Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  Of course both of us calling for still more port were finally quite tight. And totally forgetting my sisters. Till Crooks appropriately clearing his throat at the door reminded one. As much as one found the Marquis’ designs on Leila a bitter thought one does admit it could brighten her future. And also rid me of one of my very best reasons for remaining alive. Which does make one considerably angry especially as he keeps dropping more than a little of his cigar ash on the carpet. But one does still find him amusing. As well as suddenly sad. Sitting there. Staring into space. Looking terribly lonely.

  ‘You see Kildare. Fraud, artifice, overreaching and deception are fundamental to democracy. Therefore I believe in socialism. You know what that is do you. Fair shares for all you know. We’ve been kicking the damn peasants around for too long. Now they’re trying to kick us. I don’t mind them poaching a few of my bloody salmon but some damn rogue has killed about two hundred of my trees. Hammered a copper nail into each wretched one. Our way of life is going you know. We want to be ready. When socialism comes. Yes siree as they say in Amerikay. You know power to the ruddy people and all that kind of cod’s bloody wallop, It’s a pity, but brains are not going to matter in the future you know. Fault of too much damn thinking getting nobody anywhere in the past. The war you know. Made too many people realize you had to kick someone in the goolies if you wanted him to do something. Man to man Kildare, what does a brainy chap like you think of socialism.’

  ‘I have not as a matter of fact recently thought about it.’

  ‘Well you think about it Kildare. But by god when you’ve got a female item like that gaoled out in this neck of the god forsaken bog.’

  ‘I’ll thank you not to refer to her as an item.’

  ‘What. What. Good god. You’re not, are you. Smitten too. By jove you are. You well and truly are. Your face may be affected by the wine dear chap but a bloodier blush than that I’ve never seen. Now look here Kildare. Just shut up and listen won’t you for a moment. Girl like that. Should be in London and Paris. I’ve got a proposition to make you. Now here it is in a nutshell. You agree to my taking her, quite properly chaperoned of course, over to my place where she can be trained up, and if a spade’s to be called a spade, also groomed damn it, and polished. Made fit for society. And not bloody high society am I talking about here. I mean good bloody sound society. And if you’d only shut up and listen Kildare. The girl already knows some French. And we’d teach her some Italian too. Chi nasce bella nasce maritata. If you get my meaning. I mean someone’s going to steal her Kildare. And it may as well be a damn decent kindly chap like me.’

  Who the hell does he bloody well think he is. Expecting me to hand her over like a sack of oats, just because his damn decent kindly prick’s been recently rigid over their lofty cultural conversation. All he is, is just a bloody Marquis. And all she is, is just a bloody servant. O god. How the hell do I tell him to fuck off to mid Sahara. And there having erected the appropriate scaffolding go and cohabit with a camel. I even see her face when I stare at the wall across this room. Every damn place I look. Outside on the stones. Her eyes, lips, teeth. Gems in the moss. While I think of her. And am so desperate to know. If she thinks of me.

  ‘Sir, you rang.’

  ‘Yes. Bring a bottle of champagne. His Lordship and I also require a sabre.’

  Of course Crooks, returning cobwebbed from the gunroom was half an hour finding the latter and nearly jumped through the ceiling as the Marquis sent the blade whistling through the air knocking off the champagne bottle’s top and cork with a single cut.

  ‘Forgive me your grace for me jump.’

  ‘That’s alright Crooks. I’m not a duke yet but I’m a bloody good swordsman, what.’

  ‘You are indeed and no mistake sir.’

  ‘Bring some to the ladies Crooks, please. Tell them we’ll be joining them.’

  ‘Very good sir.’

  ‘No on second thoughts, wait. They may drink it all.’

  ‘This is a fairly big damn room you know, Kildare. What you need down that end either side of the window are a couple of Regency carved giltwood girandoles. Just happen to have a pair collecting dust. Commemorating Nelson’s victory at the battle of the Nile. As you scoop up your pudding, you contemplate his sterling triumph knocking any of those wogs for a loop. Don’t want to be a spiv about it, but I could let you have them at a decent price if you’ve a mind. Damn decent price in fact. Bit of decorative ornate gold leaf would cheer this place up. And you ought to have a Kingwood parquetry commode right there. Also happen to have one which would suit. Or is that damn presumptuous of me.’

