Leila

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘Darcy. Never take that appalling attitude. Positiveness, belief in the future. No doubting. Somewhere, somehow, there is always a profit flowering for someone. Let there be no bewilderment. No nonplus or quandary. Never allow the self to dwell in the regions of nae hope.’

  Breakfasting with Rashers did undeniably cheer one up. Just as quickly as his meal and champagne being listed on my bill, did then depress me. Each morning warmed in the bath one did lie deeply thinking. And remembering all too vividly my departure that dawn from Lois. One of the most harrowing events of my entire life. As she crawled on hands and knees across her studio floor after me, oblivious to the smears of paint or lurking rat. Clutching at my garments as I attempted to put them on. Wailing and sobbing for me not to go and leave her. Without a husband in the future. Long divorced as she was. Without her cats. Her nipples shrunken hard by the cold. Her breasts wagging nakedly on her chest. Her face looking up beseeching. She did with the tears streaming down her face suddenly look like an ancient crone. Don’t leave me. I beg of you don’t leave me. And I left. Saying I must. I must. Lois following me step by step down her stairs. And as I ran away down her alley. I could hear her fists behind me pounding feebly inside her front door. But what she did not know. Was that I had fallen asleep into a dream. Of Leila on a rack. In a damp dungeon room. Being drawn and quartered. A blade cutting into her. Her stomach lying open. Entrails reddened as she squealed in pain. A white coffin carrying her body on tinker men’s shoulders through the evening mist and smoke of a bitter Dublin slum street. And I could hardly catch my breath as I woke, shaking in the coldest of sweats. And I could not stay. Could not comfort. For all I could see ahead in my life was an endless lonely tundra icy cold, a wind chasing me. A name calling. Leila.

  ‘Darcy, a promising nag or two I perceive here this morning. Yes. Deserving of at least a fiver. On Sweet Sixteen in the first race should start matters off nicely enough. Little lady had a notable run recently. Only beaten by a neck.’

  Rashers shouting to me in the tub. And in my room, feet propped up. Tucking in once more to his innumerable eggs, bacon, stacks of soda bread, dishes of butter balls, and washing it all down with replacement pots of hot coffee. And not that many minutes later, rustling his racing journals open under his cigar, was deeply into his first bottle of the day’s champagne.

  ‘Join me Darcy. Very nicely fruity this. Dry too. But fruity.’

  Rashers did set one’s mind to thinking. Why should one not become enormously rich. Go out into the world beyond this world. Not have to each day wake up wondering where one’s fivers were to come from. Or to contemplate going off deep into the oak forest at Andromeda Park and put a barrel of one’s best Purdey to one’s head. Meanwhile Rashers did see me to one or two meals at Jammet’s. And one unforgettable one in the company of his beloved. Blonde dyed lady on the verge of being what one might charitably refer to as pudgy. Whose middle structure was clearly the same circumference as her rather voluminous bosoms decorated by the neckline of plunging sequined fabric. Her legs equally misproportioned, at least in terms of good equine conformation. Her very high heels making her very upright in the pasterns. Rashers uncustomarily becoming so becomingly shy. Nervously putting his hand on top of hers following the serving of each course. Throughout the evening watching her eagerly as she deposited a first mouthful in her mouth. Always smiling, and jumping to do her merest bidding. Lighting her cigarettes. Even adoring as it dangled from her lip, and the smoke she let rise into her eyes making them water. Fetching her opera glasses from her nearly ankle length muskrat fur coat. Which she said she planned, as soon as one appeared in Dublin, to replace with mink. And then for her to rudely peer at other, albeit and thank god, distant guests. And the most astonishing thing of all. I do not believe I shall ever encounter anyone who has ever loved anyone else in the world as much as Rashers seemed to love her. She did keep rather silent in my company. But was appreciatively more talkative as we brought up the subject of horses. And one was astonished she knew exactly my family racing colours and the names and pedigrees of many of my mother’s fillies and colts running long before I was even born. She kept staring out into the middle distance. As another name would come to mind. Rashers grinning approvingly from ear to ear. But I could see him wince as she snapped her fingers at the waiter which I found frightfully embarrassing. And poor Rashers equally so as he did slump more than slightly in his chair. But he was treating one extremely handsomely. To an utterly incredible enrapturing rare magnum of Pommard, with which I washed down my roast wild duckling à l’orange. And Rashers at evening’s end smiling elatedly and bowing across the room to three gentlemen. All of whom grinned happily back.

