“Sit down you stupid arsehole.”
That of course was Mabel speaking. Which would at least remind you of the take no guff American variety of womanhood. And now you would also, from the previous reference to the emergence in Ireland of the female species of Man Fighter, be assuming it would be the woman whipping the man. Ah, thank god in this Shamrock Isle, nothing could be further from the truth. And certainly not during Horse Show week. But admittedly with her forthright stride the vicar’s daughter does look as if she’s going to be the one laying on the lash while mellifluously intoning,
“Take that. And that. And that. You naughty man.”
Now as the astonishing circumstances would have it and as such is invariably the case in Ireland, aren’t old Harry and Mabel located in the next ruddy room, to which your vicar’s daughter is heading, albeit beyond a thick and soundly impenetrable wall. Harry out of his American mind with curiosity has enquired at the reception desk and has now rushed early to bed. But dutifully searching he’s found a thin spot in the wall where old cupboards have been partitioned over in recent hotel decorations. Indeed the ruddy cavity is wonderfully working like a state of the art loud speaker. And of course old Harry has put two and two together as he clearly again hears the jangling of spurs, and gets a first hand insight.
“My god Mabel, this ain’t no isle of saints and scholars, like is plastered all over the travel brochures.”
“Well you, you pervert, are certainly aiding and abetting, listening through the wall, get back into bed.”
“Hey honey I was just waiting for a scream in case someone had to rush to the rescue or something.”
Recounting what Harry has just said is not for a moment to suggest that while the vicar’s daughter and the Master of Foxhounds are enacting their little indoor horsey Gaelic ritual, that loud screaming is to be heard or indeed preferred. In fact quite the contrary is the case. For, among this element of Irish, and in this case the vicar’s daughter of once-Irish, extraction, many generations previous to be sure, the ultimate frisson of subdued whimpering is regarded as providing the zenith of exquisiteness. Now of course Harry after being lost and bewildered ten solid head scratching days in the Irish outback is spending his very last tourist night in Ireland and, for a change at least, knows at last where he is, in his pyjamas with his ear pressed hard to the hotel bedroom wall. And with old Mabel, a Mormon originally from Salt Lake City, sporting a long impregnable nightdress, and admonishing a crouching on all fours Harry to get back into bed, he’s finding his present entertainment much to his liking.
Now above all, simplicity of intimacy is one of the signal beauties of Ireland. And live and let live is the motto of the bigger and better Irish hotels. And on this stormy night nobody but the tourist likes of old horny Harry would be noticing in this top place what others are up to. So now just as he is hearing faint female cries from the exquisitely delicious vicar’s daughter and is now finding that more is the variety of the gentleman laying it on goodo across the lady’s old whatfor, than it is of the lady’s laying it on goodo across the gentleman’s whatfor, now, on this dark evening, rain spattering the window, isn’t he himself thinking of trying to be likewise with Mabel and he has this very moment removed his ear from the wall loud speaker, taken the leather belt from his trousers and told Mabel to lift up her heavy sleepwear curtain, and to put up her old whatfor bottoms up. Well as always is the case in Ireland, no one could have predicted what was going to happen next. For wasn’t the Master of Foxhound’s big arsed and ham handed lady wife this past moment coming soaking wet storming in the front entrance of the hotel making an almighty fuss at the discreetly conducted reception desk. And here she was now with the room number emblazoned on her mind rushing across the lounge between the vintage port drinkers, and into the hotel’s back annexe. Pounding up three flights of stairs she is at this very moment rounding the corner from the landing and approaching down the hallway to arrive shouting, and fists raining and feet landing on the Master of Foxhound’s door.
“I’ll kill you. Kill you.”
And for the oft repeated time one has to again admit that those old Anglo Irish are really full of your vim and vigour. Perhaps why some of them are, in these whipping activities, its greatest fanatics. And those devout in this practice might thank god that still one or two of your thick walled hotels have yet to disappear under the demolisher’s hammer, quenching forever the low groans and satisfied grunts. As has now sadly happened in this present case with those emitting from your vicar’s daughter under the presently administered chastisement of the Master of Foxhounds. For in addition to the awful kicking and thudding on the door next to Harry’s comes a resounding crash. The M.F.H.’s wife having lifted up from the hallway floor a heavy bright red fire canister upon which was plainly stated
USE UPRIGHT
UNCOIL HOSE
RELEASE GUARD
STRIKE KNOB HARD
AIM AT FIRE BASE
USE ON ONLY CLASS A FIRES
NOT ELECTRICAL OR FLAMMABLE LIQUID
OR IRISH ONES
As a horsewoman herself the Master of Foxhounds’ wife was strength personified and sent the fire extinguisher splintering through the door. Now Harry at that precise moment having landed a lash on Mabel’s bottom, and hearing the almighty crash and thinking the vicar’s daughter was trying to escape, and remembering vividly as to how she was built, wasn’t Harry, suppressing his newly enjoyed sadism, suddenly overcome by an overwhelming attack of chivalry. And why not. For when it comes to gallantry there’s no mopery let me tell you with your better class of American. But here now is the really surprising news. Isn’t Harry in fact your first generation U.S.A.-born Irish. And still full of the new world’s concept of courtliness and fair play. And back in the old sod to search out and find the thatched mud hovel wherein were born his ancestors and where, in and out of the parlour, did the chickens and pigs freely roam. So didn’t he leave Mabel anticipating the next blow, which to her own surprise, she was looking forward to.
