Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘And meet our new Master, Kildare. Wing Commander Buster Lawrelton Ryecrisp Brillianton.’

  ‘Jolly good to meet you Kildare. Look forward to your lawn meet next Tuesday. Be a wizard prang I’m sure. Hear there’s a lot of fine hunting over your estate.’

  I did think his reference to my estate rather too pointed. And my word, imagine, wizard prang. Where on earth does he think he is. One is tempted to disclose that one has a personal mad house he might take off and land in as well as a mad stallion at large to bite off his display of sandwich and brandy pouches. But one could see the man would not listen an instant, so overly concerned is he with the impression he is making on the ladies with his far too overly thoroughbred horse, pink coat, white leather breeches, ivory handled whip and other Londonish appurtances. And dear me with two grooms in attendance. One driving a strangely shaped motor vehicle of a renowned make containing, as the hunt secretary put it, a veritable Bodleian library of cocktails. This latter remark of course being the most erudite thing heard in the county for a century.

  ‘Jolly good day for a scent.’

  I say, gracious me, that’s a rather nice bit of alright. A very superior attractive golden tressed lady just trotted by on that rather even more attractive skittish bay mare. I must catch her up and take her up smartly on her remark.

  ‘Yes indeed, jolly good day for a scent.’

  One had only a moment to see her strangely familiar face as we moved off single line down a track and were then but a moment at the first draw when a fox was found and we were off and running like antelopes. On a line towards the big hill above the great bog. Seventeen in the field. Pounding across a great meadow. Swept by the fresh winds. Blowing the gloomy cobwebs out of the mind. Wafting the clinging doldrums away into the sky behind. Mists wet the face. Soft turf under the hoofs flying up backwards in the sky. The whipper in, first casualty. His mount catching a front leg in a deep rabbit hole. Shooting like an arrow head first and astonishingly perpendicular, clearly a foot into the ground. His two legs thrusting like a frog’s into the air. His poor hobbling horse barely able to stand on three remaining legs, awaiting a belt of a sledge hammer on the brain to be put by some local farmer out of its misery.

  ‘Gung bloody ruddy ho.’

  The secretary shouting out at the height of his apogee, as he was catapulted up into the sky. His horse having somersaulted caught on an old bedstead hidden at the top of the first wall. It was quite remarkable his head over heels trajectory landing him quite embarrassingly but mercifully arse splatteringly centre of an enormous not too long deposited cow pat. He did at least have the sporting sense of spirit to express his euphoria at the safe but distinctly brown landing. And to later bravely groan out to the golden tressed lady offering the only assistance.

  ‘Carry on my dear. Landed on a spot of brown I did. Soiled me but jolly well broke my fall.’

  Of course even I from a distance could see the vanquished secretary might have a broken leg and, from his one arm hanging limp, also an arm. But attended to by a sensible chap who was closing gates the secretary was now being helped to his feet. While his horse, still running and stumbling in its reins, did a complete somersault over the next wall as if to demonstrate a victory roll to the new Master. And gracious me those American ladies, heading for the same gap, both trying to stay on the Master’s tail, crashing together, their mounts both thumping to the ground and throwing them flying. So marvellously entertaining. Both ladies of course in search of titled husbands. Perhaps if one could rid them of their awful whining accents, one would be tempted to marry one of them for her money.

  The huntsman and pack had put the fox to ground on a rise of furze bushes. And I was pleased to see approaching the blond tressed lady who had offered the secretary assistance, and who had mentioned the jolly good scent.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  Somehow I could not, racking my brains, put a name to this attractive face. And so stunningly pretty. Large eyes, and long lashes. And one was quite taken aback when she smiled and without the merest of introductions called to me from a couple of lengths away. And O my god I know now. Dear me who it is. Those blue eyes. None other than Baptista Consuelo. Of course I’m sure she doesn’t recall after these few years seeing me as she lay on her back with the hairy arsed Mental Marquis pumping between her legs when one unavoidably had to jump the pair of them prostrate upon each other aisle centre down an overgrown avenue of lime trees.

  ‘And how are you, Darcy Dancer.’

  ‘I am fine thank you. And how are you.’

