‘Help.’
Baptista, her reins flying loose disappearing in a hollow on the landscape, clinging to her mare’s mane. Darcy Dancer that gentleman galloping after her. Petunia blasting farts from her quarters down the hillside. The other side of a ploughed field Baptista’s mare breaking through a briar hedge. Head for that hole. Shield one’s face. The thorns ripping past. One does wish chivalry didn’t accost one at such times. But of course appearances must be kept up even in the worst mêlée. Otherwise the whole hunt could quickly give the impression of a collection of abject cowards.
Baptista hanging half off flying down a long slope, boots out of her stirrups, arms now wrapped around her mount’s neck. At a turf ripping speed up and over a wall and pounding in a cloud of steam across a gorsey field. O my god if I recall correctly from previous hunts over this terrain behind that next wall lies the deepest of ditches. Clearly a lady is about to be in further deep distress. And what a bunch of namby pambies back there. Of course one was as clearly scared as anyone. Knowing Midnight Shadow of old. And relieved to be heading in a direction which happens to be homewards. Leaving far behind silhouetted on the gentle meadow mound a complete ruddy circus of terrified hunt members to whom one does not want to admit ownership of the lethal monster in their midst.
Darcy Dancer nearly catching up Baptista as her mount struggled belly deep thrashing across the ditch and scrambles up the other side, her bun hanging loose from her hair net. Dear me, Petunia is getting stuck. I’ll say that for the dear girl, she’s not easy to shift out of the saddle. And holy ruddy hell while I’m being nearly bucked off with Petunia peering down into this abyss, she’s reaching some sure footing on high ground.
Darcy Dancer back tracking to take a running jump across the ditch. Petunia refusing at the edge. Darcy Dancer catapulted forward over Petunia’s head. In a somersault plunging completely submerged. Picking himself up chill, splattered and battered, soaked to the skin. A gallon of bog water down the throat. Lost my cap. My whip. H two O as Sexton calls it is pouring out the top of one’s boots. Blobs of mud caked dripping from face to feet. And crawl and claw up the sides of the ditch to finally stand at the top. With Petunia galloping loose and Baptista utterly out of sight. A brace of ducks overhead. Minding their own business. As I should have minded mine. And left chivalry to the devil.
Darcy Dancer chasing Petunia across two Irish miles of moorland until she finally stood up to her belly quietly grazing the edge of a bog. And in one long swallow downing the sweet winy contents of one’s port pouch still intact. To lead Petunia back across drier land to the shelter of a quiet glade in some pines. Shield from the chilling breeze. Empty my boots and squeeze the buckets of water out of one’s clothes, numbness creeping into one’s bones. Both of us nearly exhausted.
Darcy Dancer redonning his underwear. Waistcoat, jacket and breeches hanging over the branches of a tree. The matches in one’s pocket too wet to start a fire. Lean against Petunia for warmth. O my god Midnight Shadow may have already killed people only a mile or two away. And all he was trying to do was have a daylight orgasm up the what for of some American lady’s in season mare. Which was exactly what one was thinking of doing to Baptista. Which would be as calming for me in my nervous state of celibacy just as it would be calming for Midnight Shadow.
The crack of a twig and a nearly blood curdling laugh behind him. Darcy Dancer quickly turning around. There mounted calmly as you please, framed by the pine’s boughs, her head back roaring, Baptista. Hair net in place and just a flake or two of mud splattered upon her immaculate person.
‘O you are aren’t you such a mirthful sight I can’t help laughing. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t, if you don’t mind, think it’s at all funny.’
‘You must forgive me. But you do look so completely ridiculous.’
Baptista popping down to the ground. Standing snapping her whip against her thigh. And there we were. Nice as you please. Together. Alone. In the glade. Me in utter muddy half naked ignominy. My obelisk about as rigid as any obelisk can get without its exploding altogether and conspicuously propping out my rather tattered underwear. Our mounts side by side gobbling up the grass. The foam at the sides of their mouths turning green.
