‘But brawn has no bones,’ said Christabel, much puzzled.
‘I am referring to the lamb chops we had on Thursday last,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘I didn’t want to say anything at the time, but now I feel I must speak.’
‘To leave meat upon the bones is disrespectful of the creature that died so that we might eat it,’ replied Daniel icily. ‘And, what is more, the sweetest meat is that which is nearest the bone. And as for elbows on the table, in France we have our elbows on the table and we bite the meat from the bones when we are en famille. I have made the mistake of thinking that in this house I am en famille. I apologise. I also apologise for leaving the table before the meal is finished, and before we have given thanks in God’s real language, but I cannot abide it here any longer.’
Mrs McCosh said, ‘Whether you are en famille or not is a matter of conjecture. However, I should think that there is not one of us here, not even your wife, who thinks you can ever replace our poor lost son, or ever be worthy to step into his place.’
Daniel threw his napkin onto his place setting, bowed to the ladies and Mr McCosh, and strode out of the room.
‘Oh, Mama!’ exclaimed Rosie. She hesitated, white with dismay, and then went out after Daniel.
‘My dear, I think you should apologise to your son-in-law,’ said Mr McCosh.
‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Mrs McCosh. ‘I am not in the wrong, and will not be told so. I have taken the trouble to consult several guides to etiquette, including one written by a countess. They are unanimous on the subject of gnawing bones and having elbows on the table! And I will not be told off in front of the children.’
‘We will speak afterwards, then,’ said Mr McCosh, ‘when we are not in the presence of the children. And I happen to know that the late Queen liked to gnaw bones in her fingers. It was often remarked upon. I’m astounded that you don’t know of it.’
Rosie came back into the room, saying, ‘I don’t know where he went. I do hope he hasn’t gone home to his mother.’
‘What? To Partridge Green? At this time of night?’ said Ottilie.
‘Daniel is perfectly capable of driving to Partridge Green at this time of the night,’ said Rosie. ‘His fanaticism for motorcycling is completely inexhaustible, even at night or in the rain. He loves it almost as much as flying.’ She ran to the window and tweaked aside the curtain. ‘His combination is still there.’
‘We would have heard it starting up,’ said Ottilie sensibly.
‘We have lost both Sophie and Daniel,’ said Mr McCosh gloomily. They could still hear Sophie pacing up and down in the morning room, but every now and then they heard a new peal of laughter.
Daniel had gone out of the French windows and into the conservatory. The structure had been rebuilt, and it had lately begun to fill up with plants. During the war, before the glass had been blown out, the family had attempted to grow vegetables in it, without very much success, because they had lacked both assiduity and skill. Somehow the produce had always ended up overwatered, dead from dessication, mildewed, undersized or infested. Now, however, a tiny orange tree was flourishing in one corner, and a lemon in another. A vine was working its way towards the roof, and various pot plants were promising to become worthy of being a centrepiece on the dining table.
Daniel was seeking a refuge where he could calm himself with a couple of cigarettes. In order to get as far from his mother-in-law as he could, he opened the door and took the steps down to the lawn, resolving to go to the far end of the garden where Bouncer was buried. He walked out and looked up at the moon, whose beauty had never ceased to astonish him ever since he had so many times perforce lain out under it en plein air when he was serving on the North-West Frontier. Caractacus appeared out of the darkness and wound himself about Daniel’s legs. He snapped open his case, drew out a cigarette, and then patted his pockets to locate a matchbox. Finding it, he struck a match and shielded the flame in his hands, as he had also learned to do on the frontier. He remembered advising a fellow officer, freshly arrived from Hindubagh, not to have a cigarette when they were resting on a night patrol, and he laughed in amused recollection of the man’s reaction as a Pashtun sniper sent a bullet spinning from the rock next to which the man had been reclining, the moment he lit a match. It was somewhat odd these days, not to be under fire in one place or another, unless one counted the sallies of one’s mother-in-law. Not even she was as bad, he thought, as seeing a row of machine-gun bullets stitching their inexorable way towards you through the canvas of an aeroplane. Mrs McCosh was more on a par with flying through archie and flaming onions, except that archie and flaming onions didn’t leave you seething with fury. He decided all over again that it was an absolute priority to persuade Rosie to leave this house so they could begin to live more equably elsewhere. Of course, first of all he would have to leave the RAF and find a new job somewhere.
