The Dust That Falls From Dreams

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ said the little boy. ‘I was only throwing sticks. She loves fetching sticks, doesn’t she, Mum?’

  By now Rosie and Daniel were kneeling at the dog’s side. It was very old, perhaps fourteen, and its muzzle was entirely silvered over. It was breathing jerkily and its eyes were glazing over.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Daniel, ‘but she’s obviously dying. I really don’t think there’s anything we can do.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s had a heart attack or a stroke,’ said Rosie. ‘They often happen at the same time. It might be both.’ She stood up and addressed the distraught woman. ‘I think you should just take the opportunity to say goodbye. While you still can.’

  ‘What can I do? What can I do? I can’t leave her here, can I? I can’t just leave a dead dog at the Tarn, can I?’

  The little boy knelt by the dog, and put his arms around its neck, saying, ‘Don’t die, girl, don’t die, please don’t die.’

  ‘Do you live nearby,’ asked Daniel, ‘and do you have a garden?’

  ‘We’ve got a tiny one, and we’re in Chapel Farm Road.’

  ‘That’s very near,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Look,’ said Daniel, ‘I’ll go back to The Grampians. You wait here and see Sheba off. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ With this sat down on the grass and put his shoes and socks back on.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘I’m going to run back because that’s the only way I’m ever going to get warm again, and I’m coming back with the AC.’ He put his shirt on over his wet vest, rose up, still shivering, and sprinted away.

  ‘Gracious me,’ said the woman. ‘That’s…I mean…what can you say?…What a wonderful man, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, he is wonderful,’ said Rosie. ‘He’d do anything for anyone. Let’s see what we can do for poor old Sheba.’ She took Daniel’s abandoned jacket and placed it gently over the sick animal. ‘She must be very cold.’

  Twenty minutes later they heard the sound of the AC outside the Court Road gate, and Daniel reappeared, in dry clothes, carrying a rug. ‘Wretched AC!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thought it would never start. Practically wrenched my shoulders off. How is Sheba?’

  ‘Almost gone,’ said Rosie.

  ‘So she is. Poor old thing. Let’s get her into the car. What if I put her on the back seat? Rosie can go in the back along with her, and you, madam, could perhaps sit in the front with your little boy on your knee?’

  ‘I want to go in the back with Sheba,’ protested the little boy.

  ‘Then you shall,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ll just have to squeeze.’

  Daniel knelt down and scooped the retriever up in his arms, saying, ‘Rosie, my dear, could you go ahead and put the rug on the back seat? I’ll lay her down on it, and we’ll wrap her up.’

  Rosie sat in the back with the dog’s head on her lap, and the little boy perched on the edge of the seat. By the time they had travelled the few hundred yards to the house, Sheba was dead.

  The woman stoked up the fire and made them tea, which they drank together in her small shabby drawing room. The whole house smelled of old, damp dog, and there was a ragged blanket in front of the fireplace where Sheba used to sleep.

  ‘I’m not house-proud,’ said the woman suddenly. ‘I sort of don’t see the point now that it’s just me and my Bertie. I lost heart.’

  ‘He was killed, was he, your husband?’ asked Rosie, nodding towards a photograph on the mantelpiece of a smiling man in sailor’s uniform.

  ‘Jutland.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘And now the dog’s dead.’

  ‘Bertie’s the point, isn’t he?’ said Rosie gently. ‘He seems a very sweet little boy.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. All the same, it’s hard to carry on sometimes. He’s just like his father, you know.’ Then she added, ‘He’s only seven, the poor little mite.’

  ‘I wanted her to live forever and ever,’ said the little boy.

  ‘Would you like me to help you bury her?’ asked Daniel. ‘Do you have a spade?’

  Out in a derelict rose bed overgrown with clumps of grass, Daniel dug a pit four feet deep, soon striking heavy yellow clay that came out in lumps like bricks. He went back to the house and fetched Sheba from where he had laid her on the doormat of the garden door. He called into the house.

  The others stood as Daniel lowered the dog into the grave with the rug, and then let it remain there with the body.

  ‘Don’t you want your rug back?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I’m certain we can spare it,’ said Rosie.

  Daniel spoke to the little boy, whose lips were working, his eyes welling with tears. ‘Say goodbye to Sheba, Bertie. Would you like to be the first one to throw some soil on her? It’s what you do when you bury someone you love, so I think you ought to go first.’ He bent down and handed Bertie a lump of the yellow clay.

  Bertie solemnly let the clod fall into the grave, and then Daniel began to backfill it as the others watched. Rosie found herself crying in sympathy with Bertie and his mother, even though this was the first time she had ever met the dog.

  Whilst Daniel was washing his hands in the kitchen, the woman said to Rosie, ‘I can’t thank you enough, I really can’t. Would you and your husband like to come round and have tea sometime? In a week perhaps? I can make some scones.’

  ‘We’re not married yet,’ said Rosie. ‘But we’d love to come round for tea, and see how you and Bertie are getting along.’