  ‘O no. Not at all. I like people to come into my house and cast their eyes around and comment freely upon one’s shortcomings. Especially when they appear to have a warehouse full of exactly the items necessary to correct one’s poor taste. Gives one, how shall I say it, a certain confidence that one day in the future, provided I avail of the splendid bargains being offered, my house will be properly furnished. Nice to have something like that to aspire to.’

  ‘You know Kildare. I like you. Think we could be damn good friends as a matter of fact. Ah, and I deserve that. Damn it. Quite right. You Thormonds always did know how to grasp the nettle. As if it were some pulchritudinous lady’s limb. And, as I understand from quite a few voices, you were indeed trying to do out hunting today. That Baptista dear boy. Bit of a trollop. Don’t look at me in all innocence. As if your eyes are going to fall out. And don’t turn your nose up at my girandoles. Sixteen hundred quid, the pair. Seven fifty for the commode. No. Let’s make that thirteen for the girandoles, five for the commode. Both cheap at the price.’

  ‘I haven’t seen them yet.’

  ‘See. Are you doubting their middle eighteenth century authenticity.’

  ‘Well they could be falling to bits.’

  ‘Well as a matter of fact they are but it’s a damn bloody reasonable price I’m asking. Good carpenter put them right.’

  And finally on the way to join the ladies in the east parlour. Heading along the hall to the slow military clomp of his Lordship’s riding boots.

  ‘By the way Kildare how are you off for shotguns, have a pair of side lock ejector Purdeys.’

  ‘I’m fine for shotguns at the moment, but there wouldn’t be a bend in the barrels.’

  ‘You’re cheeky Kildare. Very cheeky. Offer you a bargain and you riposte with a bloody slander on Purdeys.’

  Crooks following his tray held much higher than he usually manages bearing the champagne and glasses. And patiently waiting for his Lordship to sell me a few more console tables for bare spots along the hall wall. I’m not sure that the damn man is not trying to unload all his castle junk and take more than a few quid from me at the same time. This house must give him the impression I have more money than my ancestors had taste. And if that’s his conclusion, instead of in his trees, the Marquis must have had put in the baldest part of his head a bloody copper nail which is killing off his excess spivvy brain cells. Dear me, who knows, but just like me, he may not, for all his land presently have a jade pot to piss in. Although his ruddy father the Duke owns enough to start a couple of small nations. But one does have the impression seeing him standing there that he is utterly happy and utterly contented puffing on his cigar. Just as must be his horse utterly uncomplaining presently out in the stables munching up my hot bran, beetroot, hay and oats. Of course Dingbats did rather heap whipped cream in place of mayonnaise on his salmon. And then of course in one’s bonhomie inebriation of winy bliss to make up for it, as one does, and to make matters even worse for oneself, one did do the unbelievably stupid thing. And offer the Marquis a bed.

  ‘Kind of you Kildare but my hunter Rapscallion will take me home. Can fall asleep on that old fellow, and wake up on my front steps. But hold on why not, now that you mention it. I think I would damn welcome a bed. Just as my poor old tired horse would welcome not to have to hack miles in the dark.’

  And now Crooks is going to any sec
ond collapse with his Lordship going off on another tack.

  ‘But by god, what’s this Kildare, a Tiepolo. Surely not. But by jove, it is, is it. No. Not. Maybe from the school at best. Want to sell. Good price.’

  Poor Crooks his arms beginning to waver under the weight of the tray. When one thinks of it, Crooks is sometimes a real dedicated servant. When he is not goosing another member of the staff. My god when one does think of it, poor sod is up there in his celibate cell for years on end. Of course one would mercifully hope that he was past it at his age. And not poking plaster out of the walls in search of self satisfaction. As one is nearly doing oneself except that any fervent attempt would certainly crash this whole place to the ground. Crooks does seem to take pleasure from the Marquis remarking on furnishings and paintings. And is shaking his head up and down in assent at even his bloody wheeling and dealing, as if he knew the girandoles were the answer to our prayers.

