67
Wondrous Things
Shortly after a séance with Madame Valentine, when the whole tribe was gathered at The Grampians, Christabel arrived, accompanied by her friend Gaskell.
Christabel was a very tall girl with a large nose and a florid complexion. She had stiff golden hair that settled at her shoulders, and typically wore long blue dresses and a slightly old-fashioned bonnet. She moved with lovely physical grace, and had triumphed in every athletic event at school. Her father greatly admired her Amazonian nature, and said to her, ‘My dear lass, I do believe you may be the ideal woman. A beautiful lassie who can run as fast a horse and throw a javelin is an ideal to which few men may aspire. I should have named you Penthesilea. Do let me encourage you to take up golf. You’d become a champion in no time.’
‘Daddy, we’ve played golf hundreds of times. And I am hardly beautiful.’
‘Of course you are. You know there is a kind of person who does not seem beautiful at first sight, but the moment you know them, they are transfigured. You are beautiful after two or three minutes. Everybody says so.’
‘Who is everybody?’ she demanded.
‘Everybody. Tout le monde. The common crowd, the aristocracy, even the King himself, no doubt, were he to meet you. And I say so. And the other girls are quite similar, don’t you think? All beautiful after a minute or two? Sophie’s adorable, is she not? But hardly a conventional beauty. Have you found a young man yet?’ ‘They’re all dead,’ she said, adding, ‘I think I might enjoy being a spinster.’
‘Every woman needs a man to torment. She needs someone to upset her, someone to disapprove of, someone whose pleasures she can prevent.’
‘I’ll just disapprove of you, Daddy.’
‘Quite right, lassie,’ he said. ‘I shall approve of you forlornly whilst you disapprove of me.’
Christabel had brought Gaskell home for the first time. Like Christabel, she was tall, but she was much less slender and graceful. Today she affected a monocle, wore tweed plus fours and brogues, with a khaki shirt and tie, like a man dressed for a day’s shooting. Her hair was shiny chestnut, cut quite short and plastered into place with brilliantine. She was smoking fragrant Abdullas from a remarkably long cigarette holder with a silver stem and a meerschaum mouthpiece. Her low drawl as she introduced herself struck Mrs McCosh as alarmingly sensual.
‘What an unusual name, for a girl,’ said Mrs McCosh, immediately suspicious of this extraordinary creature, who was obviously a bohemian of some sort.
‘It’s not her real name,’ said Christabel. ‘It’s her nom de plume.’
‘Nom de brosse?’ suggested Ottilie. ‘Daniel, what would it be?’
‘Well,’ said Daniel, ‘by analogy with plume, it would have to be pinceau. That’s an artist’s paintbrush. Une brosse would be for decorating, really.’
‘I mostly use a palette knife,’ said Gaskell.
‘Nom de couteau, then.’
‘Knife?’ enquired Christabel.
‘Well, you can say “couteau de palette” if you want to go the whole hog.’
‘I love whole hogs,’ said Sophie brightly. ‘It’s so satisfying to have the whole thing, and not a mere leg or a sliver of tripe.’
At tea, as Millicent bustled in and out, Gaskell was interviewed by the family, and she explained that she had been a war artist, but was now having to find a new career.
‘A war artist!’ exclaimed Mrs McCosh. ‘You were at the front? Were you allowed there?’
‘Mother, there were lots of women at the front. Who do you think the nurses were?’ said Ottilie.
‘Oh, I wasn’t there just as an artist. I was also driving ambulances for Lady Munroe. I took a great many photographs, and now I’m working them up.’
‘Lady Munroe!’ exclaimed Mrs McCosh.
‘An ambulance driver! That must have been utterly exhausting and terrifying,’ said Ottilie.
‘Well, you were at the Pavilion, weren’t you,’ replied Gaskell. ‘You must have seen some equally terrible things, and got just as tired.’
‘It really doesn’t compare,’ said Ottilie admiringly. ‘I was never under fire, if you don’t count the metaphorical batterings of the matron. And the amorous assaults of the doctors. And the Mahommedans hoping for another wife to add to the collection. The danger you must have been in!’
