‘Ah you’re wide eyed at the carnage and wreckage. Well let me tell you. An American was loose among us. Knocking dentures flying. Flipping the innocent on their backs. And screaming he was a fighting amphibian. Took a dozen of us to subdue him and we’re still waiting for cars to ferry the injured to the hospital. And all that was said to him was, wasn’t Hollywood films full of rubbish. And by god he laid into us.’
I stepped to peek into the darkened shuttered drawing room. And still dancing. Binky and Lois. Now both naked. Foxtrotting to the tune of a song saying something like Johnnie doesn’t give a damn any more. In my inebriation of the night before I was momentarily loose from the Black Widow and confronted Lois. She slapped my face. Merely for quoting Rashers Ronald. Who had said her paintings were the ravings of an alley cat in heat. I would have thought that such remark was appropriate as she was always going on about her fertile period. God some people are so hard to understand. Also overheard someone talking about Uncle Willie. That he’d gone to London to be a ponce. And I was ready to smash the speaker’s face until it said that recent rumours and gossip had it he’d gone to Monte Carlo. Gambled away twenty thousand pounds in one night, and won thirty the next.
Darcy Dancer flushing the toilet bowl. One’s reminiscences finally moved one’s bowels. And nip smartly down this hotel corridor to the bath. Have perfected twiddling the taps off and on with my toes. Soak away all one’s morning worries. Shave away the dark stubble on cheek and jaw. Take in my shoes from the hall. And nicely shined by the Boots. Attire in silk. To dress stylishly gives one such confidence. Polka dotted brown tie. My west of England tweeds. Trilby hatted. Binocs slung over a shoulder. This is my last day of comfort. My hotel bill now large enough to cause actual whispers as one passed out through the lobby. But one was sure it was only because of a solicitous curiosity concerning my wherewithal. The staff on the whole have been simply sterling. My picnic lunch neatly packed ready at the porter’s desk. Such dear good chaps. Remember them in my will. Times like this of course one must only be even more extravagant. And ordered for late supper after the theatre tonight, duck, wild rice and champagne. With the Marquis’s fiver still tucked in my waistcoat pocket. To go today to Punchestown races.
Darcy Dancer walking his brisk way to the station. Cross Duke. Down Grafton. Twenty past noon on Trinity’s blue gold clock. The portico of the bank. And plunge smack into Rashers Ronald his rabbit teeth sunnily smiling.
‘My dear chap. Hello and how are you. Believe it or not you’ve stumbled upon me buying seedlings. That’s why I’m blushing. With this parcel. That other night. I found myself without warning in charge of a motor car. With someone’s drunken head lolling all over the steering column I rammed down someone’s garden wall. Flattened two baby palm trees. Demolished a bird bath. But I successfully navigated out on the road again. Only to be brought to a stop by these awful people’s tennis net enmeshed in the car’s undercarriage. They came screaming out at me in their pyjamas. They want garden reparations made. Awful bore. See you later in the Buttery.’
Darcy Dancer watching Rashers waltz off in his morning suit much needing a pressing and repairs. People look so different outdoors. Just as they do when attired for hunting on a horse. Now pass the smells of coffee of another Bewleys. A dragon emblazoned in tiles at its front door. Turn left up along the Quays. The Ha’penny Bridge. Four Courts across the river. A green dome. Exacting justice. Throwing debtors into prison. All these buildings housing solicitors. And one of whom may be on my trail. Mouldering buildings of merchants. Georgian fronts. Red bricked. Gay painted doors. Bookshops and auction rooms. Antiques and furnishings. A Franciscan church. And soon I’ll have so many women in my life that I will because of their numerous number start forgetting them.
Darcy Dancer striding quickly now to catch the train. Past the big brewery. A grey granite barracks across the river. Flying my country’s flag. What a marvellous day for racing. White fluffy clouds blown across a sky so blue. The Phoenix Park. Top of the obelisk sticking out of its new green trees. Buy my ticket. First class on this packed train. Pull away out the tracks. On which one had come to Dublin. The big country houses hidden now in all the spring leafage. Click clack over a warming land. To this popularly attended race meeting.
Darcy Dancer with two other racegoers taking a taxi from the station. Nearly crashed us into a ditch or hedge at every turning on the road to the course. And there it was. This track. Spread on the green grasses to the horizon. Pennants blowing. The tiers where people sit and stand. The rich, the poor. The élite and untouchable. The parading horses. The bright fluttering silks. The ladies’ big gay hats.