  Darcy Dancer and his Lordship followed by Crooks entering the north east parlour. Lavinia and Christabel purple with cold huddling forward over the fire. And would you believe it, both now wearing what to my eye looks like my mother’s evening slippers. Indeed they are. Bloody, bloody nerve. Must have gone into my apartments and bloody rummaged around in my mother’s closets. And as his Lordship and I nearly fall in the door cigar first, Lavinia plumping down on the settee swinging up her dress with her pasterns showing. Two of them holding open copies of Tatler and Sketch. Clearly they must have been straining their eyes reading in the light of two candles.

  ‘Good gracious me. I did think we had been abandoned.’

  ‘Ah my lovely ladies. It is I who have I fear been transgressing good manners with a too long prolonged talk on politics and furniture and pictures to your more than tolerant brother.’

  ‘O dear, you were both being brainy.’

  ‘Well, attempts. Attempts. At best.’

  Of course one does take one’s dinner and always awakes next morning not remembering a single topic or word of conversation one had the entire previous and agreeable evening. Proof that the exercise of one’s intellect is not needed to aid one’s pleasant digestion. But dear me, what ladies won’t hysterically do when sniffing even the vaguest hopes of becoming a Marchioness, not to mention ultimately a Duchess. If of course the Mental Marquis’ equally dotty father, the present Duke, demises. Astonishing how women size men up. Not quite like they would the best cut of beef in a butcher’s. But by memorizing every ruddy line of lineage in Debrett. Don’t care if your hair is falling out of your head and growing in profusion on your arse. Or if you’re wobbling along like a frog on two flat feet providing you’re doing it on your own endlessly extensive acreage. Or even if your toes are webbed. Which of course is awfully nice if you’re intending to beget children who shall wish to go fast as swimmers.

  Christabel demurely lowering Tatler and Sketch as if it were some article of strip tease, which indeed she thinks it is the way she is batting her eyes.

  ‘O how wonderful champagne. But whatever happened to the bottle, Crooks.’

  ‘It was madam, sabred by his Lordship.’

  Lavinia looking at Christabel as if this were some custom they were soon to have to come to terms with in this loony bin and the less inquiry the better. God. There the two of them are. Possessed of breasts and quite hysterically pukka vowels. And not that many years ago they were trying to stuff me into their toy pram. Calling me their own little baby. Nearly suffocating me with covers over my face as I struggled to get out. And then when our mother died would call me their own little orphan. Exhibiting me to guests and saying, now watch, watch how we can make him cry. Then putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, they’d say, your mummy is dead isn’t she, your mummy is dead little brother and she will never, never come back again, will she. And of course I would cry. But the pain of this was never as searing as it had been when my mother still lived and they’d say your mother has gone away and left you little brother, little boy. And then I would get down on my knees and join my hands and sobbingly pray aloud, O please dear god, I beg you please bring my mummy back. And then they’d say, she’s out in the hall, we just heard her come back from hunting. As many times as they had previously played this trick on me I would still arise and rush out into the dark hall desperate with hope. And where, as I stood there sobbing, they’d say, O dear she’s not here she really has gone. So racked and wretched was I that I would press my face and body against the wall. Listening to the sound of winds shuddering up the chimney. All else in the empty hall a howling silence. And when it did finally happen that my mother came through the door to die I imagined for the longest time it was a dream, even to watching her coffin placed away. Down slowly in the ground. And so strange then that I shed not a single tear.

  ‘O this is nice champagne. Dear brother. If you don’t mind my calling you that, and also asking, whatever has got you so lost in reverie. Brainy matters I’m sure.’

  ‘No, not particularly. In this rather dumb part of the midlands it does not do to think too much.’

  ‘O dear we are cynical. Dear brother.’

  One did attempt all the usual avenues of polite conversation, that not discussing horses and hunting allowed. Which meant, one is ashamed to admit, of hardly being able to say a word. But the words said did soon present the Mental Marquis, his head sunk back on the sofa cushion, his eyes slowly closing and faded out of consciousness, uproariously snoring. One did feel a little sorry for one’s sisters although they would understand that even drinking cauldrons of coffee, no one can keep their eyes open after hunting all day. Happily instead of taking umbrage, they laughed.

