Standing at the stove in the small basement kitchen of the little house in Brompton between the quiet reaches of Hyde Park and Knightsbridge, Balthazar B cooked a kipper. When one month ago were said all the fond farewells from school. The wireless announced that the war was over. And there was dancing cheering and kissing through all the streets. One night huddled alone in bed I had a dream. That all were dead in France. And Uncle Edouard's big stuffed bear was standing against a sun rising high in the sky on a mild moist windblown day. The bear held great open arms out to where there were hills that were green. And brooks that flowed silver. There was a wide wide street and a great big park. And awake the next morning Balthazar B sat at the little oak desk facing out on the narrow back yards and wrote to Trinity College Dublin.
An end of September came when he took two trunks and an evening taxi across the bridge of the Serpentine through Tyburnia and along Marylebone Road to Euston. With a quickened heart and life lightly on the fingertips. The great granite pillars of the station. And then this moment. Amid the uniforms brown and blue. I saw a face hurrying by. Only an arm away. A woman who looked small. Perhaps because Fve grown so tall. Her hair swept up under her cap, her legs in black stockings. I held two newspapers in my hand. And a voice called after me that I'd left my change. I shouted Bella. Under the great arching blackened roof. And the figure began to run. And I ran. Shouting Bella Bella Bella. And stopped. It could not be. And I hoped so much that it wasn't. If she would flee. Across the grey concrete platforms all grit and dust and wrappings. Where she went. Towards the train to Liverpool.
In the darkening night the clicking clacking wheels sped across England through Crew and Chester and into Wales. And out across the lonely land to Holyhead. On this breezy Saturday clear night I sailed to Dublin. With a heart hollow with so little hope. To read a letter again and again. And each time it was true. The words said we look forward to seeing you here. And in the upper left hand corner was a seal and a shield with a lion, harp, and book over a castle, and a gate and two turrets flying flags. In the saloon high amidships at a smooth brown table a waiter poured out a dark liquid which foamed and swallowed bitter sweet down the throat. The way now so grey. Miss Hortense said once that when she was glad she felt like a drop of dew on a blade of grass and when she was sad she rolled down and got sucked up in the ground. And ahead on a black shore were the flickering coastal lights of Ireland.
Tuesday, on the first day of October, Balthazar B removed in a handsome cab from the Shelbourne Hotel to go prancing down Kildare Street towards the wall and fence and trees of Trinity College. To smile suddenly at this city. The red faces of the men and white faces of the women. The missing door handles of the cab kept closed by string. And the unsmiling scattering begging bare footed little children. Last night to peer out a window across the top of trees in St. Stephen's Green. Other windows set in granite and blue grey rooftops wet with rain. Purple little mountains rising in the distance, set gently beyond the wispy fragrant smoke. And to walk the city as I did, down the dim lit streets and by the great walls and green railings behind which I would go to live. In one street past a cinema I walked. A girl on the other side of the road.
She stared at me and I stared back at her. And both of us walked into obstructions. Me into a wall and she into a post. I laughed, she laughed. I bowed and she ran. And now this windy morning. Low sky of tumbling clouds. The curving fence of Trinity. The horse cab crossing College Green and down Dame Street to come back again and head straight at the grey stone front. A clock, hands at ten, the row of top square windows, the arched gate, and pillars. All this strange cold nobility. A toy green tram squealing by. And floods of bicycles. The tall red faced policeman stopping traffic and giving the horseman a violent wave forward across this open apron of street and in between the iron gates to stop before this great wooden door.
Two dark blue peak hatted porters, pulling back the great doors. They looked in the horse cab window. And I said with nothing else to say that I am Balthazar. They saluted and said very good sir. And I thought I had done terribly well. Clip clopping we went across this cobbled square. Groups of students in dark gowns standing at the open doorways and dotted on the paths between the velvet grass.
