The Dust That Falls from Dreams (48 page)

D
aniel 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 never 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.’

Daniel took it and looked inside. It was presentable and appetising. ‘How very kind,’ he said, touched by the gift, despite its eccentricity.

Mrs McCosh inclined her face to him. ‘You may kiss me on the cheek,’ she said.

He kissed her on the right cheek, felt suddenly sorry for all the bad blood between them and kissed her on the left.

She blushed and said, ‘I do really think of you as a son, you know. I do hope…well…I’m sorry…you know.’

‘We’ll come back every year,’ said Daniel.

‘I do so look forward to seeing you again.’ She looked away. ‘It was such a pleasure to meet you at last.’

Esther, who had been cuddling Caractacus, kissed the cat on the top of his head and handed him to her grandfather, saying, ‘Grandpa play with him now.’

After they had gone, Mrs McCosh asked her husband if they would be back in time for tea, and added, ‘My dear, do remind me, was it Daniel or Ashbridge who died in the war?’

Christabel and Gaskell were in Snowdonia, walking the Horseshoe and climbing Cadair Idris from both sides, but they had sent Esther a photograph of Caractacus, staring down from
the top of the pelmet, and a little painting copied from it, admirably portraying him with his lopsided ginger moustache, yellow eyes, and humorous, slightly insane expression. Esther had been delighted, and everyone elsed laughed when they saw it.

Only Ottilie was there at Southampton Harbour to wave the couple goodbye, having travelled down with Wragge in the AC, bringing with them the luggage that had not been sent in advance by train. As the ship hooted, and began to move away, it occurred to Rosie once again how little she really knew this particular sister of hers. Ottilie’s main interest was still going to lectures. She attended everything that was available locally, whether it was about Fabian Socialism, or eugenics, or psychoanalysis. She was engaged in an intellectual quest, but never talked about it. All Rosie really knew about Ottilie was that she had a heart brimming with love, and was waiting for someone to whom she could give it. She resolved that, when she returned, she would contrive to get to know Ottilie better.

To this mysterious sister, Rosie, Daniel and Esther waved goodbye on that spring morning, her large brown eyes vivid in the white face beneath a dark blue cloche hat. Rosie then had the experience of sailing past the vast facade of Netley, where she had spent the war years, mostly on her knees, she now seemed to recall, hopelessly expiating the sin of having forgotten to pray for Ash the day before he was struck down. The great green dome flanked by its endless turrets and towers and innumerable windows was peaceful in the sunshine, and through Daniel’s binoculars, Rosie saw that there were very few patients out in their blue ‘hospital undress’, strolling away their injuries. She guessed that much of the hospital must by now have been mothballed.

‘There goes Spikey,’ she said to Daniel.

‘It must be a funny feeling,’ he said.

‘It’s all a blur now, just a sea of faces, fading away.’

‘You’ve never told me much about it. What was it like?’