‘I am. At least attempting to. In the heat of the moment.’
Leila battering the pillow up and down the back of Darcy Dancer’s legs as he slaps with his hands and dances forward about the room. The pillow seam giving way. A cloud of swansdown exploding out, billowing up and wafted by draughts all over the library. White floating tiny boats on the air. Is all that’s left of one of my mother’s Paris made, escutcheon adorned pillows. Just as I was somewhat embarrassingly enjoying being softly buffeted.
‘I beg your pardon Master Reginald.’
Crooks at the door. Nearly tottering to the floor in a faint with his tray of port. Leila, one hand holding the emptied sack of the former pillow and her other bent to feeling at Darcy Dancer’s backside as he lurched losing his balance.
‘Come in Crooks. Been a slight misadventure. I do believe in the midst of a slight daydream I have scorched the back of my trousers in the fire.’
One could have sworn that Leila laughed audibly not only when the pillow broke but also at the sight of Crooks looking as he did like a clown out of the circus, in the voluminous crimson plaid bathrobe, Wellington boots and a flower embroidered sky blue nightcap. I had all I could do to suppress my own threatening explosion of mirth. At least Crooks’s ample dressing gown provided little chance had he keeled over, that the wearer’s privates could, by an unexpected parting of the folds, confront one.
‘I would respectfully ask Master Reginald, if the fire brigade from the town should be summoned.’
‘The flames are, I think Crooks, thanks to Leila here, now under control.’
Leila, sidling away backwards replacing the deflated cushion, gave as she passed, a half curtsey to Crooks. Whose face contorted in a variety of grim directions as he sputtered a bit like a fish out of water. Just as the Hilderson alarum clock on the chimney piece appropriately struck midnight. And a little parade of woodlice migrating over the floorboards to what one imagined was a safer refuge of rotting wood away from the blazing fire. Amazing how one’s drunken attention can be distracted. Even with Crooks growling his Dublin accent under his breath.
‘Youse is a disgrace, youse is.’
‘That will be enough of that Crooks please. It was entirely my fault.’
Leila brushing away the feathers stuck to her dress. Her usually pale cheeks unusually bright pink. One did want to take another pillow to bust over Crooks’ head as he glares at Leila. Her voice so soft and reasonable.
‘I will leave you now sir.’
Crooks, one hand trembling gripping the tray, the other sweeping the folds of his dressing gown tighter around him. One sensed his world had suffered a severe setback from the curt way in which he rounds upon Leila.
‘You certainly will not leave, you will tidy up in here.’
With a distinct flavour of insubordination, Leila performing a sweeping curtsey to Crooks from the door.’ Certainly Crooks himself seemed rather embarrassed by his outburst. My god the little lady not only can fight fires but is a bit of an actress. And one did notice too, her glancing at the chess board by the window where I had been playing a half finished game with myself, taking a turn either side of the table. And now to just listen to her well chosen elegant words.
‘As you wish Mr Crooks but if I may please withdraw to get the sweeper.’
‘And ah would you mind awfully Leila also fetching me up a spot of cheese from the kitchen.’
Leila’s merest faintest smile and tiniest genuflection of the knee. Gently closing the door. Leaving Crooks frowning disapproval. Blowing away the swansdown from the side table and loudly lowering the tray. Placing the port bottle and cork on a napkin and the decanter next to my glass. Clearing his throat with each manoeuvre, to remind one of his presence. He is quite fond of imagining himself a much grander butler in a much grander house. Where the occupants would merely murmur the word cheese. And white silk stockinged and emerald liveried footmen would glide wheeling in an entire stage set with Brie, Camembert, Wensleydale, Cheddar, and Stilton. Not to mention the silver capped glass bowls housing myriad water biscuits decorated with coronets. One does under all these circumstances try to pull oneself together. Put a bit of starch back into the conduct of the evening. Distinctly made slack by events. With Crooks clearly aggrieved.
‘Sir I am behoved and it is incumbent upon me to inform you that my resignation is in order. I am no longer able to endure the erosion of my authority by newcomers in this household.’
