So Much Life Left Over

  ‘I want to go to Scotland. I am Scottish after all, but I might just as well be English. I haven’t got one trace of a burr, and I hardly know the place. I have nostalgie de la patrie.’

  ‘Inverness is lovely. And what about St Andrews? It’s got a road on the waterfront and two streets, and you can walk down one of them in the rain, and then back up the other in the rain, and then down the other in the rain, and then you can sit in the rain and watch the sea, or go and laugh at the golfers on the Old Course, playing in a gale.’

  ‘I’d love that. I’ve never been to St Andrews. We could dine on porridge and kippers, and tatties and haggis and neeps, and cock-a-leekie soup.’

  ‘It’s quite hard to catch a haggis. Are you sure they’re in season?’

  Frederick threw the last morsel of bread to the ducks, crumpled the brown paper bag in his hand, and put it in his pocket.

  ‘If we’re going to honeymoon in Scotland, what about doing the most romantic thing of all?’

  ‘The most romantic of all? Do tell.’

  * * *

  —

  There was something out of kilter about The Grampians in the days thereafter, but no one could quite put their finger on it, until one morning Rosie said, ‘Ottilie, what’s happened to Frederick? He hasn’t been here for days. You haven’t fallen out, have you?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been weeping buckets?’

  ‘You seem positively blissful and serene.’

  ‘Isn’t one always, when one’s beloved disappears?’

  ‘Oh, Ottilie, I know you’re up to something.’

  ‘Moi? Little me? Have I ever looked more innocent?’

  ‘You certainly have. You’ve put on a very obnoxious air of smug self-satisfaction.’

  ‘Smugness is always self-satisfied. It’s part of the definition.’

  ‘Clever clogs. You’re just trying to avoid the question.’

  ‘All will be revealed,’ said Ottilie. ‘Just for now, I am being mysterious.’

  Three weeks elapsed, and then Ottilie disappeared overnight. Cookie, who was always up first, found that the ladder from Wragge’s storeroom under the conservatory was leaning against the morning-room windowsill, and the sash was wide open.

  * * *

  —

  There was a note from Ottilie on the dining-room table that said:

  Darlings,

  Don’t worry about me at all. I have eloped with Frederick and will return in a fortnight, a respectable married woman, having honeymooned in Caledonia.

  Sorry about the ladder. It just seemed so awfully banal to leave by the front door. You wouldn’t believe what fun this all is.

  I am so excited!

  My bestest love to you all, the soon-to-be Ottilie Ribaud

  When, a fortnight later, she and Frederick did finally reappear, glowing with happiness, none of the family had the heart to remonstrate, despite their confused outrage in the interim.

  ‘Did Prince Albert come?’ Mrs McCosh wanted to know.

  ‘No, Mother. We were married by a blacksmith. Over an anvil.’

  ‘A blacksmith! An anvil!’

  ‘Yes, Mother. It was rather moving, in its way.’

  ‘Is it really a proper marriage?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘It’s perfectly legal,’ said Frederick. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have dreamt of doing it. I even stayed up there for three weeks to fulfil the residency requirement.’

  ‘So that’s where you were.’

  Rosie was dissatisfied. As far as she was concerned, a marriage that was not a religious ceremony in a proper church was not a marriage at all. ‘I thought that all this Gretna Green stuff was just for romantic novellas,’ she said. ‘I had no idea that it really goes on.’

  ‘Well, it is in romantic novellas,’ said Ottilie. ‘That’s how everyone knows about it, isn’t it? Anyway, our blacksmith was very charming, and he had the most enormous muscles in his arms, and he was just as good as a vicar, and the anvil was beautifully clean and polished up, and really not too dented. It was rather huge, too, but not as big as an altar.’

  That evening Mr McCosh took Frederick aside and said, ‘It was very good of you to spare me all that expense, my boy, but I would have been perfectly happy to give you a proper wedding. I feel as confident in you and Ottilie as I did in Sophie and Fairhead. Very confident indeed.’