Daniel distinctly heard a cough nearby, and pricked up his ears. He looked around in the darkness, and then heard another cough, very near indeed. He wheeled about and realised that there must be someone in the storeroom below the conservatory.
Steeling himself, he walked to the doorway and peered in, but saw only the absolute darkness. He searched for his matchbox, and struck a match, holding it above eye level. He saw nothing in that orange glow but garden machinery, heaps of sacking, stacks of flowerpots, rakes and hoes. He nonetheless had a very distinct sense that there was someone there.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘Where are you hiding?’ He wondered if electric light had been installed down here yet, and peered about for a switch. ‘I know you’re here,’ he said, as the flame burned down to his fingertips and he was forced to shake the match out. ‘If you do not reveal yourself, I shall go back inside and return with a torch and revolver. This is your last warning.’
‘Hold hard,’ came a rough voice, ‘no need going over the top, as the actress said to the bishop. No point wasting a cartridge.’
Daniel lit another match, and a heap of sacking in the corner began to heave. Soon there stood before him a dishevelled man of about thirty-five years of age, holding out a hurricane lamp. ‘Light this,’ he said, ‘and stop wasting yer matches.’
Thinking how strange this all was, Daniel opened the mantle and lit the wick. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
‘That’d be true, whoever you said it to,’ replied the man.
‘You’re the gardener,’ said Daniel.
‘Lucky you told me. I mightn’t have realised. I know who you are. You’re married to Miss Rosie,’ replied the man.
‘What on earth are you doing, camping under the conservatory?’
‘Ain’t got no home.’
‘No home? And the McCoshes took you on?’
‘I told ’em I lived in Mottingham. They never asked me more. That Mr McCosh is a decent sort. I asked him for a chance, and he gave me one.’
‘The garden has improved enormously. The transformation is wonderful, really.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’ve got no family hereabouts?’
The man shrugged. ‘Dr Barnardo boy. Just about managed to keep out of Borstal.’
‘No wife either?’
‘Sodded off, sir. Went off with a Gordon Highlander. Buggered off to Scotland. Good luck to him, poor sod.’ He paused, then added, ‘It’s all right. She was a ten-pinter, and she was bloody horrible when she had the painters in.’
Daniel briefly tried to decipher this gnomic information, and gave up. ‘So you’ve no home at all?’
‘Not any more, sir. Used to, before I went to Kut.’
‘You were at Kut? You got through that?’
‘2nd Norfolks, sir. The worst thing was the march afterwards, sir. Johnny Turk marched us hundreds a’ miles. Johnny Turk thinks everyone else is as tough as he is. No transport, no food, no water sometimes. Sleeping under a conservatory ain’t so bad, really, when you come to think of it.’
‘All the same, you can’t possibly stay here
. What if the family finds out?’
‘Mr McCosh already knows, sir. He likes coming out in the dark and standing by the dog’s grave. He talks to it. Anyway, he caught me. He wanted to throw me out, but in the end he promised not to tell his missus, and he said he’d let me stay here ’til I’d got enough of a wage to take a lodging somewhere. In fact he gave me thirty shillings in advance, and I’m looking already.’
Daniel was impressed. ‘He’s a decent sort. The longer I know him, the more I think so.’
‘Oh, that he is, sir. He’s decent in private, like. He just don’t flaunt it when anyone’s watching. Millicent thinks he’s something wonderful for that.’
‘And who’s feeding you? You must be living off something.’
‘Cookie, of course, and Millicent. They’re the salt of the earth, they are.’
‘In fact, you’re at the centre of a huge conspiracy.’
‘You could put it like that, sir.’
‘Don’t you get lonely?’
