‘Where’s my father.’
‘He’s down below with the agent in the rent room. And if you will be preferring to dine alone, I’ll take you up some hot supper whenever you’re ready. I wouldn’t let it be known where you were to anybody calling.’
‘Thank you Crooks. I’ll dine in my room. And I do appreciate what you’ve done.’
‘Well master Reginald, I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman’s gentleman if I didn’t look after one’s master’s business as well as I would look after my own.’
I supped behind my locked door and waited till just before dawn. And the household still. My father retired to the north west corner of the house over the ballroom. I dressed with two big thick pairs of boot socks, two woolly vests, cricket shirt and dark blue sweater under my shooting coat. And got my boots from the front hall. To go out into the world. Starting in the darkness of the morning. To make my triumphant fortune. And come back again to be master of this house.
But I fell down the whole flight of stairs. To the stone paving of the servants’ corridor. Without breaking any bones and no one stirred. Edna Annie and Catherine still snoring asleep. Finding a candlestick, I lit it to go flickering tiptoe into the warm kitchen. Returning into the long cold hall with a bag full of cheese, butter and bread. Catherine now groaning nightmarishly asleep in her cell. Blow cut this candle. Go past the old rent room. Its maps and map table. The door with two bullet holes. And its outside hall and stairway sealed up with brick. Where years ago the tenantry formed a line out the door to pay their tithes. The agent still attending at the round green leather topped table with its index drawers and pedestal cupboard to pay the men. Sexton said it was a chamber of misery.
Go out now that door. Past the steps and stairway to the schoolroom up and down which I often rushed. To hungrily steal goodies from under Catherine’s very nose. And share these with Mr Arland who as he chewed so pleasantly told me not to be rude and thieving. Where would he be now. Happy I hope in full employ. Attending theatre and opera with his lovely actress.
Darcy Dancer pulling back the great bolt. Open quietly this scraping big old portal. Through which so many lives have come and gone to toil and live in these cavernous damp rooms. Close it. And leave behind sleeping. Those souls working towards the end of their days. Down beyond the sunlight shut out high up by the wet dripping stone wall holding back the earth from the rusty barred windows. Catherine maybe will retire to her farm. And Crooks find another situation. And then. Just as it was doing before Miss von B came, all above in this house will moulder and tumble in a heap.
The grass frosty under foot. Makes one shiver. But must go. Never turn back. Forward. Through this iron gate and climb up over where the farm tunnel goes under. Shrouded in the shrubbery there, the old jam house. Head out past the cemetery. Its ivy leaves and great yew tree. Out to these lands. Where I know every copse, hill, and pasture. If I say goodbye. Can the dead hear you. Or listen as I say I stinking well can’t stand it any more. To be told what to do. And I’m getting the stinking god damn hell out of here.
Darcy Dancer sliding sidewards down the steep side of an incline. Bending to squeeze under a giant bough of a tree. Sown by a great great grandfather. Who was friends with the curator of Kew Gardens in England. And who planted all these strange trees. And o my god, the cold cold air. Feel it in the cut on my face. Made bleed again by my fall. Each step now crushing the whiteness underfoot. Fog again out on the sky. Keep tripping over the lumps of frozen cow dung. As I follow. Poor Miss von B. If only she gave him a good clout in the face when he had her on the carpet this morning. Her breasts so swelling in her grey sweater. I wanted to throw myself on my knees and clasp her round the thighs and just hold her. And I must go on. And in the morning chase after her train. Could I lie up hidden in the old game larder till full light. But without any hay or straw it would be so cold. Head now in that direction. That will take me somewhere. Safe from guards and make my headway cross country. Find the fastest way to Dublin. But travelling, each time one looks up, there are always more fields, hedges and hills ahead. The nights running from school I kept the moon at my back. And still did not know where the hell I was going. Except now I go away from home. Running from everything. Come back in a few months, when my fortune is made. And even before next hunting season has arrived, be again the lord and master of Andromeda Park.