  ‘Dead to the world. And I think we ought to achieve the same dear brother and retire. It has been a long day. I’ve ordered breakfast for eight and a horse at ten. And if any of the motor cars are working again, and the petrol is to spare, we might motor to visit about. Who is there now who’s chauffeuring.’

  ‘I’m afraid the cars are laid up.’

  ‘O what a nuisance.’

  Dreadful feeling. Only once have they voiced during the evening that it was nice to be home again. Christabel clearly thinks this place is utterly at her beck and call. And ah, that was a grimace of distinct distaste. As my god I do believe the Marquis not only snored, but at the very apogee of his nasal wind also shuddered in all his limbs and exploded in a sonorous manner a regrettably long and what is to my aware nostrils a lethal fart. Producing on one’s sisters’ faces a look of having just been slapped. Indicating that they might like his ruddy title considerably a whole lot, but certainly do like much less than a little, his impending fume. I knew that something terrible was going to happen tonight. And this is a sound and smell of more to come.

  ‘Well upon that note, sisters.’

  ‘Yes indeed upon that note we bid you adieu.’

  ‘I do with all apologies say goodnight on behalf of his Lordship.’

  ‘Yes quite. Goodnight.’

  ‘And goodnight, Dancer.’

  The parlour door closing. The hounds loosing long mournful wails out in the night. Lavinia’s voice so much less strident and softer than Christabel’s. And I suspect perhaps even comes of a kinder heart which still holds some affection towards me. And she and I at the other end of the wood were always seeing a leprechaun sitting on the end of a long log and as we got close and he ran we would find a great old spider’s web and an old shoe. And then when I could at a very early age finally outdistance her either on my own legs or that of a horse, she chose of all my names to call me Dancer, after that great steeplechaser, for whom I was christened.

  ‘Kildare. My god Kildare. I must have dozed off. Did I fart. I did. Hope the ladies weren’t offended. One thing to remember about the fart it does no one any permanent physical damage. Unless to the perpetrator himself who attempts to hold it. Have another glass of that damn good champagne. Wake me up.’

  One was tempted to tell the Marquis attired out hunting in black coat and bowler, he could be mis
taken for a groom. He is of course entitled to wear pink as a former MFH. Adopts these little tricks to trip people up. Who want to talk to him because of his entitlement but who otherwise would ignore him. His hunter Rapscallion reputed to be eighteen hands one. Nearly as big as Midnight Shadow. Who if anyone could ever get near enough to the beast to make a measurement official, might find him eighteen hands two.

  ‘You’re staring at me Kildare. I know one does look a bit of a scruff. Keeps the arse lickers up from Dublin at bay. And a man’s mind on his hunting instead of damn whores. You know, not a bad little place you have here. Came as a child a few times with my dear old mother. Time flies. Damn it you know if one discounts the happiness of fox hunting, the world when you look at it is pretty damn sad isn’t it. I drink too much. I’ll be dead in five years or less. Damn sad when you think of it. Damn bloody sad. Bones shovelled in an old coffin. Piper playing a lament. But let’s bloody well hear some of the damn Count.’

  ‘Count what or Count who.’

  ‘The Count of course. You’ve got a gramophone. Damn Count is called for.’

  ‘Well I fear you do have me foxed.’

  ‘I mean the bloody tenor of course. What’s wrong with you Kildare. McCormack. The great John. Garden where the fucking praties grow. Walk me by the fucking Grecian Bend. You mean you don’t have his records. Don’t tell me that.’

  The clock tower bell striking two a.m. when it was not yet midnight. The Marquis deprived of the Count sang in an astonishingly good voice some very common Irish songs which to my mind had their origins in Tin Pan Alley. But quite entertaining nonetheless. Tears welling in his eyes as the words the sun or moon or something sank on Galway Bay. He sabred another bottle of champagne, nearly taking off my head and exploding and splashing the wine around the room. Broke the face of the clock on the chimney piece with flying glass.