Darcy Dancer struggling on one leg trying to get back into his breeches, hobbling to Baptista’s giggling as he stuck a frozen foot through the wet fabric. Baptista coming forward to lend a hand. And one turns one’s obelisk pointing in her direction and reaches arms around her in playful affection before one falls flat upon one’s face.
‘And what on earth do you think you’re doing Darcy Dancer.’
‘Might we not rest on the grass while our mounts graze a little. They must be exhausted.’
‘Of course I’m appreciative of your efforts to rescue me but I don’t mind saying. You have your nerve. To think I would get down in the mud with you. While people by those distant screams are indicating that their very lives are still in danger.’
Darcy Dancer eyeing her highly undeserved hunt buttons and staring at these lips and large eyes. So full of their past deceits. What utter pish and pother. Who the bloody hell wants to lay hand to you anyway. O god I’ve trod again in the nettles. Always so prevalently sprouting in the garden of one’s carnal desire. Stinging my poor bare feet with the hottest pain. Which they just barely feel being so god damn presently frozen.
‘You are in your primitive way an amusing young lad.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You would wouldn’t you like to seduce me. Married as I am. That’s shut you up hasn’t it. You are rather handsome you know. But far far too young for me, not physically of course. But intellectually, and actually, if the truth were to be known, I rather prefer men who are brainier than myself and you are but a callow youth. A country bumpkin. While I have been a habituée of sophisticates. You do understand don’t you. Well why don’t you say something.’
‘Because madam I am totally speechless at your pathetically incredible presumptions, but one does allow for them, being as you so regrettably are, of the common mediocrity.’
Darcy Dancer pulling on boots and jacket and striding off to the grazing Petunia. Taking up her reins and prodding her in the ribs and on the run jumping into the saddle. Galloping off and passing Baptista’s mare, leaning out to land an almighty swat on the quarters as the two horses pounded out of the glade breaking branches and trampling the shrubs of gorse and blackthorn.
‘How dare you, come back, come back.’
Hanging from the western clouds a grey veil of rain approaching. And south, a streak of golden sun slicing across the distant meadows and hilltops. With three rainbows blazing one on top of another across the eastern sky. And a faint sound. Huntsman calling the hounds. While she’s back there abandoned. A nice wet trek of a mile or two through uncharted countryside will quick cure her of her sophistications acquired in Manchester. One of course should have flung her down and pricked her arse goodo in the gorse. Her bloody over ample quarters need trimming down anyway. To begin with she arrived late to hunt and then promptly headed the fox into the bog without so much as an apology to the Master or huntsman. And can you imagine anyone getting so full of themselves in the English industrial midlands. I mean one can understand if she said she had spent a few weeks in London rounding off her rougher small town Irish edges and then if she had to go north she could at least have gone to Harrogate which according to my dear Mr Arland does have an adequate preponderance of the better sorts. But for her to now think she was on stage with the top crust in the county well, she would be entirely better off boasting she was a scouse from Liverpool. And at least then be able to be taken as being the genuine article. Too many of those solicitors and shopkeepers on the edge of town whose front gardens have completely gone to their heads, thinking they are as oneself, an actual member of the landed gentry. When hardly yet distinct from tradesfolk. And for the matter of that.
Even from
Lesser educated
&n
bsp; Apes
In the animal
Kingdom
8
Although one does not mind being a cad, one simply did not have it in one to be an unmitigated cad. And before sheepishly returning to Andromeda Park one circled back cross country to where one had abandoned the poor creature Baptista. Leading her mare who appeared from its hang dog look to be pretty well knackered and as shiveringly cold as I was.
‘I’ll have the big house likes of ye off me land, I’m telling you now.’
Another farmer gone hysterically ape with his pitch fork dancing a jig up and down on his pathetic acres to which Petunia’s dung, plopping out of her quarters, must have been the first beneficial thing that had happened to them in years. And having trudged through bog and clambered over stone walls again and come across stray hounds, one had of course expected to find Baptista up to her ample arse in muck throwing her arms about one in grateful tears. But she was nowhere in sight.
