Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘Of course my dear fellow I’m in utter awe. Clearly there is no need for you, as I have found the need in my line of adventuring mountebankism, to use the old nom de guerre instead of the old nom de famille and thereby keep the old incognito intact, if you follow me. But damn it, here you are, with ruddy eggs, barley, wheat, oats, milk and butter at a hand’s grasp. And yum yum yummy filet mignon within the tap of a sledge hammer, and a few slashes of a carving knife. Of course I expect to find a few damp patches on the wall and also a headless chicken or two rotting behind the drawing room drapes which are customarily found in the better Anglo Irish house.’

  And as one stared out over Rashers Ronald’s shoulder, listening amused and calmed as one might be by a bird singing, there she was. Out of a blast of sunlight in the doorway. White gloved hand holding her bowler and whip. Blond hair coiffed back on her head. So soigné. Striding in her slightly military manner across the hall. Straight for me. My heart thumping uncontrollably in my chest. My private enlarging in my breeches. Even as one of my ears still listens to Rashers Ronald rambling on.

  ‘I would so adore to be a bookmaker. One of course with a couple or so shop fronts in say Duke or Anne Street. Even in spite of your enormous win my dear fellow. My betrothed keeps insisting she will back me. To the hilt. Which with her accountants shouting in unison that she shouldn’t, could mean the business end of the sword up one’s arse. I take a damn poor view of that short sighted attitude. But you must meet her. Before the dear gallant girl gets too much further the wrongish side of sixty. Two face lifts have kept her damn presentable. Leaves her expression a little sphinx like as a result. But who minds. Perhaps a little blet in the quarters and thighs. And knobbly hocks. A regrettable consequence of her grazing too much on her boxes of chocolates. The dear dear creature’s only failing, however. And added to her two previous tobacconist’s shops she now has three more. O but I bore you.’

  ‘No not at all.’

  ‘Well then I damn well bore myself. Except for the fact that my dear betrothed has now instead of three hundred, four hundred and fifteen acres, three roods and two perches. Of the very nicest possible well watered and fenced acres in County Dublin. Stabling for sixty. Fifteen horses in training. Five footmen, eight gardeners. Of course I exaggerate for the sake of accuracy. Knowing that anyone listening to what I’m saying will take it with a grain of salt. You know I’m convinced, there is something to this country life. But dear girl wants to know if my intentions are sincere. That I’m not after the easy way of Jammet’s restaurant life so to speak. That’s where we are dear boy, every evening in my utter struggle to impress her that my intentions are hallmarked sterling. I mean what more can I do but sit there paying the bill and holding back tears that would otherwise be pouring down my cheeks parting with the fiver it’s costing me. And all the while saying, I love you, darling. I love you. But the dear lady is taking such a long time to accept my proposal. I had to ruddy purloin this shirt and my present pair of socks from her butler. And can you imagine, damn chap had the sauce to request them back. I mean there I was on my way to take a pee having bid two spades during bridge. Damn uncomfortable feeling you know. Bad enough the collar’s ruddy too tight. Ah but you do listen to me don’t you. And you are wondering what I did, aren’t you. Well I took off my coat and handed him back his shirt and took off my shoes and handed him back his socks. And went back to the bridge table and bid three no trump. Taught the ruddy chap a lesson. Didn’t it. He then, gave them to me as a present neatly parcelled up in green tissue. But I mean my dear chap, I’m only the merest maybe thirty or forty or so years her junior. Why should my youth be such a hindrance. What matters is our common interest in horses, our companionship at the races. And what should be significant is we hold hands on our way there. Of course we couldn’t do that if it weren’t for her chauffeured car.’

  Miss von B stepping close to Rashers’s elbow. Nodding to him as he stops in his speech, and she turns to smile at Darcy Dancer.

  ‘Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer, the genuine aristocrat. I presume.’

  ‘You do so presume correctly madam. But I would rather present myself as your faithful potato digging bog trotter at your service.’

  My god, if I had not got those words out my mouth it would have stayed opened long and wide enough to become a swallow’s nest. If anything she is even more beautiful than I remember. Her teeth whitely shining between salmon pink soft lips. Glowing mahogany of her boot tops and their lower leather so black gleaming. Glimpse of yellow vest under her white silk stock pinned with a gold and emerald pin. Her long and sinewy legs within her breeches. Not a hair or thread out of place. And a god awful crash has just happened down the hall somewhere, no doubt of the usual irreplaceable crockery breaking.

