Darcy Dancer looking down into the smiling face of Kelly from an open window of a first class compartment. What a pity he doesn’t have another box of fudge. I could munch contentedly on my journey. The station master blowing his whistle. Waves his green flag. Train doors bang shut.
‘Goodbye Kelly, and thank you.’
‘Goodbye Kildare. And here. I brought this for you.’
Train moving. Kildare reaching out for the neat little parcel. Take it safely in one’s hands. Look back. Kelly waving. The terrace of thatched cottages of this village go by. Take a soft seat. Put my head back on the white head linen. And find a smile from my one fellow passenger who is nicely done up in tweeds. Clank slowly now past a long platform of cattle pens. Cross a river and a canal. Stations named Sallins and Straffan. Rain streaks the glass. Like little stabs one feels in the heart. Never see my sisters again. Nor hear Crooks shuffling through the house. Or Foxy scream oaths at beasts. Or the splendid sight of Miss von B’s bottom. Even when those ripe mounds were so snugly held in her white riding breeches as she stood warming in front of the hall fire of Andromeda Park. And that sad man. Good old Sexton. In his potting shed. A half smile in his one eye. Discoursing-on the affairs of the world. That one could be dignified by bleakness and solitude. Which helped to conquer the pessimism of each day in the world. And kept the snobbery vanity and insincerity at bay. And above all Master Reginald, you need confidence. And I’ll tell you what that is in a hurry. Haven’t I read all the great Irish thinkers and metaphysicians from Johannes Scottus Erivgena at the court of Charles the Bald in France right down to the latest from Berkeley. And let me tell you, not one of them knew better than a cow does when she goes to shelter behind a hedge in a winter’s gale. And none of them could give you a better definition of confidence than I’m giving you now. It’s a pound sterling in your pocket.
Darcy Dancer crossing his legs. The thin white stripes in my trousers. The click clack of a train track. And now open up Kelly’s packet. And from its smell it seems. And it is.
Chocolate
Fudge
From
Bewley’s
25
As the train rumbled chugging along the brow of the Liffey valley one was feeling as marvellous as one was terrified. On the rich winter green hillsides stood big country houses mournfully grey. The western clouds drizzling out all their rain. One was nearly tempted to travel third class but my sense of dignity overcame my parsimony. And pleasantly, my compartment companion was a most well spoken horse person.
‘Do you mind young man if I smoke a cigar.’
‘No, indeed, I quite enjoy cigar smoke.’
A damn lie of course. But the gentleman’s manner was so agreeable that one was eager to acquiesce to his wishes. He was a member of the Turf Club. Suggested I look him up any time. My god, horses did make friends for one. And we most interestedly discussed hunting, racing and a splendid deed or two of this man’s well known thoroughbreds. Until one could see the Wellington Monument peeking up in the sky in the Phoenix Park.
Darcy Dancer at the kerb outside the station. Asserting himself to the forefront of some very lackadaisical country people being archly warned aside by those sporting their tweedy elegance. The rustics with their belongings trussed up with broken straps and string. And mostly looking as if someone had upon their arrival, hammered them senseless with a sledge on the head.
‘Are you waiting for a cab.’
‘Ah sir you might say we’re in no hurry now.’
To a blonde tweedy lady I had to administer a few I beg your pardons before she would await her turn. When a red nosed tinkerish looking Jarvey with a rather scrawny mare pulled up. In my most gentlemanly fashion I ushered these three older country people just behind to proceed ahead of me. But they nodded in eight directions and looked up at the sky in four more as if asking every saint in heaven for assistance and then urged me with their country voices to take the horsecab.
‘Ah it’s soon enough later for the likes of us.’
Helping me up, they closed the cab door behind me. In their little lonely dark group they seemed so pleased to be left just where they stood. Staring up at the grey clouds. Looking all round them in wonderment. A soft drizzle falling. And one nearly weeps for the love of such folk. So unarmed against the fashions and smartness of the world. And one took not a little comfort from the blonde tweedy lady who was now angrily shrieking.
‘Porter, porter get me a cab.’
