‘You must, Darcy Dancer, come over and see me sometime. I’m only an hour away by motor car.’
Dear me that is an invitation. If one only had one’s motor car I was foolish enough to sell in Dublin. I must knock her in the ditch before the day is finished. She has my tongue hanging out. After all married ladies are best in avoiding the worst. And meanwhile if only one could persuade oneself to be satisfied with some not altogether homely type and not a Leila taking insult at the drop of a hat or floating of a feather. And perform her duties good naturedly. And my coat is flying open. One’s buttons are hanging off by a thread. If one dismounted at the moment I should be most embarrassed by my obelisk. I must say one does get unaccountably enraged if things happen at one’s inconvenience. I simply must put it up some lady soon. And not be driven to fantasizing about one’s female servants. Jumping up from bed and grabbing Dingbats. Taking her uniform off. Monstrous boobies bursting forth into one’s hands. As she demurely murmurs what are you doing to me sire. Shoving her down on the chaise longue. Get your arse spread across that you. And shut up. I’m going to give you jolly what for. In the form of galloping jollies. Up the joyful bifurcation. Very good sir. Damn right very good sir. O god. I’m out of my mind with lust. A deadly serious situation. Which must be controlled. One wants so much to be a carnal tour de force without being a complete arse hole as well. Last night’s port is giving me this day’s randiness. There on the horizon. The great castle has come into view. And the earl’s flag flying. By the sound of the hunt hollering ahead we shall be in the bog by the woods on the edge of Thormondstown. A lasso would be the thing. Hurled to settle gently around Baptista’s shoulders and then yank her down off her horse. Then bang, bang. O god. Petunia. Whoops there you go. Nicely over this dreadful wire. O my god. They’re coming down like ninepins behind one. On their bunch of damn foolish horses that can’t see what they’re looking at. Such amateurishness doesn’t bear thinking about. I must hold out. For an elegant wife. One with the common touch. Who could as my mother did go amongst the peasantry, and would, invited into their cottages, not wince at their primitive ways and their seemingly endless inexplicable stupidities. Who would be tolerant of their pagan ancient ignorances. Cheer them in their doldrums. Commiserate when the lower orders, as they do, laugh and point at each other when seeing someone suffering pain. As one witnessed visiting the ancient old lady O’Grady down a mile from one’s own front gate. Her five pet chickens picking up crumbs from her earthen floor. Named saint this and that. And as she sat on the hob as one took tea with her, she pointed and roared as her spinster fifty year old daughter agonizingly contorted over a toothache. I must say I did myself chuckle inwardly a bit. It is in fact bloody rather enjoyably funny when another is groaning away in torment. And unable to contain myself, I too started roaring. As old lady O’Grady started slapping her thigh with such force she fell off the hob. O dear. I suppose these days, to find such a tolerant mate, as who could find such a scene perfectly acceptable, is a little too much to ask for. With evidence already so blatant in the land, of ordinary people putting on airs. Keeping up with the Kellys. Even to raising their voices in the lobby of the Royal Hibernian Hotel. About crates of champagne being delivered to their front suburban doorsteps. Blast them all to hell. I simply must get Baptista in the furze somewhere beyond there, now that we are on firm land again out of this awful bog we’ve been mucking through. Wouldn’t take all that long. To smash a bull’s eye on that easy target. Bang bang.
Darcy Dancer following at a gallop the upraised white rear of Baptista Consuelo bouncing in front. Streaking up the hillside. A blood curdling scream ahead. And another. To scream in lust, rage or high spirits is acceptable but to scream in utter fear on the hunt is simply not done. Must be one of these ruddy interlopers whose nerve is being severely tested. But dear me riders are scattering in all directions. The hounds even fleeing. Huntsman will soon split the copper of his horn with his blowing. The whipper in trotting on foot lashing out around him. As if he were whipping enslaved souls in hell. O my god. That’s awful. One of the American ladies, her mare being mounted from the rear by another entirely naked monstrous horse. O no. It’s him. My god Midnight Shadow. On the attack.
‘Help. I’m being ravished.’
‘Begorra madam you must own a canyon if you can fit the like of that up you.’
Midnight Shadow, teeth out, hind hoofs gouging emerald clumps skywards from the land, locking its forelegs around the quarters of the Virginian lady’s mare. Her yellow gloved hands outstretched as she pitched forward once more to the ground as this stallion killer humped away with his vast shaft. The yelp of hounds being stepped on. Riders scattered in all directions. Those at least who were still aloft on their mounts. And the unstuck escaping like scurrying crabs over the grass.
‘Get off my land you fucking Protestants.’
A crouched farmer with the barrel of a gun stuck over the wall discharging shot. The Master’s horse rearing up at a salvo and tumbling him backwards arse first on top of Amnesia Murphy previously a mile back deposited wedged in the fork of a tree. A sound of the distinct crunch of bones and a long low groan. And it would appear Amnesia Murphy, who had long forgotten to pay tradesmen’s bills for miles around, could still remember he was a Catholic.
‘Begorra I want the last rites. I’m kilt.’
The huntsman, fist to his face, attempting to stifle his guffaws. The whipper in doubled over convulsed. Even the irate farmer standing up grinning behind his stone rampart, to promptly get a muddy sod smack in the face. The Mental Marquis failing off the side of his horse trying to empty the contents of his flask of brandy. And even prostrate on the ground was still drinking without dropping a drop. Mr Fox, should he glance backwards from the bog whither he was so wisely flown taking the hounds in his wake, would surely too have a rare droll old time.