"Beefy I'd like very much if you would allow me to help you."
"Balthazar, you are princely like no other and I'm touched. But so help me God, granny at her age can't go on befoggling me. Now that life is so terrifying and my fear of death nil I'm ready once more to have at her. She may be tough but by God I have taken the last of her diabolical, regrettable, shirty, shabby and tawdry antics. However, enough. Let us go in search of women."
A taxi with a jocular driver trundled them to Soho. Along with bottles of the golden wine, two dozen quails' eggs and bowls of the mayonnaise and lobster. They settled in the third row of the strip club. Packed out with a queue along the wall. And somewhat sulphurous with match lighting. The splendid friendly greeting to Beefy from the gentlemen at the doors. And a chap in the last row emitting a great gasping sigh after each act. Said to be a member of the peerage. Whose hand clapping could be heard as a lady skipped on stage wearing nothing but a well known old school tie.
As the lights blinked on in Soho and streets filled with night time traffic Beefy walked out with Balthazar into the evening, the wicker hamper balanced on his head. Past the doorway lurkers and book vendors busy with the toil of keeping their public satisfied. They lean over their wares with smiles and greetings. Beefy raising an ecclesiastic hand in blessing. To finally flag a taxi which roared off to a Mayfair address.
"You know Balthazar I have that feeling which comes when one is leaving the building site on a Saturday afternoon, a good week's work behind one. Even though I was mostly curled up asleep in an empty sewerage pipe. Yet will I see myself lodged in Sunningdale, carpeting laid thick under the occasional tables strewn with cigarette lighters. The Infanta 387 has the most interesting mole on the back of her thigh. In my leisure moments perusing her skin, I found parts of her unaccountably beautiful. About the armpit she is quite elegant. All I wanted to be was a great ecclesiastic. Offering up prayer in the sanctuary of a cloister with a fountain and ornamental waters. Amid moisty green swards and orangeries. Stamping out the lonely evil habits rife among civil servants. Calling upon solicitors to do penance and barristers to beat their breasts in contrition. Of course I'd also twist the ears of shopkeepers who put on airs. The Infanta has an incredible knack of cradling the balls. Gently squeezing them at the appropriate time. And I have been diabolical to her. Here we are. Wait Balthazar. I shall bring on the girls."
The taxi sped under a purple London sky. One's street lamp glowing and illuminating the expression of utter indifference on the face of the gentleman across the street as he raised his binoculars to view Beefy, two girls and two little dogs rushing up the steps of 78 Crescent Curve. Beefy in my doorway pointing a finger. And with a voice of window rattling resonance.
"I say, you sir with the binocs. You are clearly an impostor. Get out of that nun's habit immediately."
Sounds echo through this house where all has been so silent. My canes, my little prints of Dublin on the walls. As these two ladies of pleasurings fix their hair and tie up their dogs to the leg of the kitchen table. And Beefy holds out some fare. The rare faint blue of a shelled quail's egg in the palm of his hand.
"Welcome girls. Here is the invalid tray of goodies with the turtle and calves foot jelly. Your host, Balthazar. Isn't he a beautiful gentleman. While others are cunning and deceitful, he remains always witty and kind. Let the necklines plunge now. I'll paint your portraits for a start."
The girls giggled chased by Beefy through the house. They oohed and aahed to his gallant gooses given through bed and dressing rooms. Balthazar butlering with the buckets of ice brought forth. And champagne corks popped. Beefy mounting the dining room table upon which so many crystal cut bowls had crashed from Boats' trembling hands. He skidded back and forth in his socks. And shouted out gospel according to Beefy.
"Girls amid this forest of definitive degeneracy let us fan the appetites and incite the mind with black underthings. While I tremble over the extraordinary liberties pending. My old granny won't die. Lives on and on eating her own homemade jam, weaves her own cloth, sips heather honey and dandelion wine, and quaffs pot still whisky. No laughing matter. Her grandchild has been doomed to taking much roughage to clear the bowel. Ah both you girls have shallow navels. Which of you again is from Ongar."
