The clock tower bell striking two a.m. when it was not yet midnight. The Marquis deprived of the Count sang in an astonishingly good voice some very common Irish songs which to my mind had their origins in Tin Pan Alley. But quite entertaining nonetheless. Tears welling in his eyes as the words the sun or moon or something sank on Galway Bay. He sabred another bottle of champagne, nearly taking off my head and exploding and splashing the wine around the room. Broke the face of the clock on the chimney piece with flying glass.
‘Damn sorry about that Kildare. Fucking up your chattels in this way. Can’t always make a clean cut. But let’s drink.’
Turf embers glowing in the grate. The room growing chill. The Mental Marquis, mud spattered on his stock, his boots off, stretched back deep in the swansdown.
‘Beware of the women Kildare. I speak as a man already had by three wives. During which time it took five damn expensive mistresses to give me some kind of damn comfort. No children, that’s the pity. I’ve got a bastard here and there alright. Of course the mistresses would have me marry them too. To be bloody twelfth marchioness or is that thirteenth. Even if it’s a title in courtesy only, that’s a hell of a lot of damn marchionesses, what. One damn well ends up like a factory manufacturing marchionesses till they’ll bloody be tuppence a dozen. What. And all running off with the family jewels. Bloody last one got off with four necklaces, three bracelets, two rings, never mind a mass of earrings and an emerald and diamond stomacher brooch. That alone could have when I’m finally skint, kept me in comfort in some nice little boarding house in Folkestone till I get cremated. One’s not a piker of course. Just want the dear girls to leave a little something for the next marchioness, that’s all. Instead of buggering off on my emolument to Monte Carlo, Spain and a lot of other woggish places. One hates to be feeding, housing, clothing another man’s piece of ass, as the Americans refer quite aptly to such slices. Bloody hell, Kildare I support the bloody lot, lock, stock and bloody barrel. I’m being impoverished is the sum of it. And if one of them ever bloody well remarries I’ll gladly eat my hat. In fact I’ll eat all my bloody hats, including my coronet and flying helmet and goggles without salt. Lock’s stock and bloody barrel if you get the pun of the first. And as one has been sparse on top that means more damn headwear than my old abused guts could digest in a hurry. Makes a man realize that pranging a down to earth prostitute is man’s cheapest way to satisfaction. And you know, you are an agreeable chap to listen like this. To my rantings. But I suppose any man who takes a fiver off me the way you did knows the ways of the world. And damn if you’re not a dozen years my junior. Always feel a con man chancer is deserving of the deepest respect.’
‘I think I must beg your pardon.’
‘Now don’t bloody well be offended Kildare. You have the makings of a great con man chancer. Without people like you the whole world would be in revolution. Thieving is the escape valve of the lower orders.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You’re a commoner Kildare. A bogman. Pure and simple. But since you use a bog to shoot snipe in, it makes all the difference.’
Having been a past below stairs servant and groom one did not easily tolerate his Lordship’s remarks. But amazing the presumption a title gives. He went on rambling as we proceeded out to the stables to see Rapscallion. One thing to be said, he really adored his horse.
‘Look at that kind eye, Kildare. That noble head.’
His nag however was back at the knee, upright in the pasterns, dipping in the back and sloping in the quarters. Never mind, fondness makes up for all that. And outside owls hooting, we had a look up at the stars utterly splendid cold and daunting to one’s tiny presence taking a long piss on the lawn. And at last to bed. His Lordship an arm around my shoulder and leading him lurching up the stairs. In candle smoke smell, snuffing them out behind us with a long handled church snuffer. Down the hall to my old bedroom. The Marquis pausing, muddy boots grasped to his breast as he leaned towards the last candle.
‘Kildare you’re a brick you know. Con man chancer but a brick. But you don’t ruddy know how to snuff out candles. Squeeze the flame. Wet your fingers.’
His Lordship’s quizzical eyes. The dried spots of mud on his lapels. A frown furrowing on his brow. Putting a hand up to the side of his head.
‘My ruddy ears ring all the time, Kildare. Too much aircraft engine noise during the war. Makes you sometimes want to blow your head off.’
