I stepped to peek into the darkened shuttered drawing room. And still dancing. Binky and Lois. Now both naked. Foxtrotting to the tune of a song saying something like Johnnie doesn’t give a damn any more. In my inebriation of the night before I was momentarily loose from the Black Widow and confronted Lois. She slapped my face. Merely for quoting Rashers Ronald. Who had said her paintings were the ravings of an alley cat in heat. I would have thought that such remark was appropriate as she was always going on about her fertile period. God some people are so hard to understand. Also overheard someone talking about Uncle Willie. That he’d gone to London to be a ponce. And I was ready to smash the speaker’s face until it said that recent rumours and gossip had it he’d gone to Monte Carlo. Gambled away twenty thousand pounds in one night, and won thirty the next.
Darcy Dancer flushing the toilet bowl. One’s reminiscences finally moved one’s bowels. And nip smartly down this hotel corridor to the bath. Have perfected twiddling the taps off and on with my toes. Soak away all one’s morning worries. Shave away the dark stubble on cheek and jaw. Take in my shoes from the hall. And nicely shined by the Boots. Attire in silk. To dress stylishly gives one such confidence. Polka dotted brown tie. My west of England tweeds. Trilby hatted. Binocs slung over a shoulder. This is my last day of comfort. My hotel bill now large enough to cause actual whispers as one passed out through the lobby. But one was sure it was only because of a solicitous curiosity concerning my wherewithal. The staff on the whole have been simply sterling. My picnic lunch neatly packed ready at the porter’s desk. Such dear good chaps. Remember them in my will. Times like this of course one must only be even more extravagant. And ordered for late supper after the theatre tonight, duck, wild rice and champagne. With the Marquis’s fiver still tucked in my waistcoat pocket. To go today to Punchestown races.
Darcy Dancer walking his brisk way to the station. Cross Duke. Down Grafton. Twenty past noon on Trinity’s blue gold clock. The portico of the bank. And plunge smack into Rashers Ronald his rabbit teeth sunnily smiling.
‘My dear chap. Hello and how are you. Believe it or not you’ve stumbled upon me buying seedlings. That’s why I’m blushing. With this parcel. That other night. I found myself without warning in charge of a motor car. With someone’s drunken head lolling all over the steering column I rammed down someone’s garden wall. Flattened two baby palm trees. Demolished a bird bath. But I successfully navigated out on the road again. Only to be brought to a stop by these awful people’s tennis net enmeshed in the car’s undercarriage. They came screaming out at me in their pyjamas. They want garden reparations made. Awful bore. See you later in the Buttery.’
Darcy Dancer watching Rashers waltz off in his morning suit much needing a pressing and repairs. People look so different outdoors. Just as they do when attired for hunting on a horse. Now pass the smells of coffee of another Bewleys. A dragon emblazoned in tiles at its front door. Turn left up along the Quays. The Ha’penny Bridge. Four Courts across the river. A green dome. Exacting justice. Throwing debtors into prison. All these buildings housing solicitors. And one of whom may be on my trail. Mouldering buildings of merchants. Georgian fronts. Red bricked. Gay painted doors. Bookshops and auction rooms. Antiques and furnishings. A Franciscan church. And soon I’ll have so many women in my life that I will because of their numerous number start forgetting them.
Darcy Dancer striding quickly now to catch the train. Past the big brewery. A grey granite barracks across the river. Flying my country’s flag. What a marvellous day for racing. White fluffy clouds blown across a sky so blue. The Phoenix Park. Top of the obelisk sticking out of its new green trees. Buy my ticket. First class on this packed train. Pull away out the tracks. On which one had come to Dublin. The big country houses hidden now in all the spring leafage. Click clack over a warming land. To this popularly attended race meeting.
Darcy Dancer with two other racegoers taking a taxi from the station. Nearly crashed us into a ditch or hedge at every turning on the road to the course. And there it was. This track. Spread on the green grasses to the horizon. Pennants blowing. The tiers where people sit and stand. The rich, the poor. The élite and untouchable. The parading horses. The bright fluttering silks. The ladies’ big gay hats.
Darcy Dancer standing in the mild breeze. Loud speaker announcing. Tweeds pass all round one. So many familiar faces. Hard to know quickly enough the ones to hide from. Their membership badges flying from lapels, sitting sticks and leather cases. Much as one wants to be with the right people one won’t splurge to go into the most expensive enclosure. Instead, in soft fond memory of Miss von B. Put an extra large bet on Blue Danube at fourteen to one.
Darcy Dancer’s light hurrying feet. Back to the bookie. Wait in this joyous tiny line. To collect. On the first race, a winner. Watch the peeling off of these thirteen pounds. Now in my pocket. To suddenly have money. To hell with form. Just choose another sentimental name. Moonhatter. Ten to one. Get to the bookie. Hop back to the rails. And my god. Back to the bookie again. For there in the sight of one’s binocs. This filly stampeding home. Sixteen lengths out front past the post. And I am forty pounds ahead.
Darcy Dancer’s eyes darting from face to face. Everyone at the races. And ghosts. Out of one’s past. Priest and parson friends of my mother’s. Up in the pavilion. As I stand with a wad of winnings amid the throng in front of these bookies. A fortune made. Put a fiver on Amphibious at twelve to one. Take an egg sandwich out of my picnic. For a bite and breather from the agony. Of watching the big bank where the horses climb to jump down. Uncle Willie said that with so many shenanigans going on that picking winners was something that comes out of your insanity. Creeping to tell you from way out on the edge of the world. But never before today has it ever told me anything twice.
Darcy Dancer dodging back and forth through the crowd. My hand feels so snug and warm in my pocket wrapped around money. Stand at the rail. They canter down. Amphibious is alive and kicking. So mild so sunny. The breeze blowing me luck. Prosperity after all these days. Makes everyone around look so charming. If my nerves simply will take it. But like my vagabond days. And in my moments of defeat. The words are. Press on. And they’re off. Stare down at my toes. And look up in the deafening roars. Wake again with the strange soaring elation. Amphibious by a nose. Collapsing me happily in a few seconds of marvellous heart failure.
Darcy Dancer dancing to the parade ring. With packed now in his tweed pockets over one hundred pounds. Walk on air. In one’s element. One’s demeanour takes on a totally new elegance. Stable lad as I once was. Now watch them leading their horses. Owners disporting in their natty suitings. Wives and daughters in the latest from ladies’ gazettes of fashion. My goodness. The Slasher sisters. Each in an umbrella sized straw hat. Trainers in cavalry twill. The jockeys mounting in their bright silks. And along the rail. A face. Staring at me. Matt. From the Awfully Stupid Kelly stables. Who catches my eye. And like a wounded animal moves away. Then looks back suspicious over his shoulder, not sure if it was me.
Darcy Dancer moving out from the rail and along by the backs of the crowd. Closer up to Matt. To see him in a shabby baggy brown suit. Unlike the racy tighter tweeds he wore. Bending over to cough. Hacking and spitting. His lungs heaving. Looking like he might die in a paroxysm. His shirt dirty. Collar ruffled and his cap torn. As I tap him gently on the back he turns to look.