  ‘My former professor of Bacteriology and Preventive Medicine, Dr Bigger dear boy. Indeed that’s my actual tutor in the corner. He was as well my King’s Professor of Materia Medica and Pharmacy. You see Darcy practically across the street is a private gate through Trinity’s wall through which properly entitled College Fellows may discreetly slip out of college to dine.’

  The flames of the blazing fire dying over brandy and cigars. Tears in Rashers’ eyes lifting his glass as we toasted his beloved. Who’d excused herself to retire to the ladies. She was I am certain not a moment younger than an entire forty five or even more years.

  ‘You do like her, don’t you Darcy. You do find her acceptable. You are enamoured of her, even a wee bit.’

  ‘O my god Rashers, not to put too fine a point on it, your lady is a trifle on the robust side. But she does have a remarkably pretty complexion and rather nice ringlets of blond curls.’

  ‘There is no need for you to go on. I know she is not the most beautiful lady in Dublin and that she is what is commonly referred to as of stout build. But you do not have to be so hurtfully euphemistic about it, do you. You don’t, do you, believe I love her. Do you.’

  One could see the pleading in his eyes. So desperate for one’s approval. And somehow I could not restrain myself from remarking.

  ‘Well as a matter of fact Rashers, no, I don’t believe you love her. I rather think you find her attractive for perhaps a few other not insubstantial reasons.’

  ‘Well I’ll tell you. I’m not after her pubs, tobacconist’s shops and her country house as you may think. I respect her too much for that. How would you know what a fine noble person she is. And from a damn decent family too. You do don’t you attribute to me only the crassest of motives. I’m sorry now I made the mistake of having you meet her.’

  No amount of insistence would dissuade Rashers that I had not meant a word I said. Arriving at the race course, I attempted to refer to her in my most off handed manner, as such a cheerfully buxom girl who would make a fine wife.

  ‘There is no necessity for false praise of her. I know you think I am sulking. And I was deeply hurt. But may I remind you, I am born under the planet Jupiter. And as a jovialist, the depths of despair is simply not my cup of tea.’

  At the paddock Rashers hardly glanced in my direction from his race card. And continued to behave in this fashion till the last race. When I saw Awfully Stupid Kelly in a natty brown trilby and what he must imagine is an extremely well cut suit, giving his jockey a leg up on Ulidia Princess The Second. Which Rashers already has as a hot tip to win. Kelly popping the handle of a tightly rolled brolly over an arm and holding his race card aside as he lifted his jockey’s knee with his free hand. One spied Baptista Consuelo attempting to look glamorous with a party of friends including some of the bastards descended upon me in my own front hall. She’s just the sort of female with whom one would open up one’s dinner conversation by announcing that when one was in Egypt one was attacked by wild dogs. And always my eyes wherever they looked, hoping for a sight of Leila, that I might speak with her. That she must be somewhere, hopefully not in the company of the Mental Marquis. That she had come to Dublin and found employment. Then I saw through the heads one’s once mean old stable boss, Matt. When I, a runaway from school and home was an itinerant li
ke Leila. Exploited and shunned. And Matt watching from the paling and looking much down on his luck again. How quickly the world forgets you were once on top of it. How soon the hounds howl out in their long moans heralding death. His shabby clothes, his cheeks sunken on his face. Just as he was when one came to his rescue before. And from whom, in exchange for my compassion, came the biggest racing win of my life. So strange now to see other familiar faces in this passing parade, and to even think that I could have been a stable lad in Kelly’s stables. Even Foxy Slattery with an owner in the paddock. And seeing me. To wave. Shaking his head up and down yes and nodding at his horse. Must mean the brakes are off. And someone is nudging me in the back.

  ‘Hello Matt.’

  ‘Hello sir, I saw you from across the paddock there.’

  ‘How are you.’

  ‘Ah not great. There used to be a decent time when no one could be unknown in Dublin and now by god people are forgotten all over the place. But I can still judge a good horse. And I’ve come to give you a tip. Those mean gombeen Kellys have a winner there, again.’

