The Dust That Falls From Dreams

  Secondly, Mrs McCosh has in recent years grown more and more arbitrary and unpredictable (and, one might say, eccentric) in her behaviour, and at present her greatest joy is to provoke Daniel into a rage by taunting him about France and the French. He may have spoken to you about this, and if he has not, it may be well to ask him. This would possibly not matter very much if Daniel did not have to come here to be with his wife and daughter, but at present he does, simply because Rosie is finding reasons not to go elsewhere.

  Thirdly, I have every reason to believe that Daniel and Rosie do not enjoy proper marital relations. This is very hard for a father to talk to a daughter about, and Mrs McCosh’s advice would almost certainly be detrimental to the case, so I would not think of asking her to intervene. You are a forthright person (I am sure you will take this as a compliment) and I suspect would not suffer from inhibitions such as mine.

  It is my opinion that Rosie has never recovered from the loss of a much adored fiancé in 1915, and that this explains all that is otherwise inexplicable in her behaviour.

  I have failed completely in the exercise of paternal or marital authority, through no want of cajoling, ordering and even shouting. Rosie’s sisters have also failed in their many interventions. The situation is quite beyond us. I am certain, however, that the situation is not beyond you, and that a visit from you, carried out with the inexorability of purpose for which you are rightly renowned, is the one thing that might do the trick.

  I will telephone you from the Athenaeum on the afternoon of Thursday next, by which time you will have had some time to absorb this information. When you see her, please do tell the operator at Partridge Green post office not to listen into the conversation after she has connected us. There is no excuse for it, and I find it most aggravating, as I am sure do you.

  I look forward very much to seeing you. My dear Mme Pitt, you are my great hope.

  Affectionately yours ever,

  Hamilton McCosh

  99

  Daniel and Mme Pitt

  Daniel Pitt turned his combination into the small gravelled yard in front of his mother’s house in Partridge Green. Behind him the South Downs rose sheep-cropped, breasted and majestic into the air, and before him nestled the small detached house in which his mother was passing the remaining years of her passionate life in relative tranquillity. There was wisteria growing up the walls and prying into the cracks and corners of the window frames, and a climbing rose all but obliterating any glimpse of the porch. It was exactly the kind of house that Helen Allingham liked to paint.

  All it lacked was a winsome dairy maid with a pail of milk in each hand. Instead there was Mme Pitt, with a tattered bonnet on her head, galoshes on her feet, a trug basket over her left arm and a pair of secateurs in her right hand. Daniel adored her. ‘Ah, te voilà!’ she cried, dropping her impediments and advancing towards him with her arms spread wide. ‘Une bise! Une bise!’ she exclaimed, kissing him on both cheeks before he could even remove his flying helmet.

  ‘But how dirty your face is!’ she said. ‘And you have white rings round your eyes! Comme c’est marrant!’

  ‘You should have seen me in the war, maman,’ said Daniel. ‘I was covered in black blobs of castor oil just about all the time. Got sick of the stuff. Had to put whale grease on my face.’

  ‘Ah, la guerre, la guerre,’ sighed Mme Pitt. ‘Quel horreur, quel grand dommage. Ça me rend triste d’y penser. Viens, viens, je te ferai un nice cup of tea.’

  ‘On parle franglais aujourd’hui?’

  ‘Comme d’habitude! Comme d’habitude! Why are you so en retard? I had almost given in to désespoir, and then apathie.’

  ‘Damned nails from horseshoes,’ said Daniel. ‘Had two punctures. It’s always nails from damned horseshoes. Every time I go out. The sooner we get the horses off the roads, the happier I shall be.’

  ‘Ça n’arrivera jamais,’ said his mother. ‘How would we get along without the horses?’

  ‘With motors, maman. You must have noticed. We’ve had them for about twenty years.’

  ‘And les chevaux we have had for des milliers,’ replied Mme Pitt, ‘and they don’t need gasoline.’

  ‘Ils ont besoin de foin. Une énorme quantité de foin.’

  ‘But the hay is in the fields! C’est partout! You don’t have to make holes in hot places to find it, n’est-ce pas?

  ‘Vous avez raison, maman. Comme toujours.’

