The Dust That Falls From Dreams

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘I am Hamilton McCosh, master of this house. How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘We’ve come to thank you, sir,’ said the woman.

  ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘I mean, thank all of you, for what you did. I mean, taking care of my Edward here, and calling the ambulance, and going to hospital with him, and visiting him an’ that, and bringing him food.’

  ‘That was my daughters,’ said Mr McCosh.

  ‘We think you paid the hospital bill,’ said the woman.

  ‘What makes you think it was me?’

  ‘Who else would it be, sir? It was quite a lot. It was more than we could’ve managed in a month of Sundays. They wouldn’t tell us, but we think it was you.’

  ‘The point is, is the bairn all right?’

  ‘He’s all right, sir. Edward, speak to the gentleman, would you?’

  Mr McCosh held out his hand, and the boy shook it. ‘I like a laddie who looks you in the eye when he shakes hands,’ said McCosh, looking into the boy’s large, intelligent, sensitive brown eyes. ‘I suppose you’re called Edward after the late King. A good name to have.’

  ‘I like it, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘I don’t want any other.’

  ‘So, young fellow, are you all right now? Completely cured? Your legs seem very straight.’

  ‘I’m not fully strong yet, sir, but I expect to be. I’m off the crutches. It still hurts. They ache like billy-o at night, sir. And I’m limping rather a lot.’

  ‘You’re still growing. That’s lucky for you. Growing will get rid of that.’

  ‘I’ve got to do lots of walking to get them strong again, sir.’

  ‘Lots of walking?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you at school?’

  ‘Well, he was, sir,’ said his mother. ‘He was bright too. They said he’d go far. But we can’t afford it, so now he’s out and he’s just doing errands ’til something comes along.’

  ‘And his father?’

  ‘Killed, sir. He was a wheelwright. In the Horse Artillery. I take in washing, sir. I do what I can. All the widows are taking in washing, and patching and mending. The competition is something terrible.’

  ‘Other children?’

  ‘Only a dead one, sir. It was the influenza.’

  Mr McCosh looked at Edward and said, ‘Do you see this big house? Well, my grandfather lived in a little croft made of turf and lived off practically nothing. Are you really very bright?’

  ‘Ask him anything you like, sir. He’s like a sponge, he is.’

  Mr McCosh thought for a second, then asked, ‘What are the smallest bones in your body?’

  ‘The ones in your ears, sir.’

  ‘Capital of Egypt?’

  ‘Cairo, sir.’

  ‘How many halves are there in thirty?’

  ‘Sixty, sir.’

  ‘And if you add three thousand, four hundred and twelve drops of water to forty-two thousand, three hundred and forty-four drops of water, what have you got?’

  ‘A puddle, sir.’

  ‘Aha! Very canny! And how far do you think it is from where we are standing to that lime tree over there?’

  ‘Fifty yards, sir.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Mr McCosh. He went round the back of the house and fetched the tape measure from the room under the conservatory. It was the one used for measuring out the tennis markings on the lawn. He handed the reel to the boy, and said, ‘Off you go, laddie.’

  Edward walked off towards the lime tree, carrying the end of the tape with him. He touched it to the tree and looked expectantly back at Mr McCosh, who said, ‘Forty-eight and a half. Well done, Edward.’

  Mr McCosh looked at Edward’s mother and said, ‘Madam, your boy is going back to school. You will kindly bring me the bills and I will pay them.’

  ‘Really, sir? Why, sir?’

  ‘That’s between me and the gatepost,’ replied Mr McCosh. ‘You don’t have to agree, of course, but it would be a waste of a fine young man if you don’t.’

  ‘It was you who paid the hospital, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘I’ve nae idea. Edward!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘How would you like to learn to be a caddy? Just when you’re not at school?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing at all about golf,’ replied Edward.