Darcy Dancer standing in the mild breeze. Loud speaker announcing. Tweeds pass all round one. So many familiar faces. Hard to know quickly enough the ones to hide from. Their membership badges flying from lapels, sitting sticks and leather cases. Much as one wants to be with the right people one won’t splurge to go into the most expensive enclosure. Instead, in soft fond memory of Miss von B. Put an extra large bet on Blue Danube at fourteen to one.
Darcy Dancer’s light hurrying feet. Back to the bookie. Wait in this joyous tiny line. To collect. On the first race, a winner. Watch the peeling off of these thirteen pounds. Now in my pocket. To suddenly have money. To hell with form. Just choose another sentimental name. Moonhatter. Ten to one. Get to the bookie. Hop back to the rails. And my god. Back to the bookie again. For there in the sight of one’s binocs. This filly stampeding home. Sixteen lengths out front past the post. And I am forty pounds ahead.
Darcy Dancer’s eyes darting from face to face. Everyone at the races. And ghosts. Out of one’s past. Priest and parson friends of my mother’s. Up in the pavilion. As I stand with a wad of winnings amid the throng in front of these bookies. A fortune made. Put a fiver on Amphibious at twelve to one. Take an egg sandwich out of my picnic. For a bite and breather from the agony. Of watching the big bank where the horses climb to jump down. Uncle Willie said that with so many shenanigans going on that picking winners was something that comes out of your insanity. Creeping to tell you from way out on the edge of the world. But never before today has it ever told me anything twice.
Darcy Dancer dodging back and forth through the crowd. My hand feels so snug and warm in my pocket wrapped around money. Stand at the rail. They canter down. Amphibious is alive and kicking. So mild so sunny. The breeze blowing me luck. Prosperity after all these days. Makes everyone around look so charming. If my nerves simply will take it. But like my vagabond days. And in my moments of defeat. The words are. Press on. And they’re off. Stare down at my toes. And look up in the deafening roars. Wake again with the strange soaring elation. Amphibious by a nose. Collapsing me happily in a few seconds of marvellous heart failure.
Darcy Dancer dancing to the parade ring. With packed now in his tweed pockets over one hundred pounds. Walk on air. In one’s element. One’s demeanour takes on a totally new elegance. Stable lad as I once was. Now watch them leading their horses. Owners disporting in their natty suitings. Wives and daughters in the latest from ladies’ gazettes of fashion. My goodness. The Slasher sisters. Each in an umbrella sized straw hat. Trainers in cavalry twill. The jockeys mounting in their bright silks. And along the rail. A face. Staring at me. Matt. From the Awfully Stupid Kelly stables. Who catches my eye. And like a wounded animal moves away. Then looks back suspicious over his shoulder, not sure if it was me.
Darcy Dancer moving out from the rail and along by the backs of the crowd. Closer up to Matt. To see him in a shabby baggy brown suit. Unlike the racy tighter tweeds he wore. Bending over to cough. Hacking and spitting. His lungs heaving. Looking like he might die in a paroxysm. His shirt dirty. Collar ruffled and his cap torn. As I tap him gently on the back he turns to look.
‘Hello Matt.’
‘By god it is you. Sure you wouldn’t know you were the same person at all. I seen you there now at the bookie’s collecting a big win and as sure as I was it was you I was just as sure it wasn’t. Y
ou look now as if you’d had a bit of luck for yourself.’
‘I appear at least for the moment to be managing quite well.’
‘Well some of us are not. Turned on me they did.’
‘Who turned on you Matt?’
‘Would it be anybody else but those gombeen curs. Sacked me without even a week’s notice. Wasn’t but a day after you left. The ungrateful blackguards. You sweat your guts out. Give them your best. Sure the new butler stole them blind. Shifting stuff out of that place now, you wouldn’t believe it. Giving parties for his friends while they was away. You’re dolled up.’
‘Well I have rather bought a few things I needed.’
‘Ah now I’m not looking me best. Went on a bit of a skite. Drinking drinking everything I could lay me lips to. You might say I’m down a mite on me luck. Now I’m sorry I went that bit hard on you. Sorry I did that. Regretted it many a time. And you being a great horseman too.’
