‘What do you want.’
‘I’ve come to inquire to see how you are. And if you were disturbed by the commotion.’
Darcy Dancer standing in the silence. The cold draught blowing along this hall. Waiting. A vixen barking out in the frosty night. The squeaks and groans of the floorboards. O dear the poor lady, perhaps in there sick and ill. But the door opening. Her face. Quite magnificently beautiful in the shadow. And beyond, a candle lit on the black chimney piece. The low ceiling curving up over her narrow bed of this narrow room. Chill and damp. Strewn everywhere with bits of clothing. Torn pieces of paper. Two photographs propped up against the edge of a book. And next to them an envelope. Staring at me.
‘May I. Please. Just come in.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘You have no fire.’
‘No.’
‘But you must.’
‘I am alright as I am.’
‘But you might become sick and ill.’
‘Please do not worry about me.’
‘But have you eaten. You haven’t have you. I will have something brought you.’
‘No please don’t.’
And all these terrible hours of agonising jealousy spent. With her being all over my mind. Relieved only by the tribulations befalling me. As she sits on the edge of her narrow bed. Or stood that evening ghost like at the whim room window. All these scraps of paper on her floor. The room in such utter disarray. So unlike everything else she’s so neatly done in this household. Including breaking a vase. Which may have been more precious than I dare to contemplate.
‘Perhaps you ought to say why you really have come. It is isn’t it, because I broke your vase and for that I can tell you I am most heartily sorry. And I will, no matter how long it takes, I will repay you for it.’
‘Please you mustn’t say that. Every day crystal is broken, silver is scratched and bent, porcelain smashed. That vase is the merest of tragedies.’
‘You do say tragedy, don’t you.’
‘That word merely slipped out. I really don’t mean it in its sense applied to the vase but to you, that you might think it a tragedy.’
‘You can’t get out of it. I know how valuable it was. And I will, and you must let me, pay you back.’
‘O god Madam. O god. You can, can’t you, so distress me.’
‘Do I.’
‘Yes. When I don’t see you. And haven’t talked to you. And saw you at the whim room window as we rode off today.’
‘And why do you refer to me as madam.’
‘I don’t know. But somehow I must just feel the title is appropriate.’
‘I go there just to stand to look out. When I am upset. And I have to be alone then. I watched you once come up across the park on your horse one evening a while ago. I know it’s presumptuous of me to go into that room at all.’
‘Please don’t feel that.’
‘Mr Crooks has given me my notice.’
‘I’m the only one who can give you your notice. And I have not and do not choose yet to do so.’
‘But I may choose yet to do so.’
‘And for that I would be most heartily sorry. And where would you go and what would you do.’
‘There are so many places I could go. To Dublin. I could find work in a shop.’
‘But you would have to live on a mere pittance. A shop girl earns nothing.’
‘I would manage. I have managed before this.’
‘Please don’t go. And we shall talk again, shan’t we, like this. Perhaps somewhere alone. Would you mind. We could meet on a walk. Tomorrow. In the afternoon before tea. There is a little old boathouse on the lake about a mile along the old farm road through the forest. Will you meet me. Please say yes. That you will. Now I must rush back to my guests. I know you know one of them quite well. Don’t you.’
‘I don’t wish to reply to your question, please. And if I am at the boathouse, I am there. And if not, I am not.’
‘Which may mean you won’t be.’
‘It may not.’
One did go on one’s gloomy way down the stairs. The note of doubt in her voice. Sad and cold as the shadows of the beech grove trees were out in the wintry darkness as one passes on the landing back to the dining room. Where now sat my guests. And two greater pals it would be hard to find. That the Mental Marquis and Rashers had become in one’s absence. One might have even thought they had fallen in love. Looking as they were beyond the purple ruby port into each other’s blue eyes. The Marquis in some awe to find Rashers’s father a distinguished General he had long admired. Who it would appear had won in the field of battle nearly every military distinction possible, including the Military Cross three times. And it would also appear that the Mental Marquis was nearly as distinguishingly entitled and decorated. Rashers quick to inform me in his Lordship’s momentary absence to take a piss.
