With most of the brave field gone ahead, the Major, his mouth spitting mud, was dragged by the boot heels back up to dry green land. He stood up, his hands pressed at the kidneys. And then with a long groan, keeled over backwards into the bog again. Baptista holding his horse and still levelling her best dirty looks in Miss von B’s direction and that of any member of the Andromeda Park contingent. The Major now mostly surrounded by the elder ladies making their inane remarks. And very much distracting the Major’s attention from his task of sloughing off his person the bigger chunks of clay. As in her haughty supercilious manner Baptista looking down at the Major keeps loudly uttering.
‘O I say what foul awfully bad luck.’
And the Major mumbling as he dug further copious muck from ear hole and nostril.
‘Yes quite.’
The baying of the hounds now seemed to have changed direction. And Baptista, right as we were enjoying the splendid view of the stricken and ooze encrusted Major, barged straight into Miss von B. Who spun round and gave the quarters of Consuelo’s horse such a slap of her whip that I thought I saw smoke rise where it burned into the hair and I would have sworn that Baptista this time farted in fear as her horse bolted, for she gave, as Uncle Willie called it, a backside bark and left behind a fume something entirely unhorsey. And as the sweeter air from green things swept it away, one was rather aware that it could be a fracas between females soon. This day already being most full of the unexpected. Just as last night had amply been full of most useful discovery.
I tried my best to warn everyone out of the way as Baptista came galloping back, her steed blasting out steamy puffs from its nostrils and her riding crop raised to strike Miss von B. And as the horse’s hooves began thrashing round his prostrate figure a loud scream came up from the mud and the Major. As Baptista Consuelo’s swipe missed. The ducking von B, in the same instant caught the young golden blonde beauty with the most marvellously disguised back hander which landed a stunning swat across Baptista’s backside just as that part gleamed exposed from under her jacket flap. The splash of mud from the flying horses totally obliterating the Major. Whose protesting voice now seemed to come out of nowhere.
‘Stop it. I’m secretary of the hunt. Stop it.’
The fox had doubled back. And must have crossed over this bit of bog. For the scent mad hounds were sailing at us. And even trying, to sniff under the mud bathing Major. Now came thundering the whole field, the brave contingent foremost. The nervous contingent following not far behind. Even caught up were a few of the cowards, all pounding straight towards this newest mêlée. Foxy still in front of the Master who was shouting most angrily and now obscenely shrieking for him to stay back out of the way.
‘Get behind me you brazen cunt.’
Fighting Murphy the Farmer said if his senses still served him there was no doubt that a devilishly clever fox had put the hunt to rout. And reined up together on a knoll over the débâcle were the parson and priest friends of my mother who were both clearly disturbed by the curses flying and the imminent maim about to be wrought. The parson tendered a glinting silver cup of refreshment to the priest as these two clerics made ready to help each other administer the last rites of their respective churches to those recently quickly becoming in need of same. Two bogged down riders were already making unbrave noises as they sank atop their struggling horses. While Luke and Foxy’s father were either side of the rather eccentric Lord otherwise known as the Mental Marquis in a yellow hunting cap who carried American six shooters hidden under his coat and always volunteered his vocation as being that of a debauchee. Following him close was the mad veterinary surgeon carrying a vastly long amputation knife in a sheath stuck down his boot, so, as he said, to give quick treatment to any hunt member who had hopelessly mangled a limb in the field. Being that it always made the injured chap lighter carrying him to the hospital. And when the begrimed Major saw this bloodthirsty gentleman closing down upon him he was vociferous.
‘For god’s sake don’t let that tree surgeon at me. I’m merely temporarily incapacitated and I don’t want to be permanently disembowelled.’
‘Tally ho.’
Someone said it was the first sensible utterance heard in a long while. And it was out of the Master’s lips who was pointing with his whip. At the ruddy fox. Who, would you believe it. Was now suddenly in the midst of us. And wouldn’t he know it was the safest place. Running in a circle from the converging hounds through horses’ legs and even some human. Of those recently dismounted to assist the Major. And Baptista now striking out with her fist at von B. Who was a consummate expert with her crop. Swatting Consuelo again and again. And even thwacking one back handed across Baptista’s face where a red welt blossomed smarting across her cheeks and nose.
