‘Ach du grosser Gott. It is you.’
‘No it isn’t me. But there is quite a strong resemblance underneath my rather tattered garments, my entangled hair, my mud, my cuts and various unpleasant spatterings. I suppose you want to tell me I am bringing muck in on the carpet.’
‘Yes. You are bringing awfully filthy muck in on the carpet. What has happened. That you are like this. You are scratched. All over you.’
‘You are shocked to see me.’
‘But of course I am. You are supposed to be miles away somewhere else. Of course I am shocked.’
‘I should like please, to have an immediate large thick, deeply buttered slice of that barmbrack I do believe I see situated on that distinctly early Meissen plate there on the tray.’
‘Of course of course. But my goodness, first you must change your clothes.’
‘No I shan’t.’
‘But of course you cannot take tea like that.’
‘I can. And I shall. Take tea. Just like this. Which for reasons of my own I prefer to do. And Crooks is presently bringing me a cup. And I see you are using my mother’s very best tea service. And what’s left of the best silverware. I may also, should the fancy take me, even dance about the room. La de da de da de dee.’
Darcy executing a series of minor midget grand jetés. To come round the sofa in front of the big crackling glowing logs. Miss von B nervously reaching to slice the barmbrack. Cutting neatly through all the colourful flecks of dried fruit. Her bracelet falling down her wrist and her diamond ring catching red flashes of the fire. Her hands trembling as she buttered it.
‘The agent was in here.’
‘Yes. He was here. Just popped in as you say.’
‘About what.’
‘O it was nothing. But come. You must sit.’
‘Don’t you think it will matter now that my muddy garments may soil the couch.’
‘Please of course not.’
‘You usually do mind so much.’
‘What is wrong with you. What has happened.’
‘I have run away from school.’
‘But you have just but gone.’
‘Yes. I have just but gone. But I did not choose to like it. Therefore I did just but go. What are you reading there.’
Crooks knocking. Shuffling in. Sporting now his shoes. On both his reluctantly moving feet. His collar closed and the knot of his black tie neatly tightened. At tea time my mother always required the whole household to be especially on their toes. As it was she said the very most important time of day. When even the tower bell was rung. To announce and summon those darjeeling or lapsang suchong minded guests from their various suites. For a reawakening of the spirit when the aftermath of lunch produced drowsiness. And the soul required just the mildest bit of stirring. Being as it was that reflective time midway before one must preside over a long many coursed dinner, and precede that by one’s early evening bath, the laying on of powders and scent, the hair coiffed and the dilemma of choosing gowns and the jewels with which to be adorned.
‘There you are Master Reginald. Brought you a fresh pot. Bramble jam in the saucer. Fresh whipped cream in the bowl. And more toast. Will there be anything else.’
‘Thank you Crooks. Close the shutters. Light the mantel candles. And I think that will be all. Except you can draw me my bath.’
‘In the copper.’
‘Yes in the copper.’
A smile on Darcy Dancer’s muddy face. With his cheeks fat with chewing. Trouser split down from my thigh and over my knee. The whole naked side of my scratched leg. Blotted with great bruises. Like the sky so often is. Blackened by a cloud floating across the bright blue. Welcome soothing red heat blasting out of these logs blazing. Darkness fallen. Wind blowing. Rain taps on the panes. Upon the graves of the dead. And I did not die lonely out there under that sky. Beyond these shutters banging closed. When you have no roof, no walls, no tea and no scrumptious other thing. Each night a long long night. Clutching oneself. Asking when will dawn ever make the black darkness be over. And my feet, hands, knees, arms and back be no longer cold. All glowing now. With tea.
‘You haven’t madam shown the least inclination towards embracing me. Am I so disreputable and soiled looking.’
‘Well you might at least not bring the bog into the drawing room.’
‘Ah that is precisely how I thought you might feel. Despite your superficial display of tolerance.’
Miss von B, her tweed jacket taken from her shoulders. The title of her book. Called Priests and People in Ireland. And leaning herself back now. Cushioned, as I am in the swan’s down. The shoulders puffed up in her pleated grey wool dress. Making them unpleasantly broad. Perhaps she really is a sadist. With thonged whips. To lash bare flesh. Her bosoms only a reaching hand away. She inwardly winces each time I move. Or turns to stare a moment, drawing her lips tight as she did when in one single gulp I took my cup and drank it held with my soiled torn hand. I did however at first try not to cram the entire piece of barmbrack in my mouth. Only hungrily snapped off most of it but even that last little piece did not stay long in my fingers. And as I rammed it in it made her further tense. Till I thought she may have been pleased when I chewing so vigorously, bit my tongue.
‘O fuck.’
‘Serves you so right. To stuff your mouth.’
First Crooks leaves me on the doorstep. Then find the agent using the hall as if it were a train station. Now Miss von B behaving in a most certainly shirty manner. Life does somehow allow one unhappiness to beget yet another. Start tumbling down all over you. One merely must then simply seek the nearest soothing comfort at hand. And enfold oneself there. Shift backwards into this swan’s down softness. Watch with concealed enjoyment as she shrivels in distaste as each big lump of cake hardened mud is dislodged from me crumbling on the floor.
‘Madam, are you a sadist.’
‘What do you mean.’
‘Are you in favour of cruelty. And of wiping certain races out.’
‘If I think you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, I should slap your face.’
‘I’m merely inquiring.’
‘And I am merely telling you I will slap your face should you ask such a question again.’
‘O well perhaps that answers me.’
‘Where have you been. To whom have you been talking.’
‘No one in particular.’
‘My god you should come back looking like that. And asking me such questions.’
‘We have my good madam, been ratted upon.’
‘What do you mean.’
‘Someone of the household has well and truly snitched. My father has accused me of fornicating with you.’
‘And what is fornicating.’
‘It is, to use a vulgar but better known term, what is popularly referred to as fucking.’
‘Grosser Gott.’
‘Quite.’
‘You I hope have said it is untrue of course.’
‘Of course, that’s what I immediately said. Totally untrue. Absolutely the most filthy and disgusting kind of fiction.’