‘Perhaps one should raise wages Sexton.’
‘Ah god abandon that good intention straight off.’
‘Well at the moment there are no wages, so why not raise them.’
‘Ah I like your existentialism.’
‘I’m afraid, Sexton, I don’t know what on earth that is.’
‘It’s what at this very moment they’re thinking and practising in Paris, the very latest that’s what it is.’
‘Good god, Paris. I’d be better advised at this moment to know what they’re thinking and practising here in Andromeda Park.’
‘Now meaning no disrespect to Ireland, I’d say what you need now to add to your intellectual might is a trip to the cafes of that city.’
‘I see.’
‘Ah the social, cerebral, not to mention noological activity of that capital would give you a style that would make them Dublin intellectuals cringe in shame of their backward concepts.’
‘Sexton I did not know you have been to Paris.’
‘Ah don’t mention the Champs Elysées to me. The soaring spires of Notre Dame. Mere commonplace. The Prado.’
Proceeding at last to the stables it having taken till nearly lunch time to extricate oneself out of the intellectual ferment of Sexton’s potting shed. One does feel however that just as sure as the Prado is not in Paris, one was as certain that Sexton had a loyal heart. And he noticed with pleasure my selection of his nosegay of snowdrops.
Darcy Dancer walking down this familiar road. Just steep enough for a sledge to glide. But no time for pleasure. Not here even a day. Two cattle already dead. How dare the agent assume a romantic prerogative with one of my staff. An old trick to take advantage of an innocent menial. Awfully damn insolent. Play pop with him. Filthy minded type for whom the blessing of marriage is not enough. But he who is without sin fling the first stone. And I have on too numerous an occasion been so sordidly and disgracefully indulgent that my arm I fear, must remain stilled at my side. Carnal mindedness must be in everyone’s blood. Two defrockings in the family history, both of archbishops who had a difficulty to curb a taste in young boys. Plus my mother’s father and grandfather, old reprobates who had similar tastes for young girls. Especially those serving in the household.
Darcy Dancer at the bottom of the little incline. Crossing the bump of cobble stones beneath the snow. Hungry pigeons sheltering up under the eaves. Make a nice pie had one a shotgun to hand. Hay rake and ploughs rusting in a corner of the yard. Whoever it is alerts to my coming. Hear the noise of activity. Step through the mended, tottering and remended stable door. Puddles on the stable floor. Horse piss fumes. Cobwebs like lace ball gowns hanging from the ceiling. Faint smell of oats and strong stench of stable dung. A stall full of musty hay. Rusty leaking buckets. Standard here. Appalling.
‘Good morning, Master Reginald, and welcome home.’
‘Good morning, Slattery.’
‘I am getting it tidied up a bit here. It be a hardy old winter. Will you be hunting when the weather improves.’
‘Yes I shall.’
Slattery’s ear looking blue, chewed and flapped over and whitened at the edges. Where his son Foxy had nearly bitten and torn it off. The two reddened indented marks still on his skull where Foxy had struck him with a hammer. Intrepid Foxy Slattery. His fighting spirit never vanquished. Fought so at every authority. Indulged in every desecration. Introduced me to my early weaknesses of the flesh. Would ride any mount or steal the pennies off an old dead woman’s eyes. Under what part of the bleak blue sky does he rascally now go.
‘You’d be back staying a bit with us Master Reginald.’
‘Yes.’
‘Be a blessing when this hardship of a winter is over. Not been one like it in living memory.’
Head groom Slattery’s careful preamble to letting one know of the dead cows. Leading me to the news gently. Count the horses in their boxes. Petunia. Nutmeg. Molly. And my god, what’s that. Eighteen hands of giant black beast. Weaving back and forth. Hot red fierce burning eyes. Massive head and neck like a colossal snake looming in some dark jungle ready to strike.
‘Be careful there, Master Reginald that’s Midnight Shadow, I meant to warn you.’
The huge black stallion shooting out its head to snap its teeth at the bars. Nostrils flaring. Darcy Dancer jumping back. As its forelegs rear and smash against the teak door. Trembling the entire stable. The latch nearly breaking open.
‘You’d be best away out of here now, master Reginald. Before he has a go at the door. That savage has killed one old farmer already. And maimed a dozen. Kick you to death as soon as look at you. Daft. His mother was daft. His father half daft. And he is completely.’
The stallion turning in his stall. In the billows of rising straw, dung and dust. His immense quarters letting fly his hind legs north, south, east and west. Hoofs sending sparks off the walls. And finally crashing open the door of the stall.
‘Begorra he’s loose, get away out. Out now.’
The animal backing out of its stall kicking and bucking. The groom Luke grabbing a hay fork and shoving Darcy Dancer out of the door in front of him, slamming the outside stable door shut. The roars and hoofs slashing inside. Luke turning the knob to close the latch as hoofs crash at the other side. Stone chips hitting windows and then the panes of glass flying out into the snow.
‘This better hold the blackguard. Or we’ll be taking our next piss in purgatory.’
The stable door splintering in two as Luke jumps back. Another and another hoof comes crashing through. Screws flying out of the hinges in the rotted wood. The stallion, filling the doorway. Its chest heaving, blasts of breath out into the chill air. The black giant neck craning forward, its head lowered, teeth bared, as it charged.
‘Run for your life Master Reginald.’
The snow flying, the stallion pounding across the yard after Luke. The beast’s ears flat back. Hulking great head, jaws agape, bearing down as Luke turns jabbing with the hay fork. The animal’s head dodging the prongs and forelegs rearing to knock the fork flying out of Luke’s hands. Slattery shouting.
‘Call the dogs, call the dogs.’
Darcy Dancer letting a piercing whistle out into the air. Luke by the stable wall arms raised, jumping backwards seeking safety by the side of the rain barrel. The gutter pipe coming asunder, banging Luke’s head, as he slides stunned arse first into a deep snow drift covering the drain. Kern and Olav bounding round the house at the top of the road. Tails like rudders in the wind, steering them down into the yard. Henry and Thomas, who should have been out foddering the cattle, emerging from somewhere comfortable into the fray. And just as quickly seeing what it was about turning their backs inside again. A voice heard as the door slammed.
‘Begob I’m not sending my soul to heaven yet.’
Luke, one arm clutched over the edge of the frozen rain barrel, pulling himself up again against the wall. Kern leaping to bite the beast’s giant hind quarter. Olav sent flying with a hoof catching him on the shoulder. The stallion’s yellowed curving teeth tearing the shoulder out of Luke’s jacket. The graveyard is going to be put into use again sooner than one imagined.
‘He’ll have us all kilt Master Reginald.’
The black monster slipping on the stable cobbles. Kern’s fangs bared at its neck. Goes down on its haunches. Darcy Dancer tearing off his jacket. Rushing flinging it over the massive horse’s head. Luke squeezing and crouching further behind the rain barrel. The vast animal getting to its feet again. Turning blindly rearing round in a circle bucking in the air. The earth trembling, dogs barking.