‘What sort of party.’
‘Well I don’t really know, but I’m sure it’s that sort of party.’
‘Sir. O but you can.’
I insisted, when Mr Arland had said that we had already been too extravagant, that he should sample some of the house’s best brandy. And I had the waiter go fetch from their cellar such a suitably dusty bottle. Mr Arland said that kind of party could give one a reputation. And people like the Dublin actress attended them and that Ronald was a chancer and a notorious fortune hunter. And that he’d marry a witch if she had the price of a pint of stout and that he was most suitably nick named Rashers Ronald. And each time I reached to refill Mr Arland’s glass he would put his hand forward to the rim. But then he would smile.
‘Now now Kildare, you are a devil. I really have had quite enough.’
When I was sure that Mr Arland had indeed had a sufficiency, I had our coats fetched from our rooms and it was not at all difficult to get him out the door. To freshen up a bit with the night air. But I did indeed once or twice quite forcibly push him forward in front of me. Past the still begging tinkers who thrice blessed him. And the more he started to laugh, the more I pushed. Till I was really shoving him, right, as the saying goes, around the corner. But we had to walk yet another street. Which seemed quite pleasantly and thoroughly protestant. With a big grey Masonic lodge. And societies for the protection of Indigent Widows of the Gentry. Then crossing over into another narrow street we came to the door. Open on the latch.
Again I had to push Mr Arland forward. And also upwards as he kept stumbling still highly amused on the narrow stairs. Groping as we were noisily through musty blackness from landing to landing. Till at the very top we could hear voices and singing and light flooding out. We stood in the doorway. And then came the Count’s voice over the throng of assembled heads.
‘Hello my darlings. Come in come in. Of course you will know no one here. And it does not matter. Nobody I know admits knowing anyone else I know. Shall we just leave it that way and get you drinks.’
Candles burning in this low ceilinged room. Sound of corks popping. A bottle of stout shoved in my hand. Hanging between gilded framed mirrors, four illumined oil portraits of Popes of the Roman Catholic Church. One of St Gregory the Great. His light blue painted eyes staring out over the pillow stacked chaise longue. And there, away in a tapestried corner were the courtesan and her red haired friend Rashers Ronald from the Shelbourne rooms. While another blonde lady was eyeing me. Making me most uncomfortable And as I eyed her right back, she crossed the room towards me pushing between the tight packed people.
‘You’re a bit young aren’t you, dear boy, to be here amid all these flagrantly perverted people. But I like your eyes. Are you with your parents.’
‘I was in fact invited with my tutor.’
‘You were what.’
‘I suppose as part of my education. There he is, the tall gentleman talking with that lady who’s wearing that large blue hat.’
‘O you are a rich young man then are you. Having a tutor.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘O you must be. Although you certainly don’t look it. But you sound to the manner born. I am an impoverished artist late of Bloomsbury, Bloomsbury Place, Bloomsbury Square, London as it happens. And I want you to buy my paintings.’
‘I should be quite happy to see them but I do not have much money to buy.’
‘I think you must be lying or else you’re totally bereft of culture.’
‘And you madam are lacking in manners.’
Darcy Dancer stepping back a little from this lady whose face juts forward. And turning to apologize as his heels landed on a rather robust young woman’s toes. Who shoves him off. Right up against the artist advancing upon him in her green voluminous sweater. A look of some consternation in her eyes. Streaks of grey in her bundled blonde hair. Moist red lips and quite good quality teeth. A pronounced strong nose and flared nostrils and a blue vein throbbing on her temple. And pleasantly sweet smelling breath as it wafts on my face.
‘I say who the hell are you. I really want to know. I have a son older than you are and I would not let him attend such a gathering as this. But you do have rather feminine eyes. They attracted my attention the instant you walked into the room. Yes you’re quite extraordinary looking. Who are you.’
‘I’m from the country.’