  ‘But I’ve just got a tip on number six, Rumoured Ghost.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Thanks Matt.’

  ‘Would you have a pound now sir to spare.’

  ‘Not to spare. But certainly Matt.’

  ‘Goodbye and thanks sir.’

  So sad. Matt goes. As Rashers comes. Jovial again. Grinningly puffing his cigar. Known by all around him. Like some kind of king. But I suppose jollier than most monarchs. His binocular case flying myriad colours of his many private club enclosure tickets. And finally his cognomen ringing out on the public address.

  ‘Will Lord Ronald Ronald come to the Steward’s Office please.’

  ‘Excuse me a jiff dear boy. The chaps must require my assistance, or there awaits a hot tip.’

  ‘But I have a hot tip for you Rashers. Number six, Rumoured Ghost.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Rashers I’m sure.’

  ‘Dear boy. Word from my trusted inner sanctum is Ulidia Princess The Second. Just look at her. Like a coiled steel spring. But of course don’t let me dissuade you from promptly doubling or even tripling your stakes on your choice dear boy. Be right back.’

  ‘Rashers. I haven’t a bloody cent but this fiver left.’

  ‘Now now not to worry. You always know, don’t you that your banker stands right in front of you, ready to lend. Give that fiver to me. I’ll pop it on for you with a little something extra. And apropos of nothing at all dear boy. Did you know that it requires a tart to be a first rate actress, and it requires a wife to be only second rate. Ta ta.’

  Rashers irrepressible, as well as being a ready philosopher, did of course over the days, back more than a few no hopers. But undeniably did, every few races, return again with an enormous fist full of fivers. And one’s heart was more than a little in dilemma over his certainty of Ulidia Princess. And back in the enclosure, just at the off, as one tapped one’s cold toes up and down, he steamed up beside me effusively confident as well as overjoyed.

  ‘Dear boy. Do you know what that was all about. Honestly today is my day. It utterly is. I’ve just been asked to become a member of the Jockey Club.’

  ‘How wonderful Rashers.’

  ‘Yes isn’t it. And I have my sad chap placed your bet for you. Pity you’re missing such a damn good thing at thirty five to one dear boy.’

  ‘But Rumoured Ghost is fifty to one.’

  ‘Of course it is. Surprised it’s not a hundred to one. Out of an unknown stable, trained by a trainer no one’s heard of. Like this nag, nine, Knocknamuck. Imagine, such a downtrodden name for a horse. You did however didn’t you, see what a lovely muscled, lean in the loins filly Ulidia Princess is. Her balletic dainty feet actually thrive in heavy ground. Turf is riding very dead today dear boy. An up and coming jockey upon her. Of course the very hush hush news that the brakes are well and truly off was only out at the very last second. Had only two previous leisurely outings. And she is out of the stable dear boy that bred Tinkers Revenge. Won at a hundred to one last year.’

  ‘Which I backed with an enormous bet, Rashers.’

  ‘What. O my god did you.’

  ‘Yes I did. And from such winnings I also loaned you a fiver.’

  ‘Did you.’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘Ah dear boy, it shows you doesn’t it. How much I have to thank you for, doesn’t it. But please don’t answer that too provocative a reflection. But you know one does find it irritating if we look about us that far too many are wearing emblems associated with the hound and fox. You would think, wouldn’t you that they would need a breather from adorning as they do their scarves, cars, lapels, ties with such creatures. Ah but we must pay attention to the race. Here’s your ticket dear boy. And it’s not one to Dalkey. Sad for you, but I’ve put your fiver on your fifty to one shot.’

  ‘Thank you Rashers.’

  ‘Please remember, Earl of Ronald Ronald. Soon to be a member of an august body.’

  ‘Sorry your Lordship.’

  ‘Ah isn’t it good to be alive. At the start of a race. As the heart pounds hopefully. One’s life now free from gurriers, vandals and galoots. And all other disgraceful contretemps. No longer having to crucify one’s spirit in the catacombs or besmirch one’s day by cowering in under those three golden balls.’

  ‘To pawn someone else’s silver.’

  ‘O dear, dear boy. Must you. Yes yes. I did. I did. But please instead let me draw your attention to this race. They’re just rounding the first turn. All over the first jump. Ah the field nicely sorting themselves out a little.’

