The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman

by J. P. Donleavy

  The early activity at Andromeda Park was feverish. With the clank of spurs and boots down the halls. Shouts around the stable yard for bindings for manes and bandages for tails. Crooks rummaged through my father’s wardrobe and fetched out a pair of cavalry twill breeches and polo boots. And a top hatted Mr Arland looked rather smart up on Petunia, overly fat though she was.

  Our little contingent left in the blazing blazing blue of mid morning, preceded by Luke and Foxy’s father and followed by Miss von B, Mr Arland and lastly my exhausted self and Foxy. The latter up on top of the eighteen hands high Thunder and Lightning whose tail was tied with a great scarlet bow. Warning all to stay well out of kicking distance.

  Beneath the bright chirp of birds up in the tall pines, making our way along the drive. To where it turned between the thick rhododendrons. And upon my shouted instructions we went through a gate to short cut across the old deer park field. Hooves pounding on the velvet soft pasture to the entrance gates. Where most of the lodge had recently further collapsed with a tree fallen through the roof and now could hardly be seen under this new mountain of beech branches and ivy.

  Heading westwards. By a babbling swift flowing brook. Then along a straight road with its little hills. From the top of each, one could survey miles across meadows, bogs and lakes. The yellow and moss green lichen spotting the grey stone walls which went criss crossing the distant green. Tiny puffs of clouds sailing the horizon. A chill in the slight breeze. And joined now by other members of the hunt heading out their gateways or coming down lanes and connecting roads. The sound of horses’ hooves thickening. Past two cows and three grazing goats and the cart of a shawled old lady, a nail stuck in the end of a stick prodding it into the haunches of her donkey. As Miss von B turned back to stare in disapproval. Till finally ahead were the pink walls of the pub on the village crossroads. And the scarlet coated hunt servants armed with their horn handled hunting whips.

  Miss von B’s face this morning looked pale. Last night when she finally fell asleep she lay snoring. Her head deep sunk backwards and her long flowing hair across the crisp linen pillow. I lay crouched under the mountain of her blankets. A rather unpleasant stale smelling breath coming from her open mouth. Wondering what I had learned about women. And she cried out something like wo sint do, followed by much other German sounding words. Tossing herself up and over again on her side. As I watched the light of dawn breaking on the tinted blue window panes. Her bottom, two big cool mounds pressed against my knees. And now I see her lean forward over the neck of her horse to fix her stirrup. Her blonde hair all neatly gathered in a hair net under her bowler. Her thighs snug in her white leather breeches parted over her saddle. The whole thing strange that was down there between her legs. If every woman had one. Soft and wet inside. Covered by crinkly curly hairs. Where she pushed my hand and brought it back again each time I pulled it away. And she leaned on her elbow watching me in the shadows undress. I said please don’t look. While I filled her pot with pee. And as I shivered towards the bed she threw back her head and shook her hair. She climbed all over me, her head crushing down with kisses and German words whispering in my ears out of her lips. Furiously pumping on top of me. Telling me later in my long silence to speak. When I couldn’t think of a thing to say. About her brothers and parents killed. And her husband, a blue eyed army lieutenant, crushed under the tracks of a tank. And a second brown eyed husband, a captain disappeared somewhere around Smolensk on the Russian front Her family’s town house flattened by a bomb. And their country Schloss desecrated. Soldiers shooting holes in the eyes of family portraits and trying on their silk underwear and sleeping with their muddy boots on their silk sheets while swilling champagne from the cellars. Rape drunkenness and death. And that she lied to Mr Arland. She had escaped from Poland. With her diamonds up her arse and twat. Through Czechoslovakia. Hiding in Prague deep down in the cellars under the old town square. And in Vienna in another cold basement. To Salzburg. Till she got to Switzerland, to Italy, France and to Spain. And seasick all the way on a ship she finally landed nearly destitute in Dublin. And there, calling herself Miss von B, she established in an attic where she slept, ate and designed and made fashionable ladies’ hats. She met my father surrounded by women in a pub they called the gilded cage. After he had a winning day at the races. Stood buying everyone drinks and quaffing black velvet. Said he needed a hous keeper who could saddle and ride a horse. He peeled off her first three months’ wages and the next day she bequeathed her hat business to the landlord and stood freezing in the gloomy cold station for twelve hours waiting for the train. And when she saw me first she thought I had such startling and stunning eyes.

