Dear Madam,
Our client is not satisfied to grant further unappreciated courtesy to await further your obtaining legal representation, the time for which is now long past due, and we call upon you to remit the damages required and give the written apology demanded, or we shall, per our client’s instructions, institute proceedings without further notice.
Yours faithfully,
Fibbs, Kelly, Orgle and Fluthered
I could not help but feel as Mr Arland toyed with and touched these distressing letters that he made seem that they were in some remote way secret coded friendly messages to him from Baptista Consuelo. I kept imagining that he might pick one up and kiss her solicitors’ signature which I had seen times before provocatively suggesting legal redress against my father for selling some outlying land which some small farmer, claiming squatters’ rights, had decided to quietly fence off for himself. But as we all sat over Catherine’s piping hot buttery scones and damson jam served by a limping Crooks for tea he dutifully upon lengthy consultations with Miss von B composed replies. And in his high mock pompous voice, putting the final sheet in front of me. Saying.
‘I think that out of some authorities who write on such matters, we may have produced here a thorn or two for them Kildare.’
Dear Sirs,
I write in response to your latest letter and on behalf of Her Royal Highness, The Princess Schlesgluckwigboomsonderstein, that she is, due to a recent indisposition, unable to make the trip to Dublin to instruct her legal advisers not only in answer to your client’s claims but also in the matter of the malicious slanders uttered in the disparagement of Her Royal Highness in her present vocation and further reckless imputations of unchastity published in the hunting field by your client with the words hereinafter following. To wit: ‘You are a whorish servant.’
And additionally:
‘She’s no lady, she’s a tramp.’
Yours faithfully,
Mister Arland
(Tutor in residence to Master Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.)
Touching this cold clammy train window. The thick leather strap which holds it closed scratched and worn. And now miles back there those evenings after dinner, when it wasn’t quite jolly for us three to be in cahoots constructing these letters, it was for me altogether quite mournful. As I took the imputation of Her Royal Highness’s unchastity much to heart. Especially as I did now, more than occasionally, sneakily detour to sleep in her bed. But with Mr Arland making one of his funny faces and placing his head on one side to say.
‘Ah I think that that nice flourish, imputation of unchastity, may, when the enormity of its ramifications penetrate their thick country skulls, put those rural legal chaps to rout.’
One would at these words be amused and the flush of embarrassment I was sure was on my face would fade. While at the mention of Baptista, Kelly, Fibbs, Fluthered or Orgle, Miss von B merely sniffed down her nose and gave a high pitched false laugh. And with Crooks finally hors de combat with two gouty feet, she was these days a power of activity and made what she said was a pre spring clean. The great big ring of clanging jangling keys on her forearm, pulling open the long closed cupboards in the walls of the ballroom and putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed the shelves full of ancient medical instruments. Her eyes growing wide as she said in her excitement Vas is diss, when her German accent became quite pronounced. And I replied with some relish.
‘Ah Princess Gluckswittlebocksonderboomstein, dem ist der blood letting blades, dat snap out to cut zee two rows of incisions to let zee patient’s or victim’s, however you prefer, to let zair blood flow mit some profusion.’
She would when I used that accent try to clobber me behind the ear. The strength of her was quite amazing. And once I saw stars followed I was pleased to feel, by her kisses bringing me back to life. And then I would with forceps and other evil looking contraptions, try to apply and attempt to operate with them on the more intimate parts of Miss von B’s body and she, quite unreasonably scared I thought, would shriek and run, bosoms bouncing, as I chased her all about the ballroom, making my most horrid faces and looming in my most contorted and frightening manner. Till caught she would say, as I flung her down on a dusty window seat with our feet entwining in the great heavy drapes and my hand searching to tug down her undergarments.
‘Not here, not here, you little fool.’
Now with every click clack of this cold train I get further away from von B. Who wanted to tie me up and whip me. And when I let her once and it hurt, I asked her was she not disgusted with her behaviour. And especially of indoctrinating one so young as myself. She said that all the better bred older ladies of the deeper continent kept young boys to whip and make love to them. In Vienna it was quite the custom. And she asked would I ever wed. I said no and certainly I would not contemplate such a thing as marriage to an older lady. Not if they did that kind of thing. But with all my responsibilities these days I thought that a wife, one of the quality of Miss von B, would be quite suitable. And save me paying wages. She is so good at cleaning and keeping everything in its place. She sews, mends and crochets. And even knows considerable about cooking except that Catherine hates the sight of her in the kitchen. She is an accomplished horse woman, and jolly good at diagnosing their troubles. Pity she is quite unknowledgeable when it comes to cattle. Had to tell her the difference between a Friesian and Hereford. Of course I could teach her these agricultural things. Just as she has taught me how to make love to ladies. Touch them where they like it most. With these my fingers, which wipe the window and I watch out into the passing black night. And look at my fingernails she manicured. On my third trip to Dublin. Way back there now in the countryside, Andromeda Park sitting lonely on its hill. Strange, how when you leave a whole world behind, you worry that who will see that gates are closed in the far off meadows and mend where the fences are broken. Her Royal Highness will keep the home fires burning. Especially if Crooks will uncomplainingly serve her tea. Although not really himself, he was quite attentive as we dined those evenings. And seemed, always at the end of the day, to be able to manage to arise from bed and bring up from the cellars to table some of our most very best wines, in particular the great booming reds of the Côte de Nuits which he briefly aired and decanted for drinking. But I had noticed recently that not only had he become considerably more cross eyed but that he was particularly monosyllabic with me. Holding awkwardly out from his side his previously broken left arm and answering. Yes master Reginald. No master Reginald. I’ll see to it, master Reginald. And one late evening as I was heading to fetch my atlas from the schoolroom to get an impromptu geography lesson from Her Royal Highness nakedly waiting for me upstairs, I stopped to watch the three bats flying in the front hall. When Crooks, stooped forward in his dressing gown and slippers, confronted me in the moonlit darkness. I must admit that there was prevalent a religious mania which seemed to affect to some degree, all the servants, especially those in their less menial and more polite pursuits above stairs. And this I now detected in Crooks as he growled and then with his whiskey smelling breath spouted polysyllabic at me.
