‘Good lord, how easy then it is to be one.’
‘Well there are also large paintings on the wall of his ancestors. And much carpeting and beautiful furniture throughout the house.’
‘You can buy them at many auctions.’
‘But then you cannot madam buy the proper accent with which such people speak in such surroundings. And they never shout angrily except at other equals and never at servants whom they do not beat or strike save only in the dire necessity of discipline.’
‘My sweet boy where have you been all these years.’
‘I have been right here living as a member of the gentry and I am fully aware of aristocratic behaviour. Not the least of which is that they associate only with the proper people.’
‘And who my sweet are they.’
‘They are listed in the appropriate volumes dealing with such matters in order that impostors may be readily shown to be just that. They know the correct thing to say at the proper time. Nor do they get things all arsy versy as the common people do. And they have a fondness for books and all the finer things. Like birds’ eggs or butterfly collecting. They also generate their own electricity. And they simply know that they are better than other people.’
‘Ha, eggs, butterflies, personal electricity, don’t sock the servants. Plenty stink of dead mice too. And they practise I suppose looking down their noses in the mirror in the morning. And up the arse in the evening.’
‘Well why not. And do be careful for just think of all the mouse water you have drunk out of the tap. And also just remember madam how Baptista insulted you. She was looking down her nose.’
‘And she, my little sweet is certainly not an aristocrat. But perhaps it is aristocratic to hunt to the hounds. Is it not.’
‘Yes. Of course it is. And to have one’s clothing made by the best tailors and boots by the best bootmakers and shotguns from the best gunsmiths. And your house should stand surrounded by ample parklands.’
‘Ah do they belch and fart.’
‘Upon occasion, yes.’
‘And they come out stinky peewewew.’
‘Upon occasion, yes.’
‘Ah I see now how quite simple it is to be an aristocrat. Do they pee in people’s parlours or on their front porches.’
‘You may madam go on and on like that if you like. But it simply does not in the least alter my description of a true aristocrat.’
‘What about their souls, my little darling.’
‘You do not need a soul if you are really an aristocrat.’
‘Ah that is the only thing you have said which is truly aristocratic.’
‘Well madam do you not also agree that they pursue a policy of being the richest, the mightiest. And upon whom all others look in envy.’
‘Of course yes. That is how they are haughty.’
‘And also you will agree that they will sometimes not answer questions put to them and will look in other directions until the person asking such questions of them has sheepishly retreated.’
‘O come, my god, enough. Let us continue the battle in the morning. And for now let us say you are the most arsy versy randy little aristocrat there is.’
Miss von B kissing me on the brow and sat there holding my hand till I went most contentedly to sleep. Waking momentarily in darkness to hear the friendly little scratching of my mouse devouring his crumbs. By the moonlight the branches of the trees all white. Frost settling on the grass. All is so blissful to be so deeply in love. To want hands you want to touch you to touch. With words said you know you both will say. And lips and eyes and all their colours there swirling in the mists of the new wonders that come in every embrace. And of course Miss von B did see me peeing off the front steps one evening.
Black as I woke. To lie thinking. Of the chilly morning. So warm in under the covers. And now standing aristocratically peeing into my suitably emblazoned chamber pot, a faint light was slowly pinkly brightening in the window. The wind risen and long patches of blue between the sky’s clouds gliding from the west. Where Uncle Willie said the great Atlantic ocean made them the grey they were. I rang for Crooks. And miraculously he was knocking with a tray of tea in a thrice.
‘Good morning Master Reginald. I trust you had a good night.’
One does not know quite at this early dawn how to aristocratically reply to what might in its casual statement hide quite saucy implications. But in the interests of not disturbing the recent pleasant tenor of household activities, best to reply in a like manner.
‘Thank you Crooks, yes. Indeed I had a splendid night. I feel quite chipper.’
‘That is good news. I’ll leave the tray here. And while the sun’s not up yet just let me stir the fire with a blow of the bellows and I’ll have a blaze out of these embers in a moment.’
‘Lay out my shooting clothes please, Crooks.’
