Matt improving the dazzle with a cloth leaning over the bonnet of this six cylinder touring vehicle. Envious citizens admiring its gleaming black dignity. The world has taken me in its arms at last. Kissed me in this sunlight. Beaming down Molesworth. Street Gates at the far end lead into where the the government of my country steers this emerald ship of state. Brimming with its oats and barley. Its strong high couraged horses out of the lime green grass. Its creamy butter and deep orange yolked eggs. And here he comes. Smiling fifty feet away. Sauntering along the boulevard. Rashers Ronald. Very washed and brushed up. In top hat, white gloves, striped trousers and tail coat. Ready for another bash. Onwards regardless.
‘My dearest chap. How good to see you. Just let me stop here on this lowest step and regard you up there on the highest. My, if only I had your assurance and dash. You know you do appear as one who has been sent out into the world from the nest of family life with pecks on your cheek and all the little cossetings. While my damn unfeeling daddy merely grunted goodbye to me without looking up from his Times. Can you give me the loan of a pound.’
Darcy Dancer taking from a large black wallet a five pound note. Which generosity seemed to nervously speed Rashers away. Down turning into Duke Street. Obviously to the Turf Accountant’s. And me. I wired Sexton and Crooks to come by train today. To meet them at three at the station. Sexton will oversee the two window boxes on the sill of my sitting room. And sine dubio will know instantly what’s wrong with the soil producing such stunted little flowers. And Crooks will do for me. Knows exactly how one takes one’s tea. Brush my suits down. Lay out my silks. And I shall by motor go collect my paintings from Lois. Sit further for my own portrait. After my insulting her she was so thrilled to be commissioned. Told me her visiting English couple had sent her a thank you note for tea. And how much they had enjoyed her exposing them to the arts in Ireland. By clonking their heads through canvases.
Darcy Dancer turning his dark head south up the street. A tram bell clanging. A seagull flies floating over the rooftops. A chill gust. A raindrop falls. And last night I had a dream. Stood below in the front lawn meadow field of Andromeda Park. Looking up at the grey stone house and its chimneys poking from the slate roof. A sun setting westerly in a cold white sky. Heard my sisters’ voices playing in the woods. I had come back searching for my mother’s jewels. All the years rumoured hidden somewhere near her grave. And found them. In the coffin of a little sister of mine who had died. Before I was born. The box resting on the crypt’s topmost musty corbel. Smashed the lock and opened the heavy lid and there amid the tiny white delicate bones were my mother’s necklaces of diamonds and pearls. And as I looked up. I was suddenly kneeling. On the other side of the orchard wall. Knees sunk in the soft moist grass. Praying to Sexton’s stations of the cross. Each with its own carefully painted little sign. Jesus falls the second time. Jesus is stripped of his garments. And in front of the sixth. Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. And the image left on the towel was Mr Arland’s Clarissa. Her body of the softest whitest skin. Pinioned on the railings. Cold rain falling on her lifeless face. Her blood dripping down the black bars of the fence. Gave life to his life. Then death to her own. And that Christmas eve. When I was dying alone out lost cold in the countryside. Clarissa too was dying. While I dreamt she had come to my funeral. That very nice stylish looking couple. So smilingly happy. Waiting to wed. And in one of his low moments, Mr Arland said he would join the lighthouse service. Sit out his years in isolated solitude reading his favourite books while the wild seas pounded up all around him. Miss von B said love was like catching a train, don’t be late. And I was. And I hear Mr Arland’s voice. Kildare, don’t be negatory. Where can I find him. In his sadness. Gone.
Step stylishly down these steps. Into all the cunning and conniving. Amid the chancers and cads. The gay girls and the solemn women. Arrange with Bewley’s to post a weekly box of fudge to Awfully Stupid Kelly. Grit blows along the street. Bombards the eyes. More raindrops. A cloud moves a shadow across the city. Comes far from the west. Out of the hush of that lonely sky. Where the winter brown young beech leaves rustle. And fuchsia hang their red flower bells. The donkey brays. Night lowering on the hills. Lose no nerve when unhorsed. Mount again. Go well. Fly fence hedge and wall. Till the huntsman’s blowing his long slow notes. Turn home. At end of day. Under the heaven’s grey greys. Split pink across by a sinking sun. Go home. Across the dewy meadow grass. Go home. Earthstoppers sleep. Not tonight shall we find him. Curled up below ground safe from the fierce mad winds and fangs. But another day. Disturb his tranquillity. And chase. Call by tongue. Yell by name. To out beyond. In his destiny. For he discourses somewhere.
That Darcy
That Dancer
That Gentleman