Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘How jolly damn good. Best ice cream I’ve ever tasted.’

  Of course one was quite prepared to believe his Lordship. That Catherine’s ice cream was a dream. But doing as I most carefully always do, when I am about to eat in this household, I lean and sniff first. And there was no doubt that upon my plate was ice cream. But one smelling of the distinct essence of lightly congealed giblets and other barnyard avian innard derivatives used for the making of gravy which one had liberally applied to the lamb, sprouts and potatoes from Dingbats’s previous sauceboat. The others obviously thinking those nice little chunks floating in the creamy dark brown were chips of choicest chocolate to be savoured. Which the household had got its hands upon. His Lordship having ladled it on liberally, continuing to shovel the whole concoction up.

  ‘My kitchen should have this recipe Crooks. What about it.’

  ‘No trouble at all your Grace. None whatever. Be pleased to accommodate you.’

  Amazingly how long one awaited some uproar or even slight question. Although after the first few mouthfuls Rashers, who continued eating, did start looking suspiciously up the table at me. And Dingbats coming round with seconds of sauce my sisters and Miss von B politely declined. As each mouthful went more and more slowly into each mouth and there got chewed or melted or whatever what. However my sisters finally were looking at each other and making not at all nice faces back down at their plates. But his Lordship, whatever is amiss with the man’s taste bloody buds, even bloody well is on his third helping. As Crooks elevates him to a dukedom.

  An agitated Crooks bursting back into the dining room. Rubbing his hands together and then sweeping up the tails of his hunting coat. And frothing I thought the merest bit at the mouth. And licking his lips, his eyes neatly focused, one beaming each side of the Mental Marquis’ head and at the most opposite angle to each other I have ever seen them achieve.

  ‘Your Grace forgive us. I fear there has been a mistake. That is the gravy from the lamb sir. On your ice cream.’

  ‘Well get me the bloody recipe for the gravy then my dear man.’

  What’s sauce

  For the goose

  Is bloody well

  Damn savoury

  For the gander

  13

  The poor ladies having withdrawn to the east parlour where they were rapidly freezing to death, gave up waiting upon us and retired to bed. Sending their apologies via Crooks. Who was, with his every syllable on the verge of laughter, only just able to get the words out of his mouth at the dining room door.

  ‘Master Reginald, the ladies following the long day’s hunt ask your respectful pardon to proceed to their bedchambers.’

  The news that the Mental Marquis wanted the recipe for the gravy for future ice cream sent Crooks into a state one had never before seen him enter and did not indeed think he would ever exit from. Before he withdrew his head back into the hall, paroxysms of mirth simply racked him bodily. And just as one spasm waned another succeeded it. Then while fetching port he let go of the two full decanters, his laughter now hysterical, sending his false teeth, upper and lower, flying out of his mouth, which he then crunched underfoot. Holding his stomach and sides as if they were to be unhinged from him. Until I thought the man would become sick. Which would have been less expensive than his bumping into the side table and his full weight collapsing its delicate leg. The decanters through some miracle remained stoppered and unbroken. Crooks finding this additionally amusing, and totally out of control of himself, reeling out the door, where one found him doubled over in the hall.

  ‘Good god, Crooks are you all right.’

  ‘Sir O I beg you excuse me. Sincerely excuse me. And forgive me. But that was funny enough about the gravy but when Catherine down the kitchen heard tell of it didn’t she fall over the pig bucket and straight into the bucket full of eggs.’

  ‘I see. I suppose they were the eggs for breakfast.’

  ‘Well they were sir and won’t they be well scrambled now by Catherine’s backside.’

  Darcy Dancer leading Crooks off to bed. Up the main stairs. Crooks doubling up yet again. Hands cupping themselves over his stomach. Over his most recent and mercifully last little joke. As the damn man is drunk. Lame, footless and incapable. Heavier and heavier as one drags and pulls him forward in the dark. Down his lonely long hall. Up his own little steps into his anteroom. And wind and rain pouring in the open window of his chambers. Of course one had to just drop him like a sack of potatoes on the bed. And throw my grandfather’s old leather motoring coat over him. Under which, between groans, he still spluttered and laughed.