‘My dear fellow, the Marquis, don’t you realise it, is a military hero. One of RAF’s leading aces. Downed Germans all over the kip, rat tat tat tat tat, all over the sky. Isn’t that wonderful. Don’t you realise.’
‘Well Rashers, clearly I have no option as you seem to insist on it with some hysteria.’
‘I must. Absolutely must repatriate his fifty quid. And much sooner than pronto. You couldn’t my dear man, could you, see it in your heart, in view of these circumstances of which I was absolutely unaware previously to give me the brief loan of the ten fivers required.’
‘I have already returned to you a previous loan of two fivers.’
‘Of course you have, my dear boy, of course you have.’
‘And that makes only forty pounds you require.’
‘Of course it is, my dear boy, of course it is. How silly of me not to realise. Of course. Forty will do. Of course it will. Good of you to point it out to me.’
‘But I have not said I shall give you forty.’
‘Of course you haven’t my dear boy, of course you haven’t.’
‘Or indeed said I even have such a sum.’
‘I shall never again ask of such a favour as I am doing upon this most desperate occasion. I promise you that my dear chap. Absolutely promise and cross my heart, not ever to do so again. If you can accommodate me on this moment of most desperate moments.’
Of course there were now tears in Rashers’ eyes. His lips were not perhaps trembling but it was interesting to find that I was in fact looking closely at them to see if they were. It was impossible to tell if one were confronting the biggest lying impostor of all time. In the soft candle light. The pleading look. Of utter genuineness. And even reinforced somehow by the lurking smile that would steal on his face and carefully recede under his look of stricken abysmal disappointment and sorrow.
‘O my dear boy. Recently and frequently, woe, trial and tribulation have been my lot. And I know. I simply absolutely know. You shall not on this most poignant occasion at least. Will you. Disappoint me.’
Rashers’ hand stealing out to place itself on my arm. And revealing my cufflinks under my nose. But his other hand firmly grasping his glass of port. His eye flicking towards the small amount remaining in the just recently refilled of the last of the two decanters. No question but that Rashers in his most soulful desperation was managing to keep an eye out for more mundane matters.
‘It grieves me my dear Darcy that I cannot at this time bestow upon you equal favours. You must please realise that.’
Rashers’s fingers gently squeezing upon one’s wrist. Yet there was some redeeming warmth in even his most crass attempts at purloining some new favour of one and taking advantage of one’s compassion. One does so want to be kind. Forgiving. Anoint tenderness to the suffering. But then from whom does one obtain it in return. To replenish that which one gives. Minor betrayals forgiven do seem to beget major ones in one awful hurry. Dear me, so much better to swear utter unrelenting revenge from the start. And present an implacability against blandishment and beseeching. For to give in seems only to have the effect of people look
ing for more. And my god just as the last of funds disappear. The once adequate stacks of five pound notes. Now a mere handful.
Darcy Dancer with a candlestick glowing, opening the safe in the estate office. The old rent table with its drawers worn with the coins that once filled it up so consistently. The tenants for miles around outside the door as they stood waiting, caps in hands to pay. Or as my grandfather said, were more likely waiting to spin a tissue of lies and fibs why they couldn’t. But gone. Those days. Gone. More’s the pity. We were kindly landlords. Despite the bullets fired at the walls and shutters which might indicate we were not.
Rashers there in the candlelight just as one had left him. And putting back down a pepper mill on the table. His fingers seemed to touch and feel the tableware. Perhaps he has, as does the Marquis, a vast knowledge of antiques. Certainly he bloody knows the sight of eight Irish five pound notes when he sees them.
‘O my dear boy, thank you. Thank you. My dear fellow, you are, aren’t you, a dear brick. You are. So many have been less than nice to me recently, not that it matters when such behaviour comes from people I would not normally associate with. His Lordship will appreciate knowing that honourable standards are the unquestioned norm in your household.’
‘Rashers do please shut up. I cannot afford that. And I do want that money back. And it is the very last penny you will get from me.’
‘I shall be mum as you request. But must voice my feelings as I cannot be less than truly and utterly grateful to you my dear boy.’