The sky clearing, a still night descending. The sight of the first twinkling cold star on the south west horizon as Darcy Dancer, Baptista’s mare in tow, cut across through the ancient oak wood and rhododendrons on the overgrown old farm road. Frost on the grass. Fog hovering over the low lands across the countryside. The sound of the river through the mist. By the mossy mounds and ivied broken walls of these abandoned cottages. The ruin of the old stone bridge ahead. The sound of a voice. Singing. Petunia shying to an abrupt stop. Baptista’s mare rearing up, pawing the air and nearly braining me. Horses backing away. And god. There is something there again. Something moved. My heart is pounding and Petunia’s thumping. And bloody Baptista’s mare bolting, tearing the reins out of my hand. And now it will surely break every leg crashing away through the thick undergrowth. Enough has happened today without my hair not only standing up on the back of one’s head but I’m sure it will shortly be turning snowy white.
Darcy Dancer giving chase. Baptista’s mare disappearing in the dusk. In the distance, a fox barking. Just to let me know. With every shivering stride home. What an awful arse one has been today. Hands and feet blue numbed with cold. Only sensible thing left is to sink in the safety of one’s hot bath. Except for my privates, thorns nearly in every other part of one’s anatomy. What one wouldn’t give to be back amid Dublin debauchery. Lois her tits wagging and her castanets clacking. Instead of crossing through these beech woods. Mouldy death and gloom. Shutters closed on the back windows of Andromeda Park. Lower one’s head in the darkness of the tunnel to the stables. A relief to hear one’s horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Soon a long recline in a steaming tub. Expunge the offending splinters and thorns out of one’s epidermis. And my god, out of one’s soul.
Darcy Dancer passing the stable window. Luke, Henry and Thomas toasting themselves in front of the roaring tack room fire puffing on cigarettes. The three of them jumping up. From where their arses were planted on soft seats of hay stuffed in buckets. Nearly as fast as Henry did in his last discontent when Thomas left a bottle on a shelf labelled apple juice and filled with piss. Be the first effort they’ll have made since lunch. Be dredging up their best blandishments to improve one’s sour appraisal of their idleness.
‘Sir was it a good hunt you had. Sure Petunia will be glad to be in her box. Looks like she had a few miles under her belly at the gallop.’
Darcy Dancer walking up the incline and turning to enter the house by the side door. The heavy ancient latch. Polished by so many hands. See how many others are lolling about.
‘Ah sir you’re back.’
‘That would appear to be the case Crooks.’
Crooks coming out of the kitchen with two decanters of port, in bandaged hands. Soupstained no doubt. And you’d think his hand crushed in the dumb waiter would have long since healed. He does so like to remind one of his injuries.
‘Well excuse me sir for incommoding you at this moment of the evening Master Reginald. There’s an urgent gathering upstairs. In the front hall in their muddy boots. Hunt members wanting to have a serious word with you. Barged right in the door past me they did. And I thought it best to have refreshments served to assist in calming them.’
‘Not with my bloody port I hope. Tell them to please fuck off.’
‘I couldn’t do that sir now. Not in that language. By the bloodthirsty looking condition of them they’d set upon me.’
‘Well then tell them in the rudest way you can. To bugger off. And draw my bath please.’
The faint candle light. On the great slabs of stone. The smell of damp. Crooks trembling. O god, he’s going to collapse. Just as one is hoping to run into Leila. Contemplating in one’s mind her small swelling bicep. And the blue vein in her arm with its white tiny knot of an artery. When once she went by me carrying a water filled vase. The only member of this household I’ve ever known to roll up her sleeves. And now the whole entire world seems to intervene between us.
‘And sir as for the matter of this port. This is for the dining room and library, seeing as you have been calling for it recently. And the two extra for dinner. Lady Christabel and Lavinia should be at this very moment arrived at the station and Sexton has gone to fetch them.’
‘Good god.’
‘A cable came while you were out hunting. Shall supper be at your convenience.’
‘Yes. I think most certainly yes. After a day like today.’
