J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘Don’t mind them dear boy. They’re jealous fliers from the Royal Air Force. You are what I have been waiting for this whole entire evening, you absolurely gorgeous darling. So young, so young, so young. But that is not an invitation for you to say that I am so old so old.’

‘I was not about to say that.’

Darcy Dancer swirling on the parquet. Right past Lois in a mattress thick green sweater and skirt. Dancing with Binky. Whose skinny shanks and long spare body made one think of an undressed butler. Lois’s head resting with her eyes closed on his shoulder. As one ventures to ask this Black Widow.

‘Who is that person Binky. He looks like an undressed butler.’

‘But my dear, that’s what he is, my butler.’

‘Does he always go without his clothes.’

‘Only after ten p.m.’

Sound of more arriving guests. Arms stacked with parcels of bottles. And a roar of Leo the painter at the drawing room door.

‘Begorra Sodom and Gomorrah.’

And the Black Widow swirling Darcy Dancer in a wild spinning circle. The lights go whizzing past one’s eyes. The faces loom. And this largest of the three Royal Air Force gentlemen tapping me on the shoulder.

‘My turn to dance my dear fellow.’

Lady Black Widow facing him. Blocking him away. Raising her splendid profile.

‘Ah all you lovely men. And you, my dearest Wing Commander or is it Group Captain. Who fought and won the war. I do like you. I do so really absolurely like you. But you see. This gorgeous creature here. I love him.’

Snorts and harumphs erupting from this large broad shouldered chap. The Black Widow swirling me away. Round one last time and then out over the threshold. Away from the smouldering anger. And the getting of each other’s goat. Into the hall. Where a bottle was smashing down on the back of the head of the Royal Rat. Who pitched forward on his face. Roars and shouts raging. And a figure. My god. The gunman. Unleashing a fist. Socking the man with the bottle in his hand. Sending him flying footless back the length of the hall. Over a table. A white pottery lamp crashing to the floor. And the man crumpling into a stand of canes and umbrellas. Rashers in the centre of the mêlée announcing.

‘Bottles as weapons you cad are simply not cricket.’

Just as the front door opens. And the Count my former dancing master, surrounded by companions as he stands in a camel hair polo coat arms outstretched surveying the carnage. As one is led half way up this curving marble staircase of this big old house. To hear his voice ringing out.

‘O my dears. You have so naughtily disgraced yourselves again.’

The Black Widow tugging my arm. And one so wants to watch. As more fists are now suddenly flying. A gentleman in a rather loudly checked jacket and bright red, white and blue bow tie. My god is flattening people in their tracks. Hardly even see his fists move and hear a thwack and down they go absolutely flaked out.

‘O my dear Macgillicudy, let us get away. From the noise and the people. Come.’

‘Where are we going.’

‘Away from the battlefield. To where we may make love my dear boy. To where we may make love.’

Sound of wind groaning and whistling. Shiver along this dark hall. Led by the hand. Her skin feels cold. Her eyes look dark and then close up they were a yellowish green. Thundering crashes and more screaming below. And in the brief lull comes the music and dancing and jiggling. The Black Widow pushing closed an iron barred gate. It shuts with a heavy clank across the hall. She turns a key in the big lock.

‘You see my darling this is the party door. On that side are the noise and the people. On this side. It’s you and me. My husband who adores rough social gatherings also likes his privacy. We are as it were in our own little fortress. Protected if not from the sounds at least from the splattering gore. Should one lose this key there is no escape but a drop straight into the sea out the windows.’

Her bedroom hung with tapestry. A parrot in a cage. Large Blackamoor Figures either side of her chimney piece. We stood to kiss under a chandelier she said came from the Court of the Russian Tsars. And a shot gun leaning against the wall. Shoes all over the floor. She takes off her black dress. And silky black underthings. Flings them back over her shoulders. The shadows haunt and rise up through my bones. The sea thundering. The windows trembling. Stands with her naked bony body. Tiny slender waist. And the largest nipples I have ever seen. On her so white bosoms. That I am terrified to touch.

‘Why is that shot gun there.’

‘It is kept handy so my husband can shoot my lovers.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Take off your clothes my gorgeous darling. Don’t leave me naked like this just standing here.’

Felt for my fiver still intact in my waistcoat pocket. A light out there on the sea. Comes flashing up through the windows and across the walls. She waits there. Swaying. Or my head reels. Keel over into disaster. Get killed here tonight before I ever atone for all my past misdeeds. The first awful things one has done in life. Severed strands in the rope which held up Edna Annie’s laundry drying frame so that it would when she raised it, fall and crash the wet wash down on the old crone’s head. Felt dreadful for days. Even wept. Between laughing my head off. She used to frighten me as a little tiny boy. Grabbing my wrists and squeezing them cruelly hard when she’d find me on the servants’ stairs. Step now naked towards this Black Widow’s arms.

‘Macgillicudy you’re so virginly beautiful. You have the body of a gazelle. Just the right thing for me. To wake me up out of doldrums. One can’t hide away from the world. Or close one’s eyes to life and live nevermore. Touch me.’

Stacks of magazines on the floor. Four large photographs on her dressing table. An escritoire with its pigeon holes stuffed with papers and its fall front piled high with more magazines. Her mouth opens wide. Pulls my head down upon hers. Miss von B said that even for such a short time that we were together. At least we lived. What more can there be. But to just make it as long as we can. And this Black Widow makes high pitched little grunts and groans. As we stand embraced. My prick pressed hard up into her belly. Her nipples sticking hard into my chest. And Black Widow. Wish you were. My Miss von B. As we were. Back in my life. Home. Together surrounded by my green parklands. Astride our mounts galloping in the fierce madness of the winds. Instead of this body. My desperate lust makes me clutch. With miles of utter meaninglessness between. Only the Marquis’s fiver left to stave off the impecunious days. Foolishly taking drinks up to my mouth through an entire afternoon. Amid the endless flattery. Lifting one’s spirit. From one round of drinks to the next. And now jump out of my skin. A voice screaming out in the room.

‘Fuck you ducks.’

‘Don’t mind. That’s just my parrot Stinky speaking. He simply insists on saying those words at the most inappropriate times.’

Stumbling over her shoes to the bed. Climb in and slide between the chilly sheets. Her love calls. Her purrings. To be on top of her. Pushing between her legs. Pressing. The feel of her fingers. And the circle of her muscles tightening. And thinking. Thinking of a day. Out hunting. Raring to go. With the field waiting. When the pompous Master of Foxhounds turned to tell me that in future I should not jump ahead of him. And I waited. To see him fly at a hedge. His horse tripping and somersaulting over wire. Sending the Master catapulting headlong in his scarlet coat between his mount’s ears. White breeches. White gloved. To splatter headlong into the brownest, creamiest lake of cow flop one had ever seen. Mixed to such magic consistency. To leave just a back bit of the mahogany of the Master’s boots unsullied. And one feels one has just plunged. Splat. Into life in Dublin. Just as Miss von B said it was. Drinking. Fighting. Washing off blood. Shaking hands. To rear up fighting again. And O god. In her groans. My lust. Dies. Taking something from my body. That fills me with fear in giving. As she screams to give her every drop. Shoot it into me. Gorgeous darling Macgillicudy. And I’m buried. In the sweet smell in under her hair. Her fingers pushing through mine. The chords of the sea. Lying here in the darkness. Listening to her voice.