‘That’s nothing to worry about. Matt Come along with me. And I’ll get you something to eat. Or would you like a bit of my picnic.’
‘Ah I’m alright, thanks the same. But I’ll wait now till after this next race. Even though I haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday. With only the few coppers I’ve got left in me pocket. Some of the lads give me a hand that I’d meet in the enclosure. But you couldn’t make me the lend of a quid or two could you. I’m gathering together what I can for the last race.’
‘Of course I could Matt.’
‘Ah thanks. My god though, I thought you might turn on me. But I can see now. You’re a gentleman. Real gentry. Grown now fine straight and tall. Not like them gombeen gob-shites. But I’ll tell you what you do now. Beg borrow or steal. Every last penny you can. And bet to win. That’s what I’m here for. No other reason. Sure I reared that Tinkers Revenge meself in the gombeen bogshites stable and I know the trainer well and once he’s let go he’ll show his heels to the lot of them. I don’t usually give a hoot about pedigrees but he’s got the blood of the great stallion Dancer in his veins. And an engine on him like the London to Glasgow express. Take no notice of that hundred to one. Some of the rest of us will benefit from that gombeen man’s cunning. And be fast before that gobshite puts his own bets on and reduces the odds.’
Matt moving off. The crowds flow back to the enclosures and stands. Darcy Dancer for light relief, putting twenty pounds on the favourite. Embroidery. Even money. Matt to meet me later. And everyone here from everywhere. Even the timber merchant I’d chased out of Andromeda Park. Passed by in the paddock. His face glowering when he saw it was me. And he turned to whisper to the man behind him. Our swarthy ruddy agent. Under his bowler hat and with a pretentiously tightly furled umbrella. Sneaking looks back at me over his shoulder as he and the timber merchant scurried away through the crowd. Rather nice feeling to find one can throw fear into somebody. As well as watch the favourite come in by three lengths.
A dark grey bank of clouds coming up out of the west. The air blows chillier. Gusts whirling programmes and betting slips up into the sky. Hailstones raining down. Racegoers running for cover. Darcy Dancer proceeding along the line of bookies. Standing up chalking in the changing odds on their signs for this last race. One did have a sinking feeling. To peel off these notes. So rarely won. To plunge all but the price of dinner at Jammet’s and a bottle or two of champagne. In do or die.
‘Ah you’ll have to try somebody else with a bet that size at a hundred to one. I’m not here to get skint.’
Dear me. Unpleasant fellow refusing to take my bet. Try this next chap. Certainly. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll take a hundred pounds at one hundred to one. And the next bookie took twenty pounds at eighty to one. My whole immediate future. Haberdashery and hotel bills. Laid on Awfully Stupid Kelly’s father’s horse. Only ever been heard of to come in last or next to last. Now in a field of fourteen runners of some of the best steeplechasers in the land. And he’ll no doubt fall on his head and send his jockey to kingdom come. And me back to an abattoir. But one’s luck is in names today. And that’s why mine’s Dancer.
The black grey clouds blowing over. Hailstones sprinkled white and melting on the gleaming green turf. A moment’s sun splashing on the horses led round the parade ring. One slinks in behind the heads. Awfully Stupid Kelly’s mother dressed for some kind of operetta in the centre of the paddock. Primrose satin cape. An emerald satin dress. And would you believe it, a mauve parasol and pink high heeled shoes. Just as garish as her racing colours. And turning this way and that as if people were dying to see every side of her and photographers from Tatler and Sketch were clicking cameras recording her for social history. O god they are such know it alls. Stupid Kelly’s father sporting a suede waistcoat with gold buttons and having a conspirational talk with a rather impatient jockey. Who now mounts and sits adjusting his stirrups. This chestnut stallion number twelve upon which my future comfortable habits rest, is at least lean and narrow gutted. But slightly sloping in the quarters. And good lord also dishing its front hooves. Whoops. Rears flashing out legs. And kicking Kelly’s mother’s parasol flying right out of her hands. And that’s distinctly a better sign. Of get up and go. But O god. The favourite. Led out. With its rippling muscles. One’s heart sinks at the sight of its dancing light strides. Looks like the sheer winner it’s supposed to be. As they each go off. To the track. Breaking into a canter. Tails flowing. Pounding down the soft meadow. To size up the first hurdle. This may be Matt’s way of dealing me some final blow.
