More Pricks Than Kicks Read online

  The horns of Otto Olaf sat easily upon him. He knew all there was to be known about Walter Draffin and treated him with special consideration. Any man who saved him trouble, as Walter had for so many years, could rely on his esteem. Thus the treacherous bureaucrat was made free of the house in North Great George's Street where, as formerly he had abused that privilege in the bed of his host, so now he did out of his decanter. Indeed he was subject to such vertiginous satisfactions in his elevated position on Saint Augustine's ladder, the deeds of shame with Mrs bboggs beyond recall in the abyss, that the power to tell himself when would desert him completely.

  Bridie bboggs was nothing at all, neither as wife, as Otto Olaf had been careful to ascertain before he made her one, nor as mistress, which suited Walter's taste for moderation in all things. Unless some small positive value be allowed her in right of the fascination which she seemed to exert over her domestic staff, whose obstinacy in the employment of a mistress neutral to the point of idiocy moved such others as were better equipped and worse served to expressions of admiration that were not free of malice, no doubt.

  The elder daughter was very dull. Think of holy Juliana of Norwich, to her aspect add a dash of souring, to her tissue half a hundredweight of adipose, abstract the charity and prayers, spray in vain with opopanax and assafoetida, and behold a radiant Una after a Hammam and a face massage. But withal she rejoiced in one accomplishment for which Belacqua had no words to express his respect, namely, an ability to play from memory, given the opening bar, any Mozart sonata whatsoever, with a xylophonic precision and an even-handed mezzo forte that scorned to observe the least distinction between those notes that were significant and those that were not. Belacqua, anxious to improve his position with Una, who held him and all that pertained to him in the greatest abhorrence, would control these feats, choking with admiration, in Augener's edition; which trouble, however, he very soon learned to spare himself.

  A little bird whispered when to Walter Draffin who, with his right hand thus released, drew from his pocket a card and read, printed in silver on an azure ground:

  Mr and Mrs Otto Olaf bboggs

  request the pleasure of

  Mr Walter Draffin's

  Company

  at the marriage of their daughter

  THELMA

  with

  MR BELACQUA SHUAH

  at the Church of Saint Tamar

  Glasnevin

  on Saturday, 1st August,

  at 2:30 P.M.

  and afterwards

  at 55 North Great George's Street

  55 North Great George's Street R.S.V.P.

  How like an epitaph it read, with the terrible sigh in the end-pause of each line. And yet, thought Walter, quenching the conceit as he did so, one might have expected a little enjambment in an invitation to such an occasion. Ha! He drew back his head from the card in order that he might see it as a whole. A typical Bridie bboggs production. What did it remind him of? A Church of Ireland Sunday School certificate of good conduct and regular attendance? No. They had his in the old home locked up in the family Bible, marking the place where Lamentations ended and Ezekiel began. Then perhaps the menu of an Old Boys Reunion Dinner, incorporating the School colours? No. Walter heaved a heavy sigh. He knew it reminded him of something, but what that something was, over and above Bridie and her sense of style, he could not discover. No doubt it would come back to him when he was least expecting it. But his little enjambment joke was pretty hot. He slaked it a second time. The only thing he did not like about it was its slight recondity, so few people knowing what an enjambment was. For example, it could not be expected to convulse a snug. Well, he must just put it into his book.

  Under separate cover by the same post he received a note from Mrs bboggs: “Dear Walter, Both Otto and I are most anxious that you, as such an old friend of the family, should propose the health of the happy couple. We do hope, dear Walter, and I feel confident, that you will.” To which he hastened to reply: “Dear Bridie, Of course I shall be most happy and honoured to perform.”

  Dear Otto Olaf! Wrapped up in his tables and chairs and allowing himself to be duped, as he knew, by Walter and, as he thought, by Belacqua. Let Mr Draffin, who had been of service, drink his whiskey; and Thelma, that by-product of a love-encounter, bestow herself on whom she pleased. Let there be a circus wedding by all means, his house invaded and his furniture wrecked. The days that came after would be of better rest. Dear Otto Olaf!

