‘O god. Here one is. Selling off my body to you, for some protection against a heinous rodent. Compromising my soul. And in return, instead of dignified retirement one day, I am being offered burial.’
‘Lois, please. I think you’re a long way off from finally packing it in. I really do. You have such a marvellous figure and you do feel so marvellously naked in my arms.’
‘This is just a blatant exploitation of my body.’
‘Well if it is, why don’t we really make the most of it. Sorry I didn’t quite mean to say that.’
‘You said it. O god, get it over with, you brazen bold boy.’
Lois squeezing, digging in her fingernails into Darcy Dancer’s back. As she writhes and sticks her tongue in his ear and rolls over on top of him. Her arms pinning him down as she shakes her braided long pigtails loose. A cat wailing outside. That should keep the rat quiet. And one supposes, what does it matter. Another bit of land, a cottage, a fraction of one’s birthright. Slap a little lime wash on the walls, sweep out the cobwebs. After all in spite of all her high falutin intellectual flights of fancy she is a decent enough sort. One simply cannot understand how she retains such a splendid physique. If it weren’t for the sometimes utterly mad expression worn on her face, she could, be classed as quite beautiful. And in spite of making no effort as she does to look in the least smart or feminine. Her tongue darting out her mouth and licking around her lips does resemble some sort of lizard. Even so I don’t suppose she deserves to have heaped upon her one lie on top of another. How can one ever afford, broke as one is, to commission a painting. One’s staff’s last fortnight’s wages unpaid. The resounding loud scraping sounds at the bottom of all one’s barrels. My mother’s jewels. I see sparkling and glowing in a great iron chest which becomes a nightmare when I wake up. Her pearls. Long gone black without a woman’s skin to give them life. Her rings, bracelets. Where do they lie. To be unearthed and bring one back to solvency. And one must remind oneself yet again. That so much of my mother’s family riches came from an act of kindness. Of one’s great great grandfather. Who one hot summer’s day came riding cross country on his horse to the flooded ford of a wide stream. To there find an old gentleman stranded, wheels stuck in the mud trying to get his pair of horses and carriage across. And my ancestor dismounted and after an hour or two’s digging, pushing, shoving and tying and adding his own horse to tugging, finally pulled the old gentleman’s carriage across the stream. The old gentleman tipped his hat and thanked him. And my ancestor bowed and smiled. Till many years later he was one day summoned up to Dublin. To climb the stairs of a big old house to an office. Whose windows overlooked the green velvet lawns of Trinity College’s Provost’s garden. And to there find an agent and a lawyer with deeds and papers and to learn from them that he’d been bequeathed by the old gentleman two great tracts of land of two thousand Irish acres. On one tract stood nearly the whole of a midlands town. And on another, part of Dublin. No wonder one rushes to every little old lady’s elbow to safely usher her across the roadway. Such compassion as a forbear had, I suppose still flows in my veins. But my god, administering such similar kindness. Help Lois to reimpose her celibacy. Kill her rat. Would only get me bequeathed her obscene pictures swirling with male private parts. Which in turn would get me arrested and imprisoned. And she’ll no doubt strangle me for all the crimson, blue and green paint she finds my feet are presently wiping off all over her sheets. Taste her saliva. She does have such sweet breath. To sniff back comfortingly into one’s nostrils. Makes all sorts of contorted gyrations and groans. Getting up on top of me. Which duly reminds that I must my god, win at the races. Borrow or beg to bet on Awfully Stupid Kelly’s Ulidia Princess The Second. So much has happened can’t remember where he said it was running. Leopardstown or Phoenix Park. My god, she’s finally got down. Changing from one orifice to another. And biting and painfully chewing one’s balls in between. Now feels as if she’s nearly swallowing me up. Shaking my prick in her mouth from one cheek to the other, teeth sawing back and forth. Pigtails flying like an autogyro. And O my god, licking her chops sucking out the last single drop. Must be her impoverished condition.
‘Are you tired already darling.’
‘Lois for someone whose recent regime was celibacy you do demonstrate an uncommonly explosive enthusiasm. Which is also if I may say so, entirely unarthritic.’
‘Well there is little point darling in not being wholehearted. And I’m not a cripple you know. Shall I try to get it up for you again.’
