In a Monday bright sun Darcy Dancer sauntering down Dawson Street. New day in the heart. Gather up one’s most iron nerve. Turning left around the corner of Nassau Street. Past Elvery’s Emporium of sporting outfitters. Bells jangling. Trams roaring on their shiny tracks. Rooftops and granite buildings of Trinity College across the road. Founded to increase learning and civility. And to banish tumults, barbarism and disorderly living. See the tip top of the glass from the underneath of which poor Mr Arland helped himself illicitly to fruit behind the Provost’s house. Dame Street. Banking edifices rearing in splendour. Pass down this boulevard to enter this establishment of saddlery. Blatantly march up to this most dignified elderly assistant. And hope to be greeted. Hope to be welcomed. And hear said. O my dear sir, how can we lay the world at your feet.
‘Good morning sir.’
‘Good morning.’
‘And what can we do for you sir, this morning.’
‘Suit’
‘What had you in mind, sir, worsted, tweed, flannel.’
‘Tweed.’
‘Very good sir, come this way.’
Without a word discourteous or a movement disinterested, in a little cubicle I was measured. My presently most ill fitting togs from Awfully Stupid Kelly’s father, the trouser waist of which could easily encompass three of me, now removed and folded. Revealing my most unflattering too light blue and too short ankle sock.
‘And something ready to wear sir.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact.’
The gentleman assistant and I pored over a sample of tweed patterns and made an appointment for fitting. Nipped out in the old togs to select the new. From a glass enclosed case chose a cap and a cravat rather purplish in colour with pink round dots. In every way quite sporting and resembling a previous favourite tie. Four pairs of wool socks, light grey, dark grey, one black and one navy blue. Four silk shirts. And off the peg, one cavalry twill trousers, one Donegal tweed hacking jacket. Six white linen hankies. When down in the mouth fine fabrics do put a good face on things. With wool, linen and silk. Jollied up in haberdashery. Cut a figure. Steady one’s footing. Where one was previously slipping badly. Comport myself now in places where one gets dinner and party invitations. Not quite appearing like a race course tout but nearly. I must last out. Hoard the very feeble confidence of the remaining pounds in my pocket.
‘You have an account with us sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I inquire of the name please.’
‘Kildare. Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.’
‘But of course. Andromeda Park.’
‘And please would you in due course send it to the Shelbourne where I am presently in residence.’
‘Certainly sir.’
‘And you may give these clothes to some deserving person. They were given me when my luggage was misplaced.’
‘Of course sir, I had thought the tailoring was by the look of a line or two, not quite paying full due to your figure.’
My next few days one must say were pleasant. Visiting the painting galleries, a tour of the big brewery, theatre in the evening and sometimes, racing permitting, the cinema in the afternoon. Till I returned for my final suit fitting. Brought off with all the suitably pleasant murmurings. Little tuck under the arms, a nip at the waist. And by god with the trouser just further narrowed I would soon cut a swath.
‘I think sir, we are going to have you looking your best.’
‘Rather.’
And at last this sunnyish balmy day. Walking up and down Grafton Street top to bottom for the fifth time. Sporting my new suit. To take lunch. At Jammet’s. Following my second successful day at the races. After numerous abysmal losing ones. Entering through this shadowy little alleyway off Grafton Street. Welcomed. Hand my dark brown trilby to the door man. Just acquired at the hatter’s three minutes ago. Sit myself up on this stool. Cool marble counter. Open the racing pages. Study the form. Yesterday won seventeen pounds on the first race. Lost two pounds on each of the next four races. And now just following the purchase of my head garment there was the hatter’s rather churlish refusal of credit. Requiring one to distressingly part with cash. But leaving one still in possession of a pound or two.
‘Sir.’
‘A snipe of champagne please and a dozen oysters.’
Darcy Dancer folding his racing paper. To survey the day’s tips. The nostrils assailed by the aromatics of these passing plates lofted to place settings along this counter by these most attentive presiding gastronomic gentlemen. And this face next to me, turning. Looks and looks again. At me I believe. One absolutely hates this kind of inquisitiveness at lunch. Next he’ll be wanting to borrow my cutlery. My god. Good Lord. His face. How does one in tie middle of one’s oysters and champagne as well as an unwelcome inquiring question become awfully scarce.
‘I say there, excuse me, but don’t I know you. I think I do. Can’t place you exactly.’
‘I’m sorry, but I do believe you may be confusing me with someone else.’
‘No. Not a chance. Served in military intelligence fourteen years. Could pick a certain wog out of a black hole chock a block full of them. Black or white never forget a face. Damn sure I know yours. From somewhere.’
Never has one had to enjoy champagne and oysters less. Having as they have now become my most treasured midday habit. Following my long breakfast of tea, sausages, bacon and ham, hot bath, stroll about the Green. And then a perusement of shop windows. To now have to keep one’s face as averted as possible without being blatantly rude. Surely my utterly single minded indifference to him has got to make the ruddy conversation dry up. Or any second I may be chased right out across this room and out the door. Followed by this face. Which as Master of Foxhounds I saw last, full of rage tumbling off arse over spurs down his horse’s tail. Ah. That did it. Just hit him nicely in the eye. Nothing like a squirt of lemon to shift his attention.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Dammit. Don’t mind a bit of lemon in the eye. Just damn mind if I can’t recall where I’ve seen you. By god I do know your face, I know I do. It’s either polo or the hunting field I’m damn certain of that.’
‘I’m awfully sorry, I can’t help you. Don’t hunt or play polo. Hardly even associate with those who do. I live as a matter of fact out the end of a peninsula which perhaps you might know called Mizen Head. Quite remote.’
‘Well it’s bound to come to me, damn it, have a drink. What is it to be.’
‘Well as a matter of fact, it’s champagne. A snipe.’
‘You shoot those do you.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact I do.’
‘On your peninsula.’
‘Yes. On my peninsula.’
‘Jolly good. And that’s a jolly good drink this time of day.’
Amazing. With this big rotter trying to figure out who one is, one has quaffed now four snipes. Making a full bottle together with three dozen oysters. The Master of Foxhounds is even clapping me on the back. Clicking my vertebrae all down my spine. But never mind, also picking up the back breaking bill.
‘And where are you off to my young fellow.’
‘Curragh Races.’
‘Good show. So am I. Join me in my motor car.’
‘Well as a matter of fact.’
‘Good let me have the facts.’
Of course my most salient fact was that one was terrified. Weighing as he must obviously do, at least fifteen stone. But my flattery of him in every conceivable way seems to have at least made him forget he remembered me. Till indeed I think he took my buttering him up as an overture of lasting friendship. He could be and probably is an absolutely sadistic pederast.