J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘No. Not a chance. Served in military intelligence fourteen years. Could pick a certain wog out of a black hole chock a block full of them. Black or white never forget a face. Damn sure I know yours. From somewhere.’

Never has one had to enjoy champagne and oysters less. Having as they have now become my most treasured midday habit. Following my long breakfast of tea, sausages, bacon and ham, hot bath, stroll about the Green. And then a perusement of shop windows. To now have to keep one’s face as averted as possible without being blatantly rude. Surely my utterly single minded indifference to him has got to make the ruddy conversation dry up. Or any second I may be chased right out across this room and out the door. Followed by this face. Which as Master of Foxhounds I saw last, full of rage tumbling off arse over spurs down his horse’s tail. Ah. That did it. Just hit him nicely in the eye. Nothing like a squirt of lemon to shift his attention.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Dammit. Don’t mind a bit of lemon in the eye. Just damn mind if I can’t recall where I’ve seen you. By god I do know your face, I know I do. It’s either polo or the hunting field I’m damn certain of that.’

‘I’m awfully sorry, I can’t help you. Don’t hunt or play polo. Hardly even associate with those who do. I live as a matter of fact out the end of a peninsula which perhaps you might know called Mizen Head. Quite remote.’

‘Well it’s bound to come to me, damn it, have a drink. What is it to be.’

‘Well as a matter of fact, it’s champagne. A snipe.’

‘You shoot those do you.’

‘Yes as a matter of fact I do.’

‘On your peninsula.’

‘Yes. On my peninsula.’

‘Jolly good. And that’s a jolly good drink this time of day.’

Amazing. With this big rotter trying to figure out who one is, one has quaffed now four snipes. Making a full bottle together with three dozen oysters. The Master of Foxhounds is even clapping me on the back. Clicking my vertebrae all down my spine. But never mind, also picking up the back breaking bill.

‘And where are you off to my young fellow.’

‘Curragh Races.’

‘Good show. So am I. Join me in my motor car.’

‘Well as a matter of fact.’

‘Good let me have the facts.’

Of course my most salient fact was that one was terrified. Weighing as he must obviously do, at least fifteen stone. But my flattery of him in every conceivable way seems to have at least made him forget he remembered me. Till indeed I think he took my buttering him up as an overture of lasting friendship. He could be and probably is an absolutely sadistic pederast.

‘My Bentley is just around the corner.’

As now he is positively insisting upon departing in my company. Although clearly one is out of danger of being recognized now, one might next really be running the risk of buggery. He did say between snipes that youth gave the eyes a sparkle. And one must show appreciation to another’s flattery. I did rather roll my eyes. Seemed to make all proceed quite nicely. Till I felt his hand pressure my arse as one decamped from one’s stool. Heading as we are right to the door. In his generosity to the doorman. Pouring change in his palm. He’s dropped about four shillings. Pick this one up. Hand it to him. As one’s face turns. To look somewhat upwards at his. And O my god never has recognition struck such a thundering blow. Once again his scarlet coat. His upraised whip. His white gloves. And face bloating red.

‘By gad. I know where I remember your face. It’s you. You bloody bounder. You. Stole my ruddy horse. And had me thrown. Why you, come back here.’

The doorman in his ministrations to the Master of Foxhounds obviously at first thought we were reciting lines from a stage play. And I must say with the words so out of context of a damn good champagne and oyster lunch, anyone at all would be forgiven for thinking that. Until the doorman saw aghast, the swing door of Jammet’s open with such speed that it came loose off its hinges.

‘By god would you believe it. That ruddy young scamp. Unseating me from my horse. Accepting my sociability. And sticking me with the blasted enormous bill.’

Of course I could not hear these latter words spoken but dear me imagined them. And it was the Master’s fatal mistake to take the seconds he did to reflect to the doorman. Even though the latter’s duty was to listen to all sorts of sad tales. I was not long in reaching the passing throngs of Grafton Street. And at some increased speed arriving just a few feet away at the front entrance to Mitchell’s granite palace erected for the greater glory of afternoon tea and cakes. Where one awaits the Master to harmlessly pass by. Wiggling in among the stream of early afternoon ladies from Foxrock and Rathgar. Catching my breath in their perfume. Peering out from between their tea bonnets. To this present moment in Grafton Street. So sunny. So silly. When all one can think of is the rather red scar across the Master’s nose upon which I remember his cap visor crushing down. Whoosh. Here he is. Charging like a bull in my pursuit. And wham. Crash right smack into the most dearest of little old ladies. Laying flat the poor dear tiny creature cold as a cucumber on the pavement. What a disgrace. Her black straw hat decorated with yellow primroses, flung flying. Alarmed ladies making a protective circle around the dear old prostrate thing. And the Master hulking totally distraught and hysterically apologizing to one suffragette striking at him with her parasol. Just hope he doesn’t have the same recognition for voices as he does for faces. As one cries out. Four loudly articulated words. To echo the deepest feelings of these absolutely appalled gathered ladies most of whom are clearly members of the Royal Dublin Society.

You

Big

Stupid Oaf

Those first weeks in Dublin memorable for living life with what one can only describe as an inscrutable insobrieous insouciance. Unwise however to spend any time longer in the horsey habitat of the Shelbourne. Especially as that very morning one was handed one’s first hotel bill. Which one had in the splendour of one’s tweed been previously requesting to be put on next month’s tab. One did not trouble to even glance down at the long white amended and re-amended sheets of paper. Fearing to gasp at the amount because one had become utterly overwhelmed with extravagance. Of course daily one was awaiting the remedy on the race course. And I found it necessary to rock a little back and forth on my heels while requesting the assistant manager to arrange that my many weeks bill be put on my quarterly tab. And when at his slight hesitation I loftily inquired as to whether there was any difficulty.

‘Well, Mr Kildare no, but I am wondering if you perhaps are encountering any.’

‘None at all. I’m extremely comfortable thank you.’

‘Well as a matter of fact Mr Kildare we were concerned if perhaps some mistake had been made on your bill. You see we usually require some kind of prearrangement for the longer settlement of accounts.’

‘Ah. But of course. My bankers are organizing a draft. But you know how we Darcy Thormond Kildares hate to be rushed.’

‘There’s no rush. Certainly sir. Seeing as your mother’s family have been our valued customers over the years. And I think for the moment an exception can be made.’

‘I am indeed most appreciative. Funds held up. A death in the family you know.’

‘O I’m sorry to hear that sir.’

Then at Leopardstown races. The worst happened. Wiped out. And walked all the way back to Dublin. And not trusting to a future encounter with the Shelbourne’s overseers being so successful I piece by piece discreetly removed each item of my newly acquired wardrobe down and around the corner to the Royal Hibernian. To there ensconce in a back snug blue carpeted room. With now an irate Shelbourne management concerned over my whereabouts and not a sou in my pocket with which to even place a bet at the Turf Accountant’s in Duke Street. Indeed in such impoverishment one desperately depended upon an hotel’s kitchen’s hospitality. Even to having the Hibernian’s chef daily knock up a sandwich lunch picnic for me to eat in a lonely deckchair in Stephen’s Green. However although one had nothing else to complain about in the Hibernian, they could not as I had hoped they might, agree to an arrangement whereby my bill was rendered half yearly. Nor could one insist in view of my still insubstantial amount of luggage. Mostly carried in loose over my arm. But one would now have to distinctly avoid walking in, through or indeed past the Shelbourne or any other of the more horsey environs these days. And not only in case of marauding Masters of Foxhounds.