The Dust That Falls From Dreams

  As my still aching body grows more stark.

  I shall not see you laugh or hear you weep,

  Kiss you awake, or cover up your sleep.

  Choking with emotion, Rosie put the cat down, and fetched her coat and hat. She hurried down to the Tarn with her new book, needing to be alone with it.

  As she sat on a bench, Rosie watched the children. Some were being wheeled about by their nurses, and the poorer ones were walking hand in hand with their mothers. She watched a small girl shrieking with laughter on her father’s shoulders as he galloped about, neighing, pretending to be a horse. A little boy and his sister were clumsily throwing crusts into the water for the ducks, and she felt a kind of churning in her stomach that she had never felt before. It was a roiling that she very soon realised was in fact yearning. She realised that she wanted children, that Eleanor Farjeon’s sonnet had awakened in her an understanding that nothing else would abolish her deep sadness and loneliness, not even the love of God. She wanted to go to the two children and stroke their heads and talk to them, to pick them up and clasp them to her chest, to smell their hair and their sweet breath.

  That night Daniel was utterly astonished and even frightened by the sudden change in Rosie. She knocked at his door, let herself in and silently climbed into bed beside him. He put a railway ticket into Five Years in the Royal Flying Corps in order to mark his place, and laid it on the bedside table. Rosie crossed herself, and then turned to him and said, ‘I am sorry, you know. I must be a terrible disappointment. And it’s all my fault. It’s not because there’s anything wrong with you.’

  He reached out his hand and she took it, lifting it to her lips and kissing it. ‘Can we make up for it now?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we turn out the light?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so.’

  In her years as a VAD there had been only one thing that she had not done for the wounded, and the male body held no mysteries. Fired by her longing for a child, she astonished Daniel by the ruthless way in which she took him in and emptied him out. It was a transaction, but a passionate one, and it was to be repeated more often than Daniel had ever dared to hope. Her sheer physical hunger caused him to feel that everything was mended, and that happiness with Rosie was after all his destiny. He began to think that they really were developing a bond.

  Rosie’s feelings were more ambiguous. Sometimes she wondered if she had merely deepened her bond with the dead, because it was difficult to avoid Ash’s image drifting in and out of her mind when making love. It was an Ash embellished and beatified by memory, and she knew it. What she did not know, since it had never been discussed, was that Daniel, too, had a yearning for children. As they made love, they were of the same intent.

  Daniel told Fluke ‘Finally cracked it’, and when, half a year later, Rosie withdrew her favours as soon as she knew she was pregnant, he construed their new celibacy as a sensible precaution against damaging the unborn child. For many months to come he would have to make do with Rosie’s sisterly affection, and, against her better judgement, full of sorrow and pity on behalf of her ever-affectionate and disappointed husband, Rosie guiltily procrastinated.

  77

  Champignonne

  Everyone called the new baby ‘Babs’, except for Daniel. Her real name was Esther, because Rosie had wanted something biblical, and her biblical eponym had been both brave and clever.

  According to the custom of the day, Daniel was not allowed to be present at the birth. He was forced to listen to Rosie’s cries out in the corridor, and thought he had never heard such agony since he had pulled a German airman with multiple fractures from a crashed Pfalz that had been in imminent danger of catching fire. He had recently been amazed to receive, via the Ministry of War, an Iron Cross First Class with the message, in German, ‘This was won by me, but you deserve it more. I will always with gratitude remember you. Dieter Wolff (Staffelführer).

  Daniel endured immense agitation for several hours, and even went out for a while, in the superstitious belief that if he stopped waiting, the baby would arrive. He walked to the Tarn and back, and then to Mottingham, but the child was not born until two in the morning, by which time he was sickened by continuous smoking, and slightly woozy from the prodigious supply of tea that was being sent up from the kitchen.

  At last the cries became more frequent and even more horrifying, then there was a silence, and then there was the sound of a baby mewling. He wanted to knock on the door and rush in, but he knew that it was not permitted. He waited for what seemed an extremely long time.

