‘And where Mollie are you taking those bottles.’
‘They be brandy sir.’
‘I know they’re brandy. Which happens to be pale and extremely old.’
‘It’s for inside there.’
‘Take them back to the cellar.’
‘Sir there’s a thirst on them visitors in there that would make you think their bellies were screaming their throats were cut.’
‘Well their bellies can go on screaming.’
Dingbats turning on her heel. Heavily pounding off back down the hall. Feel the floor joists tremble. Lots of ruddy power could be harnessed from her haunches. Tie her up to one of those machines they use pumping water in China. Burn off some of the butter she gorges. And by the smell of her she has worked up one of her more highly musty pongy sweats. Surprisingly quite stimulating to the gonads. But this is no time for an erection in one’s front hall.
Darcy Dancer with an imperious sweep proceeding out amidst all these unheeding elbows so busily bent upending glasses to their mouths. Hunt servants in a decidedly sheepish little huddle by the fire. Not one of them noticing me in the pale blue, brown and white racing colours of my dressing gown. Nor my black, white polka dotted silk scarf at my throat. Astonishing how one can suddenly feel a complete interloper in one’s own house as a gang of invaders make jolly familiar. People making themselves entirely at home as if they were bloody well invited, most of whom I have never spoken to and some I’ve not even seen before. And wouldn’t you know, like a gang of starved rats partaking from a table laid centre hall. Stuffing their empty bellies. Slurping up my tea, slathering on my butter and munching up my breads and already quaffing my wines and liquors. Behaving as favoured guests with one another at one’s own conspicuous expense. But o my god, my port. There. The hunt secretary’s hand already reaching for a decanter to take a refill. So much for damn Crooks’ reassuranees. Bloody servants love to be generous with one’s viands and most precious tipple. Especially pouring the latter down the throats of perfect strangers. One does not mind being bled white by the consumption of bread and butter but it is a little bit bloody much to reach that anaemic condition when it’s one’s most anciently preserved and cherished wines being gulped.
Darcy Dancer fetching the two decanters away to a sideboard around the hall corner. Followed rapidly by the bow legged hunt secretary Major Bottom clomping across the tiles in his boots, a cream bun and a glass of port clutched in his hands.
‘Ah there you are Kildare my good chap. Damn good port. Quite right to get it out of the way of the uninitiated. Sorry to have to come at you like this but in a man to man fashion I’d like to have a word with you. That loose stallion of yours and all that. And I have it on some authority that a lady’s horse was stampeded and she was left abandoned. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Jolly fine vintage this port. And you know it’s not been since your mother was hunting that I’ve been in this house.’
Coming up behind Major Bottom, another face one vaguely remembers from a race track somewhere. By the look a horse trainer down from County Dublin. His blond slathered back hair conspicuously parted in the middle. And objectionably long sideburns. Type who’s made a few bob being in the know on a few races and now thinks he’s god’s gift to county hunting society. And who’s this type pushing in front of him.
‘I contradict what the hunt secretary has just said sir. And I say we have a definite bone to pick with you. Letting a stallion run wild. And then the damn shabby treatment of a lady.’
And my word this objectionable sort does think the world of himself and has the obtuse nerve to be pompously attempting to sound like an administrator of justice interjecting in front of the secretary, with the horse trainer at his elbow and with more hangers on collecting behind them. To all stand listening to the present utter silence. And the lot of them to a man with glasses of whisky and cream cake in thick gobs stuck to their faces.
‘Well sir, you heard what I said, shameful shocking treatment of a lady.’
O my god this is coming from one of those ruddy bloody asses who’s got up on top of a horse to hunt and with accent improved thinks he need never again make his living selling lavatory articles door to door in the hinterlands of Dun Laoghaire or Dalymount.
‘Why don’t you bugger off and go about your usual business which is I am sure supplying purgatives to those who like yourself need them.’
‘I say look here sir we are not going to mince words. I’m in fact a major supplier in the sanitary fitting line. And you stampeded a lady’s mount is what we have heard.’
‘Well hear this then. Clear out the lot of you.’
‘I say sir that’s simply not good enough. We want an apology.’
‘What you’ll get from me is your head stuffed in one of your crappers and a good swift boot of my foot in your goolies if you don’t get out.’
‘I say you are a rude bounder sir.’
‘You heard me, out. Before I bodily throw you out.’
The hunt secretary Major Bottom frowning his thick bushy brows and loudly clearing his throat while licking away the whipped cream impeding the vowels attempting to get out of his mouth.
‘We must remain civil about this matter Kildare.’
The sanitary supplier placing his feet well apart. Striking a stance. His eyes flicking left and right to see if his seconders were still behind him. The horse trainer nodding encouragement. The sanitary supplier taking another step forward.
‘And I say I should not be so tricky if I were you Kildare sir.’
‘Tricky. I’ll show you who’s being tricky you twit.’
Darcy Dancer grabbing the sanitary supplier by the lapels, shoving him backwards. The group parting behind him as his arse thumps on the tiles. Major Bottom stepping around the back of Darcy Dancer to grab an unguarded decanter to pour port.
‘I say Kildare that’s highly uncalled for.’
Darcy Dancer striding away out into the front hall. Where hands were still reaching sweeping trays clean.
‘Everyone out. The party’s over.’
Crooks coming momentarily out of the shadows to take up the cry.
‘You heard the master now. You’ve had it. The bash is over.’
The horse trainer and sanitary supplier, followed by their group of hangers on, creeping up behind Darcy Dancer. The horse trainer leaping on his back. Closing a head lock across Darcy’s throat. Darcy Dancer bringing an elbow back into the horse trainer’s belly. The head lock loosening and Darcy Dancer sending the horse trainer flying forward over his shoulder. The horse trainer crashing on the tea table, skidding across it and off the other side. Taking in his wake the cloth, the tea, jam, scones, cakes. Together with the butters and bottles. The sanitary supplier, his mouth gaping.
‘I say good god, the man’s a demon. Clearly the lady’s correct in her accusation.’
Darcy Dancer pointing towards the door. As the horse trainer congealed in jams, glass and honey, stumbles up on his hands and knees. Wide eyed Dingbats’s hands to her fully jammed mouth which might have been aghast but was still busily chewing. Crooks carefully retreating out of harm’s way into the back hallway. Major Bottom strolling up, his port glass refilled.
‘That’s a poor show Kildare. Not what one would expect from the Thormonds. We should settle this like gentlemen.’