J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

Rashers Ronald spoke between a slight division between his two upper front protruding teeth. And smiled as he turned to greet a passing dowager. Her grey uniformed and leather legginged chauffeur behind her lugging cases, while two poodles cradled in the bends of his arms were licking his cheeks.

‘Now my dear boy. Did you see her. Portly perhaps but just the charming side of sixty. Three hundred and twenty acres in County Dublin. Stabling for forty. Absolutely first class grazing well watered and fenced. Four footmen. Six gardeners. Grows the most sweet juicy bloody damn peaches in her greenhouse. Excuse me a moment.’

Rashers borrowing a cigarette from the doorman. Inserting it into a long ivory cigarette holder and placing it lightly between his lips. Doorman striking a match and lighting him up. Standing there in his morning suit, chin up, shoulders back, blowing out a leisurely long cloud of tobacco smoke. And taking from his pocket a pair of spectacles.

‘Of course my dear fellow you’re wondering why I am so dressed as if one had just retired from a wedding. Fact of the matter is I always adorn in my striped trousers and tail coat of a morning. And find no need even to change as the day or night progresses. Hardly any in their right mind these days will have me at their weddings and few, even at their dinners. But at least I can appear as if I’ve been there. Also it’s useful garb when one encounters some bounder to whom one owes money. One merely turns one’s back and blends into the hotel woodwork appearing from the rear at least, as a member of the staff. Now these spectacles. Of course I see perfectly without them. But these are a useful prop. Especially when one wants a dowager to know that one is contemplating her. When one puts them on slowly. If she primps then one immediately knows that one’s next step is to introduce oneself. Of course there are people who would cast unkind aspersions. Call me a chancer and fortune hunter. I openly admit to the latter. But in the former category I am a rank amateur in this metropolis. But come. Let us proceed under the auspices of your recently acquired fiver down into the Buttery. For drinkies. And I’m sure you won’t mind my momentary impecuniousness which I had hoped would be remedied by the Marquis until you my dear chap beat me so beautifully, so consummately, to it.’

Darcy Dancer following Rashers Ronald through into the lounge. Past the lift. Which appeared to be out of action. The American couple, he in electric blue she in chintz awaiting its rapid repair. While on the staircase Baptista Consuelo was perched on about the sixth marble step. The Mental Marquis on the ninth and the porter apparently collapsed over the weight of their luggage on the twelfth. As I passed by a writing table, Baptista turning her head away towards the wall. One hopes in some modesty for the solemnity of her sins. Rashers bowing to that embarrassed direction. Just as a gasp emits from the watching elderly American couple. The porter’s hand making a sudden grasp for the largest of the Marquis’s leather cases. Which misses. The luggage breaking open as it falls. With whips, bridles, boots, reins, bits, tumbling out. Not to mention an unbelievable saddle and numnah as well. The porter lunging after the leathers. And promptly dropping the rest of the cases. To trip and tumble down crashing into the Marquis. Both engripped with one another rolling backwards down at Baptista. Who, with an awfully impressive presence of mind, stands into the wall. As they go bumping past head over heels entwined in tack. Rashers running forward to assist.

‘My god, Major Jones, are you all right. Please. At least let me undo you from your hunting and chastisement gear.’

‘Get away from me you. I mean I do appreciate your solicitude. But damn it man. Do you really have to interfere. Jumping to sadistic conclusions like that.’

Baptista in her dark brown sweater. A long string of pearls suspended down across the rise of her bosoms so flatteringly pronounced by the tight thick strap she wore just like Miss von B round her waist. Her long blonde hair in the chandelier light flowing gleamingly down over her shoulders. Her cream coloured skirt snugly enfolding the melon ripe amplitude of her otherwise over ample quarters. Strong calves flexing in her silk stockings. And marvellously sensible walking shoes. She looks quite smart and radiantly attractive as much as one hates to admit it. As one must with my new tweed trousers absolutely out like a tent. Standing utterly stiff as she stands up there. Quite unfazed. Indeed, even with a trace of a smile on her lips. Looking down at the Marquis. Whose kilt is up around his neck. With eagerly nosy folk and hotel staff in from the lobby. And others from the lounge rushing to the scene. Gasps at the sight. And a scream from the American lady.

‘That guy’s got no pants on.’