‘The cat comes in and makes a fuss. That’s nice, that is. You sleep better with a warm cat purring away in your face.’
‘Well, well, well. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘You’re about the same size as me,’ said the gardener. ‘Got any cast-offs?’
‘I’ll have a look,’ said Daniel. ‘By the way, I’m not sure I know your name.’
‘Wragge, sir. Everyone calls me Oily. You may call me Mr Wragge, if you like, sir, because I was a sergeant major before, sir, and you can call me Oily if ever you know me better. I’ll call you sir if you don’t mind, sir. You’re probably an officer anyways, and it’ll save me having to remember.’
‘I am Captain Pitt, or at least I was before they turned the Flying Corps into the RAF. Well, Mr Wragge, I’ll bid you goodnight. Is there anything I can bring you?’
‘Not unless you got a spare floozy somewhere, sir.’
Daniel laughed. ‘If I had a spare one, Mr Wragge, I’d be keeping her to myself, and I’d be offering her a bed rather than a heap of sacks.’
‘Very wise, sir. I’d be doing the same. Could you spare me a gasper then?’
Daniel took out his case and removed three cigarettes, which he handed over, along with the box of matches. ‘I could probably find you a Sidcot suit, and an officer’s warm, if you’re getting cold at night,’ said Daniel.
‘That would be very congenial,’ said Wragge. ‘I’ll give ’em back when I find lodgings.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Wragge. Time for me to waggle my wings and venture back into Hunland. I have hail to fly through, an HB to deal with.’
‘Hostile battery? That’ll be the mistress, then. Goodnight, sir, and thank you, and watch out for archie. Watch out for that Mrs McCosh.’
‘I do, Mr Wragge, I do. I always beware of HBs. And the Hun in the sun,’ and he set off back up the steps to the conservatory, wondering if he could get to the staircase without encountering any of the family. He would now have to deal with the aftermath of his bad manners, and having left table before grace.
‘My shoe is size nine,’ called Mr Wragge softly. ‘Just in case you was wondering.’
84
Ultimatum
He found Rosie at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him, looking anxious and angry, so he forestalled her with ‘I’m going home.’
‘Home? To Partridge Green?’
‘Yes, Partridge Green.’
‘But you can’t! It’s so late.’
‘I have good lights.’
‘But what if you break down or get a nail in your tyre?’
‘I’ll sleep in a ditch. I’d rather sleep in a ditch than spend one more day in the same house as your wretched mother. Then I’ll go back to the airfield on Sunday evening.’
‘But why do you get so provoked? She does it because it’s so easy to get you angry! Why can’t you just stay calm, and smile, and shrug it all off like the rest of us?’
‘She picks almost exclusively on me. The moment she comes into the room I know I’m going to be attacked, and it gets worse every time I’m here. I’m sick of hearing about how I can’t hold a candle to “our lost son”, and I’m sick of being insulted and denigrated because of being half French.’
‘But you know she’s not herself! Don’t you remember her, from when we were small? She was so much fun. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course I remember. That woman has gone.’
‘No, she’s still inside, somewhere, she really is.’
‘It’s immaterial,’ said Daniel. ‘I can’t stand it here and I’m coming back as little as I can.’
‘But, Daniel, don’t you understand? She found her dearest friend mangled. She saw a child’s head on a doorstep, looking at her. She’s never been the same. Surely you can see it’s not her fault? It’s shell shock.’
‘Rosie, every one of us has been through their own Hell for years, you at Netley, where you must have seen the most terrible things day in and day out, and me in France. I’ve listened to people burning to death and screaming for God in wrecks that I shot down myself. I’ve come back from patrol and found two, three, four empty chairs in the mess, over and over again, month after month. I could go on. You know perfectly well how long one’s list is. Yours is probably longer than mine. Your mother’s list has one entry.’
‘But we’re not all the same! We expected to see what we saw. She wasn’t expecting it.’