  ‘Ah Master Reginald, I’m done for. I’m finished. Sure I’m just an old butler who’s sharpened his last knife. Look at me teeth. O dear O dear. Buggered they are. Buggered. Squashed like a beetle.’

  ‘You must not fuss Crooks. Mr Kelly the dentist will have them right as rain again.’

  ‘Don’t I look a sight though in the meantime. With me cheeks caved in and me chin up near me nose. Ah god even with me eyes askew I am plenty handsome enough to attract the ladies.’

  ‘Of course you are Crooks.’

  ‘Cut a figure I do. When I have a mind. But now look at me. Sure what one of them decent ladies of this household would have even five minutes time to spare now on an old butler minus his teeth. Sure it’s only four paces there to that door. To hang myself inside from the rafter, like the two of me predecessors. Would you pass me now that bottle of the cough linctus medicine next to me clock on the mantel, Master Reginald.’

  One did stand momentarily trepidatory out in the hall wondering if Crooks would string himself up. But the bottle of medicine, by its aromatics clearly containing my best Armagnac, would further assure Crooks not having the strength to stand up to get his neck properly in the noose. And one does rest quite assured that one will still have a butler albeit toothless in the morning. And perhaps even less than half dead.

  Two candles burning in the dining room. Where I sensed much embarrassed silence may have ensued in the cigar smoke during my absence. But the fire still blazing a pleasant soft glow. Upon my reseating, his Lordship sipping his port, wasting no time in getting on to the subject of ladies. Whether they were to be better enjoyed long before or shortly after dinner. And whether the Pope, to whom his Lordship referred as the big guinea left footer in Rome, had the usual Neapolitan tart preferred by pontiffs as his main mistress or was the Vatican importing fluff and ecclesiastical arse from all over the kip including Sweden. Prompting the first real comment from Rashers all evening. Which he rather heatedly directed towards his Lordship whose eyebrows did raise.

  ‘I happen if you don’t mind to be a left footer you know.’

  ‘Ah forgive me my dear chap. If I did tread on your toes. But it is to my astonished surprise that you have any religion at all. Never mind being a left footer. But as you are of that regrettable persuasion, let me fill you up with some good Protestant preserved port then, sir.’

  Clear consternation on his countenance, nevertheless Rashers pushing his glass forward under the flow of wine. His voice spluttering out.

  ‘Should it concern you in the least, sir, the fact of the matter is I’m a left footer by virtue of my mother. I am however to the Protestant manner born. I know I deserve your remarks. And I do regret that your membership in the casino was not possible to effect on the night in question. It rather became difficult for the club when someone was found stabbed under the roulette table.’

  ‘I see. A knife probably in the back.’

  ‘Yes it was as a matter of fact. And I’m awfully sorry about your fifty quid. I have every intention of returning it. I’m a bit short at the moment.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps since you were unable to pay it into the hand of your club treasurer it temporarily went down your throat. Or I daresay if not that, on the back of a horse.’

  ‘Yes as a matter of fact, both. I drank ten and put forty on The Bug to win. But you may not know that the toilet bowl you redeeme
d from my pawn ticket is of a very high quality of pottery. And comes of a well known sanitary manufacturer.’

  ‘Well forgive me my dear chap if, just below Tara Street bridge, I ran both it and the pram off the quay into the Liffey thinking as I did so that a pity you weren’t in it. Pram floated out to sea. But I’m sure your pottery’s still there preserved in the mud.’

  In Rashers’s hurt and subdued voice an angry edge was evident. In spite of what obviously his presently somewhat testy Lordship represented in the way of a marvellous oasis of perhaps future invitations to hunt, shoot, fish, dine and drink on his estates. And his Lordship was clearly gathering up his vowels to let Rashers have further what for in the solar plexus. Rashers suddenly getting up to rap the table with his glass.

  ‘Pray silence. My lords, gentlemen. Permit me to recite some poetry. From the temporary depths of my dulcet toned Catholic testicles when they choose to chime and rhyme.’