  ‘Ne me moque pas! Viens. I have made a cassoulet. Lave-toi, et viens t’asseoir. J’ai du bon vin, et du vrai pain.’

  As they mopped up what sauce remained by scouring the dish with bread, Daniel said, ‘I’m not allowed to do this in Eltham.’

  ‘The English don’t trust the pleasure,’ said his mother. ‘Autre pays, autre mœurs.’

  ‘I think I’m in the wrong country,’ said Daniel gloomily.

  ‘You would be just as énervé at home in France, because they are not English enough. And ici you are irritated because they are not sufficiently French.’

  ‘C’est vrai.’

  ‘Now, I have to speak to you.’

  ‘Je m’en doutais, maman.’

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Yes? What about her?’

  ‘I have a letter from dear Mr McCosh. Everything is not good. Tais-toi! I know everything. I am going to speak to Rosie and to her mother, but I am going to speak to you first.’

  Daniel was thoroughly used to being told off and lectured by his mother, and, as he had grown more mature, he had learned to appreciate her advice. She was always humorous, never malicious, and was incapable of annoying him. In this she made a sharp contrast to Mrs McCosh.

  ‘Rosie is a sweet girl. She is vraiment sympathique. You must make more effort.’

  ‘More effort? Maman, I have had to exercise more patience than you can possibly imagine!’

  ‘Rosie is clever and interesting, and she worked so hard all through the war that she is worn out completely. Je crois qu’elle est encore épuisée. Especially in the heart.’

  ‘Maman, she is still in love with a dead man. She can’t relinquish him. I have no idea why she married me. Sometimes she seems to love me a great deal, and sometimes she’s an absolute stranger that I can’t get through to.’

  ‘Et pourquoi tu t’es marié avec elle?’

  ‘I was in love with her. Or I thought I was.’

  ‘Of course. And, naturally, you still are.’

  ‘Strange to say, I also thought it was a question of destiny.’

  ‘Pas de choix?’

  ‘Pas de choix. Exactement. And I love Esther. I go back to be with Esther. I feel I will never really have Rosie. I’ve stopped hoping for a happy marriage, or any kind of marriage at all. Sometimes she’s wonderful, and I think everything is going to be all right, but then sometimes I think that she did me terrible damage by agreeing to marry me and that I’ll never forgive her.’

  ‘I say that you still love Rosie, and the love is hiding under all the rage, n’est-ce pas?’

  Daniel looked at her and said nothing, unwilling to agree. Finally he said, ‘Je ne sais pas.’

  ‘Tu sais! Tu sais bien! Tu l’aimes encore! Je suis ta mère! Believe me!’

  ‘Maman, being my mother doesn’t make you omniscient.’

  She reached across the small wooden table and the remains of their meal, and patted his hand. ‘But I am! When it comes to my boys there is nothing I cannot know.’

  Mme Pitt took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing it.

  ‘Marriage is like a wine,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it can only be drunk very young, and then it goes bad and gets worse and worse. Sometimes when it is young it’s horrible, affreux! And then the years pass and it becomes wonderful, and perhaps you don’t even notice, and then you realise that at last the wine has become beautiful and you are happy. Sometimes a wine must be left alone and sometimes it must be blended and tasted and changed a little. And sometimes someone must come along and turn e
very bottle over, many times. I am going to turn the bottles over, tu sais? I am going to go and see Rosie and your belle-mère, and I am going to be very blunt with them, I will say things that are cruel, and they will have to excuse me because I am only a mad old Frenchwoman. But I am going to turn your bottles first, tu comprends?’

  ‘Maman, I see you’re not going to let me do otherwise.’

  ‘Oui! Mon fils, I know that you still love her. I think she loves you and doesn’t know it. She has her dead man standing between, and he is blocking the view. I will tell her to look at the view.’

  ‘Maman, have you ever talked to Archie? You must know…how he feels about Rosie. I did a horrible thing to him when I married her. I think I might have brought about his destruction. In the end, that is.’

  ‘Archie m’écrit, and I write to him, of course. He adores his life in India, with his wild tribes and his ambushing, and his soldiers with their blood feuds. Yes, I have thought that it was very bad of you to marry Rosie when he has always loved her, and when poor sweet Ottilie has always loved him too, mais je te confie quelque chose quand même.’ Mme Pitt leaned forward and patted his hand again. ‘I am certain that Rosie could never have loved him, she would have dragged him down into the misery. But I am certain that she loves you.’