  ‘It wasn’t done to save money, sir,’ said Frederick. ‘It was to give Ottilie as much fun as possible. And, besides, all my family are in India and Burma. The groom’s side of the church would have been almost empty.’

  ‘If you keep that up,’ said Mr McCosh, ‘you’ll have a good marriage. Life is short, eh? Just as well to remember that, and, as you say, have as much fun as possible. That’s what I’ve always tried to do. It’s a pity you don’t play golf. Couples who play golf together stay together, in my experience, unless she’s much better than he is. I can give you plenty of tips, if you’d like to learn.’

  That evening Fairhead and Sophie came from Blackheath in her noisy little car to congratulate the couple and stay for the night. At supper, Mrs McCosh said, ‘I am just terribly sorry, Ottilie, that I did not have the opportunity to talk to you about the nature and duties of marriage. I did so with Sophie and Rosie, and I trust it has stood them in good stead.’

  ‘Fabulously good stead,’ said Sophie mischievously, ‘the steadiness has been invaluable. And consternate not, Mother, I passed on your sagacious counsel to her myself.’

  ‘It was priceless,’ said Ottilie, and she and Sophie began to giggle, whereupon Rosie cast them a disapproving look.

  ‘I am so glad to hear it. And what did you do in St Andrews?’ asked Mrs McCosh.

  Sophie and Ottilie caught each other’s eye again, and the latter spluttered and nearly choked on her soup. When she had recovered, she said, ‘We walked up and down in the rain, Mother. And we went and laughed at the golfers trying to play in the gales. It was bliss.’

  22

  The Proposition (1)

  In August of 1928, three months after returning to England, Daniel received a letter at his lodgings in Birmingham, marked ‘Strictly Private and Confidential’ in a beautiful italic hand he recognised as being that of Christabel’s companion, Gaskell.

  Hexham

  3 August 1928

  My dear Daniel,

  I am writing to you on Christabel’s behalf, because she doesn’t have the courage to write to you herself. I don’t want to write to you at any length at this point, because what we have to say to you is deeply personal and really can’t and shouldn’t be disclosed in writing.

  Please will you come and stay with us for a weekend? I have in mind the third week of this month. We need to speak to you alone, so please, on this occasion, do not bring Rosie and the children with you, much as we love them. You can all come up together another time.

  Do say yes. We are somewhat desperate and feel that you are our only hope. And you really must be desperate to be reunited with your aeroplanes. Let’s take them up, one after the other! There isn’t any shooting at this time of year, apart from pigeons, but it would be so nice to go out with you and the two retrievers and come back with a bunny or two. I’ve got a new long-barrelled Jeffery that I can’t wait for you to try. I swear you can get a bird at eighty yards with it.

  You could come by train, or it would be a pleasant drive at this time of year, or I could simply come and fetch you in the Avro. You’ll see what a splendid flyer I’ve become, and how well I’ve absorbed your advice never never never to try to turn back when your engine conks out on take-off. Is there a cricket pitch in your village? We can use that if I promise not to land on the actual sacred bit. Or are there too many trees?

  I remain your devoted Green-Eyed Monster, much love,

  Gaskell

 
PS Wonderful news about Lindbergh, eh? But how did he see where he was going, with no windscreen in front? Was he navigating by looking out to the side? How do you land a plane like that? Apparently the crowd that was waiting for him simply threw aside two companies of soldiers who were supposed to be keeping them out! And he got $25,000 for it! Didn’t you wish it was you? O brave new world!

  PPS Apparently, eighty thousand people turned up to see the inauguration of the Menin Gate. How I wish I could have been there, but how I would have wept!

  PPPS If you haven’t seen it yet, you really must go and see Garbo and Gilbert in Flesh and the Devil. My goodness, how they smoulder! Christabel and I were in raptures! They’re going to do Anna Karenina next. Can’t wait!