‘O my god you’ve struck me. Someone please, kill her the filthy bitch. She’s not fit to be out with civilized people.’
‘You, you little bitch, are the bitch.’
‘I’ll show you yet who’s the bitch.’
Baptista raising her own whip. Slamming her heels deep into the sweat stained flanks of her chestnut stallion. This sixteen hand monster charging forward straight at Miss von B who raised her own whip and spun my father’s once polo schooled horse round. Both whips landing. Foam flying from the equine mouths as they churned in a circle digging deep gouges in the turf. The mud bespattered Major, hands waving as he stood.
‘I say ladies, ladies. What is the difficulty here.’
The Major attempting to rapid step out of where he stood between. Turning round and round to avoid the orbits of the flying hooves. Arms raised to ward off the stray blows landing from the lashing leathers. Which the Major quickly decided was the least of it as these quadruped wild tramplings and stampeding could be curtains not only for him but for everybody.
‘I say, quicko, let’s have orderliness.’
‘Ah jasus in a second you won’t have your quicko testicles.’
‘Who said that. Out with it. Who said that.’
A dowager lady riding side saddle, a winter hot house rose in her lapel, her black skirt spreading midships on her horse and the shadow of her veil across her face, let out a holler as her mare bolted and ran away with her. And two more horses bucked and threw their riders. Just as Miss von B, her vast diamond sparkling from its setting in the gold pin stuck through the folds of white satin at her throat, took a grab of Baptista’s lapels, and both ladies’ bowlers bounced off. Poor Mr Arland, his hands over his face. Von B pulling Baptista forward. Makes one remember the strong tapering muscles in her arms bigger than mine. And all the polishing and dusting and holding open of large books she does.
‘Let go of me you filthy foreigner.’
‘You common commoner, I shall teach you a lesson. You will not again try to ride me down.’
‘Let go.’
‘Ladies, this is most ungracious, can we not determine what is the difficulty here.’
A dismounted local squire rumoured to be erudite, stepping innocently forward to mediate and as Baptista’s mount reared with a massive erection he wisely jumped instantly backwards. With the great chestnut stallion taking bites out of the air. Von B backing away her mount and again catching Baptista by the collar, dragging the fist flailing girl backwards from her horse. The long blonde tresses, stuck with large tortoiseshell combs now hanging loose around her head as she fell. Landing smack on her bottom, hands and legs asprawl on the squelching boggy ground. And her mount galloping off rigid pricked, blasting farts, its hind hooves kicking in the sky.
All but Foxy and the Mental Marquis of the brave contingent took off after Charlie the Fox. And both the nervous and coward contingent contentedly remained behind to watch the fight. All nicely arranged in the sunshine in a safe semi circle. Foxy sitting there among the gentry, a great grin on his face. And I believe I heard him shout at the height of the mêlée.
‘Up the Republic.’
And just as the huntsman’s horn away in a copse beyond the bog sounded th
e quick pulsating notes of a tremolo to signal that the hounds had killed the fox, Baptista was feeling around her on the grass for a stone. Gathering up instead a fistful of grass to throw at von B.
‘You horrid horrid person you.’
‘You brat you are spoiled.’
‘You are a whorish servant.’
‘Ha ha, you make me weep.’
‘You disgusting foreigner.’
‘Now you make me laugh.’
‘My Lord Marquis just don’t sit there, shoot her, you’ve got guns.’
‘My dear Baptista, I also retain the very vaguest of morals One mustn’t fire upon unready ladies.’
‘She’s no lady. She’s a tramp.’
Baptista knelt on the moist turf her knees staining brown. Mr Arland dismounted, was crossing to where she’d lost her bowler and picking this up and brushing it clean with his sleeve he approached, bowing gently forward, his own top hat with suitable respect sweeping from his head, and leaning down to the rising Baptista he proferred his assisting hand.