Darcy Dancer on yet another trip to the cellar. For yet another bottle of port. His Lordship returned from peeing and feeding his horse. Back now purring in the company of Rashers. Listening to him discoursing on the subject of silver.
‘The French do not exceed us in the purity of morals but they do in the purity of their silver. By three point three per cent. To put a fine point on it. Now this rather nice sugar caster, made by Gabriel Sleuth I do believe seventeen nineteen.’
‘Upon my sweet smelling socks my dear man, not only the century’s greatest tenor but you do don’t you know your ruddy silver onions. You must join my London club. Isn’t that right don’t you think, Kildare. Skoal Kildare. Skoal.’
The Mental Marquis his port aloft, turning his happy smiling and inebriated face towards Darcy Dancer. A gust of wind outside. Trembling the shutters, flickering the candle flame. One would think I was now on the election committee of the Marquis’ club. And he’s oblivious to the fact that as yet I have never even set foot in London. Must say one does feel a bit miffed. With his Lordship previously implying that the membership of his London club was small, discreet and très select. To put a French word on it. Albeit Rashers in proper footwear does cut an acceptably fine figure. But one does think the Marquis is growing his hair far too long around the edges of his baldness. And by the look on his face clearly has another and different subject on his mind.
‘Well chaps, I’m tight as a newt, should we let our hair down. Instead of precious metals, what about matters of the flesh. Ah Rashers I see you’re listening attentively to this presently pissed peer. Well one shouldn’t discuss one’s old papa but that’s how lessons in life are learnt. The Duke took up with an actress. Damn scandal’s all over London. And damn all seems I can do about it. Very flighty but very beautiful young lady. Can’t sing a note but a wonderful speaking voice she has. Is running the poor old goat ragged out of his mind. Getting her flowers to the theatre on time. Insisting he do errands for her. Even in restaurants she tries to turn the old Duke into a waiter. He set her up in an absolutely palatial flat in Mount Street. Four bloody bathrooms. And then the creature would lock him out. And when he did get in, ready to roger her with his semi annual erection, poor old devil, she’d be dead asleep snoring in bed. That’s the thing about women isn’t it. They want everything their own sweet way. Now what I want to know from you worldly chaps is how do I straighten the old devil out. I love my papa you know. But the poor old Duke, must occasionally give him his due. Third time the lady snored asleep, he had his chauffeur fetch a suitably wieldy fish from Billingsgate Market and he bloody well whacked her awake with slaps across the cheeks of the face and the arse. Bit of a struggle of course the lady being strong for her diminutive size. Duke’s no slouch either. Outstanding huntsman, Master of Foxhounds. Keeps fit wood chopping. Left the lady at the time a bit smelly of course to climb on. But what the devil. I mean if he had daily or weekly erections, fine, but damn it, the poor old bugger deserved getting his rocks off. She maintains she gets her rocks off on stage. What about that chaps. You think that possible. I mean that we’re there innocently in the stalls watching the mimes strutting on stage mouthing drama while they’re coming in their drawers. Well gentlemen. Speak up. You’re being of no damn help here. Rashers. What about it.’
‘Well it does rather make one think doesn’t it.’
‘Damn right it does, sir. Damn right. Of course one thought matters would improve when the old Duke moved her diminutive ladyship within the Division Bell area. Into a big old mansion flat down the shadowy labyrinths of Westminster. Thought she’d get up to less mischief, in Mount Street. She threw flower pots at passers by. Then put all the bath taps on and flooded the building out. But of course the old Duke likes taking tea at the House of Lords. He’d walk her to the theatre. Pair of them could be seen crossing St James’s Park hand in hand. And that sight I must say was rather touching. Of course gentlemen you both have the utter looks of ruddy astonishment on your faces. You’re wondering how I know all this. Another story that. Suffice to say on this occasion I was actually following the poor old goat and her ladyship across the park trying to keep him out of trouble. Well in their usual manner they went sauntering out Queen Street at dusk and into the park. They’d crossed the bridge. Then the pair of them stopped the other side near the pond. And embraced. I thought how sublimely enviable. They truly are in love. I’d stopped to contemplate the ducks the other end of the bridge. And then the dear girl, just as the Duke seemed to be getting somewhat steamed up, suddenly shoved the old goat backwards flying off the shore into the pond. Water’s not too deep but poor old bugger can’t swim a stroke. He was left floundering and gasping. While she ran away laughing. I had to wade in and drag him to shore. It was ruddy attempted murder. I confronted her in her dressing room at the theatre and she denied the whole thing. Of course one doesn’t want headlines ablaze in The News of the World. Duke Dunked by Saucy Star of West End Farce. Of course if I really felt the lady was malicious instead of mad, I’d damn certain inform the police. Now what I want to know from you two gentlemen being men of the world, don’t you agree that the old Duke should give this lady up. What have you got to say Kildare. She professes lesbian tendencies as well. The Duke has more than once caught her with her tongue down some other lady’s throat.’