  Belacqua prepared to negotiate a loan sufficient to meet his obligations, which fell heavily on a man of his modest condition. There was the ring (Lucy's redeemed), the endless fees relative to the ceremony, duties to vicar, verger, organist, officiating clergymen and bell-ringers, the big bridal bouquet, the little nosegays for the maids, new linen and other indispensable household effects, to say nothing at all of the price of a quick honeymoon, which fiasco, touring Connemara in a borrowed car, he had no intention of allowing to run away with more than a week or ten days.

  His best man helped him to work it out over a bottle.

  “I do not propose—” said Belacqua, when the average of their independent estimates had been augmented by ten pounds for overhead expenses.

  “Overhead!” cackled the best man. “Very good!”

  Belacqua shrank in a most terrifying manner.

  “Either I misunderstand you” he said “or you forget yourself.”

  “Beg pardon” said the best man, “beg pardon, beg pardon. No offence.”

  Belacqua came back into the picture at his own convenience.

  “I do not propose” he resumed “to affront you with a gift on this delicate occasion.”

  The best man bridled and squirmed at the mere suggestion.

  “But” Belacqua made haste to extenuate this refinement of feeling “if you would care to have the original manuscript of my Hypothalamion, corrected, autographed, dated, inscribed and half-bound in time-coloured skivers, you are more than welcome.”

  Capper Quin, for so we must call him, known to his admirers as Hairy, he was so glabrous, and to the ladies as Tiny, he was so enormous, was not merely a bachelor, and thus qualified to attend Belacqua without violence to etiquette, but also one of the coming writers, which accounts for his alacrity to hold the hat of a member of the Cuttings Association. He now choked with gratification.

  “Oh” he gasped “really I … really you …” and broke down. To construct a sentence with subject, predicate and object Hairy required a pencil and a sheet of paper.

  “Capper” said Belacqua, “say no more. I'll have it made up for you.”

  When Hairy had quite done panting his pleasure he held up his hand.

  “Well” said Belacqua.

  “Thyme-coloured” said Hairy, and broke down.

  “Well” said Belacqua.

  “Sage-green” said Hairy. “Am I right?”

  In the dead silence that followed this suggestion Hairy received the impression that his patron's spirit had left its prison, on ticket of leave at all events, and was already casting about for something light and hey nonny that would serve to cover his own departure when Belacqua made answer, in a voice blistered with emotion:

  “Ouayseau bleheu, couleurre du temps,

  Vole à mouay, promptement.”

  and bust into tears.

  Hairy rose and trode with penetrating softness to the door. Tact, he thought, tact, tact, the need for tact at a time like this.

  “Study our duties” sobbed Belacqua “and call me not later than twelve.”

  The bboggses were gathered together in conclave.

  “Thelma” said Una with asperity “let us kindly have your attention.”

  For Thelma's thoughts, truant to the complicated manoeuvres required of a snow-white bride, had flown on the usual wings to Galway, Gate of Connaught and dream of stone, and more precisely to the Church of Saint Nicolas whither Belacqua projected, if it were not closed when they arrived, to repair without delay and kneel, with
her on his right hand at last for a pleasant change, and invoke, in pursuance of a vow of long standing, the spirits of Crusoe and Columbus, who had knelt there before him. Then no doubt, as they returned by the harbour to integrate their room in the Great Southern, she would see the sun sink in the sea. How was it possible to give them her attention with such a prospect opening up before her? Oh well is thee, and happy shalt thou be.

  Otto Olaf sang a little song. Mrs bboggs just sat, a big blank beldam, scarcely alive. Una struck the table sharply with a big pencil. When some measure of order had been restored, some little show of attention, she said, consulting her list:

  “We have only five maids: the Clegg twins and the Purefoy triplets.”

