‘O God, God. You’ve killed him. You stupid silly little boy. Why didn’t you wait, as I tried to tell you, till he was asleep. He always falls into a dead sleep. And you’d have had plenty of time to get out. You must have fractured his skull. O God there’s blood.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry. While my life is a wreck. You’re sorry. Of course it can mean little to you. But he does have the biggest balls in Dublin. I’ll never get him to pose again if he thinks someone is waiting to batter his head like that. Well get out. Go. Fast as you can.’
‘Is there much blood.’
‘Don’t worry about blood, go.’
‘I haven’t killed him, have I.’
‘If you have, I shall direct those authorities who may be interested in who did, to the Shelbourne Hotel. Is that right.’
‘Yes madam. But I did it in your defence, doesn’t that help. Isn’t that allowed. I mean it’s fair if a gentleman’s trying to rape you.’
‘And your name.’
‘Reginald Darcy Dancer Thormond Kildare.’
‘Good god. I know your father. And you with that goose stepping whorer. Who gave those bites. Who went to work for him. Just go. He groaned. He’s still breathing. Get your clothes on.’
Darcy Dancer stuffing socks into pockets. Pulling, tugging and diving into his clothes. And pushing his tie with its tiny mauve dots on a deep purple background into a coat pocket.
‘I wish madam. I wish.’
‘You wish. Yes.’
‘That you did not know who I am.’
‘You won’t be wishing anything if you don’t get out.’
‘Goodbye. Shall I ever see you again.’
‘No you won’t. Goodbye.’
Darcy Dancer walking out the open landing door. Sweetly sick smell of decay. A dustbin at the top of the stairs. Go down two at a time. And step gingerly over these bottles and broken glass at the bottom. Lock hanging broken on the door. Chill wind and rain blowing in. Gather my coat around me. I’d better trot or better run. Down and out this alley. Turn right. Along this greyest of greyest streets. Till I come somewhere to the hospital. Where faint lights show. In there the dying and nearly dead. Go left. Till I reach that Church. House of God up the alley. Where went poor Mr Arland’s shoes in Paris. On some ignoble person’s feet. The coffee smell. Rush back all the rest of the way to the Shelbourne. From where I never did get any cocoa.
In this
Big wicked
City
Of Dublin
12
The lobby of the Shelbourne this Sunday morning. Step outside under a fresh blue sky, the sun pink through the branches of the trees in St Stephen’s Green. And I came back into the warmth to see Mr Arland looking awfully sleepy disembarking from the lift. Crossing to where I stood watching and listening to an irate wife berate her husband for dropping a heavy bag right on her toe. Had she not been so fat she could have hopped about in pain. Mr Arland bowing to me and the doorman handing him a message.
‘Well Kildare, this is from your father.’
‘What does he want.’
‘That’s not the tone in which to inquire.’
‘Well I can’t feel that whatever the communication is that it will do me any good.’
‘O dear Kildare. You are being needlessly negatory. You are to be at an address not far from here at noon.’
Much of the night long I lay thinking the garda might burst in the door to arrest me. Or the gunman with a bandaged head to shoot me. Finally woke in my bed my left eye opening first. The tumble of thick crimson lace covered eiderdown made me think it was a big blood covered wave. Pitching and tossing a raft upon which I sat with an enormous naked woman. Who kept grabbing at me with long hideous leathery claws. Till I began seeing across the room and out my window to the grey green purple hills of the Dublin mountains.
Sheltered from the wind one could feel the sun’s warmth on one’s face as we walked along the street. Till we were nearly run down by two horsecabs racing around the corner. Mr Arland said it was probably a Dubliners’ friendly chariot race. That traditionally on Saturday night drunken bets were made on contests conducted on even drunker Sunday mornings. Now down this Dawson Street. At the end of its vista under clean new clouds, the iron fence of Trinity College and the University rooftops beyond the trees. Mr Arland’s eyes glowing bright and his walk jaunty.
‘Kildare I’ve never told anyone this, but I one night stole all the ripe tomatoes out of the Provost’s greenhouse.’
‘Oooo naughty sir.’