  Rashers indeed was beginning to show for the first time his true form. I must confess I was spellbound as he then reeled off stanza after stanza of The Old Orange Flute. And to feel from his fervour that he might, standing up to his oxters in Catholic gore and papist’s blood, have composed the damn words himself. But by god he did have his Lordship’s attention momentarily. Especially finally singing the last lines.

  ‘So the ould flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic. It was fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic. And while the flames roared they all heard a strange noise, ’twas the ould flute still playing the Protestant Boys.’

  But as Rashers rendered a further few risqué couplets of another ditty suggesting less than noble references to ladies in general, one sensed his Lordship a little shocked. But he did clap rather politely and ask rather pointedly.

  ‘Aside from reassuring us that the road to hell is paved with popery, what else can you do my dear chap, or to whom, perhaps one should say.’

  ‘As you may just have noticed from my divertissement I am a tenor sir.’

  ‘Ah so I did notice. And I’m sure our host will not mind your singing for your supper. Some other time. And dear chap do sit down. Surely you don’t mean to curdle our port with a further medley of vocalized silly octaves. As you are sir, the most blatant mediocrity I think I have ever had the boredom to meet and your poetic pretensions are positively ludicrous and without the redeeming feature of being amusing.’

  Rashers’s face flushed with fury, for a moment I thought he was about to swing the decanter of port crashing on his Lordship’s head. Or at least send a fist into the Marquis’ gob. And by the way Rashers’ hands were tightly knotted, Rashers must have thought he was too. But he stood rigidly silent. Taking into his lungs a long slow breath. And as the first shimmering tenor notes of Annie Laurie left Rashers’ lips I shivered in awe as the hair stood up on the back of my neck. His Lordship’s hand loosened on the bowl of his glass and fell away on the table, his mouth open as he sat utterly transfixed. Not even the candle flame flickering. And in the dim light of the dining room, as the last note came vibrating from Rashers’s throat, and was held shimmering in the air for what seemed a blissful heavenly eternity, the tears were tumbling down the Marquis’ face.

  ‘My god, I’m touched. My dear fellow. Touched. To the depths. To the marrow. The Count. The Count must be turning over in his grave. With envy. I retract my former most rude remarks. And sir if I were not so smitten here and so devilishly presently comfortable I would be upon my feet pumping your hand up and down in the utmost humble homage to your person. You are without doubt among the great tenors of this age.’

  Rashers’s glowing eyes. His lips smiling. To see us both so stricken. Worshipping at his altar. Yet he remained so childlike in his joy at our appreciation. He was a dear man at this moment. So humbly eagerly delighted by our praise. Beaming at the Marquis. The Marquis beaming back. As if he had discovered both the north and south poles by flipping a coin backwards over the shoulder. And was now just back in the cosy firelit confines of the Geographical Society. O dear one does conjure up ridiculous ideas. But I did think his Lordship was carrying it just a little bit too far with his great long sighs and shakings back and forth of his head. But I must confess I did shiver right down to the bottom of one’s limbs. And even though one knows not a fig about bloody singing in the professional sense, I could imagine awed gatherings of folks in village halls all over Ireland opening up their hearts and pocket books to this voice. And even on the Tara Street bridge, a hat, or ten dozen hats, being passed around to be filled with ten bob notes. And who knows what would happen in other more sophisticated capitals. With such accumulation of riches Rashers could return home to Eire. Buy himself a piece of land and raise, during summer grazing, sturdy young beef bullocks.

  ‘Please do excuse me gentlemen, while I fetch more port.’

  Darcy Dancer a candle held aloft, proceeding along the hall. The footfalls echoing. Down to the cellars. Fingertips so cold. How sad it all is, somehow. That such beauty sung has lain unknown in another’s breast. Perhaps one needs this evening over. This day done. For its non ending, utterly non ending sudden twists and turns draining of one’s emotions. Living in the country should be quiet. Like in these cobwebbed stone vaults. Instead of dramatic. But dear me the sweetness of his dulcet vowels still weave into one’s senses. Filling one with such an awakened fervour. To indeed love. To cherish life. To wrap arms around and even kiss misfortune. It of course too does mean yet another trip down to fetch up more port. Carefully ferry it back. And in the precipitous process upset the lees in the bottom of the bottle. And her. Her soul. Up there. In that room. From whence she might fly and go away. And leave me. So totally distressful. And in this moment of sadness as I pull on this cork. The dining room door my god bursts open. Kitty and Norah. Kitty shouting.

