‘The agent was in here.’
‘Yes. He was here. Just popped in as you say.’
‘About what.’
‘O it was nothing. But come. You must sit.’
‘Don’t you think it will matter now that my muddy garments may soil the couch.’
‘Please of course not.’
‘You usually do mind so much.’
‘What is wrong with you. What has happened.’
‘I have run away from school.’
‘But you have just but gone.’
‘Yes. I have just but gone. But I did not choose to like it. Therefore I did just but go. What are you reading there.’
Crooks knocking. Shuffling in. Sporting now his shoes. On both his reluctantly moving feet. His collar closed and the knot of his black tie neatly tightened. At tea time my mother always required the whole household to be especially on their toes. As it was she said the very most important time of day. When even the tower bell was rung. To announce and summon those darjeeling or lapsang suchong minded guests from their various suites. For a reawakening of the spirit when the aftermath of lunch produced drowsiness. And the soul required just the mildest bit of stirring. Being as it was that reflective time midway before one must preside over a long many coursed dinner, and precede that by one’s early evening bath, the laying on of powders and scent, the hair coiffed and the dilemma of choosing gowns and the jewels with which to be adorned.
‘There you are Master Reginald. Brought you a fresh pot. Bramble jam in the saucer. Fresh whipped cream in the bowl. And more toast. Will there be anything else.’
‘Thank you Crooks. Close the shutters. Light the mantel candles. And I think that will be all. Except you can draw me my bath.’
‘In the copper.’
‘Yes in the copper.’
A smile on Darcy Dancer’s muddy face. With his cheeks fat with chewing. Trouser split down from my thigh and over my knee. The whole naked side of my scratched leg. Blotted with great bruises. Like the sky so often is. Blackened by a cloud floating across the bright blue. Welcome soothing red heat blasting out of these logs blazing. Darkness fallen. Wind blowing. Rain taps on the panes. Upon the graves of the dead. And I did not die lonely out there under that sky. Beyond these shutters banging closed. When you have no roof, no walls, no tea and no scrumptious other thing. Each night a long long night. Clutching oneself. Asking when will dawn ever make the black darkness be over. And my feet, hands, knees, arms and back be no longer cold. All glowing now. With tea.
‘You haven’t madam shown the least inclination towards embracing me. Am I so disreputable and soiled looking.’
‘Well you might at least not bring the bog into the drawing room.’
‘Ah that is precisely how I thought you might feel. Despite your superficial display of tolerance.’
Miss von B, her tweed jacket taken from her shoulders. The title of her book. Called Priests and People in Ireland. And leaning herself back now. Cushioned, as I am in the swan’s down. The shoulders puffed up in her pleated grey wool dress. Making them unpleasantly broad. Perhaps she really is a sadist. With thonged whips. To lash bare flesh. Her bosoms only a reaching hand away. She inwardly winces each time I move. Or turns to stare a moment, drawing her lips tight as she did when in one single gulp I took my cup and drank it held with my soiled torn hand. I did however at first try not to cram the entire piece of barmbrack in my mouth. Only hungrily snapped off most of it but even that last little piece did not stay long in my fingers. And as I rammed it in it made her further tense. Till I thought she may have been pleased when I chewing so vigorously, bit my tongue.
‘O fuck.’
‘Serves you so right. To stuff your mouth.’
First Crooks leaves me on the doorstep. Then find the agent using the hall as if it were a train station. Now Miss von B behaving in a most certainly shirty manner. Life does somehow allow one unhappiness to beget yet another. Start tumbling down all over you. One merely must then simply seek the nearest soothing comfort at hand. And enfold oneself there. Shift backwards into this swan’s down softness. Watch with concealed enjoyment as she shrivels in distaste as each big lump of cake hardened mud is dislodged from me crumbling on the floor.
‘Madam, are you a sadist.’
‘What do you mean.’
‘Are you in favour of cruelty. And of wiping certain races out.’
‘If I think you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, I should slap your face.’
‘I’m merely inquiring.’