‘Well I was an impecunious scholar, quite starving at the time. And nearly killed myself climbing over the walls. I did however upon my receiving my first income have sent to the Provost a basket of tomatoes from a reputable greengrocer.’
And entering this place of worship. A tall chilly vestibule. Names and legends on marble plaques up high on the walls. March straight up to the very top pews. The name Arland on a brass plate. The service just begun. These few parishioners. Mr Arland whispering.
‘Kildare, there is nothing quite so empty as a protestant church in Dublin except one outside Dublin.’
The party last night only a short distance away from these voices so devoutly singing. Mr Arland joins them with gusto. Makes me feel quite awful, an out and out sinner, in this religious atmosphere. Anyone with the least perception looking at me could easily tell I’ve been steeped in filth and morbid corruption. And I even have another erection. With the voice of this visiting English vicar intoning.
‘Almighty God, upholder of purity, fountain of all goodness, we humbly beseech thee to bless our gracious King and all the Royal family. Imbue them with thy holy spirit, enrich them with thy heavenly grace, prosper them with all happiness.’
Mr Arland with his hands resting before him on the pew. Had such a look of relief on his face pushing in my door this morning in his dressing gown and slippers to see me gnawing through a bacon rasher couched thickly on a buttery bit of toast and sipping my tea. And I must now whisper to him. Especially following some of the political statements last night.
‘I say sir, does this reverend gentleman not know he is in Ireland. Should he not bless instead our gracious leader, the Taoiseach.’
‘Kildare. We shall have politics later following service.’
During the further hymn singing Mr Arland’s voice could loudly be heard lingering on the notes as the other voices had ended. Now the reverend’s words reverberating from the rafters.
‘Good Lord deliver us from all sedition, privy conspiracy and rebellion. Strengthen us in righteousness, give thy servant our most gracious King and Governor grace to execute justice and to maintain truth.’
And the man I battered from behind last night. Said he was heading over the border this morning and may now instead be looking for me. Mr Arland wondering why I keep turning around. Terror awful as it is does at least put a liveliness in one’s step. Like it did when my sisters chased me making growling noises which made me go all the faster. The gunman said he would take the government over. Must be persons like him who made Uncle Willie say, ah we may be a country deprived of its totality by the British but it is them Irish gobshites as come in from the country and stand around in their bad taste in the highest government circles that we should be deprived of.
The church bell ringing. Sexton always blessed himself at that sound, no matter what the hour. And when the bell in the tower at Andromeda Park would toll, he would tell me to make the sign of the cross so no one could say then I was a heathen. And here I now stand a fornicator. Reading what I see written there on the side of the altar nave in gold lettering.
The Right Hon. Theosphilus
Lord Newtown of Newtown Butler
Bequeath to the Poor of St Ann’s
Parish Thirteen Pounds Per Annum
to be Distributed in Bread at
Five shillings each week.
The organist playing Handel. His organ concerto. All lighthearted and thrilling.
The parishioners leaving, so clean and perfumed smelling. The wax polished balcony. Unlike the damp mouldering chapels in the country with flakes of plaster dropping from the ceiling on one’s shoulders and the smell of urine scented tweed. And the whole congregation stinking of horse piss. And maybe even moss growing out of people’s ears. Down this side aisle, another plaque. Dedicated to a man who took part in the defence of T.C.D. in 1916 and was mentioned in dispatches.
‘Well Kildare, you may not politically but do you feel spiritually improved.’
‘No sir.’
‘O well, at least God cannot complain we did not attend upon him.’
In the breezy street outside, Mr Arland gave a little bow to an elderly lady who lifted her lorgnette to regard and smile at him. And then looking at his watch, said we had just enough time to walk around a couple of streets. Which kept me looking at every fedora I saw atop a macintosh coming along. And I thought we passed the doorway which led upwards to last night’s party. But Mr Arland said nothing. Nor I thought should I. Even though I should like to know what happened with that awfully curvacious lady actress. And we stood at the top of Grafton Street and crossed over to the park. Mr Arland looking up at the granite memorial arch. And reading out to me.
