And the third day following the bank of a river along a railroad track I ventured into a town. Mid morning coming to a bridge and a woman passed with a basketful of groceries. And dropped a potato on the path. I picked it up. And she nervously looked around over both her shoulders. And when I smilingly put it back in her basket she whispered.
‘Ah I am grateful to you. Would you like to come home with me.’
A side street terraced with villas with little front gardens. One called Ivy another St Kevin’s. Statues of Sexton’s Blessed Virgin inside over the doorway. Two little chill smudged faced children across the street watching us entering. A narrow long hall.
‘Ah you’re a good looking likely lad. Would you like the smoke of a cigarette.’
One got extremely uneasy as she began to behave in a rather strange manner. Licking her lips and suddenly shoving me up against the wall to kiss me. In the middle of her assault she stopped to bless herself as the Angelus rang. Then asked would I come say the rosary with her in the bedroom. And that she’d give me a pound to dig her garden out back. I simply don’t know how I managed it but between her prayers to the holy ghost and her tugging at my fly buttons and trying to stick her tongue down my throat, I suggested gently that a plate full of bread and butter and a pot of tea would be welcome. But seated comfortably in the tiny kitchen and my teeth clamped in the middle of my first slice of bread, she leaped on me. We fell backwards on the floor. Her denture came out. She was panting saying let’s do it the way they do it in the films. Wrestling out of her arms I grabbed for my bag and the thickest slice of buttered bread and ran out the back door. And chased by her I had to crash through ruddy shrubbery and climb up over a tall wall at the bottom of the garden. Losing my gloves and dropping on the other side into the yard of an abattoir.
Darcy Dancer nights lying awake above a pub in a room like Mr Arland’s must have been. Found a job within a minute of my escape. And now daily heading to work. My hands raw and blistered. Blood on my clothes. With the religious maniac’s house just the other side of the wall. The round pleasant faced butcher paid me three and six pence my first afternoon. And seven shillings a day for sweeping, cleaning, washing and carrying beef entrails out of his abattoir. Each night returning to a suspicious lady publican watching me from the cold dining room door as I ate. Wondering perhaps if I were a tinker. With just my old battered bag slung over my shoulder and no gentlemanly luggage. And then at the end of the week must have thought I was a spiv when I took out my pound notes to pay. But breakfasts, with the landlady out of sight, I swept up the bacon, eggs, tea, jam, butter, with one’s elegancies totally deteriorating as I licked my plates clean. To be finally seen one morning.
‘Is that the kind of manners you were taught at home.’
‘They are madam. And were yours as good, you would mind your own business.’
‘You can vacate you can.’
So much for back chat. People, it would appear are highly unappreciative of a clever turn of phrase. But worse that same day the religious maniac was up on the other side of the wall staring down at me. Would have had to be standing on a ladder. Seemed the whole damn country wanted to look at me for one reason or another. Sending me on my way next day to another town.
Money nearly all but spent, I slept huddling in hay barns. And warming on sheltery hillsides in any sunshine of the morning. Legs stiff and tired. Gloves lost. And even stuck my hands into freshly plopped hot cow dung. Foxy said that it was a great fast way to get the knuckles warm. Let the muck dry on you like a pair of mittens. And a better fit than you’d ever get from a pair you’d buy. But I looked bad enough already without appearing as some stinking handed monster. And washed and further chilled my hands in the first stream I came to.
The worst were the dogs running out from farmyards and growling round one’s legs. Or barking through gates. And then the weariness. With every time one looked up. The never ending fields hedges hills and bogs ahead. East south east. Losing track of the days. Each night colder. Ever growing hungrier. And then from a hillside saw a hunt in the distance. The scarlet coats passing amid the trees. Saw the start. The run. The hounds in full cry. And the death. And I moved off to be gone nearly hiding and feeling like a criminal. Striding up hills I remembered the strong silky fleshed mountain climbing thighs of Miss von B. Muscles swelling back strongly from her knees. And I dreamt of the light play of her fingers over my arms, shoulders and up and down my back. O my god. The comfort. Peace. The sinking of my own lips softly upon her mouth. And am I soon going to die. Shivering now. On the verge of tears.
