J. Donleavy - The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

Balthazar in rust brown tweed suit. His walking stick and yellow gloves. Crossing towards the barracks buildings. Flat roofed on this flat land. Bereft and lonely. A soft mist. And no one here. Only the hares out on the flying field swivelling their ears as the plane taxied past. And clouds of starlings and flocks of plover. The endless green flat countryside beyond.

A little slope of lawn. In the center a ring of boulders. The flag of Britain flying there. O God she didn't come. Found out all about my saucy escapade. Call the pilot back. I want to leave at once. Take my bag to customs first. Through this door. Along this corridor. Customs man in blue, gold rings round his sleeves. This your only luggage sir. Are you out of that plane. Yes. On holiday. Yes. His smile and mark of chalk. And I go out these doors. And may have to come back through again.

Balthazar B passing out to this waiting room. His cane and his bag. Through these sprawling huts. Look here look there. And no Fitzdare. Maybe wait atop these steps. The rough may have lured her away. Let her wipe her feet in his hair. Now Til go back in again. Eat this great bowl of emptiness. And suddenly turn. So much despair on my face. And see standing there. Watching me. Fitzdare. Like a whole blazing sun in this land so solemn, silent and bare.

A chauffeur in leather leggins, grey uniform and grey peaked cap. Took Balthazar's bag. And held open a door into this black leather topped limousine. An ancient long black car. Fitzdare in a pair of rubber boots. And a zipped up green jacket with folds of maps sticking from the pockets. Her teeth so white and lips so lively red.

"Gosh you've come. I just had to watch you. Looking so lost and strange. I saw you walking from the plane. I apologise for this great old crock of car. But it does get one there. I don't know what to say. Just to see you sitting here. O push those over. My weekly errands in Belfast. Will you have a grape."

"Thank you."

"So funny, you stepping out of that one little plane. Hello."

"Hello."

"I just want to say hello again. I hope you're not too hungry. We've fifty miles to drive. Terence will take us the quickest way. I've been trying to figure one on all my maps but give up. I've got a pocket full of walnuts. Have one."

Narrow empty winding roads. Horses and tractors cutting and raking meadows. White walled farms. Fields cocked with hay. Neat thatched roofs. The muck and mud at fence gates. Churns of milk waiting at the end of lanes. Wheels whirring on the black wet gleaming surface. Fitzdare said through there you can see Lough Neagh. Down across the sodden fields and scrubby trees a grey water haunted and lonely out to the horizon.

"I call it the eely eerie pond. Full of eels. There is an island where there are dangerous rabbits. They fought off the rats. And now the rabbits are so fierce they'll attack and bite a man. The flies are awful in summer. Keeps the shores very lonely. Lot of funny names to our towns. Tanderagee and Ballygawley. O dear I'm sure I sound enthralling as a guide."

Through little towns and villages. Castle ruins silhouetted on the hills. She gives each its name. I ride with an erection. One's hopefully imposing perpendicular. All my own. To cross into County Fermanagh just beyond Fivemiletown. Fitzdare with a signal ability to crack her walnuts. She feeds the meat to me. From the cool palm of her hand. Will confront her father. I've designs on your daughter dad. In the musty upholstery smell of this car. As now Miss Fitzdare sits up. And suddenly shy.

"It's only along here now beyond this bend.. Up there on that hill there's a sort of table land where one can get a marvellous gallop in the wind."

A wall, stones sleeping all stacked up. Beech trees, their smooth grey silver rising high in the sky. A white gate hanging broken from an upper hinge. Bumping over a pot holed drive. An umbrella of rhododendrons. Over a little bridge and stream. The road turning through meadows and another wood, haunted and strangled in vines. Chauffeur slowing to an open gate. The wheels making a ringing noise bumping over the rungs of a cattle trap. Parkland and grasses. Now between two tall stone pillars mossy and green with ivy leaves into a cobble stone courtyard. Fitzdare so still and silent.

The grey heavens opening to a stretch of blue. The sun shot out. Rolling and spilling over lawns aflood with green. And a rambling great slate roofed house. Could see a porch across the front held up under high granite pillars. Gleaming tall windows. Ivy covered grey blocks of stone. Chimneys and chimney pots. And blue lake water sprawling in the distance, against hills turning gold and purple.

