Crooks with glasses of champagne poured. Delivering on his tray a glass to the elbow of Rashers upon whose face one catches a glimpse of utter stricken sadness. As if as a once celebrated actor he’d been suddenly swept aside in the middle of his final curtain speech to be told that it was his last. And dear me, the front hall of Andromeda Park is thronged. Voices of the thirsty hungry horde raised. Mouths stuffed and throats gurgling like drains. One hates to think so ungenerously but I’m paying for it all.
‘Madam please do, take this glass. Crooks, didn’t you, you knew her Royal Highness was coming and had her champagne ready.’
‘Yes Master Reginald and it is felicitous to see you again your Highness and looking so well.’
‘Well thank you so much Mr Crooks.’
‘Always entirely delighted to be at your service your highness.’
Crooks withdrawing back into the fray. And bumping into Gearoid, who with a glass of Guinness in each hand, drinking from both spilled their contents down the front of his greasy rain coat. And at his elbow watching in smiling admiration, the Dublin Poet known in the vicinity of Harry Street as The Bard Wandered Over From Duke Street and in the vicinity of Duke Street, as The Bard Wandered Over From Harry Street. And often called Grafton, for short, this being the street connecting the two. His mouth now, instead of spouting verse, gaping open to pour back his tall glass of whisky. Dear god, the denizens of Dublin. These inhuman beings. Erupting out of the past. All come to have a bash. The few incorrigibles of the permanently dispossessed who closely cling to the flotsam and jetsam, still afloat on their recent fast dwindling legacies. The temporarily rich and momentarily praised heroes of ignominy. Who sail the storm tossed waves of the Dublin night. Could there be even more of them off the morning train. Or another load out of another motor car.
‘Ah but your eyes are lost in thinking, my too kind host, my boggy trotter.’
‘Yes I am madam. And although that term is occasionally funny I sometimes wish you might find some other droll expression to use.’
‘Ah still so sensitive you are. But why. Why are you not proud to be from zee bog.’
‘Simply because madam I am not from zee bog. The bog is more than two miles from this house.’
‘Ah, if you go round by the wood, but if you go as zee crow flies zee bog is right over there.’
A minor commotion of pushing and shouldering at the jammed up front door. And entering in their thick to the floor tweeds, the bunch of flowers. One after the other. The spinster sisters, Rose, Camellia, Marigold, Pansy and Iris. Holders of the world record for sisterly celibacy totalling more than three hundred years. Obviously come to sample my standard of home made bread, butter and jam. As they always do. And flying out of their camouflaged midst, my goodness, my dancing master. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus. Waltzing right this way.
‘Ah, so. So. And my dear you are wearing lavender water. Such fragrance. I smell you. I smell you. A mile away. You have done it. Reached maturity my dear. Quite captivating of you. You have managed such a mix. Of people my dear. Both the wickedly moral and respectably immoral. Clearly as we do no longer see you in the very naughty city of Dublin, we have had to come see you. Among these awful people with the blood thirst. Of course what you forget is how we miss your such young beautiful good looks. You must you know come to the Cats. Lois, who as you know is such a great artist could not tear herself off the canvas to come but she asks so much after you.’
The Count tossing his head and blond curls as he glanced in his fifty directions for every three words out of his mouth. Smiling and nudging Miss von B who glowered at the mention of Lois’ name. And the Count himself smelling to high heaven of lilac. One did put a drop of one’s mother’s lavender water under the tunic which one instantly regretted as the sweet scent fumed up one’s nostrils. Of course the smell of some members of this gathering would send one into a coma if one sniffed too much. And one does avoid attempting introductions of these nearby faces of these catacombers, out on a spree, knowing of course everyone is already numbed to death having met again for the fifth hundredth time. Not counting the numerous unremembered occasions with their brains afloat intoxicated out of their skulls. Or when confronting each other in the blackness of some closet, alleyway, larder or wine cellar, groping at orifices and protuberances which if they didn’t yield the satisfaction sought, were then punched, twisted, pulled or scratched.
Darcy Dancer excusing himself. With a shudder. Finally observing the pieces of vase on the floor. Which Mollie is busy chipping further with her furious sweeping. And O my lord. I suppose it is indeed bloody valuable. My mother’s treasured glass vase. With its intercalaire overlay and marqueterie de verre. Cracked forever. One does not know whether to save one’s tears for something worse. My sisters. Descending the stairs. Faces plastered with smiles as they enter down into the din. And smiles fade. Clearly regarding these Dublin interlopers as distinctly not amusing people but as heinous inhumans to be avoided. Especially Rashers Ronald from whose vicinity they have already decided to rush. But who it appears is not to be easily shaken off. Following right by their elbows as they take up new smiling poses at the sideboard. And by their hysterically animated voices, they are being presently utterly captivated by Count O’Biottus. Who has rushed to them. And every time I look at my sisters now, reminds yet of another string of awful perpetrations they wrought upon one. During a picnic, having shown me how to carefully do a pooh pooh in Nanny’s best summer bonnet as she went to fill a bottle at the lake. And in the course of waiting for Nanny to put it back on her head, she instead sat on it. And the water Nanny had gone to get was for a stew they had asked could they cook over the fire for little baby brother. That they had brought their own little special bag of chopped up sprigs of yew and laburnum. Which they heaped into their brew. It was the only time she ever slapped their faces. When Nanny sniffed the spoonful being lifted towards my lips. And I must say I do remember being extremely pleased. My sisters clutching each other screaming to high heaven, and saying in unison, we hate you Nanny, we hate you. Only the day previously they had taught me words to use to ask for another piece of cake at Mummy’s tea which would assure they said its being given me. And I strolled in. Delighted with my frills and patent leather shoes and relishing this rarity of being invited to the sacred sanctum of the blue parlour. My sisters pushing me in the back to exercise the words they’d rehearsed with me. Nice polite words they’d picked up from the stable yard. May I please Mummy have another piece of that fucking shit, please. But Mummy took the wind out of their sails. Of course you may my dearest, have another piece of this fucking shit, but next time you must ask for simply cake. But dear me, there now my sisters. Craning their necks to look Miss von B up and down. Staring at her white leather snugly encased thighs. And swell of her buttock. And resenting clearly the attention she is getting from both the ladies and the gentlemen.
‘How are you boss, it’s good to see you again.’
Darcy Dancer turning. To confront this shyly smiling face and mischievously sparkling eyes. Last seen so many years ago, hungry, cold, bedraggled and shunned by the world. And now in a smart, perhaps too checked jacket, his hair slicked back, cavalry twill jodhpur trousers. A rather overly colourful and overly shiny tie that one suspects might be American. And his shirt and collar not exactly pure white or ironed to perfection. But it is, none the less, Foxy Slattery himself.
‘Foxy what a surprise.’
‘I was to seeing the father over in the hospital. Only for the sake of the mother. And if you don’t mind me saying, he’s still the same old mean cruel bastard he always was. And I was just now down there for a look in the stables. A right old mess they are. In the care of me little brother. Worse than when I was looking after them. Dirty bad old hay. Dung everywhere but on the manure heap. Hear he’s a bit of a devil like meself. I’m training the odd horse now. Over at the Curragh. And I sell a motor car or two on the side. SAI three eight nine, eight seven nought six ZC, five two four two LI.’