Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘And any more that might turn up,’ said Rosie. ‘Did I tell you that I started to write a poem about you?’

‘About me? Gracious!’

‘I’ve only got the title and one line so far, though.’

‘What’s the one line?’

‘“I’d have you take me further on this journey to my heart.”’

Daniel was momentarily confounded. Then he said, ‘Is that the first line?’

‘Probably. But you never know with poems. They have a mind of their own. It might be better as a last line, or the last line of every verse.’

Daniel repeated the line to himself, and counted on his fingers. ‘That’s perfectly iambic. It’s an iambic heptameter.’

‘You know about metre?’

‘Don’t be so surprised! I have hidden depths. And a terrific aversion to being beaten by the English master. And what’s the title?’

‘“For Daniel” of course. And by the way, I’ve been thinking, I don’t know why, but for some reason I’ve decided that I’d like everyone to call me Rosemary rather than Rosie. Apart from you. You can still call me Rosie, if you like.’

‘I normally call you darling, don’t I? I’ll call you Rosie if I’m angry, perhaps, and Rosemary when I’m being reproachful. I’ve noticed that you don’t call me anything. Not darling or dear, anyway.’

‘Something will come spontaneously, I expect. One of these days. We’ll have to wait and see what it is.’

‘I’ve always wanted someone to call me sweetheart,’ said Daniel, ‘but definitely not chou-chou . Or nou-nou .’

His eye was caught by a scuffling movement near at hand, and he stood up to look. Not far from where he had been sitting he saw, huddled in a corner beneath a vine, a small bird in a strangely contorted position. He picked it up gently, bringing it over for Rosie and Esther to see. It had a claw of its left leg caught on the topside of its wing. ‘Must have been scratching its head,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Daddy, don’t kill it, Daddy,’ said Esther.

‘Honestly, sweetie! Of course I won’t.’

‘It looks like a very tiny magpie,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you think you can untangle it?’

Daniel sat down, and carefully bent the left wing down as he lifted the claw from its trap of pinions. The bird remained perfectly calm. Then her father let Esther stroke the top of its head, and he carried it to the edge of the veranda. He opened his hands, and they watched as it hesitated, hastily straightened a feather on its chest, and flew out over the valley, banked, dived and disappeared.

With thanks to those who read early drafts and gave me good advice which I did not always like; and to my grandfather’s Canadian friends, whose contributions will, I hope, bear fruit in future volumes; and to Ralph McTell, for his friendship, and his peerless guitar playing, and for reassuring me that if you know how many guitars you have, then you don’t have enough, and for letting me have ‘I’m writing with my finger in the dust that falls from dreams’ in return for a simple bribe of a pint in a Great Yarmouth pub.