  ‘I am bored thank you. And I’m beginning to think you don’t know who I am. You don’t, you don’t, do you.’

  ‘Well as a matter of fact, I do. And it was sporting of you to offer assistance to our downed secretary.’

  ‘People are so bloody selfish aren’t they. I simply could not put my pleasure before coming to the aid of another who might need it. Of course I know you’re only pretending to remember me. I am Baptista Consuelo. You had a tutor, such an amusing man I thought. A Mr Ireland or something.’

  ‘Mr Arland.’

  ‘Yes that’s it. Arland. Couldn’t ride, could he.’

  What could one say as she smiled again, the steam of her horse rising round her. Amazing how one could have been such ardent enemies once. And now out hunting to adopt a friendliness forced upon one by one’s impossible randiness. Further inflamed of course by that scene. Of the Mental Marquis’s perspiring skull. His very hairy cheeks of his arse. And pounding away between her flailing legs. Clearly she has lost some of her aloof stuck up nature with which she had tortured my dear Mr Arland. Who never in his desperate unrequited love for her, had a single cheerful moment to be amusing. She does have indeed a pair of good strong thighs.

  ‘I hope you’re coming to the lawn meet.’

  ‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away Darcy Dancer.’

  O my god. I am rather sucking up to her. But what is one going to do for a lady. Someone to whom one could make naughties without suffering the gnawing pangs of love. Perhaps knock her off her horse down some ravine after this fox is dug out of its earth. And the two of us could sensibly on my coat do some things together. But to now want to reach to place my squeezing hand on one of her thighs, is a total shock to my sensibilities. When one thinks of all the revenges one should take for her treatment of Mr Arland. Of course the Mental Marquis of Farranistic does have vast estates. Does rather make ladies open their legs. And my poor Mr Arland had not a pot to piss in. And she must be back from England, by the sound of her. One could get the gossip from Sexton. One is sure she has across the water been madly attempting to meet someone of social stature. In her desperation to get married. But clearly the sort who would finally succeed in doing so will be a less socially acceptable type but considerably rich. A merchant perhaps considerably much older than herself. Showering her with gifts of jewels, houses and racehorses. Her quarters if anything are enlarged somewhat. But what an awful shockingly ambitious urge they give one in their pneumatic moundiness peeking out under her flapping coat, to plunge in there between them. Deeply. Just as our fox has gone to ground, dug in as the field waits for him to be dug out.

  ‘Of course I am now Mrs O’Shawrassy McFlynn O’Toole. My husband is in textiles.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He’s back in Manchester. I absolutely hate Manchester.’

  ‘O dear.’

  ‘One can’t see one’s hand held in front of one’s face for the smoke.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘In fact you can’t see. Ha, ha. Ah but let us ride together. Darcy Dancer. You are aren’t you I believe the namesake of that racehorse.’

