J. Donleavy - The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

A dark grey bank of clouds coming up out of the west. The air blows chillier. Gusts whirling programmes and betting slips up into the sky. Hailstones raining down. Racegoers running for cover. Darcy Dancer proceeding along the line of bookies. Standing up chalking in the changing odds on their signs for this last race. One did have a sinking feeling. To peel off these notes. So rarely won. To plunge all but the price of dinner at Jammet’s and a bottle or two of champagne. In do or die.

‘Ah you’ll have to try somebody else with a bet that size at a hundred to one. I’m not here to get skint.’

Dear me. Unpleasant fellow refusing to take my bet. Try this next chap. Certainly. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll take a hundred pounds at one hundred to one. And the next bookie took twenty pounds at eighty to one. My whole immediate future. Haberdashery and hotel bills. Laid on Awfully Stupid Kelly’s father’s horse. Only ever been heard of to come in last or next to last. Now in a field of fourteen runners of some of the best steeplechasers in the land. And he’ll no doubt fall on his head and send his jockey to kingdom come. And me back to an abattoir. But one’s luck is in names today. And that’s why mine’s Dancer.

The black grey clouds blowing over. Hailstones sprinkled white and melting on the gleaming green turf. A moment’s sun splashing on the horses led round the parade ring. One slinks in behind the heads. Awfully Stupid Kelly’s mother dressed for some kind of operetta in the centre of the paddock. Primrose satin cape. An emerald satin dress. And would you believe it, a mauve parasol and pink high heeled shoes. Just as garish as her racing colours. And turning this way and that as if people were dying to see every side of her and photographers from Tatler and Sketch were clicking cameras recording her for social history. O god they are such know it alls. Stupid Kelly’s father sporting a suede waistcoat with gold buttons and having a conspirational talk with a rather impatient jockey. Who now mounts and sits adjusting his stirrups. This chestnut stallion number twelve upon which my future comfortable habits rest, is at least lean and narrow gutted. But slightly sloping in the quarters. And good lord also dishing its front hooves. Whoops. Rears flashing out legs. And kicking Kelly’s mother’s parasol flying right out of her hands. And that’s distinctly a better sign. Of get up and go. But O god. The favourite. Led out. With its rippling muscles. One’s heart sinks at the sight of its dancing light strides. Looks like the sheer winner it’s supposed to be. As they each go off. To the track. Breaking into a canter. Tails flowing. Pounding down the soft meadow. To size up the first hurdle. This may be Matt’s way of dealing me some final blow.

Darcy Dancer walking back to the stands. Another patch of blue sky. Polish off my last egg sandwich. Chew a nice bit of parsley. Look back up there under this race course roof. Where Awfully Stupid Kelly’s family and guests now stand behaving as if they own the place. With their binoculars, at the ready. And mine too. And the bill as yet unpaid. Focus a moment. My goodness. They are in the company of seemingly high ranking Army and Garda Siochana officers. And a face I recognized from their disastrous dinner party. Of the woman down whose cleavage the poet dived after the pea. Awfully Stupid Kelly is a brave little bastard to tolerate such parents. And now one distinctly stiffens. Voice on the loud speaker. They’re under starter’s orders. Flag is up. And they’re away. Sledge hammer words hitting the heart.

Darcy Dancer dropping his binoculars. And putting one’s hands placed back both over ears and eyes. If one only could bear to look. And now tremble raising one’s binocs back to the eyes. The names reeling off over the loud speaker. And what a name for a horse. Tinkers Revenge. Matt said they should have called it gombeen gobshite after themselves. All safe over the first jump. Two down at the second. The favourite setting a fast pace, already out by six lengths in the lead. On the first circuit of the course. Can’t bear to put the binocs up. Where the devil is the horse. The stupid bloody beast. With my one hundred and twenty pounds on its back. Damn and sod it. As Mr Arland used to say.

Darcy Dancer turning to look up in the tiers of people. Scan them with my binocs. To the owners’ box. Just to see if if I can determine an equally crestfallen attitude on Stupid Kelly’s father’s face. And now in the middle of all the heads. The one I hate. My father. With that woman I saw that day up the stairs. The agent and timber merchant standing just behind them. As the announcer’s voice thunders on. Coming round the second circuit of the course. The favourite now a lone way clear. Leading by eight lengths. Beginning to swing left handed, turning for home. Five fences left to jump. The crowd’s roar rising. Raging in one’s ears. It’s Ulidia Prince. Still making ground coming into the straight. Screaming now. The name Ulidia Prince. And for me. It’s back to the abattoir. O christ, one hundred and twenty pounds. My whole dignified salvation, down the drain. On Awfully Stupid’s bloody horse. Which at last has just been mentioned by name. O my god. He’s still running. Tinkers Revenge. Moved up from last to next to last. Isn’t that wonderful. With furlongs to go. Get up. Get up. Over that next ruddy fence you bloody god damn nag. Up. And two more horses down. Squeals of horror. Bury my face. In my hands. O my god my heart. Never again. Just reserve my strength to climb the steps to the owners’ box and punch Awfully Stupid Kelly’s family and guests one by one in the nose. You damn critter. Peek once more in my binocs. He’s over that fence. One is even talking like a cowboy film in one’s desperation. O god. Tinkers Revenge has moved up. Into seventh place. Cannot watch any more. Listen to the announcer. Who’s in a real lather. It’s Ulidia Prince now. Three fences to jump. It’s Ulidia Prince, from Intrator. Leaping Lizard, Hindustani, followed by Dictionary, Hilary, Kilcullen and Donadea. The rest are nowhere now. It’s Ulidia Prince. O my god. Tinkers Revenge is out of it. Back to something like ninth place. Pause from the announcer. Must have dropped his sheet of names. Ah. He’s talking again. And coming now, on the outside. Still in the race. Donadea and Tinkers Revenge making ground. Two fences to jump. Intrator’s down. He’s down. And it’s Ulidia Prince. Hindustani second, Dictionary third. And on the outside now. Making ground. Tinkers Revenge. Donadea coming fifth. And still coming to the last. It’s Ulidia Prince. Definitely easing up the pace. Hindustani, Tinkers Revenge, Dictionary. The only ones left in it. And on the outside. Coming fast. It’s Tinkers Revenge. Good lord. The announcer is just as hysterical as me tripping over his words. This rank outsider. Neck and neck Ulidia Prince and Tinkers Revenge. O god I’ve got to look. Stride by stride. The whips raining down on the quarters. Legs stretched. Thump and pound. My god. Tinkers Revenge. Pulling away. And at the post. Tinkers Revenge. By half a length. The world is over. One is now more than just flesh bone and blood.

I’m

Rich

What a glorious morning. Turning my haughtibility on the management when they thought I was making a break for it. When it was only Matt helping me carry my parcel of money from the Hibernian to the bank. Safely situated with its great grey pillars across from Trinity College. This marvellous giant room. Two gentlemen in their black banking cloth. I could nearly see his lips forming the words. Have you robbed a bank. And I spoke reassuringly.

‘Had a rather good day at the races.’

One with a winged collar. Much delighted hand rubbing. Presenting me with a chequebook. The assistant manager, overseeing the reckoning of the massive stack of notes. One bookie was ashen faced paying me out. Kept peeling off the notes. As if waiting for me to say, that was enough. Had to tell him about five times that it wasn’t. And he was nearly sobbing. But the other bookie by the time we got to him was hurrying to pack and go home. Till Matt raised a fist at him and he undid his bulging satchel and began counting.