‘You see Ronald can’t you, where that wretched stallion bit me. I can’t help that I arouse horses. Look, one two three teeth marks, quite black and blue. Even geldings get into a frenzy when they sniff me.’
Ronald then, quite deliberately slowly I thought, took a pair of spectacles from his inside pocket. Placing them half way down his nose. He leaned deeply over to make a lengthy inspection. All the while making suitable sympathetic noises through a large gap between his protruding front teeth.
‘Indeed quite so my dear, you were well and truly bitten. Clearly however, if I may say so, judging by the tooth marks, by a thoroughbred.’
‘Yes, a Derby winner, he just missed my nipple.’
‘Yes, he did. I rather noticed that.’
Following more of Ronald’s scrutiny and a final appreciative pat, the breast was replaced under its coverings. The gentleman in the corner, no longer regarding his book, absolutely gaped with his mouth open wide enough for doves to fly in. And the waiter and bartender brought their eyes back down again from the ceiling. Mr Arland and I departed through the passage crossing the little sitting room once more.
‘That lady back there Kildare, acts also upon the Dublin stage. Where her performances are not nearly so good. And that chap Ronald, I’ll tell you more about later.’
The dining room waiters in plenty scurried around us. For starters we had saumon fumé. I ordered steak, spinach and chips. And felt quite pleasantly inebriated taking a glassful of the Pommard Mr Arland ordered with his roast beef, as I, even with my rudimentary French, pointed out mistakes in the French menu. Mr Arland saying wistfully.
‘They mean well but it would be so much better and accurate if things were said in English.’
‘What if they were said in Irish, Mr Arland.’
‘The gentry would starve Kildare.’
Great crimson drapes drawn closed across the windows. The faint sweet smells of cooking sprouts, cabbage and other green things. Sauces pouring from the sauce boats. Wines of sacred vintages cradled carefully across the carpets. Altogether the sort of setting of which Crooks would approve. The most distinguished looking of black tail coated waiters, giving their lofty orders down through a chain of command. Till it reached some little boy who had to run and do all the dirty work. And was stationed standing by some empty table adding polishing touches to the silverware and sneaking looks at the nearby guests. Or rushing back and forth following urgent hisses from under waiters to fetch this or that. As still other little boys went pageing by mournfully intoning people’s names.
Throughout the meal I still had the uncomfortable feeling that my father was somewhere near. Half expecting him to suddenly turn round and be one of those tweedy thin gentlemen who kept pausing to look at the Fox Hunting fixtures posted on the wall in the hall. Mr Arland eating with gusto. Smiling at me, and shaking his head in agreement as I smiled back and chewed down another chunk I’d sliced off my slab of blood rare steak. Dublin suddenly most agreeable. Mr Arland happily putting his nose over the edge of his Pommard. But I could tell he was still distressed over Baptista Consuelo and he would apropos of nothing at all refer to the subject of fox hunting. Asking me of lady Masters of Foxhounds.
‘Sir they do frequently want to have that honour, especially as the one who leads the hunt gets no splatter. And a lady might then appear at the end of a day’s hunting just as splendidly fresh and radiant as she was at the beginning.’
I was nearly on the verge of launching into the more scandalous aspects of hunting. Of how ladies with their blood up were constantly attempting to entice even the Master at the end of the day into some seemly copse and there dismounted to have lively congress with him upon the cold wet moss and grass. But I was so distracted with the arrival of my favourite pudding, trifle. And while Mr Arland was having cheese, port and a cigar, I with fork and spoon rapidly shovelled it with accompanying scads of thick cream, most deliciously between my lips. But soon as I was finished, Mr Arland, never one to waste time when he could be imparting knowledge, discoursed upon the Constitution of the United States. When suddenly who should leap up from a distant corner in the room smiling ear to ear. And waving as he came, cross over to our table. Barging quite unceremoniously between the other diners. One of whose elbows was knocked sending a fork into that part of his face where there was no mouth. And leaving I think four little bloody puncture holes. The Count Blandus MacBuzuranti O’Biottus pausing to somewhat hysterically commiserate and apologize. Until he finally reached us flushed and red faced but bubbling with excitement.
‘Hello, ah hello. How are my dear friends. How good to see you. And how are you, my former little victim. The very worst you were. Yes, the very worst little pupil that I have ever had the insanity to try to teach. Who now looks so grown up. Have you yet got the élan of the gazelle, my little darling. O I know I push by accident of course that poor man’s fork into his head. But his elbow it is too far stuck out. But surely you have come to attend my marvellous party I am giving this evening to celebrate the opening of my new school. But of course my dear friends you are coming.’
Mr Arland and I sat there waiting till the Count was out of breath. Which was clearly not going to be tonight. As he shifted his weight from leg to leg, and continued to be heard by the entire dining room. Many of whom were whispering in somewhat awestruck tones that the Count had received thirty curtain calls when he last danced in Milan. I found the attention paid us quite pleasing. And even Mr Arland, not one to be showy or grand, was sitting just that little bit more upright. The Count’s blond handsome looks and white flashing teeth. And I could see at the table from whence he had come that there sat a dark haired woman of austere beauty.
‘O but I must go. But come. Of course you shall. And bring all your nice friends with you. And even those who may not be so nice.’
The Count reeled off an address which he said was merely around the corner. And dancingly returning across the dining room he executed an attitude alongée on point followed by a grand jeté. Some of the more cultivated and easily amused diners politely clapped but most ducked. The Count bowing before he sat down at his table across from the dark beauty. Who reached out to pat her hand on his and smilingly formed her lips into a kiss. And they kissed. While we retired to the lounge for coffee. I told Mr Arland how the Count used to scream at us, ‘Let us have for god’s sake the perpendicularity, the natural elegance the ethereal lightness, the carriage of the body and arms, the motions graceful and easy.’ But Mr Arland seemed rather in a dither. And said, completely straying from the point in question, that the Count was not so entitled, and might merely be a papal count but that there was no doubt but he was related to some very splendid people indeed and could, if one stretched the point, be considered ennobled.
‘Of course, I can’t bring you to a party, Kildare. Not that sort of party.’
‘What sort of party.’
‘Well I don’t really know, but I’m sure it’s that sort of party.’
‘Sir. O but you can.’
I insisted, when Mr Arland had said that we had already been too extravagant, that he should sample some of the house’s best brandy. And I had the waiter go fetch from their cellar such a suitably dusty bottle. Mr Arland said that kind of party could give one a reputation. And people like the Dublin actress attended them and that Ronald was a chancer and a notorious fortune hunter. And that he’d marry a witch if she had the price of a pint of stout and that he was most suitably nick named Rashers Ronald. And each time I reached to refill Mr Arland’s glass he would put his hand forward to the rim. But then he would smile.