  The door opened softly and the midwife emerged. ‘Your wife asks me to tell you that she is well and that you have a daughter who seems to be very healthy.’

  ‘Seems?’

  ‘With babies it’s better not to speak too soon.’

  Daniel looked into the eyes of that stout middle-aged woman, and saw both exhaustion and happiness. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, and then he noticed that tears were prickling in her eyes. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and said, ‘I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter how often I do this, it always makes me cry. Now do excuse me, but there are still things to do.’

  ‘Can’t I come in and see them?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Best wait ’til morning,’ said the midwife.

  ‘But I want to see Rosie. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s very well, so far. Just let her sleep.’

  ‘I’m going to put my head round the door.’

  The midwife bristled, but did not intervene as he opened the door as lightly as he could. He saw his wife, asleep on her pillows, with her head tilted to one side. She looked flushed and radiant, even in sleep, and his heart seemed to lurch as he saw how beautiful she was.

  ‘I want to go in and give her a kiss,’ said Daniel.

  ‘But you can’t, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to.’

  He tiptoed in, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, rearranged a lock of hair and then turned to look down at his child. She was so well wrapped up that he could barely see anything beyond an indeterminate bundle. He took the child’s tiny pink hand between his thumb and forefinger, and whispered, ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He came out, and whispered to the midwife, ‘All’s well, it seems.’

  ‘That was very remiss of you, sir. You should follow the advice of those who know better than you.’

  Daniel took her right hand, kissed it, and replied, ‘Madam, you can court-martial me tomorrow.’

  Leaving her confounded on the landing, he went downstairs, and found the whole family in the drawing room, gathered near the fire in their night attire. ‘It’s a daughter,’ he told them, ‘and both of them are well.’

  After everyone had expressed their delight, congratulated him and drifted away to their beds, he went and helped himself to the Bladnoch from Hamilton McCosh’s decanter in the dining room, and drank until he knew that he would sleep.

  In the morning, Daniel insisted on bringing Rosie her breakfast, taking the tray from Millicent at the door. Rosie’s face brightened as he entered. He set down the tray, and they hugged each other tightly. ‘You’ve done so well,’ said Daniel. ‘Are you quite all right? Was it hell?’

  ‘It was hell beyond all hell,’ replied Rosie, ‘and I’m still very sore, but the moment it was over, all the agony just disappeared.’

  ‘You’re going to have the whole family going in and out all day. They can’t wait. But I insisted on being first. Now I want to hold her.’

  Having been instructed to support the baby’s head at all times, he gathered it up and looked at it. It smelled very sweet, like warm hay. Babies all look the same, unless you happen to be the parent, so Daniel gazed down rapturously at the tiny, wrinkled, crimson-faced creature and saw nothing but intelligence and beauty. He felt a deep, painful wave of love welling up in his stomach, and started to gabble to the child as he paced up and down the room with her, in
a state of elation and triumph.

  After several minutes of this, Rosie said, ‘Please will you stop speaking French to her? It makes me feel left out.’

  Daniel felt briefly cross, but then smiled at her. ‘Sometimes, one language just isn’t enough, is it?’

  Rosie already had an apprehension and an intimation of how her child might become removed from her. It had not previously occurred to her that in that respect Daniel might become her enemy, but now she saw it very clearly. ‘Give her back to me,’ she said, holding out her arms.

  Reluctantly Daniel gave up the baby, kissed Rosie on the forehead, and went downstairs for breakfast. When he looked in half an hour later, his daughter was back in her cot, and Rosie was asleep, so he picked Esther up and took her to the window. He looked into the unfocused blue eyes and said, ‘You’re just like a little mushroom. Tu es une petite champignonne. Champi champi champignonne. Mais comme tu es belle et charmante. Et tellement petite. Ma champignonne mignonne.’ He put his forefinger into her palm, and her tiny fingers closed on it. She kicked and bucked in his arms, and he was surprised by her strength.