  ‘Do you know what you have to do? You carry the bag of clubs and you give advice to the player. You say, “This shot is one hundred and twenty-five yards with the wind against, so I think you should use a mashie.” Or, “Aim this putt six inches to the left of the hole.” Do you think you could do that kind of thing?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Edward.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘You get a good long walk carrying a light weight. That’ll strengthen your legs. You get fresh air – good for your health. You get to know many of the ladies and gentlemen around here. Always useful! And caddies often grow wonderfully good at the game. Just about all our club professionals started out as caddies. That’s how Harry Vardon started, caddying for Major Spofforth. Have you heard of Vardon? Six times Open Champion! What a lovely job, being a club professional, eh? Whacking balls, giving lessons, mending and selling clubs, flirting with the ladies. What do you think? You can start off with me. Two and six a round! I’ll teach you everything I know and then you can go solo. How about it?’

  Edward was dumbfounded. Two and six a round! You could buy books for that, and marbles, and gobstoppers, and elastic for catapults.

  Mr McCosh leaned down and whispered, ‘But you must promise to give two shillings of it to your mother. Understood?’

  After Edward and his mother had gone, Hamilton McCosh went into the hallway and looked up at the portrait of his father. The painting was somewhat flat, but the likeness was sufficient. It showed Alexander McCosh in the dignified prime of prosperous middle age, in Scottish evening dress, posing improbably against a backdrop of the St Andrews Clubhouse, leaning on a brassie, and gazing directly at the artist.

  ‘Well, Father,’ said Hamilton McCosh, ‘I just did for someone else what someone did for Grandpa. What do you think of that, eh?’ He seemed to hear his father’s voice: ‘Well, laddie, always gie back as much you’re gi’en, and ye’ll nae go far aglee.’

  He went down to the bottom of the garden and stood in the orchard by Bouncer’s grave, looking back at his magnificent house. What a long way it was from a turf croft.

  105

  A New Beginning

  Daniel and Rosie went to Foyles and came back with several books about Ceylon, taped up in brown paper. In the evenings they sat by the fire and read passages to each other, working themselves up into a state of eager anticipation. It did indeed seem to be an exotic and interesting place, and it was clear that many who went to live there never really wanted to come home again. Daniel and Rosie were struck by how sociologically and religiously complicated the island was, and began to worry that they would never understand it, just as Colonel Bassett had warned.

  Rosie and her mother went to Selfridge’s and came back with all sorts of things that eventually turned out to be of no use, or easily available at Rosie’s destination, and Daniel went up to Birmingham to visit Ruston Hornby, the company that had made all the machinery on the estate where they were to live. The company sent out engineers every year, and also on request, and they showed Daniel the detailed plans of everything they had supplied. Obviously, it could be a disaster if any of the machinery failed, but the fact was that it very seldom did. The machines were so vast that they were intrinsically robust, and the Singhalese engineers were, in any case, masters at their vocation. Daniel also called in at Tangye’s, because it was conceivable that one day he might find himself on a plantation which had their machinery.

  There was then notification by telegram that the voyage was to be delayed owing to a coal miners’ strike, and so it was that, two weeks later, on the eve of departure,
Daniel encountered the Honourable Mary FitzGerald St George in the corridor of the second floor, in the servants’ quarters. Since there were so few servants these days, Daniel had commandeered one of the empty rooms to use as a study when he was en famille, and now he was clearing out all those things that he was either taking with him, or of which he was disposing. He met Mary as she was coming out of her room. Mary cast her eyes down immediately, and Daniel observed her awkwardness. Then she looked up and said, ‘So, Master Daniel, it’s goodbye, is it?’

  ‘It’s goodbye tomorrow,’ he replied.

  ‘I shall be very forlorn when you’re gone,’ said Mary.

  ‘Will you? How sweet of you to say so. I shall certainly miss you. I do hope we meet again.’

  ‘You have no idea when you’ll be coming back?’

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I expect I’ll be gone.’

  ‘I do hope not.’ He looked into her large grey eyes and saw that she was tearful. Her lower lip was working, and she was restraining it with her teeth.

