The Dust That Falls From Dreams

  ‘Dame Nellie Melba and the monstrous regiment of women and Cookie and Millicent!’

  At that moment Mrs McCosh entered, having woken from a nightmare and been drawn down by the pleasant aroma of cooked food. ‘Ah,’ she said as all the menfolk stood, ‘drinking the usual toasts, I see. I hope you have not forgotten Their Majesties.’

  ‘We drink the loyal toast after our own Christmas dinner, my dear, as you know.’

  ‘In that case let’s drink to King Constantine of the Hellenes.’

  ‘But why, my dear?’

  ‘He’s just been restored. One has to stand up for the principal of royalty, my dear, otherwise the whole world falls apart, as we know.’

  ‘I’d quite like to be restored,’ said Daniel, resisting the temptation to ask her whether her support of the principle of royalty extended to the Kaiser and the Emperor of Austria. ‘I’m exhausted after that drive from Partridge Green. I don’t think I have ever been so wet or so cold, not even at fifteen thousand feet. It would have taken minutes in a Snipe.’

  Mrs McCosh glared at him, and then, as if having read Daniel’s thoughts, Gaskell said, in her languid, rather decadent drawl, ‘Well, here’s to the Dutch handing over the Kaiser, so we can string him up.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the Kaiser,’ said Fairhead.

  ‘What?’ cried Daniel. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Oh, very probably. What I mean is that he seems to have wanted an empire in Europe, when the rest of us have already got one elsewhere. There wasn’t anywhere else to get one, really. And now everybody is going to hate and despise him forever, including his own relatives. He must be hiding in Holland, blushing with shame and embarrassment. He must be in Hell, actually, when you consider how omnipotent he was before. He’s been well and truly cast out of Paradise, I’d say.’

  ‘The man was a complete and utter fool,’ said Gaskell shortly. ‘Did he really think he could invade neutral countries and go to war with our Allies, and get away with it?’

  ‘Of course you’re quite right,’ said Fairhead, ‘but one can still feel sorry for a fool. Every paradise has a serpent hiding in it, doesn’t it? And he turned out to be his own serpent. A very great fool indeed, I’d say.’

  ‘I find your compassion quite inexplicable and inexcusable,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘One simply doesn’t declare war on one’s relatives, especially in the royal family.’

  ‘Edward IV murdered his own brother,’ said Ottilie, ‘and I understand that the sultans murdered their brothers as a matter of course. It was fully expected of them.’

  ‘I hardly think one can call a sultan royalty,’ declared Mrs McCosh. ‘Why, they’re not even Christian!’

  Rosie said, ‘Did he really want an empire? I thought he was just worried about being a sandwich between France and Russia, so he decided to knock out one and then go on and knock out the other.’

  ‘Ah, the Schlieffen Plan,’ said Fairhead. ‘Yes, you’re right about that.’

  ‘He was still an absolute fool,’ insisted Gaskell, her green eyes sparking with contempt.

  ‘May I change the subject?’ asked Daniel, his eyes aglow with mischief. ‘I have a surprise for you. An entertainment. I want everybody here at teatime. Without fail, including Cookie and Millicent, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘It’s hardly convenient,’ said Mrs McCosh, who had been making a vocation of irritating Daniel for some time now.

  ‘Of course it is,’ remonstrated her husband. ‘Where else would we be at teatime?’

  ‘How exciting,’ said Gaskell drily. ‘What a shame I shall not be here to see it.’

  ‘Christabel will send you a report,’ said Daniel. ‘In fact I will ask her to take photographs.’

  At that very moment Christabel came in, even hotter and more flustered than before. ‘Talking about me?’ she said. ‘I hope it was nothing uncomplimentary. Dinner is served. Or, to be more precise, charred.’

  ‘Cookie, you will take my arm as always,’ said Mr McCosh.

  ‘And Millicent will take mine,’ said Daniel. He leapt to his feet and offered it to her.

  Millicent blushed and placed her arm softly in his. She felt something like a spark pass between them at the contact, and she knew that he had felt it too. She suddenly wished that she had better clothes to wear, even though she was most grateful for Miss Rosie’s cast-offs. After dinner Ottilie would play the piano and she would probably have to take a waltz with Mr Daniel while Cookie took one with Mr McCosh.