‘Well seemingly, for the time being at least, it does appear to be down, doesn’t it.’
‘Yes darling. Let us kiss it more. But what a lot of work you’re being dear boy. It’s still down and my jaw muscles are getting quite painfully tired.’
‘Is it your arthritis.’
‘I shall slap you. Of course it isn’t.’
‘Well can’t you get it in the jaw joints.’
‘No you can’t.’
‘Why. If you get it in other joints.’
‘I simply don’t know why, but I distinctly haven’t got it in my jaw joints anyway. You do don’t you, masquerading under your little boy innocence, possess a rather cynical impertinence. You who wanted to jump in bed with me. With this quite flaccid thing in an entirely unusable state.’
Lois on her hands and knees hovering over the prostrate Darcy Dancer. Kissing deep in the ears, at his throat, over the breasts, over the belly. Swaying biting like a hound tearing at a fox. Church bells again ringing. While one is hidden in here under Lois. Briefly away from the world. And far out over the city. Where somewhere Leila may be. O my god my love I clutch thee. Why is it not your white slender body. To which I cling. Your purple beribboned hair into which my fingers entwine. Your softly smiling lips upon which my mouth can press. Hold you grasped I still do, so bereft. And yet could hardly wait to get my mouth and hands to Lois’s breasts. And watch her ribs breathe on her so muscularly lean chest. But sounds as if instead of a simple cottage she wants me to supply a whole ruddy house. Suppose she could, if she didn’t require wages, be my artist in residence. Get her to lend a hand in odd jobs. Lime wash the boxes in the stables. Plenty of hay about upon which she can throw an artistic fit at the thought. My god she really is desperate. Tasting one’s cool goolies in her warm mouth. Climbing on top again. Before it’s even semi hard. Bending it. Heavens above. Riding me like she was in the Grand National. Over Beecher’s brook for the last time. And one jump to go. And fancy that, she’s switching to my knee. Grinding it up into her bifurcation. Growling. And screeching out. What a mad creature. She’d fuck the end of a carriage shaft. And she’ll put the fear of god into the poor old rodent. Throwing the bloody covers back. Slapping me on the thighs. Freezing the bloody hell out of both of us. Grunting. O my goodness where did they come from. She’s got her castanets. Her nipples bouncing up and down to their clack. Ah. But what magic. Miraculously getting me instantly as hard as an oak fence post. Quite wonderfully astonishing. Under starter’s orders again. The flag’s down. We’re off. Good lord the rat’s out. In the middle of the ruddy studio. On the Afghan rug. Ruddy well sitting back upon his hind legs. And bloody well eyes popping, his tiny ears twitching, watching us.
And
Clearly
Wanting
To join in
Too
20
An occasional tread of a foot on the crimson carpet over some loose board out in the hall as one awakes these Dublin mornings. To peek out of a half open eye. Find the brass lamp at my bedside. The mellow shiny chestnut colour of the dresser among the darker mahoganies. The glass panelled and curtained wardrobe doors. Flowered curtains and writing desk. Toggle switches at the door for light and ivory button for servants. And that morn, following the rat battle at Lois’s studio, there were stronger footsteps, and a pounding knock with the door sweeping open.
‘Good morning, my dear boy, good morning. Let us put forever behind us the sordidness of last evening.’
‘Rashers you ran off leaving me to be executed by a gang of thugs.’
‘Forgive me, dear boy. Once more I must abjectly put myself to ask of you amnesty if not your total amnesia. It wasn’t until I was streets away that I realized the person behind me was not you and was in fact a man in his pyjamas hysterically waving his umbrella, whose drainpipe I wrenched off his house. Honestly. And you know I was beside myself. My McCormack records shattered. But look. The sun’s up and out beaming down there over the Green. In fact it is well past twelve o’clock. Don’t you catch the fragrance of coffee and newly baked spice buns wafting across the city. The squeal and clang of trams. To and from Donnybrook. The bustle down there of people malcontent at work. Peerage being paged in the lobby. Dowagers, duchesses arriving to lunch at the ladies’ entrance down there at the Kildare Street Club. And tinker ladies already on the pavements with their bunches of violets for sale.’
