Even from
Lesser educated
Apes
In the animal
Kingdom
8
Although one does not mind being a cad, one simply did not have it in one to be an unmitigated cad. And before sheepishly returning to Andromeda Park one circled back cross country to where one had abandoned the poor creature Baptista. Leading her mare who appeared from its hang dog look to be pretty well knackered and as shiveringly cold as I was.
‘I’ll have the big house likes of ye off me land, I’m telling you now.’
Another farmer gone hysterically ape with his pitch fork dancing a jig up and down on his pathetic acres to which Petunia’s dung, plopping out of her quarters, must have been the first beneficial thing that had happened to them in years. And having trudged through bog and clambered over stone walls again and come across stray hounds, one had of course expected to find Baptista up to her ample arse in muck throwing her arms about one in grateful tears. But she was nowhere in sight.
The sky clearing, a still night descending. The sight of the first twinkling cold star on the south west horizon as Darcy Dancer, Baptista’s mare in tow, cut across through the ancient oak wood and rhododendrons on the overgrown old farm road. Frost on the grass. Fog hovering over the low lands across the countryside. The sound of the river through the mist. By the mossy mounds and ivied broken walls of these abandoned cottages. The ruin of the old stone bridge ahead. The sound of a voice. Singing. Petunia shying to an abrupt stop. Baptista’s mare rearing up, pawing the air and nearly braining me. Horses backing away. And god. There is something there again. Something moved. My heart is pounding and Petunia’s thumping. And bloody Baptista’s mare bolting, tearing the reins out of my hand. And now it will surely break every leg crashing away through the thick undergrowth. Enough has happened today without my hair not only standing up on the back of one’s head but I’m sure it will shortly be turning snowy white.
Darcy Dancer giving chase. Baptista’s mare disappearing in the dusk. In the distance, a fox barking. Just to let me know. With every shivering stride home. What an awful arse one has been today. Hands and feet blue numbed with cold. Only sensible thing left is to sink in the safety of one’s hot bath. Except for my privates, thorns nearly in every other part of one’s anatomy. What one wouldn’t give to be back amid Dublin debauchery. Lois her tits wagging and her castanets clacking. Instead of crossing through these beech woods. Mouldy death and gloom. Shutters closed on the back windows of Andromeda Park. Lower one’s head in the darkness of the tunnel to the stables. A relief to hear one’s horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Soon a long recline in a steaming tub. Expunge the offending splinters and thorns out of one’s epidermis. And my god, out of one’s soul.
Darcy Dancer passing the stable window. Luke, Henry and Thomas toasting themselves in front of the roaring tack room fire puffing on cigarettes. The three of them jumping up. From where their arses were planted on soft seats of hay stuffed in buckets. Nearly as fast as Henry did in his last discontent when Thomas left a bottle on a shelf labelled apple juice and filled with piss. Be the first effort they’ll have made since lunch. Be dredging up their best blandishments to improve one’s sour appraisal of their idleness.
‘Sir was it a good hunt you had. Sure Petunia will be glad to be in her box. Looks like she had a few miles under her belly at the gallop.’
Darcy Dancer walking up the incline and turning to enter the house by the side door. The heavy ancient latch. Polished by so many hands. See how many others are lolling about.
‘Ah sir you’re back.’
‘That would appear to be the case Crooks.’
Crooks coming out of the kitchen with two decanters of port, in bandaged hands. Soupstained no doubt. And you’d think his hand crushed in the dumb waiter would have long since healed. He does so like to remind one of his injuries.
‘Well excuse me sir for incommoding you at this moment of the evening Master Reginald. There’s an urgent gathering upstairs. In the front hall in their muddy boots. Hunt members wanting to have a serious word with you. Barged right in the door past me they did. And I thought it best to have refreshments served to assist in calming them.’
‘Not with my bloody port I hope. Tell them to please fuck off.’
‘I couldn’t do that sir now. Not in that language. By the bloodthirsty looking condition of them they’d set upon me.’
‘Well then tell them in the rudest way you can. To bugger off. And draw my bath please.’
The faint candle light. On the great slabs of stone. The smell of damp. Crooks trembling. O god, he’s going to collapse. Just as one is hoping to run into Leila. Contemplating in one’s mind her small swelling bicep. And the blue vein in her arm with its white tiny knot of an artery. When once she went by me carrying a water filled vase. The only member of this household I’ve ever known to roll up her sleeves. And now the whole entire world seems to intervene between us.
‘And sir as for the matter of this port. This is for the dining room and library, seeing as you have been calling for it recently. And the two extra for dinner. Lady Christabel and Lavinia should be at this very moment arrived at the station and Sexton has gone to fetch them.’
‘Good god.’
‘A cable came while you were out hunting. Shall supper be at your convenience.’
‘Yes. I think most certainly yes. After a day like today.’
Crooks ushered first up the servants’ stairs. Darcy Dancer following. In case with an attack of sudden staggers he should collapse. Sound of voices down the main hall. Shouldn’t be surprised if Crooks doesn’t drink half a decanter and spill the other as he did one night on the carpet outside my bedroom door. One distinctly felt the thwack of a large spoon upon the top of one’s head at the mention of one’s sisters. Eye gouging. Secateurs clipping one’s ear lobes. Hair pulling. Bath splashing. Attempted drownings and hangings. Shoves, pushes and punches. Toys and teddy bears ripped from one’s hands. And upon their being shipped away to better things of England, not lost upon me are all the intervening years of peace.
Darcy Dancer soaking back in the hot waters of the bath. Window panes steamed over. The fire at last beginning to glow in the grate. At the finish of a day’s hunting, agreeably tired, one should be purring with the joy of still being alive. Instead of haunted with singing ghosts and a killer stallion at large. And that uncomfortable feeling that while one has been away the day that nothing at all has been done by anybody. With the exception of course of Sexton, Leila and old Edna Annie. When one sees a member of the household or estate not with their hands actively on some tool, and wielding it in the motion and manner for which it is meant, one must suspect the worst malingering. And my god added to it all now could be the two more mouths of my sisters not to mention the mouths of any horses they may fancy to hunt. Where and how in this world does one make a monstrous amount of money. Or get to own something like a brewery. O god it’s ruddy shocking how the terrors of impoverishment and ruin do gnaw at one’s vitals.
Darcy Dancer in dressing gown, standing on the landing listening to the din in the front hall. Proceeding further downwards and stopping. Sound of distant feet pounding up and down the back stairs to the kitchen. The clatter of boots on the tiles. Sounds like a ruddy bash in progress. Candles blazing. The utter incredible nerve. With the whole ruddy household running hither and thither ferrying cakes, barmbracks. And my god big tits Dingbats, lugging by the neck two utterly heirloom precious bottles of brandy rolling her eyes demented with the delight of it all.