‘My Bentley is just around the corner.’
As now he is positively insisting upon departing in my company. Although clearly one is out of danger of being recognized now, one might next really be running the risk of buggery. He did say between snipes that youth gave the eyes a sparkle. And one must show appreciation to another’s flattery. I did rather roll my eyes. Seemed to make all proceed quite nicely. Till I felt his hand pressure my arse as one decamped from one’s stool. Heading as we are right to the door. In his generosity to the doorman. Pouring change in his palm. He’s dropped about four shillings. Pick this one up. Hand it to him. As one’s face turns. To look somewhat upwards at his. And O my god never has recognition struck such a thundering blow. Once again his scarlet coat. His upraised whip. His white gloves. And face bloating red.
‘By gad. I know where I remember your face. It’s you. You bloody bounder. You. Stole my ruddy horse. And had me thrown. Why you, come back here.’
The doorman in his ministrations to the Master of Foxhounds obviously at first thought we were reciting lines from a stage play. And I must say with the words so out of context of a damn good champagne and oyster lunch, anyone at all would be forgiven for thinking that. Until the doorman saw aghast, the swing door of Jammet’s open with such speed that it came loose off its hinges.
‘By god would you believe it. That ruddy young scamp. Unseating me from my horse. Accepting my sociability. And sticking me with the blasted enormous bill.’
Of course I could not hear these latter words spoken but dear me imagined them. And it was the Master’s fatal mistake to take the seconds he did to reflect to the doorman. Even though the latter’s duty was to listen to all sorts of sad tales. I was not long in reaching the passing throngs of Grafton Street. And at some increased speed arriving just a few feet away at the front entrance to Mitchell’s granite palace erected for the greater glory of afternoon tea and cakes. Where one awaits the Master to harmlessly pass by. Wiggling in among the stream of early afternoon ladies from Foxrock and Rathgar. Catching my breath in their perfume. Peering out from between their tea bonnets. To this present moment in Grafton Street. So sunny. So silly. When all one can think of is the rather red scar across the Master’s nose upon which I remember his cap visor crushing down. Whoosh. Here he is. Charging like a bull in my pursuit. And wham. Crash right smack into the most dearest of little old ladies. Laying flat the poor dear tiny creature cold as a cucumber on the pavement. What a disgrace. Her black straw hat decorated with yellow primroses, flung flying. Alarmed ladies making a protective circle around the dear old prostrate thing. And the Master hulking totally distraught and hysterically apologizing to one suffragette striking at him with her parasol. Just hope he doesn’t have the same recognition for voices as he does for faces. As one cries out. Four loudly articulated words. To echo the deepest feelings of these absolutely appalled gathered ladies most of whom are clearly members of the Royal Dublin Society.
You
Big
Stupid Oaf
26
Those first weeks in Dublin memorable for living life with what one can only describe as an inscrutable insobrieous insouciance. Unwise however to spend any time longer in the horsey habitat of the Shelbourne. Especially as that very morning one was handed one’s first hotel bill. Which one had in the splendour of one’s tweed been previously requesting to be put on next month’s tab. One did not trouble to even glance down at the long white amended and re-amended sheets of paper. Fearing to gasp at the amount because one had become utterly overwhelmed with extravagance. Of course daily one was awaiting the remedy on the race course. And I found it necessary to rock a little back and forth on my heels while requesting the assistant manager to arrange that my many weeks bill be put on my quarterly tab. And when at his slight hesitation I loftily inquired as to whether there was any difficulty.
‘Well, Mr Kildare no, but I am wondering if you perhaps are encountering any.’
‘None at all. I’m extremely comfortable thank you.’
‘Well as a matter of fact Mr Kildare we were concerned if perhaps some mistake had been made on your bill. You see we usually require some kind of prearrangement for the longer settlement of accounts.’
‘Ah. But of course. My bankers are organizing a draft. But you know how we Darcy Thormond Kildares hate to be rushed.’
‘There’s no rush. Certainly sir. Seeing as your mother’s family have been our valued customers over the years. And I think for the moment an exception can be made.’
‘I am indeed most appreciative. Funds held up. A death in the family you know.’
‘O I’m sorry to hear that sir.’
Then at Leopardstown races. The worst happened. Wiped out. And walked all the way back to Dublin. And not trusting to a future encounter with the Shelbourne’s overseers being so successful I piece by piece discreetly removed each item of my newly acquired wardrobe down and around the corner to the Royal Hibernian. To there ensconce in a back snug blue carpeted room. With now an irate Shelbourne management concerned over my whereabouts and not a sou in my pocket with which to even place a bet at the Turf Accountant’s in Duke Street. Indeed in such impoverishment one desperately depended upon an hotel’s kitchen’s hospitality. Even to having the Hibernian’s chef daily knock up a sandwich lunch picnic for me to eat in a lonely deckchair in Stephen’s Green. However although one had nothing else to complain about in the Hibernian, they could not as I had hoped they might, agree to an arrangement whereby my bill was rendered half yearly. Nor could one insist in view of my still insubstantial amount of luggage. Mostly carried in loose over my arm. But one would now have to distinctly avoid walking in, through or indeed past the Shelbourne or any other of the more horsey environs these days. And not only in case of marauding Masters of Foxhounds.
‘Good day sir. Breakfast well.’
‘Yes thank you.’
‘Have today’s Sporting Herald.’
‘Yes I will, thank you.’
‘Put it on the tab sir.’
‘Yes, please do.’
With these words exchanged each morning with the hotel porter one did feel as if it were one’s own front hall. But instead of out to pastures, one stepped under the glass awning and down steps to the boulevard. Where with motor cars more prevalent one enjoyed the rather pleasant acrid fume. Wonder hourly what to do. Begging was a thought. Stirred each time I walked by the same blond and staring organ grinder on the bridge. Or sauntered constantly daily on the favoured and more socially acceptable streets. Paying special attention to that of Grafton. The delight never waning of walking up one side and down the other. Past the jewellers. Medical instrument suppliers. Cafés. Coffee shops. Then back and forth through Duke and Anne Streets. Up and down Dawson. Somewhere somehow I’m bound to meet Miss von B. Or surely find a party raging. Where one could meet and talk with someone. Or even find a lawyer perhaps. To sue my father.
I did however get myself a cane. From my faithful ever willing to please horse haberdasher in Dame Street. Which instantly cheered me up in my loneliness. And goodness sauntering with it this sunny Wednesday mid afternoon I disported in the peace of College Park to watch the girls play hockey and the gentlemen rugger. Then while contemplating rogering nearly every lady of any reasonable appearance, I nearly ran smack into Lois. Right in the roasting coffee aromas in front of Bewley’s Oriental Café on Grafton Street. Just after I had opened an account there and sent off a pound of their best chocolate fudge to Kelly with a quarter pound each of marzipan fondants and oriental jellies. Stood there thinking. For at least one and a half seconds. Before following her. My trouser sticking out like a tent. And Lois in a long knitted white wool coat. A green wool knitted hat popped atop her grey blonde hair. Striding in long mannish strides. Feel just like one of her hoard of sexually frustrated people she said trailed her. Avert my eyes from the many eyes in the passing faces that become more and more familiar each day. In the lobbies. The coffee houses. Everywhere on the street. Now need to run after her. With her walking speed. Down the street. Into Switzer’s. Lurked a moment feeling such a pervert in the ladies’ corsetry area. My penis throbbing. And Lois discussing with an unfriendly saleslady some undergarment she finally declines to buy.