"We're here. Everyone's going to mind I brought you in the back door. We've got to get you boots. There's Dingle. See his head sticking out of that stall. Show you him later. I've put you in a room where you can see the lough."

Miss Fitzdare pushing open a brown door. Slamming closed behind us. Cold paving stones. A chill air. Doors, halls and kitchens. Past a shadowy scullery. A grey haired woman turning to look up from her table stacked with greens as we passed by. Who smiled to Fitzdare's smile. A boy with his hair plastered down and parted in the middle. In a tight grey coat, his blue wrists and wrinkled nearly white collar. Carrying Balthazar's bag. He said yes miss and no miss and I don't 256 know about that, miss. A flush of colour on Fitzdare's cheeks. Walking fast and certain on her way.

Through this rambling house. A high long corridor. A print of Trinity Dublin. And out now into a great front hall. Gilded mirrors. A wide staircase. And high up a round skylight. Yellow flowers on the mantels. Portraits watching down. Light blue carpet and marble balustrade up by these wide gentle white stone stairs. Just as Beefy said. Nothing can ever fault one's dignity. Can't believe I'm here. Just behind her. Seems so strange and far away. As she plods in her boots. Following this little boy. Who now lags behind. Haven't seen to that yet, miss. I'll be walking him about four miss. And he gives a little bow of the head and leaves us in this spacious room. A fire blazing. Great sills of the windows. And seats piled high with golden pillows.

"I hope you're going to be comfortable. I've been airing it out for three days. You're west and south. In the morning it's quite magic when the sun is shining on the hills and lake. This was my mother's room. Hope you won't mind the canopied bed. If there's anything you need. Just push the button there. Someone but not a footman will come. You laugh but it really works and someone comes. I know what you're thinking, well you look just as strange standing there to me as I must look to you. Neither one of us has hardly said a word.'"

"It's terribly beautiful. I'm rather speechless."

"Tea will be in twenty minutes. And your bath and dressing room's through there. Just come down. Whenever you're ready. Dear me. Can I just say. Fm so awfully glad you're here. I thought of it so much. And now you are. I'm at such a loss. Look at me. In my gum boots."

Miss Fitzdare a curl of her black hair fallen over her brow. Cool white face I could gather up in my hands and press my lips on her eyes. Grab her shoulders. Pull her down with me on the crimson counterpane. Amid these faint white white walls with drawings of little inky flowers. As she smiles and steps away out the door. To leave me now. And stare out the window. A table under a folded fading awning. The grass so smooth and rolling down to the water's edge. Across a metallic glimmering grey to low pastures and higher hills beyond. Dreamt of her sitting somewhere out there so many times. That a breeze would come and flutter the page of her book as she read. Through the summer afternoons. And she would close it then, to look up at the sky. When life stops in the silence. With only racing buzzing bees and dancing white butterflies. A bird sings. Reach up to put a hand to some dream you kept awake. Now you take it like a red ripe apple and polish quietly up and down one's sleeve. Sent away from college. The sadness is I've left her there. With all the arthropoda. And phylums of polyzoa. And o God the subclass of crossopterygii. As this sky goes so quickly grey. Getting on for rain. A portrait there. Her mother. An elegant face of black hair and blue eyes. Will watch me pull on my knickerbockers. I so specially brought with my heather coloured stockings. To cut at least a sporting figure. Look everywhere here for signs of her. There she sits in this tiny photograph on a donkey and over here on a horse. Row of little leather books. The History of Armagh. My bath and dressing room. Oatmeal soap in this flower covered dish. Soft clear water runs and fills the bowl. Brush my hair. Take lint off the coat. Stocking seams straight. Put on my walking shoes. Cold crystal delicious water to drink. Goes down my throat and washes the soul. Seagulls over the lough. Great slow flapping wings of a heron. The rarest Fitzdare grew up out of this land. On the blackberries and cabbage. And behind those trees, her horses graze. Must rub a little across the toes. Uncle Edouard said a gentleman's shoes should never carry too much shine.