  ‘I shouldn’t be sad, should I?’ she said. ‘For you it’s a new start.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re not coming with us. You’re so good with Esther. I’m sorry that Mrs McCosh won’t let you go.’

  ‘It’s probably just as well,’ said Mary, looking at him with extraordinary directness and honesty.

  ‘I think you’re probably right. May I kiss you on the cheek? Not very English, I know, but I think I would feel painfully deprived if we merely shook hands.’

  ‘You may.’ She offered her right cheek for him to kiss, and he lingered about the business as much as he dared. She smelled of something fresh and subtle, and her cheek was wondrously soft. He kissed the other one.

  She held out her hand and took his. ‘We will meet again, you know,’ she said, ‘I am absolutely sure of it. One day there’ll be more time.’

  Shortly after this, he encountered Millicent on the way down the stairs, and Daniel made his farewells to her too, giving her a five-pound note ‘just to say thank you’.

  ‘Thanking you, sir,’ said Millicent. ‘That’s very kind of you, it is. That’s an awful lot, sir.’

  ‘Well, shrouds have no pockets. And you’ll be needing it. If you don’t mind me asking, when is the happy day approximately?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Happy day? How did you know?’ asked Millicent, quite shocked.

  ‘There are signs, you know,’ observed Daniel. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t tell the mistress, sir,’ pleaded Millicent. ‘She’ll make me leave as soon as she notices. I need to work as long as I can. I’m dead lucky she let me stay on after I was married. You’re expected to go, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, not these days. People are desperate to hang on to a good servant, children or not. I do understand, though. Mum’s the word. Even so, times are changing, aren’t they? I expect she would keep you on, you know.’

  ‘Mr Miller and me are thinking of going to Canada,’ said Millicent. ‘It’s a lovely place to be a copper, and I could have a little shop. It’s not so cold out west, they say. He wants to be a Mountie, and he can’t even ride yet!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Daniel, ‘that’s the kind of life that would appeal to me too. But I rather like the idea of being a bush pilot. I do hope it works out for you. I don’t suppose you want to be a tweeny all your life, do you? And I can’t see you becoming a pug, can you?’

  Millicent laughed. ‘No, sir, I’d make a very poor pug. I’m not bossy and disapproving, and I’m much too cheerful.’

  ‘Well, I wish you and Mr Miller the best of luck. I wish you a very happy life, the happiest possible.’

  ‘You too, sir,’ said Millicent, and she watched him wistfully until he reached the bottom of the stairs, on his way to leave a thank-you present for Cookie. Still, she could always boast about having known an aviation ace, and say what a gentleman he was.

  Rosie and Daniel left in spring, from Southampton, in the company of a variety of other folk on commercial or colonial business. Daniel had his combination crated up on the docks and loaded into the hold. Having given up aeroplanes, his loyalty had altogether been transferred to his Henley, and he would not have wished to go anywhere without it. The sensation of speed would never reach the incomparable pleasure of flying a scout two feet above the ground, but it was sometimes enough to be reminded of it. During the voyage he liked to go below and check that his combination was still content, running his fingers along the packing case as if he were caressing a horse.

  Rosie and Daniel had already made their farewells to Mme Pitt, having spent the previous weekend at Partridge Green. Both of them had received another lecture, which they took in good part. Back at The Grampians, Rosie had deliberated for a long time in her room, and had eventually decided to pack neither Ash’s letters nor her madonna and child. She did, however, decide to take with her the notebook in which she had copied out the most tender parts of his letters, but then she forgot to put it in her trunk.

  Rosie went through the blue door to say goodbye to Mr and Mrs Pendennis. She found them in their drawing room, reading quietly. Rosie saw how they had aged, how pale and thin they had both become, and had a small revelation. She suddenly realised that many thousands of others had suffered far worse grief than she had. It occurred to her that there had been a kind of selfishness in her own mourning. ‘I should have come round to see them more often,’ she thought.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ she said, as they stood to welcome her.