  ‘Ha, by zee sound of zat the old place it has not changed so much.’

  Rashers recoiling at this rude interruption and turning away, just as oneself did turn at the expensive sound. And catch sight of Leila disappearing down the hall towards the ballroom. And see deposited upon the hall tiles, in her wake, a large vase in some many considerable pieces. While here in front of me within the smell of her sweet breath, Miss von B. Stands almost as one had dreamt. That she had come back into this house. And of course as luck would have it, she is surveying me from head to foot.

  ‘Ah but that is just as we would expect, kaboom, something precious becomes no more. And so let me look at my trotter bogger.’

  Who was instantly noticed in his effort to shield my most embarrassingly largest tumescence I am sure I have ever had the arousal to have. Puts me in the extreme weakest position possible to show her any indifference. And so obvious to anyone even remotely acquainted with the breeding of horses. One even feeling that the thinness of one’s riding crop, although being as ludicrously inadequate as it is would at least distract and give the appearance of a rival stiffness. Good lord what a hopeless image one conjures in the present desperation. To ask her to stay. Do sleep here tonight. My dear. And I shall, using my celibacy as a parachute, descend quietly upon your quarters and ruddy well prod them good and proper. And erase in one throbbing evening of love all the yearning hurt. Of your ignoring me back in Dublin. Ah but maybe one should not be so easy on her. As this now is my supreme moment to be utterly cool. As she has been in her so oft practised manner. And yet here I am, one’s equilibrium already betrayed by one’s inadvertent primal instinct. O god never mind tonight. What kind of awful day might this be ahead.

  ‘Ah the Rashers Rashers Ronald. You know.’

  ‘Indeed I do, madam.’

  ‘He is of course a fortune hunter. You do not seem to keep such worthwhile company.’

  Crooks with glasses of champagne poured. Delivering on his tray a glass to the elbow of Rashers upon whose face one catches a glimpse of utter stricken sadness. As if as a once celebrated actor he’d been suddenly swept aside in the middle of his final curtain speech to be told that it was his last. And dear me, the front hall of Andromeda Park is thronged. Voices of the thirsty hungry horde raised. Mouths stuffed and throats gurgling like drains. One hates to think so ungenerously but I’m paying for it all.

  ‘Madam please do, take this glass. Crooks, didn’t you, you knew her Royal Highness was coming and had her champagne ready.’

  ‘Yes Master Reginald and it is felicitous to see you again your Highness and looking so well.’

  ‘Well thank you so much Mr Crooks.’

  ‘Always entirely delighted to be at your service your highness.’

  Crooks withdrawing back into the fray. And bumping into Gearoid, who with a glass of Guinness in each hand, drinking from both spilled their contents down the front of his greasy rain coat. And at his elbow watching in smiling admiration, the Dublin Poet known in the vicinity of Harry Street as The Bard Wandered Over From Duke Street and in the vicinity of Duke Street, as The Bard Wandered Over From Harry Street. And often called Grafton, for short, this being the street connecting the two. His mouth now, instead of spouti
ng verse, gaping open to pour back his tall glass of whisky. Dear god, the denizens of Dublin. These inhuman beings. Erupting out of the past. All come to have a bash. The few incorrigibles of the permanently dispossessed who closely cling to the flotsam and jetsam, still afloat on their recent fast dwindling legacies. The temporarily rich and momentarily praised heroes of ignominy. Who sail the storm tossed waves of the Dublin night. Could there be even more of them off the morning train. Or another load out of another motor car.

  ‘Ah but your eyes are lost in thinking, my too kind host, my boggy trotter.’

  ‘Yes I am madam. And although that term is occasionally funny I sometimes wish you might find some other droll expression to use.’

  ‘Ah still so sensitive you are. But why. Why are you not proud to be from zee bog.’

  ‘Simply because madam I am not from zee bog. The bog is more than two miles from this house.’

  ‘Ah, if you go round by the wood, but if you go as zee crow flies zee bog is right over there.’

  A minor commotion of pushing and shouldering at the jammed up front door. And entering in their thick to the floor tweeds, the bunch of flowers. One after the other. The spinster sisters, Rose, Camellia, Marigold, Pansy and Iris. Holders of the world record for sisterly celibacy totalling more than three hundred years. Obviously come to sample my standard of home made bread, butter and jam. As they always do. And flying out of their camouflaged midst, my goodness, my dancing master. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus. Waltzing right this way.

