Three days Darcy Dancer lay abed. In feverish semi consciousness. The gales blowing. Baskets of turf fetched to burn to keep the sparks from flying. Miss von B the morning after the collapse in the dining room, brought the doctor. Driving my mother’s phaeton with Petunia like a whirlwind it was said, out and back along the drive. And he came then each morning smiling with his little case and stethoscope. Making cheery quips to Norah and Miss von B while he made me, half awake, roll my eyes, and cough with his stethoscope over my chest. A wooden stick pressed down my tongue as he looked down my throat by torch light. And late afternoon of that third day I saw Miss von B’s anxious face. And Norah at her shoulder. My head felt so tight. My lungs full of rumbling and trying to catch my breath. Norah’s hands entwined. And her eyes looking up to heaven as she mumblingly prayed and then whispered.
‘The poor lad’s dying isn’t he. He’s dying. Jesus Mary and Joseph. The poor lad’s dying.’
Till I drifted off. And then heard whispers.
‘It’s the crisis now. It’s the crisis.’
The tower bell rang. I thought all had been summoned to my room for tea. As I lay hot and swirling in dreams. Down at the foot of my bed. All hovering. As each now comes in. One by one. I’m dying. Sexton there. His head looming over the others. He had placed on my dresser a plaster statue of his Blessed Virgin, a special candle burning in a red glass in front of her. My sisters. Where are they. They loved me. There. That must be Beatrice Blossom in the corner of the room. And then it was Catherine the cook. Her one big old hand wiping itself across her apron, and a big ladle held in her other. Shaking her head sadly back and forth. I’m dying. Going down under the waves of sleep. Head Groom Slattery. Foxy furtively behind his shoulder. A smile ready to burst out on his face. Thought his eyes were looking around the room for something to rob. Now they were all filing in. As the first who came walked out. I’m already dead. They’re just viewing the body. The silver hair of Edna Annie. Eyes sunk so deep in her head. Her great ancient purple veins under her parchment flesh. Yet soft as her bony hand touches against my cheek. Her words. Ah god love the little man put so soon out there now to rest under the lonely sky. Long before his time. Sure god in his mercy to a good little Protestant gentleman like that will give him the peace to die a good christian. Luke the groom. His ear now well healed but badly bent over at the scar where Foxy had nearly bitten it off. Norah and Sheila brushing at their uniforms and too terrified to come closer. My mother’s two friends the clerics. So elegantly so darkly approaching. Both blessing me with prayers. Edna Annie feeling her rosary beads through her hands saying the two parsons assembled together should do a power of good in heaven even with the unfortunate blasphemy of one being an Episcopalian. And voices. Please now. Time to go. Ah one last look. While he lives. Darcy Dancer. And Uncle Willie. The only one with tears in his eyes. And Miss von B stood there on the bedroom carpet. With all the other dark shadows gone. Her body all golden. Her belly softly round. Bosoms swelling full and fruity. Her arms raised from her sides. To welcome me into her embrace. And as I moved towards her I was walking on a road. Out there way beyond west of Thormondstown. Bordered by shrubbery trees. Marching with an ash plant through the boggy lands of the countryside. A cottage thatch ahead at the end of a path. An old woman in her shawl approaching. A farm labourer in his loose black old coat leaning by the side of the fence. Who doffed his cap to me. And I said, with no one in particular in mind to say it to. To hear me. And understand. That I am a member, perhaps presently in poor standing, of the landed gentry. I really am. And that I am possessed still, of all my gentility. Despite the depredations to my estates. And would not soon nor never be descending to the very last resort. That poor common dreadful state of being native. In rags, penury and ignorance. With big dirty fingernails. And clumsy boorish mind. And that still, the country women curtsy and the men remove their caps. As I pass by and go further. And there on the road ahead. Miss von B. A true real aristocrat. Glittering in diamonds. Her body waiting. Getting closer. Our nakednesses nearly in embrace. My arms widening to weave around her. And squeeze and squeeze. Nothing is there.
