Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘Stop stop gentlemen. Disgraceful behaviour. In front of the ladies. Disgraceful.’

  The secretary wagging his riding crop over both the protagonists and pushing back some of the local grinning populace. Who must have materialized acrawl out of the thicker hedgerows or from behind the larger mounds of moss and granite. And were now most contentedly pulling forelocks and nodding to hunt members as they took up discreet ringside positions watching the gentry punch each other to pieces. As more hunt stragglers arrived up the hill. Followed by a loud bellowing voice.

  ‘Ah much jolly nice. Not even a fox roused and yet mucho beaucoup frappé, I see.’

  The Mental Marquis taking a swig from his brandy pouch. Not even offering one a drop. And his nerve. To assume such a nonchalant indifference having written members of my staff letters. I’m simply never going to let him land his airplane in one of my fields. But one must suppose that together with his aerial acquaintanceship with the downed Master, the Royal Air Force is here in strength. And dear me, we are taking sides aren’t we.

  ‘Kick him. Come on. You’ve got him now. Squeeze.’

  And now the top hatted and today red coated Mental Marquis with reins dropped over his hunter’s neck is putting his hands to his mouth and shouting.

  ‘Hit him in the haggis. Twist his fucking halo out of orbit for him Jonathan dear chap. Can’t damn well tell who’s winning this fight. Seems we should simply let them get on with it Kildare, don’t you think.’

  His Lordship still grinningly watching the battle. Wiping his crimson sleeve across his dripping nose. Taking up reins again. His massive horse, its eyes rolling in its head, snorting out its nostrils. Till suddenly overcoming the Mad Marquis’s face, a look of alarmed consternation. His brow creasing and his eyes looking concernedly askance. As he shifts his weight around in the saddle and slaps his whip against his thigh.

  ‘Good god Kildare, I just remembered. Left my bloody groom in the blazing horse box. Shut it up after I got the horse out. To stop the damn draught burning the ruddy thing to a pile of ashes more quickly than it might otherwise. Do you think the poor fellow might be a cinder by now.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have yelled.’

  ‘No he wouldn’t. Hasn’t murmured a word for donkey’s years. That’s what I liked about the chap. Kept his mouth shut. So that you don’t even know he’s there. O well too late to worry about that now. But damn nuisance losing a good groom like that. Poor fight here don’t you think.’

  And then just as one was turning one’s attention away from the mêlée there was Johnny Gearoid holding one’s mare. And how on earth did he two footed miraculously get here a dozen or so fields in from any road. No point in taxing one’s brain over that one. But obviously he’ll be looking for five shillings for his services. Knows just when to be around. Just like many of one’s staff. One always finds them so clever in the wrong way. Perhaps their saving grace is they’re too dumb to know what stupidity is and I suppose if they ever found out they’d be twice as dumb. But what are these words at one’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s the kind of thrashing the likes of you should get trying to rape a lady.’

  Would you believe it. The words are addressed to me. Of course this ruddy smarmy pipsqueak has a moustache which twitches on his unpleasantly sneering face that one vaguely remembers from the battle of Andromeda Park front hall in the last mêlée. Son of a bitch sitting high up on his horse does not think he is in any danger with another imbroglio in progress, and is totally convinced he is nicely out of harm’s way. As one grabs hold of the silly man’s martingale. And goodness, imagine, bloody man is trying to lash me with his riding crop.

  ‘Let go of my horse or I’ll give you a bit of Swaine and Adeney across your uncouth bog face you Irish savage.’

  Darcy Dancer, whip blows raining down on his head arms and shoulders, sinking his ten fingers agrip in the top of the man’s boot. And in one downward wrench dragging him plummeting to the ground. Man’s horse swerving around and kicking out its hind legs. Two hoofs catching the back of the secretary square on each rump and lifting him skywards to descend on top of the still battling Master and Mad Vet, now grunting and wheezing with exhaustion. Just as a shower of rain unleashes and two more peaceful rainbows blaze glowing purple orange gold and green in the eastern sky, one intersecting the other.