‘That’s quite clear from that coat and suit you’re wearing, and your rather overly large ears. Not that I’m that pristine, but your hair is washed I hope. Let me smell. O I say it’s quite clean. At least you’re not one of those awfully dirty Anglo Irish always doing something greasy with axles or water pumps or if they’re not wringing chickens’ necks in the drawing room then they’re sticking their arms up cows’ arses.’
‘You are impertinent, madam.’
‘Impertinent. Good lord, you’ve got your damn nerve coming in here among many of my personal friends and telling me, a lady three times your age that I am impertinent. Who the hell are you.’
‘And you’ve already asked me that three times and I have my good reasons for declining to say.’
‘Cheeky little chap, aren’t you. It’s your immaturity of course. But I think I like you. Yes, there’s just the merest trace of hair on your upper lip. You shall have whiskers soon, won’t you. I am one of those dangerous women they call divorcees. Whose husband was a confirmed pederast. Which put it into my head to corrupt little boys such as you before he did.’
‘Why don’t you try it.’
‘What. What did you say. Try it. Surely you little fellow, you’re having me on. I wouldn’t dare. Corrupt you.’
‘I thought not. You’re all talk aren’t you. That silly kind of thing ladies like you of the Bohemian set think is the modern fashion.’
‘In one second I think I shall slap your little face.’
‘And should you madam, I will in turn, slap yours.’
‘Just who the hell are you, you brat.’
‘My father frequently refers to me as a bastard, but I don’t suppose that information will enlighten you much.’
‘It enlightens me a great deal. But I think you should be got out of here.’
This lady leaning close to Darcy Dancer’s ear, her lips touching to whisper. The softness of her mouth. Makes me rather shiver pleasantly. Just as Thunder and Lightning must do when Foxy on cold winter nights rubbed and squeezed his ears to make him warm and calm.
‘Dear boy, there is an unwholesome element. Not to mention the many mediocre minds present. But see those men. They are gunmen. Quite ruthless. Not the sort of type a young man such as you ought to be rubbing elbows with. The Count should be ashamed of himself for inviting you. Come. Come with me immediately.’
‘Why should I.’
‘Because I shall, dear boy, besides showing you my etchings, make you the most marvellous cocoa you have ever had.’
The lady casting her eyes for Darcy Dancer to follow across the room. Past a hefty bruiser wearing a red carnation in his buttonhole. A gentleman they said was a champion boxer. And a red haired beauty they said was his girlfriend who used shoes to bang his head as he used fists to bang her face. They were called all over Dublin the Bruises United. And to three gentlemen in caps and macintoshes standing about sucking on the ends of cigarettes, looking furtively at the doorway and indeed unpleasantly in my direction. Certainly cocoa as a beverage is not to be dismissed lightly. And always was, after wild blackberry jam that Nannie Nurse Ruby specially made for me, my second favourite food. Coming hot in a jug up from the kitchens snug under a tea cosy on the chill winter nights, when Nannie Ruby told me my bedtime stories of big green dragon monsters and wise old billy goats. There stands Rashers Ronald brushing a speck from his dinner clothes as he loftily intones to a shabby rain coated gent beside him.
‘Would you mind awfully getting out of my life, I prefer the company of people creative in the arts rather than criminal in the crafts.’
&n
bsp; And now bodies jumping in the centre of this smoky room. The floor as well as the whole building shaking. A roaring shout.
‘Give him violence or give him death but don’t give the greedy fucker another bottle of stout.’
‘You’ll give me another bottle of stout by gob or I am going to kick the living bejesus out of you back and forth across the border till not a vestige of that division is left, you cunt, you.’
This wavy haired gentleman in a mustard coloured sweater, his fist gripped tightly round the neck of a Guinness. And mounting and standing on the delicate fabric of a chaise longue.
‘Shut up now while I’m talking to you. And let me hereby assert to every bollocks here assembled, my inalienable, indefeasible and sovereign right to drink and fuck myself to death from one end of the national territory to the other so help me satan and to let it be said once and for all across Ireland that never in the history of the nation has so much been drunk by so few or so few fucked by so many. More power to the intelligentsia. Up the Republic.’
