Leila: Further in the Life and Destinies of Darcy Dancer Gentleman

‘And you too Rashers.’

  ‘I hope it’s not asking too much but I do wish you might not call me by that name. Would you mind awfully. Somehow it makes me feel, how shall one put it, a little inappropriate in present company. But please call me Ronald.’

  ‘Of course. Ronald.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear chap. That’s awfully good of you.’

  ‘Have a drink Ronald.’

  ‘O I’ve already got one thank you. I must say your man Crooks has been marvellously attentive. Had a nice little chat with him. Poor fellow seems a bit lonely in the country. Brought me that drawer of flies to look at. Says he does a bit of fishing. And if his eyes could only see straight he’d also do a bit of shooting.’

  ‘Yes, pity about Crooks’ eyes. But he does manage to see a lot more with them than can be seen with ordinary eyes.’

  ‘You don’t say. Hope you don’t think I’m meddling my dear chap. I wouldn’t want you to think that. But shouldn’t you be looking for a wife.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘O well when one thinks of it, it is nice to simply sit here alone by oneself viewing these extensive volumes on the shelves. Puts one at a loss for words.’

  Rashers plumping himself down. His hands rubbing the worn shiny bright patches of the leather of the sofa chair. He seemed somewhat subdued but still at an effort to remind me even as bachelor, how well situated one was. As if a thousand or so neglected acres and thirty five or so mouldering rooms and fifteen or so layabouts, servants and staff, into whose hands outstretched every Friday, one deposited a packet of bank note and coin, were the absolute answer to all the problems in this life.

  ‘Took a walk about my dear chap. It is simply quite magnificent. Not to mention how utterly glorious it will be come summer. And that splendid tunnel, like the Appian Way. Don’t of course know what the latter thing looks like but nevertheless. In the rain it’s a damn good place taking a morning constitutional. Why on earth were you ever in Dublin when you could be here. Making cider out of the apples. Watching the fattening of the damsons, artichokes, blackcurrants, raspberries and gooseberries. You know my dear chap, I should just love to bring my adored precious down to see it all. Keen keen gardener she is. I mean the towering walls surrounding your plethora of pleasure gardens. In the shade of which, come summer of course, one might take tea on the edge of the lawn where one plays croquet. I mean my dear chap, forgive me my trespassing. I wouldn’t want to presume. I do sometimes feel as merely an ex Trinity College failed medical student at a disadvantage. I’m only sorry now I didn’t take my botany more seriously. In those rather too debauched but nonetheless glorious uproarious undergraduate days.’

  One did pour oneself a stiff sherry. And nearly drink it back down like water. In this house getting fuller and fuller of inmates. Along with Rashers here whose constant reference to come summer did flash a vision of him still sitting there months hence, wielding a whisk brushing the flies away. And throwing a large bucket of awfully cold water on my spirits. Especially now as one notices that as well as being in my grandfather’s dinner clothes and black tie, he is also wearing one of my silk shirts whose cuffs are clasped closed with my pearl inlaid platinum cufflinks bequeathed me by my grandmother. Plus a pair of my socks. Although he did retain his own brown shoes from which his own rather large feet bulged at the laces.

  ‘You are aren’t you. Kildare, looking at my shoes.’

  ‘Yes I believe I was. Sorry.’

  ‘Well they’re damn hard to fall out of. And no need to apologize my dear chap. My own were stolen by some gurrier newsboy down the catacombs. Had to go barefoot to the pawn shop. Bought these second or third hand. I stupidly preferred their style to size. Damn it my dear Darcy, a man could sit and think in this room, couldn’t he. You don’t do you, mind my using your Christian name like that. After all I am a guest in your house. And I say this out of my heart. You will never know how grateful I am to you. I mean, the bound volumes of Punch, going back to the dawn of ages there on the shelves. You must be able to open one of those and get a jolly good antique laugh out of them.’

  ‘Upon occasion yes.’

  ‘And you know by god Darcy you’ve got a real looker in your household. But the glorious creature seemed to vanish like a ghost. Or was I indeed seeing one.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank god for that. You know, one’s mind is apt to play one up in these large country houses. My flat I was chucked out of was the size of a cheese box for an inferior cheese. And this extra space about one does rather let the imagination roam.’

