‘Excuse me sir.’
‘O my god, I’m talking aloud. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was there.’
‘May I come in with the cheese.’
‘The cheese. Yes. Do.’
‘Catherine being asleep, I’m sorry this is all that could be found.’
‘Ah well, it’s enough for a rat or two. Or indeed even three. Of our larger rats of course.’
‘I’m sorry for breaking the pillow.’
‘That is so nice to hear. You are the first one I have ever heard in this place apologize for breaking anything, And I should, shouldn’t I, really apologize for appearing ready to demolish the clock. No don’t go.’
‘I have the sweeper just outside the door. To tidy up. I’ll pick up these few books, sir.’
‘O do leave it all. I rather like the effect. Of the feathers. Makes everything rather more lighthearted, ha ha, in this gloomy room. Open books on floor giving an air of erudition. Ah. I suppose that isn’t at all funny is it.’
The leather chair creaking. Darcy Dancer sitting back with a half drained glass of port. Leila standing, a book held open in her hands. A moan of wind and the screech of a fox out in the night.
‘What is on the page of that book.’
‘A map of the battle of Rathmines, sir.’
‘Ah wouldn’t you know hardly a volume on Ireland can be opened without a war of some sort occurring. But I’ve been meaning to ask you a question. May 1.1 hope you won’t think it silly or impertinent. But dear me. Perhaps it is not silly but indeed it is impertinent.’
‘If you wish to, ask me.’
‘Well. If I may. And perhaps I am the worse for port having loosened my tongue. But do tell me. Just who are you. O god. To ask you any question at all. You must think me a crass fellow.’
‘You are inquiring concerning my parentage.’
‘O no, nothing as impertinent as that. I already know you are an orphan. I’m half a one but I’ve always wanted to be a whole orphan. Somehow it must be so relieving not to have any parents at all who haunt one’s life. You have such fine handwriting. And your elegant handling of linens. One nearly imagines you a product of a ladies’ finishing school. O dear. How patronizing of me. To have said that Now I know you must think me a crass fellow.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t.’
‘No.’
‘What do you think of me.’
‘I think it is time that I withdraw. And leave you further to your port and cheese. Sir.’
‘Damn the port and cheese. I asked only for the cheese so that I might have you back here to talk to.’
‘Yes I know that you did.’
‘You are uncommonly honest aren’t you.’
‘Yes. My honesty however, is not for everyone.’
‘Is it for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, just who are you.’
‘I am as you find me, sir.’
‘That of course tells me nothing.’
‘Perhaps it is as well.’
‘You are being uncommonly evasive.’
‘What reason is there for you to know anything about me other than just as I am.’
‘Because whenever you enter the room I feel I should stand. I am indeed sitting. But I feel as if I should not be. Why.’
‘I’m afraid sir you will have to answer that for yourself.’
‘It was you wasn’t it watching the other day out of the whim room window as I rode up the front lawn.’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it was you. But sometimes one’s eyes imagine things. The figure standing there seemed to be the mistress of this house.’
‘Is that censure. Or a compliment.’
‘I think you have, haven’t you. Just dumped me between two stools. Where of course, my remark quite deserves to put me.’
‘I think one of us is taking unreasonable advantage of the other, sir.’
‘O damn, isn’t that what life is all about And damn calling me sir in that accusing way. You are of a calibre so far above that of a servant that I am suspicious. Which is not to of course insinuate in any way a denigration to the station of being a good servant.’
‘You’re full of snobberies, aren’t you.’
‘Yes. Indeed I am riddled with them. And of course when all is said and done, one must also have servants who are utter snobs and who will put on the dog at the drop of a chapeau. But you are an outspoken lass. And therefore I beg your pudding. Plus your pardon. Madam.’
‘I don’t mean that you are not very nice too.’
‘Thank you. Here, I think we shall get you a glass and you have a bit of port.’
‘No thank you.’
‘You’re refusing to drink with me. You don’t perhaps really like me. Not that I give a damn.’
‘I like you. I think you a very lonely person. And you do give a damn. But you do imagine things.’
‘I imagine all sorts of things. And I imagine you are curious about the life I live in this house. Observing me.’
‘Now you are impertinent’
‘Should I apologize. For drowning my sorrows. Sad as a king, drunk as a lord. Damn it. I won’t apologize for being drunk. For if I were not drunk I would not have the courage to converse with you. How is it that you do, for a humble serving girl, have the voice and manners of a lady.’
‘Are such things forbidden me.’
‘No. But I think they are deserving of an explanation.’
‘I acquired them out of practice from books I have read. Sir.’
‘Indeed. I dare say you are mistaken. Such things are not available from books and manuals. They come by following the intimate good example set by those of rank. And don’t continue to use that awful word, sir.’
‘It’s my way of assuming in a de bon genre manner an advantage of you, too, n’est ce pas.’
‘Ah oo la la, I see, you even speak some French. And with a most impressive accent. You are clearly of the haut monde in some kind of incognito. You must not attempt to fool me. You see. I was a lowly servant once. You are amused. You don’t of course believe me.’
‘No.’
‘Nevertheless it is entirely true. Started as a common stable lad and was promoted indoors where in fact I was then caught enjoying my employer’s drawing room sofa and reading with my boots propped up, much as Crooks came upon you perusing that tome on porcelain there. Of course for my presumption I was chucked out.’
‘Perhaps you should, for my presumption, have me chucked out.’
‘No. I think not. I would find your absence from this household an abysmal matter. For you do by your merest glances erase the loneliness and neglect in one’s life.’
Darcy Dancer, and his fingertips slowly moving his glass of port closer on the side table. A piece of glowing turf dropping through the grate into the pile of coral coloured ash. Leila’s head bowing. The small purple ribbon in her hair. Her eyes averting. Their deep mossy green, tiny spheres of black in the dim light. Her neck and face will blush pink as I know they must. At my words. More than hinting. Much more than just affection. My own pangs. The pain. Like a sour seed in the sweetest fruit. Of love flowering. In its joy of yellow blossom. And in its green leaves of jealousy.