‘Well upon that note, sisters.’
‘Yes indeed upon that note we bid you adieu.’
‘I do with all apologies say goodnight on behalf of his Lordship.’
‘Yes quite. Goodnight.’
‘And goodnight, Dancer.’
The parlour door closing. The hounds loosing long mournful wails out in the night. Lavinia’s voice so much less strident and softer than Christabel’s. And I suspect perhaps even comes of a kinder heart which still holds some affection towards me. And she and I at the other end of the wood were always seeing a leprechaun sitting on the end of a long log and as we got close and he ran we would find a great old spider’s web and an old shoe. And then when I could at a very early age finally outdistance her either on my own legs or that of a horse, she chose of all my names to call me Dancer, after that great steeplechaser, for whom I was christened.
‘Kildare. My god Kildare. I must have dozed off. Did I fart. I did. Hope the ladies weren’t offended. One thing to remember about the fart it does no one any permanent physical damage. Unless to the perpetrator himself who attempts to hold it. Have another glass of that damn good champagne. Wake me up.’
One was tempted to tell the Marquis attired out hunting in black coat and bowler, he could be mistaken for a groom. He is of course entitled to wear pink as a former MFH. Adopts these little tricks to trip people up. Who want to talk to him because of his entitlement but who otherwise would ignore him. His hunter Rapscallion reputed to be eighteen hands one. Nearly as big as Midnight Shadow. Who if anyone could ever get near enough to the beast to make a measurement official, might find him eighteen hands two.
‘You’re staring at me Kildare. I know one does look a bit of a scruff. Keeps the arse lickers up from Dublin at bay. And a man’s mind on his hunting instead of damn whores. You know, not a bad little place you have here. Came as a child a few times with my dear old mother. Time flies. Damn it you know if one discounts the happiness of fox hunting, the world when you look at it is pretty damn sad isn’t it. I drink too much. I’ll be dead in five years or less. Damn sad when you think of it. Damn bloody sad. Bones shovelled in an old coffin. Piper playing a lament. But let’s bloody well hear some of the damn Count.’
‘Count what or Count who.’
‘The Count of course. You’ve got a gramophone. Damn Count is called for.’
‘Well I fear you do have me foxed.’
‘I mean the bloody tenor of course. What’s wrong with you Kildare. McCormack. The great John. Garden where the fucking praties grow. Walk me by the fucking Grecian Bend. You mean you don’t have his records. Don’t tell me that.’
The clock tower bell striking two a.m. when it was not yet midnight. The Marquis deprived of the Count sang in an astonishingly good voice some very common Irish songs which to my mind had their origins in Tin Pan Alley. But quite entertaining nonetheless. Tears welling in his eyes as the words the sun or moon or something sank on Galway Bay. He sabred another bottle of champagne, nearly taking off my head and exploding and splashing the wine around the room. Broke the face of the clock on the chimney piece with flying glass.
‘Damn sorry about that Kildare. Fucking up your chattels in this way. Can’t always make a clean cut. But let’s drink.’
Turf embers glowing in the grate. The room growing chill. The Mental Marquis, mud spattered on his stock, his boots off, stretched back deep in the swansdown.
‘Beware of the women Kildare. I speak as a man already had by three wives. During which time it took five damn expensive mistresses to give me some kind of damn comfort. No children, that’s the pity. I’ve got a bastard here and there alright. Of course the mistresses would have me marry them too. To be bloody twelfth marchioness or is that thirteenth. Even if it’s a title in courtesy only, that’s a hell of a lot of damn marchionesses, what. One damn well ends up like a factory manufacturing marchionesses till they’ll bloody be tuppence a dozen. What. And all running off with the family jewels. Bloody last one got off with four necklaces, three bracelets, two rings, never mind a mass of earrings and an emerald and diamond stomacher brooch. That alone could have when I’m finally skint, kept me in comfort in some nice little boarding house in Folkestone till I get cremated. One’s not a piker of course. Just want the dear girls to leave a little something for the next marchioness, that’s all. Instead of buggering off on my emolument to Monte Carlo, Spain and a lot of other woggish places. One hates to be feeding, housing, clothing another man’s piece of ass, as the Americans refer quite aptly to such slices. Bloody hell, Kildare I support the bloody lot, lock, stock and bloody barrel. I’m being impoverished is the sum of it. And if one of them ever bloody well remarries I’ll gladly eat my hat. In fact I’ll eat all my bloody hats, including my coronet and flying helmet and goggles without salt. Lock’s stock and bloody barrel if you get the pun of the first. And as one has been sparse on top that means more damn headwear than my old abused guts could digest in a hurry. Makes a man realize that pranging a down to earth prostitute is man’s cheapest way to satisfaction. And you know, you are an agreeable chap to listen like this. To my rantings. But I suppose any man who takes a fiver off me the way you did knows the ways of the world. And damn if you’re not a dozen years my junior. Always feel a con man chancer is deserving of the deepest respect.’
‘I think I must beg your pardon.’
‘Now don’t bloody well be offended Kildare. You have the makings of a great con man chancer. Without people like you the whole world would be in revolution. Thieving is the escape valve of the lower orders.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You’re a commoner Kildare. A bogman. Pure and simple. But since you use a bog to shoot snipe in, it makes all the difference.’
Having been a past below stairs servant and groom one did not easily tolerate his Lordship’s remarks. But amazing the presumption a title gives. He went on rambling as we proceeded out to the stables to see Rapscallion. One thing to be said, he really adored his horse.
‘Look at that kind eye, Kildare. That noble head.’
His nag however was back at the knee, upright in the pasterns, dipping in the back and sloping in the quarters. Never mind, fondness makes up for all that. And outside owls hooting, we had a look up at the stars utterly splendid cold and daunting to one’s tiny presence taking a long piss on the lawn. And at last to bed. His Lordship an arm around my shoulder and leading him lurching up the stairs. In candle smoke smell, snuffing them out behind us with a long handled church snuffer. Down the hall to my old bedroom. The Marquis pausing, muddy boots grasped to his breast as he leaned towards the last candle.
‘Kildare you’re a brick you know. Con man chancer but a brick. But you don’t ruddy know how to snuff out candles. Squeeze the flame. Wet your fingers.’
His Lordship’s quizzical eyes. The dried spots of mud on his lapels. A frown furrowing on his brow. Putting a hand up to the side of his head.
‘My ruddy ears ring all the time, Kildare. Too much aircraft engine noise during the war. Makes you sometimes want to blow your head off.’
A candle already alight in my old bedroom. And Crooks of course, wouldn’t you know, has placed with a glass and decanter of water, a bottle of my very best pure Scotch whisky on the bedside cupboard. Not that one begrudges it. But bloody hell yes, one does begrudge it.
‘Kildare, that’s a damn decent highland malt there. This is very hospitable of you. I must put you up for my club in London. Only a handful of very very select members. Took over an old battle scarred house. Popped a couple of hunchback brothers down the cellars, one cooks the other does the portering and waiting. As we are not heavily endowed as a club, fees are a bit steep. But the ruddy wine and privacy is unexampled. Except for the hunchback brothers fighting in the basement. Bit of occasional early morning screaming, shouting and slamming doors over which one is to put out the garbage. Give you a bed in London. Into which, provided you don’t fuss up the other handful of members you can comfort yourself with a bit of crumpet of an evening. But don’t get the bloody idea I’m a ponce or it’s a whorehouse. Hope I’m not giving you that impression Kildare.’