‘O god, do come in Rashers. And if I am not quite at my best this morning you will of course please forgive me. I’ve not had that much sleep. Fire brigade wouldn’t let me in for an hour at dawn this morning.’
‘My precious dear boy, but how wonderful it is to have you so close by like this. Down the hall, pop up some steps two at a time and there you are. Ah isn’t this awfully nice in here. Shall I ring down for a spot of breakfast for you. We mustn’t miss the first race. I might myself have a tipple of white sparkling wine, if you don’t mind. Glorious out. Just look. Here let me open your curtains a bit. Aren’t you dear boy, delighted to be alive. To see out there. Our purple hills arise beyond our gracious city.’
‘No. It appears the pawn ticket you gave me is an already punched tram ticket to Dalkey. And your diamond cufflinks happen to be genuine imitation jewelry.’
‘O my dear boy, I know, I know what a dismal awful mistake that was for me to have made. Only noticed it later. I am so damn sorry. You see it was my way of tricking those catacomb denizen bastards into thinking they’d stumbled on the real McCoy.’
‘They would certainly have known a bloody Dalkey tram ticket when they saw it.’
‘Not in the semi dark, dear boy. Of course it was careless of me. Of course near dawn a riot finally broke forth wrecking the catacombs, Binky having made most unwisely a derogatory remark about the wife of one of his tenants. The husband returned from his nightly philandering jumped upon Binky just as he was asleep. Compressed poor queer devil’s throat into a shoelace. Then picked him up, threw him through a door, closed at the time. And finally chased Binky as he ran stark naked down the street for his life. The milkman delivering milk, fell off his horse cart and broke his arm laughing. Saved Binky’s life as his adversary also fell into the gutter laughing at the milkman. The catacombs are an utter shambles. Broke every bottle in the place. But ah. Here we are. Within these safe plush confines. Just lift the receiver. Or would you rather come join me in my neck of the woods. Lots more elbow room in my little suite you know for a spot of breakfast. No I see you wouldn’t. Another morning perhaps. But last night or rather very early morning my dear boy. I waltzed back into the lobby. To find an inebriated doctor in pursuit of a female guest. A well known surgeon no less. Crawled after her up the main stair from the lobby. Got to the top, stood up asking the lady for directions to her room. That he would in a short time, when he had regathered his equilibrium, find her. And then he fell backwards nearly into but alas just beyond my arms, and down the entire flight of stairs. And I did myself, suppressing my laughter of course, escort the lady to her room. Thinking I was on to a damn good thing. And look at my swollen fingers. She was an utter and complete maniac. Out of some Galway heap of rubble they call castles these days. She had actually pushed the doctor. And then the creature slammed the door on me. And safely inside her locked room started screaming rape. It was I who rang the fire alarm. Thought it the only sensible and humane thing to do. She’d have a ladder at least exiting her window. Ah but now. I have it all planned. The entire day ahead. An ancient but reliable vehicle is calling for us. The only Daimler in town as a matter of fact. Shall I ring for your bath to be drawn.’
‘Please give me a few minutes Rashers. To face life.’
‘Racing dear boy. We must motor countrywards. An abomination to be late. Must be quicko now, my dear chap. We shall have much jolly conversation and champagne in the various privileged enclosures. Then back to town. Black Velvet in the gilded cage. Then dispossessing ourselves of parvenus, we shall then oyster and Heidsieck in Jammet’s. And sup at the Dolphin Hotel upon a slab of haunch of a Mullingar heifer, blue rare, with some sappy rich grand cru of the Côte de Nuits. And please, dear boy, I humbly put to you don’t forget I am incognito. And remember at all times my present cognomen of the Earl of Ronald Ronald.’
Of course, from the moment one returned at dawn from Lois’s bed, and woke that fatal noon, one lost just about every single penny at the races over such ensuing days. And spent the rest of one’s zero remaining pounds running up vast accounts with the help of Rashers, all over town. And still came the daily insistent hammering on one’s hotel door. Rashers striding in. Racing journals under arm. Radiantly outfitted in morning suit. A carnation in his buttonhole. And my awaking spirits already squashed by the previous days’ totally dismal losses. Rashers always somehow managing to come back to town a winner. Giving a good luck pound to any tinker lady at the course near enough to hand us a flower through the Daimler limousine door. And even unbelievably, albeit piecemeal, making restitution of my previous loan to him. But not ever again explaining the whereabouts of the real pawn ticket.