That evening it was said all over the household that a miracle had happened. That out of all the praying and right from the very sheer brink of death the very life of Darcy Dancer had been restored. The doctor came, ruddy cheeked and smiling as usual. To listen to lungs, spy down throats and read thermometers. And to say yes that the gentleman was indeed on the way to recovery. He came again next morning. Bright cheery and inquiring from Miss von B of the hunting. Said there was the greatest story ever told in years going round the countryside. And he was sorry she hadn’t yet heard it for it was not a story could be repeated by a gentleman to a lady.
Frost white out on the meadows. The air stilled under the sky once more after four days of blowing. Darcy Dancer sitting up clear eyed in bed. Sexton had brought bunches of tiny wild flowers he’d picked. And together with Miss von B placed and arranged them on my bedside and dresser tables. And then after my nourishing broth the next morning I even nipped out of bed to look out the window. At the sound of wheels over the pebbles. Luke the groom holding as Miss von B climbed in my mother’s phaeton, called the High Crane Neck for its elegant curvatures. She looked so smart in her tweeds and bowler seated there atop. And her blonde hair peeking swelling out in a bun over her ears as she delivered a light flick of the whip over Petunia’s quarters. To go off trotting away, perched so neatly upon the swan like springs. And indeed I had a little flutter of the heart. Till suddenly there were the boards creaking and there was Sexton himself standing at the foot of my bed. The great tall dark patched one eyed hulk of him. Cap under his arm. Hands joined in prayer. His hair greasier and blacker than ever. As if I were already this long time dead and he were praying for the repose of my immortal soul. And the Latin words mumbling out of him.
‘Good lord Sexton. Look at me. I’m alive. Here by the window.’
‘I was just praying in thanks for your safe deliverance from final darkness. Ah god Master Darcy, sine dubio it’s like the time you were rescued from the bog. That last afternoon there I thought we would be bringing you beyond to the sods. Or if there’s any suitable room left, be stacking you in with the rest of the Thormonds. And no sadness should that be, close with the unfaded beauty of your mother. Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy. Wonderful woman. Ah god excuse me. Can’t stop a tear or two at the mention of her very name. But sure the whole lot of us in this house will all be going that way soon. So fast there won’t be them ones left to bury the others. How are you now.’
‘I am feeling much better thank you, Sexton. But surely one can’t say that you are exactly expostulating the most cheerful of views.’
‘Views born in the bitterness of life they are. But I’m glad to hear that you’re feeling better. It was as near a wake as ever I’ve seen. With the lot of them wailing down there in the kitchens you’d think you’d been already put cold out there under the meadow.’
‘That is in its way complimentary Sexton. They could have been laughing and rejoicing.’
‘Ah never Master Darcy. Sure like your mother they worship the ground you walk on. And speaking of walking I’m glad you’re up doing it. Because let me tell you. The sooner you’re about the estate the better. The depredations. The depredations would make you reel with consternation. That filthy little cur the agent. And there’ll be others in on it with him. The looting and banditry. What’s he doing but selling them fifty tall straight oaks. Planted by your great great grandfather and aged by the centuries. Majestic they are. Standing there in adoration of the great majesty above. Who gave them the ground in which to grow. The sacrilegiousness. It’s sickening. Never mind the tuppence ha’penny that shrewd snake in the grass says he’s not getting. O he’s getting it alright. And it will be more than tuppence ha’penny he’ll be keeping for himself. Be damned if it isn’t.’
‘You mustn’t upset yourself Sexton. It is making you unduly red in the face.’
&
nbsp; ‘Well I won’t stand idly by and stomach that vulgar treatment of nature’s beauty. Never mind the scurrilous wholesale robbery done thereby. I was up over there and told them there’d be repercussions. I told them. And six of them great majestic oaks down already. In the garden out there I can hear them up beyond, poor trees, screaming in agony on the ground.’
‘O Sexton, you do get distressed don’t you.’