"Me Winetca, your grace.' "Don't flatter me with title my dear girl. I am not quite that titular. But come into my little anglican communion. Up here you dears. Caper for Beefy. See how you gavotte. Neither of you I am sure send your vicar anemones on his birthday. No niceties remain. Such inclement changes have been wrought in England. Hardly a beastly beatitude is left. Stop that kissing and embracing girls. Too early. That caper is reserved for further and better particulars later. During my scripture lesson. Yes, pour the champagne on each other."
Balthazar sitting in the corner of the candle lit dining room. As Beefy dances away all his disappointments suffered. He lives on as if the world will bounce up again when you drop it. Yet one knows a terrible little sad secret stays in his heart. Which I read one day long ago. And found he was just a little boy like me chilled on an evening desert of sorrow. Even as he now gleefully puts a glass of wine to his lips. And slapping a narrow hardened buttock of Edwina. How did he get to us down through the centuries. To stand stark naked as he does. A belt around his belly, embracing the ladies of light fingered love.
"Girls I must caution you on that recent posture. Edwina remember you are the daughter of a long distance lorry driver and he would be ashamed. Can't you see my friend Balthazar is quite stricken with the outrage of your engripment."
The cries and screams of laughter. These three on the table pouring champagne on each other when suddenly the girls' poodle doggies came charging into the room. Trailing broken leads. Rushing to the sound of their mistresses' high pitched squeals. Beefy up into the air as one little doggie mounted a chair and nipped him about the legs. And he came down again with the other doggie's teeth clamped over his ankle. A swift kick upwards dislodging this clinging animal towards the ceiling and across the room to come crashing down on the candelabra formerly glowing gently on the sideboard. A mite of light left to see Edwina casting her bottle which crashed against the door. Just a little to the side of Beefy's head.
"By God girls you will get what for. The battle is on. There'll be false eye lashes everywhere I can tell you. My trustees will have at you with their canes long after I am done. Swipes across the tit and arse with my cutlass is not good enough for you."
Balthazar B tip toeing out into the hall. The battle raged inside. An awful dog smell coming from the kitchen. In the disturbed peace of what was once my home. And will no longer be. After tonight. Because I am going to march up these stairs. An outsider in Beefy's games. I've only ever been able to play with one. Take away this vase full of dying yellow flowers. Pour all the unicellular animals down the sink. Pack up a bag of clothes. And do so without a sound.
The two girls chased by Beefy followed by the little doggies came charging up the stairs. Their heavy breathing as they passed and went up another flight. And the floor rumbles in Boats' former room. Then all is quiet. And echoing down the stairs the voice of Beefy, that's very fine girls, very nice. Thank you. More please. I now anoint you. Winetca of Ongar of the shallower navel. And you Edwina of the long nipple from Nuneaton. But dear girls I should much hate to serve supper to any of your distant relatives.
In darkness one turns away. To go and sit and wait in my study. So sobered by sadness. And too awfully shy to ever feel delight. Go down the stair. All Beefy's beatitudes. Blessed are they who wear God's garters and sip champagne from the cupped hands of naked women for they will keep their pricks and palates young. Beefy never casts a stone. Stands alone with his dark devilments held aloft victoriously. The scream of a little dog. Sounds just like the small person I fell upon in the bus. You are a big person and I am tiny and weak.
Balthazar B sat in his study chair. A tired head leaning. The sounds distant upstairs. One is all alone. When you stop
somewhere in your life and look at the love spilled from your hands. Hear the little fellow chuckle. He would reach up and take my finger and tug. And try to see me with his wide open believing eyes. To grow I hope when he does to rear up anew from each misfortune. And never know the sad little secret untold in Beefy's stout heart. Read all those years ago, fallen on a tiny piece of paper from his diary he kept at school. I picked it up from the floor between our beds and saw his tight little scrawl.
I want
A mommie
And a daddy
Please
Help me
Somebody.
