‘And how are things in Shangri La this morning Master Darcy.’
‘They are Sexton I suppose, as per usual.’
‘Well let me tell you. Right straight from the contentment here in the intimacy of all these growing things. And having recently travelled up to Dublin and visited the Botanic Gardens of Trinity College, that what we need now is a new heated plant house in which choice and tender exotics can be grown. The professor himself from the College will come down to consult.’
‘Well in my opinion Sexton, I do, I really do think instead of a new plant house that this entire island of ours should, with suitably strong tug boats, be shifted many latitudes further south. Especially now that upended floorboards have been added to cracked ceilings and walls held together only by the debris choking them.’
‘Well take consolation sir now that if the dust and debris filled chinks and crevices were over cleaned, dusted or scrubbed away out of the big house, the winter winds would penetrate all that more arctic into your bones and likely freeze you and the rest of the occupants to death.’
‘While I take no consolation I do quite see your point, Sexton. Clearly a dirty house is a warmer one.’
‘Fronti nulla fides. And that Latin translated, means. There is no trusting to appearances.’
Between Sexton’s botanical dreams and Latin references one did want to broach the matter of the figure on the bridge as casually as possible. If anyone was left sane enough in this place who might give one a reasonable explanation of the previous evening’s events it was Sexton.
‘And by the way, Sexton. I was out exercising yesterday evening. Went beyond Thormondstown to Thomastown. Got quite lost. Petunia has put on rather too much condition and is not as fit as one would like. Thought a good long run would do her good. Just happened on the way by the old ruined bridge.’
‘Ah the old stone bridge that’s tumbled down by the oak forest over the big river.’
‘Yes, and I wonder is anyone ever to fix it to be crossed again.’
‘True vaulting in the arches that was built with. There isn’t a stone mason about if you searched a dozen parishes around here that could do a job the like of that. And if there were he wouldn’t go near it.’
‘Why not.’
‘Be gob. Why not. I’ll tell you why not. Been a couple of heads gone white overnight with fright. That’s why not. The ghost of the lame girl haunts it she does. Nineteen summers old she was. Her horse threw her upon the stones that once built the bridge over the river. Her back and neck broken. Lay a whole night before she was found in the morning. Be gob I was there wasn’t I. Helped lift her. Her black long hair spread on the grass. A face like your mother’s. Her beautiful blue eyes staring up at you. O god it would crush your heart. Her hat found a mile away afloat on the river. But her horse nor saddle have never been seen since. I’d say ended up in the clutches of some villain.’
A chill struck one’s spine. The hair rose to stand on the back of my neck. Felt the blood draining from my face. And greeted with my silence, Sexton turned his one eye up from the plant he was packing in a pot.
‘Sure now you look as if you’d seen a ghost.’
‘Who was she, Sexton.’
‘A visitor to Thomastown Castle. Had the merest limp, one leg slightly shorter than the other. But by god for beauty she had no shortage. About to be married she was. To one of the richest peers in England. Trousseau packed. Sure the lass could quote the poets, as she would of a morning constitutional when I was a groundsman over at the castle with my starvation wages. I put many a flower on her grave, would coax and cuddle them. But not one would grow. A sure sign her body was elsewhere. But I’m not pretending there’s a word of truth to the ghost of her on the bridge.’
‘You don’t yourself believe in ghosts do you Sexton.’
‘Ah now it’s this way with me. After the Holy Ghost, one ghost is the same as another. If you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. I take them as they come. But then the diehard members left one late evening of the hunt ran a fox to ground a stone’s throw from the very spot. And having roused him once more off into the mists swirling, followed by the huntsman, the whipper in, the Master, the Mad Major and the Mental Marquis and one of the sisters, they all saw her the other side of the river. Standing in white on the end of the little stone bridge. Made the Marquis, mental enough already, even more mental. Sent him drunk for a week.’
