‘Rashers do please shut up. I cannot afford that. And I do want that money back. And it is the very last penny you will get from me.’
‘I shall be mum as you request. But must voice my feelings as I cannot be less than truly and utterly grateful to you my dear boy.’
Darcy Dancer on yet another trip to the cellar. For yet another bottle of port. His Lordship returned from peeing and feeding his horse. Back now purring in the company of Rashers. Listening to him discoursing on the subject of silver.
‘The French do not exceed us in the purity of morals but they do in the purity of their silver. By three point three per cent. To put a fine point on it. Now this rather nice sugar caster, made by Gabriel Sleuth I do believe seventeen nineteen.’
‘Upon my sweet smelling socks my dear man, not only the century’s greatest tenor but you do don’t you know your ruddy silver onions. You must join my London club. Isn’t that right don’t you think, Kildare. Skoal Kildare. Skoal.’
The Mental Marquis his port aloft, turning his happy smiling and inebriated face towards Darcy Dancer. A gust of wind outside. Trembling the shutters, flickering the candle flame. One would think I was now on the election committee of the Marquis’ club. And he’s oblivious to the fact that as yet I have never even set foot in London. Must say one does feel a bit miffed. With his Lordship previously implying that the membership of his London club was small, discreet and tres select. To put a French word on it. Albeit Rashers in proper footwear does cut an acceptably fine figure. But one does think the Marquis is growing his hair far too long around the edges of his baldness. And by the look on his face clearly has another and different subject on his mind.
‘Well chaps, I’m tight as a newt, should we let our hair down. Instead of precious metals, what about matters of the flesh. Ah Rashers I see you’re listening attentively to this presently pissed peer. Well one shouldn’t discuss one’s old papa but that’s how lessons in life are learnt. The Duke took up with an actress. Damn scandal’s all over London. And damn all seems I can do about it. Very flighty but very beautiful young lady. Can’t sing a note but a wonderful speaking voice she has. Is running the poor old goat ragged out of his mind. Getting her flowers to the theatre on time. Insisting he do errands for her. Even in restaurants she tries to turn the old Duke into a waiter. He set her up in an absolutely palatial flat in Mount Street. Four bloody bathrooms. And then the creature would lock him out. And when he did get in, ready to roger her with his semi annual erection, poor old devil, she’d be dead asleep snoring in bed. That’s the thing about women isn’t it. They want everything their own sweet way. Now what I want to know from you worldly chaps is how do I straighten the old devil out. I love my papa you know. But the poor old Duke, must occasionally give him his due. Third time the lady snored asleep, he had his chauffeur fetch a suitably wieldy fish from Billingsgate Market and he bloody well whacked her awake with slaps across the cheeks of the face and the arse. Bit of a struggle of course the lady being strong for her diminutive size. Duke’s no slouch either. Outstanding huntsman, Master of Foxhounds. Keeps fit wood chopping. Left the lady at the time a bit smelly of course to climb on. But what the devil. I mean if he had daily or weekly erections, fine, but damn it, the poor old bugger deserved getting his rocks off. She maintains she gets her rocks off on stage. What about that chaps. You think that possible. I mean that we’re there innocently in the stalls watching the mimes strutting on stage mouthing drama while they’re coming in their drawers. Well gentlemen. Speak up. You’re being of no damn help here. Rashers. What about it.’
‘Well it does rather make one think doesn’t it.’
‘Damn right it does, sir. Damn right. Of course one thought matters would improve when the old Duke moved her diminutive ladyship within the Division Bell area. Into a big old mansion flat down the shadowy labyrinths of Westminster. Thought she’d get up to less mischief. In Mount Street. She threw flower pots at passers by. Then put all the bath taps on and flooded the building out. But of course the old Duke likes taking tea at the House of Lords. He’d walk her to the theatre. Pair of them could be seen crossing St James’s Park hand in hand. And that sight I must say was rather touching. Of course gentlemen you both have the utter looks of ruddy astonishment on your faces. You’re wondering how I know all this. Another story that. Suffice to say on this occasion I was actually following the poor old goat and her ladyship across the park trying to keep him out of trouble. Well in their usual manner they went sauntering out Queen Street at dusk and into the park. They’d crossed the bridge. Then the pair of them stopped the other side near the pond. And embraced. I thought how sublimely enviable. They truly are in love. I’d stopped to contemplate the ducks the other end of the bridge. And then the dear girl, just as the Duke seemed to be getting somewhat steamed up, suddenly shoved the old goat backwards flying off the shore into the pond. Water’s not too deep but poor old bugger can’t swim a stroke. He was left floundering and gasping. While she ran away laughing. I had to wade in and drag him to shore. It was ruddy attempted murder. I confronted her in her dressing room at the theatre and she denied the whole thing. Of course one doesn’t want headlines ablaze in The News of the World. Duke Dunked by Saucy Star of West End Farce. Of course if I really felt the lady was malicious instead of mad, I’d damn certain inform the police. Now what I want to know from you two gentlemen being men of the world, don’t you agree that the old Duke she’d give this lady up. What have you got to say Kildare. She professes lesbian tendencies as well. The Duke has more than once caught her with her tongue down some other lady’s throat.’