  ‘Come quick sir, come quick, it’s Crooks, Crooks, he’s hung himself sir. He’s up there his feet kicking in the butler’s hanging room.’

  At least one did wonder, while this nice brand new disaster was so typically unfolding, if the contorting rope around Crooks’ neck would in some manner, as his eyes bulged out of their sockets, perhaps bring them back into alignment once more. Rashers, like a hound dog, eagerly awaiting me to show the way, and was indeed quite perturbed. No doubt contemplating a future absence of attendance being danced upon him. His Lordship, however took a different view.

  ‘O dear another servant’s demise. Well Kildare, damn it, it does remind one I’ve left my groom roasted to a crisp. Do give a shout if you need help dear boy. I mean a decent butler is a damn sight harder to replace than a groom.’

  And the ruddy bunch of the rest of us skidding out the dining room door. Ruddy charging lickety split up the stairs. Rashers crashing into a side table on the way. The edge getting him in the lower stomach and doubling him up and one hopes not nearly castrating him.

  ‘Sod it. Sod it. My dear man. Light the bloody way will you before I kill myself.’

  In the butler’s suicide room, Crooks draped in my grandfather’s motoring coat, a mauve scarf of my mother’s at his throat. The hanging rope up over the rafter but the noose hopelessly under one armpit and only half around his neck. His rosary beads in his hand. But instead of mumbling his Hail Marys he was moaning and feebly kicking the wall, slowly turning and twisting in a circle, a chair turned on its side beneath him.

  ‘Cut me down, cut me down. Let me die on me back in peace. Give me the viaticum. O Lord in thy greatest mercy release the spirit of this humble butler on this earth to join you in heaven and be eternally blessed.’

  Rashers on the chair severing the rope. As Crooks fell down into our arms, and between his religious outbursts, clearly adoring all the attention. But now demanding as he was carried back into his bedroom and laid out on the bed.

  ‘Give me me teeth. I am without me teeth.’

  Crooks’ room remarkably neat. Copies of Tatler and Sketch on a side table. His sofa chair with slippers parked in front of it and several dressing gowns
hanging on the back of his door. But with his crushed teeth back in his mouth, and parts protruding between his lips, one cheek bulging, regrettably made him look like a vampire. Never mind, despite being drunk as a lord, he assumed the prostrate manner of a dying monarch on his bed, folded hands intertwined with his rosary, his body composed. Indeed with his crossed eyes closed and disregarding the disfigurement of a projecting point of one of his canine teeth, he did present a remarkably handsome countenance. And one could actually imagine the ladies giving him more than a tumble.

  Darcy Dancer, Kitty, Rashers and Norah tiptoeing away out of the room. Leaving Crooks snoring asleep. Darcy Dancer excusing himself from Rashers on the landing. To head back up into this house. You might know that Crooks in his hopeless efforts to hang himself had most suitably dislocated his shoulder. And one chooses this moment to go back and find her door. Hesitating twice up the stairs. Racked with nerves. And even turning back. Until I was suddenly overwhelmed with anger. One had never before gone supplicatingly to knock on a servant’s chamber. But there was light inside. Standing in the dark the toes of one’s evening slippers illumined by the faint glow under the door.

  ‘What do you want.’

  ‘I’ve come to inquire to see how you are. And if you were disturbed by the commotion.’

  Darcy Dancer standing in the silence. The cold draught blowing along this hall. Waiting. A vixen barking out in the frosty night. The squeaks and groans of the floorboards. O dear the poor lady, perhaps in there sick and ill. But the door opening. Her face. Quite magnificently beautiful in the shadow. And beyond, a candle lit on the black chimney piece. The low ceiling curving up over her narrow bed of this narrow room. Chill and damp. Strewn everywhere with bits of clothing. Torn pieces of paper. Two photographs propped up against the edge of a book. And next to them an envelope. Staring at me.