Darcy Dancer trudging up the hill. Past this monstrous branched tree. Upon which I did lie on its great extending bough in summertime just staring up into the leaves and hiding from my dear sister Beatrice Blossom. Who got so jealous when she saw me pee standing, when she had to squat. And beyond across the parkland shadows, there stands the grove of oaks. To be mutilated again I’m sure, any day. And through the copse on the other side of the sheltery field. And five more stone throws away. Against a wall, the old disused pump house. Abandoned now to cattle. Where in its cool shade they escape the flies in summer. And where was kept their stock of hay for winter foddering. Go in there. To sleep. Be nearly like a little house with its leaded windows. Rest cosy and warm till daylight.
Darcy Dancer standing on the frost hardened mud at the entrance door. Lifting to dislodge it open. Something blocking behind it. A stone. Push harder. Reach in a hand to heave it out of the way. And close it again to keep out the fog and cold. The sweet smelling warmth of the hay.
‘Who’s that. Another step. And I’ll fucking well send this hammer in me hand fucking well through your skull.’
Foxy.’
‘Who’s that.’
‘It’s me.’
‘What are you doing atall.’
‘I’m looking for a place to sleep.’
‘Sure haven’t you got your bed beyond back there in the big house. What gave you the idea to come up here.’
‘I’m leaving. Perhaps forever. I’m now a criminal on the run. With the guards after me. Just like you.’
‘Don’t be daft since when was gentry ever criminals. What’s that on your head.’
‘It’s a bandage. I got a cut.’
‘Ah you’d want to rub a bit of dirt into that, that’s where the cure is, in the handful of sweet soil. But sure are you crazy to be going off. What’s the matter with you. For the likes of you to be sleeping rough. When you were dying there only a few days ago. Sure you only just arrived back from school.’
‘Are you hungry Foxy. I’ve got some food.’
‘Well I can always do with a bite to eat. Although it’s not yet time for me breakfast.’
‘Is this where you’ve been staying.’
‘I am for the time being. While the guards are looking for me. And while my father has been in his bed for a while groaning after I landed him a blow of this hammer.’
‘You’re always doing that Foxy.’
‘And me father and some others like him are always deserving it too. Did you read about me in the newspaper.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah that’s all a cod. I have the account here in me pocket. They haven’t got any of them facts straight. Don’t listen to any of them lies. Sure wasn’t I having an old dig between the juicy legs of the good Father’s housekeeper’s daughter. That old bag gave birth to her eighteen winters ago and has been saying round the countryside ever since that it’s her niece from Dublin. It was the daughter. Herself one lovely bit o’ lass, who told me where the sherry was.’
‘It said in the newspaper Old Marsala.’
‘Now I don’t know the bloody difference. But it would come every bit as close to making you feel in your head the same as sherry does. She gave me the key to the sacristy. I was invited. Now that old bag says I’ve put her daughter in the family way four months gone. Demanding I take her up the aisle and put a wedding ring on her finger. With the eegit guards thinking I’m guilty of robbing.’
‘But you were in the curate’s robes.’
‘I’m in them this very second, can’t you see up here. And warm as a hand up a cow’s arse they are too. Ah but that’s another cod. The daughter’s
doing entirely. Didn’t she say she wanted to see what it was like to get it from a priest. Sure what harm is there in that. To put on an old cassock. And even though I couldn’t get the white collar around me neck to make me look the real part, I was suitable enough for her when I took out me prick. And that had a white collar of skin around it I’m telling you. I fucked her all over the sacristy. Sure she was consuming the sherry as well. Wanted me to do her on the altar. I told her to fucking well go on out of that and get some manners on her, that I wasn’t going to commit sacrilege. And I never broke into any ould church. And I wasn’t doing her where we might leave clues up in front of the tabernacle. I did her at the side altar instead. Where not so much attention is paid. And that eegit. Inquiring what I was doing on the gravestone. I was taking my fucking ease was what I was doing. After a good hump. Couldn’t he fucking well hear me singing. And then the old hag the mother has three of them at the dance hall attacking me for what she says I did to the daughter in the family way. I took a few knocks but I beat and belted and kicked the bejesus out of all three. Put two of them lying in the hospital. And the other in church praying I don’t come after him to belt him again. Bring up now some of that cheese.’