The Marquis groaning. Disentangling himself from both the porter, reins, bits and bridles in which he was wrapped. And carefully readjusting the strap of his sporran. Rashers like an usher at a wedding reception controlling the impoverished members of the bride’s relatives desperate to sink fangs into the free flowing refreshments. The Marquis turning to the gathering.

‘Damn you all. Does a crowd really have to collect. Haven’t you ever seen anyone fall down a staircase before.’

‘Ah but Major Jones. You may take it from Rashers Ronald, that many may have seen a plunge on the stairs. But few have ever had such an opportunity to get such a marvellous eyeful.’

Of what

Is up

Under a

Kilt

Rashers Ronald beaming a great smile. Guiding Darcy Dancer by the elbow. These two gentlemen proceeding forward into the mirrored lounge. Presided over by the ceiling’s central dome of glass. Ministering waiters passing quietly between tables with their trays. Rashers bowing to the seemingly unaccompanied ladies of all ages. Seated in their finery. Wrists ablaze with gems.

‘Of course my dear chap, and excuse me for whispering but I must keep my voice down. Imagine the Marquis poor devil being exposed like that. Publicly on display. Not only with his bit of blonde fluff but his ruddy pudenda and all. Rum luck. Worse than having one’s prick out pissing off the top of Nelson’s Pillar during the holy hour. Damn tragedy for the aristocracy. Fortunately this hotel is most elegantly populated. Incident will spread only in the best circles like wildfire over the entire country. But allow me to point out. Seated over there, that’s her ladyship. Often referred to as Her Grace the greasemonkey. Her age is quite indeterminate. But her acreage encouragingly is not. Seven hundred and eighty seven statute. Plus salmon banks and two trout lakes. She loves tinkering with the underside of motor cars. Wears out three or four pairs of white flannel overalls and gloves a week. Handbag full of spanners. She always carries a spare exhaust pipe or two in her luggage. Even siphons her wine out of the bottle at dinner. And unless one has one’s own rubber tube you don’t get a drop. She can sometimes be so tiresomely rural. But her most amiable quality is she takes it both back and front. Awfully useful when two chaps want to have a go at her together. See by your tailoring, you’re from the country of course. With no disparagement thereby meant, my good chap.’

‘Yes I am as a matter of fact.’

‘And where my good chap are you staying in town.’

‘Here.’

‘What. In the hotel.’

‘Yes.’

‘Masterly. Absolutely masterly. Dear me you are a professional. If one has to stoop to the wretchedness of plying one’s youthful beauty for mere filthy lucre, why not then be damn efficient about it. I’m of course presently at no fixed address. My previous fixed one was down what one can only euphemistically refer to as a beneath lower basement flat. Damn place was more like a mining shaft. Now just stand here a moment, and just let the ladies see us. It does so cheer me up this place. Especially as one does have one’s such rapid ups and downs. A recent black gentleman posing as a Prince from the Sudan beat me to that choice dowager there. She my dear chap is just straight forwardly just damn rich. My father was an army General. That’s really all my trouble. Damn old fool never made Field Marshal due to several late career reverses on the field of battle. And was merely knighted. Poor sod just fishes and shoots, retired on his pension. Leaving his son a commoner. With not even the helpful courtesy entitlement of being an Honourable. Dooming me to fortune hunting. Which pursuit I must make quite clear, I do try to conduct in as romantic and moral a manner as possible. Now there, in the corner. For God’s sake don’t stare. But she, the dear girl, buried two husbands, is just in her early fifties. Never know it. Handsome isn’t she. Slender and long legged. And where it counts, fleshed nicely fore and aft. And never mind her thin lips, she gives absolutely the most marvellous gamorouche. Has some damn nice thoroughbreds. Has had two winners at Aintree Grand National. Her father, ancient old crusty bugger he is too, manufactures an established industrial commodity. Of his own originating. Amazing considering the only thing ever invented in this country was soda water. Dear girl will fall heir to the ruddy lot. Factory covers six acres of floor space. Must always have your financial facts straight. So many businesses go to the wall these days you’ve got to be careful. One’s beauty doesn’t always last you know. A mature chap like myself is fattening slightly under the jawbones as I push into the latter end of my twenty third year. And of course with so many of the less discerning old hag ladies admiring young men’s bodies, one has to strike while the rod’s hot. If you catch my meaning.’