‘You mustn’t get so upset Sexton. We surely won’t miss a cartload of turf.’
‘Sure who’s upset. I put the turf and cart in our barn. Nor am I near yet like Crooks to dancing the Tyburn jig. But it took long enough to get anyone to stack the turf. No shortage on indolence. Sure your mother’s father had signs posted up on the wall down in the servants’ hall that lying down on the job or lying with words is strictly forbidden in this household. And Master Darcy I wouldn’t mind so much either kind of lying. But it’s the guile, cunning and duplicity of them. Sure some master thief among them would have got off with that silverware. If they could grab hold of it, they’d steal the very piece of sky you were standing under. Then tell you while you’re staring at it that the colour of it was bright green. And not sky a’tall. The only time such a thing as the truth is spoken would be when it’s a bit of scurrilous gossip. Then it would be gospel you can be sure of that. Didn’t I catch that one Mollie with the young Slattery out in the hay. And more than once catch him pulling on himself out in the warmth of the greenhouse. Two of them said they were having a smoke of a cigarette. That one will have her belly as big as her tits, popping out a bastard soon I can tell you. Devoted loyalty is all fake and sham these days. Now I’ll tell you the difference Master Darcy between a Protestant and a Catholic. And it’s as much as if one was black and the other was white. One lies. The other tells the truth. One steals. The other is honest. One is dirty. The other is clean. One is treacherous. The other is loyal. And one would have to be a foreigner to think one was charming and the other dull.’
‘And which Sexton, pray, is the Protestant.’
‘Ah now, Master Darcy, that would be telling wouldn’t it.’
‘Ah Sexton, you are indeed telling a good deal this morning.’
Reaching the station up the little incline. Icicles hanging down from its roof gutters. Another flurry of snow. Two farmers huddled in their black coats, one with a pair of bright new shoes. Amid the pigeon droppings. There was no doubt as to the lighthearted attitude towards travellers this morning. Turf smoke smell of the turf fire in the ticket office. The station master saluting, with his ever cheery greeting.
‘Ah up to town now is it Master Reginald Kildare. The metropolis of the east is your destination. Where there’d be them swanks now wouldn’t there, as would have champagne delivered to their doors of a morning instead of milk.’
Dear old Sexton carrying now my portmanteau. Lugging it ahead of me. And clearly taking exception to the station master’s liberty. Which if I do say so myself is a damn good bloody suggestion. But you’d think I was heading off on the grand tour. Not to return for years. A tear in his eye. His massive hand opening my compartment door. And putting up my case. Suspiciously regarding another inmate.
‘Goodbye Sexton.’
‘Goodbye Master Darcy. And while you’re up in Dublin I’ll be having a visit from the Professor Botanist from Trinity College. And it won’t be long before we’re up to our noses in the very latest horticultural exotics. Take heed now of the man who stepped out into the world liberally endowed with morals and money. And remember that as fast as your man lost the first he lost the second even faster.’
The station master blowing his whistle. Sexton looming next to him, his breath chilled white on the air and waving that long arm. Dear man, through any bleakness, always seems to have his own hopeful world. And some beacon lighting up his future. As mine seethes with worries.
‘Goodbye Sexton. I shall take heed.’
‘And by the way, Master Darcy. Petunia is in foal.’
The train squealing, squeaking. Finally edging forward slowly slow. Moving, stopping. Moving again. Pulling past the grey little station. Sweet smell of turf burning. Past the station master’s thatched cottage. Wash drying frozen stiff on a line over his little garden. Smoke curling out of the cottage chimney. The deep snows on the countryside when I came. All melted away on the fields grey green. Out there in the coverts, foxes long finished mating. Hope always arises with the days getting longer. Even out there on this passing bereft boggy emptiness. One only wishes one’s fellow passenger wasn’t reading Stubb’s Gazette. Roll call of the county’s debtors. Clears his throat each time he turns a page and Again as he writes something down. Looks so awfully like a solicitor. Wears same odious demeanour as one’s former agent threatening a writ on me. Whose lawyers are still sending letters. I do believe I got a sound kick up the agent’s arse when someone was trying to twist my testicles in the post hunt mélée. Soon now south, will be the purple dark hills. The first signs of Dublin beyond the abandoned ditches over the heathery boglands. Even as the cold ash branches shake by in the train’s breeze, already feel the quickening pace of the city.
Darcy Dancer crossing the black and white tiles of the station. A porter leading the way and the people streaming everywhere.
‘Sir just follow me now sir. To the entrance. I’ll have a taxi for you. Not a bit of worry about that now.’
Darcy Dancer stepping towards a motor taxi. Driver jumping round his vehicle to open up. Door falling off its hinges into the gutter.
‘Ah I’d let you use the other door now sir only it’s jammed shut. Get in now sir, only needs tying back on with a bit of string.’
Porter tugging at the cover of the boot. Comes away in his hands. Of course in this vehicle one will be damn lucky to reach even the morgue just around the corner. Plus the window’s cracked and the bottom of this seat is gone. Smells like a stable. Be safer taking a horse cab with a runaway horse between the shafts. As it is, one will oneself end up in the city morgue.
Taxi crossing the Liffey. Guinness boats waiting. Loading their big oak barrels. The heavy clip clop of the massive draught horses pulling more barrels on their clattering carts. Tara Street. Past the baths. Where Mr Arland said he had swum in its swimming pool. Wall and railings of Trinity College. Nosing out down Dame Street. Same massive red faced guard directing traffic with his white gloves as if he were conducting a Beethoven symphony. The Provost’s House. Sits so elegantly in Protestant glory. Jammet’s just there behind its so discreetly curtained front windows. As we head up this stylish boulevard of Grafton Street. Mitchell’s grey granite monument to coffee cakes and tea. All of it still here just as I’d left it. There’s where Miss von B works. Without zee dust, zee dirt and zee decayed mice stinking up her bathwater. Turn left at the Green. Ah, awaiting one. The canopy of the Shelbourne Hotel. O dear. The driver is now kicking at the bloody hinges to get me out. And now the doorman. Both tugging. O god. Off it comes. Landing them backwards right on top of a poor begging tinker.
‘Ah Jasus can’t you give a decent ould woman minding her own business on the pavement some peace, and fuck off the fool pair of you.’
The doorman standing brushing himself off. And kicking out at the tinker lady. Sending her box of pennies flying into the gutter.
‘Get out of the way you. Good day to you Mr Kildare. And don’t mind the mayhem. Long time now since we’ve had the pleasure.’
Darcy Dancer depositing himself on the pavement. Reaching into his pocket. Shilling tips for doorman and taxi driver. And handing over half a crown to the tinker lady.
‘Ah sir you’re a most decent and fine gentleman. God bless you. And may the sun never set on your glowing riches. And may you never back a losing horse.’
Darcy Dancer led through the hotel door. Soft carpets. Late morning smell of coffee. Tinkle of cups. Scurrying porters dancing attendance. One must suppose they remember me with such welcome, having finally paid on my last visit the largest unpaid bill in their history. Massive debt has always been the fastest and surest way to achieve fame in the better places of Dublin.