‘And I am merely telling you I will slap your face should you ask such a question again.’
‘O well perhaps that answers me.’
‘Where have you been. To whom have you been talking.’
‘No one in particular.’
‘My god you should come back looking like that. And asking me such questions.’
‘We have my good madam, been ratted upon.’
‘What do you mean.’
‘Someone of the household has well and truly snitched. My father has accused me of fornicating with you.’
‘And what is fornicating.’
‘It is, to use a vulgar but better known term, what is popularly referred to as fucking.’
‘Grosser Gott.’
‘Quite.’
‘You I hope have said it is untrue of course.’
‘Of course, that’s what I immediately said. Totally untrue. Absolutely the most filthy and disgusting kind of fiction.’
‘O god, how sad life can get so immediately after a moment when it was perhaps beautiful even if only for the shortest of time.’
‘Have you madam fucked many others. Or put another way, how many others have you fucked. Has my father been one of them.’
The blood leaving Miss von B’s face. Tightens her finger about the handle of her tea cup. One wants to be so mean to her. To make her cry. And sob. And be defenceless and begging for help. Instead of being back here as she’s been so comfortably these past miserable days.
‘You are again I think in your most unpleasant mood. But I will answer your question. As to fucking. And that is what you mean. Yes.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I have, to use the phrase, fucked my share. Not your father. Nor anyone I did not respect. And certain things have happened to me. That I will not discuss at this time.’
‘You have been raped, madam.’
‘I have warned you, I shall slap your face. If you ask such questions again. What has become of you. Why are you like this. Sitting there, in rags. Like you were a tramp. You make me so angry.’
Miss von B standing. Putting her long angular fingers to brush back a strand of hair loose at her temple. A crumb on her wool dress tweezed between two fingers and put on her saucer. Lifts her tweed coat over her arm. Turns and places her book on the hunt table. She abruptly leaves. In what one would term a huff. Rather banging the door which shook the window panes. And Crooks took an unseemly delay to appear after I rang. Approaching me across the parlour floor using a bowing motion. As if he were a water pump.
‘You called Master Reginald.’
‘Yes Crooks. Decant our best laid bottle of Chateau Margaux. As well as that of our most ancient Chateau d’Yquem. Tell Catherine to prepare a roast side of beef. Rare. And not burned to a cinder. Nor perfectly raw either. And together with suitable gravy, choicest of spuds, selected sprouts, I want served an immortal meal.’
‘I shall, of course, Master Reginald, as the available ingredients might allow do precisely as you instruct. For two.’
‘For two.’
Following three more cups of tea and barmbrack and four slices of toast slathered in bramble jam I repaired to my room. To disrobe. To find most of me in my dressing mirror quite white except where the bruises were quite blue. The rain now blowing in gusts outside. And proceeded with some dispatch skipping over the rattling floorboards to bathe with all my scratches stinging. Could feel the smooth copper of the bath replenish
ing my blood. Making me quite chipper. Dressing for dinner. Till Crooks knocked. To announce that Miss von B sent her regrets and would not be joining me. In this my celebration of my most astonishing homecoming. Calling for my silk shirt removed from its protective tissues to stop it gathering dust. And also in view of the mournful news. Told me by Norah as she brought me towels from the kitchen oven. And said through the door. That the mighty and wilfully spirited Thunder and Lightning had been kicked to death when put to cover a young mare. Another blow fallen. Another revenue gone. About the only damn use that such news can be, is to older gentlemen to make them specially mindful of the antics of young ladies. But never mind. Distinctly more pleasant hours are upon me. My bath bringing out my embedded thorns and I squeezed and pinched away the pus. And as I descended the beech grove stairs heading for the library for a sherry before the fire, Crooks was backing his way with a tray out the door.
‘Ah Master Reginald, it’s a transformation.’
‘Thank you Crooks.’
‘But Master Reginald can I ask now, has anything happened that would make you curt with me.’
‘Curt. I don’t believe I have been curt Crooks.’
