The Dust That Falls From Dreams

by Louis de Bernières

  ‘What can you mean? Oh! I see! No, I’m not here to get married, or engaged, or whatever. The fact is that I can’t possibly get married when I have no income to speak of. I think one has a responsibility to support one’s wife properly, and to send one’s children to a decent school. Besides, I’ve spent most of my recent life in one of the most savage places on earth. I’m quite unfit for civilisation.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re not,’ said Ottilie. ‘Archie, you really ought to come back. I’m sure there’s lots you can do. You even speak French. You’re frightfully noble, and all that, but really you’re being a little bit old-fashioned. The war did change everything, you know. People married in droves during the war, without any money or forethought at all.’

  ‘It’s sweet of you to say so, but I am a lost cause, I’m sure of it. I’m only fit to instruct grown RAF officers on how to a do a Khattak sword dance and a Chitrali vulture dance, and lead tribesmen in battles against their own kind. And I’m too old. I’m a lot older than Daniel, you know.’

  ‘Oh, Archie, don’t. Of course I know how old you are. I always looked up to you most tremendously. You seemed so…grown up and out of reach, somehow.’

  He looked into her large brown eyes, and realised that she still doted on him even after all this time. It occurred to him once again that it might be very nice to be married to her. She was a good soul, a gentle hard-working girl who had done her bit in the war, and deserved a happy and normal future. She’d be a good mother too, and he would have liked to have children. Then he looked over at Rosie and caught her eye. She held his gaze for a solemn moment, and then dropped her eyes away.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ he thought to himself. ‘It would have been better not to come. She’s my brother’s now, and I’m well and truly scuppered. Entièrement foutu. The best I can hope for is a grave in Peshawar.’

  ‘I might go back early,’ he said to Ottilie. ‘We’re expecting another uprising. Waziris this time. Wouldn’t like to miss it.’

  Ottilie looked from him to Fluke. She had been very attracted to the latter when they had first met. She still was, in truth, but it was Archie she had always hankered for, even though he was in India and she hardly ever saw him. Part of her devotion to him was brought about by her natural sympathy for someone who seemed to have been born to melancholy and defeat. He made her feel maternal and sisterly.

  Daniel came up and clapped Archie on the back ‘Frater meus! Time for the last event. Let’s prepare!’

  ‘ “Frater mi”, I think you’ll find,’ said Archie. ‘The vocative of “meus” isn’t declined like “bonus”.’

  ‘Well, frater mi, it’s time to get out on the lawn and arm ourselves.’

  ‘Onward the Pals!’ said Archie gloomily. ‘Those that are left.’

  ‘Time to turn out the lights!’ announced Daniel. ‘Not a glimmer from any nook! Nor cranny! All gather in the conservatory! The spectacle is about to begin!’

  ‘Shall I bawl out “The March of the Gladiators”?’ suggested Fluke.

  ‘No,’ said Daniel, ‘everyone will think we’re clowns, and not noctambulant prestidigitators.’

  ‘Ooh,’ exclaimed Sophie, who, delighted by Daniel’s phrase, clapped her hands together and hugged them to her chest.

  Fluke, Archie, Daniel and Fairhead went down the steps into the garden, the company assembled in the conservatory, Esther sat on her mother’s knee, and Millicent was sent scurrying about the house to dowse the lights. It was quite suddenly very dark indeed.

  Down at the far end of the lawn two matches flared, two brilliant fires broke out, and then quite suddenly they flew diagonally across the lawn, passing each other in the middle. Then they hurtled down the sides, and across the ends, only to be sent diagonally past each other once more.

  It was wondrously beautiful to see these balls of flame accelerating through the darkness. There was something primeval and exciting about it, something inexplicable. They heard Daniel’s voice calling ‘Flick!’ and the balls of flame were stopped dead, and then, after ‘One, two, three!’, they arced into the air, stopped, arced again, criss-crossed continuously, until, one after the other, the flames went out, leaving only the smell of smoke and fuel in the air.

  ‘Lights on!’ cried Daniel.