Felt some little cheer as I stood looking at a road sign. A village called Prosperous. First uplifting word one had seen all these days and lonely nights. Driven by the wet winds. The damp now chill through to my back. And in the first light of dawn hitching another lift southwards on a cart. A farmer with two monstrous sows. Warming myself standing between them, honking snorting and grunting.
The farmer gave me a shilling helping him drive his pigs up a back alley into a butcher’s. And this latter fat chap with his bloodied apron when I asked for work, hired me for four more shillings. And I felt now so at home to lug out guts and sweep and hose down the reddened cobbles and carry boxes of bones. The shed steaming with cattle entrails freshly dead. Pigs squealing. Beasts kicking and mooing. A hammer landing between their eyes. A groan and sigh flopping to their knees and falling over on their sides. The butcher slitting their throats cutting open their bellies and winching up the carcass. Who now and again would chat with me.
‘Well now me lad I am pleased with your work. Not idle a second. Where are you from with an accent the like of that that anyone would think you was English gentry.’
‘I am the son of a butler, sir, who is in service in a big house and it was required of me to speak grandly.’
‘Is that a fact, now. Did they have grand goings on in the big house.’
‘Yes they did.’
‘And I suppose ladies dressed in finery.’
‘Yes and gentlemen with violins and harps played and everyone danced in a big golden ballroom.’
‘Fancy that now, fancy that. Sure it’s a long way then for you to be here in this up to your knees in guts.’
‘I don’t mind sir.’
‘Would you like a situation here. Teach you a bit of butchering. A lively lad like yourself, would be well able for the job.’
‘I am very grateful to you sir. And for your kindness. But I would sir, prefer to work with horses.’
‘Ah well I can’t help you there.’
‘Would you know of anywhere.’
‘Well lad your best bet now, is to head for the Curragh. That’s your man. They’ve got horses aplenty all over the place. But you look that bit shook to me you do. Come home now with me till you get a good feed.’
The kindly butcher’s wife gave me tea. In the kitchen of their snug little house. As much as I could eat of bacon and eggs. Till I went back out on the road. Foolishly saying when they asked me to stay that I had a place to sleep. But first having an altogether jolly time making the butcher beat his fist on his knee telling them stories of the big mansion. Of the gowns and tiaras of the ladies. And that my father was called Bonkers.
‘Bonkers is it. That’s a funny enough name if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Yes Bonkers. And although I do not want to speak disrespectfully he is very tottery. Always spilling soup on the floor and then slipping on it. He once tipped gravy all over the head of a very grand titled red haired lady till her tresses were quite brown. She jumped up with shock of course. Knocked the entire contents of a bowl of cabbage into the lap of the Protestant bishop. Naturally the scalding vegetable in his lap made him jump too and upend the potato tureen out of another servant’s hands.’
One wondered if the butcher would break his knee pounding it with his fist laughing as he did. And rain was falling as I went out up the dark lane. Past these little cottage houses. In each the glow of a fire inside th
rough the curtains. Turf smoke rising up into the night and the breeze wafting down its sweet smell. A dog curled up whimpering in a doorway. Who growled as I walked past. Who’d serve as only a canapé for Kern or Olav. If they snapped their big jaws on him.
Reaching the shadowy road winding into the blackness beyond the town, I shivered. With my heart thumping. Keep my legs moving. Find a barn to sleep. Feel as I felt that night when I collapsed at dinner. My bowels may at any moment move. Find a spot by a wall. Won’t be as there is at Andromeda Park, a lavatory knob to flush. Just sticking up by one’s hand from the mahogany seat. Yank upwards and the great flushing gushings come to wash all the turds away. To leave the porcelain clean. Where words said. Dent and Hellyer, Red Lion Square. And now the cold night wind freezes my bottom. And my bowels won’t move.
Darcy Dancer hunched up, hat pulled down around the ears. Head in the direction the butcher told me. Look back at a sound. See a blaze of light in the sky. An engine of a motor car approaching. Two beams of lights blinding my eyes. The long heavy vehicle shaking the road. Roaring past and cutting shadows up against a black sky through the trees ahead. The silver bark of their tall looming shapes. An oasis in there behind these great high stone walls. Where there could be some friendly understanding Protestant fellow squire who would welcome a cold lonely member of the gentry temporarily bereft on the road.
