With the stink of scorched cloth, Darcy Dancer jumping out of the hearth and stumbling into the library table. Leila hastening forward across the room.
‘Sir you’re on fire.’
Leila grabbing a pillow, and swinging it at Darcy Dancer’s hindquarters.
‘Good god I am actually on fire. Ouch.’
‘Hold still sir, hold still.’
‘Bloody hell this is a clear indication of an inferior fabric perpetrated by an inferior tailor.’
‘Hold still sir.’
‘I am. At least attempting to. In the heat of the moment.’
Leila battering the pillow up and down the back of Darcy Dancer’s legs as he slaps with his hands and dances forward about the room. The pillow seam giving way. A cloud of swansdown exploding out, billowing up and wafted by draughts all over the library. White floating tiny boats on the air. Is all that’s left of one of my mother’s Paris made, escutcheon adorned pillows. Just as I was somewhat embarrassingly enjoying being softly buffeted.
‘I beg your pardon Master Reginald.’
Crooks at the door. Nearly tottering to the floor in a faint with his tray of port. Leila, one hand holding the emptied sack of the former pillow and her other bent to feeling at Darcy Dancer’s backside as he lurched losing his balance.
‘Come in Crooks. Been a slight misadventure. I do believe in the midst of a slight daydream I have scorched the back of my trousers in the fire.’
One could have sworn that Leila laughed audibly not only when the pillow broke but also at the sight of Crooks looking as he did like a clown out of the circus, in the voluminous crimson plaid bathrobe, wellington boots and a flower embroidered sky blue nightcap. I had all I could do to suppress my own threatening explosion of mirth. At least Crooks’s ample dressing gown provided little chance had he keeled over, that the wearer’s privates could, by an unexpected parting of the folds, confront one.
‘I would respectfully ask Master Reginald, if the fire brigade from the town should be summoned.’
‘The flames are, I think Crooks, thanks to Leila here, now under control.’
Leila, sidling away backwards replacing the deflated cushion, gave as she passed, a half curtsey to Crooks. Whose face contorted in a variety of grim directions as he sputtered a bit like a fish out of water. Just as the Hilderson alarum clock on the chimney piece appropriately struck midnight. And a little parade of woodlice migrating over the floorboards to what one imagined was a safer refuge of rotting wood away from the blazing fire. Amazing how one’s drunken attention can be distracted. Even with Crooks growling his Dublin accent under his breath.
‘Youse is a disgrace, youse is.’
‘That will be enough of that Crooks please. It was entirely my fault.’
Leila brushing away the feathers stuck to her dress. Her usually pale cheeks unusually bright pink. One did want to take another pillow to bust over Crooks’ head as he glares at Leila. Her voice so soft and reasonable.
‘I will leave you now sir.’
Crooks, one hand trembling gripping the tray, the other sweeping the folds of his dressing gown tighter around him. One sensed his world had suffered a severe setback from the curt way in which he rounds upon Leila.
‘You certainly will not leave, you will tidy up in here.’
With a distinct flavour of insubordination, Leila performing a sweeping curtsey to Crooks from the door. Certainly Crooks himself seemed rather embarrassed by his outburst. My god the little lady not only can fight fires but is a bit of an actress. And one did notice too, her glancing at the chess board by the window where I had been playing a half finished game with myself, taking a turn either side of the table. And now to just listen to her well chosen elegant words.
‘As you wish Mr Crooks but if I may please withdraw to get the sweeper.’
‘And ah would you mind awfully Leila also fetching me up a spot of cheese from the kitchen.’
Leila’s merest faintest smile and tiniest genuflection of the knee. Gently closing the door. Leaving Crooks frowning disapproval. Blowing away the swansdown from the side table and loudly lowering the tray. Placing the port bottle and cork on a napkin and the decanter next to my glass. Clearing his throat with each manoeuvre, to remind one of his presence. He is quite fond of imagining himself a much grander butler in a much grander house. Where the occupants would merely murmur the word cheese. And white silk stockinged and emerald liveried footmen would glide wheeling in an entire stage set with Brie, Camembert, Wensleydale, Cheddar, and Stilton. Not to mention the silver capped glass bowls housing myriad water biscuits decorated with coronets. One does under all these circumstances try to pull oneself together. Put a bit of starch back into the conduct of the evening. Distinctly made slack by events. With Crooks clearly aggrieved.