‘Please may I at least as a possible peacemaker return your hat and help you to your feet.’
‘As for you, leave my hat alone and get your hands away from me you wretched damn tutor to those land stealing Kildares.’
On the edge of this barren bog. And on the inclining side of this rushy meadow, some yellow little gorse blossoms opened by the sun. The sweet of their coconut scent lost on this crisp air. Through which this girl’s two eyes were blazing hatred. Making me feel as if great welts were blotching all over my skin. And Mr Arland, poor Mr Arland, my noble kind tutor, who froze in his tracks. And stood there dumbly. And then slowly took back his outstretched hand and put back his opera hat on his head. And as someone had now led back and held Baptista’s recaptured horse and she unravelled a stirrup, I could in the clear winter light see the sparkle of moisture in Mr Arland’s eyes. And his voice was something I heard in me saying.
O god
I’m hurt
9
The weather stayed cold crisp and sunny an entire fortnight. With mornings of frost whitened meadows. I was getting used now to being squire of Andromeda Park. And that my father would not suddenly enter the door and thereupon I would have to hurriedly stand. With Crooks indisposed with severe gout, I enjoyed to walk the corridors listening to the sound of my heels striking the floors. Sheila or Norah stopping momentarily in their work to address me with the time of day. My only childish action was whenever I heard the haunting squeal of swan wings. I’d rush to the window to watch these great white birds cruise across the sky, all their strength and power whistling just above the trees of the front lawn. And the sight filled me with loneliness and a feeling I would like to be gone somewhere far away.
And then on a grey rainy cold morning, the mailman came urgently on his bicycle with a special letter. My father from whom no one had heard except that when after more cattle and fields were sold, money orders arrived to pay the servants and men, was now writing to tell Mr Arland that I must attend a young gentlemen’s school close to Dublin, and that his services upon my gaining entry would no longer be required. Although I was furious and Mr Arland was extremely sad at the news, he counselled me that I should go. And when he complained he could not sleep these recent nights over the pub, I invited him to take a room at Andromeda Park.
Three weeks later we departed just before lunch, bundled up and wrapped in scarves. Miss von B as she stood tweedily attired in the hall making sure again and again that I had all my necessities and that I was smart looking, held her fists clenched at her sides and her lips drawn tight as if she were about to cry. Outside on the steps Sexton presented himself to say goodbye, giving us four winter stored apples he had brightly polished. I could sniff the usual smell of soot and motor oil on his hair and I perceived moisture in his eye as he touched his patch and seemed overly hearty expressing his words.
‘Up there in the roaring metropolis you’ll soon be getting Latin aplenty Master Darcy sine dubio. And Mr Arland, what harm was there in our little differences. God bless the both of you now and safe journey.’
Our bags followed on a float driven by Luke and Foxy’s father. And Mr Arland in his naval great coat sitting high in the governess’s cart was chewing the last of the apples as we arrived at the faded grey station. Standing lonely and bereft as it did down at the end of the tree lined drive, its apron of gravel surrounded with its neatly tilled flower beds. Its large clock suspended over the platform was said to have the most accurate time in the county. That is if anyone had the correct time to compare it to.
Although we’d learned earlier by the crossroads telephone that the train for certain had left the previous town, we waited two hours. And every time Mr Arland opened his coat and pushed into his waistcoat pocket for the silver box to take a liberal pinch of snuff, he would also take from his baggy grey suit, his big gold watch to regard the hour. And with his battered briefcase resting against his ankle, he would peer up at the station timepiece.
‘Good lord that damn clock is losing a minute every ten minutes and it was made in Leicester.’
And when finally we first heard and then saw the puffing engine rounding the bend between the hills, there was a great self important flurry from the platform porter. And the Station Master with his whistle and green flag kept shouting.
‘All aboard now, don’t keep the train waiting.’
