‘Dear me.’
‘The next afternoon they meet in the pub to talk of the night before. Of how much they drink, about who was fighting, about how many teeth knocked out or fingers broken. It is like a race they are in. Who has drunk the most. Who slaps his wife the hardest. It is like a club. Which the members have joined so that they all go to hell together. They are all so proud of the hangover they say that morning they wake up with. Like it was a halo. How they give their wife a fist in the gob. Or they say a boot in the hole if she protest that they broke down the front door to get in the house. So many such simple sad little people. Who read the gas meter. Who own a shop. Who have maybe some business. Or uncle who leave them money. And there is a crazy lady artist always inviting them to her studio to paint their privates.’
‘Are these people not what one calls Bohemians.’
‘Bohemians. Ha ha. They say they are poets when they are pigs. Pee everywhere and shit anywhere. They are imbeciles. They say they write books. When they only sharpen pencils and pull corks out of bottles of stout. Their moments of glory are when they can find someone they can insult.’
‘You do madam, don’t you, rather paint an unpretty picture.’
‘Well perhaps it might only have been like that on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays.’
‘What about Thursday.’
‘They sleep that day.’
Miss von B rinsing Darcy Dancer’s hair. Pouring glasses of mouse tainted chilly water out of the tap. Sweeping back the wet locks from my forehead. Kissing me moistly on the brow. And just staring down at me peeping up out of the bath. I did not let her kiss me on the mouth for fear of my disease and she kissed me on the neck shoulders and bosoms. Then soaped me all over with Edna Annie’s nearly dissolved big bar of yellow soap. That that ancient lady made every month down in her laundry. Who was now said to be beyond a century in age but could still see a wren at a hundred yards or hear a pin drop at fifty.
‘Now my darling. Keep your head up out of the water.’
‘Madam, I do hope you never grow old.’
‘Ah but I shall. Isn’t it sad.’
‘Yes.’
Miss von B’s hand pushed up over me. Making big hills of suds on the water. As I arched up my back for her to make suds all over my privates as she whispered.
‘Ah my darling my past might be unhappy but this, this is all so very exciting.’
Her hand pressed over my mouth when my moaning suddenly turned to screaming. In what must have been a death defying tumult, furore, fuss bother and frenzy of a thunderstorm of the emotions as I writhed in certain ecstasy. Nearly I do believe flapping like a fish out of water. Clearly Miss von B was a past master at this kind of pleasure giving. But I did not want to sound too desperately thankful, feeling as I was rather like a libertine in my licentious life. But my god it did feel so awfully utterly good.
‘Ah my little one it is like a gushing fountain.’
And the warm waters. Her soft soothing touches of fingers and hands. The smooth wondrous skin of her throat. The velvet pink lips parting across her teeth as she smiled. And the tiniest of golden little hairs on her flesh. Who could care a tinker’s curse about the low morality rampant across Ireland. Or of Lois painting privates. Or of hunt members taking each other by the ears or arse and entangling goodo upon the grass all over the ruddy countryside. Where one in spite of sighting the fox, was quite liable to be compelled at almost any time to rein up and shout, hark, what new wantonness do I perceive with rear cheeks naked in yonder copse. To make the innocent stars dance in consternation.
And the
Fox
Run
In shame
17
Stars afloat in the deep black sky. The night grown cold. From bathroom to bedroom shivering we went. Over the rattling floorboards. Miss von B drying, powdering and pampering me and now tucking me up in bed as I grabbed, felt and squeezed her in a playful manner.
‘There you are now like a good boy. My special, my most dear little bog trotter, as you say.’
‘Madam, when you call me such things there is nothing about you that I can love. I am at least as much of an aristocrat as you are. Because I don’t believe you enjoy any distinctions to which I may not be entitled myself.’
‘O my goodness we are again once more back on this battleground.’
‘Only because of your slightingly unnecessary reference to me. Anyway, I don’t care about the chimneytop of Andromeda Park not touching your uncle’s chandeliers. I am equally as aristocratic as any.’
‘Ah my sweet, my potato digger. Do you even know what an aristocrat is.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well then what is an aristocrat.’
‘An aristocrat is one who drinks wine with dinner in a large dining room and is served by a butler and who plays billiards and into whose windows others not so distinguished want to look and see how they live.’
‘Good lord, how easy then it is to be one.’
‘Well there are also large paintings on the wall of his ancestors. And much carpeting and beautiful furniture throughout the house.’
‘You can buy them at many auctions.’
‘But then you cannot madam buy the proper accent with which such people speak in such surroundings. And they never shout angrily except at other equals and never at servants whom they do not beat or strike save only in the dire necessity of discipline.’
‘My sweet boy where have you been all these years.’
‘I have been right here living as a member of the gentry and I am fully aware of aristocratic behaviour. Not the least of which is that they associate only with the proper people.’
‘And who my sweet are they.’
‘They are listed in the appropriate volumes dealing with such matters in order that impostors may be readily shown to be just that. They know the correct thing to say at the proper time. Nor do they get things all arsy versy as the common people do. And they have a fondness for books and all the finer things. Like birds’ eggs or butterfly collecting. They also generate their own electricity. And they simply know that they are better than other people.’
‘Ha, eggs, butterflies, personal electricity, don’t sock the servants. Plenty stink of dead mice too. And they practise I suppose looking down their noses in the mirror in the morning. And up the arse in the evening.’
‘Well why not. And do be careful for just think of all the mouse water you have drunk out of the tap. And also just remember madam how Baptista insulted you. She was looking down her nose.’
‘And she, my little sweet is certainly not an aristocrat. But perhaps it is aristocratic to hunt to the hounds. Is it not.’
‘Yes. Of course it is. And to have one’s clothing made by the best tailors and boots by the best bootmakers and shotguns from the best gunsmiths. And your house should stand surrounded by ample parklands.’
‘Ah do they belch and fart.’
‘Upon occasion, yes.’
‘And they come out stinky peewewew.’
‘Upon occasion, yes.’
‘Ah I see now how quite simple it is to be an aristocrat. Do they pee in people’s parlours or on their front porches.’
‘You may madam go on and on like that if you like. But it simply does not in the least alter my description of a true aristocrat.’
‘What about their souls, my little darling.’
‘You do not need a soul if you are really an aristocrat.’
‘Ah that is the only thing you have said which is truly aristocratic.’
‘Well madam do you not also agree that they pursue a policy of being the richest, the mightiest. And upon whom all others look in envy.’