An archway over a great gate flanked by lodges. Escutcheon carved in stone. Wish I could go in there. Down that long long drive. Under the big old trees. Thump a knocker on the castle door. A kindly butler comes shuffling. My good fellow I’m lost on the road. Do you mind if I just pop in. Join his lordship for a nightcap in front of the library fire. In the butler’s eyes, a glowing sign of recognition. Ah. Upon my word sir. If it isn’t one of the Darcy Thormonds. Do by all means come in. By jolly jove Bitters I shall, yes. And what sir can I get you to drink. Whiskey please. Very good sir. O that’s far too much. O no, that’s alright, I’ll drink it, save you pouring it back into the bottle. Thank you Bitters. You’re most welcome sir and I’m sorry his Lordship has retired but he hopes you will make yourself entirely at home. Thank you profusely Bitters, indeed I shall. What time will you breakfast in the morning sir. Ten, please. Very good, would you like the usual six eggs sunnyside, with the usual ham slabs, pucks of tomatoes, heaps of sausages, buckets of tea and bowls full of honey and marmalades. Thank you, yes Bitters, the usual. And along with your hot cocoa what selection of books would you like by your bedside from the library sir. O Marco Polo will do, and perhaps that awfully interesting chap Darwin who says we’re just a bunch of ruddy bloody chimps might not come amiss.
Darcy Dancer backing slowly away from the great gates. To turn and walk now along this high stone wall with the tall tapering branches of the trees arching out over the road ahead. Growing from their deep roots in their ancient park lands. O my god, where am I going. In this ceaseless rain. And a gale rising. Further and further away from the apron of gravel over which I have on wheels and hooves come into and gone from Andromeda Park. The place where for all its dilapidations did at least keep the harsh physical strife of life to a minimum in its great rooms and halls. Thought I heard the big canine lungs of a wolfhound bark. Don’t let me die. Miss von B. Please. If I could only know where you are tonight. Right now this moment. Your long soft body. Clutched so closely to mine. Your voice panting your cries in my ear. Remember everything about you but your feet. And O my god. Now other men may have you. Flesh to your flesh. Where mine once touched. And Uncle Willie said ladies find it so awfully difficult to be faithful. When any prick in proximity will do.
Darcy Dancer following the high estate wall turning away inland off the road. Cross this ditch. Push through these shrubbery beech. Save for the motor car not one person, cart or bicycle has passed me all this way. Along all these miles of empty road. The whole countryside locked up. Behind doors and shutters. Afeared of goblins and fairies. And tinkers too. Passed the tiny shell of one of their tents. Embers of a fire glowing outside. Sealing themselves away for the night. Warm and snug with the bugs beetles and lice. Foxy said what harm is it for a few of them little creatures to be crawling on you. Sure aren’t them living things just like yourself. Nurse Ruby said fairies were angels Lucifer cast out of heaven. Saw one the other night on horseback galloping up over the moonlit fields as I looked out of a hayshed. Fairies come and steal. Take away the old people. A farmer’s wife milking a cow in a doorway jumped up when she saw my head peeking at her over the wall. She ran screaming back to her cottage her boots splattering mud up all over her frock. After a good swig of warm milk from her pail I heard her shouting blue murder for Sean. And I decamped rather rapidly. Disappearing like the fastest fairy who ever lived.