Darcy Dancer sitting back in the dusty upholstery. Chew a chunk of Kelly’s fudge. On a cobble stone road trundle up past this hospital. Turn left at the top. Along this wider avenue. These neat blue painted doors on the buildings. The smell of the big brewery. A fortune must flow out of that for somebody. And as Uncle Willie used to say, wouldn’t it put silver spoons in plenty of mouths.
All so drab, so dark and grey. Glad to see the glass canopy of the Shelbourne. At the end of these Sunday empty Dublin streets. With smoke pouring from the chimneys of houses. The twisting narrow alleys. Lone tattered figures hunched in doorways. The odd cyclist whirring by. All with the same solemn, grim jawed pale faces one remembers in this city. Except inside here the reception girl’s smiling greeting. Puts me in my same room I had previously staying with Mr Arland.
‘My luggage I’m afraid has been misplaced on the train.’
‘We’ll telephone straight to the station, sir to inquire for you.’
‘That is, thank you, awfully good of you.’
Stretched on the bed I lay back in peace. Relieved when they said two hours later that no one answered at the station. My head sunk softly in the pillow. Arm up across my eyes. Stop the tears. Let them fall and they would overwhelm me. After all these weeks. Stare again at the glass of this shiny window. Purple mountains lie out there beyond the darkness. The flower beds, lawns and little lake of Stephen’s Green below. My whole life ahead. With distinctly no money to live it. Where might be Miss von B. Trundling along in the horse-cab looked everywhere turning to see if even that or that shabbily dressed person might be her face. Creases in her soft smooth skin around her mouth when she laughed with her bright teeth. Even gone I can feel her body close. My head tucked in to the side of her neck. Squeezed her shoulders up when she felt tickled. Sleep now. Let her call me bog trotter. Till her laughing heart’s content. Sorrow and tears hanging from her face. Bent, as it seems all ladies bend, to cry. When then you do not remember them so soignée, chic and radiant. Her blonde braids wrapped in a crown on her head. Please. Cheer me. In this cold fear. Of all the days now coming. Who shall feed me. Mend my socks. Bake my scones. Or teach me. Mr Arland. Your steady calmness. Firm in all the battles of life. Win against ignoble enemies. Defend the weak who would be vanquished. Exhibit helplessness to those who fear strength. And thereby draw the ugly bully upon your sword. My land. Sprinkled with rainy woe. Pound it with the hooves of a high couraged horse. Run after hounds. Leave behind those who mope.
In a Monday bright sun Darcy Dancer sauntering down Dawson Street. New day in the heart. Gather up one’s most iron nerve. Turning left around the corner of Nassau Street. Past Elvery’s Emporium of sporting outfitters. Bells jangling. Trams roaring on their shiny tracks. Rooftops and granite buildings of Trinity College across the road. Founded to increase learning and civility. And to banish tumults, barbarism and disorderly living. See the tip top of the glass from the underneath of which poor Mr Arland helped himself illicitly to fruit behind the Provost’s house. Dame Street. Banking edifices rearing in splendour. Pass down this boulevard to enter this establishment of saddlery. Blatantly march up to this most dignified elderly assistant. And hope to be greeted. Hope to be welcomed. And hear said. O my dear sir, how can we lay the world at your feet.
‘Good morning sir.’
‘Good morning.’
‘And what can we do for you sir, this morning.’
‘Suit’
‘What had you in mind, sir, worsted, tweed, flannel.’
‘Twe
ed.’
‘Very good sir, come this way.’
Without a word discourteous or a movement disinterested, in a little cubicle I was measured. My presently most ill fitting togs from Awfully Stupid Kelly’s father, the trouser waist of which could easily encompass three of me, now removed and folded. Revealing my most unflattering too light blue and too short ankle sock.
‘And something ready to wear sir.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact.’
The gentleman assistant and I pored over a sample of tweed patterns and made an appointment for fitting. Nipped out in the old togs to select the new. From a glass enclosed case chose a cap and a cravat rather purplish in colour with pink round dots. In every way quite sporting and resembling a previous favourite tie. Four pairs of wool socks, light grey, dark grey, one black and one navy blue. Four silk shirts. And off the peg, one cavalry twill trousers, one Donegal tweed hacking jacket. Six white linen hankies. When down in the mouth fine fabrics do put a good face on things. With wool, linen and silk. Jollied up in haberdashery. Cut a figure. Steady one’s footing. Where one was previously slipping badly. Comport myself now in places where one gets dinner and party invitations. Not quite appearing like a race course tout but nearly. I must last out. Hoard the very feeble confidence of the remaining pounds in my pocket.