  The lights were rekindled, and moments later the four men reappeared, pleased with themselves, somewhat sootied about the clothes and hands.

  ‘How did you do that?’ asked Ottilie. ‘I haven’t seen anything so marvellous in all my life!’

  ‘A splendid show,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘Most ingenious. My congratulations!’

  ‘All you need,’ said Fairhead, ‘are hockey sticks and some hockey balls wrapped in rags and soaked in petrol. And matches. And people who know how to play hockey.’

  ‘Can we see it again tomorrow?’ asked Ottilie eagerly.

  ‘Of course, but we’ll have to go and get another can of petrol, or there’ll be nothing for the mower. And tomorrow afternoon we’re playing cricket, ladies against gentlemen.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair,’ said Rosie. ‘And when are we going to do any dancing?’

  ‘It’ll be terribly fair,’ replied Archie. ‘The ladies will be armed with full-sized men’s crickets bats.’

  ‘Is that fair?’

  ‘It is when you consider that the men will be armed with broomsticks. All bowling will be done left-handed. Unless you are left-handed, of course.’

  ‘It’ll be a fiasco,’ said Fairhead.

  ‘Well, we certainly hope so,’ said Daniel.

  ‘It’ll be superhyperfun,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Can’t stay, I’m afraid,’ said Fluke. ‘Wife and children, Christmas, unfortunately. Got to get back before curfew.’

  The cricket was indeed a fiasco. In the time-honoured tradition of cricket, nobody won. It was generally agreed that Mrs McCosh was by far the most talented player. She had struck a ball into the Pendennises’ garden, and broken a window in their greenhouse. Afterwards they played billiards with table-tennis balls, employing the butt ends of golf clubs for cues, and then they danced to Daniel’s gramophone. At the end Caractacus came and put on his own show, chasing a golf ball all about the room, and then climbing up the curtain and perching on the pelmet, where he batted at the ostrich feather with which Mr McCosh was teasing him.

  82

  Millicent and Dusty Miller

  Cookie was with Mrs McCosh, going through the next week’s menus at the dining-room table, and down in the kitchen Constable Dusty Miller was ladling heaps of sugar into his mug of tea.

  ‘Here, hold on!’ exclaimed Millicent. ‘That’s too much! You and Chalky do us out of sugar every week, and every week Cookie has to make up a reason for where it’s all gone. And you’re going to have your teeth rotted out.’

  ‘Can’t ’elp it. Got a sweet tooth. I like sweet things. That’s why I like you.’

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘I said you’re sweet,’ replied Dusty.

  ‘Give over,’ said Millicent, ‘or I’ll belt you one right round the lughole.’

  ‘Ooh, scary,’ said Dusty Miller

  He stirred his tea thoughtfully, and asked, ‘Why do you think I keep coming ’ere, love?’

  ‘’Cause you’re a lazy copper who likes to drink a cuppa tea halfway round his beat, that’s why. And you like the drop scones.’

  ‘No, it ain’t. I can drink tea at the station any time. I come ’ere to see you.’

  Millicent sat down at the kitchen table, and said, ‘I s’pose you know about Hutch.’

  ‘Course I know about Hutch. I was here when he came in and dropped, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I just got this feeling, see?’

  ‘What feeling?’

  ‘I loved him, Dusty, I really did love him. I thought we was going to get hitched. You know, happily ever after and all that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I know all that.’

  ‘Look, Dusty, I like you a lot, but I got something holding me back.�
��

  ‘Hutch?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where’s he buried, then?’

  ‘Walthamstow.’

  ‘Let’s go and visit him.’

  ‘Visit him? What are you on about?’

  ‘Let’s go and look at his grave. You got Sunday off, haven’t you?’

  ‘Afternoon. We have to go to church in the morning. Gives me a chance to snooze a bit at the back.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be down at the Tarn with a combination. You make sure you’re all togged up, ’cause it does get bloody cold and it ain’t even spring yet. Two o’clock all right?’

  ‘Half past one,’ said Milllicent. ‘I didn’t know you had a motorbike.’

