Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  My mouth when it opened first, simply did not speak. The stricken look again so overtaking poor Rashers’ face. How to tell him. That this oasis he perceives is a mirage. On the most disappointing of deserts. And just as Sexton would say. Ah it’s a great morning for delusions of grandeur. Plus I did nearly die handing him back his ten pounds. After the utter pleasured relief of putting in instead of taking money out of one’s pocket. A symbol of what was happening in my life. Wages for three for a week. And now. To add the thirst of one more throat to slake. The hunger of one more mouth to feed. How does one make that rare display of perfect manners which shields the truth behind it. Yet I know his discerning wits would find me out. Simply must gather up all my resources of firmness and even cruelty. But search all over one’s brain for the most uncruel words. To say the most cruel thing.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry Rashers, but I think that that would be a rather difficult idea at the moment. You see.’

  One stopped. So utterly in one’s tracks. And in the din of other voices all around one’s ears. To see the vast tears aflood in his eyes. Their shiny tiny spheres breaking over the lids. Streaking down on his red ruddy cheeks.

  ‘I understand. And why I may not be wanted. I know I’m a chancer. A fraud, hoaxer, fortune hunter. And that our past acquaintanceship is trivial. I am sorry that I have asked you. What clearly I should not have asked.’

  Rashers’s shoulders folding forward. His head slumping on his chest. His voice breaking into racking sobs. Tears spilling blotting their dark spots on his bright orange tie. My own heart welling up. With the only words. That could come to my mouth. And there remain mute. For only my mind to hear.

  In the solemnity

  Of pain

  In the bright

  Key

  Of E major

  Let music

  Reign

  11

  I led Rashers into the front west parlour. Dead flies falling out as I opened the shutters of that dusty unused museum of a room. Smelling of musky damp. Full of its glass cases of porcelain and bric à brac. I’m sure one was mistaken but I thought the tears did dry rather quickly as Rashers’s eye swept round the statuettes and bowls, the trinkets and cups. Nonetheless I did give him an Andromeda Park best linen napkin to mop up any remaining grief.

  ‘Kildare. I do apologize for my unspeakable behaviour. Such a thing has never happened to me before. You must think me a weak kneed, spineless fellow. I suppose these past cold months of winter have rather knocked the stuffing out of me. I don’t want to continue boozing and whoring. But sometimes it’s only way to keep warm. I want some respectability in my life.’

  ‘Rashers. You may. Indeed please. Do stay. Crooks is already seeing to it.’

  ‘No. I must go. This is too much. To impose upon you. Damn it I’m nearly a stranger to you.’

  ‘Well you are.’

  ‘Well I thank you Kildare for being damn honest about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how that quite slipped out. But of course you’re not. A stranger. You know you are absolutely welcome.’

  ‘Well since you put it with such insistence. Alright. I’ll stay. Only because you absolutely entreat me to.’

  Hunting may not sweep all sadness from the mind but does indeed quite quickly erase misery from the soul. And one did feel relief at the Master’s signal to move off. With the usual shouts and hoots from the gung ho contingent. But not ten yards from the front door of Andromeda Park, two members of the hunt already nosedived on their heads, having in their efforts to mount, got up on one side of their horses only to tip over to plunge down the other. And Gearoid holding the reins of both, while still clinging to a glass of Guinness and trying to swallow its spilling contents, was dragged off bodily. One did look back at the house and the fuss. And there up in the whim room window, catch sight of Leila. Staring it seemed down. At the top of the heads of hunt followers and of the assembled staff arrayed watching on the front steps. And waving goodbye. Sexton rushing up to me with a nosegay.

  ‘Ah now you’d not want to be without a bit of colour taking you with its beauty flying through the wind safely.’

