Leila E-Book

J.P. Donleavy

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Where Darcy departing Dublin descends on his darkly decrepit desmesne, skint as a boiled bone. There to ponder his leaking, bat-ridden birthright, devilishly diverted by sexy Miss von B and readily rolled up by Ronald Rashers. And sees Leila. Lovely, lissome Leila – who tells him no. A definite negative. So Darcy is back to Dublin and the noisome stews to dream of the one bright star in his eternal darkness … As there's fool's gold at the end of every Irish rainbow, and tarnished silver linings in every cloud, so there's a shimmer on the far horizon for this particular broth of a boy. His future is disastrous, his present indecent, his past divine. He is Darcy Dancer, youthful squire of Andromeda Park, the great gray stone mansion inhabited by Crooks, the cross eyed butler, and the sexy, aristocratic Miss Von B. This sequel to The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman finds our hero falling in with decidedly low company — like the dissolute Dublin poet, Foxy Slattery, and Ronald Rashers, who absconds with the family silver — before falling head over heels in love with the lissome Leila.

Leseprobe

LEILA

Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

J. P. Donleavy

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

Contents

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1

Taking the train, this empty lonely Dublin day of Sunday. Staring out the stained streaked window, westwards. With the sweet smell of turf puffed whitely by the engine out into a purple darkening sky of Ireland.

The snow deeper across the white frozen countryside. Streams and the canal iced over. Cattle standing dumb and still. A line of black figures on foot following a horse drawn hearse waiting at a barrier to cross the railway track. Ivy clad trees passing like multi armed dark green monsters. Fluffs of snow blown off the shiny green leaves in the carriage’s thundering windy wake. A farmer tossing forkfuls of hay from a cart to his hungry shivering bullocks.

Nearing the big midland town. Horizon glowing pink, the winter afternoon grown dark. Faint lights in the houses after the gnawing painful solitary stretches of empty fields and bereft boglands. Compartment doors opening. The bangs as they slam shut. Flurries of snow blowing along the cold concrete of the station platform. A large ring and key handed to the driver. A shout. And off again. Rumbling along the lake’s sparkling blackness and by the gentle whitened moonlit hills. Till the train wheels squeak and screech again against their brakes. Heft down my two bags from the luggage rack. Say goodbye to the pictures of watering places in the county of Kerry. Unhook the leather strap and drop the window. Push open the door. And alight at last on this familiar station.

A priest, two nuns and a farmer with a box of pullets huddled out of the wind, emerging from the little waiting room, to board the train further west. The station master stopping to stare as if he were seeing some interloping stranger until recognition suddenly overcame his face.

‘Ah it’s yourself sir, Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare. I didn’t recognize you from the size of you.’

Approaching in a battered dark trilby hat, the brim pulled down fore and aft, and a long black coat tied closed with a piece of twine. Sexton. Straw and cow dung frozen on his boots. The station light flashing across his face. A tear in his only eye and moisture seeping down from his eyepatch.

‘At long last welcome home Master Darcy. And apologies for me appearance. I was out foddering the cattle when Crooks jumped at me with the message you were coming.’

On the apron outside the station a cart collecting packages and mail off the train. Station master calling all aboard out of the darkness. A silent world so far away from the lights of a city. Sexton throwing up the bags behind the box seat of the victoria. And helping me by the elbow to sit up on the rugs.

‘This weather with the snow and the wind biting the very skin off the face, would make you think you were living in Zhigansk Siberia.’

Sexton’s big horny hand so delicately guiding the reins, to the gentle beat of Petunia’s hoofs muffled on the roadway. An automobile passing skidding and sliding along. Its lights blinking out and then on, and fading out again. Petunia shying and Sexton giving her a belt across the quarters. The sputtering choking automobile suddenly silenced behind us.

‘Any fool out in horseless carriage a night like this deserves a ditch in the darkness. Ah Master Darcy, the moral tone of the nation of this moment is very sadly low. There should be a requiem for the national anthem. And I see you’re without a nosegay. Well out of the conservatory I’ll have a selection laid out for you in the morning. That’ll knock your eye out. You’d be a foot taller. And it’s a grand bit of smartly cut thorn proof tweed you’re wearing.’

‘Kind of you to say, Sexton.’

‘And I’d also say now Master Darcy you’ve had an adventure or two. You’d learn lessons a little differently in the city than you would in the country. And I heard tell you became the owner of a great motor car up in Dublin that would give goose pimples of envy to them teetering on the very highest pinnacles of the aristocracy.’

The cold moonshine casting black black shadows across the countryside. The straight road up and down these little hills and over the stone bridge of the canal. Another familiar mile. Another stone bridge over the river. Ivy clutched on the broken walls. Cottages, thatches white, faint yellow light in the windows. Through their turf smoke, the air sudden sweet. Ahead on the left, from this hill. That vast dark expanse of trees. Andromeda Park. In the magic silence. Strange drums thumping. Who doth it be. Awake. What stranger. Takes me by that grabbing hand. A music weeping. To lead me back. Under the purple bright stars. To those long lain now, faded in the grin of death. And to those still alive in the pain of living.

Who ride

Out of their troubles

On a good horse

2

Beyond the snow capped walls, the moonlit towering shadows of the chestnut, oak and elm trees. Turning through the front gates, the lodge’s broken door and windows, a sapling growing through the roof. Petunia shying, nearly overturning the carriage. A shadow at the side of the drive suddenly bolting behind the rhododendrons, swinging two rabbits by the ears.

‘Ah by god, look at that now, no longer content are they to skulk around stealing and crawling out through a hole in the wall, they have the nerve now to try to come in and out the front gates. A blast of shot across the backside is what he’ll get next.’

The victoria’s wheels crunching the gravel where the thick pine woods sheltered the drive from snow. Petunia’s hoofs resounding, puffing like a train up the incline to the last turn between the plantation of rhododendrons. The looming great black silhouette on the landscape. Shutters closed on the windows. White curls of smoke from chimneys caught in the moonlight. Kern and Olav rushing out barking from around the house. Bigger, greyer, shaggier monsters. Their unbridled delight hooting yelping and howling. Jumping to put their massive snowy paws up on my shoulders.

‘Only pups when you left, they’ll be glad to see you now, Master Darcy.’