Down by a grey grand building and into a large square. Gnarled ancient trees fading yellow. A man in a battered brown hat stood on the granite steps. His hands on his hips, bicycle clips on his trouser legs. And as the horse cab stopped, he looked and frowned. Balthazar alighted. The man looked at the entrance wall upon a newly painted name.
"Begging your pardon sir. But are you the gentleman as is expected at number seventy six.' "Yes."
"The name is Balthazar is it sir."
"Yes."
"Fm Horace sir, your servant. Will I be giving you a little help now with your luggage sir."
The two big cases lifted from the cab. Horace giving little commands to the horseman. As they backed away into the dark hall. Stand here now on this step. The grass so greeny green beyond the iron fluted pointed posts holding a suspended chain. The air fresh and fragrant. A boot scraper here on the step. Take off my hat and let it blow my hair.
Along a shadowy stone paved hall. Up steps to a landing and up more stairs to another. And behind a thick big black door. There was a crash. Balthazar B stepping quickly forward. Into a large high ceilinged sitting room. Where one trunk lay on the floor on top of the pieces of a chair.
"Ah sir that chair was long in need of repair. Weak in the knees. Tired of being sat on. Well send it straight to purgatory right there in the fire. Sure it will never see the sight of God."
Outside the clip clop of the horse cab went under the window and faded away. A pale glass shade over a weighted pulley light hung from the ceiling. A brown table and three more chairs. A light tan tiled fireplace. A turf fire glowing.
"With a little turf left over from the gentleman leaving I thought Fd air out a bit hearing as you were coming. Now sir, my duties are to keep the rooms well dusted out. Do the washing up. Get in the water. Lay a fire and will you be wanting breakfast sir of a morning.' "Please."
"Very good sir. And will you be requiring any of the fundamentals of living sir. Such as a mattress."
"Yes please."
"Very good sir. I can see to that very thing for you. Ah we've been having some shocking weather. Shocking. Well have it right here sir in short order. And you'll be needing the odd blanket. I'm suggesting now that Henry Street is your man. Quality for the price, wool for the warmth. Is nine your time of rising sir, of a morning."
"That will do fine."
"There'll be a good big pitcher of hot water for you on the washstand there. Should I knock to wake you sir. Some of the professors are ones for the waking. Have to tear the covers back from the bed before they stir at all."
"Just a knock will do."
"Very good sir. Now I wouldn't be not minding my own business sir but sometimes it's handy to know. May I enquire what you are reading sir."
"Natural science."
"That's a dandy subject. I have meself many unnatural matters on my mind, ah we'll have plenty of time to discuss that, eh, heh heh sir. The last gentleman here sir was an engineer. Ah he was a one for cylinders and motor bike parts all over the place. A devil to keep tidy. Didn't I see him once having his breakfast out of a hubcap. Well now we'll be getting on a bit. A good sweeping out while you settle in. Ah I had to laugh sir, as you came down the square in the cab. I says to meself who's this gentleman now, he has the notion to do it right. The only sure way to travel. Why the streets are blocked outside there with these yokes gasping for the petrol. Sure a horse you throw a fork full a hay to in the night and while you're sleeping isn't he being refuelled. Ah you wouldn't know what the world was coming to and that's a fact. Before you know it they'll be trying to put wings on a donkey and him only trying to graze."
Opening tall cupboard doors in the bedroom. Laying out on these empty shelves shirts, socks and the last remnants of Uncle Edouard's si
lk underwear. The yellowing thick masonry walls. The iron bedstead arid naked springs. Tall cream shutters folded back at the sides of the windows. Look out across these trees and falling leaves. A solitary lamp post at the corner of the square. The lip of lawn and cobble stone gutter. Tiny flashes of dark blue in the sky. And a wind rattles the big window.
Balthazar B opened his bedroom door into the sitting room and fell back again and closed it shut.
"Is there something amiss sir."
"No."
Balthazar B bracing himself and taking in a great lungful of air. Opening the door again and setting forth across the roomr Horace vaguely outlined crouched behind his broom plunging it forward as it curled rolling volumes of dust up against the ceiling. Horace paused and held a shielding hand above his eyes.