‘You have an account with us sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I inquire of the name please.’
‘Kildare. Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.’
‘But of course. Andromeda Park.’
‘And please would you in due course send it to the Shelbourne where I am presently in residence.’
‘Certainly sir.’
‘And you may give these clothes to some deserving person. They were given me when my luggage was misplaced.’
‘Of course sir, I had thought the tailoring was by the look of a line or two, not quite paying full due to your figure.’
My next few days one must say were pleasant. Visiting the painting galleries, a tour of the big brewery, theatre in the evening and sometimes, racing permitting, the cinema in the afternoon. Till I returned for my final suit fitting. Brought off with all the suitably pleasant murmurings. Little tuck under the arms, a nip at the waist. And by god with the trouser just further narrowed I would soon cut a swath.
‘I think sir, we are going to have you looking your best.’
‘Rather.’
And at last this sunnyish balmy day. Walking up and down Grafton Street top to bottom for the fifth time. Sporting my new suit. To take lunch. At Jammet’s. Following my second successful day at the races. After numerous abysmal losing ones. Entering through this shadowy little alleyway off Grafton Street. Welcomed. Hand my dark brown trilby to the door man. Just acquired at the hatter’s three minutes ago. Sit myself up on this stool. Cool marble counter. Open the racing pages. Study the form. Yesterday won seventeen pounds on the first race. Lost two pounds on each of the next four races. And now just following the purchase of my head garment there was the hatter’s rather churlish refusal of credit. Requiring one to distressingly part with cash. But leaving one still in possession of a pound or two.
‘Sir.’
‘A snipe of champagne please and a dozen oysters.’
Darcy Dancer folding his racing paper. To survey the day’s tips. The nostrils assailed by the aromatics of these passing plates lofted to place settings along this counter by these most attentive presiding gastronomic gentlemen. And this face next to me, turning. Looks and looks again. At me I believe. One absolutely hates this kind of inquisitiveness at lunch. Next he’ll be wanting to borrow my cutlery. My god. Good Lord. His face. How does one in tie middle of one’s oysters and champagne as well as an unwelcome inquiring question become awfully scarce.
‘I say there, excuse me, but don’t I know you. I think I do. Can’t place you exactly.’
‘I’m sorry, but I do believe you may be confusing me with someone else.’
‘No. Not a chance. Served in military intelligence fourteen years. Could pick a certain wog out of a black hole chock a block full of them. Black or white never forget a face. Damn sure I know yours. From somewhere.’
Never has one had to enjoy champagne and oysters less. Having as they have now become my most treasured midday habit. Following my long breakfast of tea, sausages, bacon and ham, hot bath, stroll about the Green. And then a perusement of shop windows. To now have to keep one’s face as averted as possible without being blatantly rude. Surely my utterly single minded indifference to him has got to make the ruddy conversation dry up. Or any second I may be chased right out across this room and out the door. Followed by this face. Which as Master of Foxhounds I saw last, full of rage tumbling off arse over spurs down his horse’s tail. Ah. That did it. Just hit him nicely in the eye. Nothing like a squirt of lemon to shift his attention.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Dammit. Don’t mind a bit of lemon in the eye. Just damn mind if I can’t recall where I’ve seen you. By god I do know your face, I know I do. It’s either polo or the hunting field I’m damn certain of that.’
‘I’m awfully sorry, I can’t help you. Don’t hunt or play polo. Hardly even associate with those who do. I live as a matter of fact out the end of a peninsula which perhaps you might know called Mizen Head. Quite remote.’
‘Well it’s bound to come to me, damn it, have a drink. What is it to be.’
‘Well as a matter of fact, it’s champagne. A snipe.’
‘You shoot those do you.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact I do.’
‘On your peninsula.’
‘Yes. On my peninsula.’
‘Jolly good. And that’s a jolly good drink this time of day.’