  That was how Daniel arrived at his private pet name for Esther. She became ‘Champignonne,’ and inevitably he contracted it to ‘Shompi’.

  78

  A Lady Maid

  Mrs McCosh found her husband in the dining room, where he was replenishing his Bladnoch decanter, and sniffing it appreciatively.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘we need a lady maid. Rosie is quite exhausted, and Millicent is no substitute for the real thing. I always used to have a maid, and now I can’t for the life of me remember why I don’t any more.’

  ‘She went to work in a munitions factory,’ said Mr McCosh shortly, ‘and turned yellow. And I used to have a valet, but now my things are collected and taken to a laundry.’

  ‘She was quite a good maid,’ said Mrs McCosh, ‘very agreeable and amenable, but I would greatly prefer someone a little more distinguée.’

  ‘Distinguée? In what sense might a maid be distinguée?’

  ‘A lady maid, my dear! A lady maid is distinguée!’

  ‘A lady maid. What is a lady maid? Is that any different from a lady’s maid?’

  ‘A lady maid, my dear, is from a good family that has fallen on hard times. She is a lady, but she finds herself in reduced circumstances and in need of employment. She is finely educated, has a delicate temperament, fine sensibilities, and knows everyone one ought to know. A lady maid, my dear, is quite in vogue at present.’

  ‘How could one possibly not go along with what is in vogue?’ said Mr McCosh. ‘Fancy that! A fallen aristocrat in the house! How perfectly indispensible!’

  ‘I perceive that you are unconvinced. You are waxing ironical.’

  ‘Well, it is true that Rosie is exhausted – Esther does wail a lot at night. And it is also true that Millicent isn’t really up to attending to you and your finery as well as scrubbing things left, right and centre and emptying ash out of the fires. Millicent, I believe, is grossly overworked, and I have long felt anxious to do something about it. It is also true that a “lady maid” will cost an extra twenty-five pounds a year, or thereabouts. Whence do you propose to derive the money for her wages, my dear? Are you planning to take up painting and sell your masterpieces? Will you play your violin in the Haymarket?’

  ‘The money will come from you, my dear,’ answered Mrs McCosh firmly.

  ‘From me? Now, there’s a surprise.’

  Mr McCosh took another sniff at the whisky, which put him in a better mood quite promptly. He said, ‘I will go along with this on condition that your lady maid helps Rosie as a nurse, and then, possibly, as a governess, and if she also helps Millicent and Cookie with their duties as required. If I am to have a fallen aristocrat in the house, she is not to be purely decorative, and if at any time I find that she has become so, I will dismiss her.’

  ‘It is up to me to hire and dismiss servants,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘As master of the house, you should not concern yourself with the matter.’

  ‘If I wish to dismiss her, and you wish to retain her,’ answered her husband. ‘It is easily done. You will pay her from your allowance.’ Mrs McCosh huffed at this outrageous suggestion, and Mr McCosh said. ‘I will be intrigued to see what you come up with.’

  Accordingly Mrs McCosh went by train and omnibus to the nearest registry, and within a month a quiet and dignified young woman was installed in one of the empty rooms at the top of the house.

  She was pale-skinned and a little freckled, with tight brown curls, and dressed in very fine clothes that had been skilfully repaired. She spoke the most elegant English with the trace of an Irish lilt, and she had enormous grey eyes that radiated a kind of beautiful sadness. Her name was the Honourable Mary FitzGerald St George.

  Mary took to Esther straight away, and had the ability to hush her when she was in one of her periodic fits of infantile hysteria. This made Rosie feel somewhat inadequate, however grateful she was. Mary helped Mrs McCosh to dress for the evenings, and proved to have such exceptionally good taste that Mrs McCosh even took her along when she went shopping. It would be true to say that the Honourable Mary FitzGerald St George considerably lightened the heart of her mistress. Gaskell painted Mary’s portrait one day, making her look like a Valkyrie, and Christabel took some photographs of her in the garden that made her look like a dreaming poetess. These representations were admirably juxtaposed at their joint exhibitions.