"Ah you're on your way out sir."
"Yes."
"Ah we'll have it spic and span on your return sir. And Fll be knocking you up at nine sharp sir."
"Splendid. Thank you."
Across the cobbles between these scatterings of eager faces. Through the mild and soft air. To go in under the portico and past the porter's little cozy room. Hung with keys, piled with parcels. A fire blazing in the grate. And out now into the bustling city. A phalanx of bicycles released by the tall policeman's white gloved hand as he urgently beckoned them on. And last night asleep. High up over St. Stephen's Green. The early morning coming down with its blue white light from the hills beyond the city. And revelries far below. Went to my window to look down. Saw figures in long flowing dresses and men in evening clothes. A casual gladness in the voices and their laughing shouts. And one voice which nearly seemed a voice I knew. Singing out above the others. On the distant hills the sun was rising. Full of an orange tickling and the last of an autumn's warmth. To go spreading redly down over this stone built city.
Out now to flow along with these pedestrians. Alive this gay afternoon on the great slabs of granite. Past giant green gates of the Provost's house. Green and yellow trams grinding and clanging by. Citizens as they nod and cock their heads in silent passing greeting. Sometimes stopping to give urgent earward whispers. Tiny scurrying white faced children, the wind blowing through their rags. Begging as one passed. Give us a penny mister. And an open shirted black curly headed man said to an open shirted burning eyed man, how's your hammer hanging Sean.
Through an aroma of roasted coffee and a glass mahogany swing door. By light eyed ladies with packages and gloves and sparkling eyes. In grey flannel suits and silken voices who let the breeze of passing people blow their cigarette smoke away. Everywhere, faces. And ahead past counters of cakes and breads and sweet smelling loaves, a great high ceilinged room of glass topped tables.
Balthazar B sat down on a crimson seat beneath a stained glass window and perused this oriental menu. The black dressed waitress brought a large cup of coffee and plate of glistening brown topped currant buns. A dish of gold balls of butter. A woman with a priest Two red coated girls with refined small fingers sticking out from their cups of tea. Little clanks of cutlery on the glass. Heaped pots of sugar pieces.
Warm fragrant coffee in the mouth. To open an evening newspaper and read that a cow escaped onto a road and gave the garda a wild chase into a village where the beast entered a public house and set the occupants to holding their pints high over their heads so as not to have them spilled. A wondrous simple peace. Without years of lonely grey. And upturned rafters in brick debris. With bombs and cannons chattering up against the night and searchlights waving over a terror torn sky.
To walk back down again this bustling street. The shop lights go on. A sweet smoky air descends. My drop of dew on a blade of grass. Is my gladness. Hovering above the ground.
High and still
And
Sparkling so
In Dublin
Town.
13
Balthazar B stood in slippers and the lower half of pink pyjamas at his marble washstand and slapped up water to rinse his soapy face. A time to look out across the square as students collect for classes in the arts. And the plane trees hang out wild writhing winter branches.
To go to this large garage out in the back mews reaches of south Dublin. For the purchase of a motor car. The proprietor wiping his hands in a petrol soaked rag. And with a quick little nod of the head, he smiled and was willing to please.
"Now what did you have in mind sir.'
''I am not quite sure.'
"Is it for the touring. Or town. Or the back and forth."
"Back and forth.'
"Now let me ask you one question. Would you ever be wanting to be out on the road and in an awful need to get somewhere fast without much let or hindrance. Answer me that. And I may be able to help you. Without putting your mind through the torture of a lot of choices.'
"That's quite possible."
"Now I can't promise a thing, but you know I think that you're the man I've been waiting for. A gentleman who's ready and able for them wide open spaces. And who's got the glint of the sportsman in the eye. Am I right."
"I'm not quite sure."
"O I'm right, I know I'm right. I know a keen man when I see one. Can't I tell by the cut of your cloth there, aren't you a man for the wide open spaces."
"I really want a motor to reach the race courses."