‘It’s warm up here.’
‘Sure it’s as fine as the big house. I’m back and forth there when there’s a need. They think they have me locked out. Come up from under the slab in the pig curing room where I took you. And have nearly everything brought back here except the kitchen stove. Hid in here behind this old bit of straw. Crock from the kitchen, only borrowed mind. To keep the food in or the rats will get at it. Be another month before foddering up here in these fields. And I hear tell plenty about you. Shagging the kraut herself.’
‘You’re not to speak in that fashion of her.’
‘Ah you’re a bit sweet on her. Sure I don’t care. I don’t mean to be disrespectful like. O but god be praised hasn’t she got the greatest body now on her. It’s the rare time when I wouldn’t mind being gentlemen gentry like yourself. That such as the likes of her would give me a tumble. I speak with respect now. But they’re on to you. So I hear in the yard.’
‘Someone snitched on me.’
‘Sure it’s the agent. Don’t you know that. Fancies her, he does. Slathering after her like a lapdog at every meeting of the hunt. And making up to her, rolling his eyes and tipping his hat and begging her pardon from one end of the big house to the other. Sure I’ve seen the crafty piece of work at it. And you wouldn’t blame him for that I’m telling you if you ever clapped eyes on the wife he’s got. With her face like the innards of the gears in the old mowing machine. Sure he cottoned on to it all going on between the two of yez from that stupid eegit Crooks with his big stupid mouth mumbling about the house. And sure I hear tell the agent’s buying your land. Has a mind himself to be the big boss in the big house. Maybe even have her ladyship kept on as the housekeeper. Live like a Protestant. Set up himself and the ugly wife like a king and queen over all these acres. A grand bit of cheese this. What I’m telling you is gospel. Did you ever hear tell of me lie to you. Sure he’s busy taking over the whole place. Selling the trees and buying the ground they stand in.’
‘He will not. No one will. It’s mine.’
‘Well I don’t know a thing about that now, but if it’s yours you’d better soon start minding it. And where now are you going.’
‘I don’t know yet. Maybe Dublin.’
‘Stay out of that place. The gurriers there would carve you up with knives and have you raw for breakfast. Sure you wouldn’t be crazy enough now to step out forever and be gone. Do yourself a permanent mischief. That’s daft. A roof, one of the biggest anywhere, over your head. Them gardens. And anything you want flowing to your mouth with the snap of your fingers or yank of a bell. With the grass growing, the beasts grazing and calves popping out of cows all over the place. You’d be daft and all. And meaning no disrespect now, but haven’t you got a fuck laid on now like hot water in the pipes. You wouldn’t get me out of there with the likes of that kind of living, I’m telling you. Sure your father for a start won’t be around forever. Don’t go abandoning anything that’s a bit of use to your comfort. I’ve learned a bit. Me now, my whole life is discomfort. And I wouldn’t know a bit of differ. But you now, gentry, who has to kow tow to nobody. And here you don’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing.’
‘I could get work on a farm.’
‘What kind of place would give you a job. They’d take one look at your hands and know you weren’t suited. But maybe you could try a stable at one of them big stud farms. You’d know plenty enough about horses. And what I taught you. But you’d be daft. With your own stables right here. But never mind me telling you. All I’ve got is lumps on me head, busts in me arms and scars all over me body. With kicks as well in the shins from them old ewes when I’d shove it up them. And two black eyes you can’t see on me. But I’ll tell you one bloody thing. At least it wasn’t me like the guards and everyone are saying it was who ran off with the master’s horse over there and led the hunt thundering down on that old bald bastard the Marquis digging it in there between the legs of that blonde bloody raring to go bitch. I would have loved to have seen that. To put among my memories. The like of that hunting mob over there now is doing their nut now to catch whoever it was.’
‘It was me.’