  Rashers temporarily silent, nearly taking one’s arm off. As he was clearly having a heart attack. Especially at each jump. His filly from the off, was running last. Despite his shouting, grabbing and tugging me.

  ‘Don’t dismay dear boy. Ulidia Princess is keeping a sedate pace. Won’t make her move till a jump to go. Saves every ounce of energy for those coiled steel quarters of hers. We shall see her dainty pasterns stretching over the emerald grass blades in the final furlong, her hoofs bombarding the nags distantly following with a veritable plethora of wet sods.’

  ‘She’s last Rashers.’

  ‘May be. But the Princess took that jump foot perfect. Any moment, just watch, she’ll leave the rest of the field well and truly stranded. I mean your old nag’s not doing badly up fourth, Darcy.’

  ‘Third, Rashers, according to the announcer’s voice. And if my own eyes don’t deceive me.’

  As one cheerfully reminded his present Lordship that Rumoured Ghost was in the thick of the leaders, one’s heart began sinking as Ulidia Princess began coming. Unbelievably from last. Way way out on the outside.

  ‘Like a rocket dear boy. You see. Like a veritable bloody rocket is she blazing towards the post.’

  Each momentary second he put his binoculars aside, Rashers socking me so hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking me over. Getting more and more hysterical with the Princess overtaking the field with three furlongs to go.

  ‘My one hundred quid dear boy, rides flying upon her. One hundred bloody wonderful magnificent quid. Come on you Princess namesake of the bloody north. Show your ruddy bloody elegant heels. Look at that. Whoopee hooray.’

  ‘Rashers, please. You’ve got me by the collar and throat.’

  Rashers was, his binoculars momentarily dropped on his chest, actually throttling me. His face grinning ear to ear at my dismay. And two furlongs to go. With the announcer now bellowing.

  ‘Out in front now. Last to first in a furlong. Ulidia Princess. Six lengths ahead of the field. And Rumoured Ghost. Coming fast. It’s still Ulidia Princess. A length on Rumoured Ghost who’s gaining ground. Every stride. It’s Rumoured Ghost now, neck and neck with Ulidia Princess.’

  Rashers’ jaw more than slightly dropping open. His mouth suddenly chewing air. His head craning forward behind his binoculars. As I chose now to give him a
good bloody solid punch on the arm. The announcer quite utterly hoarse, shouting, screaming, nearly out of his mind.

  ‘No one else in it now. This is a sensation. Two rank outsiders now. Seven lengths in front of the field. A furlong to go. Stride for stride. Leaving two Ascot winners and a winner of the Arc de Triomphe in their wake. Nothing between them. One hundred yards to go. Still neck and neck. Ear to ear. Nostril to nostril. Fifty yards. Twenty. It is. It is. Rumoured Ghost. Yes it is. It’s Rumoured Ghost. Over the line. By a whisker, if not a nose. Rumoured Ghost the winner.’

  Rashers putting his binoculars slowly down. As one let out one’s own whoopee and hooray. Beaming all one’s teeth for a change in his direction. And perhaps cheer up his ruddy face paler than pale, drained of blood. Even the flecks of bright colour in his tweed coat seemed to fade. As one’s own mind conjured warmth. Hope. As one might have, making hay under the summer sultry skies. And a red sun, redder, sinking in the west.

  ‘Ah your Lordship, so sorry you sad chap. For you to have lost. Didn’t I tell you I had a hot tip. Don’t you know I’m an old friend and true horseman who can tell speed and stamina in the glint of an equine eye. O what relief. God. How many bloody days. Finally a winner. Not only pay one’s hotel bill but wages for a fortnight. Lime a hundred acres of pasture. See my tailor, too. I am highly cheered up. Come. No glum jaw now.’

  ‘Darcy, I think I am about to incur your final lifelong wrath.’

  ‘Nonsense. Sad chap. Come with me. To collect one’s winnings. I’ll need all your extra pockets. And thence to the champagne bar where you may incur my hospitality.’

  ‘O my dear boy, I cannot bear to continue to somehow bedevil your life.’

  ‘Rashers at this very particular moment, believe me you are, for a change, certainly not.’