30
From a high sunny room in the red brick turreted hotel Bal-thazar B looked out over the trees of Hyde Park. At night the Serpentine waters glitter in moonlight and flash up sun in the morning. 78 Crescent Curve was up for sale. A family residence in a favoured part of town. Broken furnishings of its last gallant night were being repaired for removal with Uncle Edouard's desk and chair to Mayfair and the rest to Sotheby's for auction.
Beefy entrained for Scotland on one last heroic beseechment to his granny. I walked the longest and loneliest streets of London. Taking a bus this late afternoon to Putney to stroll along the river in a park. Tankers and barges swept past on the ebb tide. I put a foot on the railing and listened to the shouts of oarsmen lifting their racing shells from the river to put them away for the night. And the park keeper came ringing his bell. To close the gates and leave it quiet under the big old plane trees. The birds breaking evening silence in a little churchyard where I passed reading gravestones to wait for a bus on the bridge.
The lamplights on as we move along. The conductor pulling his buzzer cord on the ceiling. Handing customers tickets and rummaging in the pennies of his big leather bag. The houses pass to make one think of all the lands of London, from Paddington to Wandsworth, Shoreditch to Dulwich. Grey streets packed with lives under rooftops and rooftops. Chimney pots puffing slow smoke from the precious fires tucked away in the bricks.
The bus stops at a crossing. A shoemaker and an antique shop. Pavement stacked with bathtubs. A woman waiting on the curb. For the bus to pass. Her face. A brown cloth coat tucked up tight at her throat. Eyes staring ahead on this chilly night. The cheekbones and chin and eyes. The bus begins to move. Those bones and contours. In a face that seems so old. And gradually becomes familiar. As my mind peels all the time away. To hope that it isn't when I see that it is. That woman, careworn and sad. Must grab the handrail to get up. But no, sit back again. What could I ever say. Everything seems so late. That I can hardly believe but know that waiting there was Bella.
Back at the hotel a letter from my mother. From Paris to say she was poorly and hoped I would come. Please bring pictures of Millicent and the little fellow. I place her missive over another. A quite threatening one from solicitors. Not nice. And hardly knowing what I was doing. I took a taxi to Euston. Caught a night train. Stepping out in the morning after tea and biscuits in Liverpool. Stared at the big blackened building of steps and huge pillars across from the station Spent the day wandering to take a ferry across the muddy river to Birkenhead and go up and down along the rows and rows of red brick houses, reading the curious names of the streets. And at night to stand at the ship's railing to see again the iron birds high up on the Liver Building. The clock tolling a quarter to ten as the mail boat headed out on the water. Past the lightships. And great cargo vessels waiting to steam into the Mersey.
In the misty Belfast morning I took a taxi. Out through the smoky streets. The driver said he would ask his wife if he could drive me to Fermanagh. And he read a newspaper while drawn up by the side of the road. And I in this early afternoon went past the gate once held open on a broken hinge and now closed and padlocked. I stepped on stones and climbed over a broken part of the wall. And walked lost for a while. Brambles scratching through my trousers. To think I am here in trespass. Something I would never do. And look for where the land rises crowned by a wood. Cross this pasture. I know where I am. She lies just up there in the trees. Look down as I walk over her grass. And through the little iron gate in the wall. I come here to say hello and not goodbye. A piece of granite stands tall and plain. Next to another half its size. Two words make your name. And underneath the years that lived your life. Primroses and violets grow here where you lie. You will never go away. See all of you through the tears that cover my eyes. Wind blows in the yew. Soft red berries dropped with a green shadowy seed. The musty smell of boxwood. When you looked at me and I looked back we each said all our words. It matters only what private things we know and have never spoken. Or will ever speak. Take up the years that come. To carry you with me wherever I go. Face any loneliness. Know I'm not alone. You the only one I ever told about my lost little boy who was my first son. Wish I could blow hoots from the hollow of my hand and make the owls answer back. Tonight I will be in Dublin. From the train through Dundalk. I'll walk across Trinity in the morning. Around its flat green velvet squares. See you again as you passed beneath my windows. Fll look from the roadway where your bedroom window was and at the house in which I first heard you speak to me. Never to know all those suffering creatures your hand and voice gave comfort in hospital. Putting bravery in old men in fear of death. And these tears that fall from me, they'll help your grass to grow. Goodbye Fitz-dare. Goodbye.