“Hey you jerk, where are you going?”
Although Harry had already learned plenty enough about the uniqueness of the Irish ways he knew by the destructive noise that something serious was amiss. And he was out in the hallway just as the Master of Foxhounds’ wife disappeared charging into the darkness through the broken open door. The vicar’s daughter lay nakedly prone upon the bed. The Master poised with his whip raised. And behind the wife in comes Harry as well. Still with his own belt in hand. The Master’s wife, thinking Harry a bodyguard, gets behind a chair. And although Harry’s in his pyjamas it must be said it was quite obvious he was in a highly erect compromised condition to be coming rushing into the Master of Foxhounds’ bedroom. And anyone would be forgiven for thinking he was in the act of rape.
Now the big heavy canister of the fire extinguisher, and recently new to the country, contained a white foamy substance. Which, due to the uncontrolled wagging of its uncoiled hose, the released guard, and the knob being struck hard, was fast squirting and spraying a creamy froth in all directions. And especially blasted a splattering right into the face of Harry. Not only depriving him totally of his identity but also of a direction in which to proceed in order to protect a damsel in distress. At least temporarily he put the fear of god into the Master’s wife with the Master himself shouting at Harry,
“Damn you man, who are you and what do you think you are doing?”
Now your Master of Foxhounds in his boots and spurs only, his whip unfurled, was long used to dispensing authority. But the whip was now grabbed from the Master by his wife. Who in an instant brought it down in one almighty lash across the vicar’s daughter’s bottom. Which Harry the potential rapist, wiping the foam out of his eyes was just in time to witness. And the vicar’s daughter with an almighty scream jumped up standing on the bed and shrouded herself in the bedsheet. The Master of Foxhounds withdrawing into the shadows. The hose and nozzle of the extinguisher still oscillating as it continued to spla
tter spots on the antagonists and brighten up the hotel room’s flowered wallpaper with its snowy white foam. And not an Irish soul occupying any of the other bedrooms in this old established hotel took a wit of notice of any of the unsociably sounding noise. But what was not known to anybody but the vicar’s daughter was the presence, tucked in her vasculum, of her big eared toy Chihuahua dog, and as unIrish a canine as you could ever imagine considering the existence of the Irish wolfhound one hundred times its size.
“Woof woof.”
Now everybody knew who the other was with the exception that nobody knew Harry. And in his present foam disguise, was not likely to. And to this cauldron of screams and shouts was added the high pitched barking yaps of this little mut as it jumped out to defend its mistress. And while Harry was dancing around wondering who to hit didn’t he step directly on top of the tiny Chihuahua who with a squeal immediately started to try to bite hell out of Harry’s bare feet. And who was already being given one awful belt in the kisser by the Master. Whose wife had mounted up on to the bed, grabbing and renting apart the sheet to which the vicar’s daughter now desperately clung. Mabel meanwhile her own ear to the reverberating area of the wall, had telephoned what she thought was the hotel security but could only get room service.
“Ah now this time of night we’ve only got chicken, ham and cheese sandwiches.”
“I’m not trying to order sandwiches. My husband’s in a riot up here. I want the police.”
“Ah madam you’d want to be ringing another number altogether for that.”
Now in any other part of the world with the kind of imbroglio that was going on you’d have soon had your army and tank corps in attendance. But here on the Shamrock Isle you’d have to take into account the ever ready wonder of Irish hospitality. Hasn’t your discreet Manager below, on the double had a table prepared with the “horse dovers” as they are referred to by the Irish in Erseland, plus attendant bottles of your various refreshment not excluding champagne. For wasn’t the Manager and two acolytes from room service finally at the door, with the Manager intoning,
“Ladies and gentlemen, calm now if you please, if you will. Behave yourselves now please. There’s a time and a place for everything. Haven’t we refreshments to be served across the hall in preference to the Guards being called. Sure wasn’t it all a misunderstanding and a mistake that any of us could have made, getting to the wrong bedrooms in the first place and all the time thinking they were the right ones.”