I accompanied Sexton to a new layout of vegetable garden already dug over he planned for Indian corn, sunflowers, artichokes and asparagus. One always took heart from his horticultural enthusiasms.
‘Be eighteen feet tall they will. Sunflowers that will set the whole garden alight with their glory. They will surmount the wall. But now coming over that bit of broken wall there didn’t I catch redhanded the other evening, a trespasser and you’d never guess what he was after.’
‘I don’t think I would Sexton.’
‘Ah they’re all bleating and moaning lovesick since the dance. Sure this one told me it was none of my business what he was doing here. Skulking around. I said I’ll do for you. With a boot sailing up your backside. Ran him off I did. O but such beauty as that Master Darcy is trouble I’m telling you.’
‘Sexton, what on earth are you talking about.’
‘Sure didn’t you hear about the dance the other night. That Leila went to with Kitty and Dingbats. Mademoiselle created a sensation. For every lass furious at the sight of her there were two lads with their tongues hanging out in awe.’
One did all too soon find oneself out of the garden and back in the library. With one’s teeth clenched in pique and one’s heart pained with jealousy. I too was bleating and moaning. Albeit inwardly. But outwardly, at the thought of her, my trousers were sticking out a mile. Just hoping she would come in the door. That we would confront as we had a previous time upon my entering. And she had suddenly grabbed up her jar of wax and polishing cloth, nodded her head and before I could on some pretext engage her in conversation, she vanished out the door. And I wondered why she would rush so out of my presence. Until the reason became apparent from Crooks, to whom I tried striking a cheerful note as I sensed he was about to present me with a highly unwanted difficulty.
‘Crooks, the library does seem so awfully neat, dusted and frightfully well polished these days.’
‘Master Reginald, sir, that may be but not without some shocking liberties being taken. And I refer to that girl Leila. She must be taught her place. Completely out of order she was. In here reading books.’
‘O dear. Pray tell what books.’
‘The porcelain and pottery if you don’t mind, laid open on the tablature over there. And surveying with your magnifying glass if you please.’
‘O dear. O dear.’
‘Well she’s been placed back down below stairs until she has some better manners put on her.’
‘But surely Crooks is it so sacrilegious. The young lady may have been merely trying to improve her mind.’
‘Sir with the greatest respect I submit that is not what she is serving in this household for.’
What a terrible prig Crooks is. Sounding like an awful pompous barrister at times when his accent wasn’t assuming its unpleasant Dublin undertones One nearly feels like blowing him up with some strong language. But as he stood about to deliver an envelope the sight of which spelled immediate danger and embarrassment, one decided to take unpleasantries one at a time. And deal with the documented ones first. Crooks placing the salver in front of one as one imagined some high court judge might, handing down a sentence of death. I slit the letter open.
‘That Johnny Gearoid, sir, brought it this few minutes ago. Face red as an old beet and puffing like he would explode, and, forgive me sir, stinking of stables. I gave him a shilling and sent him down around to the kitchen.’
One knew Johnny Gearoid well. A gentleman short of stature and long on thirst, who for the price of a few pints of stout held horses while hunt members either peed, cohabit
ed in the bushes or drank to inebriation in the pub. And this letter he carried comes from that unpleasantly familiar old firm of solicitors in the town whose rambling dusty offices are full of gossipy spinster women and ancient creaking mahogany desks. One felt it should not have the dignity of being opened in the library or of having its bearer stuffed with refreshment. Containing as it does such arrant nonsense and the ridiculous assumption I give two hoots about proceedings.
Dear Sir,
We are instructed by our client J. Quinn, Esq., to protect his interests in this primary matter, among others, concerning his position at Andromeda Park.
Our client not only was disparaged, slandered and, with menace, was put in fear not only of his good and respected reputation, but of his very life and as a result has since been under the care of his physician.