The day windy as I went out to Collinstown. And the plane rose in the sky over Dublin south towards London. I could see along the coast and count the towns, Dalkey, Bray and Grey-stones. And the train we took through tunnels and up on cliffs looking down on a wintry shore in summer. Leave Ireland now. With part of it mine. Where it has your grave.
Balthazar B climbed up the steps and through the doors of the hotel. Up more steps to the man at the desk handing across two cables. To wait to be in my room knowing certainly from whom one was. Open the other first. Stand by the window. As rain pours down. And makes the roofs of the cars below gleam as they pass.
URGENT YOU COME TO PARIS WHERE YOUR MOTHER SERIOUSLY ILL DOCTOR PIERRE
I will never catch my breath. From one place to another. And never believe that people who travel get ill. Beefy is travelling. This cable from Perth.
AM ENROUTE PLEASE CHILL CHAMPAGNE FOR RATHER UNBLESSED MAN WITHOUT BEATITUDE BEEFY
In the dining room I sat near the window. Eating curled little pieces of toast with my escargots and steak tartar. Food to give one fortitude. And plan a life. Of how I no longer want to live. Performing comfortable habits. In London in spacious antique splendour at addresses more gracious than glad. Walking grey wall to wall carpeting in amphibious leathers. Keeping one servant, a secretary and female pug dog. My income big and private. To go each autumn whisking by train and boat to Paris to have a pair of riding boots made. Uncle Edouard said be wary with new friends and wise with old wines because it is sad that riches overshadow both good looks and an endearing demeanour of which you are possessed, my Balthazar. Journey to America, twice a year, once by sea, once by sky and you can marvel at the criminalities and cruelties of opportunity. You will reach an age when the past amazes you as much as the present. Then you will wonder if poverty held any sensual features you might have missed staying at the best hotels. But dear boy, you will find nothing better than good breakfast coffee or cake. And in the countries providing it, rise early. And remember do not be too overwhelmed with shyness for it is nice to sometimes weep in the face of beauty. And last. Be careful not to catch the crab.
Two bottles of champagne chilling in my rooms above. Eat one's strawberry ice cream. A group of youngsters laughing gaily waltz by through the room. My life lies as much behind as it does ahead. Won't matter now how I live it. That couple smile with a waiter over their bowls of caviar. Two dowagers sit sipping sherry and reading their menus. Winter comes and will bring smoke and fog to London. When the air sniffs sharp. And the streets are wet. Curtains drawn and everyone waits. For spring to blow the big cold grey clouds away. Order a cab for morning. Make my reservations on
the train. Go out from Victoria, in a big comfortable chair amid the panelled walls and polished brass. And the little lamps with pink shades. By Battersea look down to see the dogs wagging tails in the dog pound.
Beefy stood with his hunting cap dripping rain and a worn brown leather briefcase hanging from his hand. As bells strike ten P.M. About his lips the trace of a smile. His face the bow of a ship ready to ply all seas and crash cutting through any storm.
"Balthazar. The sight of you is so welcome. The train of course was derailed. I ended up having to take a car through half the night through a lashing gale and pouring rain. But o let me just sit down. What a splendid drawing room. How quiet. Tucked away up here. That suit. You used to wear it at Trinity."
"Yes."
"It's charming. I like your colours. The soul needs a little pink here and a little magenta there."
In this green carpeted room. A writing desk. Two flowered sofa chairs. And round mahogany tables. Driving mists of rain tumbling over the tops of trees out the window. Where the lights are dotted across the great dark stretches of park. Beefy's shoes scuffed and sodden. A white hanky tucked up his shirt cuff. A golden one peeking from his breast pocket. So much said on his face. And were he alone I know it would be ablaze with worry. His hand falls from his wrist and his veins stand out blue. We will pour out the faint ash scented wine.