Darcy Dancer walking back to the stands. Another patch of blue sky. Polish off my last egg sandwich. Chew a nice bit of parsley. Look back up there under this race course roof. Where Awfully Stupid Kelly’s family and guests now stand behaving as if they own the place. With their binoculars, at the ready. And mine too. And the bill as yet unpaid. Focus a moment. My goodness. They are in the company of seemingly high ranking Army and Garda Siochana officers. And a face I recognized from their disastrous dinner party. Of the woman down whose cleavage the poet dived after the pea. Awfully Stupid Kelly is a brave little bastard to tolerate such parents. And now one distinctly stiffens. Voice on the loud speaker. They’re under starter’s orders. Flag is up. And they’re away. Sledge hammer words hitting the heart.
Darcy Dancer dropping his binoculars. And putting one’s hands placed back both over ears and eyes. If one only could bear to look. And now tremble raising one’s binocs back to the eyes. The names reeling off over the loud speaker. And what a name for a horse. Tinkers Revenge. Matt said they should have called it gombeen gobshite after themselves. All safe over the first jump. Two down at the second. The favourite setting a fast pace, already out by six lengths in the lead. On the first circuit of the course. Can’t bear to put the binocs up. Where the devil is the horse. The stupid bloody beast. With my one hundred and twenty pounds on its back. Damn and sod it. As Mr Arland used to say.
Darcy Dancer turning to look up in the tiers of people. Scan them with my binocs. To the owners’ box. Just to see if if I can determine an equally crestfallen attitude on Stupid Kelly’s father’s face. And now in the middle of all the heads. The one I hate. My father. With that woman I saw that day up the stairs. The agent and timber merchant standing just behind them. As the announcer’s voice thunders on. Coming round the second circuit of the course. The favourite now a lone way clear. Leading by eight lengths. Beginning to swing left handed, turning for home. Five fences left to jump. The crowd’s roar rising. Raging in one’s ears. It’s Ulidia Prince. Still making ground coming into the straight. Screaming now. The name Ulidia Prince. And for me. It’s back to the abattoir. O christ, one hundred and twenty pounds. My whole dignified salvation, down the drain. On Awfully Stupid’s bloody horse. Which at last has just been mentioned by name. O my god. He’s still running. Tinkers Revenge. Moved up from last to next to last. Isn’t that wonderful. With furlongs to go. Get up. Get up. Over that next ruddy fence you bloody god damn nag. Up. And two more horses down. Squeals of horror. Bury my face. In
my hands. O my god my heart. Never again. Just reserve my strength to climb the steps to the owners’ box and punch Awfully Stupid Kelly’s family and guests one by one in the nose. You damn critter. Peek once more in my binocs. He’s over that fence. One is even talking like a cowboy film in one’s desperation. O god. Tinkers Revenge has moved up. Into seventh place. Cannot watch any more. Listen to the announcer. Who’s in a real lather. It’s Ulidia Prince now. Three fences to jump. It’s Ulidia Prince, from Intrator. Leaping Lizard, Hindustani, followed by Dictionary, Hilary, Kilcullen and Donadea. The rest are nowhere now. It’s Ulidia Prince. O my god. Tinkers Revenge is out of it. Back to something like ninth place. Pause from the announcer. Must have dropped his sheet of names. Ah. He’s talking again. And coming now, on the outside. Still in the race. Donadea and Tinkers Revenge making ground. Two fences to jump. Intrator’s down. He’s down. And it’s Ulidia Prince. Hindustani second, Dictionary third. And on the outside now. Making ground. Tinkers Revenge. Donadea coming fifth. And still coming to the last. It’s Ulidia Prince. Definitely easing up the pace. Hindustani, Tinkers Revenge, Dictionary. The only ones left in it. And on the outside. Coming fast. It’s Tinkers Revenge. Good lord. The announcer is just as hysterical as me tripping over his words. This rank outsider. Neck and neck Ulidia Prince and Tinkers Revenge. O god I’ve got to look. Stride by stride. The whips raining down on the quarters. Legs stretched. Thump and pound. My god. Tinkers Revenge. Pulling away. And at the post. Tinkers Revenge. By half a length. The world is over. One is now more than just flesh bone and blood.