  Darcy Dancer wrestling the moustachioed man to the ground. Dear me, by the facing on his collar, a Master of Foxhounds of a Leicestershire hunt. Must admit the son of a bitch is unexpectedly strong. With a good pair of lungs which he puts to good loud use as I wrench the cartilage within and nicely break two of his smaller fingers. Knee him for good measure in the kidneys. Elbow him for additional measure across the Adam’s apple. I’m a prince. You cunt. A prince at least in moral fibre. And now it’s just about time to render you unconscious with a fist between your eyes. And wham. Am I actually seeing stars. I am. In an astonishing looking solar system. Good heavens. One is actually floating. Around in one’s life. Yes there goes Sexton. Dressed as a cardinal. And O yes. There’s Mollie. Her tits being milked by Luke. Into a pail held by Crooks. O good, Catherine’s going to churn it into butter. Or am I waking. Staring up into her face.

  ‘Hello my little bog trotter, ah your eyes, they at last open. Are you alright. Can you move.’

  ‘Yes I can move.’

  Her Highness covered in mud and debris. Her face scratched. The awful churned up muddy battlefield nearby empty. Just the darkening sky and cold breeze sweeping the hillside. And the faintest distant sound of the horn of the hunt.

  ‘What happened Madam.’

  ‘Ah what happened. Of course, you. You are what happened. And I. I am what happened. Coming to rescue you.’

  ‘My god, I’ve a lump the size of a hoof on the back of my head.’

  ‘She kicked you. Sent your hat flying.’

  ‘Who.’

  ‘That one. Consuelo. While you were on the ground. In the fight.’

  ‘My god.’

  ‘And I must say. There was another battle. Between this Consuelo and me. This time not with whips. But sock sock.’

  ‘O my god. Are you hurt.’

  ‘Of course not. I knock her silly.’

  ‘That was kind of you Miss von B.’

  ‘Kind. Never. It was stupid. I have lost my pin. I have torn my jacket, two precious buttons gone.’

  ‘O we’ll look. We’ll find it.’

  ‘Find. Never. My horse I hire. It had no go. Till now. And is gone. With your Petunia. Dragging away that little man.’

  ‘But we are at least here alone together.’

  ‘Ah that kick in the head has not lost you your presumptions. And there is some blood on your lip.’

  ‘Madam, you are using big English words. It is rather nice however to wake up out of one’s unconsciousness and find oneself in the kindly care of a beautiful woman.’

  ‘You little foolish arse. That cloud coming. It is going to rain again.’

  ‘I don’t mind madam, a little rain.’

  ‘You don’t mind. I mind. I am already wet enough.’

  ‘Don’t you have any romance left in you, madam.’

  ‘And what is left in you. I can tell what, looking into your eyes. And I think I am seeing the lust.’

  ‘Ah Madam you have a very cunning mind, but would you mind telling me, are you being honest and sincere.’

  ‘What a crazy question. The rain is pouring. I do not think I have to answer.’

  ‘But you must.’

  ‘But why must. Get up please.’

  ‘Because you have been unfaithful to me.’

  ‘What, Mein Gott. Unfaithful. To you. What right you got I be faithful to you. You impossible little pup.’

  ‘I’ll have you know, I am now a country squire, Pasha and lord of a thousand acres.’

  ‘And still the little snob you are. I see you with the Marquis. O so friendly. Do you still, how does one say, break your arse to kiss the arse of titles.’
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  ‘How unforgivable of you Madam, how unforgivable to say such a thing.’

  ‘Ah now you are an actor playing on the stage.’

  ‘Damn soakingly wet one if I may say so, Madam.’

  ‘But you are at least funny sometimes. You know, don’t you, my dear little darling. That I could see your breeches out a mile and your eyes so popping out of your head when I come into zee hall. And you know. I should not tell you. But I will. I was myself feeling such thoughts that you were thinking.’

  ‘O god.’

  ‘Yes. But I am sad I did not say something to you in Dublin. But how. I did not see you. What could I do.’

  ‘O Madam I do think you did, you must have at least felt my presence, and thereby you ignored me. I was crushed. You were so clearly with another man.’