  Mrs McCosh remembered that it had not, after all, been so unpleasant to take a waltz with the footman, back when they still had one. A scintilla of Christmas spirit sparkled in her eyes, and then quickly faded. It was difficult to enjoy anything these days. She had got halfway through writing a Christmas card to Myrtle, before remembering.

  81

  The Dancing

  Daniel and Fairhead moved all the furniture to the edges of the room, rolled up the carpet and deposited it in the conservatory. Mrs McCosh was displeased, as it was not a man’s duty or vocation to decide upon the placing of furniture, particularly hers. She was further put out by Daniel’s informing her that there might be two extra people for dinner, and possibly to stay the night, but they would be bringing their own tent, as they were reluctant to cause inconvenience, and he was not going to tell anyone who they were, because that was part of the surprise.

  ‘A tent?’ she cried. ‘A tent? In this weather? In December? At Christmas?’

  ‘They are both exceedingly tough,’ said Daniel. ‘They have endured far worse than a night in a tent in Court Road, Eltham, and will think it very luxurious. Really, you shouldn’t worry at all. They’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘And if we are to feed them, where will they eat? If they are people of quality they should eat with us, but the dining table is already a most frightful squeeze. Of course, if they are of the common sort, they may eat in the kitchen.’

  ‘I have moved a card table into the dining room,’ said Daniel. ‘All it needs is a nice lacy tablecloth.’

  ‘Christmas is such a trial,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘I do most sincerely wish the Lord had been born at some other time.’

  Rosie, who had been listening to this conversation as she arranged some sprigs of red-berried holly in a vase at the corner table, said, ‘Mama, if He had been born at another time, then that would have been Christmas.’

  ‘We should have called it something else,’ replied Mrs McCosh loftily.

  Ottilie came in and said, ‘When are we opening the presents?’ ‘At the usual time,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘We have “post office” at teatime on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Can’t we open them at breakfast? Then we’ll have all day to play with them. What about Esther? She’ll be desperate.’

  ‘No, my dear, anticipation is half the pleasure. Perhaps we shouldn’t tell her it’s Christmas until the evening.’

  ‘Mama, that’s hardly fair on the poor little thing,’ said Ottilie, and went out again.

  ‘Why do we give presents at Christmas?’ asked Daniel. ‘I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘Because that is what they do in the royal family,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘One tends to emulate one’s betters, if one has any sense.’

  ‘It’s because God gave us His Son, and the Three Wise Men brought Him gifts,’ said Rosie impatiently. ‘We celebrate the gifts by giving them ourselves.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs McCosh, disillusioned.

  An hour before dark, a hammering was heard in the garden, and Daniel could be seen from the windows, erecting a neat military tent. He came back in, the knees of his trousers muddy and wet. ‘It would start raining the moment I went out,’ he complained. ‘It’s perishing too. If the clouds clear, I think we’ll be in for a frost. By the way, when the bell goes, no one is to answer the door except me, and no one is to go in the morning room. It will become the gentlemen’s dressing room.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s where the Christmas tree is,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘We’ll make sure we
don’t knock it over,’ said Daniel, ‘and we’ll put out the candles and we won’t interfere with the presents.’

  ‘You’d better not,’ said Ottilie, ‘or there will be dire consequences.’

  ‘No presents for peekers!’ said Rosie. ‘It was our family motto when we were little. Do you remember?’

  ‘Rosie opened all her presents one Christmas,’ said Ottilie. ‘She came down at dawn. And Mama made her sit in the attic practically all day in the dark.’

  ‘I’ve never been so cold in my life,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve never been so miserable. Or frightened. Or lonely.’

  ‘Or contrite,’ said Mrs McCosh, defensively. ‘I’m sure it did you good. I let you out when you started screaming.’

  ‘I was only six! And you gave all my presents to Dr Barnardo’s.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t do it now,’ said Mrs McCosh.

  ‘My mother says that the most important thing one can learn from one’s parents is how not to be a parent,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Mrs McCosh, without irony. ‘Mine were far too indulgent.’