  One presumed the front hall had been left to scavengers. Cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews of one’s staff. Who make themselves known from the lower reaches of the house when the grand folk have gone. Sexton of course directing traffic and hoofs to keep us off his sacred preserves of flower bulbs and grass. Down the drive someone dismounting. Secreting themselves behind a piece of broken statuary and heaving out their guts into the rose bushes, sounding as if in their death throes. You’d think that that terrified, they might rather retire safely quiet in front of the fire, and read about the more active moments of the hunt in Horse and Hound. Which periodical as it happens has sent a lady associate just arrived to report today’s outing. Although I don’t suppose she’ll be reporting that in the thick of the rhododendron plantation there, white breeches can be spied of similar folk crazed with terror, depositing their hunt breakfasts. Which, who knows, will quite possibly be gladly gobbled up by one of the very devilishly clever foxes we shall chase.

  It would seem that the advent of the use of the motor car again has brought a plethora of the nervous of heart to hunt. For not even a quarter way to the first covert, an extremely pinched faced lady down from Dublin, her face a mask of make up, which nonetheless underneath could be seen turned entirely green, keeled with a sighing gasp from her lips, in a dead faint straight out of the saddle and stuck like a pole into the ground. The hunting priest did stretch her out and do his well meant mumbo jumbo over her unconscious face, till the lady awoke and it would seem was distinctly and irately Protestant. Of course one does feel a shiver or two oneself. But at this casualty rate we will soon be minus the field before finding a fox.

  Approaching the second covert, the first finding no fox, and just beyond and at the edge of the wood. The breeze not so cold in the snatches of sun. But the cloud brought a shuddering chill as we waited. And one did think. That not that long ago one sat in solitary enjoyment of one’s privacy. The sole lonely occupant of one’s house and served by its staff. Whose exact number one always has trouble to calculate. And now bloody hell. The place is overflowing. But if I were merely to count up the mouths. It would amount to more than a dozen more than I can afford.

  ‘Tally ho.’

  A fox found. And off straight into the woods. To make sure we’re all scratched to pieces if not knocked senseless.

  ‘Watch out.’

  A shout just behind one. And a silly chap, absolutely belted backwards off his horse by that branch of a tree under which Petunia and I have just ducked. Blood exploding from his nose before he hits the ground. Miss von B following him, to whom he was obviously turning to display his charms. And who at the same time shouted to him to watch where he was cantering. Poor damn sod. Immediately pretending to Miss von B, as she offered to help, that he was tough as nails and completely alright. And then as she rode on, whammo, the Mad Vet, lately arrived at a gallop out of the trees, flattened your man once more. Poor wretched sod, just as he was sitting up to hold together his various parts of his loosened skull.

  The field veering suddenly. Hounds barking hell bent on yet another fox. And foolish doggies. Down a hillside. Over a stream. Dear me, the injured gentleman’s riderless horse has just scampered by. Which being on our way once more, everyone pretends not to see. And those who can’t avoid being seen seeing, pretending to grasp and tussle about with the reins, and of course as I see is happening, letting them go at the first opportune unobserved moment while shouting loose horse. They really are, just like oneself, such a bunch of damn self centred pleasure seeking hypocrites caring only for indulging their own sport and enjoyment. Rather like the Mental Marquis of Farranistic who one does keep an eye open for to come thundering out of some copse, like the last charge of the Light Brigade. Which of course exactly happened the next second as his lathered horse came up beside mine. And god, he does look at times awfully insa
ne. By his own admission having been rapped constantly on his head by a perverse nanny who maintained it was a good way of knocking sense into him. Only on one occasion she used the leg of a table.

  ‘Damn sorry Kildare to have missed my stirrup cup. Damn car blew up other side of the village. Damn silly fellow can you imagine came lighting a cigarette to examine why my petrol tank was leaking. Set the horse box on fire. Burning bloody inferno. I say, see a few nice pieces of crumpet out today.’

