J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Cheats

Rid the world

Of suffering.

Jump on

Twisters

Rid the world

Of harm.

"Goodbye, Bonniface."

"Why don't you talk about your children George. And about ShirL Don't you love them. They frighten you too. Look for money from you. I scare you. Make you want to run. As the years go by George, there is less of life to spend and the risks are cheaper. Stay."

Backstairs maid shyly sitting with Bonniface on the ice. Smith stepping back from this dark chilly scene. The many months. Of bantering. Dear sir, we will get you. The phonecalls and doorknocks. Smith climbing the ladder. Bonniface. One last shout. George. Turning round. Calvin trembling in the hand. The drink shaking out over the glass. Brown liquid lurking on the lips. Bonni-face's eye quivering in their tears. Said George. Don't go. Don't hide. From me. Bear with me. I suffer.

Smith climbing the ladder. Stepping out into the endless cellar hall. Pressing the great ice house door closed.Smell of cinders along the corridor. In a door the vast machinery of boilers. Giant asbestos covered tanks. Whoosh of great spurts of oil, billowing into flame and roaring. Need all my money for myself. Bonniface married a debutante. Lost his glasses on a delayed honeymoon with the first six month old daughter. Who in the hot afternoon of a cheap city hotel slept on Bonniface's chest as he lay snatching a few moments rest between the narrow streets. It was after lunch. The baby crapped. Late in the afternoon with heart thumping to a knock on the door Bonniface awoke. He rose. Put the baba aside and brushed feverishly away the thing on his chest. God forbid. With his hair needing to lie back more presentably, he brushed it back with his hands. Smoothing it. O Jesus. In his distracted innocence he went to the door. To greet the debutante friend of his wife. She saw the aristocratic Bonniface. Attempting to bow. She screamed and fainted. George Smith heard the commotion because he was mounting the stairs. Just having arrived in town. And as she swooned he caught her. And then saw the spectre of the Bonniface. The awful. And fell backwards down the stairs, the debutante on top, both entwined, rolling to the bottom. Where they looked back up. Spectre on the landing. The Bonniface. Covered surely in shit. And this debutante head in hands in tears sobbing. The awful. The awful. She had been presented.

Tonight George Smith climbing up the servants* stairs of Pomfret Manor. Back sadly through the kitchen, giant pig ears sticking out of the pot simmering on the stove. Through the pantry, the workers, with rolled up sleeves washing glasses. And through the swing door to the dining room. A commotion of barks. Growls and lashing of teeth and savagery. Screams. Furniture breaking. Three gigantic animals shooting by. Round the tables and chairs. Flying blood and hair. A monstrous animal locked in mortal combat with the Jiffy wolf hounds. Claws scratching up the rugs and floors as they ripped into each sharp turn. Out of the room. Into other rooms. Back again. Random voices. In the melee.

"Ouch."

"Someone has fingered my wife."

"Give me ass or give me death."

"Sure."

"Gee. Thanks."

"I didn't want to see yon die."

Smith holding elbows high up to avoid the flashing fangs. An animal bigger than the wolf hounds tearing them to bits. Smith aghast. Attempt to relish this rare marvelous sight of dog eat dog. Gawd. Recognise that one. Goliath. Miss Tomson. It's your animal. And not so many hours ago. Mr. Jiffy from person to person, with extended hand, nice to see you, glad you're here. Now gone. Fleeing in all directions.

Gently slowly down the staircase in die great hall. One hand on the banister. Breasts large and blue, turned for a moment east and west. With high hips, legs starring at the shoulder blades. Like all the tall buildings in town. She said herself like some guy was sixty miles up. Wearing one gold and one silver slipper. Smiling ever so lightly as her dog was winning. Jiffy shouting to stop. Stop. Get that animal out of here. Guests vanishing to the safety of the mosquitoes outdoors. And then the shout of stand back. Stand back everybody. Stand back. Bang.

A smoking gun. Huge Goliath felled. Mouth bared with useless fangs and terrible blood. Legs still running. One twitch. And stopping. The two yelping whimpering wolf hounds dragged away. Alive. Silence in Pomfret Manor. And Smith saw across the yellow flickering candle light the saucer green eyes of Sally Tomson cast down on the gathering. And the dead brown body of Goliath.

All dog

All dead.

TALL blue Miss Tomson lonely and aloof. Descending the stairs and crossing the hall of Pomfret. She stood trembling among the silent guests. Biting her stiffened lips. Eyes moist. White lids thinly holding back the tears. On the dark floor the light blood. Fumes of gunpowder in the air. As she walked up to George Smith and said, take me out of here.

Outside and beyond the stone shadowy porch of Pomfret. Smith standing with Miss Tomson. A wind and purple stormy clouds in a moonlit sky. Along by the cars collected like dark animals crouched on the drive. Her white pearls on her throat she wore months ago on the train. Sad gangling arms from her blue dress. Tears trickling down her face.

Smith driving Miss Tomson's long sleek black vehicle slowly away. Car lights flashing across spruce trees, faint flower beds and a gabled shingled dog house, a figure throwing a glittering dog collar in the window.

"Smith the only thing 1 ever owned was that dog. And that shit shot him. Thoughtful some bastard giving me the collar back."

"Your dog was winning."

"That was no reason to kill him. Men stink. What's left for me."

"Miss Tomson it's not the end of the world to be dogless. I had a dog when I was a little boy, called Brownie."

"Was he shot."

"No. He died a natural death of disease."

"Well then Smith how do you know. I just saw my dog killed."

"Which way do I turn."

"I don't care just get us away. They can push me dead on a cart down a long hall of some hospital."

"Don't say that Miss Tomson, please."

"Guys use you. If you love him. Give him everything and they want to get rid of you. You're a chain around his neck. I always had Goliath. Jesus. Any good guy's already married with kids. Already with a padlock and chain. I don't want to be fine. Or beautiful. I want a baby. A rocking chair. A porch in the country undoing my sweater to put it on the nipple. Who wants to be fine. The rats win."

"That's not always true, Miss Tomson."

"You just don't know, Smith. What were you doing at that lousy party,"

"A neighborly invite to a jamboree."

"Don't shit me Smith. I'm just too depressed. What were you doing there."

"Tell me about these gears. This right for third."

"You're doing fine. Just drive. You got a license."

"No. But I learned about gear shifting as a child."

"Jesus."

Smith motoring north. Past another entrance to Pomfret. Row of granite farm buildings on the road. Down a steep hill through the woods. High wire fence. Locking in Bonniface. Who as I drove Miss Tomson's car out of Pomfret seemed to be a shadow reeling beside the road, arms outstretched, coatless and shouting.

Stop

I am Bonnif ace

Disposer of dead

Calvin helper of

The maimed

Clementine, the

Illustrious

Banjaxed and cuckolded

And Cedric too.

Stop.

You bastard Smith.

In these trying times. Of swindles, dog death and utter loneliness, where just another sad body naked next to mine can mean a whole world of peace and tenderness. Miss Tomson who gives money to beggars, violinists, street corner kids jigging with a homemade band, the mute and blind. Any helpless thing she would lift up and love. Like all tall women. When I became a bum drowned in drink. And walk that wasteland street like all the others kicked out of family and home, severed, unshaved, unlaundered and unpressed. Miss Tomson will take my tattered leery self, say O Jesus Smith, you poor poor guy. Feed from the crumbs in the palm of her hand. Lift up my faint face. To hers so fair.