  ‘Ah, so. So. And my dear you are wearing lavender water. Such fragrance. I smell you. I smell you. A mile away. You have done it. Reached maturity my dear. Quite captivating of you. You have managed such a mix. Of people my dear. Both the wickedly moral and respectably immoral. Clearly as we do no longer see you in the very naughty city of Dublin, we have had to come see you. Among these awful people with the blood thirst. Of course what you forget is how we miss your such young beautiful good looks. You must you know come to the Cats. Lois, who as you know is such a great artist could not tear herself off the canvas to come but she asks so much after you.’

  The Count tossing his head and blond curls as he glanced in his fifty directions for every three words out of his mouth. Smiling and nudging Miss von B who glowered at the mention of Lois’ name. And the Count himself smelling to high heaven of lilac. One did put a drop of one’s mother’s lavender water under the tunic which one instantly regretted as the sweet scent fumed up one’s nostrils. Of course the smell of some members of this gathering would send one into a coma if one sniffed too much. And one does avoid attempting introductions of these nearby faces of these catacombers, out on a spree, knowing of course everyone is already numbed to death having met again for the fifth hundredth time. Not counting the numerous unremembered occasions with their brains afloat intoxicated out of their skulls. Or when confronting each other in the blackness of some closet, alleyway, larder or wine cellar, groping at orifices and protuberances which if they didn’t yield the satisfaction sought, were then punched, twisted, pulled or scratched.

  Darcy Dancer excusing himself. With a shudder. Finally observing the pieces of vase on the floor. Which Mollie is busy chipping further with her furious sweeping. And O my lord. I suppose it is indeed bloody valuable. My mother’s treasured glass vase. With its intercalaire overlay and marqueterie de verre. Cracked forever. One does not know whether to save one’s tears for something worse. My sisters. Descending the stairs. Faces plastered with smiles as they enter down into the din. And smiles fade. Clearly regarding these Dublin interlopers as distinctly not amusing people but as heinous inhumans to be avoided. Especially Rashers Ronald from whose vicinity they have already decided to rush. But who it appears is not to be easily shaken off. Following right by their elbows as they take up new smiling poses at the sideboard. And by their hysterically animated voices, they are being presently utterly captivated by Count O’Biottus. Who has rushed to them. And every time I look at my sisters now, reminds yet of another string of awful perpetrations they wrought upon one. During a picnic, having shown me how to carefully do a pooh pooh in Nanny’s best summer bonnet as she went to fill a bottle at the lake. And in the course of waiting for Nanny to put it back on her head, she instead sat on it. And the water Nanny had gone to get was for a stew they had asked could they cook over the fire for little baby brother. That they had brought their own little special bag of chopped up sprigs of yew and laburnum. Which they heaped into their brew. It was the only time she ever slapped their faces. When Nanny sniffed the spoonful being lifted towards my lips. And I must say I do remember being extremely pleased. My sisters clutching each other screaming to high heaven, and saying in unison, we hate you Nanny, we hate you. Only the day previously they had taught me words to use to ask for another piece of cake at Mummy’s tea which would assure they said its being given me. And I strolled in. Delighted with my frills and patent leather shoes and relishing this rarity of being invited to the sacred sanctum of the blue parlour. My sisters pushing me in the back to exercise the words they’d rehearsed with me. Nice polite words they’d picked up from the stable yard. May I please Mummy have another piece of that fucking shit, please. But Mummy took the wind out of their sails. Of course you may my dearest, have another piece of this fucking shit, but next time you must ask for simply cake. But dear me, there now my sisters. Craning their necks to look Miss von B up and down. Staring at her white leather snugly encased thighs. And swell of her buttock. And resenting clearly the attention she is getting from both the ladies and the gentlemen.

  ‘How are you boss, it’s good to see you again.’

  Darcy Dancer turning. To confront this shyly smiling face and mischievously sparkling eyes. Last seen so many years ago, hungry, cold, bedraggled and shunned by the world. And now in a smart, perhaps too checked jacket, his hair slicked back, cavalry twill jodhpur trousers. A rather overly colourful and overly shiny tie that one suspects might be American. And his shirt and collar not exactly pure white or ironed to perfection. But it is, none the less, Foxy Slattery himself.

  ‘Foxy what a surprise.’