  Before they left, Daniel bent down to talk to Bertie face-to-face. ‘Listen, little fellow,’ he said, ‘don’t be too sad. Sheba had a lovely life. When you get another dog, and I expect you will one day, just remember that dogs don’t live as long as we do, so you really have to make the most of every minute. Do you agree?’

  Bertie nodded, and Daniel held out his hand for him to shake. ‘Brave boy, Bertie,’ he said.

  On the way home in the AC Rosie wondered at herself. She had actually said ‘We’re not married yet.’ What was this ‘yet’? It was as if she had made a decision without consulting herself.

  62

  Gaskell and Christabel at the Tarn

  They sat side by side on the same bench, well wrapped up in heavy coats, looking out over the water. ‘They say the Tarn has no bottom,’ said Christabel.

  ‘Like love,’ said Gaskell gloomily.

  ‘It has no top either,’ replied Christabel sensibly. ‘If you think about it, love isn’t a three-dimensional thing, is it? Space words can’t apply to it.’

  ‘Oh my gosh,’ said Gaskell, ‘you’re immune to the power of metaphor.’

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  Gaskell shrugged. ‘I can’t help thinking about us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can’t help thinking that, no matter how wonderful it is, one day you’re going to leave.’

  ‘And so might you.’

  ‘And so might I. But it’s more likely that you will.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not entirely like me.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘One day you’ll start wanting to have children, and you’ll meet a nice man, and then you’ll be off.’

  ‘Don’t you want children?’

  ‘Of course I do. But I’m not going to have any, am I? It’s not in my nature…to be able to bring it about. I absolutely couldn’t bear it, in fact. And I think that you could.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it, darling. We have such fun, don’t we? And we’re such a success. We’re filling the galleries already! We’re kindred spirits. I don’t want it to end, ever.’

  Gaskell tucked her arm through Christabel’s. ‘I don’t like to talk much about the past. I like there to be a clean canvas…but I’ve been in love twice before.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They both gave me up for a man, because they wanted children.’

  ‘Were you heartbroken?’ br />
  ‘Of course. Both times. You’re very like them. You see, I can only love women. I think you’re the kind of woman who can love either. I just happened to come along first. Aren’t you often attracted to men?’

  Christabel thought, and then nodded. ‘But with me it seems to be the person that counts.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Gaskell. ‘That’s why I’m down in the dumps.’

  Christabel said, ‘You have the most fascinating and beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I could live inside them. I really don’t think I could ever give them up.’

  They looked out over the water, its surface rippled by smart gusts of wind. ‘Don’t you envy the ducks?’ said Gaskell. ‘Such a lovely simple life.’

  ‘No one to judge them, or make them feel ashamed.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Gaskell, ‘they do get crunched by foxes.’

  63

  The Interview

  Daniel was as nervous as he had been the first time he flew solo. He was in the dining room with Mr McCosh, who was in a good mood because his investment in Argentine railways was paying off handsomely. He had Caractacus, now half grown, in his arms.

  ‘I thought it wise to seek your advice,’ said Daniel. ‘I feel I’m on shaky ground.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ said Mr McCosh, stroking the cat’s head.

  ‘Yes?’

  Mr McCosh indicated a chair and said, ‘Do sit down. Cigar?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Very wise. I am beginning to convince myself that they’re toxic. I dare say I’ll be giving them up one of these days. After I smoke one I often feel a mite dizzy, and I can feel my heart fluttering.’ He paused. ‘You do realise that she was engaged to Ashbridge from next door?’

  ‘Everybody keeps reminding me. A childhood friend, if you remember. We were “the Pals”. I saw him briefly in the trenches, early 1915, and he told me then that he and Rosie were engaged. I was very fond of him.’

  ‘As were we all. My wife refers to him as “our lost son”. But Rosie was utterly devoted to him. She thought he was made in Heaven specifically to be with her. When he was killed, well, she hasn’t been the same since. She has become increasingly strange.’

  ‘Strange?’

  Mr McCosh looked out of the window. ‘What do you think about God? Religion?’

  ‘I have nothing to do with it to tell the truth. I’ve never seen any sense in it.’

  ‘Well, you would be quite incompatible with Rosie. She adores Our Lord more than she adores anyone, perhaps even more than she adored Ashbridge. The Bible is her reference for deciding absolutely everything and anything. She’s almost a Roman. It wouldn’t surprise me if she became one. How can I put it? Her religiousness is altogether vehement. I don’t see how you two could possibly get on if you’re a sceptic. You may not have realised it yet, Daniel, but a couple can’t get on if they don’t have the same assumptions. You would irritate and bewilder each other. I might add, she has a strong puritanical streak, which is completely absent in you, and she does things out of duty even when she knows they’re not right.

  ‘Furthermore, my good wife, Mrs McCosh, adored Ashbridge just as much as Rosie did. You must realise that you would have to displace him from the hearts not of one woman, but two. I scarcely think it can be managed.’