A candle already alight in my old bedroom. And Crooks of course, wouldn’t you know, has placed with a glass and decanter of water, a bottle of my very best pure Scotch whisky on the bedside cupboard. Not that one begrudges it. But bloody hell yes, one does begrudge it.
‘Kildare, that’s a damn decent highland malt there. This is very hospitable of you. I must put you up for my club in London. Only a handful of very very select members. Took over an old battle scarred house. Popped a couple of hunchback brothers down the cellars, one cooks the other does the portering and waiting. As we are not heavily endowed as a club, fees are a bit steep. But the ruddy wine and privacy is unexampled. Except for the hunchback brothers fighting in the basement. Bit of occasional early morning screaming, shouting and slamming doors over which one is to put out the garbage. Give you a bed in London. Into which, provided you don’t fuss up the other handful of members you can comfort yourself with a bit of crumpet of an evening. But don’t get the bloody idea I’m a ponce or it’s a whorehouse. Hope I’m not giving you that impression Kildare.’
‘Well no not quite yet as a matter of fact. But of course I’m still listening.’
‘Ha I like you, Kildare. I damn well like you. Consider yourself a member. Phonecall by four p.m. will get you a supper. But roll in any time for pot luck. Along with suitable bare breasted ladies on the game, we invite a guest of honour quarterly and amusingly insult the ruddy shit out of him at the end of the table. Of course the food and wine are so good the ruddy fellow is too busy eating and drinking to give a damn. It’s how of course one is accepted to membership. Nice old commodious house too. Donated it to the common cause. The old boy the Duke doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve named it the Putney Club, after him. Man must have a reliable place to bring his occasional fly by night bird. And if you don’t intend her to be permanent in your coop, other members who are momentarily short of the avian species, why they go aerial with her if you get my meaning. But it’s no ruddy whorehouse remember. Nice young chap like you, the world lies before you Kildare. The world. Never forget that. Don’t get skint like me.’
‘I am already skint.’
‘O. Sorry to hear that. Damn nuisance for you. Damn sorry. O that is a pity, isn’t it. Well we have reduced memberships at the club. I’ll bring it up with the secretary. No need Kildare to worry. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
Pop of cork out of the whisky bottle. The Mental Marquis pouring himself a drink. Darcy Dancer, hand on the door knob.
‘And O, by the way Kildare, Bangkok that’s the place where you might plan to go and have a damn good fucking. Marvellous place for the ladies, both for the ones already there and the ones you bring with you. Cool season is November to February. Young man like you wants to be properly schooled in these things. Only damn sensible thing my father did was to recommend it to me. It’s a great art you know. And one never gets done finished learning. I mean you know about fucking. Never get finished. I mean learning about damn good fucking. Goodnight Kildare.’
‘Goodnight.’
One proceeded feeling one’s way by the wall, back down the hall. Bangkok, good lord. Damn good fucking. I mean to say, chap obviously thinks me a rank amateur. Certainly there is no question as to what Leila’s paltry fate would be at his hands. Shoved half naked into his London club. Members sitting around dinner with harlots’ knickers over their heads. Jumped upon and pranged by the other members who had gone inebriatingly aerial. The hunchbacks no doubt rushing about with wind socks and suitable flags giving the signal and direction
for take off.
Darcy Dancer removing his clothes in the damp chill. Peeking out the window shutters. A clear cold sky. The moon shining. My mother’s wardrobe door open. Two of her gowns draped over the back of a chair. One’s sisters do take signal liberties. What a day. What a night. Nearly asleep on my feet. O god. If only I could press my lips to Leila’s. Instead of crawling alone down between these icy sheets. Ah, thank god. A hot water bottle. If it’s not leaking one can anticipate a modicum of sensual voluptuous comfort. I suppose everyone is looking for a beautiful but decent minded woman. That she should be entirely thoroughbred in her figure, cultured in her mind and gay in her demeanour. Who would when one required it, put her hand on top of one’s own and say soothingly to calm one’s worries, there you are, you mustn’t trouble my dear, we will, both of us manage somehow. O god, to know that such a creature does exist. To know that she lives and breathes under one’s own roof. Where one wakes each day. And now sleeps. Sleeps. In a dream. Of the most delicious sensation. Enveloped in the soft arms and legs of one’s past housekeeper. Ensnaking warm cosy comforting limbs of Miss von B. Her soft if somewhat commodious aperture. Into which one could dip so delicately. Holding her smooth silken miles of skin. Her voice in my ear. Vast ist diss Bangkok. You little naughty creature. Vy you need go Bangkok. Your bang bang cock so nice right here. You baby. Ah. Yes I scream. In your ear. You hear. My dear. Mein Bauernlummel.