‘Sir I am behoved and it is incumbent upon me to inform you that my resignation is in order. I am no longer able to endure the erosion of my authority by newcomers in this household.’
‘O damn it Crooks do stop saying those damnably big words to say so damn little.’
‘Sir you have my resignation.’
‘Crooks go to bed will you. There’s a good fellow. Make sure the hall candles are snuffed. And don’t for heaven’s sake, fall through the floorboards.’
Crooks rather archly sidestepping the books strewn on the floor. Grumbling inaudibly and then hardly without a limp imperiously withdrawing. In the frame of the doorway, the dim candle glow from the hall making his silhouette look like some broomstick riding witch. Must say, a few direct words here and there seem to have a salutary effect upon me if no one else. What a bunch of bloody children they all are. Lurking about with their grudges, resignations and resentments. Complaining of their years sacrificed in dutiful service. I would adore to accept all your bloody resignations. As bloody hell I don’t think I can last much longer before one sinks under the waves. Any day one’s name featured in Stubbs’ Gazette. The rate collector yesterday insistent to collect the rates. Which alone nudge one to the edge of bankruptcy. Each tumbled stone, brick and slate one places back, another two more seem to fall. No wonder one flings books about. Or wants to smash a clock. No wonder one calls for port. And lifts this fortified spirit to one’s lips. For the encouragement it gives. While the dried brown fabric of my trousers disintegrates. The white of one’s recently donned woollies showing through, but at least saving my legs from combusting. And one so feels that in the youth of one’s life, there should be at least some idle years. Poised in the perfumery of flowery phrases echoing above the tea, hot buttered scones, clotted cream and raspberry jam. Of being invited to ensconce on other satin damask sofas in the silk walled drawing rooms of various stately country houses. Where one’s ears are lulled in contentment by pretty ladies rustling their silks. Or as my mother so ably did. In her salon. With her two admiring clerics. Who wore their handkerchiefs up their sleeves. While distilling their verbal admiring reflections on her porcelains. So many of which have been purloined by my father. And no one has invited me anywhere to cast my own comments abroad upon an agreeable tea time air. To coax further and similar comments from other cultured lips. Isn’t the Meissen utterly divine. Words reassuring. To cast a spell of comfort. To glow at least a moment in the emptiness of these boggy miles about. To remind one’s mind that we are the very best people. We call each other my dearest, my darling, my oldest and nearest friend. Of whom I have none of course. But if I did, our knees and elbows would be cocked in the deportment of anciently inherited privilege. Our arses couched comfortably in the bosom of large fortunes. Our lands fenced away by their stone built walls. Enfolding the miles surrounding our mansions towering upon their hills. Where admiring guests are drawn between great piers of great gates. The park arrangements pleasing their eyes along a winding pebbled drive. In short not this bloody desecrated place. Where a rat has more comfort than a squire. Sour milk served in my coffee this morning. Torn linen on my bed nearly strangling me in the night. In a dream of Miss von B. So met
iculous as a housekeeper. So warmly limbed to lay in the soft ease of her flesh. To then awake alive here in a pair of baked trousers. When I could be back in Dublin. Racing, feasting and squirting one’s sperm somewhere appreciated. Instead of suffering a lonely pain in the groin. With about one’s only pleasure left, to sink softly in the depths of drunken self pity. Pat oneself reassuringly on the back. Say again and swear one will never sell. Rid oneself of all this estate, lock and stock. But first drink the barrels. Or maybe better, burn this mansion to the ground. Yet in the very next regretting breath I always know that even in the worst of worst miseries I cannot leave. And lower the flag of one’s honour that waves above this crumbling pile of stones. That would let them think that my land might be had by their greedy grabbing claws. By god instead. Make them even greater resent the lustre, brilliance and splendour of one’s style. Show them implacable eminence. That will make them bloody well cringe even lower in their inferiority. Anyone who hasn’t touched the heady brew of being so much better than one’s insufferable common man will never know what the joy of imperialism is all about. Even in this land whose pathetic only claim to fame is, as my dear old tutor Mr Arland used to say, its floating location way out west of Europe sodden under its watery skies unloading yet another day of head chilling back bending rain.