A chair suddenly flying from the direction of the three outspoken gentlemen. Goes crashing through the window and falling to the street below. Where, unhappily, as was reported by someone leaning out watching it, it landed on a guest just arriving with a parcel of drink. And knocked to the pavement, bottles smashing, he lay in a large pool of dark foaming beer. A voice calling down.
‘Binky darling, o what a nuisance for you, are you hurt.’
And brown foam slipping down the sides of the glasses held in all these hands. Two voices singing. Someone shouting pipe down. And between the weaving heads and parting shoulders I see in a more peaceful corner, an animated Mr Arland talking to none other than the courtesan. He really looks so jolly pleased. Must be telling her my best jokes for normally he is never that hilarious. And the Dublin actress is laughing. Bosoms heaving with her alabaster arms nearly flapping out of her flame radiant dress. Could cross over to say that a kind lady was snatching me from the present mayhem to preserve my virtuousness. But poor Mr Arland, after all his mortifications at the hands of that bitch Baptista, I’m sure does not want to be disturbed. Especially in what might be some new romance in his life. Just as I would not approach when lonely he played our corroding out of tune piano. The compositions of Sergei Vassilievitch Rachmaninoff as Mr Arland insisted he be called. Nor may he see this lady artist as my saviour and might feel he personally should escort me back to the Shelbourne.
‘Come with me. And call me Lois dear boy. You see I told you. About these men. They are quite frightening. But what would you know of an artist’s fears or suffering. And the awful sacrifices one makes for one’s work. Especially when one is without patrons. My milk bill, gas bill, my rent Who’s going to pay them.’
Darcy Dancer following Lois out to the landing and into a back room. The sound of heavy breathing and rolling and pitching bodies in the darkness. Digging in the heaving shadows, Lois unearthing her coat. Tugging it from beneath a lady and gentleman who were seemingly transported in a groaning moaning paroxysm.
‘How dare you do that on my coat you filthy people. Get off. You see don’t you, dear boy, the kind of monstrous shamelessness I am rescuing you from.’
Lois pulling me back with her into the hall. I held her leather string pouch and helped hold her heavy garment as she plunged her arms into the sleeves. She stands pinioning the front together with elongated wooden buttons and then pulled a hood up over her head.
‘Only good thing my husband left me. He used to wear it on the bridge of his ship. He was a lieutenant commander dear boy. Ah but I’ve got you now, haven’t I.’
A strange dreamy smile coming over her face. She grabbed me by the head and shoved her tongue deep into my ear where it went burrowing around. We nearly fell down the stairs and her saliva left me quite deaf for a moment and I wondered if she could taste my wax. And I look at her legs. Where I had never seen a lady wear trousers before.
‘Don’t look at me as if you think I’m bizarre dear boy. I just am.’
On the landing below, past another room from which came the smell of incense, she stuck her tongue again deep in my ear. And as we proceeded downwards, she reached upwards backwards to apply a momentary squeeze to my privates. My heart surprised me as it pounded with some excitement descending the last flight and out the door to the street. On the pavement more guests arrived and stood standing over the gent Binky as he sat groggily regaining his senses. With his raincoat open showing him entirely stark naked underneath. And he cried out when spotting my Bohemian artist friend.
‘Lois, my dear, where are you going you naughty girl with that frightfully attractive young innocent looking boy.’
‘Never you mind Binky, it’s a pity you can’t keep out of the way of falling chairs.’
‘I may be felled my dear but I shall be erected soon.’
Lois hurrying Darcy Dancer past several shops and doorways and a pub with polished brass fittings outside. We turn left and up this shadowy thoroughfare, hardly a soul on the street, save a tiny barefoot boy yelling out to sell his newspapers to a man staggering in front of a furniture shop window, speaking earnestly and gesticulating vehemently to his reflection in the glass.
‘O god dear boy, everywhere people are roving insane out of their minds in this city.’
The gesticulating gentleman struck one or two classically proper stage poses and obviously had a sense of theatre. But as I tried to slow down to watch his performance Lois pulls me forward along another alley with a fragrant smell of coffee. And then left again. Street called Chatham Row. Ahead a great grey granite building Lois says is a hospital. How will I ever remember the way to get back to the Shelbourne. A voice from somewhere calling.
