Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘The best explanation,’ said Sophie, ‘is that you have an unusual but unreliable gift.’

‘One clergyman told me it was a gift from the Devil, and he was using me to spread false belief and delusion. That kind of accusation is very unsettling. I lose faith in myself. I wonder if I should give up and simply teach music. I could scratch by on that.’

‘Being a clergyman is no licence to infallibility,’ observed Fairhead. ‘The world is far stranger than I used to think it was. I have considerable doubts myself. When it comes down to it, I am probably more sceptical than Bertrand Russell himself.’

‘Are you?’

‘Oh yes. I question the truth of almost everything I used to believe.’

‘Really? I suppose it was the war.’

‘Of course. The men used to have a prayer which went “Dear God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul.” I know exactly how they felt, as I felt the same myself. The way I see it now is that I am a clergyman because it seems like exactly the right thing for me to be, as if I had little choice in the matter. It is a vocation. I can console a dying person even if I do not believe in the virgin birth or the supremacy of the King, or even if I think the doctrine of the Trinity is an incomprehensible muddle, just to take some examples. I grew up Anglican, so this is where I fit and the place from where I inevitably start. I still see how beautiful my version of Christianity is. I still love it, as one can still adore an unsuitable lover or a cruel mother. I will work from where I am, in order to do what I am called to do. My advice to you is to see your gift as a vocation, and follow it through even if it troubles you.’

‘As yours troubles you?’

‘Indeed. As mine troubles me.’

‘I have no vocation,’ sighed Sophie.

‘Of course you do,’ said Fairhead.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘you just haven’t perceived it yet.’ She sipped her tea. ‘And there’s another thing. I am concerned about your sister.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one who only came once.’

‘That’ll be Rosie,’ said Fairhead. ‘She stopped coming on the advice of a curate.’

‘She would have stopped anyway,’ said Sophie, ‘you can’t just blame the curate. She does what she thinks the Bible tells her to do, and that’s that.’

‘Oddly enough, a young curate did come and see me for a while. He wanted to know about his brothers. Anyway, that young man who was trying to get through to her when she came is still agitated and still wants to tell her something.’

‘Does he? How do you know?’

‘He tries to come through even when I’m not sitting.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Well, I don’t know. All I know is that he’s got something urgent to say. When I feel his presence I suffer terrible disturbance. It’s hard to take.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sophie, ‘your gift is a bit of a curse, isn’t it?’

‘We’re all worried about Rosie,’ said Fairhead. ‘It’s clear that at times she makes Daniel extremely unhappy, and then they’re all right again for a while. There’s talk of them going to Ceylon. Daniel might have landed a plum job, it seems. Let’s hope it comes to something. By the way,’ added Fairhead, changing the subject, ‘do you think it’s possible that one can, so to speak, project one’s spirit to another place when one is still alive?’

‘Witches used to call it “sending their fetch”,’ replied Madame Valentine. ‘As a matter of fact, somebody published a book about it a few years ago. Um, it was called Phantasms of the Living , I believe. I can’t remember the name of the author, but he was a psychical researcher, and he collected hundreds of stories. It was a frightfully big book.’

Fairhead found a pencil and pad of paper and scribbled the information down.

‘Why do you ask?’ said Madame Valentine.

‘You know that I went to see a great many families of men under my pastoral care who were killed in the war?’

‘No, but now I do. How very good of you.’

‘It was remarkable how many people told me that they’d had inexplicable visits from their loved ones either when they were dying or when they were still perfectly all right in the days just before their death. And Daniel, you know, Rosie’s husband, said that many of his comrades knew exactly when they were about to die, and gave him instructions about what to do, often with some urgency, it seems.’

‘How wonderfully strange the world is!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘Do you think that anyone will ever really understand it? I mean get to the bottom of it? I don’t think they ever will. I’m sure that I won’t.’

Fairhead reflected, and replied, ‘Even if you did, how would know for sure that you had finally arrived? What is the criterion for arrival? Wouldn’t you go on looking anyway?’

‘I think you’d have to,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘even when you were dead. As far as I can tell, even dying makes us none the wiser.’

‘It’s wretchedly frustrating,’ said Fairhead. ‘I’m a minister of religion, and I don’t think I really know a damned thing. Did I tell you about Caroline Rhys Davids, the mother of the ace? She wrote all those books about Buddhism. No? Well, she told me that after he was killed she had long sessions of automatic writing with a planchette, and that he came through very clearly. She said it was comforting, but when she began to feel a bit better she stopped doing it.’

Madame Valentine said, ‘Did you know that fictional characters sometimes come through? What could be stranger than that?’

Fairhead stubbed his cigarette out, and said, ‘Madame Valentine, what do you think of the idea of collaborating on some books on these subjects?’

‘Collaborating?’

‘Well, it’s a fascinating subject, isn’t it? I mean the afterlife, if there is one. Your experience is vastly greater than mine, but even so, I think I have enough for several volumes of my own.’

‘I have no talent whatsoever for writing,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘I’m a musician.’

‘Well, I do have some facility. I’ll do the writing, and anything you do write, I can smarten up. Shall we? Shall we give it a bash? Think what a success Raymond was.’

‘Yes, do let’s. I have so much to get off my mind. I think it might help.’

After she had left, Fairhead said to Sophie, ‘Do you mind, my dear? It was very spur of the moment.’

‘Mind? Why should I mind?’

‘Well, you know, working with another woman. On a project.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Darling, I couldn’t possibly be jealous of Madame Valentine. She is very obviously Uranian.’

‘Uranian?’

‘She bats for the other side. A tribadist. A fricatrice. The other Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name Because It Is Still Unsuspected.’

‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’

Sophie sighed and shook her head. ‘Do I have to speak … darling, she is very obviously Sapphic.’

‘Sapphic?’

‘Yes, an invert. Like Christabel and Gaskell.’

‘Are they? Gaskell and Christabel? Sapphic?’

‘You can’t possibly have imagined otherwise.’

‘I just thought that all the young men got killed, so a lot of girls are left out.’

‘Darling, Gaskell is viraginous. You must have noticed, surely?’

‘What?’

‘Androgynous. Darling, she’s practically a man.’

‘Yes, but Christabel is really quite … feminine, is she not? I know she’s fearsomely lithe and athletic, but even so, she’s an English rose if ever there was one.’

‘Well, I dare say she might have been attracted to a man if the right sort of man had turned up. But he didn’t.’ She paused. ‘I’ve always wondered if Christabel might be a bit of both.’