Mounting in front of the house, one was at least slightly improved in spirit. Petunia’s hoofs had a high shine and one’s leathers were supple and gleaming. Stirrups the proper length. The air blowing cold on the face down the drive did buck me up. And at the end of the grove of rhododendrons I jumped Petunia over the fence. Trotting out cross country under the low cloud. A drying wind blowing. Thump of Petunia’s hoofs on the ground did stir one for my first appearance in so many years. Let’s go old girl. Hear the hounds. Find him. Chase him. Heat up the blood. And charge across the green.
Darcy Dancer emerging from a rocky boreen. Turning left. See down this hill. The hunt collecting at the crossroads. A few familiar faces raising whip hands in greeting. Clattering now down the asphalt to the pub. Where half the hunt are in there stoking up their courage. Muddy booted locals, their backs leaning propping up the walls. Sniggering remarks to one another under their shadowy caps. Johnny Gearoid struggling to hold the reins of several horses, while attempting to pull his forelock at me, and getting knocked for his trouble this way and that, his friendly fat red greasy face under his greasy hat.
‘How are you boss. How is it going.’
‘How is it going with you Gearoid.’
‘Fine. Fine. No complaint. None. But could you spare a tanner or two now for a pint of stout.’
Rather a lot of lipstick on the mouths of the ladies. Two of whom had American accents. And a distinctly spiv looking type from England in a large motor car, snapping pictures of a few rather overly smart, and distinctly of an upstart aspect, interlopers, clearly down for the day from Dublin. And my gracious they were preening and posing on their mounts. Thinking much of themselves. One supposes from now on infiltrators will be much in abundance. As they clearly regard me and my ancient mended tweeds, down their noses between their horses’ ears. One was reassured by the other motley array composing the field.
‘Ah hello Darcy Dancer, you’re indeed a much taller sight for sore eyes.’
One of the flaming red haired Slasher sisters. Who at least seems to approve of my appearance. And is eager to be off. Backing her horse right into the Mental Marquis of Farranistic, who with the Mad Major emerging from the pub, were busily clapping each other heartily on the back. Amnesia Murphy the farmer of course since his head was bounced off a rock years ago, did not know me from Adam and gave me a muddy look. But Father Damian, my mother’s most admiring cleric looking rather splendid himself in top hat and ecclesiastic garb under his hunting coat, remarked on my transformation as he called it, from prince to king of my principality. Clearly one invites that sort to tea very soon. But of course the most ebullient of welcoming words came from the hunt secretary knowing my sensibilities should be kept soothed to contribute a large subscription and to clearly encourage one to provide port sumptuously at the Andromeda Park’s lawn meet. As he normally always consumed at least a bottle.
‘I say there Kildare, damn jolly good to see you out Long time no see.’
One did object to this silly American Indian affectation of the hunt secretary. Long time no see. Like in the constipation affecting many of Andromeda Park household staff. One tends to assume the rather wretched thought. Long time no shit. But one does know that to pass these long winter evenings, tomes were laid open all over these remote parts of Ireland, with landowners nightly reading into the dawn about America’s civil war and the cowboys and Indians. Ah but all was British to the nth degree it would appear, upon my introduction to the recently imported Master from England, barrelled up as he was with surnames.
‘And meet our new Master, Kildare. Wing Commander Buster Lawrelton Ryecrisp Brillianton.’
‘Jolly good to meet you Kildare. Look forward to your lawn meet next Tuesday. Be a wizard prang I’m sure. Hear there’s a lot of fine hunting over your estate.’
I did think his reference to my estate rather too pointed. And my word, imagine, wizard prang. Where on earth does he think he is. One is tempted to disclose that one has a personal mad house he might take off and land in as well as a mad stallion at large to bite off his display of sandwich and brandy pouches. But one could see the man would not listen an instant, so overly concerned is he with the impression he is making on the ladies with his far too overly thoroughbred horse, pink coat, white leather breeches, ivory handled whip and other Londonish appurtances. And dear me with two grooms in attendance. One driving a strangely shaped motor vehicle of a renowned make containing, as the hunt secretary put it, a veritable Bodleian library of cocktails. This latter remark of course being the most erudite thing heard in the county for a century.
‘Jolly good day for a scent.’
I say, gracious me, that’s a rather nice bit of alright. A very superior attractive golden tressed lady just trotted by on that rather even more attractive skittish bay mare. I must catch her up and take her up smartly on her remark.
‘Yes indeed, jolly good day for a scent.’
One had only a moment to see her strangely familiar face as we moved off single line down a track and were then but a moment at the first draw when a fox was found and we were off and running like antelopes. On a line towards the big hill above the great bog. Seventeen in the field. Pounding across a great meadow. Swept by the fresh winds. Blowing the gloomy cobwebs out of the mind. Wafting the clinging doldrums away into the sky behind. Mists wet the face. Soft turf under the hoofs flying up backwards in the sky. The whipper in, first casualty. His mount catching a front leg in a deep rabbit hole. Shooting like an arrow head first and astonishingly perpendicular, clearly a foot into the ground. His two legs thrusting like a frog’s into the air. His poor hobbling horse barely able to stand on three remaining legs, awaiting a belt of a sledge hammer on the brain to be put by some local farmer out of its misery.
‘Gung bloody ruddy ho.’
The secretary shouting out at the height of his apogee, as he was catapulted up into the sky. His horse having somersaulted caught on an old bedstead hidden at the top of the first wall. It was quite remarkable his head over heels trajectory landing him quite embarrassingly but mercifully arse splatteringly centre of an enormous not too long deposited cow pat. He did at least have the sporting sense of spirit to express his euphoria at the safe but distinctly brown landing. And to later bravely groan out to the golden tressed lady offering the only assistance.
‘Carry on my dear. Landed on a spot of brown I did. Soiled me but jolly well broke my fall.’