‘I rather enjoyed it, to tell the truth. These days I find myself constantly wondering if I will ever find anything else quite as important to be doing. I don’t miss being shelled and sniped at. Or the rats. Or the stench. But I do miss doing important things.’
‘She’s got a bullet wound,’ declared Christabel proudly.
‘Tell me, where does your family come from?’ asked Mrs McCosh, determined to guide the conversation towards more important topics.
‘Northumberland,’ replied Gaskell. ‘We have a modest estate near Hexham, on the River Allen.’
‘An estate!’ exclaimed Mrs McCosh.
‘Much fallen into decay, I’m afraid. Nearly all the staff left and never came back. All three gamekeepers got killed. How does one start again from scratch? It’s difficult. One simply doesn’t have the cash any more.’
‘The answer is mechanisation,’ said Daniel.
‘You can’t mechanise gamekeeping,’ said Gaskell drily.
‘I mean the general work on the estate.’
‘Well, we had a sawmill, but nobody knows how to repair it and keep it going.’
‘I’d know,’ said Daniel.
‘Daniel has an immense gift for engineering,’ said Rosie.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Gaskell. ‘I’ll ask Daddy what he thinks.’
‘What are you going to do when you’ve used up all your photographs?’ asked Sophie, her mind wandering back to the conversation at its earlier stage.
‘I want to paint portraits. Honest portraits. All the wrinkles and malice and vice showing in the face.’
‘And blue flesh instead of pink,’ said Christabel, ‘just like corpses.’
‘Gracious,’ said Mrs McCosh, ‘that will never earn you a living. Can’t you paint lovely things like Sargent?’
‘They are lovely,’ said Gaskell with sincerity. ‘I am always astonished that he’s mastered so many styles. I do like his Impressionist paintings. And of course the portrait of Lady Agnew is just inexhaustibly wonderful.’
‘Impressionist?’ queried Mrs McCosh. ‘You mean those paintings where the artist has apparently lost his spectacles, and all is somewhat blurred?’
‘Gaskell doesn’t have his kind of talent,’ said Christabel. ‘She’s got a different kind altogether. She sees the beast within.’
‘I have no beast within,’ said Mrs McCosh.
‘Neither do I,’ said Rosie.
‘I’m sure I do,’ said Fairhead.
‘Silly man, no you don’t,’ chided Sophie, ‘you are all kittens and fluffy bits. Fairhead bared his teeth and growled at her. ‘I’m horripilated,’ she said.
The family warmed to this exotic and entertaining creature and she was invited to stay for supper, which naturally led to her being put up for the night in the old head footman’s room, now that there were no footmen. It was neat and comfortable, but it was on the top floor, up a carpetless staircase. Millicent dusted the room and made it up in a hurry, and stole some flowers for it from the vase in the dining room.
After everyone had retired, Mr McCosh remarked to his wife, ‘What wonderfully fascinating green eyes she has! I haven’t seen such green eyes in all my life! What a lovely melancholy voice! What alabaster skin! What a lovely woman altogether!’
‘My dear, she is utterly mannish, neither one thing nor another. Quite the strangest creature. And she has a monocle! Outlandish! Even men don’t wear monocles any more. Her eyes are very remarkable, I do concede.’
‘She’s an artist,’ said her husband. ‘And she’s from the North. And she plays golf. And she shoots. She could help you with your campaign against the pige
ons. And those wondrous green eyes! Like emeralds!’
‘I can see you are quite in love.’
‘I love only you, my dear.’
‘Hush, I hear flying pigs,’ she said, cupping her hand to her ear.
That night Mr McCosh woke up. He had heard creaking on the stairs, and thought it might be a burglar, but soon he returned to his dream about getting a hole in one on a heavily bunkered 400-yard hole sited inside the oddly attenuated old hall of Eltham Palace whilst Gaskell and Christabel danced a foxtrot on the green.
