Only Rashers would know what to do at a time like this. This bloody woman is not only in the process of ruining my haircut but the bloody rest of my ruddy life. She seemed reasonably sane enough when barging into the throes of my convulsively writhing intensive foot care. But obviously pondering that piquancy has thrown her for a ninny noodled loony loop. Being as she has now decided to pursue a lifelong career of hounding me with some crazy bee in her bloody bonnet. Which can only be put to rest by wrapping her mutt’s leash around her neck and stringing them both up to the nearest lamp post. Or introduce her to Horatio. Pair of them avec canine could go around the Dublin auctions bidding for everything in sight.
‘That’s him, guilty of concupiscence.’
The lucky thing of course is, with all five chairs occupied I am midway in the row. Each chap thinking that it was he at which she pointed. And you’ve never seen such a cowering collection of guilty looks in all your life. One having to laugh into one’s towel as the chap in the next chair inquired of his barber.
‘Is there a back way out of here.’
‘Yes sir, as there happens. But I fear it does require scaling a wall or two and even perhaps breaking and entering. Unless of course you are a member of the club around the corner on the Green. Then all you have to do is climb the first wall.’
My own barber, liberally pouring on the best of smell juices to massage my scalp, found the matter of this looming shadowy lady part of his daily entertainment and chose to confidentially inform my ear.
‘Ah sir we get them all the time. Shouters. Harmless enough.’
One stole a look at the window. Just darkness out there. The figure gone. Lie back in the hot towels wrapped about one’s head. Well into tea time on this late afternoon. One is so abysmally sad. Here in Dublin. Think and think so much about death. Voices singing. Slowly marching across one’s brain. A figure on a catafalque. Mr Arland’s Clarissa. Tinkers carrying her. And those long black tresses of hair hanging down. And not Clarissa’s. Leila’s. Small white flower either side of her brow, tied with a bow of purple ribbon. Cold alabaster skin of her face. Make tears well in my eyes. O god. Is she dead. The winds in requiem over her. Can one ever hope to have another woman in one’s life to make me completely forget her. Today I could have been at Punchestown. Racing. Amid the gently rising hills. The distant horses across the green striding in their blur of colours. Bookies standing on their boxes. All the names up on their signs. Little trays for chalk and rags for wiping. As they await the next runners. Rashers gone. Just like these late winter afternoons the so soon, fading in the sun. And leave a cold cold chill to blow. As the last races are run. More and more losing faces getting longer. In the smoky bars, the crowd thickened. Drink flushing down their throats. And there was a moment when I thought I saw Leila. Just a fraction of her face. Thought I saw her exquisite teeth and a corner of her soft eye when she turned to smile. And I pushed through to reach her. Shoving and nearly punching. No one budging or getting out of the way. Till at last I came to where she stood and she was nowhere to be found.
‘Now sir, Mr Kildare. Are we right now. Do you find yourself tonsorially suited for the evening.’
‘Yes. Thank you so much.’
Darcy Dancer departing the warm perfumed air of the barber’s. Out in the cold damp, looking left and right up and down the street. Staring back over the shoulder for signs of the lady from Greystones. In this darkness. Safety. But even so. One does not want to be followed into the side entrance of the Shelbourne. Best to detour down into Molesworth Street. Go right past the door where Rashers prised his three quid out of the Association for the Relief of Distressed Protestants. And where, in the few minutes I have to spare from my debacles, I have a good mind now to present myself. Clearly Rashers’ toilet water he gave me, which he said was direct from London, smells just like that from my ruddy own barber. O my god. Can I believe this. There she is, passing under the lamplight, coming directly at me, dragging her mutt behind, as if she has been reading my mind.
‘You who are not pure. Who are not unblemished. Who are not immaculate. Repent.’
‘Holy and immaculate shit lady, I’m not going to repent. I’m going to bloody well run.’
Darcy Dancer reversing course charging past the Masonic Lodge. Feet pounding on the pavement. Guard in front of Dail Eireann leaving the big gates and giving chase. As the two pairs of feet went sprinting down Kildare Street. Flying around the corner along by Trinity. Into Merrion Square. Past the doctor’s waiting room window. Poor Guard left in the mist. He doesn’t even know why he’s chasing me. But now he is about to know that no one has ever run a faster mile than this in Ireland. The Zoological Museum. Past the government buildings. Turn right. Keep up the speed. Unless he gets a bicycle and she a racing car. I’ll be at last home and dry. Shoot past the Huguenot cemetery. Don’t even pause a second as one usually does to peek in on these peacefully deceased Protestants. Past the steps to the Shelbourne Rooms. At last now, through the newsboys.
‘Mister, mister where’s your man Rashers. Give us a penny, mister.’
Scatter behind at least a threepenny bit or two as I go in the door of the Shelbourne. Panting, sweating, and hopefully at last safe. Get up to my room into the bath. Don’t wait for the lift, two at a time up the stairs. And of course the nation’s parliament has no doubt all this time been left completely unguarded.
Darcy Dancer stretched out in the bath. Paddling the warm waters. What a day. Through no fault of my own, turned into nearly a permanent nightmare. At last it’s at least now seven o’clock. And the final last bloody train will have left Westland Row for Greystones. Such bliss privacy. And by god I shall not cower in poverty. In spite of yet another note with the compliments of the Manager. I think, not think, I shall, with a total change from my grandpapa’s underwear, repair down to the Shelbourne Rooms where I shall request for myself an entire bottle of champagne.
Darcy Dancer in black thornproof tweed wearing Mr Arland’s Trinity College graduate’s tie, descending into the front lobby hall. Clink of glass and cutlery coming out the door of the dining room. A long triple barrelled name being paged. Folk departing and arriving to dine. Many monocles everywhere. Ah what nice fragrant fumes doth tempt the nostrils. Makes one nearly as famished as Rashers. Dear me it is nice to feel free. With not a sign of any accusers. For the moment at least. Unwatched. Unwitnessed. Bathed. Soothed. Night of pleasant contemplative champagne induced reveries ahead. Must purchase a copy of The Field. And peruse further and better particulars of the hunt reported therein.
‘The Field please.’
‘Sorry copies all gone sir.’
‘O dear.’
That is a sure sign. That a lawn meet at Andromeda Park is the very tops. Everyone rushing to buy. To scan with a microscope their identities. O well. Detour through the always empty residents’ lounge here. Go up the stairs. Along the hall. Down the stairs. So comforting the white splendour of Georgian medallions on these egg shell blue walls. Ah quite a little bit of activity this evening. Amid the wicker chairs and glass topped tables. Redolent of some romantic verandah somewhere on the banks of the Nile. Only eighty-five degrees cooler. Ah a nice empty table left in a peaceful corner. Just go over here and sit down. Ah someone has left a book behind on this chair.
‘Good evening Mr Kildare. We haven’t had this pleasure for donkey’s years.’
‘No indeed. It’s been rather rush rush rush. Out there in the country. And equally rush rush in town.’
‘Ah now that hardly allows for a little healthy recreation.’
‘Well as a matter of fact I fear that’s what the rush has been all about. Recreation.’