‘Good morning sir. How nice to see you. My it’s been a considerable time since we had the pleasure.’
‘Yes. Indeed I think it has, hasn’t it. I’m just popping in rather to peek about, as it were.’
‘But of course, please. We’re getting now many of what one might refer to as some very nice exotics indeed. And your order including the bananas and pineapples just in this morning is entirely ready. Ah you’d nearly think it was her Ladyship herself back at Andromeda Park. Shall I add another tin of the caviar, our very last. There’d be every bit of two pounds of the best Beluga in it. First we’ve had for years. Two were sent last week.’
‘I don’t believe I have in fact ordered anything. Certainly not caviar.’
‘O but you have sir. But of course please do let me check. Yes. Now there was last week’s. Here we are, Andromeda Park. I knew I was not mistaken on the caviar. Even in such a substantial order. Ready to be taken to the station to be sent down on the afternoon train. Now just among some of the items, sir. Four charcoal cooked hams. Three dozen tins of our terrine of goose liver with truffles. Three dozen tins of our pâté maison with green peppercorns, petits fours, toffee assortments, mint humbugs, selection of marmalades, our own apricot and almond. Four dozen of our own jars of chicken breasts in aspic.’
‘Good lord.’
‘Is there something wrong sir. We’ve even succeeded in getting some double Devon fudge for you.’
‘I think more than possibly yes there is something wrong. I most certainly haven’t ordered one of those items including double Devon fudge.’
‘O dear sir. But I myself spoke with your Mr Crooks.’
‘Spoke.’
‘Yes on the telephone.’
‘I don’t have a telephone.’
‘Might he have called from the town. I know his voice, Mr Kildare.’
Tears in Mr Hamilton’s eyes. Of course no need to get one’s grocer as alarmed as oneself. And certainly one could not give him offence. Nor could one make him think I was a ninny and one’s butler a nut. Better to promptly reel out of Smyth’s of the Green. Attempt to erase from one’s mind the columns upon columns of itemized figures in the flowing embellished script. Fancy victuals listed as long as your arm. Click clacking on the train to Andromeda Park. In my utter absence. Extravagances behind my back. Seeing with one’s own eyes, caviar, smoked salmon, even wines, port, even bloody hams and bacon sides which at least could have been provided from one’s own bloody pig pens. It only confirms, as one was already convinced, that the whole world is against one. And one always did, with the exception of Sexton, Leila, and old Edna Annie, suspect the worst malingering whenever one saw a member of the household or estate not with their hands actively on some tool in violent motion. Impoverishment does deepen loneliness. Now nearly reaching a pitch where I’ll soon be street dramatizing like Horatio the actor. Screaming incoherently at baskets of brown eggs in shop windows. Instead of walking smack into Rashers, equine journals under his arm, a bright crimson carnation in his button hole, his black silk tie decorated with tiny white diamond shapes, and his mouth grinning from ear to ear.
‘Ah my dear Darcy, missed you for breakfast. Dear me you do look a mite peakedly poorly.’
‘I am.’
One thing had to be said for Rashers. His mind was certainly alert to savouring mention of a long list of fancy edibles, his eyes sparkling and his tongue licking his lips. And he listened to one with such sympathy, one was nearly sorry one had only one disaster to unfold.
‘Ah but calm dear boy, calm. Your grocery bill I’m sure can last a year or two on credit. But there is one wonderful aspect your complaint has from which you should take much comfort.’
‘I would certainly like to know what it is.’
‘Ah hasn’t it dawned on you.’
‘No. It has not.’
‘Well, for a distinct change, it is not I who is responsible.’
Of course I immediately did conjure up Rashers imitating Crooks into his hotel phone. But one’s suspicions waned as I could sense his mind was miles away. And towards the top of Dawson Street, strolling through the coffee bound mid morning stream of solicitors, bank clerks, and accountants, Rashers stopped to purchase a bouquet of red roses. And one was nearly too embarrassed to inquire of him if an utter nymphomaniac like Lois could have lodged up one’s urethra a fatal long simmering microbe. But I did ask.
‘Rashers. I think I may have the dreaded pox.’
‘You what dear boy.’
‘Syphilis.’
‘Come directly with me this instant into the basement gents of the Dawson Lounge.’
