‘Macgillicudy you’re so virginly beautiful. You have the body of a gazelle. Just the right thing for me. To wake me up out of doldrums. One can’t hide away from the world. Or close one’s eyes to life and live nevermore. Touch me.’
Stacks of magazines on the floor. Four large photographs on her dressing table. An escritoire with its pigeon holes stuffed with papers and its fall front piled high with more magazines. Her mouth opens wide. Pulls my head down upon hers. Miss von B said that even for such a short time that we were together. At least we lived. What more can there be. But to just make it as long as we can. And this Black Widow makes high pitched little grunts and groans. As we stand embraced. My prick pressed hard up into her belly. Her nipples sticking hard into my chest. And Black Widow. Wish you were. My Miss von B. As we were. Back in my life. Home. Together surrounded by my green parklands. Astride our mounts galloping in the fierce madness of the winds. Instead of this body. My desperate lust makes me clutch. With miles of utter meaninglessness between. Only the Marquis’s fiver left to stave off the impecunious days. Foolishly taking drinks up to my mouth through an entire afternoon. Amid the endless flattery. Lifting one’s spirit. From one round of drinks to the next. And now jump out of my skin. A voice screaming out in the room.
‘Fuck you ducks.’
‘Don’t mind. That’s just my parrot Stinky speaking. He simply insists on saying those words at the most inappropriate times.’
Stumbling over her shoes to the bed. Climb in and slide between the chilly sheets. Her love calls. Her purrings. To be on top of her. Pushing between her legs. Pressing. The feel of her fingers. And the circle of her muscles tightening. And thinking. Thinking of a day. Out hunting. Raring to go. With the field waiting. When the pompous Master of Foxhounds turned to tell me that in future I should not jump ahead of him. And I waited. To see him fly at a hedge. His horse tripping and somersaulting over wire. Sending the Master catapulting headlong in his scarlet coat between his mount’s ears. White breeches. White gloved. To splatter headlong into the brownest, creamiest lake of cow flop one had ever seen. Mixed to such magic consistency. To leave just a back bit of the mahogany of the Master’s boots unsullied. And one feels one has just plunged. Splat. Into life in Dublin. Just as Miss von B said it was. Drinking. Fighting. Washing off blood. Shaking hands. To rear up fighting again. And O god. In her groans. My lust. Dies. Taking something from my body. That fills me with fear in giving. As she screams to give her every drop. Shoot it into me. Gorgeous darling Macgillicudy. And I’m buried. In the sweet smell in under her hair. Her fingers pushing through mine. The chords of the sea. Lying here in the darkness. Listening to her voice.
‘My husband may come home. At any moment. Find us like this.’
‘Then I must go.’
‘O no I’m just joking. I just wanted to feel your body quiver. I’m sure he’s still in London. Where he’s supposed to be buying guns for a safari but is no doubt gambling and partying. Isn’t it all so foolishly sad. He worries I’ll squander his fortune before he does. He kept a taxi waiting for him once night and day for six weeks. God you are adorable. And I’ll never see you again. More probably you won’t want to see me. It’s always parting. And it’s not sweet sorrow, it’s damn misery. One man should be everything a woman needs. Only I need different men. And I need so many. The dearest, the loveliest and the wildest of my sisters. Found just one. And then threw herself out a window. Fell stabbed to death by the railing spikes on the pavement. In love poor girl with an impecunious scholarly gentleman. He lived holed up in squalid digs somewhere down Mount Street. What on earth could she see in him. And why. When every rich man in these isles was throwing his fortune at her feet. And she went walking, o god, can you imagine walking, holding hands with him.’
‘Why did she kill herself.’
‘I don’t know, over the stupidest triviality. And some stupid letter he wrote. He saw her through a window. While he was passing on Stephen’s Green. She was having dinner with just an old beau. And indeed flirtatious she was. He must have thought the worst. He wrote her a letter. And left next day on the mail boat. The letter came on Christmas eve. She was found. That marvellous girl was in her prettiest frock. A fence stuck through her lovely body. Because she must have loved him.’
‘What was your sister’s name.’
Clarissa
29
Darcy Dancer. Bed covers pulled up to the eye. More days gone. And the worst coming. Hotel management demanding settlement of my bill. By latest tomorrow morning. Lay listening to the wireless. Till breakfast is brought. And one thinks back, O god the real goodies of life. Of cook Catherine’s late summer picked bramble jam slathered on her fresh made and hot toasted soda bread with the yellow butter melted deep down into the flecks of wheat.
And read of the day’s impending races. The fat little maid now remembering to put my newspaper on my tray. After two weeks of telling her. Kept thinking I hear the sea pounding up cliffs outside the window. Those sunless people. Back on that hilltop. As cold in their souls as the ocean waves. Yesterday walked and walked. With every step. Hearing the words spoken by Clarissa’s sister. Spikes of a fence. Up through her white alabaster body. Mr Arland. Would be broken in tears. As mine went down my cheeks in the wind fresh on my face. The scent of turf smoke from the grates of the houses I passed walking to the cemetery. And the green of the spring. With a cold rainy winter in one’s life. As I looked down on the ungrassed sods over Clarissa’s grave.
Darcy Dancer with a last sip of tea. Tear back the covers. Go in my unpaid for dressing gown and slippers to the water closet. Sit. Unable to move my bowels. As I have been every morning after the night of the Black Widow. When I unloosed her arms. Put them back sadly crossed on her breast. Could see the contours of Clarissa in her face. And as she slept I lay awake my head turned to the dawn coming up over the sea. The endless booming waves. And the Black Widow’s snoring. And me hoping her husband wasn’t coming through the party gate. To fly in blasting with his new safari guns. A ship anchored out beyond an island. On the slate green grey sea. My lips dried. My head frozen and stunned. The key on the dresser. And silver framed photographs of all four sisters. And Clarissa. I dressed staring at her. She looked so unposed unlike the others. Even though her cheek was leaning on her bent hand. String of pearls round her neck. Her face seemed so fresh and open as if she’d been blown in by a sea breeze. And as I tiptoed out. The parrot screamed again. Fuck you ducks. I unlocked the barred door. Went down the stairs. Just as pale sunlight fell on all the bodies, slumped and piled over furniture in the hall. One of which was the irate Master of Foxhounds. Who chased me out of Jammet’s. His hand gripping a club with the business end studded with nails. So unconscious was he I even nudged him with my toe. And figures were still wandering. Putting bottles back up to their lips. And one turning to me whose face one remembered from the Buttery. And whose artistic overtures were rejected by Rashers Ronald. And who was out in the street so unceremoniously punched straight on the kisser. And seemed now the only person left able to speak. Through his bruised bloodcaked swollen lips. And delighted to smilingly impart his observations.
‘Ah you’re wide eyed at the carnage and wreckage. Well let me tell you. An American was loose among us. Knocking dentures flying. Flipping the innocent on their backs. And screaming he was a fighting amphibian. Took a dozen of us to subdue him and we’re still waiting for cars to ferry the injured to the hospital. And all that was said to him was, wasn’t Hollywood films full of rubbish. And by god he laid into us.’