The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B (25 page)

Balthazar in rust brown tweed suit. His walking stick and yellow gloves. Crossing towards the barracks buildings. Flat roofed on this flat land. Bereft and lonely. A soft mist. And no one here. Only the hares out on the flying field swivelling their ears as the plane taxied past. And clouds of starlings and flocks of plover. The endless green flat countryside beyond.

A little slope of lawn. In the center a ring of boulders. The flag of Britain flying there. O God she didn't come. Found out all about my saucy escapade. Call the pilot back. I want to leave at once. Take my bag to customs first. Through this door. Along this corridor. Customs man in blue, gold rings round his sleeves. This your only luggage sir. Are you out of that plane. Yes. On holiday. Yes. His smile and mark of chalk. And I go out these doors. And may have to come back through again.

Balthazar B passing out to this waiting room. His cane and his bag. Through these sprawling huts. Look here look there. And no Fitzdare. Maybe wait atop these steps. The rough may have lured her away. Let her wipe her feet in his hair. Now Til go back in again. Eat this great bowl of emptiness. And suddenly turn. So much despair on my face. And see standing there. Watching me. Fitzdare. Like a whole blazing sun in this land so solemn, silent and bare.

A chauffeur in leather leggins, grey uniform and grey peaked cap. Took Balthazar's bag. And held open a door into this black leather topped limousine. An ancient long black car. Fitzdare in a pair of rubber boots. And a zipped up green jacket with folds of maps sticking from the pockets. Her teeth so white and lips so lively red.

"Gosh you've come. I just had to watch you. Looking so lost and strange. I saw you walking from the plane. I apologise for this great old crock of car. But it does get one there. I don't know what to say. Just to see you sitting here. O push those over. My weekly errands in Belfast. Will you have a grape."

"Thank you."

"So funny, you stepping out of that one little plane. Hello."

"Hello."

"I just want to say hello again. I hope you're not too hungry. We've fifty miles to drive. Terence will take us the quickest way. I've been trying to figure one on all my maps but give up. I've got a pocket full of walnuts. Have one."

Narrow empty winding roads. Horses and tractors cutting and raking meadows. White walled farms. Fields cocked with hay. Neat thatched roofs. The muck and mud at fence gates. Churns of milk waiting at the end of lanes. Wheels whirring on the black wet gleaming surface. Fitzdare said through there you can see Lough Neagh. Down across the sodden fields and scrubby trees a grey water haunted and lonely out to the horizon.

"I call it the eely eerie pond. Full of eels. There is an island where there are dangerous rabbits. They fought off the rats. And now the rabbits are so fierce they'll attack and bite a man. The flies are awful in summer. Keeps the shores very lonely. Lot of funny names to our towns. Tanderagee and Ballygawley. O dear I'm sure I sound enthralling as a guide."

Through little towns and villages. Castle ruins silhouetted on the hills. She gives each its name. I ride with an erection. One's hopefully imposing perpendicular. All my own. To cross into County Fermanagh just beyond Fivemiletown. Fitzdare with a signal ability to crack her walnuts. She feeds the meat to me. From the cool palm of her hand. Will confront her father. I've designs on your daughter dad. In the musty upholstery smell of this car. As now Miss Fitzdare sits up. And suddenly shy.

"It's only along here now beyond this bend.. Up there on that hill there's a sort of table land where one can get a marvellous gallop in the wind."

A wall, stones sleeping all stacked up. Beech trees, their smooth grey silver rising high in the sky. A white gate hanging broken from an upper hinge. Bumping over a pot holed drive. An umbrella of rhododendrons. Over a little bridge and stream. The road turning through meadows and another wood, haunted and strangled in vines. Chauffeur slowing to an open gate. The wheels making a ringing noise bumping over the rungs of a cattle trap. Parkland and grasses. Now between two tall stone pillars mossy and green with ivy leaves into a cobble stone courtyard. Fitzdare so still and silent.

"We're here. Everyone's going to mind I brought you in the back door. We've got to get you boots. There's Dingle. See his head sticking out of that stall. Show you him later. I've put you in a room where you can see the lough."

Miss Fitzdare pushing open a brown door. Slamming closed behind us. Cold paving stones. A chill air. Doors, halls and kitchens. Past a shadowy scullery. A grey haired woman turning to look up from her table stacked with greens as we passed by. Who smiled to Fitzdare's smile. A boy with his hair plastered down and parted in the middle. In a tight grey coat, his blue wrists and wrinkled nearly white collar. Carrying Balthazar's bag. He said yes miss and no miss and I don't 256 know about that, miss. A flush of colour on Fitzdare's cheeks. Walking fast and certain on her way.

Through this rambling house. A high long corridor. A print of Trinity Dublin. And out now into a great front hall. Gilded mirrors. A wide staircase. And high up a round skylight. Yellow flowers on the mantels. Portraits watching down. Light blue carpet and marble balustrade up by these wide gentle white stone stairs. Just as Beefy said. Nothing can ever fault one's dignity. Can't believe I'm here. Just behind her. Seems so strange and far away. As she plods in her boots. Following this little boy. Who now lags behind. Haven't seen to that yet, miss. I'll be walking him about four miss. And he gives a little bow of the head and leaves us in this spacious room. A fire blazing. Great sills of the windows. And seats piled high with golden pillows.