‘A pennv, the oranges.’
As I pause Lois again catching and pulling me by the arm. Moving as quickly around another corner. At an alley entrance she stops. Turning to look back. Her voice coming out of her nose.
‘I’m sorry to rush like this but I simply hate being followed as I sometimes am. By these hordes of sexually frustrated people. Such a bore. And that old wicked queen. Serves him right to get banged on the head with a chair. He’d just love to get his hands on you. The Count should be ashamed. Inviting you, and your tutor taking you, a mere totally innocent boy. Thank God I was there. Think what might otherwise have happened. Someone should tell your mother.’
‘I do appreciate your rescuing me. Madam.’
‘And so you should be. And why do you keep using that madam. You’re not a shop assistant are you.’
‘No madam.’
‘Well then stop it. My name is Lois.’
Up this dark narrow alley. Past tall warehouse doors. A chill wind blowing up behind our backs. The wails and hisses of a screaming cat fight. And bells tolling as I count up to nine, ten, eleven. The only life now through the empty city streets. Illumined by the near lamplight ahead stuck high on a wall, its gas mantel flickering. Lois rummaging in her leather pouch. Taking out a key on a long white string. And pushing it in the lock of this pale green door on which a brass number says four. I waited standing on the wet glistening cobbles till she reached and pulled me rather forcibly in. And a draught of wind suddenly slammed the door thunderously shut. Lois stumbled backwards falling over milk bottles. And landed with a thud on her bottom. I really laughed.
‘You think that’s funny. I certainly don’t appreciate your sense of humour. Here help me up damn you.’
‘I apologize madam, I really do, but you did go down as if felled by an axe.’
‘I’ll fell you with an axe. And stop that damn madam. And get me up. I think I may have crushed a vertebra. Or dislocated my hip. O god, does, anyone know, does anyone realize, the trials and tribulations of the sincere and dedicated artist.’
Darcy Dancer in this darkness, lifting Lois upwards under the armpits. Only a few hours in Dublin and I’ve attended a party and am dragging a lady limply along this hall knocking over more bottles and trying to lower her gently
seated on the bottom step of the stairs.
‘At least I’m glad to see you are quite strong.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well I think I’m alright. It’s my diet which has been so poor. So wretched. I’m quite nearly starving sometimes you know. That’s why I go to those awful parties. To eat. And one hardly ever can because all they do is drink. Every penny I earn must go towards buying more paint and canvas.’
Lois slowly getting to her feet and holding a banister rail to lead Darcy Dancer feeling his way up the narrow steep staircase. The sound of a box of matches opening. And Lois strikes one once, twice and three times. And finally a flame. To light four candles. A large tall room. A big pot bellied iron stove in the centre. Glassy blackness beyond a great skylight. Paintings stacked everywhere.
‘I nearly have a good mind to send you away laughing at me like that. And not to let you see my etchings. But of course I will give you some hot cocoa. Well, don’t just stand there. Take off your coat.’
Clusters of massive testicles in great wild tropical curvatures of colour with penises cascading down them like waterfalls. The canvases leaning overlapping along the walls. By the blackened rusty stove, three steps up to a high dais. Before it an easel holding a full length portrait of the Count. Missing an unfinished arm and a lower leg. The rest of his muscular body wearing only his extremely smooth skin, posed against a deep green flowing drapery. His privates most shockingly prominent not to say bulging out of his blond curling pubic hair. And strewn on the floor water colour drawings of a quite black individual, with uncommonly not to say improbably whopping sexual organs.
‘This is where I sleep dear boy.’
A wide quilt covered bed stacked with brightly coloured pillows. Upon which Lois throws her great heavy duffel coat. And then sits to pull off her green sweater. A long sleeved tight pink garment underneath.
‘You have a lot of pictures of naked men.’
‘They are not naked men. Studies, dear boy. Studies of the male nude.’