J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

‘My husband may come home. At any moment. Find us like this.’

‘Then I must go.’

‘O no I’m just joking. I just wanted to feel your body quiver. I’m sure he’s still in London. Where he’s supposed to be buying guns for a safari but is no doubt gambling and partying. Isn’t it all so foolishly sad. He worries I’ll squander his fortune before he does. He kept a taxi waiting for him once night and day for six weeks. God you are adorable. And I’ll never see you again. More probably you won’t want to see me. It’s always parting. And it’s not sweet sorrow, it’s damn misery. One man should be everything a woman needs. Only I need different men. And I need so many. The dearest, the loveliest and the wildest of my sisters. Found just one. And then threw herself out a window. Fell stabbed to death by the railing spikes on the pavement. In love poor girl with an impecunious scholarly gentleman. He lived holed up in squalid digs somewhere down Mount Street. What on earth could she see in him. And why. When every rich man in these isles was throwing his fortune at her feet. And she went walking, o god, can you imagine walking, holding hands with him.’

‘Why did she kill herself.’

‘I don’t know, over the stupidest triviality. And some stupid letter he wrote. He saw her through a window. While he was passing on Stephen’s Green. She was having dinner with just an old beau. And indeed flirtatious she was. He must have thought the worst. He wrote her a letter. And left next day on the mail boat. The letter came on Christmas eve. She was found. That marvellous girl was in her prettiest frock. A fence stuck through her lovely body. Because she must have loved him.’

‘What was your sister’s name.’

Clarissa

Darcy Dancer. Bed covers pulled up to the eye. More days gone. And the worst coming. Hotel management demanding settlement of my bill. By latest tomorrow morning. Lay listening to the wireless. Till breakfast is brought. And one thinks back, O god the real goodies of life. Of cook Catherine’s late summer picked bramble jam slathered on her fresh made and hot toasted soda bread with the yellow butter melted deep down into the flecks of wheat.

And read of the day’s impending races. The fat little maid now remembering to put my newspaper on my tray. After two weeks of telling her. Kept thinking I hear the sea pounding up cliffs outside the window. Those sunless people. Back on that hilltop. As cold in their souls as the ocean waves. Yesterday walked and walked. With every step. Hearing the words spoken by Clarissa’s sister. Spikes of a fence. Up through her white alabaster body. Mr Arland. Would be broken in tears. As mine went down my cheeks in the wind fresh on my face. The scent of turf smoke from the grates of the houses I passed walking to the cemetery. And the green of the spring. With a cold rainy winter in one’s life. As I looked down on the ungrassed sods over Clarissa’s grave.

Darcy Dancer with a last sip of tea. Tear back the covers. Go in my unpaid for dressing gown and slippers to the water closet. Sit. Unable to move my bowels. As I have been every morning after the night of the Black Widow. When I unloosed her arms. Put them back sadly crossed on her breast. Could see the contours of Clarissa in her face. And as she slept I lay awake my head turned to the dawn coming up over the sea. The endless booming waves. And the Black Widow’s snoring. And me hoping her husband wasn’t coming through the party gate. To fly in blasting with his new safari guns. A ship anchored out beyond an island. On the slate green grey sea. My lips dried. My head frozen and stunned. The key on the dresser. And silver framed photographs of all four sisters. And Clarissa. I dressed staring at her. She looked so unposed unlike the others. Even though her cheek was leaning on her bent hand. String of pearls round her neck. Her face seemed so fresh and open as if she’d been blown in by a sea breeze. And as I tiptoed out. The parrot screamed again. Fuck you ducks. I unlocked the barred door. Went down the stairs. Just as pale sunlight fell on all the bodies, slumped and piled over furniture in the hall. One of which was the irate Master of Foxhounds. Who chased me out of Jammet’s. His hand gripping a club with the business end studded with nails. So unconscious was he I even nudged him with my toe. And figures were still wandering. Putting bottles back up to their lips. And one turning to me whose face one remembered from the Buttery. And whose artistic overtures were rejected by Rashers Ronald. And who was out in the street so unceremoniously punched straight on the kisser. And seemed now the only person left able to speak. Through his bruised bloodcaked swollen lips. And delighted to smilingly impart his observations.

‘Ah you’re wide eyed at the carnage and wreckage. Well let me tell you. An American was loose among us. Knocking dentures flying. Flipping the innocent on their backs. And screaming he was a fighting amphibian. Took a dozen of us to subdue him and we’re still waiting for cars to ferry the injured to the hospital. And all that was said to him was, wasn’t Hollywood films full of rubbish. And by god he laid into us.’

I stepped to peek into the darkened shuttered drawing room. And still dancing. Binky and Lois. Now both naked. Foxtrotting to the tune of a song saying something like Johnnie doesn’t give a damn any more. In my inebriation of the night before I was momentarily loose from the Black Widow and confronted Lois. She slapped my face. Merely for quoting Rashers Ronald. Who had said her paintings were the ravings of an alley cat in heat. I would have thought that such remark was appropriate as she was always going on about her fertile period. God some people are so hard to understand. Also overheard someone talking about Uncle Willie. That he’d gone to London to be a ponce. And I was ready to smash the speaker’s face until it said that recent rumours and gossip had it he’d gone to Monte Carlo. Gambled away twenty thousand pounds in one night, and won thirty the next.

Darcy Dancer flushing the toilet bowl. One’s reminiscences finally moved one’s bowels. And nip smartly down this hotel corridor to the bath. Have perfected twiddling the taps off and on with my toes. Soak away all one’s morning worries. Shave away the dark stubble on cheek and jaw. Take in my shoes from the hall. And nicely shined by the Boots. Attire in silk. To dress stylishly gives one such confidence. Polka dotted brown tie. My west of England tweeds. Trilby hatted. Binocs slung over a shoulder. This is my last day of comfort. My hotel bill now large enough to cause actual whispers as one passed out through the lobby. But one was sure it was only because of a solicitous curiosity concerning my wherewithal. The staff on the whole have been simply sterling. My picnic lunch neatly packed ready at the porter’s desk. Such dear good chaps. Remember them in my will. Times like this of course one must only be even more extravagant. And ordered for late supper after the theatre tonight, duck, wild rice and champagne. With the Marquis’s fiver still tucked in my waistcoat pocket. To go today to Punchestown races.

Darcy Dancer walking his brisk way to the station. Cross Duke. Down Grafton. Twenty past noon on Trinity’s blue gold clock. The portico of the bank. And plunge smack into Rashers Ronald his rabbit teeth sunnily smiling.

‘My dear chap. Hello and how are you. Believe it or not you’ve stumbled upon me buying seedlings. That’s why I’m blushing. With this parcel. That other night. I found myself without warning in charge of a motor car. With someone’s drunken head lolling all over the steering column I rammed down someone’s garden wall. Flattened two baby palm trees. Demolished a bird bath. But I successfully navigated out on the road again. Only to be brought to a stop by these awful people’s tennis net enmeshed in the car’s undercarriage. They came screaming out at me in their pyjamas. They want garden reparations made. Awful bore. See you later in the Buttery.’