‘Away my four footed friend. Away.’
Darcy that Dancer with a length of white thorn ripped from a tree. Landing swishing thwacks on the quarters of this steed. Head stretched forward galloping. Straining at the bit. Foam breaking from his mouth. Hooves pounding slapping the dried tall sharp pointed stalks of rushes. Flying over ditches. Up hillocks, down the other side. Slam splashing through the cow pats. Scooping out the turf to catapult it back into the sky. Crashing through the withered bracken and fern. Past the tall rusty dock weeds, brushing off their winter brown leaves of seed. Blue green of the grass growing fat up this double bank. Whoopee. Leap. And plunge straight down. Horse’s belly asplash in the stream. And up the other side. You stout hearted fellow. Sloshing through this bog. To high firm ground. On all your bloody fours. Make the wind whistle. I know this country now. Fly your ears like wings. Keep west. Scare the pheasants up. Towards those rising wooded lands ahead. The rooks and jackdaws. From tree tops. In their cloaks of black shiny feathers calling me. Like a dream. That all fox hunters have. To meet one’s end in the sport one loves so well. With a busted neck I could get vaulting this monstrous fallen beech. Up. Up. Good boy. Thank god. So many times thanked today. And not that far now in miles. Past the white grey bark of these beech. That old stone bridge there on the road. Where Foxy told me a man called Pulling Tom always stood. Without much brains. Who each evening if he wasn’t in the bushes yanking his prick was instead scratching and scratching his head. Because he said he was thinking. And he’d be asked what he was thinking. And he said he was thinking he was scratching his head. And that Master now should be without wits. Imagine. Left miles out in the middle of nowhere. With a total stranger taking away your horse. How utterly humiliating. Not to say profoundly irritating and inconvenient in the extreme. But indeed, for such a foul ignoble person, so splendidly well deserved.
Darcy high in his stirrups. Head crouched streamlined over this blue beribboned mount’s plaited mane. Cantering into the woods ahead. Towards a path both Foxy and I know straight through an overgrown old avenue of lime trees. A short cut to the other side of the forest. And get there without an overhanging branch sweeping me off. And what’s that. Just behind that great oak. One black and one white tail swishing. My goodness. Two riderless horses tethered. Giddy yap. Fast. Down between these limes. And good gracious. Something scarlet. Dead ahead. Dear me. Two chaps writhing one upon another in the grass. Quite the usual thing of course. Two hunt members in a fight. But the one underneath. Has a lady’s loose long blonde hair. And on top, between the uplifted knobs of a pair of knees, is a gentleman’s exposed bottom sticking out from under his redcoat. With his very face now upturned to regard me with consternation. And wearing the features of none other than the Mental Marquis. With my recent diet of wild damsons and rose hips, perhaps I’m seeing things. With me thundering down upon him and the person over which he presently somewhat indiscreetly presides. But my god, the clarity of reality. Even as I head straight at them his bare bottom is still going up and down between the lady’s parted naked legs. Her black garmented arms around his back. Her boots and breeches strewn beside her. O my goodness. Got to jump clean over them. And clear the upraised top of the perspiring Marquis’s balding skull not to mention the twin mounds of the unbelievably unbecoming hairy cheeks of his arse. If they’ve only got the sense to lie low. Down there in the rather moist grass beneath these flying hooves. Up. Over. Banging myself in the branches. Nearly smacked by a big one. Looming and brushing back the hair of my head. Still can’t believe the absolutely unmistakeable. Even when one’s eyesight gets so fantastic at such times. As I look down and back flying over. To see facing straight up. The smooth creamy skinned face. The long brown lashes across eyes closed and now flashing open, in the lids widening back from their blue blue cold colour. Teeth sparkling athwart a blood red mouth agape in groaning rapture. Baptista Consuelo.