  More love, G

  Daniel looked at his maps and worked out that it would probably take all day to get to Hexham on his combination, and when he went to the railway station to find out how to get there by train, he could not find the stationmaster, who was enjoying a mug of thick milky tea in the signal box, since no trains were expected in the village for another hour. Accordingly he wrote back to Gaskell:

  3 August 1928

  Beloved Green-Eyed One,

  How wonderful it would be to see you and Christabel again after five years! Can you believe it? Tempus fugit, whereas I haven’t flown at all. I am so glad to learn that my little fleet is well, and I had been at the very point of writing to ask if I could come up and be reunited with you and my buses.

  I am very much agog to find out what you two want to divulge. I have cleared you for landing on the cricket pitch with the club and the parish council, and will put out a large white sheet so that you don’t accidentally land at Wootton Wawen. I think they consented mainly because they all wanted to see a lady aviator, and you can expect the whole village to turn out to welcome you. I’m afraid I may have made things worse by telling them that you are also an eminent artist. A good landing will be de rigueur!

  The easiest way to find the village would be to pick up the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal, and follow it down to where it crosses the Alne. You’ll see the white sheet a quarter of a mile due east. The prevailing wind here is west. Can you give me an ETA?

  I still have all my flying gear, because I use it for the motorcycle, so you don’t need to bring me any kit. I’ll have a drum of juice lined up for the bus. Don’t come if the weather turns foul, we’ll just pick another date.

  I recently had the honour of unveiling the village war memorial, along with the vicar and the Lord of the Manor. An old soldier sounded the Last Post and Reveille, and it brought a terrible lump to my throat. The stone makes the most horrible reading. Five Sylvester brothers gone, four Treachers, three Wagstaffes and two Mardels, along with about twenty others from this tiny village. It turned out that the Lord of the Manor is the father of the dead Wagstaffe boys. Apparently their mother was too upset to come at all. I had to make a speech about sacrifice and was miserably afflicted by the absolute inadequacy of words. I felt abject afterwards. It’s almost certain that just about all of them died ingloriously under shellfire.

  I can’t wait to see you.

  Your devoted admirer,

  DP the GB (Grounded Bird)

  The day turned out to be a very fine one, and Gaskell found herself circling a field which was much too crowded, leaving too small a space for making allowances. Below her a thoroughly alarmed carthorse was leaping and bucking in a neighbouring field, and next to that a small flock of sheep was hurtling from one end of their paddock to another as the shadow of her wings passed over them. ‘Oh, silly innocents!’ she exclaimed, waggled her wings, and then banked to make the final run, calculating that the villagers would probably have the sense to make space for her.

  They duly did, and she landed neatly just to one side of the pitch. She cut the engine, removed her goggles and gauntlets, and stuffed them into the map case. When she climbed out of the cockpit and stood on terra firma, shaking her long limbs to rid herself of the stiffness, it was to be presented with a bouquet by a tiny girl in a bulky blue frock, with a huge blue ribbon tied into her hair. The child suddenly took fright, threw the flowers at her, and ran away. Gaskell was delighted, to the relief of the embarrassed villagers.

  She waved when she saw Daniel, and he came up and embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks, and laughing.

  ‘It’s been ages,’ he said, ‘much too long. How I missed you! And you’ve hardly changed at all. They’ve laid on a lunch for you in the pavilion. Noblesse oblige, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, will I have to make a speech?’

  ‘Usual stuff,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s an honour, et cetera.’

  The villagers were captivated and mystified by this tall, trousered woman with her hair cut in a shell, who spoke in a languid drawl and smoked Turkish cigarettes from an immensely long cigarette holder. Most of all they were bowled over, as everyone was, by her large, luminous and spectacularly beautiful green eyes. She found herself very much monopolised by the ‘gentry’, and tried to make a point of shaking hands with the more humble folk as well. ‘Daniel darling,’ she said en passant, ‘this is what it must be like to be royalty.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘No doubt it’s fun for an hour or two.’

  ‘You pull it off magnificently.’

  ‘You know what I’d really like? I’d like to have a go in the nets. Do you think they’ve got any bats and balls in the pavilion?’

  ‘One can always ask.’

