J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘God damn it, what’s wrong with you.’

There was quite sufficient wrong. For meanwhile Smears had fallen down the whole flight of servants’ stairs and although miraculously unhurt he could by now only totter holding his hands out in front of him like a blind man to feel where he was going. And I by god could hardly stand up laughing. It was the most wonderful night. Especially when the electric lights short circuited and the ruddy swing door to the servants’ stair flew open with a guest, his flies undone, his penis shifted out, was there nonchalantly peeing right down the servants’ staircase. Just as Assumpta and I holding a candle and with a massive cauldron of boiled potatoes were at last heading for the dining room where the guests now, were themselves roaring drunk not having got a morsel to eat for over an hour. And stupid Assumpta not knowing what a prick looked like, was heading half way up the dim lighted stairs and confronted by the guest peeing straight down at her, at least did recognize piss and both she and the potatoes fell backwards tumbling to the bottom of the stairs. God was I laughing. My belly wracked with pain. And I fear, my feet squashing spuds. And with Assumpta hors de combat, Smears squiffed, the master finally came storming right down the stairs shouting and screaming at the top of his lungs and rushing into the kitchen where at that very moment I had eight different bottles of liquors open with Smears and cook tasting each with the uttermost blotto sincerity.

‘You damn idiot fools. Where’s the bloody roast beef the bloody main course, the creamed damn onions. Don’t you know what you are doing.’

Smears reared up nearly as if he was sober but had to lean back and prop himself up with the table. Closing his eyes between his measured delivery of every couple of words.

‘I won’t take that language from you. When I have long had, prior to coming to this place, the pleasure and privilege of serving the true aristocracy and gentry. And not people who have merely made money.’

‘You’re sacked. You’re drunk, you’re sacked.’

Smears in the most strange quasi military manner, marching out the door. And towards me the wrath was suddenly turned. With my hand still wrapped around a bottle of Crème de Menthe. But he thought the better of continuing the tirade. No doubt remembering the plight of his poor starving guests. Who if indeed they had an appetite left at all, certainly now could not care much in their blotto state.

‘You. You bring the roast beef up this instant.’

Of course outside of fox hunting and horses there’s hardly anything else in this world I know how to do, but at least I do know considerable about proper butlering. To which, would you believe it I had just been promoted. Although Mary the cook, even in her own wobbling inebriated state seemed sceptical about my sudden elevation in the servants’ ranks. Murmuring under her breath.

‘Ah it serves them right to have a stable lad bringing them their dinners.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mary, note my fine grand accent. Sure I’m as good a butler as Smears ever was.’

‘Never mind that smart lip you, Dancer O’Reilly. And get these roasts of beef up to them, sure as it is they’re all nearly a cinder they’ll be carving.’

The two hired in waiters poised to carve. One of whom during the early darkness of the short circuit I saw popping the more valuable and pocket sized pieces of cutlery into his pockets, which must have been specially tailored for the purpose, as the vast number of pieces disappearing hardly made a bulge in his coat. Any moment I waited for him to be anchored to the floor by their enormous weight. Of course the short circuit also in its way saved much more embarrassment not only for ladies who were thinking it so much more romantic in the candlelight but also because it hid momentarily the now totally rebellious and drunken staff from view. Some of the guests were rumoured very important and prominent in government and business circles. Including two inseparable Dublin actors who shouted above everyone else, and inaccurately quoted Shakespeare. And a most unkempt and inappropriately dressed Dublin poet who not only had his shoes off drying his unbelievable stinking feet under the table, but was also spitting over his arm behind him in a genuine effort it seemed to avoid spitting directly on the table. And then arms waving and roaring while the little string orchestra played lightly an operatic piece.

‘Ah jasus will you give us a jig instead of that.’

The seemingly honest hired in waiter kept nudging me unpleasantly in the ribs, pointing out the two Dublin actors.

‘Look at them will ya look at the pair of them. Sure they’d jump on you as fast as they’d jump on each other.’

The evening temporarily seemed to settle down. Except a very sweaty recovered Assumpta was getting her passing bosom felt by the poet who kept grabbing at it between his yawns and barely disguised insults levelled at his host’s nouveau riche attempts to curry favour with the true cultured members of the Irish intelligentsia.

‘Ah you’re phonys, phonys, the lot of you.’

One did shut him up however serving out a grossly overcooked slab of roast beef. Upon which he fell like a ravening dog. Gobbling it straight off the plate with the peas as well. One of which flew from his lips and popped neatly down a lady’s décolletage. He of course went after it. And she behaved as if she were being raped. Which she was. With the gravy I held over her tipped over the two of them. Astonishingly at first no one appeared to notice the poet wrestling the lady straight to the floor, so busy were they all attempting to impress someone further down the table and all leaning forward to do so. And the poet was at the lady dog style as she tried to escape under the table. Fortunately everyone was of a class who would never mix with one’s own otherwise one would be sure to be recognized. And be mortified. As the entire table lifted right up from the floor in front of the ruddy guests’ eyes. With cutlery, food and wine sliding off upon those on the downward sloped side. With the poet underneath roaring.

‘Come here now till I get that pea.’

Or you

Whore

I’ll chase you

Till kingdom

Come

The débâcle took days to calm down. With Smears barricaded in his room threatening to sue for wrongful dismissal and grevious disparagement of his capabilities in the performance of his profession. And with the extensive repairs required to where the poet had rutted, butted and seemingly pissed his way round the dining room with his shouts of yous is all whores everyone one of yous. And where now white coated I actually was serving the master and mistress these few perilous nights at a singularly gloomy table. As well as bringing food up to a bloody complaining Smears.

‘Damn it O’Reilly where’s the smoked salmon I requested. You don’t think I’m going to eat the same slops as that pair of social upstarts down there.’

I was while devouring plenty of bananas, rather enjoying it all. And one might even venture to say that there was hardly anyone anywhere who could bow and scrape with such menial servitude as I could. Is the tea to your liking madam. Is the toast just right. Of course the mistress was stunned by my seeming transformation from a horse piss soaked stable lad to major domo and there were dangerous moments when both the master and mistress thought I was taking the mickey out of them. But I do believe they revelled so much in being treated with such obedient doormat solicitude that they finally were convinced they merited it.

‘That will be sufficient unto our needs of the moment, O’Reilly. We’ll ring when requiring you further.’