  Locals leaning against the pub wall and standing in little groups huddled whispering under their dark rain stained and weather beaten trilbys. Their collars upturned in the sunshine and taking long sucks on their cigarettes. Girl pumping a pail full of water at the village pump. Her big pink knickers showing on her fat legs as she bent over. The green telephone kiosk to which a person not afeared of speaking over wires, was dispatched from Andromeda Park, to ring westwards to find out when the train was coming. And when with the birds singing I was climbing out of her bed, Miss von B said don’t go, don’t leave me. Her soft blonde skin, a mole on her throat growing little blonde hairs. And her eyes in her face looked as if at any moment she might laugh. But down deep in all the specks and flecks of colour they were eyes full of fear. And I slipped from the covers and stood with one foot tripping over the piss pot on the rug. And she said why did you have to do that. And I said shut up.

  The masked singers, the wren men, came and went into the pub with their tambourines and spoons. The dogs barking and wailing in the pub yard when they began to play. And the hounds arrived. Noses in a row sticking out the slats of the cart. From down the road with a clatter of cantering hooves, Baptista Consuelo approached. Accompanied by three top hatted pink coated gentlemen. And as her horse went prancing by. It chose to blast out several farts. Right at our Andromeda Park contingent. Bang, boom, bang, boom. Bringing, I thought, some dispirit across Mr Arland’s face. Haughtiness upon this champion hunting dav was quite prevalent. But I discerned at close range that Baptista had a somewhat stupid looking and quite unnoble little upturned nose. Unlike the firm straight features and nicely curved nostrils of Miss von B. Who was also astonishingly strong and able to hold my arms pinned. As she did while banging down on top of me in some kind of crazed delirium out from under which I tried to get in case she’d suddenly gone nuts like everyone else in the household. But after some prolonged gasps groans and wails she lay quite content for a while before trying it again. And during these between times with my head and ear pressed on the soft soothing flesh of her breast, I felt a lazy cosy comfort as her arm tucked me in.

  ‘Come come, pay up now. I won’t have any of this shoddy dodging.’

  The hunt secretary collecting people’s caps. Making a stack of notes in his hand. I thought he was going about it rather rudely. In the loud offensive way in which he asked for mine and that of my party. There being perhaps some feelings regarding my father not having contributed to the hunt for some time. Nor since my mother’s death did we plant coverts or hold a hunt ball. In a manner overly familiar, the Master of Foxhounds on an enormous bay mare came up to greet Miss von B. Along with him trotted the first whip also smiling with a large assembly of teeth which I’m sure were bought off some itinerant dental salesman who was temporarily out of his size. And together with the huntsman and a hunt servant, all made a distinct fuss, mouthing compliments concerning my housekeeper’s smart appearance. I found their fawning close proximity rather tiresome. While Miss von B rather revelled in it.

  ‘Ah Princess you are looking so devastatingly radiantly beautiful.’

  ‘But you are just too kind, Master.’

  ‘The stones in the walls, ma’am, you make them smile.’

  ‘Ha you give me how do you say, the blarney.’

  Just before moving off a gro
up of riders stopped near by in a field. Some with saddle flasks at their lips. And village boys running with the bottles to refill them at the pub. Till one of them fell clean backwards out of his stirrups off his horse. Landing with the flask still held to his lips where supine he drained it. Upon seeing this, a ruddy faced chap known as the Major although he was never involved in anything the least military, cantered over. Sitting high on his horse accusing the prostrate gent of inebriation. Who now slowly arose from the moist morning grass and staggered a little about the field. The Major shouting.

  ‘Go home sir, you are unfit to hunt.’

  ‘Bugger you.’

  ‘I said go home sir, you are drunk and a danger to the field.’

  ‘Bugger you you stuffed twit.’

  ‘Having long emerged from my school days, I shall not be buggered sir, and direct you to depart without giving more disgrace than you already have. And I say go home. You are too drunk to hunt.’