‘Ah it’s only that I’m mindful that there’s been rumoured changes are coming.’
‘What changes.’
‘It’s not my place to remark upon them Master Reginald.’
‘Well you are making a damn good start if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘Now. That’s the curtness I mean. Ah I’m getting on now. There are not many years left me. Sure what do they do with old butlers but shed them. Like a dog’s winter hairs in summer. And send them with their tray into the grave. And they don’t know the good servant’s gone till they’re sitting in all their splendour waiting in the drawing room. Wondering what’s holding up the refreshment after dingling the bell down the kitchen hall. And if it’s me they’re calling I’d be coming only that I’m gone. And with luck be up there serving God instead.’
‘You’re being most dramatic this evening Crooks. Do you think god prefers his sherry medium, dry or sweet.’
‘Ah now, not to be impertinent, but that’s blaspheming, Master Reginald. How would I know how almighty god prefers his sherry.’
‘I’m sure some good butler must know Crooks. Surely god would not be without one who’d maybe been in ducal employ. And I think we are all quite conscious that certain good servants may go unappreciated. However, do let me point out. That not many of us may look to heaven as a place where we may continue our valued service on earth.’
‘Ah well now some of us may not be wanting to go bowing and scraping continuously hereafter in the after life. Me own legs for a start wouldn’t stand it.’
Crooks went mumbling off. I tarried in the hall. Looking up at my Thormond ancestors. To see in the faint light if their previous critical view of me had now changed since I was to put it mildly really decked out for dinner. But no expression seemed particularly approving. Indeed they appeared nearly more bored than usual. And in a moment Crooks was back again letting the side down in his slippers, the heels of which were clacking more loudly than ever. He put a plate of cut soda bread adorned with smoked salmon on a library side table. Miss von B was actually standing nearly in behind the door and I had closed it before noticing her. First catching upon my nostrils the immediate soft light sweetness of her perfume. No question but the time has come to be at my most gallant. Administer one’s every charm. And sport the lady’s every possibly courteous entitlement.
‘Ah your highness, how pleasantly agreeable to see you. You have decided to join me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why.’
Miss von B stepping towards Darcy Dancer in five long slow leisurely strides. Her whole beautifully undulating loveliness stopping in the candle light. The blonde long body rather more than apparent in her form flattering pale purple dress. And I do believe I may just be that fraction taller now. With all the leg stretching one has recently been doing. I was holding the neck of the sherry decanter. Prior to inquiring if madam would, as she frequently did, have hers pale medium. And wham. Good god. Stars. Absolutely like the ones one saw sparkling out there when the great bowl of black sky cleared one night over me. Nearly dropped the sherry. Rocked as I was back on my heels. With the stinging feel of her palm and fingers, right across my face, making the most frightful ringing in my ear.
‘That is why. To slap your face.’
‘My god I mean to say, look here.’
‘You look here. And next time, don’t you ever dare to address me in such manner as you did during tea.’
Miss von B in three or maybe slightly more steps. Vanished from the library. With the door slamming once more. Hardly the thing to do in a mansion which merely by brushing against a wall could bring the entire roof down. And leave me here covered in rubble. With nothing now whatever to celebrate. Sipping sherry. Nibbling salmon. And dear me, why should I care about another cursed thing. Except to preserve my own sweet life. Towards the destiny which the better of my past best ancestors ordain.
And avoid
Forever
These
Damnably difficult
Women
16
‘Shall I remove this setting Master Reginald.’
‘No Crooks.’
‘It’s a grand roast of beef, Master Reginald, fetched this evening by urgent bicycle from the butcher’s for your delectation.’
‘That’s most agreeable Crooks.’
‘And done to a rare turn.’
‘Most agreeable.’
Candelabra and sconces all lit. The fire roaring up the chimney. The wine crystal sparkling. Darcy Dancer seated end of the gleamingly polished mahogany. The chill blue colours of the onion pattern Meissen. Norah lugging in the covered dishes. Set by the hearth on the brass warming table. Crooks pouring my glass full of deep red softly fuming claret. A nice cool crack of breeze coming up between these two floor boards. Always means that less than arctic conditions are prevailing in the dining room.
