Authors: J. P. Donleavy
Mary you're beside me now. And I want to ride on the train to Dublin, along the cliffs and through the tunnels to Bray. When it's raining. You've got tiny ears. And I'll take you to live in a house out Tooting Bee way with Clocklan's quids near by for quick reference. I'll buy a little mower to take outside to the lawn and give it a fast trim every Friday. not much of a lawn because I don't want to overdo this exercise. Ten by ten. We'll have a small sitting room with plants one of which will be a rubber plant And during tea on gray afternoons I want you to read me stories of adventure.
"Why aren't you like this more often, cuddly and cozy and things?"
"I've just been thinking of a little house for us"
"And babies?"
"Oaye."
"You'll give me a baby? I'd like to have one"
"I'm not father proud but that's one of the things I know I can do, Mary. I'm your man"
"And we'll make one tomorrow on Christmas Day?"
"It's Christmas now, Mary"
"No. I want you to come to me. I've got a grill. And four eggs too. And we can have the champagne and brandy after"
"I'm a shit, Mary"
"No you're not."
"Touch of meanness in me."
"I've got a present for you."
"I've nothing for you."
"You've got what I want"
"Mary, really."
"And we'll have a baby"
"Aye."
"And you won't tie my towel in knots again?"
"No knots ever again."
"You look lovely in your suit and your hat and cane. That American girl was after you too, wasn't she?"
"Just wanted a brother in a foreign land. When you're Yank, Mary, only other Yanks are friends."
"She didn't mean anything she said. She was just after your dong. But it's mine."
"For sure, Mary."
Crossing Earl's Court and down the West Cromwell Road. Up over the bridge and the wasteland of train tracks. Out there in the buildings I see dim lights on. Old brains slumbering. And on the roofs the chimney pots are awful twisted things. One of them with a fan squeaks in the Bovir Road. O for God's sake let me feel your pretty little breast, Mary. Let me feel it. Let me touch it. Saint Anthony guide. My hand. You're an awful man, Sebastian but you'll not get me hot. I know your tricks.
"Tell me what my present is, Mary."
"I bought you a pair of woolly slippers."
"Lovely, what color?"
"Brown so they won't show the dirt"
"I'll wear them tomorrow."
"And I've got new underwear and perfume called Jungle Desire and you'll think I'm an animal or something."
"I'll bring me drums, Mary."
A kiss goodbye. And back to the Bovir Road and up the stairs. Where I always feel I'm going to get a bust in the head from some prowler. Violence is forever on my mind. Get the key in this damned evasive hole. I'll run the hot water for a cheap sense of warmth and cheer the room a bit with some steam. A shilling in the meter for sure. Little comforts, little joys. Pull back the bedspread, expose the sheets. And tuck my pillow up and lay me quietly there, ready for the white sky.
Night wakes up. Hear the wind is blowing hard. My bed has been so warm. Shut my window, curtains trembling. My dream was all lament. But the white thin skins of new potatoes washed up in the clay and marrows big as zeppelins hiding in the leaves and tips of willow trees. I was wearing boots in a frog pond. At the end there was a horde coming across the fields with hooks so I swam away to sea.
Rub the chill out of my hands, slap them for heat. I think a sup of my electric fire would be very cordial. Right, ripe, ready, quick like that. Hurry up the hot water to me in the pipes before I pull them out of the house altogether. To wash my face is a great relief and my teeth too. I'll not wear this underwear but get into my suit nude. When I die I want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Dublin. I wonder would they know it was me?
It's good to be up in the early morning, dressed and off on a journey walking. Did you say I tied your towel in knots, Mary? Did you say that? Is it true? Tell me. Is it? That they bring children down upon us by the wrath of God. For fucking.
Coming down the stairs guiding on the smooth banister, stopping in the hall to smell breakfast. Opening the door and coming out into the fierce wind where there is a weak sun in the sky. Turning up this road, a long empty gray. It's cold around my throat. I think I'm weary of my terrifying heart. But not let the cold get to it now because I must keep it hot for hours yet. Now this bridge. Curving up over the trains and their tracks. The grass down there is black. From here 1 can see that massive roof. And Mary, I'm on my way. I never thought I would see elegance again, like the fit crack of my cane on this bridge. Sure it was good of Percy to see me right. How are you now, Mary? Still in the bed? Or up over me rashers? Toast too. Hot bowls of tea. This warehouse badly needing repair. I must stop and look through these busted grimy windows and see what is being stored away. The sun is weak, Mary. The city suffering from emptiness. Can they really all be in the houses? In there is Christmas and fire and the kids having a time with tinny toys. This is the strangest part of London being not one thing and certainly not another.
He was walking down the slope side of the bridge past this broken building, a straight dark figure and stranger. Come here till I tell you. Where is the sea high and the winds soft and moist and warm, sometimes stained with sun, with peace so wild for wishing where all is told and telling. On a winter night I heard horses on a country road, beating sparks out of the stones. I knew they were running away and would be crossing the fields where the pounding would come up into my ears. And I said they are running out to death which is with some soul and their eyes are mad and teeth out.
God's mercy
On the wild
Ginger Man.