  At the appearance of my sisters and Miss von B Rashers did jump to his feet, tight shoes and all, clicking his heels in a military manner and bowing. Miss von B not unflatteringly attired in another one of my mother’s gowns. A trifle too short and slightly illfittingly tight about the bosoms. But Rashers was far less military at the appearance of the Mental Marquis. To whom I was just about to introduce Rashers and Miss von B. When Rashers his mouth full of sherry spluttered it out all over the carpet. One thing of course one had learned in Dublin. That many a previous drama had befallen its citizen denizens. Between bar stools, beds and people. And one had that terrible feeling that something very awful was about to happen tonight. It wasn’t long before his Lordship, pretending to show me some porcelain in an issue of Country Life, had taken me aside and whispered.

  ‘That ruddy fellow, Ronald Ronald or Rashers or Bashers or whatever he is called. That bloody bugger was in the Buttery drinking champagne out of a chalice, and did me for fifty quid. As a damn fee of membership to a casino in a basement in Fitzwilliam Square. And also the promise of an introduction to the most beautiful creature. Clarissa. Claimed she was his half sister. But more likely for whom he was pimping. Ruddy fellow did a disappearing act. What on earth is the fellow doing here. In the confines of your house Kildare.’

  ‘O him. Goodness. Yes. Well. He is rather here isn’t he.’

  ‘Well I caught him up once on the street and he ran outright, left me holding his coat with not a blessed thing in it but dinched cigarettes out of the gutter and ruddy pawn tickets. I suppose you’re going to ask me if I redeemed them. Of course I damn bloody well did. Quite an interesting place as a matter of fact. The damn bloke had pawned a ruddy toilet bowl, plus the baby’s pram he pushed the ruddy thing to the pawn shop in. Suppose it does make you have to treat a chap like that with a certain respect I suppose.’

  Although in a get up defying domestic description which on scrutiny appeared to be my grandfather’s hunting coat much too large for him, and the tails hanging below the backs of his knees, Crooks nonetheless absolutely in his element. But who my god should he have at his heels carrying the trays, and in my old school clothes, his hair plastered back and shifty eyed, but Foxy’s brother.

  ‘Master Reginald, begging your permission sir, I needed help you know, what with me knees and the lad here now, I can train him up. Sure half his life spent in the kitchen anyway and we’d make some use of him. And I’d like to be rid of that other one, our Dawn Beauty. Up there, won’t answer to her door.’

  His Lordship swallowing down more than a dram or two or three. Emptying the bottle specially got up from the cellar for the ladies. Necessitating Crooks sending Foxy’s brother to unearthing yet another bottle. And clearly the little bloody bugger was bug eyed and swaying as he came back later to the door to receive Crooks’ whispered growls of chastisement for his long delay. Which one was bloody sure meant having to check the cellar book and record the newly missing bottles, already nearing the very last of the precious few splendid ones remaining. The parsimony lurking in one’s soul. As if I were English. But the fateful moment is coming. When Crooks will say, I am sorry sir, but there is no more Madeira, there is no more bloody nothing. And one did, knowing it was going fast, switch from sherry. Crooks murmuring to me as he filled the glass.

  ‘Master Reginald this evening brings back memories of your mother my dear Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond. She
would herself have taken pleasure at the company.’

  Rashers animatedly engaging Miss von B in conversation. Has her laughing. Still feel her lips between my legs still glowing. So comforting to have her here. Mine again. Maybe she wouldn’t mind in the morning smartening things up. Go round as she used to with her keys and white gloves. Of course one is daydreaming. Put a log on the fire. In these flames. See Rashers walking barefoot to the pawn. His Lordship pushing a pram down the street with a toilet bowl in it wearing a bonnet and bow of pink ribbon. And ah Crooks at the door. Waiting for a lull in the conversation, clearing his throat, bowing. Pursing his lips. And as if from a pulpit announcing.

  ‘Master Reginald, ready whenever you are sir.’

