Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘I’ve been a bobby for ten years,’ said Dusty Miller. ‘There’s no limit to human wickedness, miss, believe me. There’s nothing some folk won’t do for sixpence.’

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Rosie.

‘One for you and one for me,’ said the policeman. ‘We need a new mouser down at the nick. The old one’s got past bothering.’

‘My mother’ll kill me,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m always coming home with cats. We do find homes for them, though.’

Constable Miller gave them to Rosie and took a look under their tails. ‘One boy and one girl,’ he announced. ‘What do you fancy, miss?’

‘I like the ginger,’ she replied. ‘That must be the boy, I assume.’

‘I’ll have the girl, then. I expect we’ll call her Fluffy.’

Rosie smiled and said, ‘Constable, don’t you think you should go for something more original?’

‘Original, miss? What’s the point? The cat don’t know any better, do she?’

He tucked the tabby into the pocket of his uniform, and hurried back to the station, leaving Rosie to carry hers in her cupped hands back to The Grampians.

Mrs McCosh was less delighted. ‘Another kitten? My dear, this is too much. Why do you keep coming home with kittens? You brought back five once. The mayhem! It was like being overrun with tiny mad horses, all practising for the Grand National.’

‘Rosie’s very serendipitous when it comes to kittens,’ said Sophie. ‘The rest of us never find any. Do let’s call it Caractacus.’

‘Caractacus?’ repeated Mrs McCosh. ‘Whatever for?’

‘It’s full of cat sounds. There are three “a”s and three “c”s, and a “t”, and it even rhymes with “puss”. Couldn’t be better.’

‘It’ll just end up being called Cracky or Cracker,’ declared Mrs McCosh. ‘A cat needs a name with dignity, with cachet . We should call it Prince.’

‘Oh, Mother,’ cried Rosie, ‘that’s a dog’s name!’

‘Let’s call it Rover then,’ suggested Sophie, ‘and teach it to bark. It could be Eltham’s premier guard cat.’

‘I perceive I am outnumbered as usual,’ said Mrs McCosh.

‘No one’s to call it Ginger,’ said Rosie.

THE REVEREND CAPTAIN Fairhead and the four sisters arrived at the house in Glebe Avenue with a quarter of an hour to spare. Rosie was having deep pangs of doubt, and kept repeating, ‘I’m sure that we shouldn’t be doing this.’ Sophie was saying, ‘What fun! Isn’t this naughty of us? So apprehensible!’ Fairhead was keeping a grave and thoughtful silence, and Ottilie and Christabel were arm in arm for mutual reassurance.

They were shown into a sort of anteroom by an elderly maid who radiated a powerful sense of disapproval, and they sat on hard wooden chairs in a ring around the walls, in the company of six other nervous characters who all carried with them on their faces the stresses and losses of the last four years. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.

The sour-faced maid served them with tea and langue de chat biscuits served up on delicate porcelain that was decorated with pink roses and sprigs of greenery. They stared dumbly at the dark green flock wallpaper as outside the rain began to patter against the windows.

‘Turned out wet again,’ said one of the six strangers, and everyone nodded in wise agreement and sipped at their tea.

‘Been raining for days,’ offered someone else.

‘The garden needed it,’ offered another. ‘It was about time.’

Christabel thought, ‘Well, what are you supposed to talk about when you’re hoping to talk with the dead?’ and decided not to contribute. She felt sombre and subdued. She had dilemmas of her own to worry about.

At last they were shown into a wide, dark room, at the centre of which was a large round mahogany table that had clearly been distinguished in its time, but which had become scuffed and scratched. The same could be said of the Chippendale chairs that surrounded it. In one corner of the room stood a cello on its stand, with Ernest Bloch’s Schelemo open on the music stand before it, and propped against the back of an armchair was a violin. Against the wall was an upright piano, with the names of the notes written on the white keys in thick blue chinagraph crayon.

The moment they were seated, Madame Valentine entered, exuding a heavy scent of lavender. She was a voluminous woman with a bust so massive that, had she ever attempted to walk down a mountain, she would not have been able to see her feet. She was dressed in swathes of gauzy and floaty chiffon, and upon her head she wore a pink turban with a white cockade exactly in the middle, above her nose. On her fingers she wore enormous rings in silver and gold, with topaz and ruby predominating amongst the stones. Her long nails were painted crimson, the same shade as her lips, and her cheeks were highlighted with rouge, somewhat hastily applied.

She would have appeared comical, the mere stereotype of a medium, had it not been for the dignity of her bearing and the authority in her voice.

She seated herself, put her hand to her mouth and coughed for silence.

‘Welcome to you all,’ she said. ‘First things first, for those of you who have not been before. I regret to have to tell you that I cannot charge fees for what I do. The spirits forbid it. However, should you wish to show your gratitude, I am free to accept offerings that may be placed on the tray which is on the table in the hall. I will not be present. Fortunately for me, enough people have been grateful for me to be able to continue to operate.’

‘What would be the normal contribution? Is there a sum that you recommend?’ asked Fairhead, to the surprise of the assembled folk.

She glared at him a little balefully. ‘The most I have ever received is twenty pounds, two shillings, and sixpence, and the least is nought pounds, nought shillings, nought pence and two farthings. If you should wish to contribute, it is entirely at your discretion. Measure your wealth against your gratitude and your credence. And in case you may be tempted to think that I am nobler than I truly am, you should know that we workers in the spiritual world generally believe that to accept payment for our services would cause us to lose our powers. This may or not be a superstition, but I am not prepared to risk it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fairhead, feeling a little cowed.

‘In addition,’ she announced, ‘the spirit world, is, I’m afraid, somewhat overpopulated by jesters, mimics and mischief-makers. It is sometimes very hard to know which ones to take seriously. I generally find that a prayer before we start is a good idea.’ She looked at Fairhead severely. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to oblige?’

‘Me?’

‘You are a clergyman, are you not?’

‘Yes, but … how could you have possibly known that?’ He had come without his dog collar, strange though that felt, and had believed he was in disguise.

She looked at him and replied, ‘Would you be so kind as to oblige?’

Somewhat disconcerted, Fairhead could not think of anything except the blessing. He bowed his head, and the company followed suit. ‘The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you, the Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon you and give you peace. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.’

They all intoned the ‘Amen’, and Rosie noticed that Captain Fairhead was blinking back tears.

‘Thank you,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘Shall we begin? I expect we shall have rapping noises to begin with. We normally do. Lights off, Spedegue.’

The morose and disapproving servant left the room and switched off the lights as she went. ‘Join hands,’ said Madame Valentine, and the company meekly did as it was told, although with great unease, as the British are not natural hand-holders.