  ‘And why not.’

  ‘We did have a deep abiding relationship. Of kindred souls. Our love had been consummated. That’s why not. That’s why it was unfaithful.’

  ‘What to have dinner. What nonsense.’

  ‘I knew by the look you gave him.’

  ‘What look. I don’t know who you even talk about.’

  ‘It was a look of love. I saw it on your face. I know that look. In the expression of your eyes. And the way you leaned towards him. And there was wine. And during horse show week as well. I know it was your lover.’

  ‘You know. You know nothing. Except you have a piece of grass coming out of your ear. And listen. The horn. You hear. And a cow. Go moo, moo.’

  ‘And there, a rooster Madam. Go cockadiddledo.’

  ‘Yes my little bog trotter. And my arse is frozen leaning over to talk to you. And the rain. Go drip drop. On top of us.’

  ‘Where do you live now in Dublin.’

  ‘Such conversation. You think we are having an aperitif on the boulevard. In Paris perhaps.’

  ‘Yes. In Paris. Now where do you live in Dublin.’

  ‘Ha you would so much like to know wouldn’t you.’

  ‘Do you live with a man. Who supports you.’

  ‘Ha I support me. Me I support. But the rest is none of your damn business.’

  ‘Madam, let’s make love.’

  ‘Make love. I am too, soaking fucking wet.’

  ‘No need Madam to get excited with such an unladylike expression.’

  ‘Well well. Out in zee middle of nowhere. What a thing to ask.’

  ‘I withdraw the request.’

  ‘Ah that is nice of you. Now get up.’

  ‘No. I shall I think Madam, just lie here. Casually let the raindrops fall, boom, bang, bing on my brow.’

  ‘They bloody fall on me too. My knee’s in muck. And if you don’t get up. I am.’

  ‘Madam if you leave me like this. I shall never never forgive you. Heavens my heart. And I do think one of my legs is gone.’

  ‘Ah my little broken bunny rabbit. Such an actor when you want to be, you are not that injured. With that little leg in your breeches bulging.’

  ‘Madam you are being uncommonly unrefined in your references.’

  ‘But is it not more that we are getting uncommonly fucking soaked and fucking muddy in this most unladylike and ungentlemanly fashion my darling in zee fucking wet grass.’

  ‘O dear, in spite of your vulgar Dublin parlance, I am smitten, Madam. That you will not make love.’

  ‘Ah my darling, it is not that I will not. But it is that certain time of the month.’

  ‘O no.’

  ‘O yes. But.’

  ‘But what.’

  ‘Ah but but. But.’

  ‘Tell me what but.’

  ‘It would be unladylike. As you say my expression has been. To tell you what but.’

  ‘That should not trouble you to be unladylike. For just the merest moment. To tell me something. That’s clearly quite important.’

  ‘Tell. Who said tell. I shall do.’

  ‘What shall you do.’

  ‘Ah, I shall do as I am doing. While we are mad to be here in the rain. Try to get it out of these buttons. Mein Gott, like the locks on Colditz.’

  ‘What is Colditz Madam.’

  ‘It is an old castle with big thick walls and many locks like your buttons, impossible to open.’

  ‘O god Madam.’

  ‘Ah. Too funny. Just to think once that now again, it is suddenly like it was, my dear little darling.’

  ‘O please. Please. Say that to me once more.’

  ‘Mein lieber kleiner Liebling das Gluckskind. Ich liebe dich. Sometimes only. Ich liebe dich.’

  ‘Ah. Ah. Now tell me what but. I don’t of course know exactly what beautiful words you are saying so softly beautifully. Only hope you’re not calling me a little fucker or something.’

  ‘It is that I shall teach you a lesson you shall not forget. And suck your cock like it has never been sucked before, my dear little bog trotter.’