‘You are not I hope intending to proceed to the outdoors Master Reginald.’
‘I am as a matter of fact proceeding to the outdoors, Crooks.’
‘The doctor will not like the sound of that. He said you came through that pneumonia hanging by a thread of life.’
‘Ah but now Crooks can’t you see I hang by a string.’
‘Ah you may be that bit stronger but not fit for the rigours of shooting. Will I be drawing your bath Master Reginald.’
Another remark of which one must be wary. If good lord my every activity is monitored. And my most marvellous bath had the ruddy household fighting each other at the keyhole to behold the doings beyond the door.
‘No not this morning Crooks, had one last night.’
‘Ah well it was a good long deep one you must have had too. Reading my bible I could hear the drain gurgling.’
‘I beg your pardon Crooks.’
‘There’s not much Master Reginald that one misses in a house like this. Human it is. You learn to know its groans. You can hear it sigh. Hear it weep. You would even know if it ever erupted in ecstasy.’
‘I do hope Crooks that you are referring only to the house’s structural proclivities and not those of its human inhabitants.’
‘Ah isn’t one thing nearly the same as the other. I often recall to mind the evening I heard Her Royal Highness our housekeeper, singing there in the ballroom. The marvel of that voice nearly made the whole building throb with life.’
One did not relish prodding further into Crooks’s musical appreciation or concerning from where he was spying on that particular evening or indeed the wide all encompassing custodial chores he would appear to have taken on. But quite pleasant to hear aristocratic reference being made to a member of one’s household staff. Miss von B did however, more than once hint of her suspicion that Crooks was spying upon her undressing which I’m sure accounts for his improved good relations with her. And not surprising when Crooks knows that Foxy and I nearly broke our necks doing it. And certainly how could it much matter now when the poor old fossil has already once seen her stark raving nude.
‘Have you any special desires for supper or shall I refer myself to Her Royal Highness.’
‘Her Royal Highness, Crooks.’
‘Thank you, master Reginald.’
In a double edition of my woollies that Crooks laid out I dressed rather rapidly to be about my business. But I did indeed recall that evening of aria. Prior to dinner and just before drinks were to be served in the library. I thought at first it was a new lease of life that my father’s gramophone had taken on. Till I realized the sound was coming from the ballroom. To whose door I tiptoed thinking, o god who now has gone bonkers. And pushing the door ajar I saw Miss von B. In a long white flowing gown, a candlestick in her hand, her arms held out. In the centre of the ballroom floor. Her head held back and singing with such lyric feeling and compassion. Her whole marvellous body alight with such shimmering beauty that I began to shake and tremble. Goose pimples galore all over and my hair standing up on the back of my neck. Had to loose the door knob I held in my hand because it began to rattle too. T
here I stood in the darkness transfixed. And a little frightened as well. The candle light throwing shadows upwards across the side of her face. But of course I was rather shamed not only by my having an erection during such a culturally magic moment but also that I had spied in this manner on what was another’s most intimate reverie. And then she moved, the candle fluttering, to glide silently in circles till the candle blew out.
Darcy Dancer proceeding down the beech grove stairs. Rooks squawking out there in the tree tops. And with my grandfather’s best Purdey gun from the gunroom, I came round the corner in the half light out across the hall. Norah taking ashes from the grate. And jumping up in a fright. As I came upon her silently on the rug Miss von B had just resurrected from the attic floor hall. To then quickly regain her senses with a little smile and her usual little nod of her head. When you’re nearly dead it must make people become a little wide eyed to see you abroad alive again.
‘Good morning, you did give me a start there, Master Reginald. ‘Tis good to see you, sir.’
‘Good morning, thank you Norah. And how are you keeping.’
‘Middling sir, only middling.’
‘O well, that’s better than poorly, isn’t it.’
‘It is sir, yes.’