‘Fortissimis Suis Militibus Hoc Monumentum Eblana Dedicavit MCMVII. An opportunity for you Kildare. To translate. Or is it a little early in the day for that.’
‘Yes. I think it is sir.’
‘You sound somewhat blue Kildare. Did anything happen. Was everything all right last night.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I was rather remiss to let you attend.’
‘I did though bully you sir.’
‘Yes you did, Kildare.’
Mr Arland quacked at the ducks on the pond and later, as we passed by the entrance of the Shelbourne he dropped coins into the hands of the tinker women squatting in position with their babes in arms on the empty Sunday morning pavement. He seemed so cheerful. And as he left me just outside the gate of the strange little cemetery he said was for Huguenots, he even rubbed his hands together and rose up on his toes. Telling me to take my third turning to the left. He would meet me back at the hotel for tea. And walking now, words kept going through my mind again and again. No greater anger hath any man but that. And then words came to finish it. That he belt another into insensibility with a curtain railing upon the back of the head. And as more of these distressing phrases and thoughts scratched at my brain I murmured to them. I’m awfully sorry but I’m not going to let you in. And I was able to smile remembering apropos of nothing at all, one of Mr Arland’s comments about tipping.
‘The secret is Kildare, how to keep your charm and still remain a mean stingy son of a bitch.’
The door. Painted dark green. A brass number and a polished gleaming brass plate with a name blurred beyond reading. A dark haired girl in black with a white lace apron and lace cap. A big curl falling over her forehead and into one blue eye and her reddened hand brushing it aside. Black and white marble tiled hall. Colder than cool. A brass stand of canes and umbrellas. An ivory handled one I recognize as my father’s. A crystal chandelier in the ceiling. A side table with a silver dish. And two big keys resting on a pair of gloves.
‘Are you the gentlemen was come to see Mr Kildare.’
‘Yes. I am.’
So strange to hear my name and the name of my father. As if he lived here. Within these grey walls. In this strange big gloomy house. A large painting over the stairs of rocks and cliffs and cattle grazing under the glowering sky. And further up. As one looks along the rising carpeted stairs with each step held by shiny brass rods. And the gleaming mahogany banister. To see a woman. Tall with brown hair and thin angular face. In a long white flowing gown, retreating quickly back out of my sight. As the blood rushed to my face. And the servant girl with a nod of her head.
‘Come this way sir with me now.’
Up the soft steps. Smells of cooking. Lamb if I’m not mistaken, and mint sauce. My father’s most favourite meal was roast with Yorkshire pudding. But Catherine could never make the pudding. Try as she did. The soggy messes arriving which my father ordered returned to the kitchen. Where Crooks said it always meant a bowl or two smashed as Catherine wailed that no one appreciated her.
Top of the landing we turned and walked forward to a door. Past a tiny painting. Two horses abreast in a race. Called Andromeda Beating Adolphus. Which last I saw hanging on the wall just outside my mother’s bedroom. The girl knocking.
‘Come in.’
My father’s voice. And the girl turning the ebony knob and ushering me into this blue tinted drawing room with a roaring turf fire. On the white marble mantelpiece the clock tinkling the hour of noon. Its enamelled roman numeralled face surrounded by ormolu flowers birds and cherubs. And its little pictures at which I often looked, as it sat chiming in the north east parlour of Andromeda Park. My father seated in a chair. His monocle glipting. Behind him a tall window facing out on an iron balustrade over the street. The sweet aroma of Irish whiskey. A pair of reading glasses resting across a folded newspaper. Great double white doors opening back into another room with a window facing out to the backs of other shadowy Georgian buildings. The door closing behind me. Sunlight suddenly spreading over the faded carpet.
‘So you’re on time you little bastard. You’re getting to be a big bastard. Saw you last night. Behaving boisterously. Pushing Mr Arland out of the Shelbourne entrance. Stand or sit.’
‘Stand.’
‘Now you listen to me you little bugger. You’re sleeping with Miss von B.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Don’t beg my pardon. You’re sleeping with Miss von B. You little bastard. Don’t come the hound with me. I’d send her packing only she’s keeping the roof of that place on.’
‘Which you’ve been taking off all these many years.’