Harry had a bloody nose. And the Master of Foxhounds under the onslaught of his wife, fled to another room given him free with the compliments of the Manager. And once more, without a particle of political or ethnic bias, the multi-orgasmic vicar’s daughter with her vasculum, Chihuahua and tears in her eyes, descended by the lift with her whips to the lobby floor. And who should be there having a second brandy with his coffee and watching the hotel world go by, but Mr Ireland himself. His prayers already once answered by St Bridget and horny enough at this moment, to want to have them answered again. For in this intimate city of Dublin doesn’t he know your vicar’s daughter well and in a trice has her beside him over a drink. And sure wasn’t she welcome to come back home with him with her dog and her whips. And upstairs while Harry had a pine scented foam bath, Mabel read the bible she found in a bedside drawer. But nothing would she find in this book more lenient and kind than the wisdom of Ireland. Which is everywhere like the rain. Falling with mercy and forgiveness. Especially where there is violent confusion, which, if it is ever straightened out,
Don’t worry
There is plenty
More
Where that came
From.
THESE DAPPLED WATERS, OVER WHICH MANYA SAD MAN HAS LEFT AND MANY A GLAD MAN RETURNED, HAUNT THIS CITY WHERE THE SEAGULLS STILL CRY AND SQUAWK OVER THE ROOF TOPS.
XIII
With some of the nicest qualities still intact in the zodiac, what now is happening in this anciently emerald land? Where there are still samples of clean air to breath and pure water to drink. And in a word, plenty is happening. In a place providing for your social occasions galore. With your certified authentic international very top snob celebrities desperately seeking to come and be seen conspicuously strutting about and just being, like the natives, your ordinary flesh and bone human being, and not superior in the least. But you would be wrong to get the impression that Ireland nearly overnight has become a stamping ground for the worldwide rich. And just as well. For no more would your Bridget be curtseying or your Paddy be pulling his forelock to be at your beck and call in all their kowtowing guises.
But remember, for the sake of a pot to piss in, the bottom line never escapes your Irishman if there be but upon it written in black and white that there do be a quid or two to be pocketed of profit. For which he’ll tolerate nearly any poison or rape any landscape. But beneath all his aesthetic ineptitudes he is a genius in dealing with the vicissitudes of life. Slow to panic when others do like scalded cats. And slow to wake up to see death on the doorstep with very Irish destruction on the way. Ready to wallow in sentiment or to become a bitter enemy or a fast friend.
And come here now a moment till I tell you. About where the young now swarm strumming strings. With a little elegance, and much less squalor. Few are older men who return to lament the dying of the mother. They walk strangers in the street. As new mummers and mimes tip toe past in frozen poses. Golden haired girls go by. A brown robed, sandal footed Franciscan friar strolls, sniffing the fragrance of Bewley’s roasted coffee still hovering over Grafton Street. As once it was your most oriental of all cafés. A poet still stands guard at the gates. Within still plys a splendidly dignified waitress who comes in her black dress and white apron to your table. And in her nearly religious calling remembers back those months ago that you ordered cream for your black coffee, a spiced bun and butter.
And come here now another moment till I tell you. Ghosts up out of their graves again go walk stalking and glowering upon the pavements of this island’s cities. Some still lurk there on the pavement. In their constant pain, grabbing pleasure where they can. They’re there. They’re everywhere. Amid drapery executives, gas meter readers, and the eternal tourists. Nothing new has happened that wasn’t old already. Go down Dame Street. All those years ago. With only toothbrushes for luggage and the night ahead. Have another day of life. While the West’s awake. In the glowering dark, a shouter goes by. He stops to point up. His words say to tell you.
“The stars are but big fading specks of dust in the distant sky.”
And you listen to this knowledge. In this country where the songs born out of pain go singing. While upon this land where they are adored, the voices of children come. Out of the rainy cold of the winter shadows or in the calm stillness of a summer’s eve. Here is where your self importance can achieve the heights. Provided you don’t annoy the pooka. And where. If you love anyone
You can
Be their shamrock
In
The uttermost green.
By the Same Author
NOVELS
The Ginger Man
A Singular Man
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B
The Onion Eaters
A Fairy Tale of New York
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman
Leila
Schultz
Are You Listening Rabbi Low
NOVELLA
The Saddest Summer of Samuel S
PLAYS
The Plays of J. P. Donleavy
SHORT STORIES AND SKETCHES
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule
OTHERS
De Alfonce Tennis, The Superlative Game of Eccentric Champions,
Its History, Accoutrements, Rules, Conduct and Regimen
The Unexpurgated Code
A Complete Manual of Survival and Manners
J. P. Donleavy’s Ireland
In All Her Sins and in Some of Her Graces
Copyright
published 2011 by
THE LILLIPUT PRESS
62–63 Sitric Road, Arbour Hill Dublin 7, Ireland
www.lilliputpress.ie
Copyright © J.P. Donleavy, 2011
ISBN 9781843512080
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher.
The Lilliput Press receives financial assistance from An Chomhairle Ealaíon / The Arts Council of Ireland.
A Singular Country Page 14