‘Now dear boy. Here you are. Another fiver owed you. And I shall the moment the moment is ripe, dump at your feet, polished and gleaming and straight from Dublin’s best silversmiths, every item of your temporarily borrowed silver.’
‘Rashers, does that mean in future, that should one have you as a guest again, my spoons upon your departure shall have to be counted.’
‘O dear. Deserve I do. But that is rather below the belt this crucial time of the morning you know. Especially as my emotive perception must devote itself entirely to estimating form for the day’s racing. Have you no heart dear boy. Do remember it was not my fingers but those light ones of the poet who actually purloined or rather took a loan of your valuable utensils. I am crushed that you should take that attitude. And here I am with my humble little offering. A bottle of the best gents’ toilet water to be found in London. To give you.’
‘Thank you Rashers. Nice of you to think of me. And my apologies. But the moment is overripe for the return of my silver. I am in deep financial difficulties.’
‘The status quo dear boy, merely the status quo.’
‘Well my personal state of things Rashers, is not being improved by this hotel bill mounting precipitously by the hour. And the haberdashery you persuaded me to purchase. And the fact that I lie here, temporarily at least, beholden to you.’
‘Nae. O friend. Speak not so.’
‘Rashers, I bloody well speak so.’
‘Dear boy, you just haven’t fancied my choice of nags. Now. I’ll give you the following tips for today.’
‘Rashers I did take, if you remember, one or two of your tips and lost a packet.’
‘O dear. But such condition of which you speak so disconsolately merely requires to bring off a coup dear boy. A master stroke. Which shall even eventually lead to one of an international dimension. I mean, for a local start, there is our friendly little stock exchange just a hop skip and jump away over there on Anglesea Street. Indeed seven six eight four one is the telephone number. Buy up barley. Rubber. Tin.’
‘There is Rashers, also Stubbs’ Gazette in which I have just prominently been published.’
‘Dear boy, my name is there for all to see each week of the year. Admittedly one does appear frequently under pseudonyms. Take no notice of such small and infinitely trifling matters. The grand coup is what you must put your mind to. For which right now you must make yourself ready. Keeping your o
ptions open as it were.’
‘Was borrowing my silver one of your coups and masterstrokes.’
‘Darcy, please. Haven’t we now been through so much together. At least I am happy to know you recognize that I have merely borrowed. A much better frame shall be upon you once you have breakfasted dear boy and taken your bath. Now you just relax.’
A black uniformed smiling maid assisted by two impressively self important page boys quick about their business wheeling in one’s table. Sausages still sizzling on a hot plate. Egg yolks glistening in their shiny fat. Rashers downing the rinds I cut from one’s bacon. Even having half my coffee. Munching down three pieces of soda bread toast and honey. And without interlude switching to the champagne next wheeled in the door.
‘Darcy. Now listen. We must corner the market in some desperately needed commodity.’
‘I suppose something like Guinness stout for instance.’
‘Darcy there is no need to be funny about such a deadly serious matter. Now what about becoming a major shareholder in our little casino. Now that the matter of the gent who was stabbed under our roulette table has blown over. Gala reopening soon. The Royal Rat will of course still preside as front man. Of course having had to return the bed he tried to pawn with his mother still in it, he then unfastened the stove and took that with the poor lady’s potatoes still boiling on it. Now I don’t want you to think we do not have pots to piss in. How about a modest investment.’
‘No.’
‘Ah pity. Well then. What about a small dance hall we might open. Or can we interest you in say some choice little restaurant operation. O dear. Well then some shares. Gilt edge. Also know a chap anxious to vend his tea plantations in Ceylon.’
‘Rashers, you are flogging a dead horse. I haven’t even got enough seed potatoes for spring. No grass. And hardly enough hay even to last till next week. An agent suing me. Trees being cut and stolen. My entire staff as I lie here are fattening themselves upon their gargantuan lunch. The only reason this hotel isn’t demanding payment is because I settled an even larger bill previously.’
Leila Page 34