And Luke in the hospital. Because washing the muck and barley off himself and never having been in a bathtub before in his life, slipped and broke his arse bone. Crooks loftily announcing.
‘Serves him right taking the presumption of cleansing himself in the manner to which he is clearly not accustomed.’
And the ferocious bull was all the talk of the house till Foxy Slattery’s younger brother to whom Foxy must have taught every trick thought he’d have a go with him. And got flung up into the branches of a tree. Then the little eegit caused a fire in the tack room chimney while heaping up logs and toasting himself asleep. The tiresome little scoundrel then pouring lamp oil on it to put it out. The only thing he seems to know how to do is every five minutes sneak into the house to get biscuits from the kitchen. Or if Catherine is resting after her lunch, to fry up a cauldron of eggs, bacon and sausages, enough for an army. And then into the jams and preserves, and after scooping out half their contents the little fucker tightens the caps on everything in the larder so that cook can’t open them. Till Dingbats tried breaking them open with a poker and serves me broken glass in my breakfast honey and jam. Meet amusing bloody people. My god. Someone too, of course, was also being amusing supposing to entertain me by placing a rubber mouse in my bed, not realizing that such creatures were already scampering across my face very much alive and waking me from sleep in the middle of the night. Meet bloody amusing people. My dears. They’re right here under your noses. Of course they’re no doubt wanting their potential suitors, at whom they invariably were turning up their noses, to all be arrayed at their disposal along the ballroom walls. That is if Lavinia wasn’t already hiding behind various pieces of drawing room furniture, as she did when Crooks came to announce a caller who was it appeared, enamoured of her, and of whom it would also appear she was not enamoured, while Christabel at the same time was throwing herself with a screech prostrate in a faint on the soaked garden lawn to attract his attention.
‘Now there’s plenty of light sir.’
Darcy Dancer pulling himself up from under the covers. Dingbats lighting the bedside candles. And would you believe. Performing a curtsey. Her concern over my upper nudity would not appear to be as great as it is over Crooks’ alleged prodding finger.
‘And now while the door is open behind me, should I be back to you sir momentarily. With the more of anything you may want.’
‘There’s yesterday’s newspaper in the library, if you’d bring it please Mollie.’
‘Very good sir, I’ll be back, momentarily.’
Dingbats withdrawing. Tiptoeing towards the door. She closes with a new silence I’ve certainly not heard before. And of course one will wait momentarily. And wonder momentarily whyever she is increasing her vocabulary so formidably. Especially with a word unheard of in this household since I’m sure it was built. There was of course momentarily a risqué moment with one’s chest exposed in the dim light. O god and why does not my loyal lady ever bring me breakfast. Ever come in that door to my lonely dark. And she. She is what I want. Your lovely purple ribbon. On your lovely black hair. To take up its satin in my fingers. To undo. O god. As I might. Your body. To lie it stretched soft sinewy beneath mine. Souls clutched in warmth. Side of a slender neck to kiss. A brow to touch and tender. And have nothing. Except all these days to try to shut out all the thoughts of her. The jealousy. Like a great massive void. Cloaks my brain. Not once, not even once to speak to her all these days. Not even thank her. Except to see her come and go in the dining room. The inane conversation of my sisters. I’m sure appalling her ears. Of the dances and balls in London. The horses and hunting in Leicestershire. Racing at Newmarket. And the most grim and terrible embarrassment of all. Lavinia suggesting that she smelled. One knew Leila heard by the cold implacable fury rigid on her face, followed by her sudden departure, with a crash of crockery in the pantry, and resounding slam of a door. Dingbats leapt backwards into the dining room with a blob of whipped cream between the eyes as Crooks, his shoes and lower trousers splattered with trifle, reappeared, his one eye staring directly east and the other at the northwest corner of the ceiling which at that unfavourable moment started to leak.
‘Forgive me sir, and your ladyships, but the pudding lately prepared for this evening is regrettably indisposed.’