‘Shush you fucking noisy heifer.’
A voice out in the hall. Darcy Dancer squeezing a pillow, sitting bolt upright in bed. My god I think I heard most god awful screams and screechings. And naked feet pounding. Stopping just outside my door. Huffing and puffing breathing.
‘Will you come back now you bloody wench.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’ve already been after interfering a finger in my sacred tabernacle.’
‘Begorra I’ll interfere more than a finger with me stone rigid credential bulging up your essential.’
Feet proceeding again. And speeding elsewhere. Going around the turning in the hall. And upstairs in what is commonly referred to as a damn quick hurry. Leila. Her feet would never make such heavy pounding. O god. Dingbats. No. Norah. Or Kitty. But one thing is bloody certain. It’s his Lordship whose vowels are pretending to be a bogman under that stage Irish brogue. Clearly thinks he’s in his London club. Taking off in his Spitfire. With his hunchbacks clattering dustbins, signalling him down the ruddy runway. Shove my overtaxed senses back under pillow and eiderdown. Stay here. Until I smell floorboards or joists burning. Or the authentic screams of my sisters. Crying rape. Or O my god. Must have dozed asleep again. Hoofs thumping the gravel.
Darcy Dancer going to the window. Pulling back the shutter. Has there ever been a colder night. And down there in the moonlight. Has there ever been a madder one. The Mental Marquis. Galloping. Tally fucking ho. His hair flying. Atop his horse. Lashing his whip back across Rapscallion’s quarters. And up, up and over the fence. There he goes. Down the front lawn. Fading in the shadows. Pounding the frosty ground.
Darcy Dancer paddling back to bed. Stretching down deep beneath the covers. When is this night ever going to end. Pull up the blankets over my head. Cover ears. Ah dat’s better. Peace and quiet reigns again. And leaves me so tortured. Prick pained without love. Close eyes. Stare away the dark. The Mental Marquis said. Although expensive for her own soul, how cheap a whore’s price is. Cynicism hurts and stings. The closest thing to truth. And will I ever hold her. Touch my fingertips across her pale soft cheek. Kiss her brow. Will I ever put my hand deep clutching in her black hair.
Before I
Shut away
This brain
The last thing
That dies
In this body
The last thing
That lives
10
The day of the lawn meet. Dawning. On a bad bad old day. A night storm bringing a thaw with its gales and buckets of rain and flooded pastures. Slates off the cow house. Chimney toppled, ancient oaks out in the park uprooted, and utter utter misery festering in my heart. As one makes fervent plans toon this crumbling pile of stone and devote the rest of my life to whoring and reckless extravagance in the better fleshpots somewhere miles from the gossiping tongues of this rain sodden parish. Yesterday, a hint of disapproval in Sexton’s voice as he stole up behind my shoulder in the corner of the orchard as I watched the rooster cohabiting with a hen just as it was growing dark and you’d think the rooster would be thinking instead of a night’s sleep.
‘Sure you’ll be carrying on like the Duke of Portland in Welbeck Abbey, with shutters closed and no one seeing you for days on end.’
‘Many things Sexton to look after in the office, keeps me in.’
‘And now wasn’t that something. Our little beauty Leila, our St Joan of Arc. Masterly, masterly. Now twisting that eegit Marquis around her tiny finger. Did you hear about that.’
‘I heard, Sexton.’
‘Writing to her he is. She’ll soon move in the highest circles in the land. She’ll rule nations that one. Gone from here in a trice. Saw the envelope meself. The coat of arms there emblazoned in the red wax.’
‘And it does seem to me, Sexton all quite improper.’
‘What, to write to a beautiful woman. When was that ever improper.’
‘I am merely suggesting Sexton that she merely works here in a not particularly esteemed position.’