  Wordlessly, Mrs Pendennis came and put her arms around her. ‘Oh, Mamma, don’t cry,’ said Rosie, trying to suppress her own tears.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Pendennis, ‘all these years…you’ve been our daughter too, you know. We’ll miss you so much. You will write?’

  ‘Of course, Mamma. Every week at the very least.’

  ‘It’ll be very exciting for you,’ said Mr Pendennis. ‘I do hope it’s a great success. May I hug you too? I am American, after all.’

  Mrs Pendennis took her hand. ‘Come, I’ve something to show you.’

  She led Rosie out into the hall and gestured to the wall that faced the stairway. There hung a life-size portrait of their sons. Ashbridge was standing on the left, leaning, as it were, against the frame. His pose was casual and his smile ironical, and his right hand was on Sidney’s shoulder. He looked directly back at Rosie as she gazed on him. Sidney sat on a reversed chair, with his chin resting on his arms. He was looking into the distance, as if into eternity. Albert was standing on his right, his left hand on his brother’s shoulder, but glancing towards Ashbridge. All of them were in the service dress of the Royal Horse Artillery, with their forage caps at slightly irreverent angles. In the background was a landscape, showing a steep hill in the distance, with three tiny crosses at its summit.

  Rosie was stunned by it. She gazed, unable to speak. It was almost too perfect, easily as good as a Sargent.

  ‘The artist did it from photographs,’ said Mrs Pendennis. ‘John and I come out here and stand for hours and hours. You can almost imagine we have the boys back in the house.’

  ‘It’s the first thing we see when we come downstairs in the morning,’ said Mr Pendennis.

  ‘Why isn’t it finished?’ asked Rosie, pointing to the bottom right-hand corner, where the confident detail of the rest of the picture seemed to break down into a thin, messy wash of broad dark green strokes.

  ‘It was the artist’s idea,’ said Mr Pendennis. ‘She thought the picture should be uncompleted because the boys’ lives weren’t completed. We didn’t like it at first –’

  ‘– But we gave in,’ said his wife. ‘She wasn’t the kind of artist you can argue with. And now we think it’s just right, and we’re glad we gave in.’

  ‘She?’ said Rosie, moving forward to look at the signature. ‘Gaskell!’ she exclaimed. ‘She certainly kept quiet about this! But of course I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘We’ve n
ever met anyone quite like her,’ said Mrs Pendennis. ‘In fact we can’t make her out at all. What extraordinary green eyes! But doesn’t she paint like an angel? She collected photographs from us, and then six months later she arrived with this. She’s got them all down to a T.’

  Mr Pendennis said, ‘We’ve no one to leave it to. Would you like to have it? After we’ve gone?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ said Rosie, ‘but I think it wouldn’t be very kind to Daniel. I know we were all Pals, but I think, you know, it might come between us. I will ask him, and see what he thinks, but it might be better to leave it to one of the other Pals, then I can just go and look at it sometimes. Why don’t you leave it to Christabel?’

  ‘I think you’re quite right to ask Daniel,’ said Mrs Pendennis. ‘You know, John and I very much want to see you and Daniel happy together. Making a success of it.’ She gestured up at Ashbridge. ‘It’s what he would have wanted. Ashbridge wasn’t selfish. He didn’t have a selfish bone in his body.’

  Rosie said nothing, but gazed at the face of Ash in the portrait. He looked back with quizzicality and steady sympathy.

  Now they all stood in the driveway of The Grampians as Wragge warmed up the AC, and Rosie clung to her father and wept, saying, ‘Please take care, Daddy, please look after yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Rosie bairn,’ he said, ironically donning his strongest Scottish accent, ‘I’ve nae plans to die afore ye come back. Dinnae fret. Go forth and have some fun wi’ yoursel’.’

  Mrs McCosh gave Daniel a brown paper bag. ‘I’ve decided that from now on I am going to cook the bread. This is my first loaf. I would very much like you to have it.’