J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Sun darkening

Red

Sinking faster

Than usual

Over the trees.

SEVEN fifteen in the evening countryside. After the picnic, more beer. Smith taking Miss Martin and cohorts to a road house, called Casual Cabin near the little airport. Travellers in shirt sleeves without ties not admitted.

The long bar. Tinkling fairy lights. Gleaming dance floor. One round of beer after another. Smith throwing up an arm.

"Ha ha, drink up death deliverers."

"Mr. Smith maybe I think we ought to be getting back or something. Brandy will be wondering what happened, maybe needs the truck."

Smith abloom. In one curious smile. Pointing to the door. To the highway. Along by the lake. By back dirt roads. To one inn and din. And then another. Your smile Miss Martin. Your breast. Watch me pick elderberry blossom. Sure cure when stricken on a cross country tour with ague.

Smith climbing aboard the hearse. Stretching full length on the casket rest. A clutch of elderberry blossoms upon his folded hands. Shout to the cohorts.

"Pomfret Manor. Haste. To the Bonniface. Middle eyed king. Of the slippery of spirit."

Hearse containing George Smith and party, turning off the road into a sweeping blue pebbled drive. Flanked by roses and low freestone wall. Lawns and shrubberies. A field of dairy cows. Led in a line to milking. Walled enclosure of pines. Faint white gravestones of a little burial ground. Drive curving through a thickening of trees and opening to circle round a great mound of lawn. Rambling ivy clad grey stone mansion. Hearse gently pulling to stop before a dark porch, and balcony above. Grey haired, blue silk gowned woman stepping out, a pincenez to her nose to look down. Upon this hearse with the stretched figure behind the chiseled glass. George Cadaver Smith under the elderberry. Her scream full of a tired agony floating out across this richly tended place. A thump. As her fat person fainted out of sight.

Chunky figure emerging from glass open doors to the lawn at the side of the house. Laughter, merriment and black bow ties. Round face, round cummerbund belly approaching. Bald pate ringed in grey hair. Tufts of ribbon on the gleaming tiny feet. Miss Martin biting her lip on the pebbled drive. Two cohorts silent by the open hearse doors. Whispering in to the prostrate figure.

"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith."

Rotund person, displeasured brow acrinkle and faintly crossed with white fear. Walking up to the cohorts, standing rooted, black toppers in hands. In a manner taught by Mr. Brandy for the graveside presence.

"What is the meaning of this. What are you doing."

Smith slowly to a sitting position. Rotund man rearing back..

"My god, what. Vas."

Crowd collecting on the lawn. Tinkling thin membranes of glass. House lights flooding out in the evening gloom. Somewhere in this great spreading dark mansion dallies Bonniface.

"I'm Mr. Jiffy. What is the meaning."

"I'm Smith."

"Well you're George Smith. Well. Ha ha."

"Sorry if I gave you a fright."

"Well welcome, Mr. Smith, sir. Ha ha, your arrival. Well."

"Miss Martin. Mr. Jiffy. Mr. Jiffy, meet my drivers."

"Hi there. Come on in."

Little gathering moving into the big gathering. Under the massive stone porch. Pink scattered way up in the distant skies. Jiffy's hands on Smith's elbow, sir you must meet my wife. Alas Jiffy out of a slit of eye I saw her keel over unconscious above us.

Great entrance hall. Flanked by spears, daggers, armour. Sandstone steps hung with a balustrade of crimson rope. Sign my guest book, Mr. Smith, while I find my wife. Miss Martin scratching her left handed signature. Mr. Jiffy in search of spouse. Smith sneaked in an X. Good sign this night.

Miss Martin clinging. Mr. Smith I feel so out of place, with all these people in evening clothes. Smith nudging a feel with an elbow. Miss Martin digging her fingernails into his arm. George's knees gave with the pain. Jesus Christ Miss Martin watch the nails, will you. As they passed now along a hall. Tall portraits of ships and horses. And down steps. To a sunken room. A balcony high up round the walls. Gigantic table and transparent clock. Clutches of people. Whispers and turnings around as George Smith with one brave hand filled two pewter tankards with champagne. A word of mausoleum. Of market. Of money. And one loud voice out of a thin reed of woman. "Love to expose my body, marvelous lunacy."

Further over the heads. Down more halls. A peek passing the dining room. White table cloth covered with silver coffee machines. Black uniformed maids waiting in white lace aprons. And the library. Whoops, behind each book a bottle. Gloomy tall windows flanked with brown tomes. A ladder on wheels. And further the sign of a canvas boot high up, searching in the vellum among the manuscripts. Visions everywhere. Do not look further up that leg. Come Miss Martin to the conservatory I spy at the end of the hall. Full of palm. Monkey tree. Hydrangea.

Under a dripping vine by a strange flower. Two lurking unblinking eyes. Between the heating pipes. Smith bending near to get a better look. Snap. Wham. The jaws of a goodly sized definitely loose alligator, hissing. Jiffy is distinctly outdoor. Smith draining the tankard. Miss Martin tugging. Mr. Smith I want to meet people. Sign of betrayal. Not to lurk quietly here with the alligator, Miss Martin. You want to saunter in the high life. Greet and meet nobs. Well then, come.

Smith taking Miss Martin down the hall. Nearly dragging her along. No one these days wants to sit and talk with just you. Mr. Smith it's only that I've never seen people like this before or been in a place like this. You only have a little cabin in the woods. With a spider, Miss Martin. But this is a palace or something, full of important people. I see, Miss Martin. You think because I hold out in the mere and barren room of 604. Because my suits are repaired. Underwear ripped. That I cannot shiver all these ears.

Pomfret Manor's lonely evening grandeur. One side the sloping lawns. The other sheer rock cliff with a dining terrace. And back road. Looking down on tree tops and further into a deep valley. Moon up. The lake lit far below. Smith tucking into another tankard. Stray folk making curious ways to shake his hand. I want to say someday I met you. You made the big boys cringe. To these dreadful flatterings. Smith quietly smiled. Looking for a sign of Bonniface. Miss Martin coyly across the room with a tall gentleman, grey hair well greased back with distinction. Four medals on his chest. I recognise as military. And I am left alone.

Mosquitoes. Crickets bantering under dead leaves all out through the woods. Two gigantic wolf hounds strolling licking faces among the gathering. Footmen and flit guns spraying the night. Murdering insects. Trays and trays from the pantries. Bonniface is in this house. For whom I search, from whom I run. In the kitchens sneaking a fist into the cookie jars. I could kill Miss Martin. Use me the way she has. My seed. Not one word of thank you.

"Ah sir you look lonely now, would you like to fill up your tankard."

A maid. Stiff cowl of lace across her dark hair. Smiling.

"Thank you. What's your name."

"Ah sir, you wouldn't have any interest in knowing my name."

"You're beautiful."

"Sir, flattery will get you somewhere. You're the gentleman as arrived in the funeral car. I had to laugh. Himself had a fright he won't forget. Ah my God it's been some day. Since the gentleman with the cultivated ways arrived. I wouldn't want to tell you. The house is no longer safe. We're in fear of our lives. It's exciting."

"What's your name."

"Now. Enough's said. Who are you pretending you would have anything familiar with the poor likes of me. You're a friend of Mr. Clementine, now isn't that so. Ah it's so. I can tell by the green glint in your eye."