It was an appalling embarrassment to have to present one’s prick to Rashers in this lavatorial manner especially as someone in the next cubicle had already got the wrong idea seeing two pairs of feet and the trousers of one pair around its ankles. But after careful perusement he pronounced.
‘Dear chap you are quite free of the pox. Not a chancre for miles. But if you must plunge into love, you must also say to hell with venereal disease.’
We did pause to take morning refreshment down these dark confines. And in order to change the subject from medical to cultural matters I inquired of Rashers over his armful of roses.
‘Rashers why don’t you sing. You really do, you know, have a voice which I’m sure would bring you riches on the concert stage.’
‘So kind of you to say dear boy. That is nice to hear this tender time of morn. But you see the answer is as surprising as it is simple. My voice is the only thing I have never compromised, sold, bartered or prostituted. Well dear boy. Shall it be down with betrayal. Shall it be down with back stabbers. Put the begrudgers and unfaithful to the sword. And on to Monte Carlo. And Darcy. You are my good friend. And even in the débâcle of your fear of the dreaded pox, always a joy to meet. Let’s make another appointment soon shall we. Ta ta.’
Standing on the pavement of Dawson Street in front of a ladies’ hat shop Rashers threw a kiss in at a most pretty lady arranging a hat in the window and then waved goodbye to me and strutting off, seemed to disappear into the entrance of the Royal Automobile Club. Not to be outdone by Rashers’s seemingly lofty principle. I foolishly opened an account in the flower shop and extravagantly charged my own bouquet of a dozen red roses. And I proceeded to Lois. Still terrified out of my wits. That if I did not have the pox, I may, as Rashers suggested, have the gleet.
‘So it’s you. Well come in.’
‘These are for you.’
‘Well thank you very much. And it’s not that I am not appreciative but I hope you don’t think I am putty in your hands. It just so happened I was having a low moment when I asked you to stay.’
Going up her steep stairs. Ushered into an actually warm studio. Two eggs simmering in a pan on her stove in the middle of the room. Her Afghan rug hanging where she’d been cleaning it. Of course Lois was now out of her mind, preparing for her secret commission. And one must suppose the rug would be a backdrop. As clearly she had borrowed a rather regal chair from the Count’s School of Ballet. Much gilt, gold and satin, which stood up on the dais. Such whoo haaa you never heard or saw. Actually sweating in her four or so thick sweaters. But one did make the whole thing suddenly even more hysterical, accosting her with my worry. Just as she’d put the roses in her one and only vase.
‘I think Lois it is entirely possible for you to have given me a venereal disease. Which I meant to ask if you had one before we went to bed. Heavens. I am putting this rather badly.’
Astonishingly in a corner behind Lois, the rat peeked out, then ventured out. And sat amusedly back on his haunches, his nose, whiskers and even ears twitching in the much ensuing silence. Lois pale with shock. And slowly growing red with anger.
‘You most certainly are putting it badly. You mean to say dear boy, that you would go willingly to bed with someone you thought might have a venereal disease. How dare you, having abandoned me, how utterly dare you, accuse me of giving you a venereal dise
ase. It is more likely that you are the one who might have given a venereal disease to me.’
‘But I’ve been told you’ve been mounted by everyone in Dublin. And perhaps I should go to the doctor’s.’
‘How heinous. How dare you. I should slap your face. You stupid Irish boy. And if you think you have such a thing, you had it before you slept with me and I should be the one to go to the doctor’s.’
‘But Rashers has told me I have no sign of the pox.’
‘That dreadful philistine rascal told you did he. Well I’m telling you. Get out. Out of my studio.’
Dear me. How quick one’s social life becomes a shambles. In the very middle of my discussion of the possible pox. Here I am being shown the door. And of course Lois screamed at the sight of Mr Rat. Whose own social life was clearly recently much improved. I did my usual tripping over her bloody pictures and paints, and I must say, deliberately squashed one tube beautifully under heel. The contents squirting out like a calf plopping from a good old cow. But mindful of chivalry one did seriously try to put paid to the rat. And flung her pan of simmering eggs at the rodent. You never heard such an insane outburst.
‘My eggs. My only eggs for luncheon. O my god. Splattered. Right on my watercolours. You slanderous little monster. For the final time. Get out.’