"Beefy how did it go."
"Not nice."
"O dear."
"Yes. I shouted at granny. I shook my fist and said I know that my redeemer liveth. After plunging through deep rutted gullies, shortcuts I knew from boyhood days, my man motoring me was in paroxysms. Kept complaining about his suspension. Then when we got in granny's gate we were surrounded by her four Irish wolf hounds. Took half an hour before I could charm them into doggish naughties with each other. And then I rushed up the steps and the door was locked. Finally had to climb through a window in the pig curing room which by day looks like the most gruesome sort of mortuary. And by night should be avoided altogether. My gout was aching in both my big toes and I could hardly walk. Cold, hungry and terrified Fd meet someone in the halls. As it was I fell promptly over an ancient fire apparatus, started wrestling for my life with the damn hose. I was completely hysterical. Near tears in fact. Thought I'd wake the whole house. And that Swithins would come beetling down out of some unnoticed direction in his wheel chair. That's how he gets around these days, keeps his walking stick across his lap and larrups the rest of the household across the arse, all except cook to whom he does other daredevil delights. Thank God everyone in that mansion is hard of hearing. Stood outside the billiard room. Thought it would only take a cue, one little tap on granny's birdlike head. But I just haven't such greed within me. I mean frighten her to death certainly, that's quite natural. But at four A.M. to clock her one on her nut. Not nice. So there I was, in her bedroom doorway. Trying to look a vision of terror in my hound's tooth knickerbockers. Good old Irish custom to frighten the life out of the old ones. I thought I was doing very well when she sat bolt upright in bed. Her night cap on. Me shivering drenched to the skin wearing my diabolical demeanour. She knocked over her bedside water. Turned on the light. And said how dreadful of you to come in with your muddy feet on the carpet. My God Balthazar she has vinegar for blood. I said granny, I am up the spout, I must have twenty thousand immediately. Her tiny old hand was opening and closing on her stick lying by her on the bed. I said granny, twenty thousand. Balthazar she let out with a blood curdling peal of laughter. The hundreds of little old ladies I've helped across the street, flattered and indeed danced with. And all granny does is pour herself a dram of her own special brew from her distillery. And suggests to me that I go make cocoa in the kitchen. If I'd had the cue stick it would have been the end of her. How can she at her age remain so hard and soulless. I said the family name was about to be disgraced. She said pity. Her elegance crushed me. I mean she sits to an evening drink covered in black silk and eight rows of pearls. I know for a fact she smashes back two brown eggs laid by two pet hens at breakfast, steam pudding in the evenings. On Sundays she devours a kipper with a dram of the pot still. She gardens six hours a day. I finally dropped to my knees. Bowed my head. Said I beg you for the sake of my own newly wed, the pure Violet Infanta, who is having a little one to carry on the name, nineteen thousand will do. Balthazar, she replied don't dare to insult my intelligence with such impertinent humbug. Then I thought I would at least let her have a jolt of the truth. I said how does it feel with so many people waiting for you to die. You know Balthazar, the wind stopped, the trees were still. You could hear a flea fart. And she said my dear boy, what a refreshing question, it is no end of comfort and solace to me each day I live, to have so many concerned for the day I die. Nice of you to ask but I will die at my own convenience, not yours. Balthazar, I withdrew. Stood a few last moments in the hall, looking up at a portrait of me and my cherubic face as I posed in white breeches and black hose against a backdrop of foliage, a little hat in my hand and a big brown dog sitting at my side. And high up over the damp walls other portraits of the family's horse thieves, imposters and cads who married rich widows. And then the little old fashioned drawings of granny's distilleries. And suddenly as I was leaving she came to the balcony railing at the top of the stairs. Said go make yourself hot cocoa. And in the chapel you will find my private prayer book. On page three hundred and ninety three you will see an item marked. Try to take it to heart. O God Balthazar. Must quaff a glass of this fine liquid."