Footsteps frozen on the snowy granite steps of the porch. Sexton reaching to turn the latch. The door already sweeping open. In the candle lit hall, Crooks. More aged and considerably more cross eyed and infirm. His unentitled old Etonian tie flagrantly hanging down his rather soiled detached shirt front, which breaking out from his lapels displayed beneath, a rugby jersey sporting his equally unentitled colours of Trinity College.

‘Good evening and welcome home Master Reginald, trust you had a pleasurable journey.’

Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare, crossing the hall. A fire blazing in the hall grate. A tiny glow against the chill clammy damp. Crooks taking his hat and coat in hand. Heels clicking on the black and white tiles. Darcy Dancer’s long hair pouring over his shirt collar. A yellow silk handkerchief stuck in the greeny brown tweed pocket of his jacket. Stopping by the staircase hall under two mournful portraits of my mother’s father’s two wives. A whiff of whisky from Crooks’ breath. Stains thicker on his coat. Larger swatches of grey in his hair, his cheeks hollower and his neck thinner. And here, all of them stand. Except Edna Annie. Perhaps finally indisposed by her ancient age. The familiar and fatter faces of Kitty and Norah. Catherine the cook, her hair coiffed in a mountain of grey, brushing her hand down her apron to shake mine. The others curtseying as I nodded to each. Crooks, displaying his best butlering, his ecclesiastical voice echoing.

‘Edna Annie sends her best Master Reginald.’

‘Is she alright.’

‘Ah her fragile but willing bones are still washing and ironing. And this is Mollie. And this is Leila.’

Hardly more than my own age, two unfamiliar faces. Mollie freckled skinned, her hair a frizzy red. Leila behind her. In the shadows seems raven black haired, and the darkest eyes staring from a smooth white skinned face.

The small contingent proceeding up the grand stairs. Candle aloft flickering in the breeze, a limping Crooks unable to lift the bag leading the way. Sexton following, kicking as he went, the brass carpet rods. Around the landing, past the great window, facing the grove of beeches silvery in the stilly snowy moonlight. Crooks mumbling back over his shoulder at Sexton.

‘Boots in the house, boots in the house.’

Halfway down the hall, just as a bat flew by overhead, Crooks turning to announce.

‘Your bath is drawn Master Reginald. And supper will be at your convenience.’

I could hear Sexton murmuring under his breath that last word should have the letters I and N in front of it. And by these sounds apparitions and sights, one did indeed know one was home.

Sexton lifting the luggage up on the oak baggage stand. The candles flickering. Darcy Dancer shivering in the damp room. Where under the long acquired dust nothing seemed touched or changed. Opening the shutters, the snow looking even colder out on the trees in the moonlight. The idea of a bath floating with icecubes fills one with dismay. At least Crooks need not worry about the debris and snow melting off Sexton’s boots.

‘The fire’s out Master Darcy. I’ll go fetch matches and light it.’

‘That’s alright Sexton. Leave it till the morning. It will help me get out of bed.’

‘Now is there anything else. That would make your comfort kinder.’

‘No thank you Sexton.’

‘Master Darcy just let me say, it’s good to have you back, you were sadly missed.’

‘I appreciate your saying that, Sexton.’

‘And by god, whose holy name we praise, we’ll have the estate shipshape again in no time.’

Sexton just as of old, always hating to take his departure, lingering, his eye sparkling and as always searching for any new topic of conversation. And I must confess, despite my famished cold condition, I had not the heart not to aid and abet him a little.

‘Who are they Sexton.’

‘Who’s who sir.’

‘Those two new girls.’

‘Well now the two of them arrived at the station. One is perhaps the dumbest creature god ever put on earth, and well she deserves the name Dingbats. Daughter of a blacksmith in Galway. Who I’m sure between belting the sparks out of horseshoes has been trying to get rid of her for years. The agent collared the two of them. Just the day before your father packed up his shotguns and was away to parts unknown.’

‘Is she addressed by the name Dingbats.’

‘It’s cook who started calling her Dingbats. And as it’s now universal, so you might too, being as she’s familiar with the name now. Sure she’d smile back at you if you called her a tart, liar or layabout. And mind you, she’s just enough brains to understand the two last at which she’s best at.’

‘Oh dear me Sexton, do tell. Seems all so familiar.’

‘Dumb when it suits her. And the rest of the time she spends cowering around inside the house terrified of her own shadow seeing a host of ghosts. Swears there’s a rat bigger than a cat in her room. Outside she’s in dread of the dogs. And it’s probably the only thing she’s to be believed about.’

‘Well I can’t think that that’s going to do, Sexton.’

‘Ah but now the other young lady is a different kettle of fish altogether. Parents unknown. And was from out of the female orphanage. By god isn’t she some looker though.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t remark on that Sexton, she seemed to shrink somewhat back in the shadows.’

‘Shy she is. But her wits about her. With shopkeeping experience no less. And a set of teeth you wouldn’t believe were her own. Sculpted they look by Galileo himself.’

Sexton seemed to have revised his feelings about former departed members of the household. Speaking rather nostalgically of Mr Arland my tutor who would have surely corrected him on his reference to Galileo.

‘She’d even be an improvement on the beauty of Baptista Consuelo, upon whom poor old Mr Arland wasted his love, and scourged himself with the evil pain of jealousy. But now there was a man, Master Darcy as who knew his Caesar and Cicero.’

Departing off down the hall, as I closed the door Sexton went murmuring, et incarnatus est. Facit indignatio versum. One did wince at the papist bias in Sexton’s Latin. And his latter phrase certainly, as I loosely translated it to mean righteous wrath creates poetry, did not materialize in my case as the dressing cupboard door, promptly as I opened it, fell off its hinges and my righteous wrath created a bloody blast and damn and a good kick to the shins of the wretched furnishing. All my clothes too small. My dressing gown coming above my knees, the sleeves inches above my wrist. The faded mauve and the chocolate brown borders and facings which sported my mother’s racing colours, now mottled with a dusty mould.

Going bathroomwards, a breeze blowing out the candle in the hall. And promptly tripping over the carpet to open a wrong door. To the scrabblings of a rat, and the fume of dead mice. A taste and sure smell of things to come. Dear god. Please. Give me fortitude to, by oneself, stomach such immense difficulties. I do not ask to lie on velvet. Or even to wine and dine well. Just merely to have some horses sound and be able to once more decently hunt, decently shoot and decently fish.

