‘I say there Kildare. Can you imagine the bloody insolence coming into a man’s house causing a disturbance like this. Demands a boot up a few holes. But damn it. I do seem to accost you at the most delicate of times. How are you my dear chap. Not seen each other I do believe since last we met at the barber’s. Following your delicately relieving me of a fiver in the Royal Hibernian Hotel. Caught me incognito you did. As I was reflecting on St Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians. But you’re the first man who’s ever touched me for a fiver and repaid it by god. But apropos of this season’s hunting don’t you think it nice that we have a Master of Foxhounds with the signal advantage of having particularly strong piss to release in our various badger and fox holes. And by god cause any fox getting a sniff to definitely avoid seeking shelter therein and to go on merrily chased running for his life. Don’t you think that a damn good thing Kildare. Except that the thirsty chap has to damn near quaff all one’s whisky to do his required peeing.’
Of course I did fervently think that an absolutely marvellous benefit. And indeed did watch close up the Master unravel his astonishingly long penis and take several of his pisses, till he lurchingly missed a hole and stank up my boot. One can’t suppose the Marquis is all bad. In fact his taste in women appears to be too damn good. He’s awfully hairy arsed of course. And I’m sure he knows it was me galloping along the old avenue of lime trees, and thundering down upon him to jump flying over on the Master’s stolen horse as he rogered Baptista on the mossy ground. The vision of him pumping away between Baptista’s unbooted flailing legs, totally unconcerned for my mount’s hoofs scraping the top of his balding head, will go with me to the grave. Provided the Royal Hibernian Hotel keyhole sight of him with his chastisement equipages and his besaddled hind quarters being whipped as she giggled and gasped around the room doesn’t blot it out. And I cannot bear to contemplate him even standing near Leila never mind being nudely on top of her. Especially as the bastard is used to riding such big enormous horses. Perhaps one’s sisters changing décolleté for dinner out of their rather less than fashionable clothes may attract him. My god it wouldn’t be the worst thing to end up with a brother in law with sixteen thousand walled in acres, possessed of a damn good trout lake, salmon river and a castle where your voice echoes in the front hall.
‘Now there you be your ladyships. Weep not. And both of you sine dubio let me tell you are a sight for my one sore eye, dominus vobiscum.’
Sexton. Saviour of his master, and utterly in his element. Having all those years ago danced so much previous attendance on my sisters. His little goddesses he called them. For whom he now runs twice back and forth, both arms loaded with the rest of their luggage which Gearoid, spotting a nearby whiskey bottle, suddenly found too heavy to carry. And the amount of which my god does ruddy indicate much more than a short stay. Two vast steamer trunks. Five suitcases. And at least eleven hat boxes clearly means as many as a half dozen race meetings. Sexton, obviously intending to continue severe social elevation of my sisters’ entitlements. And thank god, reminds one of their names.
‘Ah Lady Christabel. Ah Lady Lavinia. Sine dubio too long has this great house been denied the great beauty you took from it upon your departure and now bring back to it upon your return.’
‘Oh how nice of you to say, Sexton.’
One must confess. It was pretty damn nice and just in the ruddy nick of time. And Crooks thank god, blessedly minus soiled bandages and not looking like some down and out alcoholic person, has emerged too. Into the desperation of one’s inadequacy. And bowing to each of them.
‘Lady Christabel. Lady Lavinia. Welcome home. I trust your journey did you no discomfort that your ready and waiting hot baths will not completely dispel.’
My god. Listen to him. Why don’t I get some of this ruddy elegant attention occasionally. He really is on his best behaviour. Of course the Marquis does rather tone up the atmosphere. And damn him, is pretentiously conducting Leila around to further paintings, spouting out what god awful guff one can not imagine. As I’m damn sure the only culture he’s ever been acquainted with is the curvature of his prick. Which bloody hell is now even more pointed in his breeches. Somehow one wishes one had Crooks’ crossed eyes. When no one can even remotely guess where you’re looking. Can be such a help sometimes. Since I can see so straight. At this painful sight resulting in one’s most painful sour demeanour. And then the next awful embarrassment. Triggered off by Crooks.
‘Shall I show their ladyships to their rooms.’
With Christabel stretching her neck out of an emerald green satin scarf and pointing her nose upwards, taking it upon herself to suggest.
‘Thank you Crooks, Mummy’s old rooms will do for me.’
‘I’m afraid your ladyship, I venture to regret that her late ladyship’s apartments are already occupied.’
Even then one should have quite clearly known it was already obvious how the wind was blowing. And to get a further blast of it as one was an hour later descending dressed, for drinks to be served in the library. Overhearing one’s sisters just at the bottom of the stairs.
‘I think I shall any moment scream aloud.’
‘Why Christabel.’
‘Because Lavinia, it is so damn cold in this house and so wretchedly dirty and dusty.’
Of course no dirt or dust on them as they did appear, teeth flashing at the Marquis, well washed and brushed up. Although mountainously goose pimpled and blue on their much exposed anatomies. The Marquis immediately taking to announcing over his full whisky glass a rather boastful account of his most recent hunting mishap. While Christabel and Lavinia, fanning their arses feverishly at the fire, tittered and titillated over their sherries. The Marquis obviously just waiting to roll his vowels concerning his horse rolling on him as each time Leila came in the library from whence she was removing two candelabra for the dining room. His eyes flicking up at her. Ignoring my sisters’ adoration. And my distinct irritation. I must say even as rich as he is rumoured to be one does even vaguely, and very vaguely think one should hint of a substantial dowry available with the better built of one’s sisters. Who by present cleavages would appear to be Lavinia. Perhaps a little plumpish on the upper arm. No matter. She’s slightly taller than Christabel. And broader in the beam. That helps in breeding. But I do think she has, on further real scrutiny, smaller tits. Yes she does. Of course who’s ever to notice when for the rest of their Irish sojourn I’m sure both will be bundled up in long flowing armour plated thick tweed suits. And boots of one sort or another. But O god one just knows, that those self same mounds on the chest of Leila would be revealed as such rare delicate gems. Nor are my sisters’ good legs apparent in these most awful ankle boots edged with sheep fur they’re still bloody wearing, thinking they can’t be seen under their gowns. Obviously not taking any bloody chances with the temperatures in the dining room. Of course their best points are their accents. British in the extreme. Damn Marquis ought to appreciate that. But of course doesn’t. Arse is the only thing on his ruddy mind. They must have both said jolly good show twenty times in the last five minutes. And would no doubt have said it fifty times if they weren’t so busy smiling their heads off at him. And then had the nerve to look about at me at what one irritatingly suspects are one’s occasionally more than slightly broguish vowels. And that’s now the second bloody full glass of whisky he’s downed. Just as one turns around. First he’s there toying and touching a brimming drink you think he’s never going to put to his lips. And then presto. The glass is empty. Perhaps one ought to bolster one’s own spirit, and quaff an equal amount. Then in the luxury of loose tongues remind his lordship of his station in life. Not ruddy done to prance about with one’s prick pointing at someone else’s servant. Divert his attention back to one’s sisters. In the shabby hope that mauling about in a drunken coupling somewhere discreet upstairs he might get one of them pregnant. Ah, at long last, Crooks. And look at this. White gloves. We are on parade tonight.