‘Well no not quite yet as a matter of fact. But of course I’m still listening.’
‘Ha I like you, Kildare. I damn well like you. Consider yourself a member. Phonecall by four p.m. will get you a supper. But roll in any time for pot luck. Along with suitable bare breasted ladies on the game, we invite a guest of honour quarterly and amusingly insult the ruddy shit out of him at the end of the table. Of course the food and wine are so good the ruddy fellow is too busy eating and drinking to give a damn. It’s how of course one is accepted to membership. Nice old commodious house too. Donated it to the common cause. The old boy the Duke doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve named it the Putney Club, after him. Man must have a reliable place to bring his occasional fly by night bird. And if you don’t intend her to be permanent in your coop, other members who are momentarily short of the avian species, why they go aerial with her if you get my meaning. But it’s no ruddy whorehouse remember. Nice young chap like you, the world lies before you Kildare. The world. Never forget that. Don’t get skint like me.’
‘I am already skint.’
‘O. Sorry to hear that. Damn nuisance for you. Damn sorry. O that is a pity, isn’t it. Well we have reduced memberships at the club. I’ll bring it up with the secretary. No need Kildare to worry. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
Pop of cork out of the whisky bottle. The Mental Marquis pouring himself a drink. Darcy Dancer, hand on the door knob.
‘And O, by the way Kildare, Bangkok that’s the place where you might plan to go and have a damn good fucking. Marvellous place for the ladies, both for the ones already there and the ones you bring with you. Cool season is November to February. Young man like you wants to be properly schooled in these things. Only damn sensible thing my father did was to recommend it to me. It’s a great art you know. And one never gets done finished learning. I mean you know about fucking. Never get finished. I mean learning about damn good fucking. Goodnight Kildare.’
‘Goodnight.’
One proceeded feeling one’s way by the wall, back down the hall. Bangkok, good lord. Damn good fucking. I mean to say, chap obviously thinks me a rank amateur. Certainly there is no question as to what Leila’s paltry fate would be at his hands. Shoved half naked into his London club. Members sitting around dinner with harlots’ knickers over their heads. Jumped upon and pranged by the other members who had gone inebriatingly aerial. The hunchbacks no doubt rushing about with wind socks and suitable flags giving the signal and direction for take off.
Darcy Dancer removing his clothes in the damp chill. Peeking out the window shutters. A clear cold sky. The moon shining. My mother’s wardrobe door open. Two of her gowns draped over the back of a chair. One’s sisters do take signal liberties. What a day. What a night. Nearly asleep on my feet. O god. If only I could press my lips to Leila’s. Instead of crawling alone down between these icy sheets. Ah, thank god. A hot water bottle. If it’s not leaking one can anticipate a modicum of sensual voluptuous comfort. I suppose everyone is looking for a beautiful but decent minded woman. That she should be entirely thoroughbred in her figure, cultured in her mind and gay in her demeanour. Who would when one required it, put her hand on top of one’s own and say soothingly to calm one’s worries, there you are, you mustn’t trouble my dear, we will, both of us manage somehow. O god, to know that such a creature does exist. To know that she lives and breathes under one’s own roof. Where one wakes each day. And now sleeps. Sleeps. In a dream. Of the most delicious sensation. Enveloped in the soft arms and legs of one’s past housekeeper. Ensnaking warm cosy comforting limbs of Miss von B. Her soft if somewhat commodious aperture. Into which one could dip so delicately. Holding her smooth silken miles of skin. Her voice in my ear. Vast ist diss Bangkok. You little naughty creature. Vy you need go Bangkok. Your bang bang cock so nice right here. You baby. Ah. Yes I scream. In your ear. You hear. My dear. Mein Bauernlummel.
‘Shush you fucking noisy heifer.’
A voice out in the hall. Darcy Dancer squeezing a pillow, sitting bolt upright in bed. My god I think I heard most god awful screams and screechings. And naked feet pounding. Stopping just outside my door. Huffing and puffing breathing.
‘Will you come back now you bloody wench.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’ve already been after interfering a finger in my sacred tabernacle.’
‘Begorra I’ll interfere more than a finger with me stone rigid credential bulging up your essential.’
Feet proceeding again. And speeding elsewhere. Going around the turning in the hall. And upstairs in what is commonly referred to as a damn quick hurry. Leila. Her feet would never make such heavy pounding. O god. Dingbats. No. Norah. Or Kitty. But one thing is bloody certain. It’s his Lordship whose vowels are pretending to be a bogman under that stage Irish brogue. Clearly thinks he’s in his London club. Taking off in his Spitfire. With his hunchbacks clattering dustbins, signalling him down the ruddy runway. Shove my overtaxed senses back under pillow and eiderdown. Stay here. Until I smell floorboards or joists burning. Or the authentic screams of my sisters. Crying rape. Or O my god. Must have dozed asleep again. Hoofs thumping the gravel.
Darcy Dancer going to the window. Pulling back the shutter. Has there ever been a colder night. And down there in the moonlight. Has there ever been a madder one. The Mental Marquis. Galloping. Tally fucking ho. His hair flying. Atop his horse. Lashing his whip back across Rapscallion’s quarters. And up, up and over the fence. There he goes. Down the front lawn. Fading in the shadows. Pounding the frosty ground.
Darcy Dancer paddling back to bed. Stretching down deep beneath the covers. When is this night ever going to end. Pull up the blankets over my head. Cover ears. Ah dat’s better. Peace and quiet reigns again. And leaves me so tortured. Prick pained without love. Close eyes. Stare away the dark. The Mental Marquis said. Although expensive for her own soul, how cheap a whore’s price is. Cynicism hurts and stings. The closest thing to truth. And will I ever hold her. Touch my fingertips across her pale soft cheek. Kiss her brow. Will I ever put my hand deep clutching in her black hair.
Before I
Shut away
This brain
The last thing
That dies
In this body
The last thing
That lives
10
The day of the lawn meet. Dawning. On a bad bad old day. A night storm bringing a thaw with its gales and buckets of rain and flooded pastures. Slates off the cow house. Chimney toppled, ancient oaks out in the park uprooted, and utter utter misery festering in my heart. As one makes fervent plans to abandon this crumbling pile of stone and devote the rest of my life to whoring and reckless extravagance in the better fleshpots somewhere miles from the gossiping tongues of this rain sodden parish. Yesterday, a hint of disapproval in Sexton’s voice as he stole up behind my shoulder in the corner of the orchard as I watched the rooster cohabiting with a hen just as it was growing dark and you’d think the rooster would be thinking instead of a night’s sleep.