Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

So Rosie sat on the long blue cushion with nothing to do but wait for the cats’ meat man, even though, despite being an inveterate rescuer of abandoned and lost cats, she did not at that time have a cat at all. Before he could pass by, however, a Phelon & Moore with sidecar turned into the driveway trailing a pretty plume of blue smoke. It came to a halt, the driver fiddled with the levers on the handlebars, and the machine gradually died, with a series of putterings and small percussions that sounded like petulant afterthoughts. The driver was wearing goggles and a leather flying helmet, and before he removed them, Rosie had the exciting but impossible idea that it might be Ash, not dead after all. There was something very similar about his personal atmosphere. She leapt to her feet, her heart fluttering, and put her hand to her lips. He dismounted, flexed his shoulders as if he had been riding a long time, came up the steps to the door and rang the brass bell vigorously.

No servant came to answer. There was no footman or butler any more, and the two female servants who were left were down in the kitchen and the scullery. Rosie hesitated. She was reluctant to open the door in case the visitor might think that she was a servant, even though she was far from being attired as one, and in any case, the sight of the young man who might be somewhat like Ash had made her feel nervous and apprehensive. She felt that she just wanted to go to the back of the house and out into the garden.

Nonetheless she took the few steps to the door and opened it. She could not help but giggle a little at the sight of the young man, because he was wearing enormous fug boots, a Sidcot flying suit, and looked somewhat like a panda in reverse, his face black with travel dust, and the rings around his eyes perfectly white.

‘I do believe it’s Rosie!’ exclaimed the young man. He removed his cap, and held out his arms as if to embrace her, but then remembered himself, and extended a hand for her to shake. ‘Remember me?’ he asked mischievously. She noticed that he smelled not unpleasantly of castor oil.

Nonplussed by his informality, she hesitated before exclaiming, ‘Daniel? Daniel Pitt? From next door?’

The young man smiled. ‘We haven’t seen each other since we were about ten, I wouldn’t think.’

‘I did get a little news about you from Ash, at the beginning of the war. It was never quite the same after you and Archie moved away. The Pals were very diminished.’

‘Well, we couldn’t live in our former style, unfortunately, after Father was killed. We found a little place in Frensham, and then we moved to Sussex, to Partridge Green. And now I’m calling in to see my old playmates. How is Sophie? And Christabel? And Ottie? Are you all well? And your mother and father?’

‘All well,’ said Rosie, ‘but everything’s changed such a lot, as you can imagine. The servants have gone, and my mother is really not herself any more. She was caught in the Folkestone raid, and she’s hasn’t been the same since.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. And Bouncer? I suppose he’s long dead by now. I loved wrestling with him. Such a nice dog.’

‘He’s in the orchard, with a rose climbing out of him, and up a Bramley.’

‘I must go and pay my respects. I remember when you found him and brought him back. Your mother wasn’t best pleased.’

‘No, she wasn’t. It’s been the same with all the cats, but she comes to love them in the end. Do come in. It’s a great surprise to see you. I’m very pleased, of course,’ said Rosie, and she stood aside to let him in. ‘I’m very sorry that I didn’t reply to your sweet letter about Ash. About being grateful on behalf of France. I was … well, I was too …’

‘Please, I do understand. I wasn’t expecting a reply. After I sent it I wondered if you’d even remember who I was. Where shall I put my motorcycling paraphernalia?’

‘Oh, just leave it in the morning room. There’s no one to take care of it just now. We don’t have servants any more, just a cook and a maid.’

‘It’ll take care of itself,’ he said, and he unfastened his flying jacket, laid it across a chair, and put his goggles and helmet on top of it.

‘I’ve just remembered the last time I saw you,’ said Rosie.

‘Yes?’

‘You came round to say goodbye, and you gave each of us a little box wrapped up in newspaper, with string instead of ribbons, and we opened them after you’d gone.’

‘Oh gosh, I do remember.’

‘Inside mine was a frog, and you gave Christabel a toad, and Sophie had a newt, and Ottie had some kind of fat little golden-coloured snake. It was so horrid of you. You can’t imagine the panic, particularly when Ottie opened the box and saw the snake.’

‘It was a slow-worm. It actually isn’t a snake at all. It’s a kind of lizard without legs. If you pick it up by the tail, it drops off.’

‘I remember,’ said Rosie. ‘Believe me, I remember. Our footman picked it up, and he was left with a tail writhing and wriggling in his hand, and the rest of it went to hide under the chaise longue.’

‘Did you all scream?’

‘We certainly did.’

‘I was only ten. My sense of humour is a little more sophisticated these days. Making girls scream plays a very small part in it.’

‘You put a worm down my front once.’

‘Did I really? Oh dear. Would you like me to go?’

‘Oh no. Do stay and have some tea. I’ll ring for Millicent. I expect she’s in the kitchen. I’m afraid that Sophie and the others went for a stroll down to the Tarn.’

‘Oh, I remember the Tarn. Everyone said that it was so deep it had no bottom.’

‘They still say that, and it’s still not true.’

As Daniel sipped his tea and munched his way through a plate of shortbread, Rosie took her chance to see what he was like these days. He was not like Ash at all. His hair was black and shiny, he had penetrating and worryingly blue eyes, and he wore a thin military moustache. He spoke with the slightly languid drawl that officers liked to affect, but did not exaggerate it as some did, and he did not, thank God, wear a monocle. He was long-legged and slenderly built, which gave him the misleading air of being even taller than he really was, and there was something vigorous about him that appealed to her. She was an active person herself, but these days she seemed condemned to spend far too much time as a sedentary.

‘How are you? How are things?’ asked Rosie.

Daniel laughed softly. ‘A perfect mess, as always.’

‘And how is your dear mother?’ asked Rosie, and Daniel laughed again.

‘She hardly changes. A little grey and lined, but still elegant and very naughty. She still pokes people with a parasol and flirts with the postman. She’s as French as she ever was, and only speaks English if she has to, except that sometimes we speak a truly dreadful kind of mishmash of French and English at home. She can now pronounce the “th”, though. No more zis and zat.’

‘I’d almost forgotten you were half French,’ said Rosie.

‘ Maman never lets me forget it. She insists upon pronouncing my name the French way.’ He paused. ‘It turned out that being francophone was quite useful during the war.’

‘I imagine it must have been.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Oh, you might be just the man! Can you read something to me?’ Before he could assent, she dashed out of the room. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, ascending and then descending. A little breathless, she came into the room and handed him a very prettily bound book with a soft leather cover that had ‘Autographs’ inscribed in gilt italic writing on the front of it. She took it from him again and flicked through it. ‘Here we are,’ she said, and handed it back to him. He began to read: ‘ Quittant sa douce canadienne, le gars se fait soldat —’