‘O damn it Crooks do stop saying those damnably big words to say so damn little.’
‘Sir you have my resignation.’
‘Crooks go to bed will you. There’s a good fellow. Make sure the hall candles are snuffed. And don’t for heaven’s sake, fall through the floorboards.’
Crooks rather archly sidestepping the books strewn on the floor. Grumbling inaudibly and then hardly without a limp imperiously withdrawing. In the frame of the doorway, the dim candle glow from the hall making his silhouette look like some broomstick riding witch. Must say, a few direct words here and there seem to have a salutary effect upon me if no one else. What a bunch of bloody children they all are. Lurking about with their grudges, resignations and resentments. Complaining of their years sacrificed in dutiful service. I would adore to accept all your bloody resignations. As bloody hell I don’t think I can last much longer before one sinks under the waves. Any day one’s name featured in Stubb’s Gazette. The rate collector yesterday insistent to collect the rates. Which alone nudge one to the edge of bankruptcy. Each tumbled stone, brick and slate one places back, another two more seem to fall. No wonder one flings books about. Or wants to smash a clock. No wonder one calls for port. And lifts this fortified spirit to one’s lips. For the encouragement it gives. While the dried brown fabric of my trousers disintegrates. The white of one’s recently donned woollies showing through, but at least saving my legs from combusting. And one so feels that in the youth of one’s life, there should be at least some idle years. Poised in the perfumery of flowery phrases echoing above the tea, hot buttered scones, clotted cream and raspberry jam. Of being invited to ensconce on other satin damask sofas in the silk walled drawing rooms of various stately country houses. Where one’s ears are lulled in contentment by pretty ladies rustling their silks. Or as my mother so ably did. In her salon. With her two admiring clerics. Who wore their handkerchiefs up their sleeves. While distilling their verbal admiring reflections on her porcelains. So many of which have been purloined by my father. And no one has invited me anywhere to cast my own comments abroad upon an agreeable tea time air. To coax further and similar comments from other cultured lips. Isn’t the Meissen utterly divine. Words reassuring. To cast a spell of comfort. To glow at least a moment in the emptiness of these boggy miles about. To remind one’s mind that we are the very best people. We call each other my dearest, my darling, my oldest and nearest friend. Of whom I have none of course. But if I did, our knees and elbows would be cocked in the deportment of anciently inherited privilege. Our arses couched comfortably in the bosom of large fortunes. Our lands fenced away by their stone built walls. Enfolding the miles surrounding our mansions towering upon their hills. Where admiring guests are drawn between great piers of great gates. The park arrangements pleasing their eyes along a winding pebbled drive. In short not this bloody desecrated place. Where a rat has more comfort than a squire. Sour milk served in my coffee this morning. Torn linen on my bed nearly strangling me in the night. In a dream of Miss von B. So meticulous as a housekeeper. So warmly limbed to lay in the soft ease of her flesh. To then awake alive here in a pair of baked trousers. When I could be back in Dublin. Racing, feasting and squirting one’s sperm somewhere appreciated. Instead of suffering a lonely pain in the groin. With about one’s only pleasure left, to sink softly in the depths of drunken self pity. Pat oneself reassuringly on the back. Say again and swear one will never sell. Rid oneself of all this estate, lock and stock. But first drink the barrels. Or maybe better, burn this mansion to the ground. Yet in the very next regretting breath I always know that even in the worst of worst miseries I cannot leave. And lower the flag of one’s honour that waves above this crumbling pile of stones. That would let them think that my land might be had by their greedy grabbing claws. By god instead. Make them even greater resent the lustre, brilliance and splendour of one’s style. Show them implacable eminence. That will make them bloody well cringe even lower in their inferiority. Anyone who hasn’t touched the heady brew of being so much better than one’s insufferable common man will never know what the joy of imperialism is all about. Even in this land whose pathetic only claim to fame is, as my dear old tutor Mr Arland used to say, its floating location way out west of Europe sodden under its watery skies unloading yet another day of head chilling back bending rain.