A relief to find the fragrance of bath oil in the ablution room. The towels dank, no longer aired as they once were in the kitchen oven. But Crooks had indeed drawn my brimming bath steaming hot. In which stretched immersed I immediately fell asleep. And with my head slipping under the water, nearly drowning. Dreaming momentarily of a rather recent night life moment in Dublin after the races. Of a waiter, wildly out of control, rushing from one of the better restaurant kitchens to dump a pail of freshly caught uncooked prawns on top of an American lady’s head who’d incessantly complained she wanted really fresh seafood. I did on the real occasion witnessing it with my pal Rashers Ronald, who bent double at our table slapping both his thighs, also ungentlemanly laugh. But now waking not knowing where I was, I felt boiled like a lobster in a pot.

Darcy Dancer wrapped in a towel shivering back along the corridor. Seeing by the light now coming from the staircase. Avoid holes worn in this ancient carpet. My slippers too small. My dressing gown hopeless, split in half by my shoulders. Use its tattered girdle to hang myself when that time comes, Floorboards crackling underfoot ready to give way. Perhaps I shall move. Select a bigger, grander bedroom. More befitting my position. Better suited to taking my privacy. Decorate it in a manner of my recent preference for Regency. Somehow black dog doldrums and despondency do not seem to soul scourging when one can reach out and lightly caress a lavender scented rosewood furnishing in one’s life. And damn it, it does not mean that one is in the least effeminate.

My door ajar. My hairbrush moved. My ties laid out on my dressing table. Shoes neatly placed together. And a linen card propped against the mirror.

Sir: Sherry will be served in the library.

A note written in the most elegant print, ever so slightly slanted to the left. And who now would know the use or meaning of a colon in this household. Perhaps of course Sexton, who would certainly pretend he knew. But he has never written such a fine hand. The pen’s black ink strokes discreet yet bold enough. And curled as if engraved. Well, well. Dear me. Provided the sherry has the suitably fresh nutty tang of old, this could all be rather unexpectedly cheering. Requires a dig in my luggage for my silk shirt. And my gold best cufflinks.

Darcy Dancer in black tweed, a blue polka dot tie and silk hanky peeking above a pocket. A candelabrum placed on the window sill of the staircase landing. Making it all feel a little safer proceeding down these steps. Flame reflecting on the panes of the window. And right here where I stood once. A tiny innocent boy. When from the front hall foot of the stairs, my so called father, a sour cruel look on his face, called me a little bastard. And one does wonder. What now do all these portraits think. The long departed dead. Staring down from the mouldering walls. Grand aunt of my mother’s. Painted as she regally sat on a dais in the ballroom. Her haughty beautiful face. A ringlet halo of hair. The indistinction close up of the thick mottled lumps of colour which come into miraculous focus as one stands away. The sumptuous finery of her black lace gown. Bejewelled straps across her pink shoulders. Sparkling necklace of pearls and diamonds upon her bosom. If artistic standards are to be considered, this is undoubtedly one of the finer pictures escaping theft by my father. Who upon being advised that certain paintings could indeed be genuinely by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo then assiduously denuded the walls of same.

Darcy Dancer passing by the open door of the library alight inside with another candelabra. Stopping further down the hall. To push open these large hinge squeaking double doors. The massive cold darkness of the ballroom. Two bats aloft darting back and forth. Streak of moonlight across the dusty floor. Slanting in a window where the shutter hangs broken. I should so dearly like to hold some very grand great party. Invite the better local ladies and gentlemen if any are still to be found. The ballroom chandeliers sparkling light once again. If an orchestra is out of the question make music on the old gramophone. Whoever wrote the note placed in my bedroom could manage the invitations. Do. O do come. Won’t you. At home. For the champagne. Our buckets full of caviar. And your broken ankles. You most certainly will get my dears, dancing through the floor.

Darcy Dancer sipping his sherry in the chill fireless library. Poured from the decanter in all its nut fragrant pale brown gleaming glory. Warming the innards and the boulevards of one’s memories as I glance by the spines of these leather worn ancient musty tomes that Mr Arland and I would crack open on the many rainy winter days, delighting over their fusty language of pompous travels and pretentious recall. Of socially distinguished gentlemen pulling their legs out of sharks’ mouths and wrestling heroically with monstrous pythons. My how people did then take themselves so seriously. Of course there were accounts of intrepid Shackleton, especially admired by Mr Arland perhaps because of his Irish connections. And dear me before freezing to death here I had better soon be proceeding to supper in the dining room. Ah a creak of floorboards. A knock at last.

‘Master Reginald, when you’re ready, supper is served.’

‘Ah indeed. Thank you Crooks, I am in fact quite ready.’

The shutters closed. A fire at least taking the chill off the dining room. Crooks equally at the ready with my chair. Something to be said for having dear old servants surrounding one who although frequently forgetting, do occasionally at least try to acquit themselves agreeably. Having been such a deliberately appallingly bad servant oneself, one of course knew of the endless opportunities a servant could find for making life utterly miserable for his employer.

Cabbage soup. Boiled potatoes. And stew with carrots and turnips. Not awfully exciting. But so starved am I one simply can’t mind at the moment, having all I can do to not dive grabbing into the food like a pig famished.

‘The likes of youse is no use at all when youse won’t learn left from right when youse is tolt.’

I was surprised to overhear Crooks mimicking in the guttural overtones of a Dublin accent as he grumpily ordered Leila about in the pantry. One could not help feel that there was just a touch of jealousy at this new girl’s albeit nervous efficiency. As she stood behind Crooks with Brussels sprouts one attempted to observe her but could only discreetly just catch sight of red swollen hands shaking gripped tight on the steaming heaped bowl, and the serving spoon banging. Crooks as he finished pouring wine at my right, snapping his fingers for her to come around to my left side. And just to casually lighten the atmosphere I pointed to the stained and soaked seat of one of the dining room chairs against the wall.

‘Crooks what befell that chair.’

‘Ah more than a sup of rain has made a recent habit of coming through the ceiling. The chamber above is getting a spill from the chamber yet above again. Poor old Chippendale. When the snow melts Master Reginald you’d want to be dining here in a tent.’

