‘That’s it, you fellow. Going well. Stride on. Let us gallop again now westwards into the wind rising.’
Darcy holding his arse horizontal, elbows flying from his chest. Reins shortened in my hands warming on this stout brave chestnut gelding’s neck. All kinds of lust in the hunting field when the blood’s up. Leading one must suppose to all kind of later disgust and disgrace. Like the randy Major who when not busy starving, whipping and being horrid to his servants, mounts stable girls any time his blood is even moderately flowing. Before hunts, after hunts, between hunts, and indeed anywhere near or far from stables and especially at night. But never on hunts. When it might impede the pursuit of the fox. Foxy went there robbing. And twice saw from the Major’s stable loft the Major himself grabbing these likely lasses by the ears. Dragging down their breeches. As they pleaded for mercy. Plunging his big veined prick between their legs. As they sobbed for release. And if they were totally uncooperative he would twist their hearing appendages quite extremely. Holding their heads down in the straw. Poor girls yowling in pain. Desperately landing out with kicks. At the Major’s testicles. Which he protected by a steel covering till he was absolutely sure it was safe to leave them dangling. Which according to Foxy was never.
Darcy Dancer, his tatters gently flying. Cheeks flushed with blood. Torn spattered and disreputable. Finally triumphantly cantering up this hill. Breeze cool at the top. Which I haven’t felt for days now being so cold. All the splendid wild gallop I’ve had. Blood boiling. Makes the soul soar. So sweetly bright across the wild green. And there. Across two valleys. Under a sky such plaintive blue. Peeking up out of the trees. The great castle. No longer with the Count inside with metronome ticking taking his long demonstration leaps. And all that edifice’s many many stones, windows and turrets. Standing through the centuries. Grey white in the sun. Dismount right here. Good old chap. Steaming so absolutely soaked with sweat. Scratched and bleeding. Deserves a pat. And a long time munching grass. Tie up his bridle. Give him a good swat to run away from here.
‘There you go now my good fellow, trot off to nibble meadow.’
Walk on my own two feet now. Down through these familiar fields. Of Thormondstown. Across by the end of the lake. The wind stunted beeches. The fawn grasses standing still up from the water. Two white swans sail on its brilliant black blue. The woods and paths of Andromeda Park one knows by every step. Back there the pace was fair, and the hounds hunting well. Till I came along. As the fox. Unwilling to yield up my life. And give insuperable pleasure to those pursuing me. Licking their chops as the baying pack lacerates my body to bits. Giving an orgasm to hunt members shiveringly thrilling in their saddles. As I suffer a nice ghastly termination to one’s existence here on earth.
Darcy Dancer stepping out across this meadow. Sloping down towards fields rising gently again. Criss crossed by their bumpy stone grey walls. Less than a mile to go. Sound of saws sawing in the wood. Somewhere on my land. And I heard back there the thundering crash of a tree. Hawk takes off silently. From behind the shelter of this wall stopping the wind. Leaves a half finished meal of a mouse. Shape of flattened grass where a beast lay in the night. And I see two large shaggy heads. Coming. At speed. Legs outstretched. Ears flapping. Barks booming. Tails swaying in the wind. Hair flying. Kern and Olav. Straight at me. Caught my scent from many hills away on the wind. Hello my lovelies. My two big powerful friends. You bounce and leap about me now. And your big scraggly heads know that no amount of mud upon my face. No tatters no matter how much torn in my dress. No scruffiness however foul. Would ever deceive you. Jumping up high. Paws over my shoulders. Big massive tongues licking my face. To soothe warm and clean. And let me know. That where I stand upon this land, surrounded by their big hairy faithful bodies. Escaped from artists, gunmen, bullies, schools, farmers, hunts and hounds. That finally thank god I’m home. And not left. As the fox is left. Fighting for life amid the hounds. To be rendered just a bit of steam.
Rising from
The grass
Where last
He was known
15
Darcy Dancer crossing the gravel as rain begins to fall. The wind rising. And the clouds scudding grey. Kern and Olav with their big black cold moist noses wagging tails smacking me either side. Climb the steps. The front great door of Andromeda Park locked. Bang the knocker and pull the bell. Till the minutes pass. And the door comes finally scraping and squealing open. Crooks in one of my father’s blue velvet smoking jackets and slippers. His collar open and his tie hanging loose. And his crossed eyes, one looking nearly north now the other entirely south. With soup stains as usual all over him.
‘Lord save us, Master Reginald. I was about to get the shotgun to inquire of your business. What has happened to you.’
‘I have been in a manner of speaking out hunting. Horse ran off with me.’
‘Surely you’re maimed. Without hunting jacket, breeches and boots.’
‘I am in fact, quite in one solid piece. And do believe I am just in time for tea. And are you to keep me out here Crooks.’
‘Begging your pardon Master Reginald. Welcome home. I was only telling Catherine this minute ago in the kitchen that you’d be knocking over the opposition like nine pins in the rugger scrum. Well it’s a most commendable school that has its own pack of hounds.’
Darcy Dancer entering the front hall. To see the disappearing black shadow of a back and a bowler hat. Heading away down towards the schoolroom. Stand here. Watched by the centuries of Thormonds on the walls. In their robes and rich raiment. Wondering what on earth in rags the cat dragged in. To their great grand sanctum. And who should now sidle over and so earnestly toast his bottom with the dying embers of their fire.
‘Who goes there, Crooks.’
‘It’s the agent, Master Reginald. He was only the while ago paying off some of the men.’
‘Tell him in future not to wear his hat in this house. Most inappropriate behaviour.’
‘Very well Master Reginald.’
‘Where is Miss von B.’
‘Taking tea in the north parlour. Will you be joining her.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact. I shall.’
‘Master Reginald, I don’t wish to be impertinent but is there something wrong.’
‘Perhaps. Fetch tea. If you will please.’
‘Won’t you want a wash and brush up. And to get out of, forgive me for saying, those rags.’
‘Presently.’
‘With all due respect Master Reginald, it would, if one did not know you as well as I do, be hard now to tell who you were.’
‘That is quite understandable but it also can have its advantages. Now would you mind awfully Crooks, please doing as you are told.’
‘Very good.’
Darcy Dancer watching Crooks depart. Everything of his clothes too big for him. His accent seems to be slipping as well. Sounds one second like a minister of foreign affairs and the next like the true treacherous bog man he is. At least the grand staircase hasn’t yet collapsed. And everything seems as it was before. Miss von B must have been having a most leisured pleasured time. Keeping the servants’ bells tingling and taking her big hot baths after a day’s hunting. Quietly turn the door knob to the north east parlour. Tiptoe in. To the welcome warmth. The couch pulled round. Facing the fire. Her hair gleaming straight back in a bun behind her head. Greeny tweed jacket across her shoulders. Over the chimneypiece, the clock shape on the wall tinted a shade lighter where that enamelled timepiece stood which my father has now chiming back in Dublin. A thrush chirping its evening song in the first darkness just out the window. The floorboard creaking. The head turning around. A book closing. Miss von B jumping up. Tea cup, and a spoon tingling against a saucer. Her hand clutching at her breast.