Darcy Dancer proceeding through the dense shrubbery along this wall. Tramping further and further. Nowhere to climb over. And find some hay to sleep in for the night. Rain keeps falling. Wet through hat and hair to my scalp. Feel so weak. So numb. Face hot. Heart thumping. Should have stayed in the town. In the butcher’s house. Or spent seven shillings and six pence for a room. Can’t walk any more. Lost out here now, so far from the road. Soon sink covered in the brown stale slime of some bog. Can’t go on. Because I’m dying. Death comes slowly up sleepily from one’s toes. Tells you. Who seeks me. Beseeches my presence. Knows where I am. Follows me in my big black footsteps. Up these stone stairs. Yes right here. Where you are in your broken hearted sorrow. Where no one seeks you. Beseeches your presence. Knows where you are. Dying alone. Beyond this big iron gate in the wall. Squealing on its hinges. And like the sound of my dear beloved wolfhounds. O God I am in delirium. And it’s Christmas eve. An avenue of yew trees. Choir voices. In this place to die. My body stretched on this soft moss. Miss von B. You too were very very sad. Weren’t you. Made me so full of pain to watch. Like you were that night in bed. Your back bent in sadness. When I left your arms. Your eyes swollen up big and red. To make you wear a veil. Black lace tucked in under your black silk stock pinned by your gold and diamond pin. Please come to my funeral. If ever I’m found. No address. Nor my name. Just my love words written in my diary. And a flat little snowdrop flower I pressed. To remember you by. Is all I can say. All I can send. To wherever you are. And if they bring me back. To bury me. Even lonely out under the meadows of Andromeda Park. By the tall ancient boughed trees. Will you come all black and elegant. Tears streaming from your eyes.
Will you
My lady
22
Sunlight streaming over the wall and through the bars of a gate. A cassocked figure leaning over the form of Darcy Dancer curled and crouched on the mossy grass. The black sleeved hand gently pushing on a shoulder.
‘Come now. Can you hear me. Wake up now. Wake up. Who are you. What are you doing here. Please speak. Can you hear me.’
Darcy Dancer groaning. Tuck in his arms and legs. Further away from the chill. But yes. I hear and see the sun in my eyes. Which way is it to heaven. I know that’s the way I’m walking now. Miss von B watched me go. She was just at my funeral. Wore her bowler she wears to hunt. So sad, she was nearly carried. By the elbows. Crooks on one side, Sexton on the other. Holding her. Her feet dragging. Sobs racking her. My coffin borne on the shoulders of the grooms. Slide down. Dead and done. In my grave. Held the bars of a gate as I died. Begging God not to let me. Yet like this. It’s so quiet just to be asleep. Till morning. Wake in time for Mr Arland. Coming down the hall now to the schoolroom. Books tucked up under his arm. His smile. Greet him. Just as he said I was once. A plutocrat in the pluperfect. His small admonitions. Young persons Kildare, should conduct themselves discreetly. And Mr Arland, please sir, is there anything indiscreet in the promiscuous exercises of etymological parsing. Don’t try to be funny, Kildare. Please sir, I am being absolutely serious and I am so glad that you were able to get to my funeral. You look so smartly turned out too. And hello Clarissa. What a very stylish looking couple you and Mr Arland make. So nice of you both to come all this way on the
train. And be so smilingly happy, happy together. Waiting to wed. Soon. soon. How sad then, you must on such a splendid note, attend my obsequies. Yes it is rather a pity. Who said that. Uncommonly rude thing. I shall damn you sir demand satisfaction and climb right up out of my coffin. If someone, who is unnecessarily holding same will just let go of my shoulder. Let go. Is that you Sexton, did you hear me. Do please stop pushing on my shoulder.
‘Now. Now. You’re alright. Can you hear me. Who are you.’
That sunny cold Christmas morning three dark figures carrying Darcy Dancer by legs and arms along a gravel path. A fourth cassocked figure opening a heavy door. Into a stone flagged hall. And down a long corridor. Through cooking and waxy smells. And into a small vaulted white ceilinged room. A dim red glowing filament of an electric bulb burning straight above my head.
For six days Darcy Dancer laid abed. Face pressed in a creaking pillow and dark hair sticking out from thick mauve blankets. A thin faced man calling twice a day leaning over to put his hand on my brow. Quietly asking questions. As all these men in black and some with collars, come and go. Making me horrified to think that heaven might really be a Roman Catholic place after all.
‘Who are you young man. What is your name. Where do your parents live. You can understand me can’t you. You understand what I am saying. Can you write. You have been very sick. We need to know who you are. Do you speak Romany. Are you a travelling person. You have nothing to fear from us.’
For four more days I watched the light fade to darkness out the tall narrow pane of window. And then send a bright shaft across my little cell as breakfast came in the morning. Brought by a woman in a white uniform who had my first evening put hot soup on a spoon between my lips. The granite stone arch of this ceiling. Squeaking pallet under my back. Other faces come. They look. Nod, whisper and go away. And then two more tall priestly gentlemen in black.
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman Page 32