Unable to dance his attendance on his toes, Crooks holding his chin awfully high, and behaving with an autocratic attempt at efficiency one had never witnessed before. Announcing in sepulchral tones the year of vintage as he poured the decanted premier grand cru Margaux with its bouquet shrinking back in the glass from the cold. He was also very voluble indeed. Especially with his elaborate excuses over the more noticeable dilapidations of the house. And once such great bitter enemies, it was enthralling to now hear Crooks recall our previous housekeeper, Miss von B, in glowing terms. Elevating her from that regrettable bitch to Princess, and tossing in her Royal Highness when invoking her name. And as he waved Leila to collect my plate he then stopped by the sideboard, placed his towel dramatically over his arm, and then took a Napoleonic stance to stare vacantly up at the ceiling.

‘Ah isolated in these lonely hills. If only her Royal Highness, the Princess, was here. Magnificent seamstress. Ah she could sew. Mends in the heels of socks like sparkling jewels. Linen folded with such perfection, would bring tears to the eyes.’

And last night in Dublin I had a dream that Miss von B had come galloping on her horse, back to Andromeda Park. Coming up the front park lawn and jumping the fence to the drive. Dismounting and striding up the front steps to march into the front hall. Confronting me there in her rather severely styled fox hunting raiment, as a massive military band ceremoniously played outside. Trumpeters sounding, drums beating. Her blonde hair snugly netted gleaming, her velvety cheeks pinkly glowing. The front hall suddenly silent as a church. Then a soft music playing a lament. I trembled and trembled and shook and shook. Waking and staring about my hotel bedroom in the dark. A milkman passing, his horse faintly clip clopping up Dawson Street.

‘Master Reginald, we’ve gone short of the d’Yquem that you and her Royal Highness so esteemed. There were great calls on it these past months. Decant a little port perhaps.’

‘Please don’t bother Crooks.’

‘Not a bit of bother, not a bit. Port.’

‘That would be nice.’

‘Then port it shall be. Now I’d have the blue parlour fire going but for the jackdaws with a nest halfway down the chimney. I’ve had a chair put in front of the fire in the front hall.’

I was quite surprised at my twinge of thoughtfulness concerning the staff’s need to get off to bed. And pouring cream on top of the whipped cream of my second helping of trifle, I did not go on to have three helpings. Somehow too, the new girl’s thinness gave one the uncomfortable feeling that it was inappropriate to gorge myself any further.

Darcy Dancer crossing the front hall towards the new girl mending the fire, which out of the shadows sent its dancing licking flame of colour up to the ceiling. And was doing it properly too, putting logs on from the sides and one across the back at the top, leaving the middle with embers to glow out. I pretended to examine the guest book on the hall table, my mind aflood with questions conjured up to ask her. All sounding so damn stupid and foolish. Like I understand young lady you are a lonely abandoned orphan who now works here. And how do you like it. But even as I thanked her she just cast me a nervous glance and hurried away. At least one was saved sounding like a patronizing ass.

I did enjoy the jolly good port. Sipping as one stared into the crackling spitting flames beaming warmly against the feet, hands and face. And except for its being like sitting in Amiens Street Station back in Dublin one enjoyed the ear ringing silence. Which suddenly was rent by a shout.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, they’re at me. They’re at me.’

The sound of pounding running feet somewhere upstairs. Now other feet and doors slamming. And ten minutes later. Crooks with a candelabrum crossing to me.

‘Forgive the upstairs intrusion Master Darcy. But that one Dingbats said a rat big as a fox jumped up on her in bed. Sure now if there was a rat it would be very surprising he didn’t take a good bite out of her being as she’s got a body on her like a boneless shoulder of pork.’

One did at this moment find it physically painful to have one’s quiet reverie and privacy so invaded. Perhaps a beam next would bounce down on my head. Or the assembled staff come lurching in, bottles to their lips, quaffing back, having been in the wine cellar. But this tonight is home. In all its hopeless insanity and crumbling dilapidation. Mine. Its land I do so love. Marked up and down and over hills with its mossy stone walls. Where I ran and rode. With sunshine joy, swinging in the lichen grey apple trees. My sisters chasing me. Peeking round the strong sinewed ancient trunks of beech, oak and chestnut. Streams and lakes streaking with trout. Emerald meadows of softest velvet. No footsteps heard. Lonely walks dreaming beyond these halls and rooms. Where I was born. And in such bygone pain. Saw my mother die. And what sadness now. Lies before my feet. Tongue of a vixen. Out there. Screeching. Across the white frosty night. An owl. Calls. Out of a sorrow cold and old. Who doth it be who hoots. And I must. Fight as I have never fought. Never give up. Someone must preserve the architecture. Someone must cherish the porcelain, paintings and silver. Someone must care about the trees, the flowers and butterflies. Someone must love again. The air, the waters and grasses.

To keep

Safe embraced

A moment longer

The jewels

Of life

3

The moonlight gone. And a cock crowing waking me. A wind. My mind aswirl with the most indiscreet of dreams. Dressed as a bishop I was having it off with Lois attired as a nun back in her Dublin studio clacking her castanets. Reached into my side table for my piss pot. Kneel in bed to avoid freezing. And then freezing as one waited for one’s fierce engorgement to subside. What bliss to take a long and most relieving pee. But good almighty grief, feel my knees growing wetly cold. Dear god in the very worst of worst horrors. One’s warm piss is flooding out a crack in the bottom of this bloody pot to soak frigidly into one’s mattress.

Of course frozen out of my wits, Crooks woke me just after dawn. From my nightmare of an arctic mid Atlantic ocean sinking. I had not the heart to tell him to bugger off and let me sleep. Until I was sorely tempted to do just that as the wet paper and sticks he attempted to light smoked up through the soggy turf in the fireplace. Crooks pumping the bellows, puffing out massive clouds of smoke, which joining the billows gusting back down the cold chimney, one could hardly breathe or see across the room.

‘Breakfast’s on the way and have this alight blazing now any second Master Reginald.’

‘O god Crooks, do please leave it. I’ll go down to breakfast. And do please dispose of this cracked chamber pot.’

‘It would be that one Dingbats again.’

‘You must I think Crooks please see she is more careful.’

‘I’ve done everything in my power to train that one up. She’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that the pot wasn’t cracked when she put it there. Set this fire as well so that the devil having a barbecue in hell wouldn’t get it alight.’