  Dear me. She seems to have no timidity. And seems to know considerable personal about me. I wonder does she know that I have actually seen her bare arsed in a Royal Hibernian Hotel bedroom whipping the besaddled Marquis crawling before her across the floor. Ye gads. Tally ho. We’re off. I shall burst my fly open with t
he present obelisk one sports. O god what a mercurial lot ladies are. Never bloody well know what they want. Wanting everything. And getting something. Always wanting something else. How shall one ever find a suitable wife with a decent dowry. One to whom one might read aloud of an evening in the library. Whose sensibilities are refined enough that she would know an ode from an octave, and an octave from an orangutan. Yet possessed of nerve on the hunting field. And who did not neigh like a horse like some do. A lady interested in madrigals. The finer things. Paintings and porcelains. Opera and ballet. One to take up the responsibilities of being mistress of an estate. Seeing that one’s housekeeper sees to the linens. Commanding the servants suitably. Putting a stop to the malingering and indolence down every hall way. And to do so in such a fashion that it did not induce the cook to pop deadly nightshade in the cabbage soup. And not to go nuts. As Miss von B used to say. I did I suppose fall madly but not perhaps too fatally in love with her. And my god what tits she had. Her waist I could nearly join my hands around. And slender yet well fleshed strong limbs. She could nearly best me when we upon occasion wrestled together. Indeed she did once pin me to the carpet. Of course I was distracted by her utter nudity at the time. Tussling with naked ladies especially one’s housekeeper, being entirely new to me. Her skin so smooth, and always so freshly clean. Marvellous to witness her sedately squatting to perform her gracefully executed ablutions upon her more intimate bifurcations. And then she would rub cream into her glowing limbs and torso. One does feel that women of this island are so gauche in their intimate matters. And those such as Miss von B from the better families on the continent are so elegant. Of course in that part of the world, they are much cleaner and neater than we are. Miss von B was, or at least her collection of photographs professed her to be, raised in the better and larger castles. She did rather let her superiority be known. More than once addressing me as you dirty filthy Irish little bastard. She was, I hope, merely trying to be charming. As she would go wiping about with her white gloves. The household keys jangling. Vas ist das. Das ist dust. Der dirt. Dee grime. Der stink. One was indeed at times awfully smelly of course. But I don’t think deserving of some of her less flattering references. Dear me when the blood gets up having a gallop, the thoughts one thinks out hunting. One would plunge it up anything at all. Like blind Mick McGinty does up the back of his heifer instead of his wife. But one must never allow oneself to suffer the misery of falling in love again. Shove it in. Bang. Bang. Take that you lovely darling. Bang bang. But leave my ruddy soul alone. When one thinks of it. I have indeed been up many ladies. At least four or so. Maybe five. But who’s counting. As each was nearly more unsuitable than the other. And too many of them by half old enough to be my mother. The married lady I went to bed with on Howth Head had such enormous nipples. Which I tweezed lightly between my fingers on her grand staircase. Not that I hold age or large nipples against her or any mother who had them. But as one is quickly approaching one’s own prime one does definitely choose a mare whose breasts are pinkly budding and whose loins and legs are at their galloping best. So many lying down cows getting up step on their own teats. My dear you’re awfully long in the udder. No. I must put it up a female whose body is stately enough to adore. I shall never stoop so low as to consider a servant. Leila’s luscious lips or even fine legs would be entirely wrong. Her beauties simply wouldn’t be right. Perhaps if she had a decent conformation, pasterns, hocks, loins, quarters, neck and shoulder in the right manner, I would do well to choose someone plain of face but dependable. A parson’s daughter. Found somewhere in England. Raised in a modest manor house on the edge of a village. In short a decent sort. Fond of hymn singing. Who would, when the verger was ill, light candles for her father before services. And whose blemishes might in themselves be attractive. A type who would not be spoiled by the seeming grandeur of a large house. A wholesome steady sort, interested in bee keeping, jam making and gardening. Beautiful ladies do appear in the end to be such a nuisance. They do I suppose give one a cachet while parading in public. While giving one a pain in the arse in private. And damn all they do is to attract the envious attention of other men. And what good does that do the pleasures of one’s own prick. Which after all should have priority in one’s passions.

  ‘You must, Darcy Dancer, come over and see me sometime. I’m only an hour away by motor car.’

