I’m
Rich
30
What a glorious morning. Turning my haughtibility on the management when they thought I was making a break for it. When it was only Matt helping me carry my parcel of money from the Hibernian to the bank. Safely situated with its great grey pillars across from Trinity College. This marvellous giant room. Two gentlemen in their black banking cloth. I could nearly see his lips forming the words. Have you robbed a bank. And I spoke reassuringly.
‘Had a rather good day at the races.’
One with a winged collar. Much delighted hand rubbing. Presenting me with a chequebook. The assistant manager, overseeing the reckoning of the massive stack of notes. One bookie was ashen faced paying me out. Kept peeling off the notes. As if waiting for me to say, that was enough. Had to tell him about five times that it wasn’t. And he was nearly sobbing. But the other bookie by the time we got to him was hurrying to pack and go home. Till Matt raised a fist at him and he undid his bulging satchel and began counting.
Take a horsecab to the Shelbourne. Waltz in. With not a soul racing instantly in my direction screaming, there he is. Chequebook out. And the merest shade of suspicion concerning my oversight.
‘I do believe there is an account of mine outstanding.’
Darcy Dancer jauntily emerging from the side Shelbourne door. Crossing straight over the street for a haircut and manicure. To lie back. Flush faced in peace. In revenge. Gave a shawled tinker lady following the races five pounds. As Uncle Willie had once bid me do if ever I were in luck. And taxi ride back to Dublin. In a vehicle held together with bits of wise and string. With a flat tyre before we went a hundred yards. Ran out of petrol in the first mile. Then the radiator boiling over. With the driver’s constant reassurance.
‘Ah sir I’ll have you back in Dublin in no time.’
In no time the window of the back door fell out on the road. And coming around a turning we rolled over a farmer’s wife’s three ducks. Then hit an irate cow who promptly gored out his head lights. Ah but one’s discomforts and delays were all merely events in which to take exquisite delight. And laughter. When the taxi finally stopped along the Quay. Paid the exorbitant fare. And just as the driver pulled twenty yards away his decrepit vehicle blew up. Making the world safe again for other road users. Ah but this gentle life. In pursuit of comfortable habits. My fingernails soaking in this manicurist’s dish. And after one’s safe delivery from the exploding taxi, took tea with Matt at the Four Courts Hotel. Listening and relistening to the retelling of his whole sad tale. Of his past life and especially most recently. When he put my loaned fiver and the rest of his borrowed money on the previous race and lost it all. His hands shaking as he lifted his cup to his lips. Steadied finally by a large brandy. I bid him to allow me book him a room. Where he could stay at my expense. Wrote a note for him to give my gentleman friend at the haberdasher. To outfit him in suitable clothes. And to report to me at the Hibernian. So blissful now to have one’s head rubbed by the big wheel brushes they lower whirring from the ceiling. And one’s troubles ended. Just turn to determine who the wearer of a kilt is. My god. The Marquis is in the next chair. Busy slinking down low. The barber plying him with sets of hair brushes and tonics. Slipping in the words, Your Lordship between that of Major and Jones. By my swift addition. He’s now bought eighty seven pounds and seventeen shillings worth of hair emoluments and dressings plus sundry scalp and hair grooming utensils. And poor man he groans as I now lean towards him with a five pound note.
‘Good grief what’s this.’
‘It’s five pounds I borrowed from you Major Jones.’
‘O it’s you. By jove that’s unexpectedly good of you. I don’t mean by that any offence. For a moment there I thought you were serving me with a writ.’
One took a modestly larger front bedroom with an attached sitting room facing down Molesworth Street. More befitting one when one was such a plutocrat. But I spent a somewhat terrified whole night clutching my valuables. Thought there were awfully noisy burglars in the next suite. Was in the middle of adding my couch to the writing desk, footstool and table I had just stacked against the adjoining suite’s locked door, when I heard a prolonged high pitched giggle. One’s eye had to navigate a double key hole. But one could easily put together in one’s mind those things which passed before it. With all the glimpses adding up to an overall sight. The Marquis. And Baptista. Both totally unmindful of the comfort of other guests. And both already rumoured to be next season’s joint Masters of Foxhounds. Both of them in the altogether, whooping and hollering. And one imagined Baptista delightedly bringing the whip down on the Marquis’s haunches. Then the Marquis taking a gallop. Exercising his mare Baptista. With her saddle worn held on her back with a cinch strap of pure silk. Nothing a courageous hunting gentleman enjoys more in a woman than her ability to walk if she cannot trot on her all fours across the bedchamber floor. Heinous of me. But one did shout shut up through the pair of locked doors.
Matt agreed to be my temporary chauffeur of my motor car. Formerly the property of an Ambassador. With lovely chromium ripples across the radiator. Over which each morning I ran my hand as it pulled up waiting for me in front of the Hibernian. Where now one stood this day. On the steps of this dignified most comfortable hotel. With dowagers passing in pursuit of coffee and buns. And country gentlemen idly twiddling thumbs before lunch. The weather report on the wireless. Sunny periods this morning. In the afternoon, cold and cloudy with rain or drizzle at times. With wind increasing to gale force in Sole Shannon and Fastnet.