It was always hard to estimate the degree of madness any individual staff inmate had reached, being as they were all going mad together. The one true cooperation they genuinely shared. And the only sane consistent thing one could depend upon. But with the future prospects for Andromeda Park already so bleak the addition of the likes of Dingbats made it look dispiritingly quite uncomfortable indeed.

Darcy Dancer dressed. A thick herringbone tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers. A thick cotton cricket shirt, two layers of woollen underwear. Tiptoe now out in the hall. Avoid alerting a new disaster. Only barely escaping this morning’s asphyxiation. And the frostbite while the windows were wide open for my room to clear of smoke. Good god who’s that. That voice. Crooks mumbling down the hall around the turning to my mother’s apartments.

‘Yes my dear Delia, your royalness, my true and only blessed virgin, I shall be back shortly, madam, with the hot towels, to dry your back.’

My god Crooks is now taking the most diabolical risqué liberties in his ravings. As in the same way, having detested the sight and sound of Miss von B while she was here, raising her to beatified and saintly social heights while apparently demoting the memory of my mother to something regrettably verging on the lascivious.

My breakfast tray brought upstairs by Dingbats left abandoned on the landing. For a host of rats to eat, no doubt. The fire mercifully at my back in the dining room.

Sun glowing faint gold across the whitened landscape. A magpie, feathers shiny black and white, dancing up and down the branches of an orchard apple tree. Pigeons about. Await breakfast. Cold stiff fingered. Write out my purposes in my old blue clasp book. To inspect the horses, the farmyard, garden, old saw mill, the grove of beeches. As one hopes to see the mate of the magpie out in the orchard to avoid any ill luck of seeing only one. Some cheer to find Sexton’s selection of nosegays laid out at my place. Choose the tiny braided bouquet of snowdrops. But it has already occurred to me even before the day has hardly begun that I shall have to find a very rich, preferably from brewing, heiress to marry. To pay for the repairs to floors, ceilings, halls, roof, never mind the plumbing, or replacement of the long disused electric wiring. Which latter at least, one is relieved to know, will still mercifully long remain unconnected to any supply. Otherwise instead of widespread light at one’s fingertips there would be wholesale electrocution.

Darcy Dancer attempting to catch larger sight of Leila who held back nearly an arm’s length as she served. The lace at the wrist of her uniform quite soiled. And upon her hand there seemed two words written with numerals in indelible pencil. When I said good morning upon entering she made no reply. Keeps constantly behind my back. And I must say Crooks snapping his fingers at her did irritate one. But then as she chose a moment as I was turned looking out the window to lift a platter from the sideboard, I found, as I suddenly turned back, that she was staring at me. Her face flushing crimson as she turned away and hurried pantrywards. It could have been that with copious cups of tea, I embarrassingly devoured four eggs, six slices of bacon, several slices of toast and marmalade, one jug of cream, all preceded by a quart of apple juice and large bowl of porridge. As any sensible person in his right mind would, in present conditions and circumstances. But she could think me unreasonably greedy. And now with Crooks growling out to her in the pantry.

‘More toast, more toast, more toast.’

In his own trembling inadequacy Crooks in pouring my tea put a good bit of it in my saucer and on the table. Which he ordered the poor new girl to mop up.

‘Forgive me Master Reginald, it’s been a bit of a night with hunting rats high and low, but tomorrow will have us right.’

Leila returning with a rack of perfectly browned toast to my side, in murmuring my thank you I deliberately turned to look up at her. The brightness of the snow outside revealed her astonishing flashing eyes. The strange quiet beauty of their oriental cast beneath her brows. The iris around the pupil instead of appearing black as it first seemed, was a glowing deep mossy green flecked with blue. And the longest black lashes I’ve ever seen. Her forehead and cheeks of the whitest smoothest skin. Her soft, full but unsmiling lips. Her slenderness. And in her black uniform she did seem so hungry and cold and even, god forbid, consumptive.

A malodorous sewer smell in the basement hall. Edna Annie tried to get up to bow as I entered her warm little room and I had to hold her and help her back into her chair but up again she stood, her white hair with a red ribbon coiffed and brushed up from her birdlike skull. Her gnarled fingers busy as ever knitting and grabbing me strongly by the arm. Making this supreme effort to leave her bedridden bed. Hugging me, the tears were welling and dropping from her old pale blue eyes.

‘Ah Master Darcy you’re hitting the ceiling with your head now. A gossoon no more, god love you. Sure I haven’t been able to make soap now. My days are numbered. Out there soon under the sod.’

‘Nonsense, you look so marvellous.’

‘Ah flattery will get you somewhere.’

Taking a peek in the kitchen a hot breeze blew at me out the door. The nervously collected snugly comfortable staff jumping to their feet at the snap of Crooks’ fingers. Dingbats with her cheeks bulging out with cake. The rats had not upset her appetite. One could see the wooden backs and seats of the chairs shining with the months and months of polishing from so many human bottoms and shoulders. Table centre, large pots of tea, plates stacked with biscuits, cake, barmbrack. Mounds of golden butter. Pots of jams. Clearly no deprivation or starvation was going on below stairs. Kettles steaming on the stove. Blazing fire in the fireplace. Mouths chewing. Awful smell of cigarettes. Frankly it looked like a feast was going on.

Climbing back up the servants’ stairs. Damp everywhere one looked. To push open this mahogany door to the old schoolroom. To step inside. My books as I opened them, their pages softened by moisture, nearly fell apart. The cobwebbed maps peeling down from the wall. Abandoned crayons and pencils. So many hours spent here. My dear Mr Arland. His sad yet noble life. The only man aside from Sexton and Uncle Willie upon whom I ever felt I could depend. Young as he must have been as my tutor, he so ably yet so gently led me into the old ways of the world.

As I departed in the front hall, I passed Leila, the only one not at the feast, on her knees cleaning ash out of the grate. One is now even more frightened of speaking than she must be of being spoken to. God one must get on. Sympathy for others in a household has a way of depriving one of convenience. My cap and scarf still miraculously where I last left them with my boots in the small vestibule inside the door. Shake off the dust and push my feet into my father’s Wellingtons. Take a walking stick. Go out.

