom up the steps. Peeling back the damp covers and arising already dressed in the chill darkness. Eyes still glued together in sleep. Pushing cold stale stockinged feet into Father Damian’s priestly shoes. Day after exhausting day. To go down into the welcome warmth of the horses below. Their comforting snorts and movements through the night. And now know what the life of Foxy was like. And it would damn soon make you go round biting off ears and smashing heads with hammers.