Rather disturbing enlargement one thought one noticed of Norah’s belly. Or else she is simply getting rapidly and deucedly fat. She has when one really looks, quite an extremely pretty face. Big brown eyes. Freckles on forehead nose and cheeks. Ample bosomed and trim strong legs. Which I must confess I have upon occasion turned to watch disappearing down a hall or ascending a stair. Good lord, I hope not yet another pregnancy in this house. That’s the trouble with wet weather. Causes so much hanging about getting up to mischiefs. If the remaining last of the useful servants start having babies it will be a damn nonsensical nuisance. With priests and nuns clammering about to find out who did it. And perhaps why. Will certainly not increase the household’s day to day agreeableness. Seems one hardly gets down the stairs and out the ruddy front door. Before more tribulations unfold.
Darcy Dancer on the front steps. Taking in deep cold sweet lungfuls of air. Kern and Olav happily pushing and shoving their big heads at me. Then growling in jealousy at each other. And pending parturition makes one distastefully recall. My father’s tufts of lighter hair high on his cheek bones. His chomping hunting boots, the crops and whips and horse equipages piled at the front entrance of the house. And the mysterious pregnancies that began to appear among the household staff. With suspicions forthrightly cast upon the grooms but whispers had it said it was my father. And a story going round the countryside that while he was out and about on his horse that he never hesitated inquiring after any likely girl he might see. For whom an immediate staff opening was provided at Andromeda Park. Then too there was the story of the pretty girl, the daughter of the gombeen man at a crossroads some miles away who sold groceries and various and sundry divers manufactured articles and one night my father aseat on his horse had watched her through the lighted window behind the counter of the shop and on a pretext that he was lost and needed directing in the dark he took her off into a wood the other side of the road. Her bald father later came to discuss with my father behind locked doors of the rent room. And was even once received in the north east parlour. And there were whispers about the consequences for years and that a little boy was growing up in Dublin who was a Kildare.
‘Ahoy there a moment Master Reginald.’
Sexton coasting around the rhododendrons on his bicycle. Wheels grinding over the pebbles. Like waiting for my breakfast tray in the morning to arrive from the kitchen. Hearing it coming and coming in the early silence. Along the halls, up stairs and then finally arriving with a knock on my door. As Sexton squeaks to a stop. On his two wheeled vehicle he said once belonged to a Protestant Bishop.
‘Ah you look alive and well. And doing some shooting Master Darcy.’
‘O just a bang or two at a few pigeon or snipe.’
‘Good day for it. Try over there in the little bit of bog the corner of the field the other side of spy glass hill. There’s always a bird or two lurking which later could nicely tickle the palate.’
Drops of moisture descending Sexton’s cheek from under his eye patch. He wipes them away with a big knuckle of his fist.
‘And are they Sexton, still up there in the oak plantation.’
‘O they’re still there. And will be at them trees. Till all fifty are gone. Sharpening that big cross cut saw every morning like a razor. And by evening they’d have it so dull it wouldn’t cut butter. Three horses pulling the logs out to the road and two pulling them into town. And the gombeen man ought to be taught a lesson. Sure didn’t one of the barbarians working for him come upon a pair of rare antique inkstands. Hidden innocent they were for years in an old walled up space in an architectural masterpiece of a mansion the land commission were knocking down in honour of the greater glory of peasant Ireland. O god weren’t they ormolu mounted of the most refined taste imaginable. In the true genuine regency style. And with the same sledge hammer this barbarian was using on the building, he smashed the innocent things to smithereens with a stupidity nulli secundus. You wouldn’t mind now if he even had the decency to avail of the dignity of a judge’s gavel to wreak his havoc on such sacred things. And the likes of that gombeen man who employs him wouldn’t know the difference between a Louis the Sixteenth style chaperone sofa and a cast iron bucket in the Adam style that he’d sit his own naturalistically coloured arse into. Forgive me using such words. But coarse doings call for coarse language. And down through the ages it’s the lovers of beauty are vilified and the wielders of violence are sanctified. Ah but it’s grand to see you there on the steps. In front of your own great house. And with your acres out there ready to take the tread of your boot and the air feel the shock of your gun.’
Sexton of course delayed me with his flowery rhetoric for some considerable time. Relaying his plans for the gardens in spring, and for the laying out and planting of masterly embellishments and vistas and grand ornamental flower beds. However he could finally sense that I was impatient to be off and touching me gently on the arm he smiled as he always did.