Darcy Dancer, blowing his clouds of breath out in the crisp cold air and kicking his feet through the snow. Stand looking out across the whitened parkland. The river flowing darkly between its banks. The woods beyond up the hill. How can it continue. The massive roof to stay atop this house. One’s spirit did crash down as one saw a new crack in the front hall and the plaster crumbling. Rain stains on the front hall tiles. The food pours down all these throats. The worst that can happen is I die. At least there is no shortage of graves. Lie next to my mother. But I did take heart again at the brief sight of Leila at the grate. Was tempted to summon her to the estate office. Mention the subject of a medical consultation with Dr Wellbeing in the town. And ask her. Would you please smile so that I can see your teeth.

Go now making a fresh path of footsteps towards the orchard. The snow dry and ice patches crackling underfoot. I would in Dublin be at this moment taking a mid morning coffee in the lounge of the Hibernian Hotel waiting for the likes of Rashers Ronald to come eagerly sauntering in. With some new plan for making a fortune or at least a fiver by lunchtime. And to dissect the previous night’s partying. And hear his very English voice say bash on regardless. His face flushed with new further and better particulars of plans to marry a rich widow. And then his octaves dropping to his confidential whisper as he inevitably wanted the loan of a fiver till teatime. He would I’m sure tell me to pawn Andromeda Park, land, stock and chattels. And one supposes he would be right.

Push open this barred squealing iron gate. The apple tree branches weighted down. There ahead the potting shed. Smoke rising out of Sexton’s tiny chimney jutting above the wall. The world I left here. Cows gobbling up the juicy autumn apples. Chasing to catch fat frisky lambs as they would run for their tiny tail twitching lives. This old green door, brass handle worn so shiny. Well oiled hinges. The comfort inside of ancient smells. His Latin lists pinned upon the walls. This place in which Sexton offers up the toil of his life to beget beauty, bent at his bench whistling happily, gently lovingly packing his plant roots in turf mould.

‘Ah good morning Master Darcy. I see you’ve come safely across the tundra. This weather’s great for tracking the poachers. But now as soon as the frost’s gone from the ground, I’m going to plant out in honour of your return, the greatest avenue over there of Acer Pseudoplatanus Brilliantissimum.’

‘Dear me Sexton, that is awfully thoughtful of you. But you must let me in on the secret, my Latin is awfully rusty this morning.’

‘Ah the noble sycamore, Master Darcy.’

‘I do wish that appellation Master might be dropped, Sexton. It leaves me looking rather too young in a task I feel requires one to seem a little older.’

‘Ah it’s the habit of it. But certainly it’s only right and proper, as gaffer you’d be now the viceroy, hospodar, pasha, tsar, and undisputed Squire Lord of Andromeda Park.’

‘Well we needn’t be quite so extravagant about it, the mere word sir will do.’

‘At your command sir.’

‘And saluting Sexton is certainly not necessary.’

‘Ah now this morning you’d not be I see in the happiest of moods.’

‘Well I have just cause. The sewers.’

‘I know sir. Conduits burst, pipes blocked up all over kingdom come. Not a drain working. A blessing it’s all frozen by the cold. Everything on the blink. But for us born here in Ireland, where god has long looked down on us smiling, and kept us safe from the world’s scourges and disasters, its floods, earthquakes, poisonous spiders and snakes, and from the foul diseases of impurity, we should remain truly thankful.’

‘One is quite aware of our gifts from god but somehow it’s still all quite bad enough. And I should be glad if it does not ever get worse. God did however send us famine.’

‘Only to remind us of our favoured position.’

‘I see.’

‘Well it’s not the half of it now, I was only getting you ready to hear the finale. Two old cows who should have known better frozen stiff as statues as they lay down by the lake to sleep. We’ll have to wait till they thaw to move them.’

‘I’ll have the agent buy in new stock.’

‘Let me buy the stock Master Darcy, ah sorry that slip. Sir it is. And never mind that agent. Up there in the estate office like it was his own private preserve, Napoleon calling for that Leila to fetch cups of tea all morning when he wasn’t at the whisky in the wine cellar.’

‘Where exactly did the agent find her Sexton.’

‘Now you’ve got me there. I’d only know he’s very sweet on her. Comes stealing my indoor flowers no less to present her with. He found that other one of the frizzy hair in the scullery of a pub, breaking so many glasses and dishes the poor old publican was ready to pay to have her taken away at any price. The agent he’ll lie low now you’re back. But sine dubio the esprit de corps of the household is very low. You might say, it’s made no one any saner and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t let them cut or remove a thorn tree, there beyond, in case it would bring any more ill luck.’

‘Perhaps one should raise wages Sexton.’

‘Ah god abandon that good intention straight off.’

‘Well at the moment there are no wages, so why not raise them.’

‘Ah I like your existentialism.’

‘I’m afraid, Sexton, I don’t know what on earth that is.’

‘It’s what at this very moment they’re thinking and practising in Paris, the very latest that’s what it is.’

‘Good god, Paris. I’d be better advised at this moment to know what they’re thinking and practising here in Andromeda Park.’

‘Now meaning no disrespect to Ireland, I’d say what you need now to add to your intellectual might is a trip to the cafés of that city.’

‘I see.’

‘Ah the social, cerebral, not to mention noological activity of that capital would give you a style that would make them Dublin intellectuals cringe in shame of their backward concepts.’

‘Sexton I did not know you have been to Paris.’

‘Ah don’t mention the Champs Elysées to me. The soaring spires of Notre Dame. Mere commonplace. The Prado.’

Proceeding at last to the stables it having taken till nearly lunch time to extricate oneself out of the intellectual ferment of Sexton’s potting shed. One does feel however that just as sure as the Prado is not in Paris, one was as certain that Sexton had a loyal heart. And he noticed with pleasure my selection of his nosegay of snowdrops.

Darcy Dancer walking down this familiar road. Just steep enough for a sledge to glide. But no time for pleasure. Not here even a day. Two cattle already dead. How dare the agent assume a romantic prerogative with one of my staff. An old trick to take advantage of an innocent menial. Awfully damn insolent. Play pop with him. Filthy minded type for whom the blessing of marriage is not enough. But he who is without sin fling the first stone. And I have on too numerous an occasion been so sordidly and disgracefully indulgent that my arm I fear, must remain stilled at my side. Carnal mindedness must be in everyone’s blood. Two defrockings in the family history, both of archbishops who had a difficulty to curb a taste in young boys. Plus my mother’s father and grandfather, old reprobates who had similar tastes for young girls. Especially those serving in the household.