O god one did wish one’s sisters would soon go elsewhere. With their now written commands following breakfast in bed. Making suggestions as to decor, mealtimes, servants’ rosterings and issuing orders all over the place. Each wanting their own private apartments and the silver on their dressing tables daily polished. And my best horses to hunt. Complaining about the lack of hot water, and the overabundance of cold sheets, their bedroom fires untended and draughty rooms. That tea was late to the parlour. And that it was Indian and not the China with lemon they preferred. Dingbats at least this morning seems all intent upon dancing better attendance upon one. Having in the middle of the night one of her more normal occurrences. With Kitty banging at my door in her nightdress. Come quickly sir with the shotgun, a vampire bat is flying round Mollie’s head and a rat has her cornered in her room. Of course we were all minus our ear drums as a result. With the explosion sending the bat to kingdom come along with two panes out of the window. And the whole household peeking out their doors thinking the world had just ended. The only constructive thing being, that it was obvious to anyone watching Dingbats jump and leap up and down on her mattress that she did have such a great pair of tits, of which any poor understocked farmer would be immensely proud to find on his best cow. And here she is now. In my bedroom door. Actually breathing heavily. Back sooner than one expected. And believe it or not with the newspaper.
‘Sir here you are now and did you ever hear tell of what happened to that man Hitler. They say he’s living. In secret seclusion. Not ten miles from here.’
‘I’m sure he is Mollie.’
‘And is there anything else now I can do sir.’
‘No thank you, Mollie.’
‘Draw your bath.’
‘Ah yes, you might indeed.’
Awfully difficult to know what prompts a servant’s sudden diligence. There’s no doubt one’s previous nudity helped her to take one more seriously. Although god, this is bloody last month’s paper. They are such an utterly stupid lot. Certainly one’s sisters would agree. Yesterday, while I took tea in the estate office, they had theirs in the blue parlour. And which on this particularly mournful occasion, Leila brought. And concerning which, joining them later for drinks before dinner, Lavinia bitterly complained.
‘She’s insolent. She should be let go. She’s talking back. Not only refusing to do what she’s told. Do you know what she did. Threw the tea strainer at me from the door. Nearly struck me. Then she lifted up her uniform at me. Above her thighs. After bringing us Indian tea again. And having been told China.’
I must say I was tempted to say it was a pity the whole thing wasn’t dumped on them. To get them up off their grand arses which only shifted out of their beds to either recline in feather upholstery or sit on a horse. And then I did say it.
‘It’s a pity she didn’t dump it on you to get you up off your continually leisurely arses.’
‘Well damn you brother, for your privileged information, she did dump it on us.’
Then monopolizing the gramophone in the library. And playing their ruddy rumba over and over again. Bloody Brazil. Which record if I hear it just once more, I shall break. Then switching the wireless on and off when they see fit. And more often than not absenting themselves and running down the battery requiring its recharging in town. Their imperious descent of the grand staircase. And as they did so, invariably issuing in their lofty grand manner some inane request to any servant seen in the vicinity. Especially Crooks.
‘I wonder Crooks could you see if the library fire is bright as I shall be there presently sitting.’