68
Daniel in the Squadron Leader’s Den
Daniel’s squadron was back from France, along with all their machines, and based temporarily on the enormous playing fields of a large, architecturally intriguing, but academically undistinguished public school near Brighton. The magnificent but ill-equipped cricket pavilion held the separate offices of the squadron’s three flights. The Snipes and the two RE8s were lined up at the eastern edge of the cricket pitch because the prevailing wind came from the west. In the absence of hangars they had been covered with tarpaulins, and roped to stakes, just in case a high wind should flip them. They were awaiting the arrival of some Besonneau hangars, which seemed unlikely ever to come. Small white tents, most of them empty because the personnel had found lodgings locally, were laid out in lines in one corner of a field, where they were sheltered by a row of elms. Six Nissen huts and sheds stood elevated upon railway sleepers, containing the messes of the sergeants and officers of the three flights.
For the schoolboys it was utterly thrilling to have real aeroplanes and real pilots in the grounds, many of them the owners of noisy and wondrous motorcycles, and the 1st 11 had already lost 2–1 at football against the airmen, and won 3–2 against the ground-staff. In the summer it was anticipated that the school cricket 11 would probably triumph because they had two fast bowlers, whereas the squadron could boast solely a leg spinner, and had no wicket keeper. Daniel had high hopes of fielding a good tennis team, and the squadron leader was fully intending to defeat the schoolmasters at golf. He had ordered Daniel to become good at it by Easter, and submit cards for a handicap.
At thirty-two, Squadron Leader Maurice ‘Fluke’ Beckenham-Gilbert was old by pilots’ standards, since most had not managed to survive more than a few months in action. He had started his military life in the Green Howards, and seen enough action on the ground to make him envious of the men circling above. He had risen from second lieutenant to acting major in six months, and calculated that he would be lucky to survive another two. His own father had been something of an aviation pioneer, having had the money and enthusiasm to invest in a Blériot monoplane not long after one such had been the first to cross the English Channel. His father had survived many prangs more or less intact, and had been the kind of father who was quite prepared to allow his heir to take to the skies with minimal instruction. It was therefore easy for Maurice to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, on the grounds that he already had his ticket and knew how to fly. He had survived service in Rumpties, had got through the Fokker Scourge, had flown Camels and Nieuport 17s, but he maintained that the Sopwith triplane was the sweetest of all. He had actually managed to cadge one from a unit of the RNAS after they had switched to Camels, and now it stood alongside the SE5s like a small lovable terrier at the end of a line of wolf hounds. Fluke had never wearied of each day’s improvised adventures, and now wondered somewhat wistfully what possible use the peace might be to him.
When Daniel arrived at the field, he parked his combination amongst those of the other officers, and followed his first impulse to go and check on his machine and have a word with the riggers. He had concerns about the rudder being somewhat creaky and unresponsive. He inhaled deeply. He would never tire of that wonderful smell of aircraft dope, exhaust gas, oil and petrol. It was the smell of his recent life and the months of danger and comradeship that he had managed to come through. All that was missing was the roar of the Viper engines.
Then he went over to the cricket pavilion and knocked on the door of the room where the pads and gloves and stumps were kept. He was immediately called in, and found Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert seated at a small desk amongst the boxes of paraphernalia. Daniel saluted and the Squadron Leader said, ‘I am not wearing my cap. If I am not wearing my cap, and I am seated, it is not customary to salute. Not in this outfit, anyway. It may be different in the Guards, for all I know, or one of those godforsaken Scottish regiments.’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Daniel. ‘You get things drummed into you, and then you do them without thinking. And every unit seems to have different rules.’
‘You’ve been with us for years, Daniel. Remove your cap. Then you can call me Maurice. Or “Fluke” if you insist.’
‘In the office I think I would rather call you sir, sir, if you don’t mind. I like to call you Fluke when we’re outdoors.’
‘Oh well, Daniel, as you like. What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to ask your permission to get married, sir.’
‘Oh dear, I am most terribly sorry,’ said the Squadron Leader sympathetically.
