‘Even a king.’
‘Of course, even a king. He feels important in the eyes of God.’
‘I am an atheist.’
‘Only because you are nobody important. Except to me.’
We parted kissing. And I said I will return quickly. And as she tapped me on the tip of my nose with her finger she said, and I hope quietly and discreetly. And I checked every direction and especially for sounds on the staircases before proceeding in darkness in pyjamas, slippers and dressing gown, to Miss von B’s room. And who minds being no one important if I am important to her. Lock the door behind me as I enter into her pleasant smells.
‘Hello my little potato digger.’
‘I’m not speaking to you if that is the attitude you are adopting.’
‘But it is my term of endearment for you. Then I shall call you my prince.’
‘Yes, I do far prefer that.’
The candle burning on her dresser and moonlight coming in the window. Her riding clothes neatly laid over a chair. Not like my room where everything was strewn until someone else picked it up. And the top of her pair of boots crowned with her bowler. And together we will have many more hunting days soon. I may even keep my own pack of hounds. Jog the jolly doggies up and down dale. For the greater glory of their fine fettle. Invite only those with the proper social credentials who were also consummate masters of equitation to join one. Then as M.F.H. with her royal blonde beauteous highness just behind me, we would together set the entire hunting world astir with great rampages across the pastures of Thormondstown. Show those select few, sport of such majesty and magnificence that all would gladly die in satisfied joy following the close of day as they took their final sips of after dinner port. And of course I would have the field obey me as slaves. And any gentleman who mounted a lady or even pulled down their breeches to examine her bruises and scratches would be banned. Till next hunting season. Vets of course would come fully equipped with the necessary splints and bandages and would have handy their amputation knives. But be forbidden to fight with these. Especially with another of this profession as was frequently the case, due to their conflicting opinions given various clients on their ailing horses for whose costly demise one vet promptly blamed the other. So much squalor permeates the hunting field these days perpetrated by those who would attempt to make hunting history by their signally bizarre behaviour. Ruffians most odious. Of course anyone with the gall to even mildly flaunt my wishes in the field would succeed in making me immediately take the hounds home. But for those of the true spirit I would indeed provide such wild blood inspiring sporting gaiety that nothing in anyone’s life would succeed in vying with it.
‘And what my prince have you so intently on your mind that you should stand there like that.’
‘I am going to form my own pack of hounds.’
‘Ah, in your scarlet coat you will be master.’
‘Yes as a matter of fact.’
‘My prince. My master. How sad. I did so like you as my dear little bog trotter.’
Instead of taking off my pyjamas I just wish I had enough self discipline to deny my randy desperation and to just turn in my slippers and depart when she makes fun of me so. But dear me she is so attractive as she lies waiting there for me in bed. Her eyes look out, just looking. Somewhere there in the dark. The side of her face in moonlight and her smile just smiling. As I fold my pyjamas and gown, both in my mother’s racing colours which really I shouldn’t keep on wearing. And certainly not as I take a hurdle in Miss von B’s direction. Tingling all over. As one might do in the roar of hooves in a point to point race. Crashing over and through the willow branches of the jumps. Turf and leather flying. To be a haughty winner. Just as one seems to be so awfully proud standing here barefoot and rudely pointing one’s penis. And I must confess I did dally there centre carpet wanting her to see and I hope to admire it because the thought of her looking at it really made it glow. Lit up like a bicycle lamp. And her smile got bigger. She winked and pulled an edge of the bedcovers back. Her hand bringing out the yard stick which to my absolute astonishment was the same one Mr Arland used in the schoolroom. Good god she is going to hit me. Just like her previous slap. And I am indeed stepping right back the hell out of here.
‘Ah my darling. Ah my dear little darling. It is your rudder. Your weathercock. I am only going to measure. Not to strike you.’
‘Well thank god for that. I honestly thought you were going to give me a thwack. And you do, you know at times, really confuse me so that I hardly know what to expect next.’
‘Ah but this time. All is different. Come up close now.’
‘I won’t actually. Not till you absolutely promise this isn’t just a trick.’
‘It is not believe me. We shall see how many inches long it is. I promise. No trick.’
‘You promise.’
‘But of course my sweet. Once we have your measurement then when I make for you your social recommendation we will put how long it is and I will sign it. Hold still. My it is very stuck up and extremely upper class, according to both the width and the length. Ah you see, that is how long it is. Clearly you qualify for the Almanach de Gotha. Alright get me paper.’
Of course how was one to know Miss von B was again only joking. She is so very good at pretending. But damn. I did stupidly get her a piece of Andromeda Park notepaper. Upon which she drew an extremely risqué silhouette of one’s personal part thereon. Writing in big letters underneath. BOGTROTTER. Which when showing it to me she laughingly pulled away.
‘But my sweet do you not now know that with this important paper you may enter the very best of social circles.’
I promptly pushed the offending document right up into her face. Promptly starting another fight. Grabbing her hands. As she strove again exerting all her strength to throw me over. But this time I had her half trapped under the thick pile of bedcovers and she just suddenly gave up and I fell an easy winner on top. To then climb in bed beside her. That wonderful feeling of feeling her touching all up and down me. And we kissed each other everywhere. Rolling about locking and unlocking our arms. I adored the way her head arched back on the pillow and the sinews stretched along her throat out to her shoulders as her jaw opened and her head turned back and forth and a frown came above her eyes as she groaned. One cannot imagine this activity ever being called impurity. As Foxy said it was preached from every altar in Ireland. Sins of the flesh. And hers so smooth on her long stemmed body. Beneath me. That I entwine open armed. Once full of hunger. Once fleeing saving her life. Her voice quiet and soft. When telling her tales of fear. Without a sorrow. Or regret. You want so much to live. When all around you want you to die. She speaks with her greyest, her bluest her greenest of eyes. Press lips on the soft cheeks. See her now. As I will last remember her. If ever I go away. And no longer can gather up. All her white tall body. Her bones. Her eyes. Lay with them held. By every soft pressure of flesh. If this makes me a sinner. Here I am then god. Blackened in joy under your celestial blue.
‘What my darling, what is that.’
‘It’s I think a carriage. On the drive.’
‘Who could it be.’
‘No one this time of night. It’s gone past to the servants’ entrance. It could be Luke or anyone coming back from the pub.’
‘O god you are so sweet. That you have made love for me beautiful once more. That our bodies should touch so natural and just be as they should. If only you were not so young.’