Crooks of course on one occasion did take the opportunity to pretend he was in a ducal house exercising his lo
fty command in delegating the precise division of duties. And he did split his infinitives calling and clapping and finally pulling the bell to summon one of his charges to pump the bellows at the library fire. But with Kitty, Norah and Dingbats repaired to an attic bedroom where Foxy Slattery’s brother had brought them up biscuits, tea, scones and jams and where they sat around a fire smoking those Woodbine cigarettes, and I believe telling quite salacious stories, the servants’ bells clinked and clanged unheeded down in the kitchen hall. Serving only to annoy Catherine, who of course much mumbled to herself these days having her own small farm to worry about. Dear old soul did do me many a kindness. Dear me I think that one could easily get bitter. End up forever pursuing the things of enjoyment in life without much enjoyment. Must not lose sight of the fact that menials have their own worries. And at least less a nuisance is Christabel once off her arse. She did succeed in putting a new born calf sucking to its mother. Always remember her kinder to animals than she was to humans. But of course my sisters as a pair did as soon as our nanny’s back was turned try to poke out my eyes. Explaining, we want a blind little baby brother so we can lead him around by the hand. Or if I were to crawl on the front lawn or hall, they would drive their prams over on top of me. We want a dead little baby brother so that we can hold a funeral. And while I screamed, and if Nanny weren’t on her instant way, they would kick me. We want a wounded little baby brother so that we can play hospital. And not a toy could I pick up that they wouldn’t rip it away out of my hands. Leaving me screaming. We want an unhappy little baby brother so that we can make him happy again. And dear me one nearly feels one is still facing these previous inclemencies of body and soul. Only my poor dear man, Mr Arland ever succeeded in making me feel that someone cared some little bit for my welfare. There we were all those many hours in a chill dusty schoolroom lodged in under the servants’ stairs. Even he grew moderately impatient trying to pound some Latin into my so obtuse brain. The lonely sadness in the man, so much like the sadness I felt myself. Being able to do or say something to cheer him cushioned and encouraged my own spirits. And then how cruel life was to him. Mocking all his kindly ways. Baptista Consuelo spurning his so shyly proffered attentions. Then death tearing his dearest love from his life. No god could ever make another Clarissa for him to cherish. Or such a Clarissa who had loved him. Whither now has he gone. His homoeopathy book to cure his bodily ills. But no book to cure his grief. Where e’er he walk. That solemn man. Under what tiny piece of sky. Does he wander in his own abyss of sorrow. How find him. Hear him speak. Make me in my own sad dilemma. Not so sad.
Darcy Dancer in hunting coat, breeches, boots, coming down the main stairs. Rain stopped. The wind still howling. Pause here on the landing. The bark on the grove of beech, wet and dark to the west and silvery to the east. High in the tip top branches crows squawking. So often one stands here to look out. And see visions. Something I saw in a dream during the night. That I was an older man. Looking back into the past. Seeing a life that one had so long ago lived. Yet a life older than one’s childhood. Before I had gone away to other lands in search of my fortune. And now returned a rich man. To an Andromeda Park standing empty. Roof caved in. All its inmates gone. Ivy growing through the walls. And I walked past the kitchen. The blackened hearth and stove cold, that years ago glowed warm. Stepping slowly on the wet stone. Between the mildewed and crumbling corridor walls which once kept the chill damps at bay. The brass servants’ bells hanging from their coiled springs, corroded green and grey. And I stopped at Edna Annie’s basement room, where her whole life was spent going about her lonely ancient chores. A fuchsia hedge growing through her broken window. The bedstead rusting. The rain dripping through the ceiling and falling on possessions one cherished once. A sailor doll of blue long lashed eyes, so many times warmly hugged and kissed and cuddled closely abed. And which lay unsheltered, broken armed and cracked on the rat holed mattress. Its little head upturned. A rain drop for a tear in one of its eyes. And I stood there. Tears in my own eyes. Till a sound behind me made me turn. A mist. Sound of water. And the hunting lame girl killed by the old stone bridge over the river was standing there. And instead of white she wore top hat and flowing dark hunting garments. Her face smiling. With the splendid white teeth. And lips of Leila. Slowly lifting her skirts above her slender legs. Slowly over her knees, higher on her thighs. And there in the ruins. She spoke. Her soft voice coming from her dark haired beauty. I am the mistress of Andromeda Park. She said. Then I woke. Shivering and cold.
Darcy Dancer stopping further down near the bottom of the stairs. The arriving voices. Distant bark of hounds. A breeze blowing through the house. Hunt members pouring in the door. The front hall with tables laden. Sausages, hardboiled eggs, smoked salmon, soda breads, barmbracks, butters, beers, creams, port, sherry, brandy. How far now the day that will dawn on the last drop of wine and the last morsel left.
Major Bottom already with a brimming glass of port to hand, striding up to Darcy Dancer. His grey brows going up and down as his ruddy face contorted in his attempt to smile.
‘One would have thought Kildare, with the condition of the land, the hunting would be cancelled. Instead of making mires of small farmers’ pastures. But it’s damn jolly good of you to lay on such warm hospitality. But with the wind drying, clearing the sky and the fields brightening in a bit of sun during the morning, perhaps not too much damage will be done.’