"I hope you're going to be comfortable. I've been airing it out for three days. You're west and south. In the morning it's quite magic when the sun is shining on the hills and lake. This was my mother's room. Hope you won't mind the canopied bed. If there's anything you need. Just push the button there. Someone but not a footman will come. You laugh but it really works and someone comes. I know what you're thinking, well you look just as strange standing there to me as I must look to you. Neither one of us has hardly said a word.'"

"It's terribly beautiful. I'm rather speechless."

"Tea will be in twenty minutes. And your bath and dressing room's through there. Just come down. Whenever you're ready. Dear me. Can I just say. Fm so awfully glad you're here. I thought of it so much. And now you are. I'm at such a loss. Look at me. In my gum boots."

Miss Fitzdare a curl of her black hair fallen over her brow. Cool white face I could gather up in my hands and press my lips on her eyes. Grab her shoulders. Pull her down with me on the crimson counterpane. Amid these faint white white walls with drawings of little inky flowers. As she smiles and steps away out the door. To leave me now. And stare out the window. A table under a folded fading awning. The grass so smooth and rolling down to the water's edge. Across a metallic glimmering grey to low pastures and higher hills beyond. Dreamt of her sitting somewhere out there so many times. That a breeze would come and flutter the page of her book as she read. Through the summer afternoons. And she would close it then, to look up at the sky. When life stops in the silence. With only racing buzzing bees and dancing white butterflies. A bird sings. Reach up to put a hand to some dream you kept awake. Now you take it like a red ripe apple and polish quietly up and down one's sleeve. Sent away from college. The sadness is I've left her there. With all the arthropoda. And phylums of polyzoa. And o God the subclass of crossopterygii. As this sky goes so quickly grey. Getting on for rain. A portrait there. Her mother. An elegant face of black hair and blue eyes. Will watch me pull on my knickerbockers. I so specially brought with my heather coloured stockings. To cut at least a sporting figure. Look everywhere here for signs of her. There she sits in this tiny photograph on a donkey and over here on a horse. Row of little leather books. The History of Armagh. My bath and dressing room. Oatmeal soap in this flower covered dish. Soft clear water runs and fills the bowl. Brush my hair. Take lint off the coat. Stocking seams straight. Put on my walking shoes. Cold crystal delicious water to drink. Goes down my throat and washes the soul. Seagulls over the lough. Great slow flapping wings of a heron. The rarest Fitzdare grew up out of this land. On the blackberries and cabbage. And behind those trees, her horses graze. Must rub a little across the toes. Uncle Edouard said a gentleman's shoes should never carry too much shine.

Balthazar B went down the hall. Past the double doors of all these rooms. By portraits of ancestors and stallions held by grooms. Under the great high skylight and step by step down so silently. She brought me in the back door. Means she likes me. Touch these porcelain and alabaster urns. Six candles in the gleaming glass octagonal chandelier. She sat all those months, blue stockinged legs twisted on the stool as she wrote out labels for her collection of marine and fresh water fauna. And now to see Fitzdare here. In all this palace splendour. Where does she sleep. And bathe and take off her clothes. Her back would be white. Lay my hands on her shoulder blades. Must pause. Let my swollen perpendicular die at the bottom of these stairs. So randy in the countryside. And by my watch it's time for tea.

From a soft green velvet sofa chair Miss Fitzdare's father stood up and smiled. Putting out his biggish hand to softly shake mine. His reddish hair, and neat tweed coat. Grey flannel trousers pointing out over thick brown well repaired shoes. A tie with twin white stripes. And freckles on his tan hands. Shorter than Fitzdare. Of a kindly saddish fleshy face. A gold watch chain across his waistcoat. Takes out a great round clock. We all want to know the time.

"Should be tea any moment now. Did you have a pleasant trip."

"Yes thank you."

"Do you like our sad green countryside."

"Yes, it's very beautiful."

"Things look good this time of year. Not so pleasant in the winter. You could have come via Dundalk on the train, a long but rewarding journey. Anyway you got here and I must apologise for my daughter bringing you in the back door."

"That's alright."

"She doesn't mean to be rude. Boodles scolds her the way she plods round the house in gum boots. Kicking off the mud. Not so funny if one has to do the cleaning. How is dear old Trinity."

"Fine."

"I lived up top there in Number Five, overlooking the Bank of Ireland. Used to be the old parliament. And so did my father and grandfather. When the horse cabs went bumping over the cobbles in College Green. Had to rough it then. Suppose things have changed."

"No sir, they haven't."

"Ah well a lot of other things have. Nothing stands still these days. You young people like to rush things along. Natural enough. Get these old stogies out of the way. Do you play billiards."

"Not quite sir.' "Well perhaps you'd like to have a try. I'm sure Elizabeth has a lot of things for you to do. But when one is so far away from the bustle it's hard to get anyone to come over of an evening. People hate to stir. Do you shoot."

"Well not really."

