J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Porter, porter get me a cab.’

Darcy Dancer sitting back in the dusty upholstery. Chew a chunk of Kelly’s fudge. On a cobble stone road trundle up past this hospital. Turn left at the top. Along this wider avenue. These neat blue painted doors on the buildings. The smell of the big brewery. A fortune must flow out of that for somebody. And as Uncle Willie used to say, wouldn’t it put silver spoons in plenty of mouths.

All so drab, so dark and grey. Glad to see the glass canopy of the Shelbourne. At the end of these Sunday empty Dublin streets. With smoke pouring from the chimneys of houses. The twisting narrow alleys. Lone tattered figures hunched in doorways. The odd cyclist whirring by. All with the same solemn, grim jawed pale faces one remembers in this city. Except inside here the reception girl’s smiling greeting. Puts me in my same room I had previously staying with Mr Arland.

‘My luggage I’m afraid has been misplaced on the train.’

‘We’ll telephone straight to the station, sir to inquire for you.’

‘That is, thank you, awfully good of you.’

Stretched on the bed I lay back in peace. Relieved when they said two hours later that no one answered at the station. My head sunk softly in the pillow. Arm up across my eyes. Stop the tears. Let them fall and they would overwhelm me. After all these weeks. Stare again at the glass of this shiny window. Purple mountains lie out there beyond the darkness. The flower beds, lawns and little lake of Stephen’s Green below. My whole life ahead. With distinctly no money to live it. Where might be Miss von B. Trundling along in the horse-cab looked everywhere turning to see if even that or that shabbily dressed person might be her face. Creases in her soft smooth skin around her mouth when she laughed with her bright teeth. Even gone I can feel her body close. My head tucked in to the side of her neck. Squeezed her shoulders up when she felt tickled. Sleep now. Let her call me bog trotter. Till her laughing heart’s content. Sorrow and tears hanging from her face. Bent, as it seems all ladies bend, to cry. When then you do not remember them so soignée, chic and radiant. Her blonde braids wrapped in a crown on her head. Please. Cheer me. In this cold fear. Of all the days now coming. Who shall feed me. Mend my socks. Bake my scones. Or teach me. Mr Arland. Your steady calmness. Firm in all the battles of life. Win against ignoble enemies. Defend the weak who would be vanquished. Exhibit helplessness to those who fear strength. And thereby draw the ugly bully upon your sword. My land. Sprinkled with rainy woe. Pound it with the hooves of a high couraged horse. Run after hounds. Leave behind those who mope.

In a Monday bright sun Darcy Dancer sauntering down Dawson Street. New day in the heart. Gather up one’s most iron nerve. Turning left around the corner of Nassau Street. Past Elvery’s Emporium of sporting outfitters. Bells jangling. Trams roaring on their shiny tracks. Rooftops and granite buildings of Trinity College across the road. Founded to increase learning and civility. And to banish tumults, barbarism and disorderly living. See the tip top of the glass from the underneath of which poor Mr Arland helped himself illicitly to fruit behind the Provost’s house. Dame Street. Banking edifices rearing in splendour. Pass down this boulevard to enter this establishment of saddlery. Blatantly march up to this most dignified elderly assistant. And hope to be greeted. Hope to be welcomed. And hear said. O my dear sir, how can we lay the world at your feet.

‘Good morning sir.’

‘Good morning.’

‘And what can we do for you sir, this morning.’

‘Suit’

‘What had you in mind, sir, worsted, tweed, flannel.’

‘Tweed.’

‘Very good sir, come this way.’

Without a word discourteous or a movement disinterested, in a little cubicle I was measured. My presently most ill fitting togs from Awfully Stupid Kelly’s father, the trouser waist of which could easily encompass three of me, now removed and folded. Revealing my most unflattering too light blue and too short ankle sock.

‘And something ready to wear sir.’

‘Yes as a matter of fact.’

The gentleman assistant and I pored over a sample of tweed patterns and made an appointment for fitting. Nipped out in the old togs to select the new. From a glass enclosed case chose a cap and a cravat rather purplish in colour with pink round dots. In every way quite sporting and resembling a previous favourite tie. Four pairs of wool socks, light grey, dark grey, one black and one navy blue. Four silk shirts. And off the peg, one cavalry twill trousers, one Donegal tweed hacking jacket. Six white linen hankies. When down in the mouth fine fabrics do put a good face on things. With wool, linen and silk. Jollied up in haberdashery. Cut a figure. Steady one’s footing. Where one was previously slipping badly. Comport myself now in places where one gets dinner and party invitations. Not quite appearing like a race course tout but nearly. I must last out. Hoard the very feeble confidence of the remaining pounds in my pocket.

‘You have an account with us sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘May I inquire of the name please.’

‘Kildare. Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.’

‘But of course. Andromeda Park.’

‘And please would you in due course send it to the Shelbourne where I am presently in residence.’

‘Certainly sir.’

‘And you may give these clothes to some deserving person. They were given me when my luggage was misplaced.’

‘Of course sir, I had thought the tailoring was by the look of a line or two, not quite paying full due to your figure.’

My next few days one must say were pleasant. Visiting the painting galleries, a tour of the big brewery, theatre in the evening and sometimes, racing permitting, the cinema in the afternoon. Till I returned for my final suit fitting. Brought off with all the suitably pleasant murmurings. Little tuck under the arms, a nip at the waist. And by god with the trouser just further narrowed I would soon cut a swath.

‘I think sir, we are going to have you looking your best.’

‘Rather.’

And at last this sunnyish balmy day. Walking up and down Grafton Street top to bottom for the fifth time. Sporting my new suit. To take lunch. At Jammet’s. Following my second successful day at the races. After numerous abysmal losing ones. Entering through this shadowy little alleyway off Grafton Street. Welcomed. Hand my dark brown trilby to the door man. Just acquired at the hatter’s three minutes ago. Sit myself up on this stool. Cool marble counter. Open the racing pages. Study the form. Yesterday won seventeen pounds on the first race. Lost two pounds on each of the next four races. And now just following the purchase of my head garment there was the hatter’s rather churlish refusal of credit. Requiring one to distressingly part with cash. But leaving one still in possession of a pound or two.

‘Sir.’

‘A snipe of champagne please and a dozen oysters.’

Darcy Dancer folding his racing paper. To survey the day’s tips. The nostrils assailed by the aromatics of these passing plates lofted to place settings along this counter by these most attentive presiding gastronomic gentlemen. And this face next to me, turning. Looks and looks again. At me I believe. One absolutely hates this kind of inquisitiveness at lunch. Next he’ll be wanting to borrow my cutlery. My god. Good Lord. His face. How does one in tie middle of one’s oysters and champagne as well as an unwelcome inquiring question become awfully scarce.

‘I say there, excuse me, but don’t I know you. I think I do. Can’t place you exactly.’

‘I’m sorry, but I do believe you may be confusing me with someone else.’