Of course the truth of the matter is the hunt secretary couldn’t give a damn about making mires of small farmers’ pastures and in fact delighted in parading his big bloody hoofed horse straight across their winter sown wheat. But not before he’s drunk all my best port and turned the whole ruddy hunt breakfast into a luncheon party. Good heavens. Motor car horns sounding outside on the drive, and pulling up in front of the house. Horses rearing and bucking at the beeping. Who on earth could be arriving. Doors opening. Unloading folk. And who clearly climb up the steps. And wade into the hall. O my lord. A voice. O my god. No ruddy mistaking it. That one has heard uttering so many a time previously. Bellowing above the rising din in Dublin. My goodness, what on earth do I owe all this to. Being visited. One does so miserably dupe oneself with the false notion that people are fond of one for oneself and not for something which will be to their exclusive benefit, as indeed one finds dismayingly is always the case. People are, on the whole, aren’t they, such a ruddy reprehensible lot.
‘By jove, as bloody sure as most bloody houses in suburban Ireland are called Sorrento, damn chilly journey has given me a roaring appetite. Enough to eat a cold pail of muddy unpeeled potatoes.’
Rashers Ronald. In the most outlandish of outlandish tweeds. His ever ready smiling face, front teeth protruding even further and the gap wider between them. Through which he occasionally resoundingly whistles. Cheeks and nose brightened. No doubt by clearly alcoholic refreshments, numerously taken at many stops on his journey here. A signally orange wool tie. With a totally contradictory stiff white collar attached to his light blue shirt. A sprig of bog heather as a nosegay. And although one does slightly quake at his unexpected appearance, a smile does erupt in one’s heart at seeing him. Crossing these black and white tiles. Grinning ever so mischievously and ever so slightly shy, proffering his hand outstretched to shake. Which I do believe I have never previously shaken before. His English vowels superseding those Irish where it mattered most.
‘My dear chap Kildare. My dear chap. How good it is to see you again.’
‘Well this is a surprise, how nice to see you.’
‘Surprise. Nonsense. It’s shocking. Being as I am the fox. And spiritually naked as I usually am. And indulging in the foolish temerity to appear in the midst of fox hunters. But when confronting such foxhunting fixture prominently tacked to the lobby wall of the Shelbourne Hotel, and a knowledgeable chap at my shoulder informing me with an insistent jab of his index finger that it was none other than you who was residing at this most impressive country seat. I’ll be quite frank. I rushed here
to presume upon our previous acquaintanceship. But also to return to you two fivers you were gracious enough to temporarily entrust to me. You see I stoop to grovel where others might merely pretend to fawn.’
‘Well thank you very much.’
‘I’m not entirely sure but I think I detest foxhunting and those who pursue it. But then, who am I my dear chap, to cramp anyone’s bloodthirsty style, especially as one’s own mouth is so wide open for drinking and chewing. To think I had been promoting you as an outrageous chancer just like oneself. And I believe introducing you, in the interests of making one’s company at hand more agreeable of course, as the authentic Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. As nice as such titles are you clearly are already a squire needing no such embellishment. And by god, commodious and substantial are the words for this very nice mansion you occupy. Fair takes my poor debtor’s breath away. How are you my dear chap. How are you really. I sweep up in one little heap the debris of my fondest wishes left from so much disappointment in my life and humbly offer them to you from the labyrinths of my undeserving soul. And I do apologize for my flowery speech. And for not at least having brought you one of the better quality boxes of chocolates. You know with the chewy nougat and deliciously crumbling truffle centres and so forth.’
‘Crooks, please. Some champagne. For Mr Ronald.’
‘Of course sir.’
Crooks giving, as he withdraws a single pace backwards, the proper and merest nodding inclination of the head. People who rather cut a figure always seem to inspire Crooks to his very best butlering. Albeit Rashers does more vaguely resemble a race course tout. However Crooks did, being a past Dubliner, listen to Rashers with rapt attention, a twisted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Which with his crossed eyes, made him look a trifle daft. But suddenly endearing. Between of course his more obtuse irritating moments. Especially his continued attempts at putting his finger in places where the rest of the female staff find it most unwanted. Not to mention what he may do with his fingers during some of his more bizarre recent night time fetishes.
Leila Page 15