Clearly you are of the assumption you are a law unto yourself, which is inconsistent to say the least to the standing your forebears have enjoyed in this community. And in this context we advise you that our client is owed five years of uncollected bonuses promised our client by your father. Further he is entitled to have conveyed and registered to him thirty acres, four roods, three perches or thereabouts, of that land in the Parish of Thormondstown adjoining the old school house and extending south west to the bank of the river from the main road.
We would be glad if you would forthwith take the necessary steps to convey such land due to our client failing which we are instructed to take proceedings on this matter and the previous matters aforementioned.
Yours faithfully,
Fibbs, Orgle, and Justin, Case, Fluthered
Imagine elevating a low fellow like Quinn to the dignity of esquire. One remembers this firm when their name was somewhat different, tussling with us over something previously disagreeable. And now they again think they can put the wind up me. How abysmal the world suddenly is just before lunch this morning. With a sudden predominance of Protestant names in the obituary column of the newspaper. To which the religious clue was given by a scientifically motivated gentleman donating his body to the College of Surgeons. While a list of much loved and deeply regretted Catholics were complacently content to proclaim their joyful reunion in heavenly places. Clearly certain their papist corpses will luxuriate in eternal happiness. And one suspects there are more than a few Catholics in the company of Fibbs and Orgle. By god I shall out of the library’s legal tomes hurl such torts, rebuttals, grievances and summonses in reply, they will be sitting around their rickety old offices wondering what counterclaim to use to wipe their arses with.
‘Will there be anything else Master Reginald, sir.’
‘Please Crooks throw this letter in the fire.’
Lunch was a singularly solemn affair. The ceiling nearly ready to collapse from the unsolved chronic leak somewhere higher in the house. And Dingbats dropping the sauce boat breaking on the table. Its oily contents flooding across the mahogany. Then using a priceless lace doily heirloom to wipe it up. And refusing to come out of the pantry again because one had quite under one’s breath expostulated, o god, at her. Seeing the mess Crooks pretended a heart attack. As soon as a moment of escape presented itself, I donned boots and sou’wester to oversee the men build a stockade to drive the stallion into. And that collapsed like a pack of cards as soon as someone leaned against it. The rest of the afternoon one retreated indoors taking tea in the north east parlour with rain splashing the windows and the wind howling. Viewing the ceramic tomes Crooks had found Leila reading. Waking then after falling asleep, a rug drawn up over me. So carefully folded and tucked, I tortured myself thinking it Leila who had come collecting my tray. I bathed. Dressed for dinner. Sat in the salon and pecked at the piano. And then in some melancholy took supper. With one of Dingbats’ long frizzy hairs wrapped around one of my sausages, and another stuck in the mashed potato. You’d imagine presenting oneself as I did in black tie that some semblance of civilization would arise from my effort.
‘Port, please, Crooks, in the library.’
One sat watching the glowing turf flames, sipping strength from this dark noble silky wine. Thinking of words Sexton had said and one always imagined applied to someone else.
‘Far from being land poor, the poor devil was impoverished by his staff, a consistent bunch of no do gooders and layabouts who ever feathered their own nests.’
Sexton talking about the years ago occupant of the great castle. And only this morning I took to task Slattery and Luke sheltering idly under the stable eaves and then minutes later I chanced to overhear Luke grumbling the other side of the orchard wall.
‘Sure himself up there in the bedroom has spent himself enraged over the breakfast he’s been served and is out here next in the stables later biting our heads off. And sure he never thinks a second that between the time he’s had his breakfast in his dayroom that in the three hours the poor likes of us have been out here being soaked in the inclemency.’