Darcy Dancer at the bottom of the little incline. Crossing the bump of cobble stones beneath the snow. Hungry pigeons sheltering up under the eaves. Make a nice pie had one a shotgun to hand. Hay rake and ploughs rusting in a corner of the yard. Whoever it is alerts to my coming. Hear the noise of activity. Step through the mended, tottering and remended stable door. Puddles on the stable floor. Horse piss fumes. Cobwebs like lace ball gowns hanging from the ceiling. Faint smell of oats and strong stench of stable dung. A stall full of musty hay. Rusty leaking buckets. Standard here. Appalling.

‘Good morning, Master Reginald, and welcome home.’

‘Good morning, Slattery.’

‘I am getting it tidied up a bit here. It be a hardy old winter. Will you be hunting when the weather improves.’

‘Yes I shall.’

Slattery’s ear looking blue, chewed and flapped over and whitened at the edges. Where his son Foxy had nearly bitten and torn it off. The two reddened indented marks still on his skull where Foxy had struck him with a hammer. Intrepid Foxy Slattery. His righting spirit never vanquished. Fought so at every authority. Indulged in every desecration. Introduced me to my early weaknesses of the flesh. Would ride any mount or steal the pennies off an old dead woman’s eyes. Under what part of the bleak blue sky does he rascally now go.

‘You’d be back staying a bit with us Master Reginald.’

‘Yes.’

‘Be a blessing when this hardship of a winter is over. Not been one like it in living memory.’

Head groom Slattery’s careful preamble to letting one know of the dead cows. Leading me to the news gently. Count the horses in their boxes. Petunia. Nutmeg. Molly. And my god, what’s that. Eighteen hands of giant black beast. Weaving back and forth. Hot red fierce burning eyes. Massive head and neck like a colossal snake looming in some dark jungle ready to strike.

‘Be careful there, Master Reginald that’s Midnight Shadow, I meant to warn you.’

The huge black stallion shooting out its head to snap its teeth at the bars. Nostrils flaring. Darcy Dancer jumping back. As its forelegs rear and smash against the teak door. Trembling the entire stable. The latch nearly breaking open.

‘You’d be best away out of here now, master Reginald. Before he has a go at the door. That savage has killed one old farmer already. And maimed a dozen. Kick you to death as soon as look at you. Daft. His mother was daft. His father half daft. And he is completely.’

The stallion turning in his stall. In the billows of rising straw, dung and dust. His immense quarters letting fly his hind legs north, south, east and west. Hoofs sending sparks off the walls. And finally crashing open the door of the stall.

‘Begorra he’s loose, get away out. Out now.’

The animal backing out of its stall kicking and bucking. The groom Luke grabbing a hay fork and shoving Darcy Dancer out of the door in front of him, slamming the outside stable door shut. The roars and hoofs slashing inside. Luke turning the knob to close the latch as hoofs crash at the other side. Stone chips hitting windows and then the panes of glass flying out into the snow.

‘This better hold the blackguard. Or we’ll be taking our next piss in purgatory.’

The stable door splintering in two as Luke jumps back. Another and another hoof comes crashing through. Screws flying out of the hinges in the rotted wood. The stallion, filling the doorway. Its chest heaving, blasts of breath out into the chill air. The black giant neck craning forward, its head lowered, teeth bared, as it charged.

‘Run for your life Master Reginald.’

The snow flying, the stallion pounding across the yard after Luke. The beast’s ears flat back. Hulking great head, jaws agape, bearing down as Luke turns jabbing with the hay fork. The animal’s head dodging the prongs and forelegs rearing to knock the fork flying out of Luke’s hands. Slattery shouting.

‘Call the dogs, call the dogs.’

Darcy Dancer letting a piercing whistle out into the air. Luke by the stable wall arms raised, jumping backwards seeking safety by the side of the rain barrel. The gutter pipe coming asunder, banging Luke’s head, as he slides stunned arse first into a deep snow drift covering the drain. Kern and Olav bounding round the house at the top of the road. Tails like rudders in the wind, steering them down into the yard. Henry and Thomas, who should have been out foddering the cattle, emerging from somewhere comfortable into the fray. And just as quickly seeing what it was about turning their backs inside again. A voice heard as the door slammed.

‘Begob I’m not sending my soul to heaven yet.’

Luke, one arm clutched over the edge of the frozen rain barrel, pulling himself up again against the wall. Kern leaping to bite the beast’s giant hind quarter. Olav sent flying with a hoof catching him on the shoulder. The stallion’s yellowed curving teeth tearing the shoulder out of Luke’s jacket. The graveyard is going to be put into use again sooner than one imagined.

‘He’ll have us all kilt Master Reginald.’

The black monster slipping on the stable cobbles. Kern’s fangs bared at its neck. Goes down on its haunches. Darcy Dancer tearing off his jacket. Rushing flinging it over the massive horse’s head. Luke squeezing and crouching further behind the rain barrel. The vast animal getting to its feet again. Turning blindly rearing round in a circle bucking in the air. The earth trembling, dogs barking.

‘Quick Master Reginald back inside now out of sight.’

The two figures running for the door of the turf shed. Luke tugging, kicking and pounding on the door frozen shut. Oaths turning the sky pink. A final thump of Darcy Dancer’s shoulder smashing it open. Banging it closed behind them. Peering out a cobwebbed window.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m telling you Master Reginald, only a shotgun blasting a couple of times in each ear would put some manners on that black terror and then he’d eat you napkin and all.’

Darcy Dancer’s jacket hanging over the mighty beast’s one eye. That bucks its head left and right. And one’s best tweed coat goes fluttering down into the snow. Kern dodging and snapping around the stallion’s hoofs as it stands vertical on hind legs, bellowing, pawing at the sky. And lands again, feet asprawl on the snowy cobbles to turn looking around the yard. Just to see if there’s anything left to kill. A snort out its nostrils. A shake of its head at Kern, as it charges again. Another lash of its hoof at a limping Olav. Till its hind legs sending a lump of snow flying, the monster beast turns to gallop pounding away up the stable yard road. In a soaring leap clearing a five foot wall by two feet. Glistening black against the pearly parkland. Its legs reaching racing out into its snowy white miles of freedom.