‘And didn’t she acquit herself in that that evening after the hunt. Let me tell you it wasn’t, was it, as if Apollo was playing his lyre to the muses. Ha ha. Cromwell at Drogheda was more like it. Except now the boot is on the other foot. Struck in defence of you. Fought by your side. Saved you by her loyalty. Ah now Master Darcy, with all due respect to your Protestant forebears, an Irish lass can rise to the heights. Sure who hasn’t in low moments prayed dear god, teach me how to accept the awful scourge of being Irish and that so many other lucky nations and lucky men are not. I’ve thought it I have. Plenty. When they’d shoot you down in England upon the sound of your voice.’
That darkening evening I found myself walking away from Sexton, passing his Stations of the Cross. Veronica wiping the face of Jesus. Jesus falls for the second time. Yes. Leila. Loyal. If you were ever needing my care I would come she said. And she did. And now. Like the gay sound of some summer laughter on the air. She may be gone. Leaving me bereft as I wake yet another morn. So hard to disturb my bones from a bed. That at least keeps the frost off my knees. But not out of my heart. Silent in the household. Always a sign that everyone is warmly collected in the kitchen shining the seats of the chairs. Bent over tea, bread and butter, fried eggs, rashers, sausages. One even has given up making loud noises of my approach. To scare them back outside to work again. At least getting them as far as the underground tunnel. With all its blessings and grievous drawbacks. Built to avoid the aromas of manures or the sight of servants. But certainly more used as an idlers’ paradise, with a smell of contented tobacco smoke coming out the high end.
‘Sir. Sir. It’s your breakfast out here I’m waiting with.’
A thump on the door. Darcy Dancer turning to face the slit of light creeping on the carpet. Yanking up blankets close around the throat. This pre dawn moment one does lie muscles stiff in bed utterly shattered and beaten. And back a week ago, one thought it was another dream. Or nightmare. But the cheeky ruddy nerve. The Marquis galloping off in the night. Having run amok among one’s female servants. The whole ruddy lot could end up pregnant beyond belief. The place a maternity hospital. Full of his illegitimate heirs.
‘Come in.’
Dingbats, tripping into the room and clattering the crockery on the tray. The faint hall candlelight behind her. Her hair uncombed, looking like it’d been struck by lightning. My shutters rattling. Closed hopefully against new ill winds. Barred against the hysterical bank manager’s letters. And a dream I had last night of the agent and the timber merchant cutting down a giant old beech, and his men swar
ming over it like a nest of ants, taking it away. Then seeing just beyond the ridge that the whole parkland was denuded. Stumps of oaks, elms, sycamores, chestnuts, the meadows scarred and rutted.
‘It be dark. It would be drowning rats, such a fierce wild night sir. Wait now while I feel for the box of matches and light the candle.’
On the chimney piece three candles alight. Discomforting my eyes. The rest of the night awake with a ton slate coming adrift on the roof. The rumbling slide. The crash on the front steps below. Pity it didn’t wait to hit the agent’s lawyer or even better the bailiff who’s soon to be banging on the door. Instead of leaving a gaping hole up there somewhere for the rain.
‘Would I put the tray here now, sir.’
‘Is it clean Mollie on the bottom.’
‘Sure it’s the one I fell down with and wiped later I did.’
One has to take every precaution. This day after my sisters announced they were having a ball. Can you imagine. To meet amusing people they said. Bloody hell the house is full of amusing people. A ruddy vaudeville. Dingbats herself two mornings ago on the servants’ stairs carrying a tray, fell tumbling down head over heels covered in butter, coffee, sugar and cream. Claiming she was goosed on the top step by Crooks who, laughing so hard himself, fell after her. Both promptly spending the day in bed. And after the night of the Mental Marquis, rape was the talk of all the staff. And Kitty and Norah locking doors. Giggling. Hoping no doubt someone would break in and jump on them. Crooks rumoured seen past midnight without the merest trace of a hobble or limp, flitting and pirouetting down the hallway in a flowing gown and lady’s Ascot hat. Isn’t that bloody amusing enough. Transvestites anonymous. Without having a ball. Of course outside, there’s a circus. Luke tossed by the bull into manure slops, and getting up running like a blind piccaninny. Straight into a loose pig he clung to and was then dragged into the stable where he ended up covered in barley seed. Crooks then flouncing about the house with a walking stick, and imitating Miss von B’s most officious manner.