  The gates of Colditz unlocked, I did hear the banshees, the fairies, the poucas. Dancing all over the rainbow the bright side of one’s brain. Her blond hair, the smooth locks of it netted and curled so neatly up underneath her bowler. And in that dark space underneath there must be the parting straight down the middle of her head. Bouncing up and down over me with the delicious sweet grabbing of her warm soft sucking mouth. Hands stealing up under my waistcoat to squeeze pinching on the chill tips of my breasts. This woman. Comes to my rescue. Back into my pale cold world. Kneels between my legs. Akimbo. Strewn upon my back contused in adversity. Take me. So crushed those many months ago in my jealousy. Too shy to ever call you Gwendolene. Hide me somewhere in your life please. Lead me by the hand. Back to your tower. Where e’er it be. In Dublin. To ring our bell. Whosoever shall clang my goolies. Resounding. Smashing all over the sky. Call me. On this darkening day. Who doth it be who hoots. Call me. To tell what death is. That stops the heart and the blood. That chills the lips to stillness. Melts eyes into darkness. Ah god now if that’s death. I’ll lead you to plenty that are alive and living. Who said that sound. Who spoke. As the seed gushes spurting. Sucked out of me. A fountain of life. In all this long stale celibacy. Scream at the top of one’s lungs. To the ears of birds and beasts that go asleep now. Under the blankets of darkness, clouds close on this earth. Hurrying down over the hills. Sprinkling soft rain again. To wet the side of one’s head, purring in bliss. One’s cheek on the cold ground.

  ‘Tally ho.’

  A cry. From the edge of the field. Grey strange bumps adorning an outcropping of rock. Where a face peeks up under a battered trilby hat. In the faded light the blood flooding up from her throat, blushing flagrant red across her cheeks. A flash of shy fear in her eyes. At the laughter and clapping. Shaking her fist. At the voice shouting bravo. And at least perhaps out of all the abysmal insolence all over this land, there is one less stupid fool among them. Saying not as much as Madam’s mouthful.

  But bespeaking

  Poetical

  And intellectual

  Appreciations

  12

  Just over the hill. In the evening shadows. And alongside a mountainous ancient hedge of holly, briar, ash and whitethorn where one called to her, Petunia gave a neigh. And another. Of purring contentment one might say. And there on the opposite hill his great dark silhouette rearing and pawing as if in victory, the mad stallion. His thundering hoofs heard above the rising cold wind, striding out along the edge of the bogland.

  ‘O those awful awful so ignorant people. Such idiots. I could choke their necks.’

  Miss von B still complaining we mounted Petunia and I ferried us back. Miss von B’s head occasionally resting on the back of my shoulder, her arms around my waist. I did have to remind her that it was I who continued to live in this countryside and whose name would be on every groom’s, skivvy’s and farmer’s lips all over every parish.

  Rashers ensconced in the library. Nervously jumping to his feet as I stuck my head in and nearly upsetting the drawer he held in his lap full of fishing flies tied by my grandfather. O
ne did feel awfully conspicuous being watched by my ever suspicious sisters, past whom I hurried up the stairs. And following on the heels of Crooks showing Miss von B to a room. Having already, in the hall heaped more coals on my fires of jealousy, by again inviting the Mental Marquis to stay. Who was only a moment before to my relief excusing himself.

  ‘Damn sorry, thanks all the same but think I’ve got to dash.’

  ‘O no please don’t. You must stay.’

  ‘O well. It’s a damn long way just to find out that one’s groom has burned to a crisp, isn’t it. Perhaps I would like to stay and sup as a matter of fact.’

  ‘O please do.’

  O god one had done it again. To invite new sufferings. Although one was feeling a signal relief between the legs. Crooks saying he took the liberty to dig out dinner togs for Rashers. And following my bath, a nap in the tub, dressing and a nice moment of well earned self pity on the down feathers of my mother’s chaise longue, I journeyed back to the library door. Just ajar so that I could see in. And there he was sitting solitary. Staring into space. And again jumping to his feet at my appearance.

  ‘Ah Kildare. Back and looking so splendid I see.’

  ‘And you too Rashers.’

  ‘I hope it’s not asking too much but I do wish you might not call me by that name. Would you mind awfully. Somehow it makes me feel, how shall one put it, a little inappropriate in present company. But please call me Ronald.’