Deliberately I delayed each course. Hoping Miss von B would reappear. Till Norah trying to catch her breath said that her Royal Highness was taking supper in her room. Somewhat mournfully I awaited Crooks to pour my lonely enjoyed Chateau d’Yquem. Knowing that madam especially would appreciate the noble rot of its rich textured pale goldenness softly sliding down the side of the glass rim and its musky heady scents wafting up the nostrils. And instead now she would I suppose, following her supper, be somewhere perusing another anti Catholic volume in the household. In her pale purple gown. By the library fire, or her legs wrapped in a rug in the chillier drawing room or parlour. Or perhaps even freezing her tits off waltzing by herself in the ballroom. As indeed I noticed before she slapped me that she was rather thinly covered there. And the welcome bosom swelling sight of her, did I thought, even make me feel a little dizzy, before as well as after her striking me. And I do indeed feel that way right now.
‘Master Reginald, is there something wrong.’
‘Well as a matter of fact Crooks I think I may be feeling rather heady.’
‘It’s that d’Yquem, the great accumulated golden overtones from sublime sauterne, would, with enough of it, put your brains pleasantly swirling. Sure it’s the very mummified death of the grape you’re drinking there.’
‘Well I do believe my brain is, as a matter of fact swirling, or else the table is swaying.’
‘Now would I fetch up a bit of our best brandy, it would bring you around in no time. There’s a bottle in the cellar lain there since the middle ages for just such a moment as this.’
‘I think, thank you Crooks, that I shall make do with d’Yquem. O god.’
‘Good lord save us, Master Reginald.’
Darcy Dancer pitching forward. Face banging the table. To slowly keel over sidewards and fall to the floor with a room shaking thud.
‘Master Reginald, can you hear me. Can you hear me. Are you all right. Norah, fetch M
iss von B.’
Crooks walking stumbling upwards backwards, his hands caught under each arm of Darcy Dancer. Could feel his big fingernails digging into me. Hear all their voices. Out there beyond me in the dark. Even thought in my unconsciousness that a rake of an ancestor on the staircase wall winked at me. Miss von B in a big grey sweater over her gown. Had me by a leg. And Norah with her lace cap knocked askew, her hair loose was carrying the other. Could smell her rather strongly. Mixed with the clean sweet scent of Miss von B. But as the direction of the hall breeze changed, both ladies’ essences were promptly drowned by the close up smell of Crooks. As he grunted, huffed and puffed shifting me up the beech grove stairs. And along the hall to my room. Backing through the door and loading me all black attired and silk shirted, flat out on my bed.
‘Now ladies perhaps a gent should undress the poor young master. Leave it to a gent.’
‘Crooks I am perfectly capable of undressing Master Darcy.’
‘Ah well, would it be right and proper.’
‘I am in fact quite a very capable nurse.’
‘Very good then madam. Far be it for me to interfere.’
‘Norah fetch me a hot bowl of water. And a thermometer.’
‘What is a thermometer madam.’
‘O dear then get hot bottles for the bed. And towels to wrap them in. And build a fire.’
‘Very good madam. But is he dead.’
‘No. But he will be if you do not quickly attend to what you have been asked.’
‘O dear god, he was such a nice poor lad.’
Gales outside the bedroom window. Darcy Dancer’s black black hair aswirl on the pillow. Some strands still entwined. From his cross country adventure. Miss von B leaning over with a cool compress. Touching it upon the fevered brow and the hot burning cheeks. Feel the touches one feels. Outside one’s head. And inside like a big hand ahold of one’s whole brain. Lifting me away out of my body. I was up there on top of spy glass hill. And it was summer again and Crooks had put together a picnic to have by the lake. And as I watched his old bent figure pack it on the float I felt somehow that that dear old strange fellow had not betrayed me.