Matt improving the dazzle with a cloth leaning over the bonnet of this six cylinder touring vehicle. Envious citizens admiring its gleaming black dignity. The world has taken me in its arms at last. Kissed me in this sunlight. Beaming down Molesworth. Street Gates at the far end lead into where the the government of my country steers this emerald ship of state. Brimming with its oats and barley. Its strong high couraged horses out of the lime green grass. Its creamy butter and deep orange yolked eggs. And here he comes. Smiling fifty feet away. Sauntering along the boulevard. Rashers Ronald. Very washed and brushed up. In top hat, white gloves, striped trousers and tail coat. Ready for another bash. Onwards regardless.
‘My dearest chap. How good to see you. Just let me stop here on this lowest step and regard you up there on the highest. My, if only I had your assurance and dash. You know you do appear as one who has been sent out into the world from the nest of family life with pecks on your cheek and all the little cossetings. While my damn unfeeling daddy merely grunted goodbye to me without looking up from his Times. Can you give me the loan of a pound.’
Darcy Dancer taking from a large black wallet a five pound note. Which generosity seemed to nervously speed Rashers away. Down turning into Duke Street. Obviously to the Turf Accountant’s. And me. I wired Sexton and Crooks to come by train today. To meet them at three at the station. Sexton will oversee the two window boxes on the sill of my sitting room. And sine dubio will know instantly what’s wrong with the soil producing such stunted little flowers. And Crooks will do for me. Knows exactly how one takes one’s tea. Brush my suits down. Lay out my silks. And I shall by motor go collect my paintings from Lois. Sit further for my own portrait. After my insulting her she was so thrilled to be commissioned. Told me her visiting English couple had sent her a thank you note for tea. And how much they had enjoyed her exposing them to the arts in Ireland. By clonking their heads through canvases.
Darcy Dancer turning his dark head south up the street. A tram bell clanging. A seagull flies floating over the rooftops. A chill gust. A raindrop falls. And last night I had a dream. Stood below in the front lawn meadow field of Andromeda Park. Looking up at the grey stone house and its chimneys poking from the slate roof. A sun setting westerly in a cold white sky. Heard my sisters’ voices playing in the woods. I had come back searching for my mother’s jewels. All the years rumoured hidden somewhere near her grave. And found them. In the coffin of a little sister o
f mine who had died. Before I was born. The box resting on the crypt’s topmost musty corbel. Smashed the lock and opened the heavy lid and there amid the tiny white delicate bones were my mother’s necklaces of diamonds and pearls. And as I looked up. I was suddenly kneeling. On the other side of the orchard wall. Knees sunk in the soft moist grass. Praying to Sexton’s stations of the cross. Each with its own carefully painted little sign. Jesus falls the second time. Jesus is stripped of his garments. And in front of the sixth. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. And the image left on the towel was Mr Arland’s Clarissa. Her body of the softest whitest skin. Pinioned on the railings. Cold rain falling on her lifeless face. Her blood dripping down the black bars of the fence. Gave life to his life. Then death to her own. And that Christmas eve. When I was dying alone out lost cold in the countryside. Clarissa too was dying. While I dreamt she had come to my funeral. That very nice stylish looking couple. So smilingly happy. Waiting to wed. And in one of his low moments, Mr Arland said he would join the lighthouse service. Sit out his years in isolated solitude reading his favourite books while the wild seas pounded up all around him. Miss von B said love was like catching a train, don’t be late. And I was. And I hear Mr Arland’s voice. Kildare, don’t be negatory. Where can I find him. In his sadness. Gone.
Step stylishly down these steps. Into all the cunning and conniving. Amid the chancers and cads. The gay girls and the solemn women. Arrange with Bewley’s to post a weekly box of fudge to Awfully Stupid Kelly. Grit blows along the street. Bombards the eyes. More raindrops. A cloud moves a shadow across the city. Comes far from the west. Out of the hush of that lonely sky. Where the winter brown young beech leaves rustle. And fuchsia hang their red flower bells. The donkey brays. Night lowering on the hills. Lose no nerve when unhorsed. Mount again. Go well. Fly fence hedge and wall. Till the huntsman’s blowing his long slow notes. Turn home. At end of day. Under the heaven’s grey greys. Split pink across by a sinking sun. Go home. Across the dewy meadow grass. Go home. Earthstoppers sleep. Not tonight shall we find him. Curled up below ground safe from the fierce mad winds and fangs. But another day. Disturb his tranquillity. And chase. Call by tongue. Yell by name. To out beyond. In his destiny. For he discourses somewhere.
That Darcy
That Dancer
That Gentleman
J. P. Donleavy, The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends