‘Ah that clock is only two hours wrong.’
Picking up her glass again and turning, as she used to do in the front hall, and lifting her chin to blow out a puff of smoke. She crosses to the decanter.
‘May I, Master Reginald.’
‘O yes of course.’
Her eyelids flutter as she removes the stopper. Closes her fingers around the neck. Lifts and pours out the liquid into her glass. Squinting as smoke from her cigarette curls back in her eye. Squaring her shoulders back. Her chest rising and her bosoms stretching out white under the light blue gauzy fabric of her blouse. And she downs nearly all the brandy in one gulp. As something gets awfully stiff and pointing distinctly upwards in my trousers.
‘Yes perhaps they are. Women are cruel. They are much crueller than men.’
‘Are you cruel.’
‘Yes at times I am cruel. But if I am not cruel. Cruel people they are cruel to me.’
‘How old are you.’
‘Ah you ask the personal questions. How old do you think.’
‘You are thirty.’
‘Ha I am not going to tell you how old. How old is Mr Arland.’
‘He is quite old too.’
Miss von B’s eyes seem blue. When always they were colours I could not remember before. She smiles around her lips. And one brow rises. She stares down at me. Like a matador must do at a bullfight. Only I have never seen one. But Miss von B appears to be crossing the arena with her gently shifting hips. And she goes. With her long legs. So slowly. Back to her seat. With her brazen bosoms. To turn. Blazing them at my eyes. And then so carefully. To sit. And raise one thigh and knee over another.
‘Old. My dear boy. What do you mean. I am not old.’
‘Mr Arland is twenty six.’
‘That is young, my little fellow. Surely he is older than that.’
‘Mr Arland is a little balding on the front of his head and that makes him look older than he really is.’
‘He takes this what do you call it.’
‘Snuff.’
‘Ah, der Schnupftabak. His Taschentuch, it is brown from wiping his nose. Sexton says he is in love. With the little beauty on the hunt with the golden hair. That he follows on his bicycle when she is on her horse. And he goes with the banjo to play outside her bedroom window in the rain at night. Sexton says it make the cats and dogs of the village howl while he sings.’
‘Sexton is a shocking liar, sometimes. I don’t really think it is anyone’s business what Mr Arland does.’
‘Ah, you are loyal.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are so young.’
‘Please stop saying I am young.’
‘But so you are.’
‘You are really trying to say that I do not have knowledge of the world.’
‘Yes perhaps.’
‘I have more sense and intelligence than people twice or three times my age.’
‘Yet you do not know about women.’
The candles flickering low. Miss von B raising her glass to me. Signalling for another brandy. I watched her return the chess pieces to the game box, one by one placing each in its proper place, and with her fingers gently on the veneer, close the leaves and snap the top shut. She rises tireless to adjust a drape or straighten a picture on the wall. And now I smell her faint perfume as I lean towards her to pour. And she asks raising her smiling face up to mine why I didn’t have one as well. And I spilt a little of the spirit in a glass and twirled it round as my father did. During other wintery evenings as he sat alone in the library in front of the fire, long sticks of incense burning on the chimneypiece, a cigar in one outstretched hand, a glass of brandy cupped in the other. As he lay back his head on the chair pillow, his eyes closed, listening to choirs and mournful singing chants on the gramophone. And once with his brandy bottle empty he sent me for another and I woke him as I clonked it on the table marble. His one eye opening and his monocle slipped to rest on his chin. And without moving lips or a muscle, he bid me pour him a dram. I took a considerable time to engineer the contents of the bottle into the glass, and he turned to see me sniffing my nose in the strange aromatics. And then told me to get another glass and pour myself a drink and bid me take a cigar from the humidor and light it up. I stood there sucking in the horrid smoke and feeling the liquid sting my mouth and burn my throat. Holding the distasteful things away. And he said be a man about it, take a good long puff and a good deep drink. I exploded coughing in smoke and spluttered out brandy across the room. My father put his monocle back in his eye and informed me.
‘Well you little bastard, you’re not much good at smoking and drinking either.’
Next morning I came back down again to the library before the shutters had been opened or servants attended the room. And as I made my way across to a window to let in some light I felt brittle broken matters underfoot on the carpet. And saw bottles and glasses smashed in bits. Chips knocked out of the marble where they had hit the chimneypiece. A side table with its ormolu embellishments blasted as Sexton would say to hell. The pages of books ripped out, strewn and torn all over the floor. And taste this brandy now as I had-planned to do again that morning till a strange fear made me leave that musty book lined chamber.
‘I have not had the occasion to know about women.’
‘Ah they are funny ones.’
‘Are you funny Miss von B.’
‘Ha who is to know or who is to care out here in all the rain. But please. Can we not now no longer say Miss von B. Is it not time now that we drop such formality.’
‘If you wish.’
‘I think it would be more camaraderie, for you to call me by my christian name. Yes.’
‘That might set a bad example. Crooks may come along and call you by your christian name.’
‘Ha Crooks. The crook.’
‘He is no such thing.’
‘Ah his room, in there he has a locked door. Behind the locked door is kept the whiskey. His breath all the time it smell of whiskey.’
‘That is the room where our butlers commit suicide and it is always kept locked. But your breath too I have noticed on many an occasion smells of drink.’
‘Ah but of course. I admit I have the little bit of sherry perhaps or I would commit suicide. Or would you want me to freeze to death. Tonight I am warm perhaps for the first time. But now you must call me Gwendolene. Ah you are a little love dove. So sweet. I want to take you up in my arms and be a mother to you.’
‘Don’t you dare. Attempt such a thing.’
‘Ah I frighten the poor little boy.’
‘Madam I do think you are taking liberties with me. Assuming as you do that I am young and innocent and not able to protect myself.’
‘Ah but this madam, she knows something.’
‘What do you know.’
‘Ah that you have spied on me.’
‘Who told you that.’
‘I have no need to be told. I saw you. You went down the hall after the fight of Crooks and Foxy. What is the matter. Have you not got something to say. Of course I understand. It is entirely natural. That you should climb up on the chair and look through the little window. It is merely playful. But of course it is not what a gentleman would do.’
‘I think, if you will excuse me Miss von B, that I shall retire for the evening.’
‘Ah what a pity. Why don’t you wait a moment and I shall sing for you.’
‘There’s the meet tomorrow. And I have promised Mr Arland that he would be fitted out.’
‘Ah Mr Arland is to hunt. We all shall have, how do you say, a merry spin. But I would like to sing for you. Please. Sit down. And listen. Just a moment.’
Miss von B opened her lips and a low humming voice came out. Growing slowly louder. And turning into German words. As the vein on her throat grew big and blue. And I feel that clearly this is the most terribly embarrassing moment of my entire life. Especially when one is fuzzy in the head and so little schooled in music. And hardly knows what a r
ondo is. Ich liebe dich. I do believe she is singing. Was seen escaping down the hall. Nothing one does in this house is private. With blame whispered up the stairwells and in every nook and cranny. Eyes always watching. Every footstep heard. The window boarded over that Foxy jumped through. The landing dark now both by night and day. And worse haunted by the staring suit of armour. Her ankles crossed. The black shiny leather of her pointed high heeled shoes. With small silver sparkling buckles. In the shape of a butterfly. One does not know quite where to look during this aria. And I feel that somehow any second now Count MacBuzuranti Blandus O’Biottus will, with pink ribbons flying from his wagging extremities, come dancing and skipping through the salon door entirely otherwise unattired in the altogether. With the three of us dancing a quadrille.
‘Ah you like the buckles on my shoes. Did you also like the song.’
‘Yes it was quite nice.’
‘Come with me have another brandy. It is so marvellous. It is only now my fifth.’