  ‘You mean I’m too drunk not to hunt. And who the hell are you telling me.’

  ‘I am a member of the hunt committee.’

  ‘Well fuck the committee and bugger you.’

  ‘There are ladies sir, mind your language, there are ladies.’

  ‘There are crumpet and fluff and brazen arses and horny old devils like you sniffing their saddles.’

  ‘I shall teach you a lesson sir.’

  The Major raising his whip brought it lashing down knocking your man’s bowler off to the ground. Whereupon your squiffy chap on the turf rounded with his own whip to land a swipe across the nose of the Major’s mount. The big grey gelding rearing bucking and kicking. Sending the Major skywards and eastwards pitched on his back, boots in the air. The locals deserted the crossroads with this sign of action. And came aswarm over the walls of the field, smiling and giving each other joyous digs in the ribs. As there was nothing to be enjoyed more than seeing the gentry go berserk. In the quickly man made arena the florid faced Major gathered himself from the ground. Tightly stretching his whip between his white gloved hands he circled round the squiffy chap. And the two of these red coated gentlemen started belabouring and slashing each other from toe to ear. As their shouts roared out over the countryside.

  ‘Cunt.’

  ‘Cad.’

  ‘Cunt.’

  ‘Cad.’

  It was rare to see such delightful justice being done. For, according to Foxy, both protagonists were eegits of the highest order and the meanest bastards imaginable you could find in the district. Where they’d been for years guilty of giving nothing away free. I manoeuvred my small mare Molly to a nice vantage point, a grassy mound, to witness from. And right next to a highly perfumed Baptista Consuelo. Madly licking her lips at every blow. And as a clean swat of the lash landed across the Major’s left cheek she gave a sucking hiss of her lips followed by a satisfied smile. Just as Miss von B came trotting and reining up between us. Turning to me as if the whole thing were my fault.

  ‘Ah grosser Gott such savages.’

  Baptista Consuelo looking round to Miss von B and pulling her mount back a pace. She seemed to let the morning air purr down the nostrils of her bumpy little nose as she uttered her vowels in a very superior manner indeed.

  ‘I think it most jolly good that one gentleman chastise another should he need it.’

  ‘And you, you little bitch should get a good hoof up the backside.’

  ‘Why you dirty foreigner, you, speak to me like that.’

  ‘It is of course darling the language which exactly you deserve.’

  Baptista Consuelo turning her nose up and backing her chestnut stallion away. Just as the squiffy chap with his horse grazing near, was lashed to the ground. The locals cheering and the gentry handclapping. The Major, florid cheeks puffing, and adjusting his stance for maximum leverage, continuing to flog your man.

  ‘Tally bloody ho, take that you sod. And that.’

  ‘O god, what are you doing to me.’

  ‘I’m thrashing you sir.’

  ‘You cunt.’

  ‘You cad.’

  The squiffy chap rolling arms wrapped round his head. The gentry’s pukka shout of shame and a chorus of encouragement from the locals as the Major landed a boot thump in the ribs. Your man curling up from the concussion and then lying groaning and still. The crowd fading back. And Mr Arland’s voice.

  ‘You sir, are a pathetic bully and coward striking a man who is down.’

  ‘Poppycock sir. Ho got no more than he richly deserves. And perhaps you too should like a whipping.’

  ‘If I get down sir, from my horse, I assure you that you will never again get up on yours.’

  The hair standing up on the back of my head at Mr Arland’s quietly delivered words. The Major grunting and turning away. Foxy said the randy Major would jump up on his own grandmother in her coffin and had put every scullery maid in his house up the pole. And he was widely known for his particular skill in administering indoor punishment to servants. When he wasn’t otherwise busy himself dressing up as a woman. And was now prancing about the meadow with victorious self importance. Stopping only to pose in the gaze of the mounted ladies. With Baptista looking down admiringly as he slapped the ivory of his whip into his white gloved hand.

  ‘I should venture to suggest that that should teach the sozzled insolent chap some manners. And I apologize to the ladies if this unbecoming fracas gave offence.’