  ‘I was to seeing the father over in the hospital. Only for the sake of the mother. And if you don’t mind me saying, he’s still the same old mean cruel bastard he always was. And I was just now down there for a look in the stables. A right old mess they are. In the care of me little brother. Worse than when I was looking after them. Dirty bad old hay. Dung everywhere but on the manure heap. Hear he’s a bit of a devil like meself. I’m training the odd horse now. Over at the Curragh. And I sell a motor car or two on the side. SAI three eight nine, eight seven nought six ZC, five two four two LI.’

  ‘Ah I don’t think I quite understand what you’re saying Foxy.’

  ‘Ah that’s the registration numbers on the cars parked outside. Now I’d be able to tell you the history of each one of them.’

  ‘Well Foxy, not really knowing of course but I suppose that is useful to know. And you do look as if you have little to complain about.’

  ‘Had a few tough times. But for the moment, there’s not a bother on me. Made a bob or two. I wasn’t exactly a saint, but sure when the world with everyone in it was against me, you always treated me right. I’ll not forget you bringing me a sup of food out there beyond. When no one in this place cared whether I starved or died. I’ll remember that. Didn’t think you’d mind me stopping in a moment. I wouldn’t but for you treating me well, come into the big house like this otherwise. And I had to laugh. Crooks over there still got an eye on me and nearly fainted at the sight of me when I walked in. But the Kraut Miss von B, you’d think never clapped eyes on me before. But we did clap eyes on plenty of her in our time. But if there’s anything I can do for you now, legal or illegal, I’d want you to let me know.’

  ‘Thank you Foxy.’

  ‘Not much has changed in the old place. But there’s an odd face here now I’d know from Dublin. But I won’t outstay my welcome.’

>   ‘Foxy you’re entirely welcome. Please, do have a drink.’

  ‘Ah I’m on me way now. And you’d already have your hands full with the lot of them here. And I’m keeping people away from talking to you. I’ll maybe grab a nip of something and say goodbye now and good luck. And any time you want to do business in the way of a motor car you know who to come to. And I’d have plenty of petrol for your tank and rubber for your wheels.’

  Darcy Dancer watching Foxy Slattery stride away. Heels clicking on the tiles. And we did indeed the pair of us clap eyes on the beauteous Miss von B, lying stretched bosoms floating in the steaming bath water. And over there. Rashers Ronald. Wearing a more contented enthusiasm on his face. Sizing up the paintings and objets d’art with the practised eye of the pawn shop habitué. Dear me. He sees me. Of course he would know what one is thinking. He and the Mental Marquis would make a great pair. And here he comes smiling.

  ‘You are kitted out, my dear boy. Quite kitted out. Totally possessing all the nice appurtenances which allow for an unrivalled, nay an utterly unassailable role in life. At the very top. I mean I haven’t had a chance to fully count your servants yet. But I mean all, everything is very nicely splendid, thank you. If it were not utterly ignoble of me to do so, I would ask for my two fivers back. But the gentlemanly thing requires me to instead borrow them back from you. May I.’

  Darcy Dancer taking the two crinkled white five pound notes from his side jacket pocket. Where they had been so contentedly crumpled. Placing them in this apologetic but none the less deliberate hand.

  ‘Damn decently sporting of you, Kildare. It really is. It’s a damn denomination so prized by serious race goers. And I mean do you think, I might also presume a little further on your splendid hospitality. You must say no of course, if it is of the slightest even of the teeniest weeniest slightest inconvenience to you. But as a matter of damn fact I’ve been chucked out of my wretched basement. And into another worse basement. In the catacombs. And frankly dear chap. In that place. The rodents, mayhem, murder and perversions are the very least of it. I just simply can’t take the irreverence. To the principles of behaviour one upholds. I don’t mind the physical insult, constantly assaulting one, it’s the social maim and injury one can’t stand. Having to rub more than one’s elbows with gurriers and newsboys. Who wouldn’t know an ode from an ox. Imagine one of them greeting me as an intimate on Grafton Street. And then with other collected awful tramps in abundance, having to spend the night in their filthy disgusting proximity. Foul personal habits appal me. Is it too much to ask. Just to be away a sojourn from all that. I will sleep on the floor. Just show me some hearth rug in some little out of the way corner. And my dear chap I only speak as fast as I do, not wanting to let you say no, until I’ve made, I hope, clear how desperate my absolute desperation actually is. Need just a few moments to simply my dear boy gain my confidence back to face my dear betrothed. While her accountants are persuaded in my favour to fund my efforts in taking up my professional duties as a bookmaker. Or rather, turf accountant, as those residing in Foxrock would better have it.’