The man sitting on a box of pigeons stood up and spat into the stones between the tracks. Another sitting on a crated squealing pig, dragged it along the platform. Then a gentleman lugging a suitcase perforated with holes and full of squawking chickens said to these other two owners that their livestock could just as soon be dead cooked and eaten after themselves were already killed with the waiting, and then he pointed towards the locomotive and then announced.
‘Sure that yoke would be flying if it only had a bit of coal.’
There were faces I recognized from the town. The bald headed and dour demeanoured owner of the drapery shop who was rumoured to be buying some of our land. And others whom I saw look at me and then lean over and make whispers in each other’s ears. Quite disrespectful and most uncomfortable making. Especially with some of the monstrous bills we owed. But one elderly gentleman, who said he served my grandfather for forty years in the stables of Andromeda Park, had the courtesy to salute us and hold open the train door as we boarded. And with turf being flung into the boilers we made eastwards at a steady pace along the banks of the canal and between the stretching dark bog lands, stopping at the little stations to collect the patiently waiting passengers some of whose faces were blue with cold.
With my sleeve I wiped clear the steam of my breath collecting on the window. Out in the gathering darkness all one could see were shadows and sometimes a lonely light. My feet growing cold, I daydreamed of von B. Mostly of her body. And just as we finished eating our buttery ham thick sandwiches a priest came in to our compartment and regarded me out of the corner of his eye. In some strange way I seemed to irritate him. Perhaps upsetting him with my lascivious thoughts. He would squiggle up his nose and frown and make nasty faces. And especially so when I took out and wrote in my recently begun blue leather diary. I had found it in back of one of the cupboards of medical instruments with its pages empty and under another diary my mother’s father had kept and in which I found great interest to read. I carried both and mine was locked with a silver tiny clip. And because this could easily be broken open I thought it would be prudent on the frontis page to write.
Herein lies the truth of The Daring Dancer’s activities and a curse shall be on him and his heirs who shall open without my warrant and peruse these pages.
The click clack of the train slowing as we made another stop. Then the mournful whistle wailing as we approached road crossings. A gentleman entered in a stiff wing collar, and sat with the priest across from us. His red glowing face lit by the ceiling light. And perhaps many whiskeys. By the cut of his jib not to mention cutaway co
at, striped trousers and black gartered socks, he appeared to be of the legal profession. And from time to time he regards Mr Arland who only lifts his head up from his book to try to read the name as we pull into yet another tiny station.
The legal gentleman seemed to entirely approve of me and once smiled as I wrote in my diary. Which really alarmed me to blushing because I was writing that last night I had four emissions with H.R.H. which initials I used to refer to Miss von B. We stopped at sidings along the great bog to load turf into the tender from the great stacks by the track. And I detected a certain smugness in the legal gentleman who cleared his throat as the conductor who was coming by the carriages asking for the lend of a hand, but who when looking into our window, instead saluted from his cap. Then the legal gent spoke for the first and last time, giving us a flash of his best French.
‘Premier class passengers are not asked to help unless they volunteer.’
We heard concerned voices shifting boxes. And back along the train there was the roaring moaning of cattle as they were beaten up into a livestock car. Then the train slowly chugging underway again and I thought back to that fox hunting day of von B beating Baptista. And making, with those splendid lashes landing on the latter, the occupants of Andromeda Park, persona non grata. And we chose to miss a meeting or two of the hunt. Who had four more fixtures during the splendid weather. Which produced grumblings around the stables at the lack of action. All except for Foxy, who said as he cantered Thunder and Lightning around the farm buildings.
‘You can the rest of you do what yez like but I’m going to hump after that fucking fox.’
And off he would gallop. And from Foxy came the information that it was rumoured that Baptista’s solicitors in the town were intending to call half the hunt as witnesses when they went to trial to ask for damages for assault. Although no writ had yet arrived upon the heels of their threatening letters to Miss von B, more of these unpleasant communications continued to come. Over which Mr Arland and I would pore in the schoolroom between bouts of geography and my recent course on American history.
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman Page 10