  Crooks with a couple of extra candelabra had the hallway blazing. Showing perhaps just rather too much of the dilapidation for real delusions of grandeur but I must say in our little procession out the library door and up and around into the dining room, one did feel that nonetheless, the green faded brocaded wall fabric did lend itself well to the moment. With a distinct quickening of the pulse as the ladies’ scents softened the sharpness of the hall’s cold air. And making our way with perhaps just imagining for a moment, the ladies with tiaras. It all did look rather perfect. Andromeda Park suddenly the grandest of grand places. In the very height of fashion. Until of course, I chanced to see Rashers, who had departed to the toilet and thinking the rest of the guests had already turned the corner, was busy fingering a plate, upturning it to the candle to examine its underside. And even daring to handle a figurine off its plinth. O dear reminded again. That one is instead in the boggiest of the most bereft backwater. I mean damn it, he could ask one were it Meissen or not. Of course that piece is not. But back in the library I did think it strange, how his finger casually tipped up the flap of the silver topped water jug and suspended it as if to test the weight of the metal. I suppose poor chap his life is presently devoid of beautiful things and he wants to keep his finger in. No matter. He does at least help the evening along making it three ladies and three gentlemen. And he could not, no matter how bad he is, be all that bad. Having a friend and loving as he did. O god that name Clarissa. Comes back with tears into one’s world. Dropping from its every syllable. To make one shudder. For her beautiful silken pale white skin. Her gay flowing flood of laughter. Suddenly spilling out of her lips. Golden erupting glory. How could her body be pierced. How could she be impaled. Found by a milkman in the morning. On the coldest iron railings. On Stephen’s Green. And forever now just a memory in Mr Arland’s heart. And perhaps that is why. Rashers. When he did shed tears. For all their inappropriateness. May have shed them for Clarissa. For he too adored her. And yet how could she die. So alive in the minds of those who still live. And I must. Must go on the train. Find Mr Arland. Find him.

  There is simply no denying Miss von B’s aristocracy. The fluent way she included Rashers and Lavinia in conversation. While Christabel was busy trying to captivate his Lordship into making her as soon as possible a Marchioness. And before vacating the library, his Lordship was giving Rashers the odd glance over Lavinia’s shoulder, his alarm lessened considerably. And Rashers keeping very much to the sideline of his own conversation and instantly turning his attention to the forefront of his Lordship’s louder and most unfunny jokes.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, couldn’t help hearing that in the corner of my ear. Damn funny.’

  During service of the soup one was all the time wondering where Leila was. As was his Lordship, looking up into the face of Norah, Kitty and Dingbats and hoping the next would be hers. And I was wondering whether she had broken the glass vase deliberately. Just to have reason to lock herself up in her room. With the Marquis’s letter. A thought instantly discontinued, as Crooks was serving the wine, by a loud voice erupting in the pantry.

  ‘Put that back away and take your hands this minute off me or I’ll give you the hot gravy on top of it. You dirty little rooster.’

  A few minutes later Norah all red cheeked coming out with the carved slabs of lamb. And followed by equally red cheeked Kitty and Dingbats with bowls of sprouts. And the sound of Foxy’s brother giggling in the pantry.

  Dear me. All the fun is out there beyond the swing door. Miss von B listening politely to Lavinia get her day’s outing off her chest. And talking about chests. In the furnishing sense. One noticed gone from my mother’s dressing room, her toilet service. Not that it matters it was Louis the Sixteenth or that it was made in Paris by Boullier, or that I enjoyed to peruse my eyebrows occasionally in the mirror and see if my teeth were still growing straight. But what matters is their continued bloody nerve to remove without my leave twenty pieces of silverware plus a pair of Louis Fifteenth silver gilt rocaille quatrefoil dishes by Jean Marie Jan de Villecler, from under my nose. With the both of them now spoutingly full of their own brands of very English foxhunting references.

  ‘The scent was very sketchy today, wasn’t it.’

  And Christabel throwing her tresses over her shoulder and affectedly sniffing at the air, as she tipped salt off the end of her knife, announcing her signal event.

  ‘One does like to travel up front. And I would have but for coming off at that first double bank. Of course it was entirely my own fault.’

  Not that one is any kind of down to earth purist about foxhunting but I do confess that this latter comment of my sister’s does make me utterly impatient. Being that one feels it a detestably phony attempt to avoid saying. My effing stupid horse didn’t watch where he was effing going and didn’t know what he was effing doing and threw me off on my effing head. But of course one is lulled into a pleasant reverie listening to the same old hackneyed words.

