And still with each week day at his appointed hour Mr Arland stepped from the trap, lifted his chin and always turned to look down the sloping parkland to the river and then reach into his pocket, take out his big gold watch and regard the time. The stitching threads hanging loose from his little battered briefcase across the top of which he held his cane. His nervous sometimes twisting mouth which always seemed to draw a deep breath before he climbed the steps. Just as I would then speed from the whim room and along the stone paved corridor and down the servants’ staircase at the end. To await Mr Arland’s arrival as I sat steeped in laborious study. When came his tapping of the blackboard pointer and I would then sit book open over the grim wastelands of Latin as his kindly reasonable voice spoke from his thin white face.
‘Kildare, you are being automatically stupid.’
And then as we embarked upon English grammar and punctuation, Mr Arland kept by his left hand a volume of poetry into which he would refer his eyes, patiently waiting for me not to be automatically stupid.
‘Kildare, when do we use a period.
‘When a comma is not required.’
‘I shall repeat. For the umpteenth time. For the benefit of your inattentive ears. When a sentence is complete and independent and not connected in construction with the following sentence, it is marked with a period. As, fear God, period. Honour the King, period. Have charity towards all men, period.’
‘But I do not honour the King.’
‘Kildare you’re being tiresome, you know. Do you have charity towards all men, period.’
‘No, period.’
‘Well that is a pity, period.’
‘No one has charity towards me, period’
‘Ah you are getting the point, period.’
On wild rainy days he came hunched and huddled up under a naval great coat from which his head emerged to wipe his nose gently against his sleeve. And if the day continued dark and cook brought us up bowls of hot vegetable soup, he would tell his little stories, looking down now and again at his bitten fingernails, his thumb rubbing along his spoon and then pulling his soiled shirt cuffs back under his frayed jacket sleeves.
‘Yes my absent minded tutor. He was always nervously rushing hither and thither never fully realizing where he was. Until one day, stepping off a ladder backwards from a book shelf high in the college reading room he was killed. For the world of scholarship it was most sad. He broke his brains. They hopelessly tried to revive the poor man on the reading room steps. But he was as absolutely dead as an old bone.’
And those afternoons following lessons, Darcy Dancer would wander to the stables. To see the big hunting mares bred by his mother in off the grass in their loose boxes chewing hay and waiting to foal. Foxy Slattery the head groom’s son, milked the cows and fed the chickens and would be lurking there silently behind the bales of straw glancing up sideways as he made a sucking sound with his lips secretly pulling smoke out of a cigarette. His one or both eyes blackened and his face bruised if not by the kick of a cow then by his father’s fist the previous night.
‘What is wrong with your face.’
‘Ah I have a knock on it now and again.’
And as the herd came mooing in from the fields, udders swollen and led by three goats, Foxy ran back and forth behind them waving his hat, shaking his fist, kicking with his boot and throwing sticks, stones or anything at wayward beasts. When a chicken was to meet its doom he would charge after it, his two hands outstretched, his mouth spitting vile oaths and curses as he galloped crashing and banging through barns and sheds tripping over rakes and ploughs, lashing out with swipes of his sharpened axe at the fleeing hen. And once when he fell full length immersed into the water trough, he surfaced, swinging his axe and roared out two words I had not heard before.
‘Fucking cunt.’
Crooks on one of his frequent insomniac tours of the sleeping house, shuffling in an old pair of my father’s slippers embroidered in gold with a stag’s head, caught Foxy stealing whiskey from the wine cellar. In the struggle, as the bottle broke on the red tile corridor, Foxy kicked Crooks in the shins and shouted that Crooks himself had been stealing the wine and whiskey for years. Next day Foxy’s head all wrapped in white bandage and his both eyes closed to two blue little slits. Catherine the cook said his father had socked him like a football all over the Slattery cottage. And when Foxy’s bandages were finally gone he celebrated on a bottle of poteen, picking the lock of the cabinet in the tack room where it was specially kept to cure beasts of blackleg. Then half delirious atop an unlit bicycle heading down the drive on his way through the black night to the village pub, he sailed on the first turning straight into a tree. Crooks hearing the news of cracked ribs, fractured skull with various contusions and abrasions as well as a broken arm, announced solemnly to every member of the household.
‘That should keep that regrettable rapscallion quiet for a while.’
But before these bandages were off, Foxy, his arm still in a plaster cast, was trying to ride an evil minded stallion which had already attacked and nearly killed two grooms. And every able footed inhabitant of Andromeda Park ran for their lives when Foxy mounted bareback came charging out of the stable lashing the wicked brute on its quarters. Suitably named Thunder and Lightning, the beast bucked, its hooves flashing sparks across the yard with Foxy hanging on like a leech two handed to its mane. Till with an almighty undulation of its equine spine, Thunder and Lightning threw Foxy eleven feet high over the wall into the orchard. Where Sexton, a six foot four inch tall man who wore a black patch over his blind eye, was pruning trees. And who in his great shambling way, produced Foxy back out again crumpled unconscious in a wheelbarrow with a daisy chain wreathed around his skull.
‘Here’s the hero served up with laurels. Now tell me what will I do with this stupid sack of imbecility. Lateat scintillula forsan. If any of you uninitiated understand me Latin.’
Later when I came into the shed where Foxy, his plaster cast arm brushing away the swinging tail of the cow he milked, had his head again newly wound with gauze.
‘What this time is wrong with your head.’
‘Ah I have a knock on it now and again.’
With summer, new grasses growing thinly over his mother’s grave, where an obelisk, tall as a man, now stood, letters gleaming in gold leaf, chiselled deeply in the grey stone.
In everlasting memory of
Antoinette Delia Darcy Darcy Thormond
beloved wife of
Caesar Reginald Sean Kildare.
When Darcy Dancer went there, he found placed on the granite plinth a fresh bunch of flowers just as were placed freshly round the house on hunting days. When always there was great commotion and feverish activity with the sound of boots down the halls and servants at the windows watching my mother in black and my father in pink be mounted by grooms at the foot of the steps. And Sexton said that her ladyship’s favourite mare when it grazed the surrounding field came each morning and afternoon to neigh over the cemetery wall. And I felt a strange loneliness growing. Just as the bright green moss did on the tops of the old deer park walls. And now when some of the stones had fallen and lay there in the growing grass, I’d wonder who would ever come and build them back up again.
For two months now, only the men to talk to in the barns and stables. After Foxy Slattery finally ended up in the hospital. With two broken legs. Got in the course of stealing exotic fruits from a neighbouring Lord’s greenhouse one midnight. A crack shot and former colonel of a crack regiment, his Lordship cornered him in the top of a tree in the walled orchard. When Foxy refused to descend, his Lordship blasted him down with the near misses of his shot gun. And now the only excitement stirring was when a foal or calf were born. With men tugging sometimes six or seven of them on a taut rope out a barn door. To all fall thump on their backsides as a calf with one last almighty heave was finally pulled out of a groaning heifer.