‘Well Master Darcy, I’ve spent nearly all my years with the growing living things and the beauties of God. And sure in this country where treachery and deceit were invented, and where if the crowd of them could find any semblance of beauty not doing a soul any harm, they’d have an axe to it in an instant swinging it lashing in every blessed direction till not a sacred contour of its beauty was left.’
‘Well perhaps Sexton we can at least change to another mournful subject. Thunder and Lightning is no more.’
‘Pulverized he was by that mare. All his power beat out in seconds. In the hounds’ belly now, every bit but the biggest bones of him. And speaking about hounds. And mentioning hunts. Ah god there tells a story. Mournful and disgraceful enough too. Didn’t some tinker rascal who could jump a horse over the moon and thread four hooves through the eye of a needle, steal off with the master’s horse, over a parish or two there beyond. And the whole hunt after him. The cowards and all. Coming-out of their saddles, busting their heads on branches. And now rumour has it. And a filthy disgusting rumour it is too. That the entire lot of them pursuing the villain went cascading down that old lime avenue over there and other side of Thormondstown. The foul demeaning stories coming out of there. Slandering that lovely blue eyed beauty. Haven’t I said she’s a distant relation of the Thormonds. Haven’t I told you that.’
‘You’ve told me that, I believe Sexton.’
‘Well slurring her name they are. All over the countryside. Licking their lips. Whispering. Disseminating the most unspeakable of the unspeakable. I wouldn’t repeat it. Never never in a million years would I repeat it.’
‘Repeat what Sexton.’
‘What them rabble rousers of them mad bloody hatters, or cappers, or natters or whatever they call them bloody selves. Are saying.’
‘What for heaven’s sake Sexton are they saying.’
‘That she was compromised. Compromised I’m telling you. Besmirched.’
‘Dear me. What a dastardly business. But how. How could anyone compromise such an elegant young lady, Sexton.’
‘Well in not more than two dozen words now. I’ll tell you how. Didn’t the entire hunt chasing this rascal come upon her and that Mental Marquis. In the middle of the lime avenue. With every last horse having to jump the pair of them stark naked together entwined on the grass. That’s what they’re saying. With the hounds, the fox, the huntsman, whipper in, and the Master looking for his horse, all thundering over them. Ah god I hate to have to use such an expression but next they’ll be saying that the fox ran up the poor girl’s hole.’
‘O dear what a bother isn’t it Sexton.’
‘Well let me tell you Master Darcy if a one of them comes repeating that story to my face they’ll get a fist in the gob for their trouble. Ruining the girl’s pure virgin name, that’s what the gossipy swine are doing. Tongues never still. Wagging and wagging. In one shopkeeper’s ear and out to a dozen others. And in a thrice don’t they have the whole story all over Ireland.’
Under the sheets to muffle my sounds I did laugh rather heartily the moment Sexton stepped back out again into the hall. Indeed I nearly kicked the bottom of the bed out. And finally did. With Miss von B bringing me beef tea, tucking it all back in again. Although kindly she was continuing to be distant. I did dizzily recall the intimacy of her rolling me over upon my stomach and intruding a cold thermometer into where I thought it was quite indiscreet in front of Norah. But Miss von B as I groaned my reluctance insisted that it was the only proper place to take a temperature. It seemed a long time before she pulled it out again, reading it in front of the wall sconces brought up from the dining room. One admired her lack of squeamishness. For two more days when I wasn’t feeling like an overly cosseted baby, I felt like a long piece of overly boiled cabbage. As the household rallied about leaving me with little peace. In with breakfast. Out with lunch. Back with tea. And flowers and visitors and tidbits in between. But there are times when it requires just too much energy to protest.
