Darcy Dancer stretched in a hot bath. The window and mirrors steamed. The candle guttering. In safe at last But Crooks doesn’t know his ear from his elbow about horses. Or about that death on four legs marauding out there in the bleak black dark. Close one’s eyes for a sacred moment of warm peace. Except for a rat or hopefully a giant mouse gnawing at a timber somewhere. Time for toe twiddling prior to reclining a backside in the silks. Creaking floorboard in the hall. The bathroom door is opening.
‘Glory be to god.’
A gasp from Dingbats coming some few unnecessarily prolonged seconds after dropping the oven hot towels on the floor. Blessing herself and mumbling some indecipherable expression in Irish before running out the door. Dingbats has seen another ghost. Lying here quite rude to be sure. With my pole up like a periscope. Which warm soothing waters always seem to do to me. Teach her a saucy lesson not to barge in doors without knocking. But one does hope that after reciting the act of contrition and saying a rosary or two she might again reappear with my dinner. Which of course she did.
‘Dinner is served sir. Shall the tray go on the table there.’
‘Half an hour late Mollie.’
‘Sir there’s been terrors of stories told down the kitchen about the mad horse. Sure he could come back and get at us up the stairs of the house.’
‘I shouldn’t worry Mollie. But you might come back yourself and up the stairs with the condiments, wine glass and fork.’
‘There are too many shocks for me in this house to remember me name, never mind the condermints or whatever they’re called.’
Her frizzy red hair previously well camouflaging her brow and eyes now brushed in a new off the face style. Maybe so she can see more nudity. I did think sight of me in the bath did do something improving to Dingbats’ behaviour although not to her overpowering musky smell. One knows of course of the chastening effect the nakedness of the master or mistress of a house seems to have on staff. Putting them into a good humour for days on end. And now rather than a stupid frown overcoming Dingbats’ face, as usually happened when racking her brain for some asinine excuse, one found her mischievously smiling. Rendering of course her asinine excuse.
‘Ah sir them condermints must have jumped off the tray in the kitchen as they were all there just this minute ago.’
One would swear too that her chest was sticking out somewhat further. And still on her freckled face was what one could only describe as a Mona Lisa smile. Which I fear gave her countenance a rather sickly appearance, especially as she was now conspicuously licking her tongue around her lips. And engaging me in what for her was unusually familiar conversation.
‘It’s a better sort of evening sir, this evening now with the stars out.’
O my god, how does one now get a moment of privacy. Previously she seemed to be quivering in fear and couldn’t wait to get out of one’s presence and now one is informed the stars are out.
‘Ah you don’t say Mollie. Pity the shutters are closed.’
‘I’ll open them sir.’
‘No. Please don’t bother. I’ll look at the stars I think later. Thank you very much Mollie.’
Mollie departing and after feasting I was woefully suffering randy pangs conjuring up previous Dublin nights. Of a naked svelte castanet clacking Lois in her studio. One regretting all her portraits of me were in the nude. Otherwise one could hang one right here. Hammer it in with nails safe from Crooks’ removal. So soothing now to have in my hand a glass of Trockenbeerenauslese. Poured from the very last bottle of this nectar left in the cellar. And to be for chaste distraction perusing my mother’s scrapbooks and about to dig into my first spoonful of rice pudding in which I fully intended to count the raisins. So pretty too to contemplate the strange evening beauty the candle light gives to the wild bog flowers there in their vase so delicate and rare. As if one had never really seen that porcelain before.
Darcy Dancer, legs folded gently in his slippers. Thick white Aran Island stockings warmly on his feet. In air that must be growing chilled in the starry night. Turning to this page of my mother’s memories. O god damn it, a knock on the door, what is it now. It’s altogether too soon to collect my tray. One does lose all one’s savoir faire. And makes one. shout in my loudest voice. O god damn it. It will be Dingbats out in the hall squeaking that she is in a hurry to get to bed and has come for my tray. But there seems utter prolonged silence. Yet someone still remains outside lurking. Forcing me, wouldn’t you know it, angrily to get up and see. I’ll drag old smelly Mona Lisa Dingbats in by her latest styled frizzy red hair. Which is perhaps exactly what she wants me to do. My god. My heart stopped in my chest. Leila, here in the hall darkness. Her eyes averting shyly.
‘I’ve come to collect your tray sir.’
‘Please I am sorry I rather shouted, please do come in.’
Leila reaching to close the door to the chill draught blowing in from the hall. Unlike Dingbats who would let the wind blow me out the window. Leila glancing about at the changes Crooks had this very evening wrought. My mother’s firescreen back against and shielding her chaise longue.
‘I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘O no, please, by no means, you didn’t.’
‘But you’re not finished.’
‘O but I am nearly.’
‘I’ll come back.’
The dignified presence of her straight slim shy form standing in the shadows just inside the door. So comforting at a very moment when one was feeling immensely sad. Having transported oneself into the past. Solemn with the sweet strange pain of another’s memories. Pressed tiny flowers of primrose, violet and snowdrops. Between vellum pages affixed with faded photographs. Conjuring up my mother’s face and voice. Her kisses I knew as a child. Upon my face abed in the dark as she returned from hunting. And in these years of her life long before I was ever born. Her parasols. Her beribboned straw hats. Her gentle gaiety and laughter in this house. These pictures of her so gaily posed. On front lawns of great houses. Sporting and carefree at Aix Les Bains in sun and demurely risque in bathing costume. Her cold mouldering coffin there beyond amid the yew trees. When once there were these chaps in polo tournaments changing horses between chukkas. Be now such old men. Chewing cigars in their clubs. Gout in their joints. When once they swirled and danced attendance upon my mother. Their autographs she collected at parties and hunt balls. Her standing next to a stalwart mounted on a motor bike. Then animated at race meetings. Her smile. Gone from her flesh. Covered purple in the snows that night of my return. And long lain now. Faded in the grin of death. In dust lie quietly. Where all vanity vanishes. Where too my own life will go. Out hunting. As hers did. Flung down from her horse. And placed peacefully. Back into the land she loved.
‘I have intruded, sir.’
‘No. Honestly you haven’t.’
A gust of wind rattling the shutters. A whiff of turf smoke down the chimney. The mirrors of the candle lamp throwing shadows on the walls. How does one make one’s voice sound casual. To ask. Out of one’s deepest loneliness. Join me in a glass of wine. As she steps across the room. Bending to the low table. Pausing. Her dark head turning. To the scrapbook open at a large picture of top hatted gentlemen and frilly frocked ladies at Goodwood week. Another picture beneath of my mother in her long white flouncing skirts ready to play tennis. And on the page opposite her signed dance card at a grand ball in England. Among her friends. In her flowing gown. Her pearls, her tiara, and jewels glittering. And a poem drawn in a rust faded ink in my mother’s large neat hand.