  It darkened outside, and the doorbell rang. Daniel ensured that there were no illicit observers, and ushered his muffled guests into the morning room.

  This room was divided from the hallway not by a wall but by a large curtain. It served not simply as a morning room, but also as chapel, reception room and waiting room. Mrs McCosh considered it one of the great assets of the house. From the bench against the window one could observe passers-by, and peep surreptitiously in order to discern the identity of whoever was at the porch.

  The house grew heavy with conspiracy, and light with anticipation. ‘I wonder what Daniel’s going to do,’ they repeated to each other, as they sat around the edge of the drawing room and sipped on the tea that Millicent served from the trolley. Sophie ate almost all the langues de chat without anyone noticing until it was too late. ‘Who’s having the last one?’ she cried, taking it herself, and exclaiming, ‘A handsome husband and ten thousand a year!’

  ‘Ten thousand,’ sighed Fairhead, ‘and handsome. One can only dream.’

  Just then a roaring and whooping and stamping and drumming was set up outside in the hallway, and Mrs McCosh exclaimed, ‘Goodness gracious!’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Sophie, ‘cacophany and polydindination!’

  The door burst open and three Khattak warriors hurled themselves into the room, leaping and whirling. Caractacus hurtled out of the room, between their legs. One was beating on a clay drum with a curved stick, and all were chanting something quite indecipherable in a strange high-pitched yodel. They wore ragged black beards, their equally ragged long hair was tied up in bobs, and their faces were of a golden hue. They wore chappalls on their feet, and, on their bodies, long loose shirts that, on closer inspection, would turn out to be improvised from old sheets. Two warriors held long curved swords, and began to slash at each other ferociously and rhythmically.

  Everyone in the drawing room was both appalled and fascinated. It was unclear as to who these prodigiously athletic savages were, and the two showed every semblance of truly desiring to slaughter each other. Their blood-curdling shrieks and the stamping of their feet on the bare floorboards made everything so much more alarming.

  One of the combatants raised his sword above his head and slashed downwards. His opponent sidestepped and crouched down, cutting horizontally with a wide sweep that should have taken the other’s legs off at the knee, had not the latter skipped lightly into the air. When this manoeuvre was repeated, it began to dawn on the audience that they were watching, not a fight, but a dance.

  A blade came down diagonally as if to strike at the base of a neck, but the target ducked and executed exactly the same manoeuvre in return. Then the two circled each other, glaring and snarling, until suddenly they both began to whirl like dervishes, two, three, four times, balanced on one foot and bobbing up and down like shuttles. Finally they faced each other once more, and circled, each with the point of a sword levelled at the tip of his opponent’s nose.

  Suddenly they broke away from each other and advanced upon their audience, eyes rolling with aggression and insanity, chewing the ends of their beards, and feigning the intention of cutting the poor folk to pieces. Millicent squealed and ran from the room, but Cookie took up a brass candlestick to defend herself. Christabel and Ottilie looked uneasy, aware that this was all a wonderful hoax, but thoroughly disturbed by it nonetheless. Mr McCosh watched with amusement and appreciation, a cigar clamped between his lips, and Mrs McCosh enjoyed it all with a look of immense disapproval on her face. Rosie sat very still, with Esther on her lap, sucking her thumb. Sophie, pretending to be terrified, used the occasion as an excuse to cling more closely to her husband.

  The dance ended with a frenzied ratatat-tatting on the clay drum, and howls of ‘Allah o akbar!’ from all the protagonists. ‘Dadda’ said Esther, pointing.

  ‘Gracious me, I do believe it’s Archie and Fluke,’ said Christabel as the three men linked arms and bowed. ‘We haven’t seen Archie since the wedding!’

  ‘Feel free to applaud!’ said Daniel, and the assembly obediently did so, disconcerted though every member of it was.

  ‘Was that a Pathan dance?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Pathans don’t dance,’ replied Archie, ‘they think it’s undignified. Chitralis like to dance. And sing.’

  ‘You had me quite fooled for a moment,’ said Sophie. ‘How did you do your faces?’

  ‘Wren’s polish, of course.’

  ‘Silly me,’ said Sophie. ‘I presume you got the beards from a goat?’