‘Lois I am most awfully frightfully sorry. I thought the eggs were hard boiled.’
‘Well they weren’t. Please don’t ever ever again come back.’
Well of course Mr Rat could nibble up the yolk for a midnight snack. But I did go to the doctor’s. For a second opinion. Another agonizing wait. Looking out his waiting room window at the bare trees and green lawns one could see stretched across to the amber brick the other side of Merrion Square. Asking the highly sceptical physician if one could have caught something from a door knob or lavatory seat.
‘I’m afraid not. But all I can see is evidence of perhaps a trifling bruising and contusion. The result perhaps of a little too energetic activity. But we certainly can if you prefer get laboratory results. And send specimens straight over to Trinity College for a quick report.’
One was mortified to find the doctor occasionally hunted and even knew my Uncle Willie. The whole of next afternoon I spend at the Grafton Street Cinema. Safe momentarily in the dark, viewing two westerns and the usual tropical travelogues. Afterwards relishing to be as those people were, on their great cruise ship, just delighting in the flora and fauna of exotic foreign lands. Instead of taking a tasty tea reading the matrimonial column of the evening paper. Of serious minded bog trotting farmers wanting ladies under sixty of stout build to be mutually suited with a view to marriage. But at least one did sit utterly alone in some baronial splendour upstairs in the cinema café. Dreaming and thinking every moment of Leila. She worked here. Touched these cups. Fetched back and forth these trays to the kitchen lift there behind the screen across the room. Where the waitresses bringing the endless supplies of bread and tea all peek out to watch me eat.
I returned alone to my room. And I found myself for some reason, writing my last will and terrified testicle so to speak. Then in sleep having a desperately violent erotic dream about Leila. Who was nakedly running from me chased by Baptista Consuelo who with a whip was lashing red weals across her white slender body. Next morning feeling no pain in one’s prick, but needing a breath of fresh air in one’s brain, it was I who went to knock at Rashers’ suite. Trying to invent something to thank him for or even to pay my apologies for dragging him down the bowels of a pub to examine my prick. And not least, to request his medical advice for my amorous future. I banged and even kicked his door. And with no one answering, stopped to inquire of him at the lobby desk.
‘Ah yes Mr Kildare. His Lordship departed last night. His car collected him for the mail boat. Exactly following supper in his apartments with the Countess, Lady Ronald Ronald. No forwarding address. Is there something we can do.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Ah but isn’t the Earl one of the great singers. Did you ever hear him now render O Danny Boy.’
‘No. I regret I haven’t.’
One never imagined to take Rashers seriously. Always expecting to find his joyful knock on my door in the morning. Or that he would be any more than just amusing one with his bizarre plan. But clearly now he is dislodged from Dublin. Where he enlivened every block of granite his heels clicked upon. Lit up the lobbies, made the Buttery and Jammet’s glow with life. Not to mention, I suppose, some darker pawn shops and catacombs. But nevertheless a comfort like a familiar field or horse one knew so well. And here I am stranded having somehow to busy about one’s life.
The days of Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Attempting to dislodge from one’s own trough of despair. Searching every street, peeking in every shop for a sign of Leila. Just hoping to meet her. As one finally pauses conspicuous on a street corner. Watching the bicycles, the trams and hooting motor cars go by. Do as Rashers said. Keep my options open. Have one’s hair cut. Attend fittings at one’s tailor. Shoes at one’s shoemaker. Order cartridges at the gunsmith’s. Keep moving lively in the world. Yet one did so miss him. Waking waiting, soul submerged, for his jovial momentum to take him in the door. And his entrepreneurial endeavours lugging my family silver, all the blue cloth wrapped little bags, in another door under three balls to the pawn.