Saturday morning. With a red dawn and this day growing crisp and sunny. In a long mauve dressing gown with chocolate brown borders and facings, Darcy Dancer sitting by his fire. Sporting these, my mother’s racing colours. While suitably and contentedly reading Priests and People in Ireland. Of the low morality rampant in the Mecklenburg Street area of Dublin. Ladies of ill fame. Children kidnapped into vice. And in which volume it frequently appeared that Catholics did behave quite disgracefully. Of course one is always glad to be Protestant. But there are times when one is extremely glad. However I read with much interest of the Discalced Carmelites and how these gentlemen had established an oratory in honour of the divine child, Jesus of Prague, in whose devotion wonderful graces might be obtained. And I must confess, just for the novelty of it I prayed as one heard Sexton praying, to this Jesus of Prague to bring me back my strength. As every time I went now to pee or move my bowels, my legs were deucedly weak under me. And while I sat absorbed earnestly praying I heard the floor board squeak. And perceived from an eye. Miss von B at the door ajar. As she peeked in.
‘Please. Madam. Please. Come in.’
Miss von B in her brown hunting coat and white breeches. One gloved hand holding the glove of the other. The blonde buns of hair caught by a net either side of her head. And the red mark of her bowler striped across her brow. Her cheeks ruddy. Her riding boots black and so gleaming. Her bosoms swell up beneath her dark brown sweater and a gold pin stuck in the silk stock at her throat.
‘Ah I do not want to disturb you. Each time I come. There is already someone here. How are you.’
‘I am feeling immeasurably improved today. Thank you. You have been out exercising.’
‘Yes. We went a long ride around the lake. We were lost but behind Kern and Olav I found my way again. And I am pleased to see you so much better.’
‘I shall be up and about by Monday.’
‘No. You must not. I do not think the doctor would allow that.’
‘I must. To stop them taking away our trees.’
‘You are still so thin, pale. You take too much responsibility. What matter a few trees. There are thousand and thousand.’
‘I want nothing further to leave this place, not a branch, piece of straw or blade of grass.’
‘And of course, what does it matter if they take a few bits of wood. They pay something. It would be more important if they pay nothing and they take your cattle, your land, or even the beauty from your face.’
‘They are indeed madam already taking these things. And more often than not, paying nothing.’
‘Ah my poor darling. There is but one thing that is important, that no one can ever take your good manners from you.’
‘Miss von B. I thank you for saying that. Undeserved as I fear it may be. And especially in the light of my recent life. I do appreciate it. I think I am at a cross roads. And which way I turn may indeed be the direction of my whole destiny.’
‘Ah you are far too young to speak so. Life it comes. Bang. It knock you a little this way. Bang. It knock you a little bit the other way. And the direction you go. Well you are lucky if it is not backwards.’
‘Or bang, it could madam, flatten one altogether.’
‘Yes, it does do that too. But then we must get up again.’
‘I am going to get up and go away from here.’
‘Come come. In this house, as I say so often to you, this is where your life will be. You are sitting reading, so comfortably your book. Where it tell you how to bribe a saint and about the sin, priests and beggars everywhere. What could make a good Protestant gentle
man happier. And you can as you will do, read just like that into your old age.’
‘My father will come. We shall argue. I know.’
‘How do you know he will come. When he did not come when I. Ah perhaps I should not say.’
‘Say what.’
‘O please, let us forget. It was nothing.’
‘It is something. You said my father did not come. When I was dying. That’s what you meant.’
‘He may not have got the cable. Plus as you know, you did not die.’
‘Yes, plus, I do know. But he will. He will come as soon as I stop the agent from selling the trees.’
‘Too many rashers of bacon for you at breakfast, that is what the matter is. You are getting your oats. Feeling them I mean. With your appetite back.’
‘I am I must admit rather deeply at this moment feeling my oats. And further for a long time now I have in fact been thinking. That things may not remain the same as one had expected they might. Especially now that Mr Arland has left.’
‘I did myself too become much fond of Mr Arland.’
‘O dear, I do desperately miss him. We did have some rather nice evenings together. One does not want to be unseemly and sentimental. But I cannot imagine my future here now. Andromeda Park is rather just a big old rambling monument to antiquity. And I do believe I’ve outgrown it.’
‘Come come. What is this. First no one is to take away a blade of grass. And now you speak of going away. And leave altogether. Ah I think you are just a little low after your sickness.’
‘The best part of my indisposition I suppose has been that you are now speaking friendly to me again. And that madam, is making me distinctly more content.’