Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

Fluke and Daniel flew wingtip to wingtip, and did their celebrated shuffle. When Fluke turned starboard towards Daniel, Daniel dropped beneath him and came up on his port side. That was how you compensated for the inner plane’s turning circle being too tight to fit inside the arc of the outer one. They did it going the other way, and then back again, over and over. It was elegant and neat and humorous, and those below clasped their hands together and laughed with delight. They flew side by side, Daniel’s two wings tucked inside those of the triplane.

The two planes separated, and the folk below — now most of the neighbourhood — were horrified to see that the two aircraft were hurtling inexorably into a head-on collision. At the very last moment Daniel dived and Fluke went up, almost vertically. At the top the triplane seemed to shudder and stall, and then it started to descend, spinning and rocking slowly, as if the pilot were dead.

Those below gasped, putting their hands to their mouths and clutching each other. Mrs McCosh found herself clinging to Cookie, skillet and all, and got flour on her morning dress.

Daniel’s plane circled Fluke’s as it descended, stricken and helpless. The two vanished somewhere near the Tarn. ‘Oh God,’ said Rosie, fully expecting to see a plume of smoke as Fluke’s craft smashed into the ground and caught alight. Captain Fairhead muttered a prayer.

There was nothing. It seemed as though the whole town had fallen silent. Then the triplane, waggling its wings jauntily, sped over the house with the Snipe corkscrewing behind it in hot pursuit. The two planes returned, looped the loop together, rolled at the top, and disappeared.

‘Oh my goodness, oh my goodness’ was all that the women could say, and Mr McCosh said to Fairhead, ‘I had no idea that aircraft could be used to such humorous effect.’

‘Two gallant spirits in the prime of life,’ observed Fairhead wistfully, knowing that, for all his own bravery and fortitude, he could never hope to match the wondrous natural elan of the pilot of a scout.

A few minutes afterwards the roar of a rotary was heard again, and they all rushed out into the garden to see the Snipe circling the garden with Fluke nonchalantly sitting between the struts of the starboard wing, his legs dangling over the tip, apparently absorbed in a book. Then the plane disappeared, and not twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door, which Millicent answered, to find the two pilots still in their flying gear, their faces and garments dripping with blackened castor oil, grinning at her together.

‘We landed on the golf course,’ said Fluke.

‘Probably a par five,’ added Daniel.

‘Tucked the babies into the rough,’ said Fluke, ‘on the left-hand side. More people slice than hook, eh? Hope nobody minds. Did you enjoy the Immelmann turn and the falling leaf?’

‘He does an excellent falling leaf,’ said Daniel.

Millicent let them in, not understanding a word of what they were saying. They might as well have been speaking French. As they entered the drawing room they received a round of applause, and bowed ironically.

Later on, Ottilie expressed some curiosity about Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘Why is he called Fluke?’ she asked Daniel.

‘He’s had some extraordinary escapades,’ replied Daniel. ‘He never gets hurt. He attacks whole jastas on his own, head on, and scatters them like chaff. He attacks one plane and one of his stray rounds hits the pilot of another one altogether. His guns jammed once, and he actually brought down a Rumpler with his revolver. He was as reckless as Rhys Davids. Or Albert Ball. He really ought to be dead several times over.’

‘A revolver? You still carry revolvers?’

‘Or an automatic. You have to. In case of fire. If you can’t jump and you don’t want to burn. If you can jump, you unbuckle and turn the plane on its back.’

‘You commit suicide?’ asked Rosie, more horrified by the breaking of God’s law than by the thought of the deed itself.

‘Obviously,’ replied Daniel coolly. ‘Oh, and another thing, Fluke was a complete balloonatic.’

‘A balloonatic?’

‘Nothing he loved more than pipping a sausage. Used to come back with his bus completely sieved, and not a scratch.’

‘They’re just sitting ducks, aren’t they?’ said Christabel.

‘Oh good Lord no. They have motorised winding gear. The Boches got them downstairs in seconds, and if you tried to follow, you got peppered all the way down. And they ring them with archie because they know a balloonatic like Fluke is going to turn up, and more often than not there’s a couple of scouts hiding up in the sun just waiting to pounce. It’s about the most dangerous thing you can do.’

‘How many did he get?’

‘Ten, I think. He’d come back with his fabric in shreds and holes through his struts. He’d be up there looking for balloons every time we got a delivery of Le Prieur rockets or Buckingham rounds. If you crashed in Hunland and the Huns found those on you, they’d shoot you on the spot.’ He saw their looks of puzzlement and explained. ‘Incendiary ammunition.’

‘What does someone like him do in peacetime?’ asked Mr McCosh. ‘What does someone like you do? You’re not the kind of young men who are going to put on slippers, are you?’

‘Fluke’s staying in,’ replied Daniel. ‘I’m thinking of getting out.’

‘I’ve got an idea, my boy,’ said Mr McCosh, taking Daniel’s arm and leading him out into the conservatory.

‘Daddy’s got another plan,’ said Christabel, smiling a little sideways at Fluke, and widening her eyes.

After tea Sophie sidled up to Daniel as he smoked out on the lawn. ‘Daniel?’ she said

‘Yes, old girl?’

‘Would it be frightfully imprudent if I asked you a little something about your friend Maurice?’

‘Do you mean impudent?’

‘Gosh, how would I know? Words are such slippitty-slidey things, don’t you think? I am terribly cacoeptical. Anyway, what I want to know is this …’ and she whispered, ‘Is he married?’

‘Sophie, what about Fairhead?’

‘I’m not asking for myself, silly. It’s Ottilie.’

‘Ottilie? Well, well. Wife and two children, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh,’ said Sophie sadly. ‘All these years of being hopelessly devoted to Archie … I really think she’s taken a fancy to this Fluke of yours.’

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Daniel. ‘Just you wait and see. One day she’s going to surprise us all.’

From inside the house there came the sound of glass shattering, and then Mrs McCosh’s voice raised in anger. ‘Let’s go back in,’ said Sophie, ‘I think there might be some fun going on.’

In the hallway they found Mrs McCosh berating her husband. ‘You’re just like Mr Toad!’ she cried.

‘I have only one craze,’ replied Mr McCosh. ‘Mr Toad has a great many, one after the other.’

‘How many times have I asked you — no told you — not to play golf indoors? Now look what you’ve done!’

‘I will get a new chandelier, my dear, an even nicer one.’

‘You’ve destroyed our best chandelier! How can we possibly afford another one? Look at all these pieces! There’s even one on the top of that portrait of your father!’

‘I was only taking some practice swings, my dear, as I usually do.’

‘And you’ve frightened the cat! He’s up on the pelmet again! And you’ve worn a patch in the carpet! It is threadbare from your divots! This must stop, my dear, or there will be me to answer to!’

‘My dear, I have never had to answer to anyone else quite as much as I answer to you. And I’ve never hit the chandelier before.’

‘That is a driver in your hand! What man of any brain would choose to take practice swings indoors with the longest club in the bag? You should never swing anything longer than a niblick inside the house! Where is your common sense?’