  ‘Are you opposed to the idea of having me as a son-in-law?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but you should have taken a fancy to one of the others. You cannot possibly be happy with Rosie, or she with you. Do try Ottilie or Christabel if you want to be married. Ottilie is quiet, but there is a wonderful, courageous and very womanly woman smouldering away inside, and Christabel is vigorous and in many ways rather magnificent. She would make a superb companion for the more adventurous type of man. You could take her salmon fishing or climbing in the Himalayas, and she’d catch the biggest fish and get to the top of the mountain several hours before you.’

  ‘But if Rosie accepted? If I keep proposing, and one day she accepts? I do have the feeling that she’s coming round to the idea. We have a lot of fun together, and she hardly ever turns down my invitations.’

  ‘I wouldn’t forbid it. Of course not. I merely advise strongly against it. I do very greatly approve of you personally – how could I not? – but she will make you unhappy, Daniel. Be sure of it.

  ‘We have become exceptionally good friends. She’s a wonderful companion. I haven’t had such fun since I first joined the RFC.’

  ‘And how do you propose to provide for her?’

  ‘I’m in the RAF. I have my officer’s salary.’

  ‘Don’t count on the RAF, old boy. They’ll send you packing the moment they find they have more men than they need. It’s the same in any industry, and at the moment war is an industry in recession.’

  ‘I want to stay in aviation,’ said Daniel. ‘I love flying more than anything.’

  ‘There are thousands of aviators left over from the war, and you all love flying. Have you thought of motorcycles?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I have,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I am assuming that the motorcycle will be the preferred mode of transport for those who cannot afford a motor car for a great many years to come. Thousands of servicemen learned to ride them in the war, and I am certain they will wish to continue to do so. I know the people who run Henley. It’s a new company in Birmingham. I understand they make very fine machines. Until such time as everyone can afford a motor car, I would venture to prophesy that the motorcycle has a very profitable future. Would you like me to have a word with them?’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And another thing, Daniel.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘My wife is not herself. Ever since the Folkestone bombing, it seems to me that her behaviour is becoming increasingly peculiar. We put up with it, of course. We either ignore her or humour her, and she certainly isn’t mad enough to lock up. I wonder, however, how much you will be able to put up with it all. A mother-in-law like her might be a very real strain for someone like you.’

  ‘I imagine we’d be moving away into our own quarters,’ replied Daniel. ‘And I’m very glad that you would allow me to marry Rosie.’

  Mr McCosh put down the cat and went to the window, gazing out at the hydrangeas, his hands behind his back. ‘Ah, but please don’t,’ he said. ‘I will regret it very much when I am proved right. My advice is to go abroad for several months. You’ll find that eventually all your passion turns into a pleasant memory. And perhaps you should talk it over with Ottilie. She has a very good head on her.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Everyone tells me to talk to Ottilie. I already have, sir.’

  ‘And what does she say?’

  ‘She tells me to wait, and become friends first.’

  ‘Wonderful girl, Ottilie,’ said her father. ‘She’ll make a splendid wife one day. Why couldn’t you have fallen for her?’

  64

  Madame Valentine

  Spedegue answered the door with her usual ill grace, but Fairhead gave her the time of day very civilly, and handed her his hat and coat. These days a good maid had become as hard to find as a bag of sugar in 1918. The war had taken them away into jobs that were better paid and offered them more liberty, and afterwards they had not come back, and neither could many people afford them anymore. Fairhead assumed that Madame Valentine owed Spedegue a debt of loyalty, and no doubt they had a certain long-standing allegiance to each other that was unsoured by such drawbacks as mere grumpiness.

  ‘Madame is in the séance room,’ said Spedegue, saying the word ‘séance’ as if she were handling it with tongs. She did not announce him or show him in

  The sound of a cello piece was coming from that very quarter, and Fairhead pushed the door open gently so as not to disturb the music. He stood very still whilst Madame Valentine finished playing, and then coughed politely after she had had a few moments to savour the aura of the finished piece. Suddenly aware that someone was present, she looked rou
nd, and rose to her feet. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I am sorry to have disturbed your practice,’ said Captain Fairhead. ‘You do play very beautifully.’

  ‘You can’t go wrong with “The Swan”,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘It’s not too difficult, and it does carry one away. Sometimes I think I could play it all day and all night. Of course, one does need a pianist, ideally, or one gets very rusty in the timing department.’

  ‘Have you never thought of playing professionally?’

  ‘Oh, I did. I was in a quartet, but the other three were men. Passchendaele, Jutland and Cape Helles, I’m afraid. I hardly have the heart to start again. Such lovely boys. Nowadays I just teach.’

  ‘You teach?’

  ‘Don’t be surprised. I’m not a professional medium, you know. Just a very good one. On a good day. Do find yourself a place to sit. I expect that Spedegue will bring tea.’

  Fairhead settled into a high-backed chair and Madame Valentine did likewise. He hardly recognised her. Gone were the theatrical trappings of mediumship, and she was dressed entirely like any other large middle-class woman with respectable acquaintances and aspirations.