Daniel was taken aback. ‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He paused. ‘I think this calls for a snifter, something medicinal. Would you care for a whisky? I have a good single malt from Skye, or my cousin sent me something rather interesting from Ireland.’
‘Irish, please, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever tried it before. Did you know that they make quite good whisky in Brittany?’
‘French whisky? Gracious me. Do sit down,’ said the Squadron Leader. He got up and flipped open the lid of one of the boxes, disinterring a bottle and two glasses from amongst the cricket pads. He poured two large tots, and handed one to Daniel. ‘Sniff it first,’ he said, ‘it’s ambrosia.’
Daniel duly sniffed, and felt the rich sharp fumes scrape at the back of his throat.
‘Good health,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert, taking a sip and sighing appreciatively. He reflected a while, and then said, ‘I do hope she’s not English.’
‘Half Scottish,’ offered Daniel.
‘Just as bad, for our purposes, old boy,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘You’re half French, aren’t you? Why on earth don’t you marry a Frenchwoman?’
‘I didn’t fall for one, sir.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said the Squadron Leader, ‘altogether too bad.’
‘Perhaps you could explain, sir.’
‘I am married to an Englishwoman. I have two children. And now I might as well not be married at all. Do you catch my meaning?’
‘I’m not sure I do, sir.’
‘Think about it, Daniel, old boy. I now have enormous expenses and responsibilities, and no pleasures to speak of. An Englishwoman, Daniel, switches off the moment she has the number of children she wants, unless there’s something else she happens to want and hasn’t got yet. An Englishwoman, at least a respectable one, is, in my opinion, about as much fun as a BE2c. It’s like a lifetime of CB, old fellow, believe me. The unrespectable ones, on the other hand, are second to none, especially if they are partial to a drop. I imagine you’ve found a respectable one, you poor sap.’
‘I’m sure they can’t be all the same,’ said Daniel.
‘One listens to one’s friends,’ said the Squadron Leader. ‘Naturally, one hears only hints. One observes. One draws one’s own conclusions. For God’s sake marry a Frenchwoman. You must have noticed that the French have much larger families than we do. It is not a coincidence.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘A Belgian would do. The best option would be to marry an Indian, disappear to the subcontinent, somewhere nice like Simla, and live in a large bungalow thronged with servants and children. One can only dream. A dusky maiden! How the heart yearns!’
Daniel looked around at the Sidcot suits that adorned the pegs where cricket whites used to be. He could tell from the way that they hung and their unique patterns of oil stains to which of his comrades they belonged. Each one was accompanied by a canvas bag ha
nging from the same hook, from which protruded the pilots’ fur-lined flying helmets, goggles, or their strange and enormous gauntlets with coarse yellow hair on the back. He thought of all the mess-mates who had gone topsides. Then he recalled himself, and asked, ‘Do I have your permission to marry, though, sir?’
‘Well, of course you do, old man. One has no right to intervene to prevent private mistakes, except amongst one’s own relatives. If you want to be a booby and a BF, you can be one. I have done my duty in warning you. Have you spoken to the sky pilot? It seems to me that he endures a particularly miserable marriage, and may be able to persuade you out of it.’
‘My fiancée has a very passionate nature,’ said Daniel, almost convincing himself.
‘Let’s go up in a Harry Tate,’ said the Squadron Leader suddenly. ‘We’ll toss for who’s at the joystick and we can take the dogs. Where does she live?’
‘Eltham, sir.’
‘Eltham? Jolly good, that’s very manageable. Chart a course, would you? Let’s find the place and buzz it. You telephone and tell her we’re coming.’
‘We could take two Snipes and loop some loops. A fly-past at eighty miles an hour by a solitary Harry Tate isn’t one of the world’s great spectacles, is it?’
‘You take a Snipe and I’ll take the Tripehound – even better!’ cried the Squadron Leader, standing up and emptying his glass. ‘It’s a lovely day to go buzzing a fair maid, even if she’s English. Or half Scotch. But how sweet it would be to go and buzz a French one. Alas, those days are gone.’
‘You could take leave and go back,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s not far.’