To prevent the final crumbling of one’s spirit, I called for still more port. And quaffed far too much. I was in fact talking to myself standing in front of the library mirror as if in parliamentary debate, the fate of the nation at stake, shaking my fist, showing my teeth. And altogether reminding myself that I was an imperialist, a squire, pasha of Andromeda Park, and would never, never be dragged down to being a common sort. I do like the sound of my own voice. But just slip over to the door now between tirades in case anyone is lurking in the vicinity listening. Not a soul. Empty halls in all directions. Must confess one is just that little bit piqued no one is crouched overhearing. Will push aside this brass keyhole cover so the interested may peek through. I did I thought strike one or two impressive posturings. While one was expressing some rather eloquent turns of phrase. The sort of thing one would never hear in the Dail Eireann but one might encounter in the House of Lords.
Darcy Dancer tugging the servants’ bell. Turning to the library shelves. Pulling out volumes. Opening them and shouting out the title and author. Slamming them shut. Flinging the volume flying, pages fluttering across the room. Knocking over the tripod of the telescope at the window. More and more books pulled out. Tossed over his shoulder. Chucked up into the air.
‘If someone wants to bloody read, let them by god read. Ah. My dear Mr Arland’s favourite reference to health. A Domestic Homeopathy. Let us gentlemen deal with. Ah constipation. A condition widespread in this household. Brought on by the continued unrelenting wolfing down of buckets of butter and cream. Yes, on page two twenty three. Confined bowels. And the great torpor thereto. With the sensation as if they were paralysed. If opium does not afford speedy relief. Then by god an enema. Otherwise the whole staff is full of shit.’
Darcy Dancer shouting. The door coming ajar. Crooks’ head peeking in. His crossed eyes momentarily uncrossed. Night cap on his head. One of my father’s wool dressing gowns wrapped around him. And a pair of Wellington boots on his feet. Thinking I suppose there was a fire.
‘I beg your pardon sir, did you ring.’
‘Crooks I’m drunk. Of course I rang. Do please observe that the port there is about running out. More port.’
‘I shall decant another bottle immediately sir, but.’
‘No buts. No ands. Nothing but port.’
‘Very good sir.’
‘And to hell with this place.’
‘I beg your pardon sir.’
‘I said to hell with this place.’
‘Very good sir.’
Door closing. Darcy Dancer reeling. Tripping forward over volumes on the floor, stumbling into the fire grate. Catching a hand on the mantel, and leaning down to pick up a fire iron. Slowly pulling himself up to stand again. Raising the fire iron above his head.
‘I say Hilderson, your day and night alarum clock is about to no longer sound alarums day or night.’
‘Please sir, you mustn’t.’
‘Who doth it be. Who goes there. Who doth it be who tells me. What I can. Or what I can’t.’
Darcy Dancer swaying,
turning himself towards the door. Slowly lowering down the fire iron from behind his head. Jacket open, the bow of his tie hanging loose. Leila standing. Her eyes moistly sparkling in the yellow candle light. A swatch of her black hair slanted across the corner of her brow. Her dark uniform. Her two feet placed together.
‘It is I who tells you.’
Darcy Dancer, the poker hanging at his side. Staring across the books stacked on the library table. These golden letters of the alphabet written up high under each shelf. The peeling leather bindings. The gramophone in the corner. The wind. Still whines. The shutters still shake. Rain drops splatter the window panes. Above the sill where a pair of grey doves came once on a grey August morning, with their dark tails and light grey breasts and whiter heads and they flew to sit in the deep dark green of the pine trees. Just like the pair of silver two pronged strawberry forks under glass on their blue velvet in that case. Tolerate ridicule now. As you would tolerate praise. In this room of sorrow. Room of even sadder days. Who doth it be. Who goes there. Who doth it be who tells me.
The tears I weep
Are tears of sleep
Of death
And others dying
6
Standing confronting Leila in the fading light of the guttering wall sconces, neither one of us moving or speaking as we stared at each other. The tears drying on my eyes. I silently said words that I had not the nerve to even whisper. Crush my heart against yours. Kiss your soul with mine. Die with me. Paltry trivial sentiments of course. But the sort of thing one is apt to proffer when pissed out of one’s proprieties.
‘Good god. Ouch.’