Darcy Dancer in hunting coat, breeches, boots, coming down the main stairs. Rain stopped. The wind still howling. Pause here on the landing. The bark on the grove of beech, wet and dark to the west and silvery to the east. High in the tip top branches crows squawking. So often one stands here to look out. And see visions. Something I saw in a dream during the night. That I was an older man. Looking back into the past. Seeing a life that one had so long ago lived. Yet a life older than one’s childhood. Before I had gone away to other lands in search of my fortune. And now returned a rich man. To an Andromeda Park standing empty. Roof caved in. All its inmates gone. Ivy growing through the walls. And I walked past the kitchen. The blackened hearth and stove cold, that years ago glowed warm. Stepping slowly on the wet stone. Between the mildewed and crumbling corridor walls which once kept the chill damps at bay. The brass servants’ bells hanging from their coiled springs, corroded green and grey. And I stopped at Edna Annie’s basement room, where her whole life was spent going about her lonely ancient chores. A fuchsia hedge growing through her broken window. The bedstead rusting. The rain dripping through the ceiling and falling on possessions one cherished once. A sailor doll of blue long lashed eyes, so many times warmly hugged and kissed and cuddled closely abed. And which lay unsheltered, broken armed and cracked on the rat holed mattress. Its little head upturned. A rain drop for a tear in one of its eyes. And I stood there. Tears in my own eyes. Till a sound behind me made me turn. A mist. Sound of water. And the hunting lame girl killed by the old stone bridge over the river was standing there. And instead of white she wore top hat and flowing dark hunting garments. Her face smiling. With the splendid white teeth. And lips of Leila. Slowly lifting her skirts above her slender legs. Slowly over her knees, higher on her thighs. And there in the ruins. She spoke. Her soft voice coming from her dark haired beauty. I am the mistress of Andromeda Park. She said. Then I woke. Shivering and cold.
Darcy Dancer stopping further down near the bottom of the stairs. The arriving voices. Distant bark of hounds. A breeze blowing through the house. Hunt members pouring in the door. The front hall with tables laden. Sausages, hardboiled eggs, smoked salmon, soda breads, barmbracks, butters, beers, creams, port, sherry, brandy. How far now the day that will dawn on the last drop of wine and the last morsel left.
Major Bottom already with a brimming glass of port to hand, striding up to Darcy Dancer. His grey brows going up and down as his ruddy face contorted in his attempt to smile.
‘One would have thought Kildare, with the condition of the land, the hunting would be cancelled. Instead of making mires of small farmers’ pastures. But it’s damn jolly good of you to lay on such warm hospitality. But with the wind drying, clearing the sky and the fields brightening in a bit of sun during the morning, perhaps not too much damage will be done.’
Of course the truth of the matter is the hunt secretary couldn’t give a damn about making mires of small farmers’ pastures and in fact delighted in parading his big bloody hoofed horse straight across their winter sown wheat. But not before he’s drunk all my best port and turned the whole ruddy hunt breakfast into a luncheon party. Good heavens. Motor car horns sounding outside on the drive, and pulling up in front of the house. Horses rearing and bucking at the beeping. Who on earth could be arriving. Doors opening. Unloading folk. And who clearly climb up the steps. And wade into the hall. O my lord. A voice. O my god. No ruddy mistaking it. That one has heard uttering so many a time previously. Bellowing above the rising din in Dublin. My goodness, what on earth do I owe all this to. Being visited. One does so miserably dupe oneself with the false notion that people are fond of one for oneself and not for something which will be to their exclusive benefit, as indeed one finds dismayingly is always the case. People are, on the whole, aren’t they, such a ruddy reprehensible lot.
‘By jove, as bloody sure as most bloody houses in suburban Ireland are called Sorrento, damn chilly journey has given me a roaring appetite. Enough to eat a cold pail of muddy unpeeled potatoes.’
Rashers Ronald. In the most outlandish of outlandish tweeds. His ever ready smiling face, front teeth protruding even further and the gap wider between them. Through which he occasionally resoundingly whistles. Cheeks and nose brightened. No doubt by clearly alcoholic refreshments, numerously taken at many stops on his journey here. A signally orange wool tie. With a totally contradictory stiff white collar attached to his light blue shirt. A sprig of bog heather as a nosegay. And although one does slightly quake at his unexpected appearance, a smile does erupt in one’s heart at seeing him. Crossing these black and white tiles. Grinning ever so mischievously and ever so slightly shy, proffering his hand outstretched to shake. Which I do believe I have never previously shaken before. His English vowels superseding those Irish where it mattered most.
‘My dear chap Kildare. My dear chap. How good it is to see you again.’
‘Well this is a surprise, how nice to see you.’
‘Surprise. Nonsense. It’s shocking. Being as I am the fox. And spiritually naked as I usually am. And indulging in the foolish temerity to appear in the midst of fox hunters. But when confronting such foxhunting fixture prominently tacked to the lobby wall of the Shelbourne Hotel, and a knowledgeable chap at my shoulder informing me with an insistent jab of his index finger that it was none other than you who was residing at this most impressive country seat. I’ll be quite frank. I rushed here to presume upon our previous acquaintanceship. But also to return to you two fivers you were gracious enough to temporarily entrust to me. You see I stoop to grovel where others might merely pretend to fawn.’
‘Well thank you very much.’
‘I’m not entirely sure but I think I detest foxhunting and those who pursue it. But then, who am I my dear chap, to cramp anyone’s bloodthirsty style, especially as one’s own mouth is so wide open for drinking and chewing. To think I had been promoting you as an outrageous chancer just like oneself. And I believe introducing you, in the interests of making one’s company at hand more agreeable of course, as the authentic Marquis of Delgany and Kilquade. As nice as such titles are you clearly are already a squire needing no such embellishment. And by god, commodious and substantial are the words for this very nice mansion you occupy. Fair takes my poor debtor’s breath away. How are you my dear chap. How are you really. I sweep up in one little heap the debris of my fondest wishes left from so much disappointment in my life and humbly offer them to you from the labyrinths of my undeserving soul. And I do apologize for my flowery speech. And for not at least having brought you one of the better quality boxes of chocolates. You know with the chewy nougat and deliciously crumbling truffle centres and so forth.’