‘Good lord my God who hath made my legs weak and big toes pained, beseech you deliver us from fornication, and all other deadly sin and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil.’
‘Is that you Crooks.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you speaking to me Crooks.’
‘I speak to my God first before I shall speak to any earthly master. There’s too much and enough going on in this house already. What good would it do to speak to you Master Reginald.’
‘Well you are speaking to me.’
‘And I regret to see the bad evil influence of that hooligan Foxy coming to flower. And now with that kraut herself disembowelling the very house and sacrilegiously dislodging your great grand uncle’s medical instruments from their repository. O there will come the day.’
‘What are you trying to say Crooks.’
‘I’ll say it. And when I have it said and done, the good Lord will then judge. Meanwhile I can only beseech he deliver us from fornication.’
Crooks’s slippered footsteps shuffled off down the hall into darkness. And it always rather amazed and alarmed me at how unconcernedly he would, without being summoned, march at any old time through any old room of the house when the fancy took him as it obviously took him now, his voice mumbling as he went.
‘O this house, this house. Where I have served so faithfully my dear departed mistress, would that you o great god have the mercy to resurrect her. The all pure and holy Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond. God bless you dear. God bless you, you wonderful charming beautiful lady.’
Whenever I looked up in his direction, the priest in our train compartment seemed as if he were about to suddenly speak or more probably shout at me. Clearly to him both Mr Arland and I were agnostics at large or something, or even worse, protestants. Whom Sexton said, were at least well bathed and honest while any good catholic worth his salt didn’t go near a bath tub and would treacherously lie sooner than look at you. And Crooks and Sexton were easily the most devout among our male staff, both wearing crucifixes under their tunics which they oftentimes took out and kissed. And I thought any day I’d see the two of them dancing a jig down the hall each with a winter bouquet of Sexton’s night scented flowers and screaming hail mary up at heaven. But all that happened back that night confronting Crooks, was that my erection went down and when feeling around in the dark for the atlas I fell over a broom sticking out wedged between a table and the wall in the schoolroom. But it was the first time ever that I heard Crooks pray for my mother’s resurrection. It was not however, the first I had heard of him speaking of his miraculous visions. Vouched for on one occasion by Sexton, who only that I knew he was somewhat touched with an equal mania, I might have nearly believed them both. Their urgent hysterics about the apparition told all over the farmyard, that my mother had appeared where the altar used to be in the ancient ruin of the chapel in the cemetery. Or Sexton when he stood in his potting shed imploring with his hands.
‘Ah it was a blinding brightness of light and that immaculate lady, sine dubio, the very virgin replica of the Blessed Virgin herself, stood there with her fair hand raised till the explosive vision blinded us. I myself with me only one good eye left threw meself prostrate to the ground. Then when I looked back up, there stood a vase right out of Catherine’s kitchen cupboard with the loveliest of deep red roses in it. A miracle.’
And on this bumping ride now. The train to Dublin. Photographs of the great hotels enveloped in smoke over the legal gent’s head, as the priest puffs on a cigarette. And all the waste land and barren bogs out there in the darkness. And upon the journey from Andromeda Park to the station we were discussing the niceties of legal jargon when I asked Mr Arland if it were not proper for me to address Miss von B by her title. He frowned slightly as he said.
‘Of course in mere courtesy you might. However, although she is, Kildare, according to the Almanach de Gotha, high born, I regret to say that, in fact, she is not entitled to be referred to in the style and manner of Her Royal Highness.’
We had on that subject a good jolly laugh when letter composing. For Mr Arland, when we sat alone without Miss von B, further and better revising our letters to those naughty solicitors, would place his pointing finger under the words Her Royal Highness and then double up his hand into a shaking fist. And how in this carriage he slumps a little, there in the corner, his head nodding off to sleep, his book open across his grey knee with the thumb of his pale scholarly hand held between the pages and I could see the nosey priest trying to see its long complicated title.