  ‘Archie, is that you?’ asked Christabel.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ replied Archie.

  ‘Introductions and fond reunions later!’ cried Daniel.

  ‘We are now going to do the Chitralis’ vulture dance,’ announced Archie. ‘Would anyone like to volunteer to be the corpse?’

  ‘Very much so, I would,’ declared Mr McCosh, ‘but it may take some time to lower myself to the floor.’

  ‘Do take my arm,’ said Archie, and so it was that Mr McCosh was lowered with much aplomb to the floor, where he lay on his back, sportingly puffing his cigar smoke towards the ceiling. Mrs McCosh was thoroughly mortified to witness her husband thus.

  ‘Would anyone like to play the drum?’ asked Archie. ‘Otherwise Fluke doesn’t get a chance to dance.’

  ‘I shall do it,’ said Mr McCosh gamely, ‘horizontal though I may be. Would someone take my cigar? Fairhead?’

  The three dancers got down onto their haunches, and Mr McCosh began to beat the drum. ‘Slower!’ said Archie, and Mr McCosh obeyed. Fairhead held McCosh’s cigar at arm’s length. He had always disliked the things quite intensely. Privately, he considered them the turds of the Devil, and went for frequent strolls round the garden when Mr McCosh was smoking one.

  The three men performed manoeuvres that can only be described as macabre and grotesque. They hopped in a curious oblique skipping fashion towards the corpse, leapt back when it showed signs of life, flapped their arms in imitation of wings, pecked at each other and jostled each other out of the way. They gathered around the body and made a brilliant imitation of vultures ripping a hole in the belly and dragging out the intestines with long sideways wrenchings of the neck. The only thing they did not do was stand on the body itself.

  At last Daniel fell back and announced, ‘I don’t think I can do any more of this hopping. My thighs are killing me.’

  ‘Let’s eat Daniel!’ cried Fluke, and the two remaining dancers switched their attention to him.

  ‘Can I get up now?’ asked Mr McCosh. ‘I think I need a stiff drink.’ Archie helped him to his feet, and he felt a sudden dizziness, from which he quickly recovered.

  The three performers sat side by side on the sofa, sipping tea, still sweating and panting, and basking in the admiration of everyone except Mrs McCosh, who disapproved of exuberance, and had been disturbed by the very thought of vultures and corps
es.

  Hamilton McCosh was standing in the middle of the room with a sword in his hand, waving it speculatively. ‘I like the Pathan sword best,’ said Archie, noting Mr McCosh’s interest. ‘It’s like a long scalene triangle with a sort of ridge along the top. They’re unbelievably sharp.’

  ‘One misses rather a lot from never having been a soldier,’ said Mr McCosh.

  ‘One misses a lot of truly horrible things,’ replied Archie earnestly, ‘and it can make you quite unfit for normal life.’

  ‘Quite so, I’m sure. I bashed the Boche through the power of industry, but it might have been satisfying to spike one in person.’

  ‘I’m still hoping to kill one,’ declared Mrs McCosh. ‘When I think of poor Myrtle…and those dreadful bombers…quite beyond the pale.’

  ‘How long is your leave?’ Rosie asked Archie.

  ‘I’ve got three months, and then I’m back to the North-West Frontier.’

  ‘It’s most awfully nice to see you again,’ said Ottilie, who wondered sadly whether she would ever lose her passion for him. ‘I do wish you all still lived next door.’

  ‘I also wish we were still next door. Even so, maman is happy at Partridge Green, and it is lovely countryside down there. It’s splendid to go up on Chanctonbury Ring. You can see for miles. All the way to Blackdown. Maman likes it too. She takes binoculars and tries to look at France.’

  ‘She must have awfully strong legs.’

  ‘Family trait,’ said Archie.

  ‘Do you still speak French, en famille, the way you used to?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. French is more intimate than English somehow. And it is far more effective when used on children. They actually obey if you say it in French. Not that I meet many children these days.’

  Ottilie pursed her mouth sceptically. ‘Are you…?’ she began. ‘Is there…you know, anyone? Are we to expect any, um, good news at all? Is that why you’re back? Forgive me if I’m being nosy and impertinent, but we are old friends.’