  This statement was not disputed. It seemed to Otto Olaf that five was a very respectable haul. It would have been considered so in his day.

  “But we need nine” cried Una.

  By good fortune a thought now presented itself to Mrs bboggs.

  “My dear” she said, “would not seven be ample?”

  For two pins Una would have walked out of the conference.

  “I think not” she said.

  The idea! As though it were the wind-up of the football season.

  “However” she added “it is not my wedding.”

  The ironical tone conveyed to this concession provoked Thelma to side with her mother for once. At no time indeed was this an easy matter, Mrs bboggs being almost as non-partisan as Pope Celestine the fifth. Dante would probably have disliked her on this account.

  “I am all in favour” said Thelma “of as few as is decent.”

  “It's a very distinguished quorum” said Otto Olaf, “more so even than nine.”

  “As head maid” said Una “I protest.”

  Again Mrs bboggs came to the rescue. She had never been in such form.

  “Then that leaves one” she said.

  “What about Ena Nash?” said Thelma.

  “Impossible” said Una. “She reeks.”

  “Then the McGillycuddy woman” said Otto Olaf.

  Mrs bboggs sat up.

  “I know of no McGillycuddy woman” said Una. “Mother, do you know of any McGillycuddy woman?”

  No, Mrs bboggs was completely in the dark. She and Una therefore began to wait indignantly for an explanation.

  “Sorry” said Otto Olaf, “no offence.”

  “But who is the woman?” cried mother and daughter together.

  “I spoke without thinking” said Otto Olaf.

  Mrs bboggs was utterly nonplussed. How was it possible to name a woman without thinking? The thing was psychologically impossible. With mouth ajar and nostrils dilated she goggled psychological impossibilities at the offender.

  “Hell roast the pair of you” he said in a sudden pet, “I was only joking.”

  Mrs bboggs, though still entirely at a loss, made up her mind in a flash to accept this explanation. Una was not in the least amused. In fact she was sorely tempted to wash her hands of the whole affair.

  “I propose Alba Perdue” she said. It was really more a nomination than a proposal.

  “That is her last word” observed Otto Olaf.

  Alba Perdue, it may be remembered, was the nice little girl in A Wet Night. Thelma, whom Belacqua had favored with his version of that half-remembered love, could hardly dissemble her great satisfaction. When the turmoil of her blood had sufficiently abated she pronounced, in a voice just loud enough to be heard, this most depreciative hyperbole.

  “I second that.”

  Now it was Otto Olaf's turn to make inquiries.

  “I understand” said Una who, unlike her father, could give a plain answer to a plain question, “correct me, Thelma, if I am wrong, an old flame of the groom.”

  “Then she won't act” said the simple Otto Olaf.

  Even Mrs bboggs could not refrain from joining in the outburst of merriment that greeted this fatuity. Una in particular seemed certain to do herself an injury. She trembled and perspired in a most fearful manner.

  “Oh my God!” she panted, “won't act!”

  But Nature takes care of her own and a loud rending noise was heard. Una stopped laughing and remained perfectly still. Her bodice had laid down its life to save hers.

  Belacqua was so quiescent during the fortnight that preceded the ceremony that it almost seemed as though he were to suffer a complete metamorphosis. He had left all the arrangements to the discretion of Capper Quin, saying: “Here is the money, do the best you can.”

  But before being overtaken by this inertia, which proceeded partly from fatigue and partly no doubt from the need for self-purification, he had been kept busy in a number of ways: finding a usurer, redeeming the ring, and searching among the hags for two to tally with Mr and Mrs bboggs in the interest of the nuptial jamboree. In the prosecution of this last duty Belacqua was called upon to sustain every kind of abusive denial and suffer Lucy's posthumous temperature to be thrown in his face, as though she were a bottle of white Burgundy. Until finally a female cousin, so remote as to be scarcely credible, and a kind of moot Struldbrug, to whom Belacqua's father had used to refer as “dear old Jimmy the Duck,” agreed to rise to the occasion. Hermione Näutzsche and James Skyrm were the names of these two deadbeats. Belacqua had not laid eyes on either of them since he was an infant prodigy.