  Dear me that is an invitation. If one only had one’s motor car I was foolish enough to sell in Dublin. I must knock her in the ditch before the day is finished. She has my tongue hanging out. After all married ladies are best in avoiding the worst. And meanwhile if only one could persuade oneself to be satisfied with some not altogether homely type and not a Leila taking insult at the drop of a hat or floating of a feather. And perform her duties good naturedly. And my coat is flying open. One’s buttons are hanging off by a thread. If one dismounted at the moment I should be most embarrassed by my obelisk. I must say one does get unaccountably enraged if things happen at one’s inconvenience. I simply must put it up some lady soon. And not be driven to fantasizing about one’s female servants. Jumping up from bed and grabbing Dingbats. Taking her uniform off. Monstrous boobies bursting forth into one’s hands. As she demurely murmurs what are you doing to me sire. Shoving her down on the chaise longue. Get your arse spread across that you. And shut up. I’m going to give you jolly what for. In the form of galloping jollies. Up the joyful bifurcation. Very good sir. Damn right very good sir. O god. I’m out of my mind with lust. A deadly serious situation. Which must be controlled. One wants so much to be a carnal tour de force without being a complete arse hole as well. Last night’s port is giving me this day’s randiness. There on the horizon. The great castle has come into view. And the earl’s flag flying. By the sound of the hunt hollering ahead we shall be in the bog by the woods on the edge of Thormondstown. A lasso would be the thing. Hurled to settle gently around Baptista’s shoulders and then yank her down off her horse. Then bang, bang. O god. Petunia. Whoops there you go. Nicely over this dreadful wire. O my god. They’re coming down like ninepins behind one. On their bunch of damn foolish horses that can’t see what they’re looking at. Such amateurishness doesn’t bear thinking about. I must hold out. For an elegant wife. One with the common touch. Who could as my mother did go amongst the peasantry, and would, invited into their cottages, not wince at their primitive ways and their seemingly endless inexplicable stupidities. Who would be tolerant of their pagan ancient ignorances. Cheer them in their doldrums. Commiserate when the lower orders, as they do, laugh and point at each other when seeing someone suffering pain. As one witnessed visiting the ancient old lady O’Grady down a mile from one’s own front gate. Her five pet chickens picking up crumbs from her earthen floor. Named saint this and that. And as she sat on the hob as one took tea with her, she pointed and roared as her spinster fifty year old daughter agonizingly contorted over a toothache. I must say I did myself chuckle inwardly a bit. It is in fact bloody rather enjoyably funny when another is groaning away in torment. And unable to contain myself, I too started roaring. As old lady O’Grady started slapping her thigh with such force she fell off the hob. O dear. I suppose these days, to find such a tolerant mate, as who could find such a scene perfectly acceptable, is a little too much to ask for. With evidence already so blatant in the land, of ordinary people putting on airs. Keeping up with the Kellys. Even to raising their voices in the lobby of the Royal Hibernian Hotel. About crates of champagne being delivered to their front suburban doorsteps. Blast them all to hell. I simply must get Baptista in the furze somewhere beyond there, now that we are on firm land again out of this awful bog we’ve been mucking through, Wouldn’t take all that long. To smash a bull’s eye on that easy target. Bang bang.

  Darcy Dancer following at a gallop the upraised white rear of Baptista Consuelo bouncing in front. Streaking up the hillside. A blood curdling scream ahead. And another. To scream in lust, rage or high spirits is acceptable but to scream in utter fear on the hunt is simply not
done. Must be one of these ruddy interlopers whose nerve is being severely tested. But dear me riders are scattering in all directions. The hounds even fleeing. Huntsman will soon split the copper of his horn with his blowing. The whipper in trotting on foot lashing out around him. As if he were whipping enslaved souls in hell. O my god. That’s awful. One of the American ladies, her mare being mounted from the rear by another entirely naked monstrous horse. O no. It’s him. My god Midnight Shadow. On the attack.

  ‘Help. I’m being ravished.’

  ‘Begorra madam you must own a canyon if you can fit the like of that up you.’

  Midnight Shadow, teeth out, hind hoofs gouging emerald clumps skywards from the land, locking its forelegs around the quarters of the Virginian lady’s mare. Her yellow gloved hands outstretched as she pitched forward once more to the ground as this stallion killer humped away with his vast shaft. The yelp of hounds being stepped on. Riders scattered in all directions. Those at least who were still aloft on their mounts. And the unstuck escaping like scurrying crabs over the grass.

  ‘Get off my land you fucking Protestants.’

  A crouched farmer with the barrel of a gun stuck over the wall discharging shot. The Master’s horse rearing up at a salvo and tumbling him backwards arse first on top of Amnesia Murphy previously a mile back deposited wedged in the fork of a tree. A sound of the distinct crunch of bones and a long low groan. And it would appear Amnesia Murphy, who had long forgotten to pay tradesmen’s bills for miles around, could still remember he was a Catholic.

  ‘Begorra I want the last rites. I’m kilt.’

  The huntsman, fist to his face, attempting to stifle his guffaws. The whipper in doubled over convulsed. Even the irate farmer standing up grinning behind his stone rampart, to promptly get a muddy sod smack in the face. The Mental Marquis falling off the side of his horse trying to empty the contents of his flask of brandy. And even prostrate on the ground was still drinking without dropping a drop. Mr Fox, should he glance backwards from the bog whither he was so wisely flown taking the hounds in his wake, would surely too have a rare droll old time.