Bursting forth in sunlight out the end of the lime avenue. Darcy Dancer raging down the side of a great gentle sloping meadow. Head down low to the side of the steed’s steaming neck. The big bellowing lungs nearly sound bursting. That pair back there will never dare to tell their tale. And if I do the hunt will have my trail. Between these ancient parkland oaks and especially straight through this flock of hysterically bleating and rapidly scattering sheep. Which no one will thank me for disturbing and putting to rout. Up. My boyo. Over this white iron fence. Down this entrance drive. Hooves clattering on the stony road. Lickity split, sparks flying. Past the front of this country house. In order that one may get between two points the fastest and not have to negotiate an entire lake. Past the great gloomy ivy covered elevation of this mansion. Standing in its velvet aprons of grass. That indeed I’m indenting deeply right across their ruddy front lawn. Where the five spinster sisters live. Called Rose, Camellia, Iris, Pansy and Marigold. Famed for their copious lashings of fortified wines and tubs full of butter melting hard boiled eggs at their splendid lawn meets. And known widely over the countryside as the bunch of flowers. Just hope one of their dear kindly number quietly sipping her port in some window bay after lunch isn’t watching. And such refreshment get choked back in her throat in a fright or more likely in umbrage as I go streaking by their polished windows, pounding over their tonsured paddocks. Leaving holes as big as turnips. O my goodness, there indeed in the window is regrettably one of their dear number and I do believe she has elevated her lorgnette to look with concern upon this trespassing marauding horseman. Who madam, I assure you, will be pronto gone if only this steed’s heart holds out. Just this little bit longer. Poor wretch it must be beating at its limit. Thumping deep down there in his chest. So sad sometimes that the most ill bred of people own the best bred of horses. At least the momentum left will take me blazing through this ruddy stable yard now. Much asplattering. Scattering and even cowering the barking dogs. Chickens and geese flying in all directions. And a shout from the men.
‘Hey where are you going.’
‘To the races.’
‘Ah jesus, will you look at that. Your man’s in the Grand National.’
Darcy that jumper just clearing the top of the farmyard gate with the gelding’s hooves clipping the iron and clattering its hinge and rocking its pinion in its spud stone. Pounding along a road between stone walls. Up over another gate. Five barred and wooden and merely splintering the top rung. With the tall woods beyond now. Past the old plantation of oaks. No sign of pursuers. In any event, if they ever reached the lime avenue at all they will have had to return to render medical assistance having trampled Baptista and the Marquis into a broken bunch of bones. So I shall walk this good horse. Give him a well earned breather. And what a sight back there those two. Rolling enthralled and pumping one upon the other. Saw the very flecks of colour in Baptista Consuelo’s sapphire eyes. Totally utterly calm. As they flashed open and closed. The whites so white. As if a horse or anything jumping over her in such displayed position was an everyday occurrence. As indeed it rather might be. With the good seat the Mental Marquis was displaying in riding her. Bare of arse. With her own as I remember quite amply big. Along with her mouth which had referred to Miss von B in such distressing words. And poor Mr Arland who in every kind of inclemency, wasted all his hours and hours of time. To plead his cause. With nosegays on her doorstep. And maybe even dreaming of inviting some major philharmonic orchestra to play her a symphony from right outside her house in the middle of the road. But at last he seems to have come upon his own reward.
‘That’s it, you fellow. Going well. Stride on. Let us gallop again now westwards into the wind rising.’
Darcy holding his arse horizontal, elbows flying from his chest. Reins shortened in my hands warming on this stout brave chestnut gelding’s neck. All kinds of lust in the hunting field when the blood’s up. Leading one must suppose to all kind of later disgust and disgrace. Like the randy Major who when not busy starving, whipping and being horrid to his servants, mounts stable girls any time his blood is even moderat
ely flowing. Before hunts, after hunts, between hunts, and indeed anywhere near or far from stables and especially at night. But never on hunts. When it might impede the pursuit of the fox. Foxy went there robbing. And twice saw from the Major’s stable loft the Major himself grabbing these likely lasses by the ears. Dragging down their breeches. As they pleaded for mercy. Plunging his big veined prick between their legs. As they sobbed for release. And if they were totally uncooperative he would twist their hearing appendages quite extremely. Holding their heads down in the straw. Poor girls yowling in pain. Desperately landing out with kicks. At the Major’s testicles. Which he protected by a steel covering till he was absolutely sure it was safe to leave them dangling. Which according to Foxy was never.