  One heard while waiting at the next covert that instead of anyone coming to the flattened chap’s assistance, poor damn man ended up crawling to the nearest cottage where he was nearly shot. The farmer not only loosing a load of pellets over the poor bugger but nearly garrotting him pulling his head gear off and trampling his top hat with his muddy Wellington boot. It’s not stylish to wear a cord attached to your top hat. But I suppose the poor polite foreign fellow will have learned a thing or two before this day’s out. Among which is, that he does not quite present the pleasure one gets fetching a beautiful lady in her muddy soaked finery out of a bog hole. And that an injured gentleman is quite likely to be left for dead. Perhaps a reason why more gentlemen of the inclination to prefer gentlemen should be encouraged to hunt.

  ‘Go get him.’

  The huntsman with a terrier released into a foxhole. The whipper in nearby furiously digging with his spade to fill in an escape route. The stragglers slowly arriving. Gossip being savoured on various lips. Miss von B off to the side with a bevy of bug eyed still slathering at the mouth gents in eager attendance. And directly behind one. Sounds like a waterfall. Must turn to see. My god. Baptista Consuelo. Who obviously has avoided my hunt breakfast. Now suddenly here. Reined up and tightening her girth. Probably ready to accuse me of further and better particulars of my previous heinousness various. Her horse taking one incredibly noisy pee. Which one can’t help marvel at. The stream coming out of what one must certainly term an inordinately large equine penis. Exactly what one would expect her horse to have of course.

  ‘I would prefer, if you do not mind, and in particularly you, not watching while my horse is peeing.’

  Of course one turned away. Who bloody well wants to watch her damn horse peeing. While she is preening and making all her usual efforts to look captivatingly splendid while at the same moment also haughtily attempting to ignore the collection of chop licking gentlemen surrounding Miss von B. And it is amusingly clear that she and the Marquis currently utterly detest each other. I suppose some brands of fucking can breed later abhorrence. And dear me, over where the fox has gone to ground, an altercation already. The Master raising his voice to the Mad Vet.

  ‘Sir I order you to leave the field.’

  ‘I certainly will not. Not for the pansy likes of you me boyo.’

  ‘Sir, that insult I shall deal with in due course and I repeat, I order you to leave the field. You left a man injured, having jumped over him.’

  ‘Bugger off. Wasn’t he minding the beauty behind him instead of the danger in front. Daft fool’s better off left. He was already half dead in the head before ever he came off his horse.’

  As the loud shouting match continued, other hunt members distancing themselves from the scene of disciplining. The hunting field is always the perfect place to hurl an insult if you’ve got one reposing in your bonnet. You damn silly fucker. You stupid ass. You absolutely ox witted obtuse unthinking noodle noddled nincompoop. You jerk. Very American that last. But effective. But then when one finally turns for home at the end of the day, one is supposed to forget all that was said and done. And as one invariably does, to sit fireside over one’s whisky in smouldering fuming utter indignation and wrath. I’m sure rage must release into the blood a lot of unpleasant chemicals. But I suppose one must take it as refreshing that fox hunting gives rein to the basic instincts. And to quote the Mental Marquis. Especially the tendency incited by the blood spattered hounds at a kill for a gentleman to fish out his pole to put same plunging up some likely lady.

  ‘Tally ho.’

  The fox. Dug, shouted at and disturbed out of its hole. We’re off. Pounding. Just as I was bloody well hoping to see a really good fight for a change. One in which I might be the observer instead of the observed. No one giving a tinker’s damn now, about the poor maimed and perhaps dead left in the wake of these present aerial sods flying behind down this hillside. And up on high ground again. See the red of the huntsman on the far hillside. And one can make a very neat detour here.

  ‘O do please get out of my way, won’t you.’

  Copycat Baptista, of course, knowing I was taking a short cut, cutting in front of me. As if she were the one who knew this country well. Thinks she’s such a fine horsewoman. Ruddy cheek. And listen to her pedantic English hunting references.

  ‘I say, the hounds are feathering on the fox.’

  Instead of saying the damn silly mutts have decided to go off in a dozen different directions. And that ruddy howl just emitted is her ruddy horse imcompetently stepping on a straggling hound. I’ll soon bloody well show that overly endowed rump of hers a clean pair of heels. Come on. Petunia.