  ‘I don’t. I’ll borrow one off my mate Smiffy. He’s a scrap merchant. I know him because every time something metal gets nicked, the idiot what stole it tries to sell it to him, so I just go straight down to Smiffy’s.’

  ‘What’s in it for Smiffy?’

  ‘Every time a car gets smashed up and I’m on the scene I recommend the owner go to Smiffy for the best price.’

  ‘Is that pukka?’

  ‘What the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve,’ said Dusty. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday. Down at the Tarn. Half past one.’

  So it was that after an eventful journey, which included stopping to look at the Tower of London and a near miss involving a bolting dray horse, they found themselves standing side by side over Hutch’s grave. It was well grassed over and the headstone had already lost the spruce look of newness. Millicent bent down and placed a posy of flowers, then she stood up and said, ‘Hello, Hutch darling.’

  Dusty put down the single rose that he had brought, and said nothing at all, letting Millicent weep at his side. He resisted the temptation to put an arm around her or to try and console her.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Millicent at last, ‘it isn’t him down there, is it? I mean, it’s what’s left of what he used be.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he’s down there,’ said Dusty. ‘It’s like when you see someone die. What’s left isn’t them at all, is it? You can tell there ain’t nobody in there. Anyway, why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Ask him what?’

  ‘Ask him if Dusty’s all right. Go on, ask him. Say “Is Dusty all right?” ’

  Millicent looked down at the grass, with its sad collection of overblown snowdrops that were waiting to rot back into their roots, and said, ‘Hutch darling, is Dusty all right?’

  They stood side by side, until Millicent’s hand crossed the little space between them, and slid into his.

  ‘I reckon he thinks you’re all right,’ said Millicent.

  As they were leaving, Dusty said, ‘Will you wait just a mo? I want to say something to Hutch. On me own, like.’

  Millicent waited by the lychgate, and a freezing wind suddenly whipped up her hair and made her eyes water all over again.

  Dusty squatted down by the grave and patted the turf. He said, ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one.’ Then he straightened up, returned his cap to his head and rejoined Millicent, saying, ‘Madam, your carriage awaits.’

  ‘You know what, Dusty?’ said Millicent. ‘I don’t half feel a lot better. And another thing…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t half look a bit strange without a uniform on.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it, love, you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Quite handsome, really.’

  ‘Give over.’

  The following day Millicent was cleaning the morning room whilst Rosie was reading at the window seat, when she suddenly said, ‘Please, Miss Rosie, can I ask you something? I mean, I know it’s not my place to ask, but…’

  ‘What is it, Millicent? I probably won’t ask my mother to dismiss you.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, miss…have you ever…I mean, have you…have you thought about visiting Mr Ashbridge’s grave?’

  ‘No, Millicent. I really don’t think I could bear it.’

  ‘You could, miss, you could. If you don’t mind me saying so, miss, I think it would do you a lot of good.’

  ‘Millicent, what on earth has brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing, miss. Sorry, miss. But yesterday I went and visited Hutch.’

  ‘And it did you good?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Well, one day I’ll go to France. I’m bound to, aren’t I?’

  ‘I think you should, miss.’

  ‘Thanks, Millicent. You’re very kind.’

  ‘It’s nothing, miss.’

  83

  The Troglodyte

  The family sat at table and bowed their heads. Mr McCosh was on the point of saying grace when his wife said quite unexpectedly, ‘I think it would be very nice if Daniel were to say grace.’

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘Really?’

  ‘I am sure the Lord becomes wearied by always hearing the same grace. Perhaps you would like a turn. Do you mind, my dear?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mr McCosh, who was indeed a little put out by this unwarranted intervention. ‘But the poor boy may have nothing prepared.’

  ‘As you know,’ said Daniel, ‘I have no great association with God. We are nodding acquaintances only, after many years of mutual neglect.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘I find it impossible to see how anyone could remain moral unless he believes that the Supreme Being is keeping an eye on him. We do disgraceful things when unsupervised, do we not?’