Darcy Dancer, his tatters gently flying. Cheeks flushed with blood. Torn spattered and disreputable. Finally triumphantly cantering up this hill. Breeze cool at the top. Which I haven’t felt for days now being so cold. All the splendid wild gallop I’ve had. Blood boiling. Makes the soul soar. So sweetly bright across the wild green. And there. Across two valleys. Under a sky such plaintive blue. Peeking up out of the trees. The great castle. No longer with the Count inside with metronome ticking taking his long demonstration leaps. And all that edifice’s many many stones, windows and turrets. Standing through the centuries. Grey white in the sun. Dismount right here. Good old chap. Steaming so absolutely soaked with sweat. Scratched and bleeding. Deserves a pat. And a long time munching grass. Tie up his bridle. Give him a good swat to run away from here.
‘There you go now my good fellow, trot off to nibble meadow.’
Walk on my own two feet now. Down through these familiar fields. Of Thormondstown. Across by the end of the lake. The wind stunted beeches. The fawn grasses standing still up from the water. Two white swans sail on its brilliant black blue. The woods and paths of Andromeda Park one knows by every step. Back there the pace was fair, and the hounds hunting well. Till I came along. As the fox. Unwilling to yield up my life. And give insuperable pleasure to those pursuing me. Licking their chops as the baying pack lacerates my body to bits. Giving an orgasm to hunt members shiveringly thrilling in their saddles. As I suffer a nice ghastly termination to one’s existence here on earth.
Darcy Dancer stepping out across this meadow. Sloping down towards fields rising gently again. Criss crossed by their bumpy stone grey walls. Less than a mile to go. Sound of saws sawing in the wood. Somewhere on my land. And I heard back there the thundering crash of a tree. Hawk takes off silently. From behind the shelter of this wall stopping the wind. Leaves a half finished meal of a mouse. Shape of flattened grass where a beast lay in the night. And I see two large shaggy heads. Coming. At speed. Legs outstretched. Ears flapping. Barks booming. Tails swaying in the wind. Hair flying. Kern and Olav. Straight at me. Caught my scent from many hills away on the wind. Hello my lovelies. My two big powerful friends. You bounce and leap about me now. And your big scraggly heads know that no amount of mud upon my face. No tatters no matter how much torn in my dress. No scruffiness however foul. Would ever deceive you. Jumping up high. Paws over my shoulders. Big massive tongues licking my face. To soothe warm and clean. And let me know. That where I stand upon this land, surrounded by their big hairy faithful bodies. Escaped from artists, gunmen, bullies, schools, farmers, hunts and hounds. That finally thank god I’m home. And not left. As the fox is left. Fighting for life amid the hounds. To be rendered just a bit of steam.
Rising from
The grass
Where last
He was known
15
Darcy Dancer crossing the gravel as rain begins to fall. The wind rising. And the clouds scudding grey. Kern and Olav with their big black cold moist noses wagging tails smacking me either side. Climb the steps. The front great door of Andromeda Park locked. Bang the knocker and pull the bell. Till the minutes pass. And the door comes finally scraping and squealing open. Crooks in one of my father’s blue velvet smoking jackets and slippers. His collar open and his tie hanging loose. And his crossed eyes, one looking nearly north now the other entirely south. With soup stains as usual all over him.
‘Lord save us, Master Reginald. I was about to get the shotgun to inquire of your business. What has happened to you.’
‘I have been in a manner of speaking out hunting. Horse ran off with me.’
‘Surely you’re maimed. Without hunting jacket, breeches and boots.’