‘Well, the Duke may in fact be having a good if surprising time of it.’
‘Well that’s what I thought Kildare exactly. But is his old heart going to stand up to it. Well I suppose, what’s a chap to do sometimes. But get into his low cut gown and hack on as the braver of the ladies do. As soon as the pair of them were back on terms again the Duke planned a Sunday and Monday in Paris. The old fool waiting in their carriage compartment at Victoria Station after the theatre. She got the old bugger worked up and then just before the train left, said she wanted to meditate a moment alone. And stepped off the train just as it was leaving. Poor old Duke went trundling off by himself to Folkestone. I love my papa. Hate to see him suffer. Damn sad. But damn if the old Duke didn’t make the most of it. Somehow got himself a doxy. Spent an agreeable two weeks with her at the Crillon. With the actress screaming abuse at him down the long distance telephone. Hate to talk of one’s old pops in this manner, but damn it, I’ve got to look after the old fool. He sets one a lesson. Of course the lady’s a brilliant actress. When he got back from Paris she said she’d meet him by the fountain in Sloane Square for tea. Then disguised as a cockney waif she waylaid
the poor old Duke, led him off into a side street, revealed her identity and kicked him in the balls for his infidelity. He adores her for it. That is of course what is somewhat worrying. When he is so enthralled, you don’t know what the old Duke may suddenly do with his codicils in his final will and testament. Imagine he might even marry. The bloody lady actress could end up mistress of his English and Scottish estates. Duke’s been a widower now a long time. Once had a most beautiful mistress too. Got killed in a hunting accident. For years he was mourning her, with his hatchet faced housekeeper keeping every presentable lady away from the Duke by one means or another. Now gentlemen is one better with a steady lady of pleasure. Which only involves throwing the girl a fiver or two now and again. I mean she would have sufficiently administrated her charms with the punters to be even able occasionally to agreeably pretend she was a faithful wife. For the novelty of course. But I mean if the knot’s tied. The actress lady will after all be a Duchess. And if the old bugger ever expires, be my ruddy singular parental step mother. Big difference you know, being right up there as a Duchess. So many damn Barons and Earls around these days. I think it’s a mistake to be too blasé about one’s title. Even if it’s in courtesy only. I do so love my Debrett handle so much. Even though the damn thing shames me. Utterly shames me too, to adore it. Meet these twits who pretend to find it a burden. Chaps, to me it’s bliss. Gives one a bloody sense of belonging. Down the ages. I mean it takes ten minutes to change into rags. And that bloody well quicko teaches you a lesson. Old Duke does it from time to time. Took a leaf out of the actress’s book. Stood in disguise one Sunday at Victoria Station with a placard proclaiming the wisdom of eating fresh fruit, nuts and fish. Smalls our butler, coming back that day down from visiting his elderly dying mom in the country, chanced upon him there and walked up and said. Is it you, your Grace. Of course it’s me Smalls. And can’t you damn well read the sign. Go home and eat fresh fruit, nuts and fish as it says. What do you think I’m standing here for. Well chaps, a lot said tonight. Thing we must remember to love is a woman. Really love her. And from her we must require fidelity. Love her chaps. Love her. We must. We must. And you Rashers my dear chap are wearing brown bloody shoes sizes too small for you. But what, gentlemen are any of us ever ever going to do for humanity at large. Ah I see you Ronald, I’ll call you that as Rashers seems to make you wince. I see a question burning upon your face.’