‘Go on. You’re codding.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Ah god then, you’re well on your way. And the faster your legs go, the better. That mean bunch are out to hang by the neck the one who did that. Sure you’re well able for Dublin then. But mind now how you go out on your own. Cover up who you are with a tall story. Told once you’ll believe it yourself. Rob only just before dawn and pass the time of day to everyone you see now on the roads like there wasn’t a bother on you. You’d be as well now not letting them know you’re gentry. Sure it’s no extra trouble to call them sir. And you won’t come to any harm. And mind, let me tell you something. You’re the only one who’s ever treated me decent and I won’t forget it. And I’ll even tell you something else you should know. But I won’t.’
By the first chill light of a grey still dawn, Foxy Slattery at the old pump house door, took leave of me. As I stood on the thickening frost and backed away over the stiffened mud and cow flop. He stood there ecclesiastically with his serious suspicious face. As if he were thinking of how to rob you while keeping on good terms. His black priestly garment stuck with hay and straw. His face all scars. And he suddenly beckoned me back. Lifted my bandage to look at my cut.
‘Ah it’s only an old scratch on you. Sure pull this thing off and let the healing air and sun to it.’
Foxy seemed sad to see me go. As I reached the old wall, climbing over it, I turned to look back. In the doorway, a lonely figure. Still see him at the door. Then as I came to the top of the hill, he was gone and the door was closed. And I heard mewing sounds and calls. Four swans flying overhead in formation. They go south. I go east. Out to the world. Maybe even across the high seas. And I know what Foxy wanted to tell me. Something you can easily tell. From just a warm smile and glow in someone’s eyes. That my father is Uncle Willie. Who stood that day by the mound of mud. Head wet with rain. Eyes dropping his tears. Upon the sods.
Burying
The beauty
Of my
Mother
21
That late morning, to pass down a sloping field making foot tracks on the moist meadow to the bank of a stream. Cup my hands to drink the water. Big grey rat jumps off a log. Swims away like a fish. Distant wheels hammering on the road.
Darcy Dancer clutching the moss, climbing up to await a boy trotting closer with his donkey and cart. Hitching a ride up and down hills along the meandering byway. Without a word spoken. Save growls and grunts at the big eared shaggy little beast whose tiny hooves pecked away the miles. And when I said thanks at a fork in the road the boy gave me his nod.
That evening nearing the
outskirts of a town. A suspicious Garda Siochana looked at me twice. And the third time he turned I had already disappeared over a wall by a hospital. And ran like the devil through a graveyard. Whose tombstones just sitting outside the hospital windows must make the sickly want to recover. When I offered it, Foxy would take nothing of my money of six pounds, thirteen shillings and eight pence. And now I adhere to his advice. To pass the time of day with strangers. With a remark on the weather. But make yourself scarce when you see the law.
Darcy Dancer in gloves, boots and Aran Islander’s hat. These two chillier days proceeding cross country. Last night as I stood still a badger walked right between my legs. And passing once two farmers standing scratching their heads surveying the innards of an automobile. As its wires showered out sparks and its exhaust exploded smoke. And along with the time of day I proffered my help.
‘Ah me young lad it’s not help we need. Sure you’d have a horse pull a plough a mile before you’d get this yoke to roll a foot down a hill. Mechanical failure is a fatal disease rampant across Ireland. And if you were needing to get somewhere you’d be better off with a pair of legs.’
And somehow one was comforted by this farmer’s words. For all I carried with me were my idle hopes. And the cut on my face still sore but at last healing. As I went now in circles with road signs twisted pointing every way but the right way. Meeting farmers driving their cattle to and from milking. Or cows loose grazing the long acre of ditches and hedges bordering the road. Or straying sheep and lambs scattering ahead of me. And the world, each step I took, was a green place under the sky. Waiting till the sun might shine. Or trying to catch a hare supposed to be slow running downhill. Who left me spreadeagled empty handed flat on my face. To look up and see two farmers standing near by in a field. And recall the words of Sexton.
‘Ah there’s a way an Irishman stands in a field that you would know by the manner of how he stood that he was buying land and for that you’d know who was selling.’