Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘You lied to her?’ protested Rosie, amused but scandalised.

‘Only a little white lie.’ Christabel held up her hand with the forefinger and thumb half an inch apart ‘A tiny little white lie only this big.’

Sophie came over to Rosie and put her arms around her, kissing her on the cheek. ‘It’ll be the best day of our lives,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased. I wish we could all be married at the same time. All Eltham would be agog. We’d be the gazingstock of Kent.’

‘Has anyone asked Daniel?’ said Rosie, over her sister’s shoulder, a little horrified. ‘We can’t possibly decide this without consulting him first.’

Ottilie put her hand up. ‘Exchange of telegrams. I said “DOUBLE WEDDING QUESTION MARK HOW ABOUT IT QUESTION MARK” and he sent back “WONDERFUL IDEA STOP SO PLEASED NO QUESTION MARK STOP LOOPING THE LOOP STOP.”’

‘Honestly, Ottie,’ said Rosie, ‘what would we do without you? You’re an absolute treasure, and we all really do love you.’

‘What on earth did we do in the days before telegrams?’ asked Christabel.

HAMILTON MCCOSH HAD invented a new gadget called the Puttperfecto, which was not very different from a carthorse shoe. The idea was to place it on the carpet and use it as a target for putting practice. In its latest incarnation it was like three horseshoes stuck together, so that three people could use it at once, from different directions. He, Mrs McCosh and Christabel had been trying it out in the drawing room, with considerable success despite the disruptive attentions of Caractacus, and Mr McCosh had decided to try to sell it to the Army & Navy stores, who produced their own line of golfing equipment. He had had an idea for another improvement, in the form of a springloaded plate that would send the ball back, in the event of a direct hit.

He was therefore in very good humour when he went upstairs and came across Millicent, in tears, and employing a duster as a handkerchief. When she saw him she got to her feet, exclaimed, ‘Sorry, sir,’ and ran off down the stairs.

‘Dear me,’ said Mr McCosh to himself, and he went downstairs to the kitchen, expecting to find Millicent there. Instead he found Cookie, who was making Norfolk dumplings amid much sighing and puffing. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said.

‘And a very good evening to you, Cookie. I must say, the kitchen smells very nice.’

‘As it ought, sir,’

‘I perceive you are in a huff.’

‘I am vexed, sir.’

‘Vexed, Cookie?’

‘It’s poor Millicent, sir.’

‘Poor? Has poverty descended upon her, in one of its many forms?’

‘Indeed it has, sir.’

‘And in which of its many forms has it descended upon her?’

‘Far be it from me to question the mistress,’ said Cookie righteously.

‘It has descended in the form of Mrs McCosh?’

‘It has, sir.’

‘Manifesting in what manner?’

‘She’s fined Millicent fifteen shillings, sir, over a matter of woodworm.’

‘Woodworm? Gracious me.’

‘It’s the dressing table in your bedroom, sir, the mahogany one. It’s got woodworm.’

‘I fail to see how this impacts upon the poor distressed Millicent.’

‘The mistress says that it wouldn’t have got woodworm if Millicent had been polishing it properly.’

‘That is true, is it not, Cookie?’

‘Nobody polishes a table on the underneath, sir.’

‘And that’s where it started?’

‘Yes, sir, but it’s got into the legs.’

‘That’s a valuable piece,’ reflected Mr McCosh.

‘Well,’ continued Cookie, ‘the mistress got in someone to look at it, and he says it’ll cost fifteen shillings to treat, and the mistress is taking fifteen shillings off Millicent’s wages, seeing as it’s Millicent’s fault. In her opinion.’

‘And not in yours?’

‘It’s not my place to question, sir. But nobody polishes a table underneath, sir, like I said.’

Millicent earned twenty pounds per annum, and Hamilton McCosh performed a swift mental calculation. ‘That’s nearly two weeks’ wages,’ he said.

‘The mistress said that seeing Millicent gets board and lodging, it ain’t much of a loss, sir, but it is, sir, ’cause what the mistress don’t know is Millicent’s got a sick mother what can hardly move any more, and that’s where she sends the money, sir, and that’s why poor Millicent is inconsolable, sir, on account of her mother what can hardly move.’

‘You realise that the master of the house cannot overrule the mistress of it when it comes to domestic matters? It’s very bad form, as I’m sure you know. One of the unwritten rules.’

‘Maybe it is,’ said Cookie sceptically. ‘But the master’s the master in my opinion. And the mistress isn’t quite herself these days, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, ever since she got caught in that raid. I don’t believe she’d have dreamed of doing this in the old days. And she wouldn’t have got taken in by someone saying it would cost fifteen shillings.’

‘I dare say you’re right, Cookie, I dare say you’re right. We all have a lot to put up with. More than before, at any rate.’

Hamilton McCosh went to his study and took his cash box from the bureau. He removed six half-crowns, and then returned the box to its drawer. As an afterthought, he took it out again, unlocked it, and removed an extra florin.

He found Millicent in the morning room, still sniffling as she cleaned out the grating on her hands and knees. ‘Ah, I’ve found you,’ he said, ‘looking very like Cinderella.’

The maid got to her feet and wiped her eyes with her sleeve, leaving a streak of ash across her face.

‘Something has been troubling me, Millicent,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ she replied.

‘Yes,’ continued Mr McCosh. ‘I have been fearful for some time that your Christmas bonus, was, shall we say, a little ungenerous?’

‘Oh no, sir, it was most generous, sir.’

‘Indeed it wasn’t. It has been a trouble to my conscience for some months, and I am anxious to rectify it.’

He put his hand into his pocket and removed the small, sealed brown envelope into which he had placed the six half-crowns. He then reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the florin, which he put into her hand. She gazed at it in wonderment. ‘Very happy Christmas last year, Millicent,’ he said, and walked quietly away. Just as he got to the far end of the hall he heard her small cry of joy as she opened the envelope and saw what was inside.

He went into the drawing room and looked out over the garden. As always his eye settled on the mound of Bouncer’s grave in the orchard, and he smiled. ‘Good evening, you good old boy,’ he said softly.

It seemed such a long time ago that one used to give a sick and dying old dog to the head gardener, to be hanged. Nowadays, reflected Mr McCosh, one took them to a vet for a fatal injection. Some things change for the better, he thought, and felt a pang of guilt about Bouncer’s undignified death. Still, that used to be normal, like so many other horrible things.

AS HER WEDDING to Daniel approached, Rosie felt doubt and apprehension weighing her down, but she was committed and could hardly back out. She thought that she probably loved him, or might be able to, but it still did not seem right. In some ways he was too much like Ash. He was not only bold and athletic and amusing, he was even an engineer. How would she ever be able to behold him without seeing the ghost of Ash over his shoulder? Or embrace him and notice how different his body was?

Rosie went to church and prayed. In her room she frequently unwrapped her madonna and looked into that painted face for some hint of advice or direction. She went and sat by the Tarn. She went down into the orchard and looked at Bouncer’s grave, as though that might yield a little inspiration. She sat in the conservatory flicking through her autograph book, looking at the loving messages and beautiful drawings, the humorous cartoons of the men she had nursed at Netley. Their faces had faded already, leaving behind an atmosphere in place of an image.