Balthazar B bracing himself and taking in a great lungful of air. Opening the door again and setting forth across the roomr Horace vaguely outlined crouched behind his broom plunging it forward as it curled rolling volumes of dust up against the ceiling. Horace paused and held a shielding hand above his eyes.
"Ah you're on your way out sir."
"Yes."
"Ah we'll have it spic and span on your return sir. And Fll be knocking you up at nine sharp sir."
"Splendid. Thank you."
Across the cobbles between these scatterings of eager faces. Through the mild and soft air. To go in under the portico and past the porter's little cozy room. Hung with keys, piled with parcels. A fire blazing in the grate. And out now into the bustling city. A phalanx of bicycles released by the tall policeman's white gloved hand as he urgently beckoned them on. And last night asleep. High up over St. Stephen's Green. The early morning coming down with its blue white light from the hills beyond the city. And revelries far below. Went to my window to look down. Saw figures in long flowing dresses and men in evening clothes. A casual gladness in the voices and their laughing shouts. And one voice which nearly seemed a voice I knew. Singing out above the others. On the distant hills the sun was rising. Full of an orange tickling and the last of an autumn's warmth. To go spreading redly down over this stone built city.
Out now to flow along with these pedestrians. Alive this gay afternoon on the great slabs of granite. Past giant green gates of the Provost's house. Green and yellow trams grinding and clanging by. Citizens as they nod and cock their heads in silent passing greeting. Sometimes stopping to give urgent earward whispers. Tiny scurrying white faced children, the wind blowing through their rags. Begging as one passed. Give us a penny mister. And an open shirted black curly headed man said to an open shirted burning eyed man, how's your hammer hanging Sean.
Through an aroma of roasted coffee and a glass mahogany swing door. By light eyed ladies with packages and gloves and sparkling eyes. In grey flannel suits and silken voices who let the breeze of passing people blow their cigarette smoke away. Everywhere, faces. And ahead past counters of cakes and breads and sweet smelling loaves, a great high ceilinged room of glass topped tables.
Balthazar B sat down on a crimson seat beneath a stained glass window and perused this oriental menu. The black dressed waitress brought a large cup of coffee and plate of glistening brown topped currant buns. A dish of gold balls of butter. A woman with a priest Two red coated girls with refined small fingers sticking out from their cups of tea. Little clanks of cutlery on the glass. Heaped pots of sugar pieces.
Warm fragrant coffee in the mouth. To open an evening newspaper and read that a cow escaped onto a road and gave the garda a wild chase into a village where the beast entered a public house and set the occupants to holding their pints high over their heads so as not to have them spilled. A wondrous simple peace. Without years of lonely grey. And upturned rafters in brick debris. With bombs and cannons chattering up against the night and searchlights waving over a terror torn sky.
To walk back down again this bustling street. The shop lights go on. A sweet smoky air descends. My drop of dew on a blade of grass. Is my gladness. Hovering above the ground.
High and still
And
Sparkling so
In Dublin
Town.
13
Balthazar B stood in slippers and the lower half of pink pyjamas at his marble washstand and slapped up water to rinse his soapy face. A time to look out across the square as students collect for classes in the arts. And the plane trees hang out wild writhing winter branches.
To go to this large garage out in the back mews reaches of south Dublin. For the purchase of a motor car. The proprietor wiping his hands in a petrol soaked rag. And with a quick little nod of the head, he smiled and was willing to please.
"Now what did you have in mind sir.'
''I am not quite sure.'
"Is it for the touring. Or town. Or the back and forth."
"Back and forth.'
"Now let me ask you one question. Would you ever be wanting to be out on the road and in an awful need to get somewhere fast without much let or hindrance. Answer me that. And I may be able to help you. Without putting your mind through the torture of a lot of choices.'
"That's quite possible."
"Now I can't promise a thing, but you know I think that you're the man I've been waiting for. A gentleman who's ready and able for them wide open spaces. And who's got the glint of the sportsman in the eye. Am I right."
"I'm not quite sure."
"O I'm right, I know I'm right. I know a keen man when I see one. Can't I tell by the cut of your cloth there, aren't you a man for the wide open spaces."
"I really want a motor to reach the race courses."
"Ah, now, am I glad you said that. Baldoyle, Leopardstown, the Curragh. I knew it. And you'll make the twenty four miles to Punchestown in twenty minutes flat. I'm telling you that. Just let me show you something now. Come along here this way. Of course I should have known you were a racing gentleman. It's written all over you. Now here we are.'
"My God.'
"O now just you wait till you see this. Just you wait. Just swing back these covers. Ah, I want you to take a long look at this now. What about that. It's the greatest four wheeler ever seen in Dublin. It would pull two hundred protestant donkeys backwards from Glasnevin to Rathgar and they desperate to get to Belfast away from the pope. Just have a look now will you, under the bonnet. Have a look at this now. Twelve of your cylinders. Ready and willing. Each the size of a man's thigh. With sparkplugs to match. Climb a hill as steep as the back of your head there and it be only in neutral gear.
Commodious."
"It's awfully big."
"Let that be no deterrent. What would a keen racing man such as yourself do out on the highway without the little extra room for the lady perhaps. Heh heh. And sure you wouldn't want to be shouldered off the road. There's a bunch of them now, shopkeepers and publicans, motorists they call themselves if you please, out on the roadway of a Sunday. Let me tell you, they'll give you no trouble when they see this man here coming at them I assure you."
"Does it go."
"Does it go. You're asking me. Does it go. Get up there now. Ah that's a good one. Does it go. That's it now, are you right. Get yourself steady. Does it go. Sure do you see this little black button here now."
A deep growling whirring and a sudden explosion. A great white cloud of exhaust. As the massive machine rumbled and throbbed and slowly moved forward.
"Goodness."
"Does it go. It wasn't called a Landship for nothing. You out there Mick, clear the doors and make way in the road outside, we're coming out. Sure I'll give you a little tour right round Merrion Square north east south and west. Are you right."
The Landship securely moored now below the window.
The great long black chassis on the tall wooden spoked wheels. Horace each morning cheerful standing at the water pump filling his bucket quietly contemplating the Landship.
Stopping by it and slowly wagging his head.
"Ah sir, I can't get over it. I measured it three times meself and was telling the lads it was twenty two and a half feet in length as the crow flies and not a man of them would believe me. Ah it must be a grand powerful feeling to be rolling along in that yoke. Sure you'd need your own petrol station to keep it fed."
With breakfast laid out. A pint of cow's milk in a bottle. A fire smouldering in the grate. The chill wind comes whistling in round the tall windows. One sits rubbing bluish hands.
And cupping tightly the warm green bowls of tea.
And always to have to get up from one's chair and cross to the fireplace and stand pushing knees into the smoke. And pumping the bellows to bring a red glow to the silvered ends of turf. Feet damp and cold. Then try to remain calm as the intestines will not. To grab one's long motoring coat from the door. And copy of last night's Evening Mail and head for the bog.