"Ha ha, you mustn't get alarmed. I know how it feels when sporty people start their subtle examinations. But you do look very fit for the field. That's always nine tenths the battle. It's all mostly for the fresh air. Elizabeth's out back there. She has a steeplechaser with a lame hoof. Jumping a bit of wretched wire. Rather a worry for her poor girl. She very much loves and lives for her horses. And her pappy foots the bill. Never mind. It gets up some good mushrooms in the fields. Here's tea. Boodles, port tonight, please. Ah lots of Mary's scones I see. And her gooseberry jam. Thank you."

"Very good sir."

"Mr. B here is with us. At Trinity with Elizabeth."

"Welcome sir."

"Thank you."

"Boodles tell Elizabeth in the yard we're waiting. Just give her a shout."

Fitzdare came through the great wide door, wiping her hands across her tweed skirt. Neat little laced walking shoes on her feet. She smiles at us both and sits on the thick woolly rug before the hearth. Her face makes purring laughter float through me. Curling back her legs under her bottom. Never without her string of pearls. To watch her eat. And sip tea, cup and saucer neatly in hand. Put gooseberry jam between her lips. And chew. Where I would go and taste it there. Just to be that jam. Between her radiant teeth. My legs crossed here on the soft cushions of this chair. In the warmth of eiderdown. A whole moment beyond belief. A daughter and her father. Out the wide windows the blossoms and blooms and over the velvet grass to the haunted dark vines weaving up through the trees. Whither goest that Beefy who said I should marry her. Take her as a wife. Climb up on your mare dear boy. Spend these splendid years ahead. Cantering over the table lands. Where westward all the dark hills lie out upon the blue. And sun goldened bracken between the boggy sharp pointed clumps of grass. How can I ever say, just to squeak out the words. I want to marry you. Take you as a beautiful wife as you will take me with all my hopeless sins. Caught in Donnybrook gardens. Trapped in college rooms. Watching helpless during turmoils crushing a landlady's false teeth. Another throbbing painful erection now. Untrained to keep its place. Gets up to antics in the country. All that green. As Uncle Edouard said a great vintage my boy you will feel between the legs. O God Fitzdare. Your knees. The muscle rising in your calf. You prostrate me. You do. All your black and flowing Celtic hair.

The rooster cries. The sun shone on the purple hills just as she said it would in the morning. And last night we dined in candle light in a great long columned room. With high arched cathedral ceilings. Fitzdare in a long blue flowing dress. Diamonds sparkling on her bosom. I struggled with my black bow tie. Pounding my fist blue on the dressing table. Lost my studs and blackened my cuff. When desperately I wanted to look so nice. Saw all her stables. Her thin leathery faced jodhpured trainer. The boy brushing down the sleek sides of Dingle. And jumping like a cat as a hoof slammed out and splintered the stall. In my sudden fear I shied back and nearly ran. And again gathering up a sporting bravery I tip toed close. To this strange dark stallion with his red glinting eyes. Weaving his head back and forth beyond the bars. And nibbling with his lips and teeth at Fitzdare's hand as I nearly reached up to pull her arm away. And saw this stallion's organ from where I stood grow huge and stiffen long under his belly and my God so did mine and I trembled faint hearted that she might ever see and know the saucy racy thing happening there. And then to whisper a little prayer, please Miss Fitz- dare don't tomorrow ask me to get up on a horse. With visions through the night of those hooves smashing down the great front door. And comes that Dingle pounding up the marble stairs and galloping wildly along the hall to break not through my door but come smashing out and down the whole wall of the room which fell in on me. And so encouraged, all the other horses came too. The whole giant pounding steaming lot of them. Pouring out across the rugs, hooves sliding on the floors. I woke shouting with my fists knotted and held high, grabbing at the halters and reins lashing everywhere. Saying they're coming they're coming right through the wall. Crashing out the stones. Making a storm on this moonlit night. With the heavens passing fast. And there standing over me. A lantern held in his hand. In tasseled night cap and long flowing gown, was Boodle. I said please where am I, turn on the light and he said I'm sorry the electricity is off for the night. And I remembered now. Flying in a plane through the clouds to come here and visit with Fitzdare. Neatly packed and spruce with my gladstone bag. And I said I'm afraid I had a nightmare. Horses came pounding through there out of that wall. And Boodles who slept in a room above said, here, this will help you sleep. I bolted back a whisky. And hoarsely said goodnight, wrapped tight in the blue silk warmth of my pyjamas and head buried in pillows, neck tucked up safely in linen sheet. To see the dawn at the window and thank God that now it's morning. Awake at cock crow. Hear footsteps pass down the hall. Soft rug on my bare feet. And slap water on my face. Look out a window, see if the world is still here just as it was last night. I walk down the stairs, and across the great hall. Lift up the latches. Pull back the heavy door. The air smells young and free. Blanket of sparkling dew out across the grass. And there. Caught in the morning sun. She goes. Galloping. Her hair flying from her head as Dingle's flows out from his mane. A gleaming black body rippling of muscle. Great long legs stretching out on the emerald turf. Please Elizabeth. Please Fitzdare. I feel for the time being a nervous wreck.