‘Premier class passengers are not asked to help unless they volunteer.’
We heard concerned voices shifting boxes. And back along the train there was the roaring moaning of cattle as they were beaten up into a livestock car. Then the train slowly chugging underway again and I thought back to that fox hunting day of von B beating Baptista. And making, with those splendid lashes landing on the latter, the occupants of Andromeda Park, persona non grata. And we chose to miss a meeting or two of the hunt. Who had four more fixtures during the splendid weather. Which produced grumblings around the stables at the lack of action. All except for Foxy, who said as he cantered Thunder and Lightning around the farm buildings.
‘You can the rest of you do what yez like but I’m going to hump after that fucking fox.’
And off he would gallop. And from Foxy came the information that it was rumoured that Baptista’s solicitors in the town were intending to call half the hunt as witnesses when they went to trial to ask for damages for assault. Although no writ had yet arrived upon the heels of their threatening letters to Miss von B, more of these unpleasant communications continued to come. Over which Mr Arland and I would pore in the schoolroom between bouts of geography and my recent course on American history.
Dear Madam,
Our client is not satisfied to grant further unappreciated courtesy to await further your obtaining legal representation, the time for which is now long past due, and we call upon you to remit the damages required and give the written apology demanded, or we shall, per our client’s instructions, institute proceedings without further notice.
Yours faithfully,
Fibbs, Kelly, Orgle and Fluthered
I could not help but feel as Mr Arland toyed with and touched these distressing letters that he made seem that they were in some remote way secret coded friendly messages to him from Baptista Consuelo. I kept imagining that he might pick one up and kiss her solicitors’ signature which I had seen times before provocatively suggesting legal redress against my father for selling some outlying land which some small farmer, claiming squatters’ rights, had decided to quietly fence off for himself. But as we all sat over Catherine’s piping hot buttery scones and damson jam served by a limping Crooks for tea he dutifully upon lengthy consultations with Miss von B composed replies. And in his high mock pompous voice, putting the final sheet in front of me. Saying.
‘I think that out of some authorities who write on such matters, we may have produced here a thorn or two for them Kildare.’
Dear Sirs,
I write in response to your latest letter and on behalf of Her Royal Highness, The Princess Schlesgluckwigboomsonderstein, that she is, due to a recent indisposition, unable to make the trip to Dublin to instruct her legal advisers not only in answer to your client’s claims but also in the matter of the malicious slanders uttered in the disparagement of Her Royal Highness in her present vocation and further reckless imputations of unchastity published in the hunting field by your client with the words hereinafter following. To wit: ‘You are a whorish servant.’
And additionally:
‘She’s no lady, she’s a tramp.’
Yours faithfully,
Mister Arland
(Tutor in residence to Master Reginald Darcy Thormond Dancer Kildare.)
Touching this cold clammy train window. The thick leather strap which holds it closed scratched and worn. And now miles back there those evenings after dinner, when it wasn’t quite jolly for us three to be in cahoots constructing these letters, it was for me altogether quite mournful. As I took the imputation of Her Royal Highness’s unchastity much to heart. Especially as I did now, more than occasionally, sneakily detour to sleep in her bed. But with Mr Arland making one of his funny faces and placing his head on one side to say.
‘Ah I think that that nice flourish, imputation of unchastity, may, when the enormity of its ramifications penetrate their thick country skulls, put those rural legal chaps to rout.’
One would at these words be amused and the flush of embarrassment I was sure was on my face would fade. While at the mention of Baptista, Kelly, Fibbs, Fluthered or Orgle, Miss von B merely sniffed down her nose and gave a high pitched false laugh. And with Crooks finally hors de combat with two gouty feet, she was these days a power of activity and made what she said was a pre spring clean. The great big ring of clanging jangling keys on her forearm, pulling open the long closed cupboards in the walls of the ballroom and putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed the shelves full of ancient medical instruments. Her eyes growing wide as she said in her excitement Vas is diss, when her German accent became quite pronounced. And I replied with some relish.
‘Ah Princess Gluckswittlebocksonderboomstein, dem ist der blood letting blades, dat snap out to cut zee two rows of incisions to let zee patient’s or victim’s, however you prefer, to let zair blood flow mit some profusion.’
She would when I used that accent try to clobber me behind the ear. The strength of her was quite amazing. And once I saw stars followed I was pleased to feel, by her kisses bringing me back to life. And then I would with forceps and other evil looking contraptions, try to apply and attempt to operate with them on the more intimate parts of Miss von B’s body and she, quite unreasonably scared I thought, would shriek and run, bosoms bouncing, as I chased her all about the ballroom, making my most horrid faces and looming in my most contorted and frightening manner. Till caught she would say, as I flung her down on a dusty window seat with our feet entwining in the great heavy drapes and my hand searching to tug down her undergarments.
‘Not here, not here, you little fool.’
Now with every click clack of this cold train I get further away from von B. Who wanted to tie me up and whip me. And when I let her once and it hurt, I asked her was she not disgusted with her behaviour. And especially of indoctrinating one so young as myself. She said that all the better bred older ladies of the deeper continent kept young boys to whip and make love to them. In Vienna it was quite the custom. And she asked would I ever wed. I said no and certainly I would not contemplate such a thing as marriage to an older lady. Not if they did that kind of thing. But with all my responsibilities these days I thought that a wife, one of the quality of Miss von B, would be quite suitable. And save me paying wages. She is so good at cleaning and keeping everything in its place. She sews, mends and crochets. And even knows considerable about cooking except that Catherine hates the sight of her in the kitchen. She is an accomplished horse woman, and jolly good at diagnosing their troubles. Pity she is quite unknowledgeable when it comes to cattle. Had to tell her the difference between a Friesian and Hereford. Of course I could teach her these agricultural things. Just as she has taught me how to make love to ladies. Touch them where they like it most. With these my fingers, which wipe the window and I watch out into the passing black night. And look at my fingernails she manicured. On my third trip to Dublin. Way back there now in the countryside, Andromeda Park sitting lonely on its hill. Strange, how when you leave a whole world behind, you worry that who will see that gates are closed in the far off meadows and mend where the fences are broken. Her Royal Highness will keep the home fires burning. Especially if Crooks will uncomplainingly serve her tea. Although not really himself, he was quite attentive as we dined those evenings. And seemed, always at the end of the day, to be able to manage to arise from bed and bring up from the cellars to table some of our most very best wines, in particular the great booming reds of the Côte de Nuits which he briefly aired and decanted for drinking. But I had noticed recently that not only had he become considerably more cross eyed but that he was particularly monosyllabic with me. Holding awkwardly out from his side his previously broken left arm and answering. Yes master Reginald. No master Reginald. I’ll see to it, master Reginald. And one late evening as I was heading to fetch my atlas from the schoolroom to get an impromptu geography lesson from Her Royal Highness nakedly waiting for me upstairs, I stopped to watch the three bats flying in the front hall. When Crooks, stooped forward in his dressing gown and slippers, confronted me in the moonlit darkness. I must admit that there was prevalent a religious mania which seemed to affect to some degree, all the servants, especially those in their less menial and more polite pursuits above stairs. And this I now detected in Crooks as he growled and then with his whiskey smelling breath spouted polysyllabic at me.