‘I think it may be as a matter of fact your seventh.’
‘Ah as all the English gentlemen say, that is what they always say. As a matter of fact.’
‘I am distinctly not English. And really I should be going Miss von B. I must search out kit for Mr Arland.’
‘But one, just one little brandy. It is so nice here. It is the first night that I have found it pleasant. Peace, it is as beautiful as war is horrible. And why did you come to look at me when I bath. Is it because you want to see what a woman looks like.’
‘This is a rather mournful line of questioning you are pursuing Miss von B. It really is.’
‘What did you see.’
‘Nothing. I was merely.’
‘Merely, merely what. What merely.’
‘Merely. I was merely.’
‘Ah merely. Merely what. So you were there. Of course you were there. How dare you. Spy upon me. Disgraceful. And your father should know. But then. Ah then. I am not what you call the tattle tale. But it is what is wrong with this place. So much taboo. Like a woman’s body. Maybe it is because it is so wet and cold.’
‘I am rather now proceeding to bed Miss von B.’
‘O well who cares. Goodnight. Bye bye. Sweet dreams. Toodle ooo. So long sonny boy. Baby.’
‘I do think you are being rather vulgar.’
‘Ha. Vulgar. I am being nuts. That’s what I am being. And are you still to be a bishop.’
‘Goodnight.’
Darcy Dancer bowing. Taking a pewter chamberstick from the chimneypiece to light the way. Turning towards the door. One last look at her slender legs crossed. Her calves come out of bigger stronger thighs. She licks her lips as she speaks. And Foxy brought me all the way over the countryside to nearly get killed in the bogs. To teach me about women. And my sisters’ naked bodies that Nurse Ruby would never let me see. The sting of her slaps raining down on my legs. Each time she washed around my prick and it stuck up in her face. Creaking of floorboards. Open the door now quickly so that I can catch whoever is crouched there listening. Nothing but the cold breeze of wind pouring in from the hall. And perhaps it is rude of me to be so abrupt.
‘Miss von B.’
‘Yes.’
‘O it is nothing.’
‘Is there something you wish to say. You must say it.’
‘I hope I have not been discourteous.’
‘But of course you have been. But then I have been provocative. But why do we not both go together. We go by the same light and not waste two candles.’
‘That is a very good idea.’
‘Well then I shall finish my brandy.’
‘O do please.’
‘And then I shall be promptly right with you.’
‘O there’s no hurry, none at all.’
‘Ah but we must not diddle dawdle though, must we.’
‘No perhaps we must not.’
‘Then I come.’
‘Shall we use my light’or yours.’
Miss von B blows out her candle. Crossing from the sofa to put her cigarette into the fire, her glass on the mantelpiece and her ivory holder back in her purse. She walks, her hips swaying, and I think her lips smiling too, right straight at me. As my hand shakes holding the chamberstick. The chain of her opera bag over her wrist. Some curls of her hair loose from the bun at the back of her head. And my candle light throwing shadows across her face. If I stand up on my toes I’ll be taller than she. Only it makes such awful cramps in the backs of one’s legs. I keep swallowing down my throat. She stops. Takes off her shoes.
‘That’s better. Isn’t this how you and that Foxy go around the house.’
‘You are making fun of me.’
‘No. I am being what is known as discreet. We should not make a sound. Take off your shoes. Now we go. Blow out the candle.’
Turning right out the salon. On the cold stone floor. Towards the beech grove stairs. In the chill air of the front hall. Sound of rain up high on the skylight. She takes my hand. Presses her breast up against my arm. Soft and like something you feel when your fingers want to touch. Wind blowing against the landing window. When summer comes the tree tops out there will be full of screeching jackdaws. And I was rather angry for that moment when I saw Mr Arland’s eyes viewing Miss von B’s lower limbs. They say love hits you a blinding flash between the eyes if you are a gentleman. And between the legs if you are not. Making me at this moment a rather shameless cad. Right here on the landing. Where she’s putting her arms around me. A shoe in each hand. Pressing her face on mine. And opening her lips and parting mine. Her tongue pushing long and big and hard into my mouth. Embraced with the housekeeper. Fattened with the butter she eats and the cascades of cream she pours over everything. Her breath breathing against my neck. Her tongue digging in my ear. Just as I drop a shoe. The heel landing ouch right on my toe. And whoops. Now goes the chamberstick bounding back down the stairs.