‘In the end we have no choice, do we? We put it behind us, clench our teeth and battle on until the distance becomes sufficiently great. You’ve been indulging her. The whole family indulges her. No one challenges her, so she just gets worse and worse, until one day she’ll be so eccentric and so damned rude that even you won’t be able to live with her and you’ll have to put her in a loony bin.’
Rosie looked at him desperately, unable to concede.
‘Anyway,’ continued Daniel, ‘there are two ways out. Either you and Esther move with me into married quarters as soon as the squadron gets settled, or I leave the RAF and get a job somewhere quite a long way away, and you and Esther come and join me there.’
‘But I can’t leave my mother! How will my father cope with her?’
‘You have Millicent and Mary. And Ottilie hasn’t left home.’
‘But one day she’ll want to move away and get married! What then? Who’ll look after her? What about Daddy?’
‘Rosie, you’re married.’
Rosie looked at the floor dumbly. She sat on one of the hall chairs and put her face into her hands.
‘I’ve been such a disappointment,’ she said. ‘I’ve done everything wrong. I’ve been a terrible wife, I know it. I’m so sorry. I expect you hardly love me any more, do you?’
‘You gave me Esther,’ said Daniel. ‘That was the best gift anyone could have given me. Whatever happens, I’ll always love you for that.’
He went to fetch his Sidcot suit and shuffled it on. He sat on the other hall chair and pulled on his boots, then he stood. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. He hesitated, holding his flying gloves in one hand and his helmet and goggles in the other.
Rosie looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot from weeping. ‘Don’t go, Daniel, please don’t go. We’ve got to keep trying. Please stay.’
85
Conversation in the Pavilion
The Royal flying Corps had been amalgamated with the Royal Naval Air Service a year before, and Daniel had talked it over a great deal with Fluke, in the cricket pavilion of their temporary airfield, and in their local tavern. For old soldiers of the RFC there was far too much navy tommyrot in the RAF these days, and peacetime service was a full-scale bore. The brass hats and chair-warmers were clamping down on all that made aviation joyous. No flying under bridges. No contour-chasing and tree-hopping in case it upset the farmers, the cows and the horses, or made people spill their tea with the shock, or startled drivers into ditches. No more cloud-vaulting, no more split-arsing over the villages. No more binge nights when you sm
ashed up everything in the mess, because now you couldn’t send out a vehicle to fetch in the abandoned chairs and tables from the ruins of French houses. Worst of all had been the introduction of endless hours of guards-style square-bashing, the surest sign that the force had lost sight of its purpose and was seeking only to enforce uniformity and keep the men occupied. ‘You might as well get us to dig holes and fill them in again,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m not wasting my mornings stamping around, and I don’t see why the men should either. I want my fitter working on my machine, not being yelled at by some numbskull with a head full of drill book.’
‘I hate this bloody uniform,’ said Fluke. ‘The old maternity dress was bad enough, but at least nobody made us wear it. What was wrong with your regimental duds with a pair of wings and your ribbons sewn on? And I’m damned if I like being a squadron leader. I’m a major, damn it. I’m a soldier, not a bloody air sailor.’
‘Remember the first uniform they came up with?’ said Daniel, and they both laughed. It had been a hideous and ridiculous outfit in vulgar blue, covered with gold. The policy had been that, owing to the shortage of uniforms, only the new boys would have to wear the new outfit. As the old guard were killed off, the replacement of the old by the new had taken place naturally by a process of attrition, but there were plenty of surviving stalwarts who still felt as if they really belonged to their regiments. You don’t alter your allegiance by putting on something blue.
‘No more WRAFs,’ said Fluke gloomily. ‘I loved WRAFs. Almost as much as WAACs and dusky maidens. I got driven for miles by one in a combination, getting back to the squadron after a smash. Stout girl, lovely smile, wonder what happened to her.’
‘Think of all those empty Wraferies,’ said Daniel.
‘It’s a horrible thought,’ agreed Fluke.
‘No more airship service either.’
‘I don’t mind that too much,’ said Fluke. ‘There aren’t any Boche ones to shoot down any more, and you can’t pip the ones on your own side anyway. Might as well get rid of them.’