‘What. Speak to me in that fashion.’
‘It is the way you are speaking to me.’
‘And what’s more, until you attain the age of twenty one, it’s the way I’ll go on speaking. It is in fact the case. You are sleeping with her.’
‘It is not. And I am not.’
‘Useless to deny. I have it on good authority.’
‘On whose authority.’
‘Never mind whose. Can’t have that sort of goings on.’
‘Crooks has told you one of his silly imagined stories I suppose.’
‘Never mind who told me. In any case it is the duty of any member of the staff to inform me of irregularities in the household. Especially regarding fornication. And so you shall be taken away. And continue your further education without the benefit of the lady’s bed.’
‘You stole egg cutters. Wedgwood, Meissen. You even stole my mother’s toilet service. And that clock there. You are a dirty slimy Catholic. You gamble. You sell off our hay and breeding stock.’
The sunshine growing even brighter on the carpet. My father raising his fist and then bringing it down not with a crash but with his knuckles whitening as he pressed it against the top of the mellow faded mahogany table beside him. Which on its single stem and tripod legs tipped over spilling his glass of whiskey on the floor splattering his newspaper and spectacles. The various tiny globules would make them difficult to focus through. If anyone were using them watching me. Standing here. In front of this mean nasty man. Being sentenced. For the very deed my father has many times done.
‘You little bastard. You confounded little Protestant bastard. What do you know about running a farm. You still need your arse wiped. I’ll get up from this chair and smash your face if I hear anything more like that out of you. You tell Mr Arland I want to see him. By six tonight. Go on. Get out of here.’
‘I have heard it said that you yourself have cohabited with members of the household staff.’
‘Get out of here you little bastard before I throw you out.’
Cheeks deeply reddened on Darcy Dancer’s father’s face. The vein i
n his neck swelling blue straining tight against his white stiff collar, a black tie with small red polka dots and a blue striped shirt. A crimson waistcoat with brass hunt buttons. Thought I heard the floorboards squeak with someone standing outside the door. And the door the opposite end of the hall closing just as I came out. To be back now once more in the world all alone.
Darcy Dancer feeling the smooth banister under his palm. Servant girl in the front hall, waiting at the foot of the stairs. Her red hands turning over one another against her lace apron. Stands back from me afraid to come too close. Hurries ahead to open the door. Step out now. Hear everything shut behind me. No cocoa last night. And today I thought I had been invited for lunch. If you want to make a lasting impression in the hunting field the most heinous thing to do is to let your horse stand on a hound. The howling he sets up has everyone looking at you. As I feel eyes are on me as I walk away along this street. Just as I watched my father once in the garden of Andromeda Park, looking at the last of the autumn flowers. He pulled one and then plucked the petals away one by one. The month of October. When the spiders weave their gossamer across the tip top blades of grass when the meadows become all a white waving sea of sparkling threads. In a big bowl full of hatred can you ever find a spoonful of love. Or put the petals of a flower back together again. Maybe instead I should intercede with some saint. As Foxy says everyone does. To ask god for your favour. To make my father dead.
Darcy Dancer walking along this street. Head down, hands plunged in pockets. Feet kicking ahead of him. Past these tall red bricked houses. Turn and go into a large square. Its centre all full of trees. Over there an entrance open it says to a museum. Through the iron gate. The lawns so green. The glass swing doors and a style which clicks me in. Look up. The massive horns of this great elk. And a stuffed Irish wolfhound, even bigger than Kern and Olav. Under glass, the tiny skeleton of a mouse. Like one which used to come right up on my bedside table at Andromeda Park and eat the remains of my porridge oats stuck to the side of my bowl and noisily bang back and forth over my spoon. Called him porky he was so fat. And these thin little bones are all he was underneath. And as I look down my hands are trembling. All my whole entire body feels cold. How long now will I have dismal days. Could be all through the years till I am the age of twenty one. Commit suicide. Hang myself with a bridle from a rafter in the stables. Or jump on a sword. Maybe it would be better to die more slowly. And swallow deadly nightshade. Or cast myself into the cold deep waters of the Lough and be eaten away by the giant vicious pike.