  One evening, after returning from London, Hamilton McCosh encountered the Honourable Mary FitzGerald St George in the morning room, and said to her, ‘Miss FitzGerald St George, may I have a word? In the dining room perhaps?’

  Mary sat in the carver at one end of the table, and Mr McCosh in the carver at the other.

  ‘Now, Miss FitzGerald, please tell me about yourself, would you? I have only what I know from my wife. I realise that the servants are her business, but I do like to take an interest myself. Now that there are so few of them, it has become very much easier.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, what would you like to know?’

  ‘Well, your father is…?’

  ‘Roderick FitzGerald St George, Earl Edenderry. I’m his fourth daughter, sir.’

  ‘And Edenderry is near Dublin?’

  ‘Not so very far, sir. And not so very far from Tullamore.’

  ‘Anglo-Irish?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, for centuries, sir. There’s an awful lot of us, sir. We don’t feel as welcome at home as we used to, though.’

  ‘Quite so. Have you heard of Edmund Burke?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I can’t say I know very much about him.’

  ‘He used to say he was Irish and he used to say he was English, quite interchangeably. It was all one to a lot of people. Sadly, those days are past.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And your mother was Lady Dwyer of Portarlington, my wife says.’

  ‘Yes, sir. May I ask where this is leading, sir?’

  ‘Well, Mary. At the Athenaeum we have a copy of the 1915 Burke’s Peerage. It is a large volume, most compendious. I sometimes look in it, out of curiosity.’

  Mary went pale and began to bite on her lip. Her fingers were working in her lap, and she looked down at them as if they were foreign creatures. ‘Am I to be dismissed?’ she asked.

  ‘I was at first greatly annoyed,’ said Hamilton McCosh, leaning back and stroking his chin. ‘No one likes to be taken for an ass. Your references were most persuasive. You clearly have a talent for composition, and indeed for thespianism. And your talk of “the quality” certainly impresses Mrs McCosh. You must have done a great deal of mugging up.’

  ‘I mug up continuously,’ said Mary. ‘One has to. I have a copy of Burke’s myself.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘I have given this some thought. I have said nothing to Mrs McCosh, and nor do I intend to. You get on very well with Miss Rosie, and Esther plainly adores you. Millicent and Cookie do not resent you, which is quite
contrary to what normally happens when a maid and a cook find that a nurse has arrived in the house. Even the cat likes you, and I find your presence most agreeable, and Mrs McCosh is unstinting in her praise. My feeling, Miss FitzGerald St George, is that when a forgery is as good, if not better, than an original, then the wise man contents himself with the forgery.’

  ‘I am not to be dismissed?’

  ‘No, Miss FitzGerald.’

  She gave a little leap in her seat. ‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘I would have been so sad…and…mortified. And what would I have done?’

  ‘I do think you should apologise for your deception,’ said Mr McCosh.

  Mary Fitzgerald cast her eyes down and said softly, ‘Of course I apologise. I am indeed very sorry. Very sorry. I have hated myself for the deception quite considerably. It was, well…thrust upon me, almost.’

  ‘Thrust upon you?’

  ‘I am Anglo-Irish,’ she said. ‘I am the real thing in that respect. It’s just so horrible to be there now. One has no prospects. One feels despised and hated and suspected, and even in danger. The Easter Rising spoiled everything. It was quite the wrongest and stupidest thing to kill all those people and make them into martyrs. It turned everyone against us when they weren’t even mildly against us before. And now the Fenians are at each other’s throats. There’s nothing more vile than a civil war, and what a way to celebrate independence! My father won’t move, and I worry about him continuously. We have a large farm and a big house, but we have no capital to speak of. To whom could we sell such a place in days like these?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt that eventually you will make a sound marriage,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘You are exceedingly personable. I think it quite likely that eventually you will meet just the right man, not least because of being in this situation with us. One of Master Daniel’s friends will turn up one day, no doubt, and sweep you off your feet. Of course you would then have to undeceive him about being the Honourable Mary FitzGerald St George.’