‘Well, the Duke may in fact be having a good if surprising time of it.’
‘Well that’s what I thought Kildare exactly. But is his old heart going to stand up to it. Well I suppose, what’s a chap to do sometimes. But get into his low cut gown and hack on as the braver of the ladies do. As soon as the pair of them were back on terms again the Duke planned a Sunday and Monday in Paris. The old fool waiting in their carriage compartment at Victoria Station after the theatre. She got the old bugger worked up and then just before the train left, said she wanted to meditate a moment alone. And stepped off the train just as it was leaving. Poor old Duke went trundling off by himself to Folkestone. I love my papa. Hate to see him suffer. Damn sad. But damn if the old Duke didn’t make the most of it. Somehow got himself a doxy. Spent an agreeable two weeks with her at the Crillon. With the actress screaming abuse at him down the long distance telephone. Hate to talk of one’s old pops in this manner, but damn it, I’ve got to look after the old fool. He sets one a lesson. Of course the lady’s a brilliant actress. When he got back from Paris she said she’d meet him by the fountain in Sloane Square for tea. Then disguised as a cockney waif she waylaid the poor old Duke, led him off into a side street, revealed her identity and kicked him in the balls for his infidelity. He adores her for it. That is of course what is somewhat worrying. When he is so enthralled, you don’t know what the old Duke may suddenly do with his codicils in his final will and testament. Imagine he might even marry. The bloody lady actress could end up mistress of his English and Scottish estates. Duke’s been a widower now a long time. Once had a most beautiful mistress too. Got killed in a hunting accident. For years he was mourning her, with his hatchet faced housekeeper keeping every presentable lady away from the Duke by one means or another. Now gentlemen is one better with a steady lady of pleasure. Which only involves throwing the girl a fiver or two now and again. I mean she would have sufficiently administrated her charms with the punters to be even able occasionally to agreeably pretend she was a faithful wife. For the novelty of course. But I mean if the knot’s tied. The actress lady will after all be a Duchess. And if the old bugger ever expires, be my ruddy singular parental step mother. Big difference you know, being right up there as a Duchess. So many damn Barons and Earls around these days. I think it’s a mistake to be too blasé about one’s title. Even if it’s in courtesy only. I do so love my Debrett handle so much. Even though the damn thing shames me. Utterly shames me too, to adore it. Meet these twits who pretend to find it a burden. Chaps, to me it’s bliss. Gives one a bloody sense of belonging. Down the ages. I mean it takes ten minutes to change into rags. And that bloody well quicko teaches you a lesson. Old Duke does it from time to time. Took a leaf out of the actress’s book. Stood in disguise one Sunday at Victoria Station with a placard proclaiming the wisdom of eating fresh fruit, nuts and fish. Smalls our butler, coming back that day down from visiting his elderly dying mom in the country, chanced upon him there and walked up and said. Is it you, your Grace. Of course it’s me Smalls. And can’t you damn well read the sign. Go home and eat fresh fruit, nuts and fish as it says. What do you think I’m standing here for. Well chaps, a lot said tonight. Thing we must remember to love is a woman. Really love her. And from her we must require fidelity. Love her chaps. Love her. We must. We must. And you Rashers my dear chap are wearing brown bloody shoes sizes too small for you. But what, gentlemen are any of us ever ever going to do for humanity at large. Ah I see you Ronald, I’ll call you that as Rashers seems to make you wince. I see a question burning upon your face.’