Darcy Dancer feeling his way towards the bed across the soft carpet. Distant sounds of newsboys shouting Herald and Mail. Imagine this time of night. Still trying to sell a paper. Suppose it would be to a drunk, lurching his way across the forlorn midnight wastes of the city. I’m close. Whatever has happened to her marvellous perfume. I distinctly sniff snuff on the air. Or is it that her saddles need cleaning.
‘Baptista. Baptista. Holy heavens. This damn bloody chair. Put on the bloody light. Baptista, where are you. Is it you. I’ve fractured a foot.’
‘It damn well is not sir, Baptista or any damn remote resemblance. Who the devil are you sir. In my room.’
‘My god. I am most awfully frightfully sorry. I do believe I am in the wrong room.’
‘Damn bloody right you are sir. And I’ll appreciate your getting the damn hell out.’
‘Yes indeed. I do beg your pardon. I’m just trying to find my way. My garments, I’m just looking for them.’
‘Garments. What exactly are you at sir.’
‘Don’t turn on the light please.’
‘I bloody well shall turn on the light and call the Manager if necessary.’
‘I promise you it’s not necessary.’
‘I’ll be the damn judge of that sir.’
The bedside lamp throwing soft bathing rays upon Darcy Dancer, one sock in hand hanging down over a rapidly subsiding recently tumesced penis. The figure in bed bolt upright. Like a gleaming sabre. Which speaking of sabres. Plus the tasselled nightcap gold embellished with heraldic arms atop his head. As well as his fitting a ruddy monocle in his eye. It is. O my god. The highly decorated ex Indian Army cavalry Colonel, and once our former Master of Foxhounds, equally famous for shooting poachers out of his trees and then as they fell with their teeth still sunk in the apples, chasing them slashing a sabre at their disappearing backsides hysterically escaping over his high walls. And god, there is a stack of saddles and what looks like a scabbard. Got to keep my back to him or he may recognize me. Equally risky if he doesn’t. Because I may then get a sabre up the arse.
‘Who the hell are you sir Turn around.’
‘I’m trying to put on my socks.’
‘I said turn around or I shall make a citizen’s arrest. And come out from behind that chair. I say sir. You’re damn naked. And don’t I know your face. Isn’t your father a member of my club.’
‘No. I’m sure not. I’m an orphan.’
‘Don’t come the hound with me sir. By jove, I know who you are, you’re that Kildare. Andromeda Park. What the bloody damn hell are you doing coming in my damn door, this hour of the night. And knocking over my damn snuff.’
‘I really am most awfully frightfully sorry. I’m afraid I’ve mistaken my floor.’
‘Number’s plain enough. Damn woke me up out of my sleep. I should have stayed tonight at the club. Are you becoming some kind of damn sodomite. If you are, do bloody well see to it you find your own bloody right room for that kind of caper.’
‘I am not, as a matter of fact, sir, of that persuasion but if I may say so, perhaps you shouldn’t leave your door open.’
‘Don’t you tell me not to leave my door open. When there was a bloody damn fire alarm the other morning. With the door stuck. Damn unreliable locks. Damn prefer a trespasser to being burned to a crisp. By the by, are you hunting Friday.’
‘Yes indeed in fact.’
‘Good show. Scent’s never perfect in this bloody weather, but we’ll have some fair sport. Now don’t bloody well barge in again will you. There’s good chap. Goodnight to you.’
‘Goodnight Master.’
Darcy Dancer standing at the window of his room. The wind blowing hard. The skies clear and pinpoints of stars sparkling. As one again dismantles one’s clothes to a state of undress. And one does sometimes wonder, when certain days will ever come to an end. That bitch Baptista. It’s the last bloody damn low trick that she will ever play. The price of a bottle of cognac from the vintagetime of Charlemagne. That alone on the bill for dinner could have bought ten calves. Stupid silly girl. My god if I ever get the chance. I’ll get even. One should beware of anyone who hunts a stallion for a start. Make abysmally bad jumpers. Absolutely dislike having their balls scratched by briars and other hedgerow sharpnesses. And she had the gall to tickle mine own goolies with her toes. Knew bloody exactly where she was sending me. At least I can creep now into my own bed. Try to sleep. Jump the women one has slept with, like sheep over a hurdle in one’s mind. Till their buttocks fade away. That’s one, that’s two. Maybe that’s the third. And one has hardly any more to count. No debauchery. And this, as well, is going to be a night without sleep. Bleary eyed to face another day of struggle. Bloody Baptista. She’s like the bite of a horse. Striking out with its teeth. As you stand at what you fatefully thought was a safe distance. One did on the way back from the Colonel, Master of Foxhounds, angrily kick, with one of my better legs, the door of some innocent Americans who were having a middle of the night chat. It really got them terrified out of bed. One simply has to take one’s rage out on someone. And it may as well be on those from a country whose culture could never be regarded as in the least refined. Porters no doubt creeping about still searching for the culprit. Thought I heard a floorboard squeak. A seagull still awake out on the roof gutter. And I know exactly the thing I should like to see. Right at this moment. Her whole big fat behind. Enclosed firmly by my ancient man trap, too long hidden down in its old cellar cupboard. God. Just to see that superior smile wiped off her face with those massive spiked clutches clamped on her big bloody arse. Another squeak. Christ the porters may have tracked my footprints on the carpet. My god am I imagining it, or is there female laughing right outside this door. O god. Could it ever be. Yet again. The ruddy lady. From bloody ruddy Greystones. Go away. Hasn’t enough already happened to me on this day. Is that my name. Whispered. Damn it. My god there is someone out there. Giggling.
‘I say. Who is that.’
‘It’s me. Baptista. Open up please.’
‘No. Leave me bloody well alone, will you.’
‘Don’t be such a dismal sport. Well if you don’t open you’re in for a ruckus. I shall kick the door.’
Darcy Dancer opening the door. In ancient albeit silk pyjamas. Frayed to a transparency at the crutch. Worn by one’s mother’s father. And Baptista still in her clothes, a black peasant shawl over her shoulders. Waltzes in my bloody door. And nearly falls over holding her ruddy stomach, laughing. Lurching as if crippled and guffawing around the room. And going into even more paroxysms enjoying the look on my face.
‘O dear. Dear. O forgive me. I can’t, simply can’t help it. That was the funniest thing I have ever heard. Imagine asking if you were hunting on Friday.’
‘You bloody well were listening.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now what do you want.’
‘You of course.’
‘You plotted that deliberately.’
‘You know, Darcy, darling, you do surprise me. You are, as a person, really not as bad as I have always imagined.’
‘I think you really should shut up you know.’
‘Darling there’s absolutely nothing to complain about. You should be cheering that I’m here. O dear. You’re not. I am so sad, that you’re sad.’
‘And I have damn good reason. Everything in my life is collapsing.’
‘O you poor poor darling. Can I do something.’
‘Well you could have for a start, and one is not being in the least niggardly, nor making I assure you, an ungentlemanly issue of it, but you did invite me to dinner.’
‘O dear is that monumental bill weighing upon your conscience.’
‘No, upon my head.’
‘But darling why didn’t you say something. I would have put it on my bill.’