  Gaskell would be remembered for years afterwards as that extraordinary woman who faced up to the village’s fast bowler, Mr ‘Puffer’ Harrison, and landed a six into the village pond, twenty yards beyond the boundary. The children were sent into the water to feel for it with their bare feet.

  There is a sepia photograph in the pavilion of Gaskell standing with a cricket bat over her shoulder in front of the Avro 504, which is adorned with the seven or eight little children who were clambering on it. Only a few can put a name to any of them any more. Next to her is a good-looking man, a little shorter than she is, who is remembered simply as the Ace. At the bottom it says ‘Visit of Miss Gaskell, 20th August 1928,’, and in a small glass case on a shelf next to it is ‘The Ball’.

  23

  The Proposition (2)

  Gaskell urged Daniel to fly the Avro home and overcame his attempts to demur, pooh-poohing his diffident ‘But I haven’t flown for years’ with ‘Come on, darling, it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget.’

  With the help of a few men from the village they wheeled the aircraft to the end of the field where it could be turned to face the wind. Daniel and the blacksmith held up the tailplane so that there would be no drag from the skid, and then Daniel tossed his gloves into the cockpit, climbed in after them, and tightened the chin strap of his helmet.

  He was surprised by the knot of fear in the pit of his stomach, but as soon as Gaskell swung the prop and the engine fired up he was suddenly filled with the same joy that had never left him during the war, even on freezing dawns at the times of the greatest strain, when he was half dead from a hangover. Castor oil! Exhaust fumes! The roar of the unsilenced engine! He waited for Gaskell to climb in, lowered his goggles, and turned to give her the thumbs up. What a pity it was only an old Avro that could scarcely do eighty miles an hour, with an old-fashioned skid on the undercarriage, but even so, in a crate like this you didn’t really want to throw it about. It was like going for a hack on a cob; you just relaxed and watched the land go by. All being well, the journey would take about three hours, and then, when he was safely at his destination, he could go up in his Snipe and his Pup. As he pulled the stick back and the machine lifted into the air, he realised that he had not been so happy since Bertie was born.

  They stopped in a field near Holmfirth, and then again at Brough, because the villagers had filled them up with prodigious qu
antities of tea, and in any case it was good to stop and stretch one’s legs. As they overflew the sublime landscape of the Peaks and then over the North York Moors enjoying the sudden bumps from the updraught, Daniel experienced a renewed sense of what he had been fighting for. It was the same feeling he had known over the Western Front, that lethal brown strip that had divided and defended France from the aggression of a tyrant. A country was its people and its culture, but it was also a beloved earth.

  When, in the late evening, they finally touched down at the airfield where Daniel’s planes were kept, he leapt down from the cockpit and lay down on his back, spread out his arms, and laughed.

  ‘Darling, what ails you?’ asked Gaskell, removing her helmet and allowing her hair to shake free.

  ‘Happiness,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s only happiness. Can I go and see my buses now?’

  ‘They’re in the East Hangar,’ said Gaskell. ‘It’ll be locked up. There doesn’t seem to be anybody about at all; we’ll have to leave the Avro out overnight.’

  ‘What’s the weather forecast like?’

  ‘No idea, and anyway it’s always wrong.’

  ‘Oh well, if the wind comes up, we’ll have to nip back and tie her down.’

  ‘We’ll come here in the morning and give the other two a little spin. Come on, the car’s over there.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Daniel, ‘you’ve got a Bentley Speed Six!’

  ‘Don’t be too impressed. I swapped it for four pictures. It was a mad American. I couldn’t possibly have afforded it otherwise.’

  ‘You must be doing spectacularly well if four pictures buys you a Speed Six.’

  ‘My preoccupation with death and decomposition and general sordidness is very much in the spirit of the times. I expect I’ll go out of fashion ere long. The field will be left to Helen Allingham.’

  ‘Well, I like her paintings,’ said Daniel. ‘They remind me of where my mother lives.’

  ‘Red brick, milkmaids with churns, and roses round the door. Bucolic prettiness.’