Now as I walk wandering lonely still on the utter verge of utter complete and absolute despair. One’s butler should make one glad to be alive instead of making one think one is dying in bankruptcy. Eaten out of house and home by staff. How can I return. To find at every little strong breeze, the great slates crashing from the roof. Rot in floors, walls and ceilings. What tools there are, disappearing. Machinery rusted and broken. Rashers said take the long term view. Dear boy, the land isn’t going to get up and run away. My god. No. Instead one will, with worry, drop dead on it and melt away to one’s bones. Leaving them white and criss crossed on a meadow’s emerald soft bosom. Having no way to find my love I loved. From whose loins my sons and daughters could have come. And do I now go searching for my mother’s jewels, so long rumoured hidden somewhere out on that land. Do I flog the paintings. The delft. Now as I go around the Green. In this Dublin. Up past the College of Surgeons. Its thick giant fortress walls. Throw this tinker lady a penny. Cross the street. Go into the park. Sit on a bench. Watch the seagulls. And the ducks glide in. A hawk high up chasing some large slowly flapping bird across the sky. The grounds keeper sweeping up the wet leaves clinging to the paths. A softness falling. Shall I westwards homewards depart. On the train. Await an end of winter at Andromeda Park while still a small ember of hope within me burns. That reassuring sign of spring is sure to come. The first swallow zooming over the orchard. Or hang on. And the operative word. Being I suppose. Hang.
Darcy Dancer emerging from the park. Walk by the fence, cross into the strange streets. Sound of engines puffing. Trains. Harcourt Street Station. Something cold, alone and wretched along these pavements. Go in this archway down this alley. Stout and whisky inside. One feels so many of these Dubliners leave their dead dreams on the smoke stained walls of a pub. Turn left, turn next right. A timber merchant’s. What on earth do all these people do in there behind all these twitching curtains. This blank day. When no fox is found. Ride on to another covert. I suppose in adversity I must continue to hold my head up high. Be worthy of my acreage. Even now one remembers. The day as a child I was sick and dying. All one’s servants led one by one into my room to hover their spooky heads above my bed. Sexton placing his plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin on the dresser. A Catholic candle burning. For my Protestant soul. I could, out in the country, be hunting today. Hear Foxy Slattery telling me when we were boys, as he gave me a leg up. Ah now this would be a horse so safe if it would throw you sky high in a jump it would run and catch you squarely as you somersaulted down from the clouds. And now tacked up, this little unprepossessing sign, stuck on this doorway as one passes here in some foot discomfort, is ex
actly what one presently requires. Carefully hand printed. Footcare Specialist. Late of London. At least one’s presence in Dublin can be occasioned by a visit to the chiropodist’s. And indeed by all indications of this foot note ha ha, a sophisticated big city one at that. At this lonely three o’clock in the afternoon.
Darcy Dancer proceeding up the stairs and to the end of a cold bereft hallway. Flowered wet wallpaper peeling. Knock and enter it says. A chair. A table. Shiny waxed linoleum squeaking underfoot. And ah. A most ancient and dog eared copy of Tatler and Sketch. A lady’s voice in the next room saying come in.
‘Is this the chiropodist’s.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment.’
A white coated chilled lady creature getting up from writing what appears to be a letter. Steps to look in a book whose pages are clearly congealed closed by the damp. Rubbing her hands together. Obviously hasn’t had a previous customer for years.
‘Yes. I think we can just fit you in.’
‘Thank you so much.’
And sitting in her rickety chair, as she switched on a bar of an electric fire, it was rather nice having someone take off one’s shoes. Drag down one’s socks. Listening to her. Begin talking nearly a mile a minute. As if I were going to run away. Telling how she spent the war in England. Saved to take a course. Now returned to set up professionally in her native land. Where the rent was cheap. But from whence she planned to expand to Grafton or Nassau Street soon. In the tiny windowless room, she did take the longest time to trim a corn on my toe, and then ages to clip and file my nails. Pushing back the cuticle exposing the moons. As if one were entered in a beauty contest. Then she did rather deliriously massage my considerably chilly feet. With a nice, very nice circular motion applied to the instep. And then one’s ankles. Asked if one went skiing. And I lied. With two little words. Yes. Frequently. And even added. Down the Matterhorn. When wartime travel permitted of course. Then asking me rather leading questions. Where I was from. Was I English. Of course I had the incredible notion to say I was an Austrian. But thought being French might give a more pleasant impression. And yes of course one was educated in England. Harrow as a matter of fact. I was astonished how lies could so easily spill out of one. But as it was fast appearing I would soon have to be a con man it was as well to start practising. I used the word château just as she remarked on my elegant bone structure which she said was especially apparent about the inferior tibio fibular articulation. At least it was evident she knew her anatomy. Indeed she was beginning to sound like Rashers.