A Domestic Homoeopathy
Its Legitimate Sphere of Practice
Together with Rules for Diet and Regimen
Mr Arland often read and quoted to me from this volume with such advices as, ‘Nightmare often occurs after a hearty supper.’ Although he said he should be sorry to no longer be my tutor, I felt he might be glad to be departing. Especially with his advances towards Baptista Consuelo so poorly and unsportingly received. But recently he seemed to have come out of his tendency to long silences. Which I felt had resulted from his deep and spurned love for that little bitch. He had moreover, met me, as nearly every bloody member of the household now had, on one of my rather late evening expeditions to Miss von B. I was about to babble out a whole stream of ridiculous excuses as to why I was to be found tiptoeing in my dressing gown upwards on the beech grove stairs, my noisy slippers tucked under each armpit, when he bowed in the candlelight and instead made his excuse to me.
‘Ah Kildare, I am unable to sleep and I am on my way to the library to choose a book. And ah I see you were just like me as a boy. I too often went at night to go catch moths attracted by a light I’d put at an attic window.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Arland, yes, precisely what I am doing. As a matter of fact. Catching moths.’
‘Of course you’ll find moths more plentiful in summer. But have a good catch, Kildare, goodnight.’
Now Mr Arland slumped over in his seat lets out a little snore. Which clearly the priest does not appreciate but at which the legal gent kindly smiles. Just as Mr Arland did that night on the stairs. When I knew that I had blundered by saying anything about catching moths. But I am sure he felt it beneficial for me to have it off with Miss von B even though he could not contribute to the furtherance of that aspect of my education by his tutoring. And noting the fact in my diary, I was astonished as to how well used I was becoming to sleeping with her. We could get nice and jolly warm together. And I liked her stories. About the Barons Princes and Duchesses, and the naughty goings on in the tottering Royal Houses of Europe. And the way she would suddenly in the middle of them jump up and go guzzling and kissing all over me with her mouth. I could nearly think of nothing now but climbing on top of her each night or she upon me as we did occasionally till dawn or our utter fatigue finally intervened. Resulting then in my being unable to stand up during the daytime. Sitting there in the schoolroom or across the table from Mr Arland in the library, with my pained and strained prick pushing my trousers out like a tent. And at lunch when I walked bent over behind Mr Arland to the dining room, he turned to regard me.
‘Good grief Kildare, what on earth’s the matter, you’re bent over like an old man, are you alright.’
‘I believe I may just have a small rupture.’
‘Good lord, we had better summon the doctor.’
‘O no I’ll be quite alright, it easily passes off.’
‘Rupture Kildare, does not pass off. Indeed you can get a strangulated hernia.’
‘O I’m sure it’s perhaps not rupture. Colic or something. Quite temporary.’
‘Colic, o well, my Domestic Homoeopathy Manual has just the jolly job for you. Hot flannels applied on the belly. And you must abstain from green vegetable and other flatulent food.’
Yet, having it off with Miss von B had so much changed one’s life. For a start my voice was considerably deeper. And I was able to wear my foreskin back. It was worrying however that nearly nothing else entered one’s mind. And there might be something going wrong with my brain. For even as I used to do, watching the rooks, or tramping for a walk up over spy glass hill, everywhere in front of one’s eyes was the moaning writhing body of Miss von B. And I must admit that not everything was pleasure. Those first few times I blushed and shivered and trembled and at times was revolted. Indeed a whole fortnight passed before I was able to avoid vomiting usually once before heading up the stairs and again in her room and again when I returned to mine. And dear me, once right on top of her. Later of course, when I returned to the privacy of my own chamber, I did nearly laugh my head off. It was the extraordinary panicky manner in which she tried to get out of the way of that evening’s digested dinner. Since I was in her we were rather pinned together, and she would move one way just as I was trying to move the opposite. I had also to get used to one or tw
o regrettable things in the way of her personal smells occasioned when she could not bathe. When, as a result of a two week visit from the plumber who went round scratching his head and twisting and banging the pipes, finally had water flying out of everywhere but where it should. Although she retired behind a screen to put some contraption up her I always found it rather disconcerting especially as she would with equanimity loose farts. However when she did this under the covers she did explain that if such gas should therein remain bottled up there could result one awful battle to finally bust it out. As I got used to her ways I laid a few myself and we would both lie there listening together to see who could make the most interesting bang. She was most remarkably handy with her tongue as well. And would put it around things and in places that most surprised me. And just so that she would not think I was as sordid as she was I thought it appropriate to mildly remonstrate.
‘Even though I like you doing that to me isn’t it filthy and disgusting.’
‘You Irish, your minds are as stupid as your bodies are usually dirty.’
The train now passing by bleak black rooftops and over a trestle bridge in the misty darkness. Lamplights up streets glowing on the shabby red bricked tiny houses. Smoke curling thick from chimneys into the hovering fog. And as the train pulled into the station, the legal gentleman again smiled at me. He also civilly bowed to Mr Arland who bowed back as he was leaving the carriage. The priest however appeared to like one even less now at the end of the journey and took his black case down from the rack with an impatient long sigh.
The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman Page 11