  ‘Vixen showed her mask twice.’

  ‘Yes they spoke to her line for nearly a mile.’

  ‘And my dear, did you see that green faced lady, whose horse rolled on her.’

  ‘Served her right for not baling out.’

  This last remark emitted by his Lordship. Now swirling the claret around in his glass before putting it under his nose and tipping it backwards gurgling down his throat. By the door slams Crooks must have seen to Foxy’s brother in the pantry. As the food now appeared without the ladies bringing it being so red cheeked. Flushed all over the face like that did make the girls more attractive. And Dingbats was contusing her big tits ever so slightly against my shoulder. And smelling somewhat fusty, but not completely unpleasantly. One should make a household rule of at least one bath per fortnight per person. Or at least monthly. I’m sure they would figure some way to avoid such cleanliness. But Dingbats’ reastiness did have a fumy musky quality which I was absolutely astonished provoked the most rigid erection under the table. Making me hesitate to rise to help Crooks prise open the cigar humidor. But one had to leap to action as the poor bugger was going to send the fucking thing skidding to kingdom come across the sideboard any second and knock over the decanters of port. And while I took hold of the snap ring on the humidor to gently prise it up, Crooks whispered to me in what I thought was a conspiratorially approving manner concerning the pantry altercation of Foxy’s brother.

  ‘Excuse me. But a bloody little bugger, sir. He had out his John Charles Thomas, stiff as a board, showing it to the girls and I assure you sir there will be no further nonsense of that kind while I’m in charge. You have my word on that.’

  Kitty now doing a curtsey with the bowl as she served his Lordship seconds. Helping himself to about six potatoes, and even, if you please, fishing around underneath for the big ones. And as he did so, chewing upon a slab of lamb as thick as the top front door step. Not that I’m watching how much he drinks or counting how much he eats. But he does damn well quaff gallons and stuff down plenty. It’s his fourth ruddy helping of lamb. As he attempts to address his remarks to Christabel across the table.

  ‘Don’t want to be an ill sport about it or ruin your appetite my dear but you also did rather come across my front you know at that double bank.’

  ‘O dear. Did
I. But of course I did. Well I am sorry. But of course there were those loose ponies all over the place. But I do promise I hadn’t in the least meant to inconvenience you.’

  ‘Ah not to worry my dear, not to worry. It was a wizard prang. And Kildare you missed it, where bloody hell were you.’

  ‘O I was searching for my lost horse.’

  ‘Well just so long as you weren’t off in a copse with one of the ladies. Ha, ha. For a moment there, it was like a catastrophe at Beecher’s brook in the National. Marvellous pile up. Too funny for words. With too many damn foolish out hunting without nerves or brakes. And the fisticuffs jolly disappointing.’

  Amazing how people quickly forget what really happened out on the hunt. Events reported to suit themselves. At any rate I wasn’t going to tell him if he already didn’t know that I nearly had my brains kicked out by Baptista and then had them blown out by Miss von B. But it seemed the perfect moment, as Mr Arland had taught me, to raise my glass to the latter lady to skoal her in the Swedish manner.

  ‘Your Highness, skoal.’

  ‘Skoal, Mr Kildare.’

  But Miss von B’s eyes did not, as they should have, before replacing her glass to the table, linger for just that perfect length of time looking back into mine. Mostly perhaps because everyone reacted like scalded cats to my use of the title, your Highness. Of course his Lordship was more concerned with it not appearing that I might have one up on him in tableside manners albeit of the Arctic Circle variety. And he bloody well went most inappropriately skoaling everyone as if he were host. And in the process, putting away in his pot belly another three bottles of claret.

  ‘Even though I don’t know whether Stockholm or Oslo is the capital, I do think these Swedes a damn interesting race, don’t you Kildare. Like the way they’ve rather chucked some of the tighter morals out of the cockpit. Not that loose morals should be everybody’s cup of tea. But their endless stony silences with each other are to be admired. Wonderful the way a whole nation locks themselves away in huts up their fiords to be alone and to think. Listening to the trees falling down in the forest. Scratching their arses up there at the North Pole. Damn interesting.’