Amazing. With this big rotter trying to figure out who one is, one has quaffed now four snipes. Making a full bottle together with three dozen oysters. The Master of Foxhounds is even clapping me on the back. Clicking my vertebrae all down my spine. But never mind, also picking up the back breaking bill.
‘And where are you off to my young fellow.’
‘Curragh Races.’
‘Good show. So am I. Join me in my motor car.’
‘Well as a matter of fact.’
‘Good let me have the facts.’
Of course my most salient fact was that one was terrified. Weighing as he must obviously do, at least fifteen stone. But my flattery of him in every conceivable way seems to have at least made him forget he remembered me. Till indeed I think he took my buttering him up as an overture of lasting friendship. He could be and probably is an absolutely sadistic pederast.
‘My Bentley is just around the corner.’
As now he is positively insisting upon departing in my company. Although clearly one is out of danger of being recognized now, one might next really be running the risk of buggery. He did say between snipes that youth gave the eyes a sparkle. And one must show appreciation to another’s flattery. I did rather roll my eyes. Seemed to make all proceed quite nicely. Till I felt his hand pressure my arse as one decamped from one’s stool. Heading as we are right to the door. In his generosity to the doorman. Pouring change in his palm. He’s dropped about four shillings. Pick this one up. Hand it to him. As one’s face turns. To look somewhat upwards at his. And O my god never has recognition struck such a thundering blow. Once again his scarlet coat. His upraised whip. His white gloves. And face bloating red.
‘By gad. I know where I remember your face. It’s you. You bloody bounder. You. Stole my ruddy horse. And had me thrown. Why you, come back here.’
The doorman in his ministrations to the Master of Foxhounds obviously at first thought we were reciting lines from a stage play. And I must say with the words so out of context of a damn good champagne and oyster lunch, anyone at all would be forgiven for thinking that. Until the doorman saw aghast, the swing door of Jammet’s open with such speed that it came loose off its hinges.
‘By god would you believe it. That ruddy young
scamp. Unseating me from my horse. Accepting my sociability. And sticking me with the blasted enormous bill.’
Of course I could not hear these latter words spoken but dear me imagined them. And it was the Master’s fatal mistake to take the seconds he did to reflect to the doorman. Even though the latter’s duty was to listen to all sorts of sad tales. I was not long in reaching the passing throngs of Grafton Street. And at some increased speed arriving just a few feet away at the front entrance to Mitchell’s granite palace erected for the greater glory of afternoon tea and cakes. Where one awaits the Master to harmlessly pass by. Wiggling in among the stream of early afternoon ladies from Foxrock and Rathgar. Catching my breath in their perfume. Peering out from between their tea bonnets. To this present moment in Grafton Street. So sunny. So silly. When all one can think of is the rather red scar across the Master’s nose upon which I remember his cap visor crushing down. Whoosh. Here he is. Charging like a bull in my pursuit. And wham. Crash right smack into the most dearest of little old ladies. Laying flat the poor dear tiny creature cold as a cucumber on the pavement. What a disgrace. Her black straw hat decorated with yellow primroses, flung flying. Alarmed ladies making a protective circle around the dear old prostrate thing. And the Master hulking totally distraught and hysterically apologizing to one suffragette striking at him with her parasol. Just hope he doesn’t have the same recognition for voices as he does for faces. As one cries out. Four loudly articulated words. To echo the deepest feelings of these absolutely appalled gathered ladies most of whom are clearly members of the Royal Dublin Society.
You
Big
Stupid Oaf
26
Those first weeks in Dublin memorable for living life with what one can only describe as an inscrutable insobrieous insouciance. Unwise however to spend any time longer in the horsey habitat of the Shelbourne. Especially as that very morning one was handed one’s first hotel bill. Which one had in the splendour of one’s tweed been previously requesting to be put on next month’s tab. One did not trouble to even glance down at the long white amended and re-amended sheets of paper. Fearing to gasp at the amount because one had become utterly overwhelmed with extravagance. Of course daily one was awaiting the remedy on the race course. And I found it necessary to rock a little back and forth on my heels while requesting the assistant manager to arrange that my many weeks bill be put on my quarterly tab. And when at his slight hesitation I loftily inquired as to whether there was any difficulty.