‘Excuse me sir.’
‘O my god, I’m talking aloud. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was there.’
‘May I come in with the cheese.’
‘The cheese. Yes. Do.’
‘Catherine being asleep, I’m sorry this is all that could be found.’
‘Ah well, it’s enough for a rat or two. Or indeed even three. Of our larger rats of course.’
‘I’m sorry for breaking the pillow.’
‘That is so nice to hear. You are the first one I have ever heard in this place apologize for breaking anything, And I should, shouldn’t I, really apologize for appearing ready to demolish the clock. No don’t go.’
‘I have the sweeper just outside the door. To tidy up. I’ll pick up these few books, sir.’
‘O do leave it all. I rather like the effect. Of the feathers. Makes everything rather more lighthearted, ha ha, in this gloomy room. Open books on floor giving an air of erudition. Ah. I suppose that isn’t at all funny is it.’
The leather chair creaking. Darcy Dancer sitting back with a half drained glass of port. Leila standing, a book held open in her hands. A moan of wind and the screech of a fox out in the night.
‘What is on the page of that book.’
‘A map of the battle of Rathmines, sir.’
‘Ah wouldn’t you know hardly a volume on Ireland can be opened without a war of some sort occurring. But I’ve been meaning to ask you a question. May I. I hope you won’t think it silly or impertinent. But dear me. Perhaps it is not silly but indeed it is impertinent.’
‘If you wish to, ask me.’
‘Well. If I may. And perhaps I am the worse for port having loosened my tongue. But do tell me. Just who are you. O god. To ask you any question at all. You must think me a crass fellow.’
‘You are inquiring concerning my parentage.’
‘O no, nothing as impertinent as that. I already know you are an orphan. I’m half a one but I’ve always wanted to be a whole orphan. Somehow it must be so relieving not to have any parents at all who haunt one’s life. You have such fine handwriting. And your elegant handling of linens. One nearly imagines you a product of a ladies’ finishing school. O dear. How patronizing of me. To have said that. Now I know you must think me a crass fellow.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t.’
‘No.’
‘What do you think of me.’
‘I think it is time that I withdraw. And leave you further to your port and cheese. Sir.’
‘Damn the port and cheese. I asked only for the cheese so that I might have you back here to talk to.’
‘Yes I know that you did.’
‘You are uncommonly honest aren’t you.’
‘Yes. My honesty however, is not for everyone.’
‘Is it for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, just who are you.’
‘I am as you find me, sir.’
‘That of course tells me nothing.’
‘Perhaps it is as well.’
‘You are being uncommonly evasive.’
‘What reason is there for you to know anything about me other than just as I am.’
‘Because whenever you enter the room I feel I should stand. I am indeed sitting. But I feel as if I should not be. Why.’
‘I’m afraid sir you will have to answer that for yourself.’
‘It was you wasn’t it watching the other day out of the whim room window as I rode up the front lawn.’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it was you. But sometimes one’s eyes imagine things. The figure standing there seemed to be the mistress of this house.’
‘Is that censure. Or a compliment.’
‘I think you have, haven’t you. Just dumped me between two stools. Where of course, my remark quite deserves to put me.’
‘I think one of us is taking unreasonable advantage of the other, sir.’
‘O damn, isn’t that what life is all about. And damn calling me sir in that accusing way. You are of a calibre so far above that of a servant that I am suspicious. Which is not to of course insinuate in any way a denigration to the station of being a good servant.’