  ‘Vous en êtes sûr?’ Daniel felt a small wave of hope pass through him.

  ‘Yes, but you must understand that Rosie is not a man. You have been with other men too much. A woman is not a man, d’accord? It is no good stating facts and reasons and good arguments and making accusations. Il faut faire la cour. Il faut courtiser. Il faut de la patience, de la générosité, de la liberalité. Il faut montrer que pour toi elle tient sa juste valeur.’

  ‘Maman, il est trop tard. I only have my daughter. I doubt if I will have any more children. I hate to say it, but there it is. I’d like lots of them. Esther is the only good thing to come out of this fiasco.’

  ‘It is not too late. I am going to go and turn over the bottles.’

  ‘Good luck, maman. But what are we going to do about Archie?’

  Mme Pitt stood up and looked out of the window, as if she could see through the Downs all the way to the North-West Frontier.

  ‘I grieve for him,’ she said. ‘What can we do? Je suis en deuil. I lost your father over some affaire d’honneur ridicule, I lost your poor dear brothers in South Africa. Archie s’enivre, et se cache dans les déserts et les montagnes avec les sauvages. You are the only son left that gives me hope.’ She turned round and said, ‘You have so much charm, so much energy. Of course I hope.’

  100

  The Intervention of Mme Pitt

  Mme Pitt arrived at the house like a man-o’-war in full sail, billowing with chiffon and taffeta. Her clothes were scrupulously matched and were of that lovely shade of soft blue grey that one sees on the back of a wood pigeon. Her hat bore a brim splendidly wide, and its band was trimmed with a single dark red rose, very cunningly made. It was most effective, being the only red item against the field of smoky grey.

  Her arrival, although fully expected, had the same effect as an unexpected visit from royalty. The driver of the hansom, having carried her boxes indoors, bowed so low upon being paid, that she quite thought he would topple forward onto his nose. ‘How perfectly charming you are,’ she said to him, patting his arm, and he blushed to the roots of his hair.

  Mme Pitt ascended the steps and entered the house in a blaze of invincible French elegance. ‘Bonjour, tout le monde, bonjour, bonjour!’ she cried, and, ignoring protocol bent down first to hug Esther so tightly that the child stuck her tongue out in mock strangulation. ‘Une bise pour ta gran’mère,’ she cried, pointing to her cheek. ‘Encore une bise!’ she cried, pointing to the other. ‘Encore une bise! Encore une bise! Oh, but my! How you’ve grown! Mais comme tu es devenue belle! J’espère que tu es encore sage! Tu es sage? Mon ange! Ma petite champignonne!’

  Mme Pitt seized the stupefied Mrs McCosh by the shoulders and planted four kisses upon her cheeks in rapid succession. Rosie received the same fusillade, as did Mr McCosh, who was so delighted by such a display of affection that the smile did not leave his face for several minutes. She held out her hand to Millicent, and Millicent curtsied. ‘Mademoiselle Millicent! How lovely that you are still here.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, you are very kind, madam,’ said Millicent, curtsying again.

  ‘Cookie’s in an awful flap,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘She says she’s prepared to cook for the Queen, but cooking for a Frenchwoman is altogether beyond her!’

  ‘Ça se comprend!’ exclaimed Mme Pitt. ‘I shall go down to the kitchen and help. But first, to business! En avant! I have come to say certain things, and when I have said them, we can all relax, and I can give Esther her little cadeau.’

  ‘A present?’ said Esther. ‘Cadeau’ had been almost the first French word she had learned.

  ‘No, I will change the plan! I will give it to you straight away, because life is short, non?

  She reached into her capacious bag and brought out a large brown bear. She held it out to Esther and said, ‘This bear is made in France, and its name is French Bear.’

  ‘French Bear,’ repeated Esther, taking it and holding it to her cheek.

  ‘What do you say?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Merci, Gran’mère,’ said Esther shyly.

  ‘De rien, de rien!’ said Mme Pitt, leaning down and patting her face.

  ‘Gran’mère smell nice,’ said Esther.

