‘Ahoy there a moment Master Reginald.’
Sexton coasting around the rhododendrons on his bicycle. Wheels grinding over the pebbles. Like waiting for my breakfast tray in the morning to arrive from the kitchen. Hearing it coming and coming in the early silence. Along the halls, up stairs and then finally arriving with a knock on my door. As Sexton squeaks to a stop. On his two wheeled vehicle he said once belonged to a Protestant Bishop.
‘Ah you look alive and well. And doing some shooting Master Darcy.’
‘O just a bang or two at a few pigeon or snipe.’
‘Good day for it. Try over there in the little bit of bog the corner of the field the other side of spy glass hill. There’s always a bird or two lurking which later could nicely tickle the palate.’
Drops of moisture descending Sexton’s cheek from under his eye patch. He wipes them away with a big knuckle of his fist.
‘And are they Sexton, still up there in the oak plantation.’
‘O they’re still there. And will be at them trees. Till all fifty are gone. Sharpening that big cross cut saw every morning like a razor. And by evening they’d have it so dull it wouldn’t cut butter. Three horses pulling the logs out to the road and two pulling them into town. And the gombeen man ought to be taught a lesson. Sure didn’t one of the barbarians working for him come upon a pair of rare antique inkstands. Hidden innocent they were for years in an old walled up space in an architectural masterpiece of a mansion the land commission were knocking down in honour of the greater glory of peasant Ireland. O god weren’t they ormolu mounted of the most refined taste imaginable. In the true genuine regency style. And with the same sledge hammer this barbarian was using on the building, he smashed the innocent things to smithereens with a stupidity nulli secundus. You wouldn’t mind now if he even had the decency to avail of the dignity of a judge’s gavel to wreak his havoc on such sacred things. And the likes of that gombeen man who employs him wouldn’t know the difference between a Louis the Sixteenth style chaperone sofa and a cast iron bucket in the Adam style that he’d sit his own naturalistically coloured arse into. Forgive me using such words. But coarse doings call for coarse language. And down through the ages it’s the lovers of beauty are vilified and the wielders of violence are sanctified. Ah but it’s grand to see you there on the steps. In front of your own great house. And with your acres out there ready to take the tread of your boot and the air feel the shock of your gun.’
Sexton of course delayed me with his flowery rhetoric for some considerable time. Relaying his plans for the gardens in spring, and for the laying out and planting of masterly embellishments and vistas and grand ornamental flower beds. However he could finally sense that I was impatient to be off and touching me gently on the arm he smiled as he always did.
‘Ah I delay you and I must myself go about my business but now you go with the blessing of the Blessed Virgin Mother, and bag a few birds.’
Darcy Dancer crossing the frosty cobbles of the farmyard. Snorts and stampings in the stables. The whinnies of Molly and Petunia. Who smell me near. Luke mucking out. Forking up the big brown lumps of dung matted with yellow straw and shovelling it into his barrow. At least someone is working. But I suppose I shall have to spout a few hackneyed words to pass the time of day.
‘Good morning to you sir. It’s grand to see you up and about.’
‘Thank you Luke. It’s a chilly draughty old morning.’
“Tis that sir.’
‘Gives one a mind to thank god for inventing fire.’
‘Ah now you’ve said it, sir. On these winter days you need the little bit of hell the lord puts flaming in a grate.’
‘Is Foxy about.’
‘He does be about. But always on the move you might say. Like you might see him. And then you don’t. Sure the nights they haven’t an idea where to look for him. And I haven’t clapped eyes on him this long time now. But try above beyond there where he had a mind to hauling some of them potatoes if there’s any left not rotten to be put in the cellars.’
‘Thank you Luke.’
‘And it’s a grand morning for a bit of shooting.’
Darcy Dancer proceeding into the farm tunnel. An arm encircling his gun. In this gloomy light walking over the wet cobbles and the damp dripping down the walls. All the years ago now this was built. All the backs bent with digging. All the stones lifted and placed by hand. The hours, days and years of work. Just so as Uncle Willie said, the likes of me could stand at my library and drawing room windows and look out on the undisturbed green gentleness above. And not have my view or mind discomforted by the movement of those who by their big handed hard toil, kept such gentry so agreeably rich and mildly pleased in comfort. Now walk past the stone where Foxy and I came out that night. And the entrance to the subterranean passage down steps where the big rats go scurrying. All the way to the dusty tombs. And all the silly rumour of jewels said to be hidden somewhere out there. That they were supposed secreted away from thieves. But really that they were concealed from my father by my mother. And Uncle Willie said laughingly that if ever I were in dire need he would perhaps give me a map and shovel to go digging. But it was a strange way he said it. Which was not laughing at all. In my delirious sleep I saw my mother. Appear at the foot of my bed in her evening gown. Just as I was allowed to look at her before some grand evening when she sometimes would come to the nursery and kiss me in bed. The diamond necklace around her throat and sparkling in pendants from her ears and bracelets over the white soft kid skin covering her arms to the elbows and glittering too with diamonds. And certainly one does not know now of the whereabouts of such gems. Perhaps there are monstrous massive Thormond or Darcy riches. A cache of gold, pearls, emeralds and rubies. With which I could buy back all our lands again. But like the end of every rainbow I ran to with my sisters, all I ever found was misty rain drops.
Darcy Dancer coming out of the tunnel. Hands up shielding from the sunlight. Ahead the old iron fence and stile and a cattle grid across the road. Air sweet in one’s nostrils. The sky swept bright. A magpie so black and gleaming white on the branch of that tree. Without its mate. Hope to god that doesn’t foretell a spot of ill ruddy luck. Coming too damn soon after quite a goodly batch of it. Interspersed I must frankly admit with some highly agreeable moments indeed. At the tender delicious hands of Miss von B. What a really good useful woman she is. To suddenly make the whole world falling in on one become a world of stunning bliss. She and I could get on awfully well together. She would have her permanent employ. Lots of embroidery to do when she got old like Edna Annie. And once one had absolute proof of her titles we could then perhaps elevate her accordingly. Ah a heron flies there. The big slow flapping wings. The long neck. A lonely bird. Sailing down the wind to the boggy shore of the lake. Dear me one was so tempted this morning to rush to Miss von B’s bedroom. Jump in under the covers beside her. Push my hands up under her bosoms and then try to join them together around her waist. Squeeze and feel her. And now I am equally tempted to blast these pigeons popping all over out of the trees. Only it would give warning of my approach.