‘That Kildare is the Provost’s House and here we are now in the lap of elegance. On your left, Mitchell’s for yummy creamy cakes and tea. Now Brown Thomas’s for the best in silks, cashmeres, lace, linen and I suppose ladies’ knickerbockers. And coming on your right. Bewley’s Oriental emporium of coffee, spice buns, butter balls and jersey milk.’
Turning left at the top of the street. The winter shadowy trees of St Stephen’s Green. Trotting along, a sweet smell of turf smoke pushing down from the roof top chimney pots on the terraced row of tall Georgian houses. Standing cheek by jowl like the giant faces of people who sit with big empty eyes staring. Pulling up in front of a big red brick building. The doorman opening the horsecab, assisting Mr Arland to alight. Two porters attentively collecting down our luggage. Mr Arland plonking two half crowns into the jarvey’s upturned hand. And turning to me as we mounted the step under the hotel’s glass awning.
‘Well Kildare, whatever amenities this city may possess most are, to use that favoured expression of Sexton’s, sine dubio to be found right in here.’
There was welcoming warmth and bustle in the lobby of the hotel and faint smells of ladies’ perfume passing. And with some interest I regarded their legs. And with much interest their bottoms, especially those well delineated by snug tailoring. Mr Arland made reservations for dinner, while a boy much smaller than myself, hair slicked back and parted in the middle, carried my bags as the porter led me with his big key into the cage of the lift and up we went three floors. My room long and narrow. Thick crimson carpet on the floor. I could see out my window across the winter trees of the park and all the way to the far outskirts of the city. And beyond the faint outlines of the rising mountains. And there downward just below on the street, those tinker women to whom Mr Arland gave a coin, squatting on the wet pavement with the patched red and blue skin of their legs showing and babies held in their arms. And their toothless mouths begging.
‘Give us a couple of coppers mister, will you now, and may no burden after ever be too much for you.’
Darcy Dancer holding aside the curtains from the window. The sky clearer, the clouds moving. Patches of blue purple and pink. Down there, a lake and a summer house. And big dark buildings the other side of the large square of Stephen’s Green. Small figures scurrying along the park’s black fence. Without friendly company. In this city. Where my father somewhere is. And where behind walls and under roofs, books and records are kept. Juries sit and cases are heard by big important judges. Mr Arland seemed so pleased when we passed his University. There behind its high wall and railings. I hear a seagull cry. This port where ships come up the river. And away in the world across the water there has been all sorts of war. My feet still chilled and hands cold. And as I always wished at the whim room window, like my mother did when February came. That soon it would go.
And come
Summer
With your
Swallows
Swimming in
The air
10
Stylishly wrapping a towel at my throat and after peering to see that no one was about to witness my rather tattered dressing gown, I hurried to bathe in the piping hot waters of a monstrous tub down at the end of the hall. The steamy slightly brown water came blazing out of the taps. Lying back in the liquid comfort, my red knob was soon sticking out of the water like a periscope. If Miss von B were here she would lunge with her mouth upon it and I think I might howl with rapture. As I did anyway when I pulled it Feeling warm once more.
All spiffy and tingling just that little bit with moral evil, I went down in the iron cage of the lift. Watching the green uniformed attendant with his little lever lowering me from floor to floor. Thinking apropos of nothing at all that Nurse Ruby was forever pulling my sister Beatrice Blossom’s pigtails and making her cry. Just as she used to play with my penis and make me laugh. And Miss von B. She wanted to kiss me goodbye as we stood with the breeze blowing in the front hall. I kept leaning back quite naughtily out of her reach. And then, the moment Catherine retreated from delivering our sandwiches and Mr Arland had gone down the steps to mount the cart, she grabbed me. Said I was looking elegant. Her lips soft. Quite substantial tears came into her eyes. I was glad. Clearly it meant I would be missed.
In the lobby, within the space of only a few minutes, I saw three monocles being worn and shudderingly thought each time it was my father. I lurked by one of the pillars and watched into the great high ceilinged lounge. Crowded now with tweedy gentlemen looking like human branches of hawthorn. They sat, walked and loudly talked. The constant refrain, yes yes, quite quite. And when not discoursing on horses, they seemed to be speaking of snipe, fox, grouse, salmon or pheasant. And it appeared that they were, as Mr Arland suggested, hysterically pukka. And had hunting fishing and shooting appointment books instead of souls. And matters of cultural beauty could not possibly cross their outdoor minds. Except if it had wings. And then it would be promptly blasted from the sky.
I followed Mr Arland through a small cosy sitting and writing room of flower covered deep soft sofas. Up stairs to a balcony and out into a hall and down stairs again and into another hall. Through curtained french doors we stepped into a blue large room, white splendid medallions on the walls. The colour seemed that of our faded blue north east parlour when on winter sunny mornings the sun flooded in our tinted window panes. A blonde lady with her undulating curves held voluptuously in a long blatantly orange gown, swept in. Her gently bouncing alabaster bosoms nakedly swelling forth and nearly popping out. Her nose repeatedly sniffing upwards and hooking a little as if she were smelling a fume drifting in over her left shoulder. She joins a red haired moustachioed gentleman at the bar who bows deeply, kissing her hand. A cigarette between her lips wagging up and down. Her voice reverberating.
‘Ronald, Ronald. You are so pleasantly flattering with your attentions. Especially when I feel I shall faint with the noise and the people. Buy me a drink quickly.’
‘For you madam, only a bottle of the house’s best champagne will do.’
‘O Ronald darling you are dear dear.’
In here under the soft white marble mantel, a turf fire roared. The cold black bleak city shut out. Hiding all those poor and hungering, all those cold and lonely. And hunched backs carrying their tattered garments. The gentleman called Ronald dressed for dinner. His dark elegance and long ivory cigarette holder. As we sit at our glass topped table in our wicker chairs. In this warmth and safety. One other gentleman in the corner reading a book which, judging by his concentration, must be saucy indeed. The waiter retreating backwards out of our presence. To bring us sherry. Mr Arland with his one usual grey suit, sporting a tie I had not seen before.
‘What is that tie, Mr Arland.’
‘Trinity College. I wear it while in Dublin, Kildare. In some places it would get you excellent service, in others perhaps, you might get a kick in the pantaloon.’
Following our first sherry and upon completion of half our second, the lady in the fiery gown was tippling back the last drops of her champagne. And then both Mr Arland and I faltered in our conversation. For it appeared that the shapely lady had pulled down that part of her dress which previously covered and now prominently exposed her left breast. Pressing it up with her hand, showing it to Ronald.