Midnight Shadow

Would be

Better named

Morning Earthquake

4

A mild moist westerly wind fading the snow and ice away. Dripping from the trees. And the dining room ceiling. The moisture blackened roof slates drying a lighter blue. The drains and gutters gurgling. The front parkland glowing emerald green again in an afternoon sun. The unfrozen cows hauled with chains to the side of the field and buried.

Before the beams crack and walls finally crumble I thought that I would move into my mother’s apartments. Calculating to recline there of a morning on the soft satins of her chaise longue. My languorous limbs enveloped in my silk dressing gown. Where one could await the news of any new disaster in some comfort. Dear me, and how pathetically did one dream of such serenity. In the cock crowing silence, my head against a pillow, not a bother on my mind. And there deep in eiderdown ensconced, having breakfasted peacefully abed and one’s ablution hour over, to then, in the delicious pain pleasure throes of ennui, peruse the pages of some light and preferably silly novel. Populated with insufferably haughty top layer la de da people living in similar country houses but with unsimilar tiresome pursuits and débâcles to mine own. Such as, while savouring biting into an unburned piece of toast slathered with a particularly tasty and unmouldy gooseberry jam, Dingbats went running through the halls screaming she’d been scalded with soup thrown at her by cook in the kitchen.

‘I am this minute scalded. I am this minute scalded to death.’

Then there appeared in what seemed nearly the next minute, an envelope clearly penned by Leila and delivered to me by an arm bandaged Dingbats with breakfast. She of course also wearing her expression of the most depressed of the apostles at the last supper. As well she might having forgotten napkin, the salt, the butter, cream and a cup to drink from. But did remember to make sure that nearly everything one touched was either tacky with honey or slippery with grease. I must confess I was so damn tempted to upend my tray and shout something quite rigorously untoward and blasphemous. But one could so plainly see the poor creature despite her big tits and fear of rats and dogs, had not more than five brain cells in her head.

‘Ah Mollie, I do think we are minus salt, butter, cream, a cup and saucer and napkin.’

‘Are they not there on the tray sir.’

‘No in fact apparently they are not there.’

‘O. I put them on I did.’

Clearly a ghost with wings had stolen them on the way from the kitchen and now one was going to spend enough time while my cold breakfast was getting ice cold, discussing it. And in one’s impatience one does do dastardly things. I pointed silently downwards to the kitchen. Suggesting Dingbats to go there. Before I much noisily rose from my bloody bed and booted her well larded arse stairwards. Damn insolent creature by the tone of her voice I knew was suggesting I could do without the salt, the butter, the cream and a cup to drink from. And one overheard her mumbling just as she was closing the door.

‘I haven’t had me own breakfast yet.’

Good lord, not back here long enough to catch my breath, with hardly a single moment of peace and with such brazen ungratefulness, one wonders why on earth I bother to stay. Debts mounting hourly. A most recent insalubrious communication from the local bank manager with clearly an increasingly careless regard for his social betters, demanding to see me. At least one will dig out a spoonful of this still lukewarm congealed porridge while I open this envelope addressed unmistakably under Crooks’ instruction.

Master Reginald,

c/o The Apartments of

Delia, Her Late Ladyship.

And well you might know he would choose to have such message written on one of the last few sheets of engraved notepaper left in the house. And that put into one of the last few engraved envelopes. And that sealed with my mother’s grandfather’s wax seal. With a coat of arms that one hates to admit this tender hour of the morning, may be quite bogus.

I beg to inform you kind sir that your obedient and humble servant is due to the recent apparition presently indefinitely indisposed.

CROOKS

Just as one needed, in the soothing interests of one’s spirit, some very top butlering these mornings, you might be damn sure that nothing of the sort could be expected. Having as I had just elaborately enumerated and posted new unbreakable rules for the household and estate. Instructing that only one pound of butter and one quart of cream be allotted per meal at servants’ meals. Of course including tea this still means four bloody pounds of butter, and one ruddy gallon of cream down the hatch, plus endless grumbling from the men in from the yard. That nothing of the kind could happen in my mother’s day. Further to which Sexton, of course enlightened me.

‘Ah there would be complaint no matter what but sure harmless enough are the passing remarks that you’re a Protestant alright, and next you’ll be counting out the raisins baked in the bread.’

One does shrink in horror at the bias of such bigoted words, but not much milk comes out of the udders of two dead cows, even Catholic ones. And unless I galvanize this mob into some semblance of corporate efficiency they’ll all be lucky to be eating potato and cabbage soup. Of course one is one’s own worst enemy. To feel abed of a morning that one’s blankets and counterpane somehow shielded one from the rigours of facing another day. Of turd congealed sewers. Of hungry coughing sick and dying animals. Of fences broken. The muddy deep ruts of carts where timber had been stolen. Every tool if not broken, twisted out of shape. Or worse, lost. Game poached. Beasts strayed. Or a neighbouring farmer’s cunningly trespassing cattle. And before one even arises to get out into the fields, so much internally is already amiss. A knock right now on the door. Dingbats with the missing items of my breakfast.

‘You’ve still forgotten the cream and butter Mollie.’

‘Ah sir it is the new kitchen rules to stop the wastage.’

‘Did you have cream and butter for your breakfast.’

‘I haven’t had me breakfast.’

‘Will you have cream and butter for your breakfast.’

‘I might.’

‘Well I might too, if you please.’

If nothing else, Dingbats’ four brain cells, recently five, clearly could energize enough to provide an instant countenance of insubordination. Flouncing about in her tracks, big tits shaking and closing the door behind her with far more than enough force to shut it. God knows what they were all doing in this house all the time I wasn’t here. Rereading Crooks’ message, one takes a damn poor view of his word indefinite. Find him in urgent hysterics blinded over another vision of my virginal mother draped in her array of pearls arisen from the dead. Better I suppose than finding him having abruptly terminated his employ by committing hara kiri in our butler’s suicide room. Where from whence Crooks now claims, the previous butler who had hung himself from the ceiling, came making a nightly ghostly appearance with ampoules of whisky. And as Sexton said to me in the garden.

‘Sure it’s nothing more than proof incarnate with the residue of bottles and glasses and stains staring anybody in the face that your man Crooks is a raving alcoholic.’

Three days of continuous rain later. Fields flooded. Buckets all over the house under leaks. And waking from a dream. Of