  ‘Is Daniel not here yet?’ asked Mme Pitt. ‘Bon!’

  She turned to Mrs McCosh, saying, ‘To you I will speak first.’ To Millicent she said, ‘A cup of tea, my dear, but without milk or sugar, and very weak, à la française.’

  ‘Oh, just like Master Daniel,’ said Millicent, hurrying away.

  Mrs McCosh, feeling for the first time in years that she had no control whatsoever over events, meekly followed her into the dining room. Mme Pitt took a seat at the head of the table, obliging Mrs McCosh to sit at one side. Mme Pitt said nothing at all until her tea arrived, by which time Mrs McCosh was in a state of considerable anxiety.

  ‘I hope you have not come here to hector me,’ said Mrs McCosh unconvincingly. ‘I will not be hectored.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mme Pitt, ‘I am very disappointed, I will not hide it. How can I hide it? My son is extremely unhappy, and you do nothing about it. In fact you make him more unhappy. You provoke him! He tells me that you provoke him beyond all possible endurance, and that your provocations are always about him being French, even though he is as English as you are, as well as French. His father was in the Royal Navy! The Royal Navy, not the French Navy. His father was an officer on the Royal Yacht. Is that French? Is that a French yacht? And furthermore, you provoke him so much that he can hardly bear to come here any more, and if it were not for Esther he would not come here at all. And furthermore again, he has won a job in Ceylon which is the opportunity of a lifetime, and Rosie is refusing to go, and you are supporting her in this, even though Mr McCosh has told her to go. Now, tell me, are you crazy? What kind of mama are you that you hold on to a full-grown woman and keep her tied to the apron, when she has a husband and a daughter, eh? Tell me, tell me.’

  Mrs McCosh sat with her mouth open, quite unable to respond to such obvious truths.

  Mme Pitt looked at her imperiously, and continued. ‘Well, I for one will not stand for it. You will cease your provocations, immediately. You will tell Rosie that she has to go to Ceylon! You will tell Rosie that she has to be a proper wife, not switching on and off like a lamp! You will tell Rosie to find some love in here,’ she said as she thumped her chest, ‘and give it to my son. Now you will go and tell Rosie that it is her turn for me to be speaking to her.’

  Mme Pitt was considerably older than Mrs McCosh, and the latter felt quite unable and unentitled to argue with her. She rose to her feet and found that she was trembling too much to walk. Supporting herself by leaning partially on the dining table, she
managed to reach the door. She turned to say something, but found herself, once again, utterly wordless. She went to the morning room to recover her composure. She resolved to write a letter to His Majesty, and then go out with the airgun and see if there were any pigeons in the garden.

  When Rosie came in she felt like a schoolgirl who has been hauled before a headmistress.

  ‘You will sit down,’ said Mme Pitt, patting the chair beside her.

  Rosie sat down and folded her hands together, looking at them as they lay in her lap. Mme Pitt chucked her under the chin very lovingly, and said, ‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.’

  ‘Gran’mère?’

  ‘You know this can’t go on, you know it, don’t you?’

  Rosie nodded her head miserably.

  ‘I will be telling you exactly what cannot be going on,’ said Mme Pitt. ‘In the first place, now you have married a living man you cannot be married in your heart to a man who is dead. There is no good dead man who has ever wished for this! Think how much you are hurting this dead man if he looks down and he sees that you are making unhappiness! If he sees your husband so unhappy that he would not come home at all if he did not love his daughter! If he sees your mother provoking, provoking, all about being French, and you do nothing to stop it! That you never say, “Maman, this is enough! Leave my husband alone!” Do you think this dead man is happy on high, looking down and seeing that you make a grande pagaille all in his memory? Do you think this dead man is pleased about your husband who is alive and is not being with his daughter that he loves because you want to stay at home with maman and you won’t go where he works even to a beautiful place? What selfishness is this? You think this dead man is proud of a woman who is like this? Rosie, you are a saint, a veritable saint, everybody says it, but you also have the cruelty of saints. The cruelty that has no eyes. Have your eyes not seen that in this life there is one thing sacred? And this one thing sacred is the little children? And you have one of these sacred little things, and she is called Esther, and she must have a nest with a mother and a father in it? How does the bird fly with one wing only?