  Except for a short daily visit from Thelma, swallowed as being all in the game. Belacqua's retreat was undisturbed. The wedding gifts flowed in, not upon him, for he was friendless, but upon her, and she encouraged him day by day with the bulletin of their development.

  She arrived one afternoon in a state of some excitement. Belacqua raised himself in the bed to be kissed, which he was with such unexpected voracity that he went weak before the end. Poor fellow, he had not been giving due attention to his meals.

  “Your present is got” she said.

  To Belacqua, who had been setting aside a portion of each day for polyglot splendours, this phrase came as a great shock. Perhaps the present would make him amends.

  “It came this morning” she said.

  “At what time exactly?” said Belacqua, easing his nerves in the usual sneer. “That is most important.”

  “What devil” said Thelma, her gaiety all gone, “makes you so beastly?”

  Ah, if he only knew.

  “But it so happens” she said “that I can tell you.”

  Belacqua thought for a bit and then plumped for saying nothing.

  “Because” she proceeded “the first thing I did was to set it.”

  The hideous truth dawned on his mind.

  “Not a clock” he implored, “don't say a grandfather clock.”

  “The grandfather and mother” she did say “of a period clock.”

  He turned his face to the wall. He who of late years and with the approval of Lucy would not tolerate a chronometer of any kind in the house, for whom the local publication of the hours was six of the best on the brain every hour, and even the sun's shadow a torment, now to have this time-fuse deafen the rest of his days. It was enough to make him break off the engagement.

  Long after she had gone he tossed and turned until the thought, like God appearing to a soul in hell, that he could always spike the monster's escapement and turn its death's-head to the wall, came in the morning with the canticle of the ring-doves. Then he slept.

  What time Capper Quin was here, there and everywhere, attending to the interests of his principal. Conscious of his own shortcomings in a matter so far removed from the integrities of self-expression, he engaged, on the basis of a modest inverted commission, to aid him in his work, one Sproule, a lately axed jobber to a firm in the City, whose winning manner and familiarity with the shopping centres north of the river were beyond rubies. Bright and early on the fateful Saturday they met to buy the bouquets, the big one for the bride and the seven nosegays.

  “Mrs bboggs” said Hairy, “ought we?”

  “Ought we what?” said Sproule.

  “I thou
ght maybe a bloom” said Hairy.

  “Superfoetation” said Sproule.

  He led the way to a florist's off Mary Street. The proprietress, having just discovered among her stock an antirrhinum with the rudiment of a fifth stamen, was highly delighted.

  “Oh, Mr Sproule sir” she exclaimed, “would you believe it…”

  “Good morning” said Sproule. “One large orchid and seven of your best ox-eyes.”

  Now Capper Quin, however unsuited to strike a bargain, was endowed with a sense of fitness, and one so exquisite indeed that he could make himself clear in its defence.

  “On behalf of my client” he said “I must insist on two orchids.”

  “By all means” said Sproule. “Make it three, make it a dozen.”

  “Two” repeated Hairy.

  “Two large orchids” said Sproule “and seven of your best ox-eyes.”

  As though by magic wand the nine blooms appeared in her hand.

  “Four lots” said Sproule, “one, two, three and one with orchids.” Rapidly he equated addresses and consignments on a sheet of paper. “So” he said, “first thing.”

  She now mentioned a sum that caused the buyer great amusement. He appealed to Hairy.

  “Mr Quin” he said, “do I wake or sleep?”

  She not merely made good her figures but mentioned that she had to live. Sproule could not see the connexion. He pinched his cheek to make sure he was not in Nassau Street.

  “My dear madam” he said, “we do not have to live in Nassau Street.”

  This thrust so weakened his adversary that she suffered him to place specie in her hand.

  “Take this” he said, in a eucharistic voice, “or leave it.”