"Ah, now, am I glad you said that. Baldoyle, Leopardstown, the Curragh. I knew it. And you'll make the twenty four miles to Punchestown in twenty minutes flat. I'm telling you that. Just let me show you something now. Come along here this way. Of course I should have known you were a racing gentleman. It's written all over you. Now here we are.'
"My God.'
"O now just you wait till you see this. Just you wait. Just swing back these covers. Ah, I want you to take a long look at this now. What about that. It's the greatest four wheeler ever seen in Dublin. It would pull two hundred protestant donkeys backwards from Glasnevin to Rathgar and they desperate to get to Belfast away from the pope. Just have a look now will you, under the bonnet. Have a look at this now. Twelve of your cylinders. Ready and willing. Each the size of a man's thigh. With sparkplugs to match. Climb a hill as steep as the back of your head there and it be only in neutral gear.
Commodious."
"It's awfully big."
"Let that be no deterrent. What would a keen racing man such as yourself do out on the highway without the little extra room for the lady perhaps. Heh heh. And sure you wouldn't want to be shouldered off the road. There's a bunch of them now, shopkeepers and publicans, motorists they call themselves if you please, out on the roadway of a Sunday. Let me tell you, they'll give you no trouble when they see this man here coming at them I assure you."
"Does it go."
"Does it go. You're asking me. Does it go. Get up there now. Ah that's a good one. Does it go. That's it now, are you right. Get yourself steady. Does it go. Sure do you see this little black button here now."
A deep growling whirring and a sudden explosion. A great white cloud of exhaust. As the massive machine rumbled and throbbed and slowly moved forward.
"Goodness."
"Does it go. It wasn't called a Landship for nothing. You out there Mick, clear the doors and make way in the road outside, we're coming out. Sure I'll give you a little tour right round Merrion Square north east south and west. Are you right."
The Landship securely moored now below the window.
The great long black chassis on the tall wooden spoked wheels. Horace each morning cheerful standing at the water pump filling his bucket quietly contemplating the Landship.
Stopping by it and slowly wagging his head.
"Ah sir, I can't get over it. I measured it three times meself and was telling the lads it was twenty two and a half feet in length as the crow flies and not a man of them would believe me. Ah it must be a grand powerful feeling to be rolling along in that yoke. Sure you'd need your own petrol station to keep it fed."
With breakfast laid out. A pint of cow's milk in a bot
tle. A fire smouldering in the grate. The chill wind comes whistling in round the tall windows. One sits rubbing bluish hands.
And cupping tightly the warm green bowls of tea.
And always to have to get up from one's chair and cross to the fireplace and stand pushing knees into the smoke. And pumping the bellows to bring a red glow to the silvered ends of turf. Feet damp and cold. Then try to remain calm as the intestines will not. To grab one's long motoring coat from the door. And copy of last night's Evening Mail and head for the bog.
Each step along the cold street. Must hold on till I get there. Past the college Printing House. A pile of leaves blown up against a corner of its steps. Its blackened empty alcoves.
In there the mystery of the exams turning over on the presses.
Through this broken three quarter door. Walk down the row of crappers. Seats torn off. Newspapers flying. Cold stone cubicles. The wind blows. As all of one's white body cries out for warmth. And count each day how many steps. All the way here. One hundred and thirty eight of them. To bravely now.
Undo a buckle, open flies. Lower garments and unleash the backside to the shivering breeze and icy seat. Take a deep breath. And hope that after all the many mornings one could not budge the spirit to move out in the rains, that on this less inclement day the soul will shift the burden. Or surely simply break the arse.
But two more days till this one desperate morning. Six A.M.
in the cold bed. A great churning through the intestines. Of an evening's reverie over sea foods and stout. One rushed for motoring coat and down the stone steps to mount the Land-ship. And set the monstrous engine throbbing. To get me to the bog on time. Waking up the college. As one sailed around the square and screeched to a halt outside the long wall of water closets. The following afternoon a letter came.
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B Page 11
