‘It is very good to have you back with us again Mr Kildare.’
Past pillars in lobby, and preceded by this gentleman in his striped trousers, one is ushered into the lift. Such a nice comfortable feeling when one is followed by two pages, one carrying my portmanteau and the other transporting my selection of morning newspapers on a tray. So marvellous to ascend in this cage. The wires pulling us up through the well of the great staircase. Past the shiny mahogany balustrades. Alight at our floor. Maids in black quietly lurking in the carpeted corridor, watching my entourage enter into the quiet recess of this cosy comforting room.
‘Now Mr Kildare we trust on short notice this apartment meets with your approval.’
‘Very satisfactory indeed.’
‘I suppose you’re up in town to attend the theatre. Or is it to buy or sell a few cattle. Or would it be horses now.’
‘I sincerely hope it will be one or the other or indeed all three.’
One of course stays at the Hibernian to attend theatre and at the Shelbourne to buy horses. Best anyway to supply an enigmatic answer that can be taken in the most number of numerous ways. Essential that one does not give the impression one is where one is for no damn good reason at all. And here so hauntingly ensconced in my crimson carpeted room for the mere fact it pleasantly presently pleases me. Out one’s window over the tree tops. Seagulls softly sailing beneath the blue grey clouds, edges glowing pink. Ducks circling the sky to land on the pond in the Green. The whole city at one’s feet. The roof tops and misty haze of smoking chimneys, spread all the way to the Wicklows rising purple in the distance. Mountain peak high with the Sugar Loaf. The tangy fermenting smell of the Guinness brew that keeps this whole metropolis alive and all its brains revived each day. Perhaps even fevered each night, putting them snoring asleep with their perishing dreams. Pubs with money pouring in and beer pouring out, makes every one of them a little bank. And the telephone ringing.
‘Mr Kildare, your champagne is ready in the downstairs drawing room.’
‘Thank you. I shall be down shortly.’
Could clonk someone unconscious with this telephone. It is, when one thinks of it, a marvellous instrument. If one had them installed all over the house. Imagine the nice new unbelievable confusion it would be possible to cause. Quick wash and brush up. Descend again from heaven on high down into the voices. Some of them nearly hysterically snooty like my sisters. Eleven o’clock chiming the perfect time for having one’s champagne. Aloof from the early Monday morning traffic out in the lobby. Sink back into this flowered sofa chair. Down here in the deserted quiet and peace of this room. God what bliss miles away from the turbulence of Andromeda Park. Beneath this comforting ceiling. And if one overlooked the cads, racecourse touts, amateur abortionists, mountebanks, medical students and gas meter readers, at least the few remaining would mostly be lords, ladies and squires, either heading in from the country or back out again. And now a hotel page intoning. Right into this very room.
‘The Earl of Ronald Ronald please. Lord Ronald please.’
‘My god, that cheeky bugger, Rashers. God he must be this city’s biggest chancer. Sounds as if he’s staying right in this hotel. Must confess I never thought I’d ever extricate him from Andromeda Park. Of course when they weren’t dancing attendance upon him, he kept the whole staff idle with laughter. One had the guilty feeling that one would be kicking a great artiste out into the wet. Each morning confronting me in the library, reading yet another volume of Punch. Telling me yet again, how much the protracted comfort was healing his previous wounds of indignity. Futher soothed now no doubt by his having clearly taken unto himself a title. And he no doubt is at this very moment planning some new coup. To help land his lady pub and tobacconist owner up the aisle. And not even at this moment is one safe from his depredations. As one carried this very last forgotten one hundred pound note. Miraculously stuffed away all these months. And dredged up from the very bottom seam of one’s jacket’s barrister’s pocket. Designed so handily for either stuffing therein, torts or a stray pigeon or snipe one might shoot out walking. Such a welcome find, this big and sickly green coloured paper. A plentitude of ready, as Rashers would call it. Before one sinks instantly back into a nightmare of the unready. Unravel it. Bearded man’s face on the back of this legal tender. Fish, swans’ necks and sea shells hanging over his brow. A shawled lady, her chin in her hand, leaning on a harp. Her face the shape of Leila’s.
‘Sir you’re ready are you for your champagne.’
‘I was expecting a guest. Who doesn’t appear to be coming.’
‘Will you have some yourself sir while you wait.’ ‘Please.’
‘It will do your elbow no harm, sir. And maybe you’d fancy a sliver of smoked salmon.’
The waiter with his white hair combed flat back and parted in the middle of his red cheeked face. This high priest of his profession, taking his steps with his aloof dignity. A figure so familiar for so many years. Who brought us tea as I sat then waiting for Mr Arland trying to stop my eyes staring down between Clarissa’s alabaster bosoms. Now he disappears away through the door and down into the great ample bowels of this hotel which one feels so reassured is so full of plenty.
‘I trust sir, the Heidsieck is to your satisfaction.’
‘Excellent as a matter of fact.’
‘Shall I pour the other glass sir, for luck and for the welcome ghost that may be in it.’
‘I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.’
‘Me old granny, sir down the country alone, never poured a cup of tea without a cup for the welcome ghost.’
‘I see. Well in that case do pour a glass in the hope that either my guest or the ghost may soon arrive.’
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’
One sits. Long and lonely. And sad. Mr Arland always so prompt. Wrote me back a fortnight ago. Only three days waiting for him to reply. To say he would come. Near where his beloved Clarissa died. And now he has not. One is tempted to venture down to his address. Mount Street. Not particularly salubrious as an area. Must be near Westland Row Station. Wait at least cosily quiet in here. Feeling no pain. He still may come. While one avoids the more desperate of Dublin’s denizens. One or two of whom I see briefly creeping by. Among whom Rashers must be the king of chancers. Dispensing his endless charm. To even the beaten and broke. Who are always there to applaud one’s largesse. Who seem never beaten, but always broke. Forever able to stick forth a hand to take to their lips a drink when someone else who can pay is buying their round. And now I count myself among the beaten. Walking away from the boathouse that day. A pall so great one was hardly able to bear it. She would not even go a few paces back with me. Our goodbyes are better this way, she said. Let us leave each other just as we do in this room. I hardly remembered returning back up the path. Oblivious to the briars scratching my hands and face. Through the wood and by the fields and meadows along where they joined the land of the great castle. Where the Mental Marquis was a guest. Imagining their making a tryst. During her hours off in the afternoon. Somewhere in the woods. That she would submit to the Mental Marquis’ arms. He could touch her. Do other angering unspeakables. And then cast her back into the gutter again.
Darcy Dancer downing the last of the champagne. Rising from his chair. Stand over the ghost’s glass with the tiny bubbles still arise in the pale light. The taste bud bliss in one’s mouth of the soft slivers of salmon. Lunch bustle of waiters in the dining room. Blue flame of alcohol burners. Pleasant fume of sauces. My god, people actually speaking French are upon this doorstep. Mountains of very good quality luggage. Although the gentleman’s tailoring is a trifle tight, the tall dark woman he is with has exquisite long slender legs, tapering wrists and ankles. Aloof beauty. Her dark eyes and satin soft skin. My god Miss von B is right, these clearly aristocratic people from the continent do put us to shame. By their effortless casual elegance. Put my key to the porter. Must make an inquiry.