Crooks ushered first up the servants’ stairs. Darcy Dancer following. In case with an attack of sudden staggers he should collapse. Sound of voices down the main hall. Shouldn’t be surprised if Crooks doesn’t drink half a decanter and spill the other as he did one night on the carpet outside my bedroom door. One distinctly felt the thwack of a large spoon upon the top of one’s head at the mention of one’s sisters. Eye gouging. Secateurs clipping one’s ear lobes. Hair pulling. Bath splashing. Attempted drownings and hangings. Shoves, pushes and punches. Toys and teddy bears ripped from one’s hands. And upon their being shipped away to better things of England, not lost upon me are all the intervening years of peace.
Darcy Dancer soaking back in the hot waters of the bath. Window panes steamed over. The fire at last beginning to glow in the grate. At the finish of a day’s hunting, agreeably tired, one should be purring with the joy of still being alive. Instead of haunted with singing ghosts and a killer stallion at large. And that uncomfortable feeling that while one has been away the day that nothing at all has been done by anybody. With the exception of course of Sexton, Leila and old Edna Annie. When one sees a member of the household or estate not with their hands actively on some tool, and wielding it in the motion and manner for which it is meant, one must suspect the worst malingering. And my god added to it all now could be the two more mouths of my sisters not to mention the mouths of any horses they may fancy to hunt. Where and how in this world does one make a monstrous amount of money. Or get to own something like a brewery. O god it’s ruddy shocking how the terrors of impoverishment and ruin do gnaw at one’s vitals.
Darcy Dancer in dressing gown, standing on the landing listening to the din in the front hall. Proceeding further downwards and stopping. Sound of distant feet pounding up and down the back stairs to the kitchen. The clatter of boots on the tiles. Sounds like a ruddy bash in progress. Candles blazing. The utter incredible nerve. With the whole ruddy household running hither and thither ferrying cakes, barmbracks. And my god big tits Dingbats, lugging by the neck two utterly heirloom precious bottles of brandy rolling her eyes demented with the delight of it all.
‘And where Mollie are you taking those bottles.’
‘They be brandy sir.’
‘I know they’re brandy. Which happens to be pale and extremely old.’
‘It’s for inside there.’
‘Take them back to the cellar.’
‘Sir there’s a thirst on them visitors in there that would make you think their bellies were screaming their throats were cut.’
‘Well their bellies can go on screaming.’
Dingbats turning
on her heel. Heavily pounding off back down the hall. Feel the floor joists tremble. Lots of ruddy power could be harnessed from her haunches. Tie her up to one of those machines they use pumping water in China. Burn off some of the butter she gorges. And by the smell of her she has worked up one of her more highly musty pongy sweats. Surprisingly quite stimulating to the gonads. But this is no time for an erection in one’s front hall.
Darcy Dancer with an imperious sweep proceeding out amidst all these unheeding elbows so busily bent upending glasses to their mouths. Hunt servants in a decidedly sheepish little huddle by the fire. Not one of them noticing me in the pale blue, brown and white racing colours of my dressing gown. Nor my black, white polka dotted silk scarf at my throat. Astonishing how one can suddenly feel a complete interloper in one’s own house as a gang of invaders make jolly familiar. People making themselves entirely at home as if they were bloody well invited, most of whom I have never spoken to and some I’ve not even seen before. And wouldn’t you know, like a gang of starved rats partaking from a table laid centre hall. Stuffing their empty bellies. Slurping up my tea, slathering on my butter and munching up my breads and already quaffing my wines and liquors. Behaving as favoured guests with one another at one’s own conspicuous expense. But o my god, my port. There. The hunt secretary’s hand already reaching for a decanter to take a refill. So much for damn Crooks’ reassurances. Bloody servants love to be generous with one’s viands and most precious tipple. Especially pouring the latter down the throats of perfect strangers. One does not mind being bled white by the consumption of bread and butter but it is a little bit bloody much to reach that anaemic condition when it’s one’s most anciently preserved and cherished wines being gulped.
Darcy Dancer fetching the two decanters away to a sideboard around the hall corner. Followed rapidly by the bow legged hunt secretary Major Bottom clomping across the tiles in his boots, a cream bun and a glass of port clutched in his hands.
Leila Page 10