‘Are you alright my little darling.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quick now my lovely. Come.’
Darcy Dancer’s hand held up to Miss von B leading the way. My shoe left behind. Plus a chamberstick over which Crooks is not likely to fall especially with his legs in their invalid condition and the memory of his last bottle skidding keeping him in some seclusion. But his midnight melancholia could sometimes drive him to pouring cold water over his head and crawling on all fours along the midnight halls. And perhaps right past Miss von B’s room, into which I follow her. And to where she had moved after much demanding complaint. With its canopied brass bedstead on which my sister Beatrice Blossom had slept. And with whom on the pink silk of the love seat along the wall, I played draughts on summer evenings. Her favourite dolls kept in the heavy iron chest. That Crooks said came from a Spanish ship which sailed in the Armada. Birds and sprays of flowers on the wall paper. Blue and green on white. And I’m so trembling. Just me and my heart. The shadow of von B at the door and hear the click of the key turning in the lock. She must see the shape of me shaking here with my back against the window sill. Breathing in the dark. The movements of her arms. Buttons opening. Stepping out of her skirt. The rustle of her clothes. A white slip like a ghost rising up and coming off over her head. Her hands behind. And her undergarment falls away. Her bosoms out right here in the room. My penis hurting hard in my trousers. Heart now jumping when before it was only thumping. What I saw that night is right up close and warm to me. With the splatter of rain on the window panes. Imprisoned. And really worried out of one’s wits.
‘Where are you going.’
‘Miss von B I must go.’
‘Go. Silly child. Why do you go.’
‘I must soap my boots.’
‘Luke the groom or Foxy will soap your boots.’
‘Neither of them do it properly.’
‘Are you frightened.’
‘No.’
‘You are. You must not be. Come. I am going to get in bed before I turn to ice. Ach du grosser Gott, there is no warm bottle. I have got the
key. You must stay. I will not let you out.’
‘You are imprisoning me. That is quite illegal.’
‘Ha ha. I did not make you come here.’
‘You did.’
‘I did not. And I do frequently lock the door at night. Once the dog come in and push his big cold nose on my face and I jump up to scream.’
‘If I come into bed with you, is it not the case that with such intimacy you might then take advantage of me.’
‘What. What do you mean.’
‘I mean that you might assume you are no longer a servant.’
‘How dare you. I am not a servant.’
‘But you are the housekeeper.’
‘So who are you.’
‘I am the gentry.’
‘I too dear boy am gentry. I am plenty gentry.’
‘You are not.’
‘Well get out. If you are gentry and I am housekeeper. Get out.’
‘Give me the key.’
‘Go find it for yourself.’
‘Where is it.’
‘I have it right here, under the covers. What do you know about gentry. You are all peasants. With everything falling down around your ears. Who teach you these stupid things to think you are so magnifico.’
‘They are not stupid. It is how people like me are brought up to live. I am gentry and you are not.’
‘Shut up. Shut up you stupid boy. I am a Schlesgluckwigsonderstein, a princess before your ancestors could piss properly into the pot. You are nothing but a little peasant pig. Take off your clothes and get into bed. Or else I sock you. You are to be sure, so full of shit.’
You need
How do they say
Das Klistier
The enema
8
The day dry and fit for fine hunting. Everyone who was anyone among the gentry and peasantry was hacking, walking or staggering to the pub at the crossroads from all over the countryside. With members of the hunt, their mounts plaited beribboned groomed and gleaming.