‘Ah I delay you and I must myself go about my business but now you go with the blessing of the Blessed Virgin Mother, and bag a few birds.’
Darcy Dancer crossing the frosty cobbles of the farmyard. Snorts and stampings in the stables. The whinnies of Molly and Petunia. Who smell me near. Luke mucking out. Forking up the big brown lumps of dung matted with yellow straw and shovelling it into his barrow. At least someone is working. But I suppose I shall have to spout a few hackneyed words to pass the time of day.
‘Good morning to you sir. It’s grand to see you up and about.’
‘Thank you Luke. It’s a chilly draughty old morning.’
“Tis that sir.’
‘Gives one a mind to thank god for inventing fire.’
‘Ah now you’ve said it, sir. On these winter days you need the little bit of hell the lord puts flaming in a grate.’
‘Is Foxy about.’
‘He does be about. But always on the move you might say. Like you might see him. And then you don’t. Sure the nights they haven’t an idea where to look for him. And I haven’t clapped eyes on him this long time now. But try above beyond there where he had a mind to hauling some of them potatoes if there’s any left not rotten to be put in the cellars.’
‘Thank you Luke.’
‘And it’s a grand morning for a bit of shooting.’
Darcy Dancer proceeding into the farm tunnel. An arm encircling his gun. In this gloomy light walking over the wet cobbles and the damp dripping down the walls. All the years ago now this was built. All the backs bent with digging. All the stones lifted and placed by hand. The hours, days and years of work. Just so as Uncle Willie said, the likes of me could stand at my library and drawing room windows and look out on the undisturbed green gentleness above. And not have my view or mind di
scomforted by the movement of those who by their big handed hard toil, kept such gentry so agreeably rich and mildly pleased in comfort. Now walk past the stone where Foxy and I came out that night. And the entrance to the subterranean passage down steps where the big rats go scurrying. All the way to the dusty tombs. And all the silly rumour of jewels said to be hidden somewhere out there. That they were supposed secreted away from thieves. But really that they were concealed from my father by my mother. And Uncle Willie said laughingly that if ever I were in dire need he would perhaps give me a map and shovel to go digging. But it was a strange way he said it. Which was not laughing at all. In my delirious sleep I saw my mother. Appear at the foot of my bed in her evening gown. Just as I was allowed to look at her before some grand evening when she sometimes would come to the nursery and kiss me in bed. The diamond necklace around her throat and sparkling in pendants from her ears and bracelets over the white soft kid skin covering her arms to the elbows and glittering too with diamonds. And certainly one does not know now of the whereabouts of such gems. Perhaps there are monstrous massive Thormond or Darcy riches. A cache of gold, pearls, emeralds and rubies. With which I could buy back all our lands again. But like the end of every rainbow I ran to with my sisters, all I ever found was misty rain drops.
Darcy Dancer coming out of the tunnel. Hands up shielding from the sunlight. Ahead the old iron fence and stile and a cattle grid across the road. Air sweet in one’s nostrils. The sky swept bright. A magpie so black and gleaming white on the branch of that tree. Without its mate. Hope to god that doesn’t foretell a spot of ill ruddy luck. Coming too damn soon after quite a goodly batch of it. Interspersed I must frankly admit with some highly agreeable moments indeed. At the tender delicious hands of Miss von B. What a really good useful woman she is. To suddenly make the whole world falling in on one become a world of stunning bliss. She and I could get on awfully well together. She would have her permanent employ. Lots of embroidery to do when she got old like Edna Annie. And once one had absolute proof of her titles we could then perhaps elevate her accordingly. Ah a heron flies there. The big slow flapping wings. The long neck. A lonely bird. Sailing down the wind to the boggy shore of the lake. Dear me one was so tempted this morning to rush to Miss von B’s bedroom. Jump in under the covers beside her. Push my hands up under her bosoms and then try to join them together around her waist. Squeeze and feel her. And now I am equally tempted to blast these pigeons popping all over out of the trees. Only it would give warning of my approach.