‘I am in fact, quite in one solid piece. And do believe I am just in time for tea. And are you to keep me out here Crooks.’
‘Begging your pardon Master Reginald. Welcome home. I was only telling Catherine this minute ago in the kitchen that you’d be knocking over the opposition like nine pins in the rugger scrum. Well it’s a most commendable school that has its own pack of hounds.’
Darcy Dancer entering the front hall. To see the disappearing black shadow of a back and a bowler hat. Heading away down towards the schoolroom. Stand here. Watched by the centuries of Thormonds on the walls. In their robes and rich raiment. Wondering what on earth in rags the cat dragged in. To their great grand sanctum. And who should now sidle over and so earnestly toast his bottom with the dying embers of their fire.
‘Who goes there, Crooks.’
‘It’s the agent, Master Reginald. He was only the while ago paying off some of the men.’
‘Tell him in future not to wear his hat in this house. Most inappropriate behaviour.’
‘Very well Master Reginald.’
‘Where is Miss von B.’
‘Taking tea in the north parlour. Will you be joining her.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact. I shall.’
‘Master Reginald, I don’t wish to be impertinent but is there something wrong.’
‘Perhaps. Fetch tea. If you will please.’
‘Won’t you want a wash and brush up. And to get out of, forgive me for saying, those rags.’
‘Presently.’
‘With all due respect Master Reginald, it would, if one did not know you as well as I do, be hard now to tell who you were.’
‘That is quite understandable but it also can have its advantages. Now would you mind awfully Crooks, please doing as you are told.’
‘Very good.’
Darcy Dancer watching Crooks depart. Everything of his clothes too big for him. His accent seems to be slipping as well. Sounds one second like a minister of foreign affairs and the next like the true treacherous bog man he is. At least the grand staircase hasn’t yet collapsed. And everything seems as it was before. Miss von B must have been having a most leisured pleasured time. Keeping the servants’ bells tingling and taking her big hot baths after a day’s hunting. Quietly turn the door knob to the north east parlour. Tiptoe in. To the welcome warmth. The couch pulled round. Facing the fire. Her hair gleaming straight back in a bun behind her head. Greeny tweed jacket across her shoulders. Over the chimneypiece, the clock shape on the wall tinted a shade lighter where that enamelled timepiece stood which my father has now chiming back in Dublin. A thrush chirping its evening song in the first darkness just out the window. The floorboard creaking. The head turning around. A book closing. Miss von B jumping up. Tea cup, and a spoon tingling against a saucer. Her hand clutching at her breast.
‘Ach du grosser Gott. It is you.’
‘No it isn’t me. But there is quite a strong resemblance underneath my rather tattered garments, my entangled hair, my mud, my cuts and various unpleasant spatterings. I suppose you want to tell me I am bringing muck in on the carpet.’
‘Yes. You are bringing awfully filthy muck in on the carpet. What has happened. That you are like this. You are scratched. All over you.’
‘You are shocked to see me.’
‘But of course I am. You are supposed to be miles away somewhere else. Of course I am shocked.’
‘I should like please, to have an immediate large thick, deeply buttered slice of that barmbrack I do believe I see situated on that distinctly early Meissen plate t
here on the tray.’
‘Of course of course. But my goodness, first you must change your clothes.’
‘No I shan’t.’
‘But of course you cannot take tea like that.’
‘I can. And I shall. Take tea. Just like this. Which for reasons of my own I prefer to do. And Crooks is presently bringing me a cup. And I see you are using my mother’s very best tea service. And what’s left of the best silverware. I may also, should the fancy take me, even dance about the room. La de da de da de dee.’
Darcy executing a series of minor midget grand jetés. To come round the sofa in front of the big crackling glowing logs. Miss von B nervously reaching to slice the barmbrack. Cutting neatly through all the colourful flecks of dried fruit. Her bracelet falling down her wrist and her diamond ring catching red flashes of the fire. Her hands trembling as she buttered it.