Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

When Daniel arrived at the field, he parked his combination amongst those of the other officers, and followed his first impulse to go and check on his machine and have a word with the riggers. He had concerns about the rudder being somewhat creaky and unresponsive. He inhaled deeply. He would never tire of that wonderful smell of aircraft dope, exhaust gas, oil and petrol. It was the smell of his recent life and the months of danger and comradeship that he had managed to come through. All that was missing was the roar of the Viper engines.

Then he went over to the cricket pavilion and knocked on the door of the room where the pads and gloves and stumps were kept. He was immediately called in, and found Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert seated at a small desk amongst the boxes of paraphernalia. Daniel saluted and the Squadron Leader said, ‘I am not wearing my cap. If I am not wearing my cap, and I am seated, it is not customary to salute. Not in this outfit, anyway. It may be different in the Guards, for all I know, or one of those god-forsaken Scottish regiments.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Daniel. ‘You get things drummed into you, and then you do them without thinking. And every unit seems to have different rules.’

‘You’ve been with us for years, Daniel. Remove your cap. Then you can call me Maurice. Or “Fluke” if you insist.’

‘In the office I think I would rather call you sir, sir, if you don’t mind. I like to call you Fluke when we’re outdoors.’

‘Oh well, Daniel, as you like. What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to ask your permission to get married, sir.’

‘Oh dear, I am most terribly sorry,’ said the Squadron Leader sympathetically.

Daniel was taken aback. ‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He paused. ‘I think this calls for a snifter, something medicinal. Would you care for a whisky? I have a good single malt from Skye, or my cousin sent me something rather interesting from Ireland.’

‘Irish, please, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever tried it before. Did you know that they make quite good whisky in Brittany?’

‘French whisky? Gracious me. Do sit down,’ said the Squadron Leader. He got up and flipped open the lid of one of the boxes, disinterring a bottle and two glasses from amongst the cricket pads. He poured two large tots, and handed one to Daniel. ‘Sniff it first,’ he said, ‘it’s ambrosia.’

Daniel duly sniffed, and felt the rich sharp fumes scrape at the back of his throat.

‘Good health,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert, taking a sip and sighing appreciatively. He reflected a while, and then said, ‘I do hope she’s not English.’

‘Half Scottish,’ offered Daniel.

‘Just as bad, for our purposes, old boy,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘You’re half French, aren’t you? Why on earth don’t you marry a Frenchwoman?’

‘I didn’t fall for one, sir.’

‘That’s too bad,’ said the Squadron Leader, ‘altogether too bad.’

‘Perhaps you could explain, sir.’

‘I am married to an Englishwoman. I have two children. And now I might as well not be married at all. Do you catch my meaning?’

‘I’m not sure I do, sir.’

‘Think about it, Daniel, old boy. I now have enormous expenses and responsibilities, and no pleasures to speak of. An Englishwoman, Daniel, switches off the moment she has the number of children she wants, unless there’s something else she happens to want and hasn’t got yet. An Englishwoman, at least a respectable one, is, in my opinion, about as much fun as a BE2c. It’s like a lifetime of CB, old fellow, believe me. The unrespectable ones, on the other hand, are second to none, especially if they are partial to a drop. I imagine you’ve found a respectable one, you poor sap.’

‘I’m sure they can’t be all the same,’ said Daniel.

‘One listens to one’s friends,’ said the Squadron Leader. ‘Naturally, one hears only hints. One observes. One draws one’s own conclusions. For God’s sake marry a Frenchwoman. You must have noticed that the French have much larger families than we do. It is not a coincidence.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘A Belgian would do. The best option would be to marry an Indian, disappear to the subcontinent, somewhere nice like Simla, and live in a large bungalow thronged with servants and children. One can only dream. A dusky maiden! How the heart yearns!’

Daniel looked around at the Sidcot suits that adorned the pegs where cricket whites used to be. He could tell from the way that they hung and their unique patterns of oil stains to which of his comrades they belonged. Each one was accompanied by a canvas bag hanging from the same hook, from which protruded the pilots’ fur-lined flying helmets, goggles, or their strange and enormous gauntlets with coarse yellow hair on the back. He thought of all the mess-mates who had gone topsides. Then he recalled himself, and asked, ‘Do I have your permission to marry, though, sir?’

‘Well, of course you do, old man. One has no right to intervene to prevent private mistakes, except amongst one’s own relatives. If you want to be a booby and a BF, you can be one. I have done my duty in warning you. Have you spoken to the sky pilot? It seems to me that he endures a particularly miserable marriage, and may be able to persuade you out of it.’

‘My fiancée has a very passionate nature,’ said Daniel, almost convincing himself.

‘Let’s go up in a Harry Tate,’ said the Squadron Leader suddenly. ‘We’ll toss for who’s at the joystick and we can take the dogs. Where does she live?’

‘Eltham, sir.’

‘Eltham? Jolly good, that’s very manageable. Chart a course, would you? Let’s find the place and buzz it. You telephone and tell her we’re coming.’

‘We could take two Snipes and loop some loops. A fly-past at eighty miles an hour by a solitary Harry Tate isn’t one of the world’s great spectacles, is it?’

‘You take a Snipe and I’ll take the Tripehound — even better!’ cried the Squadron Leader, standing up and emptying his glass. ‘It’s a lovely day to go buzzing a fair maid, even if she’s English. Or half Scotch. But how sweet it would be to go and buzz a French one. Alas, those days are gone.’

‘You could take leave and go back,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s not far.’

‘And buzz her on a bicycle? I’d rather she remembered me in all my glory.’

‘Take the Tripehound,’ said Daniel, ‘everyone knows you don’t officially have it.’

‘Ah, my lovely Tripehound,’ sighed Fluke. ‘Who needs a woman if one is blessed with three wings and a lovely warm Le Clerget and a clean pair of Vickers? Remember I can’t go as fast as you can.’

‘You lead, I’ll follow. That means you get to do the navigating. Never my strongest point. When we get to Eltham, waggle your wings and I’ll take over.’

Thus it was that Mr and Mrs McCosh, the sisters, the Reverend Captain Fairhead, Millicent and Cookie, a skillet still in her hand, witnessed a most wonderful display of mock combat over their house. Daniel had taken over from the Squadron Leader as soon as the Tarn and Eltham Palace hove into view, and he and Fluke had rolled in unison, side by side, as they roared above the lawns at just one hundred feet. Then Fluke had broken away and climbed almost vertically, spinning once at the top, and then coming down behind Daniel machine. Daniel’s flipped his Snipe sideways, with Fluke on his tail, and they seemed to go in ever tighter circles until it was hard to know who was attacker and who defender. Suddenly Daniel looped and came down behind the triplane, whereupon Fluke dived. This was most unwise in a real combat, unless you could dive faster than your opponent without shedding your wings, because an enemy can simply dive straight after you and fill you with bullets, but this was for show after all, and he and Daniel came down as low as they dared, swooping up into the air just when it seemed they were going to clip the elms at the end of the garden.