  Darcy Dancer slamming his whip across Petunia’s quarters. The mare in three vast strides overtaking Baptista. As the two mounts nose to nose head for the same low spot in a vastly high wall of boulders. With so much mud flying it was rather difficult to perceive how dirty the dirty look Baptista gave one was as I cruised past her on this brief stretch of flat meadow. Baptista bending her neck to growl.

  ‘Keep out of my way. You wretched boy. Damn you.’

  ‘And you get out of my way. You wretched girl.’

  The pair of horses thundering abreast across the pasture. A stone’s throw to go. To the wall ahead. The ground gently rising. Sun’s rays flashing across the fields. A massive double rainbow arched on the horizon. Hoofs still stretching over the grey lichen encrusted outcroppings of granite, peeking up out of the emerald green. Baptista hissing out words she must have picked up hunting with the Quorn or Beaufort. Or some equally esteemed hunt in Leicestershire. Or elegant one in Gloucestershire.

  ‘You fucker Kildare, fuck off.’

  Darcy Dancer swerving his horse away. Petunia’s hoofs, carving a thick wave of turf up out of the ground. Foam flying from her mouth and landing in little lumps of froth in the grass. Baptista’s nag rising up into the sky. And disappearing. With a scream. Down the other side. Which was down and down. Deep into a ditch halfway to hell. It does help so to know the countryside well at such times. And to be able to smile deeply inside one’s soul. Instead of plummeting into a chasm of bog water.

  Darcy Dancer dismounting. Stepping to take a peek over the wall. And down into what is the very deepest gulch in this parish. Good lord. Her wretched animal is flapping on its side like a fish out of water. Gasping for breath. Legs atremble in its death throes. And she with her tresses strewn from under her disturbed hairnet and hat, is spreadeagled drowning next to him. Of course there was nothing for it but to be chivalrous. And slide down the bank into the abyss. I do damn myself sometimes for being such a gentleman. Drag her ashore under the armpits. Pour the water out of her boots. Slap her face back into consciousness. Mumble the last rites over her rapidly dying horse. And wonder how soon others would catch us up if I had the temerity to revive her further with an attempt upon her virtue to end my long excruciating bout of celibacy.

  Of course Petunia ran off to graze in some longer grass she spied in the corner of the field. And Baptista’s half submerged horse now dead. Its lips hanging loose away from its teeth. A fore leg snapped in two and the bone poking whitely from the brown bog water. I fell dragging Baptista out of the deeper mud and then attempting to further drag her up the impossibly steep bank, came crunching down my two knees landing on each of her shoulders. Which did not make her make an awfully nice sound.

  ‘O God I can’t move my legs and you’re trying to kill me.’

  We both of us slipped back down three times before I got a foothold and
lugged, dragged and tugged her heavy carcass to safe grass again at the top. Where it appeared her legs could again miraculously move and instead of thanking me for saving her life.

  ‘You did that deliberately, letting me jump that wall.’

  Luckily three stragglers, with the previously creamed foreign gentleman’s horse in tow, arrived. And I took the opportunity to be immediately gone. Until two parishes away, horse foamy mouthed, steaming in sweat, one finally caught up. But damn silly ineffectual hounds lost the scent. But my god what a wondrous mêlée was in progress. Whips snapping and the air smelling of hot leather. The Mad Vet and Master entangled on the ground. Gouging at each other’s ears and eyes. Rolling over in some splendidly deliciously fresh cow flop. O god, my stomach so bloody well paining me with laughter that I fell off Petunia as she reared away from the two embroiled figures. Their fists beating on each other’s backs rather ineffectually as they clutched. Gloves blackened with dung. Who would believe that some of these same human beings might actually know who Tiepolo is or that Meissen is preferable to some other crockery. Even though they might not know a Neapolitan table top on a Chippendale frame. The lady reporter, who proves to be a good rider, is of course stunned out of her senses to witness the unbelievable physical rudeness in progress. And eyebrows raised, she’s putting quietly back in her pocket her notebook. Clearly not needed when events are seared on the mind.