  The Master and Huntsman leading the field off down the road and into a boreen. Through rusting iron gates and across two fields. To the first covert which drew nothing save pigeons. Nor the second in a grove by a bog from which snipe flew in their shifting flight. But the third, a wood atop a stone strewn hill roused a fox. Skidaddling goodo pronto. The Huntsman blew his horn. The echoes sounding back from the nearby hills. The chase was on with the usual curses flying amid the whoops and hollers, and the rather more staid remarks of the elder members.

  ‘I say there, I do believe that that ruddy fox is departing.’

  ‘Yoikes, yoikes.’

  ‘After the bloody little bugger.’

  Uncle Willie said hounds take their character from their Huntsman and this pack was splendidly disciplined. The sunshine bright up on their backs. Barking and bounding off north west, nose to ground, white tips of sterns bobbing. Foxy on Thunder and Lightning leaping to the forefront of the field between Huntsman and Master. On the heel of these, the brave contingent, already pounding half way down across a great spreading meadow. Hooves slapping the grass. Chunks of dark tan turf flying up behind in the sky.

  The first minor casualties were the Slasher sisters. Two raving redheads, who both fell off in a deep flowing brook. Smiling, they remounted, water spilling from their boots and wet hair flying. And lips loosing rather not nice words. They charged up the hill. Fighting Murphy the Farmer was next. His horse going down at the gallop in a rabbit hole. And poor rider, he was flung like an arrow head first into the ground. Where he lay, believed to be soundly dead. Till someone hoping to borrow a nip from his small brandy bottle awakened him. He was soon up and mounted again and minus only his memory which it was agreed he never used anyway. And back at the crossroads this morning one saw various sober persons secreted behind hedges vomiting. And others minus their flasks, taking their courage in great gulps of whiskey in the pub. Some of whom now formed the courageous gang looking for a way through the thick tall tangle of ash briar and blackthorn at the top of the field. Till Foxy crashed a hole in the hedge big enough to bring an army through. And the Mad Vet himself said.

  ‘That pup Slattery would ride an elephant between two atoms stuck together.’

  I kept mostly in the middle of the field with my Molly who did not like to get her feet wet or her coat scratched by briars. Being as she was a rather proud and delicate lady. Miss von B I could see ahead at the rear of the brave contingent. The twin acorns of her gleaming arse bobbing over her saddle. And closely behind Baptista. Who kept turning to look back at her most unpleasantl
y. And I stretched Molly’s legs galloping two fields with the nervous contingent before dropping back to lurk a little behind in the forefront of the cowards. To see that Mr Arland came to no early harm. And no one sniggered at him now aboard the barrel shaped Petunia.

  ‘Are you alright Mr Arland.’

  ‘Thank you yes Kildare. I am merely trepidatious.’

  ‘Uncle Willie says always take your first fall as soon as you can to get rid of your fear.’

  ‘Unfortunately Kildare having only one life, I think I may prefer to stay mounted and frightened out of my wits.’

  The Major smugly smiling to each side of him at the ladies as he now passed forward through the field, having officiated over the farmer Murphy who since his amnesia was on every side proclaiming he was an African prince with a harem, instead, as someone said, a bog trotter with a paddock of scrawny pigs. And the Major while galloping by circulated the news.

  ‘That silly sod Murphy thinks now he’s a rich nigger.’

  I sat on a hillock pausing in the sunshine with Molly puffing somewhat out of condition and viewing the Major just as he galloped up and over a high mound near by roaring ‘Gung Ho’ and then plummeted down the other side. Where his horse most wisely, but extremely abruptly, refused at a very wide deep ditch on the edge of the bog. And the Major, without wings was sent aloft. Landing stretched full face in the oozing deeply brown mud. Accompanied by the echoes of his Gung and Ho. And as he half raised himself up from the clinging muck the, humorously inclined Mad Vet cantering past, suggested loudly.

  ‘Sir it appears that it is you who is now the nigger.’

  I twice caught sight of the poor fox Making his skulking way along the edge of a wood. Jumping a little to left and right. His red and brown coat so plain against the green. The sight of which would instantly alert these blood thirsty pursuers howling and shouting in the wake of his scent. With the pack of paws and hoofed avalanche of horses pounding upon his canine heels. To be in a breath atomized by flashing fangs. Sad fellow.