‘You’re full of snobberies, aren’t you.’
‘Yes. Indeed I am riddled with them. And of course when all is said and done, one must also have servants who are utter snobs and who will put on the dog at the drop of a chapeau. But you are an outspoken lass. And therefore I beg your pudding. Plus your pardon. Madam.’
‘I don’t mean that you are not very nice too.’
‘Thank you. Here, I think we shall get you a glass and you have a bit of port.’
‘No thank you.’
‘You’re refusing to drink with me. You don’t perhaps really like me. Not that I give a damn.’
‘I like you. I think you a very lonely person. And you do give a damn. But you do imagine things.’
‘I imagine all sorts of things. And I imagine you are curious about the life I live in this house. Observing me.’
‘Now you are impertinent.’
‘Should I apologize. For drowning my sorrows. Sad as a king, drunk as a lord. Damn it. I won’t apologize for being drunk. For if I were not drunk I would not have the courage to converse with you. How is it that you do, for a humble serving girl, have the voice and manners of a lady.’
‘Are such things forbidden me.’
‘No. But I think they are deserving of an explanation.’
‘I acquired them out of practice from books I have read. Sir.’
‘Indeed. I dare say you are mistaken. Such things are not available from books and manuals. They come by following the intimate good example set by those of rank. And don’t continue to use that awful word, sir.’
‘It’s my way of assuming in a de bon genre manner an advantage of you, too, n’est ce pas.’
‘Ah oo la la, I see, you even speak some French. And with a most impressive accent. You are clearly of the haut monde in some kind of incognito. You must not attempt to fool me. You see. I was a lowly servant once. You are amused. You don’t of course believe me.’
‘No.’
‘Nevertheless it is entirely true. Started as a common stable lad and was promoted indoors where in fact I was then caught enjoying my employer’s drawing room sofa and reading with my boots propped up, much as Crooks came upon you perusing that tome on porcelain there. Of course for my presumption I was chucked out.’
‘Perhaps you should, for my presumption, have me chucked out.’
‘No. I think not. I would find your absence from this household an abysmal matter. For you do by your merest glances erase the loneliness and neglect in one’s
life.’
Darcy Dancer, and his fingertips slowly moving his glass of port closer on the side table. A piece of glowing turf dropping through the grate into the pile of coral coloured ash. Leila’s head bowing. The small purple ribbon in her hair. Her eyes averting. Their deep mossy green, tiny spheres of black in the dim light. Her neck and face will blush pink as I know they must. At my words. More than hinting. Much more than just affection. My own pangs. The pain. Like a sour seed in the sweetest fruit. Of love flowering. In its joy of yellow blossom. And in its green leaves of jealousy.
‘I should not have said that.’
‘I am very happy that you said it.’
‘Why.’
‘So that I can tell you. That if you were ever alone and needing my care. I would come. From wherever I was.’
‘And you say that.’
‘Yes I say that.’
‘O lord, what am I to say.’
‘Please don’t say anything. Please. Let my words stay as they are. And just say what they mean. Please.’
‘I am further now than ever knowing about you.’
‘You will know. One day perhaps.’
‘Would you come to my bed.’
‘Please don’t ask me that.’
‘Would you.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Why.’
‘Because I don’t want to say no. And because we have something between us now. That should not be changed.’
‘You are an uncommonly strange girl.’
‘And I think I will have a bit of port. No please do not get up. If I may I shall sip from your glass.’
‘Ah Mademoiselle, how wonderful, how marvellous, how splendid. Port. Of course. Yes. Note how this purple fine liquid rises for you in the glass.’
‘Thank you. It is the first time I have ever tasted port.’
‘Ah from a grape trampled by the naked foot, this is a vintage. Lain waiting twenty years. You are in for a treat.’
‘It’s very nice.’
‘And too there is Malmsey. That you must try. Served after dinner. Equally dark in colour, rich in bouquet, luscious to the lips. Like yours are. O please. Please. Let me ask you again. Come to my bed. Come. Please.’