  ‘I lack the inclination to do disgraceful things,’ said Daniel with barely concealed hostility, ‘and I think that one should behave properly because it is right, and not because one is commanded.’

  ‘It’s an interesting question,’ observed Captain Fairhead. ‘Does God command something because it is good, or is something good because God commands it? If the answer is the former, which I think it is, then it follows that morality and religion are logically distinct.’

  ‘Gracious me!’ exclaimed Mrs McCosh. ‘And you a clergyman! I am not sure I follow what you said, but I am certain that you must be a heretic!’

  ‘It’s more than likely,’ said Fairhead equably.

  ‘Do you have a grace that is always said in your family?’ asked Ottilie, addressing Daniel.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘It would be awfully agreeable to hear it,’ she said.

  ‘Well, certainly, if you like,’ said Daniel.

  They bowed their heads, folded their hands together and closed their eyes. Daniel said softly:

  ‘Pour les bonnes choses sur la table,

  Pour les belles choses dans la vie,

  Pour l’amour, la paix, la poésie,

  Dieu soit béni.’

  They all opened their eyes and looked at him in astonishment, with the exception of Mrs McCosh, whose face betrayed irritation and disapproval.

  ‘That was so beautiful,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘My mother made it up,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Gracious me,’ said Christabel, ‘you must ask her to make it longer, so that it’s even more like a poem. I’d like that so very much.’

  ‘What does it mean, though?’ asked Mr McCosh. ‘I am feeling left out.’

  ‘It means: “For the good things on the table, for the beautiful things in life, for love, peace and poetry, God be blessed,” ’ said Daniel.

  ‘You mean to say that it is not an official grace?’ asked Mrs McCosh.

  ‘I am sure it has become hallowed by use in Daniel’s family,’ offered Rosie, who was aware that her husband was once again suppressing the anger that his mother-in-law continually aroused in him, ‘and every grace must have been made up by someone at some time.’

  There was a lapse in this conversation as Millicent came in bearing a large silver platter, upon which there was a dish of brawn, compressed whimsically into the shape of a chicken.

  They were only a little way into their meal when Mrs McCosh returned to the fray. ‘I am convinced’, she said, ‘that F
rench is an inappropriate language in which to address Our Lord.’

  ‘Are you proposing that God doesn’t understand French?’ asked Daniel, knowing that he was being provoked, and, knowing that he should not rise to the bait, rising nonetheless.

  ‘Not at all. That would be most absurd. But French is a light and frivolous language, is it not? One would not expect Him to take it seriously. English has so much more weight and pith.’

  ‘Pith?’ repeated Sophie, giggling. ‘Pith?’

  ‘Yeth. Pith!’ said Mrs McCosh.

  Sophie’s shoulders heaved and she nearly spat out her mouthful of brawn. She spluttered, got up from her seat and ran out. They could hear her giving way to peals of laughter in the morning room.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with the girl?’ asked Mrs McCosh.

  ‘Must have been something you said,’ said Mr McCosh, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

  ‘I do apologise on my wife’s behalf,’ said Fairhead. ‘I can’t imagine what’s come over her.’

  ‘When I was a girl,’ said Christabel, ‘and I went to stay with that family in Normandy, I was utterly amazed at the cleverness of the dogs.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Daniel. ‘Why so?’

  ‘Well, they all understood French. If you said “Assieds-toi”, they sat down.’

  ‘I think you’re saying that English is the natural language of dogs as well as of God?’

  ‘That’s what I assumed when I was a little girl,’ said Christabel. ‘Naturally, I am not so naive in my old age.’

  Mrs McCosh glared at her. ‘I think you are declaring that I am naive. I am hardly naive.’

  ‘Philosophically malnourished, perhaps,’ suggested Daniel, under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.

  ‘How dare you! And, furthermore, I must tell you that I most strongly disapprove of your occasional lapses of manners when you are at this table! In this country it is not customary to sit with your elbows on the table. Your arms should be at your side and you should not rest your wrists on the table. And you should not pick up bones to chew the remaining meat from them. That was done in the past but is simply not done any more.’