‘That bully of a husband of yours out there. Sure the lad is still in short trousers. And be gob you’re priviledged to be having gentry under the roof of this hovel. How are you Master Reginald.’
‘I’m groggy a bit. But I’m alright.’
‘Didn’t I warn you. Tell you. Keep away from the filthy likes of that Slattery leading you in your pure innocence astray. The dirty filthy pup. We had four of us to beat the truth out of him. Come now and we’ll get you back to the sylvan setting and dignities of Andromeda Park and far away from the dreadful bogs out here.’
‘I knew he was gentry. I knew it.’
‘Madam you should be overflowing with gratitude that a Darcy Darcy Thormond related by the best of bloods back to the last kings of Ulster, has crossed the threshold of your humble abode.’
‘O I am. I knew by them good boots he’s wearing, sopping muddy wet as they were.’
‘Come Master Reginald. I’ll give you a hand now. Forsooth we are to forthwith about to depart. Without being so much as offered a cup of tea. And I leave whores and sinners to suffer what hell the hereafter has in store for them.’
‘Who are you calling a whore.’
‘Now woman who said anyone was a whore.’
‘You did. You smarmy boot licker to the pagan gentry. Don’t you call me a whore.’
‘O lord what fools these mortals be.’
‘Well this mortal will rattle an iron pot off your head. Get out of here now.’
‘I will be gob. Sine mora. Get out and glad. And take this innocent boy away from the lickerishness concupiscence salacity and harlotry.’
‘That’s all you’re good for is them big words. You dirty Casanova.’
Sexton turning back from the half door. A chicken scurrying out and two more shooting in. Followed by a marauding rooster. The rug tightened around Darcy Dancer’s shoulders. The gleaming white plates and cups and saucers on the dresser. Steam curling up from the kettle’s spout on the hearth. The woman her arms hanging out from her sides. Her bosoms set like two great prows of battleships cutting through waves seen in the war pictures of the illustrated magazine.
‘What was that you said.’
‘I said and you heard me, you dirty Casanova.’
‘Casanova is it.’
‘Cycling up to the young girls at every crossroad all over the countryside. To get them take a ride with you across your dirty filthy handle bars.’
‘No bog harlot will call me that. Not while my adoration is daily offered to the blessed virgin who stands righteous above me in her beautiful purity, you won’t, be gob make that slander of me I’m telling you.’
‘I will. And tell you to fuck off out of here as well. Casanova.’
‘Be gob woman Lord have mercy on the souls of your livestock if that’s the kind of lingo they hear. But I’ve said to you now. Don’t repeat that aspersion. Call me a homo, a paederast, a sodomite but be gob don’t use the word Casanova to me again.’
‘Casanova.’
The tears flooding into Sexton’s eye. His fist raised shaking as he steps across the floor. A dog barking and a long groan of a beast out in the farmyard. The woman raising her own fist and with the other reaching for a pot on the mahogany sideboard behind her. Sexton grabbing for her upraised arm.
‘Get off me you. You big hulking dirty Casanova.’
Two fisted the woman sinking her clutching fingers into Sexton’s hair. The writhing figures crashing backwards into the wall. Turning, twisting, pulling and tearing. Looming about in the shadows panting and grunting. Gasps from Sexton as his eye patch comes off.
‘O merciful lord almighty god.’
A bell like clink and clang as a flying elbow pokes a metal tureen to the ground. And the chickens run scurrying out of the way back and forth, jumping to the sills of the windows to flap there against the panes.
‘Get your hands off me tits you viper.’
‘Bear false witness against me will you, you swamp trollop.’
‘Get your disgusting interfering claws off me personals.’
‘I’m merely clutching at the rubbery fat of you, madam.’
The back of Sexton’s coat rent down its seam. His shoulders covered in whitewash from the walls. The woman’s hands losing their grip as Sexton, arms free, let loose long looping swings at the red haired head huddling to fend off the blows.
‘Mick, Mick the holy greasy terror is having me kilt. Come Mick.’
Sexton momentarily ceasing his blows, pressing both hands down on the back of the woman, and turning his face away upwards towards the heavenly deity.
‘Dear lord my god and saviour give me strength as well as your forgiveness to chastise this female savage.’
Out of the grey afternoon, sudden sunlight flashing in the tiny window. As more came flooding in the door behind a roaring Mick with a shovel. His one hand gripped holding it out with the long handled end stuck under his one good armpit, as the other empty sleeve of his coat flapped up and down.
‘Where are yez Agnes, where are yez.’
The two warring figures hair engripped, waltzing across the room. Mick blindly swiping with the shovel. Missing the antagonists and carving a wide wood naked furrow down the polished length of the sideboard. Splintering a butter churn and smashing divers potteries to smithereens.
‘Ah jesus. I missed. Holt him still Agnes till I get a smell of his location.’
Sexton, eyes closed and dentures stuck half out of his mouth. Hanging on to the woman as they tripped over a fallen chair and fell backwards. Crashing into the dresser. A hook catching in the torn tatters of clothing and the falling contorted bodies pulling the dresser plunging forward with cups, saucers, plates and platters crashing on the floor. Now turned white with spilt milk and the feathers of a chicken nailed flapping and cackling beneath the shattered shelves. While its winged comrade flutters down from the window sill to peck morsels from a loaf of bread.
‘Me dowry, me dowry. It’s ruined. Mick over here. Quick get a smell of him. I’ve a good holt. Dig him one with the shovel in the guts.’
Darcy Dancer clutching himself in the blanket. Trembling with cold. Squeezing backwards into the corner behind the door. To pray to someone. That Sexton stays alive to take me home.
‘Now Mick now.’
‘I’ll get him Agnes.’
Mick putting his nose forward sniffing. As his next step comes down squarely on a chicken. And he jumps back. With a swing of his body bringing the shovel whistling in a great arc. To slam in mid flight the squawking rooster across the room with glass shattering concussion into a photograph picture of a man in white raiment holding a hand up in blessing.
‘You eegit Mick you’ve smashed in the holy pontiff himself.’
‘Ah god I can’t see a thing at all without me eyes.’
‘Aren’t we in front of yez. Haven’t I a holt of him. His dentures has his mouth jammed. Now’s the time.’
‘In this heat of the house I can’t get me direction. Agnes let loose of the fucker and duck out of the way and I’ll cream him. Say where you are.’
‘I’m here, here. With the grease of his hair on me hands I can’t keep a holt of him.’
‘Ah god with the noise I don’t know where you are.’
‘I’m here you eegit. With him getting loose.’
‘I’m coming now. Say where you are.’
‘Here you eegit. Can’t you hear the landing of the punches on me all over.’
‘I’ll put paid to him. Say where you are.’
‘Haven’t I said I’m here. Stop the talk for mercy’s sake. Clout him one with the shovel.’
Agnes doubled over, arms crossed on her head. Sexton with the knuckles of one hand trying to reverse his dentures sticking backwards out of his mouth. Hammering his other fist downward on the crouched back of the woman. Mick holding the handle end of the shovel under his. chin and the handle length over his arm as he feels ahead with his hand advancing towards the sound of the struggle.