Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

The doctor punctured the blisters and snipped away the pieces of loose skin. He rummaged in his substantial Gladstone bag, and produced a bottle of picric acid, with which he soaked several pieces of gauze. Carefully he arranged Rosie’s fingers in a natural position and placed gauze between each one so that scarring would not seal any of them together. Then he placed more soaked gauze over the remaining burns, and gently wrapped the hands in bandages.

In the hall he gave his instructions to Mrs McCosh. ‘The dressing can stay on for several days unless there is considerable discharge, in which case I must be sent for. It is possible that shock may return. It sometimes does. If so, send someone for me immediately. The patient will be in great pain for some considerable time, but in my opinion most of the burns are second degree and should not scar to any great extent. If the picric acid soaks through to the outside of the dressing, I must warn you that any linen she touches will be stained a pleasingly deep shade of yellow.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs McCosh, genuinely grateful. ‘Please do not omit to send your bill at the end of the month.’

‘That is something I never forget to do,’ said Dr Scott, ‘however great the temptation. And I trust that you will pay it promptly, as is sometimes not your wont. Good day to you.’ And with that he donned his top hat and set off briskly for home.

Rosie resolutely refused to cancel or postpone her marriage, repeating, ‘I never break promises.’ Despite her inability to exorcise Ash, she had an intuition that marrying Daniel was the right thing to do, and in any case she could not spoil the day for Fairhead and Sophie.

IT WAS A splendid morning, to the immense relief of the household, who had set up trestles in the garden, spread with crisp white linen, and laden with food and champagne. A little boy armed with shingle and a catapult had been hired to fend off any birds or squirrels that might take an interest whilst everybody was at church. However, he made more inroads into the spread than the wildlife might have done, and was entirely responsible for the disappearance of a bowl of Brazil nuts and two pies. Caractacus made off with a large cube of Cheddar cheese and ate it in the orchard.

Cookie had been working flat out for days making delicate little items for the reception, and had been adamant that a cake must not be bought in. Accordingly she had created two tremendous confections in three tiers that occupied the centre of the kitchen table, and around which the rest of the preparations had to be conducted. She fussed and perspired and frequently declared that she had never been so busy or so put upon in all her born days.

Ottilie and Christabel had had the idea that it would be very fine if Daniel and Rosie were to be married by Fairhead, prior to his being married to Sophie by the rector, but ultimately it seemed altogether too complicated, and Fairhead himself said that it would be impossible to concentrate on the other wedding when he was preoccupied with his own. Christabel had also had the idea that she should take the wedding photographs, until Rosie had pointed out that if she was taking the photographs, then she herself would not be able to be in them, and that in any case it would seem a bit strange to have one of the bridesmaids take the pictures, all dressed up in frills and furbelows, and partially concealed under a black cloth. Gaskell offered to step in, but in truth Mrs McCosh, for all her egalitarianism when it concerned her own case, was not to be convinced that a lady photographer could be relied upon to do the job properly, so Gaskell curled her lip in quiet disdain and resigned herself to being a mere guest. She arrived on a motorcycle, attired in a manner that would have reminded many people of the flamboyant costumes of Oscar Wilde, were it not for the flying helmet and goggles.

Daniel, in the full dress uniform of the RAF, a sword buckled at his side, strolled down Court Road, past the solid mansions of the new bourgeoisie, to St John’s. At his side was Fairhead, dressed in the number ones of the chaplaincy. They had little to say to each other, but enjoyed the quiet reassurance of masculine company. They felt as if they were walking towards the gates of the Garden of Eden, their minds whirling both with nervousness and vague, sweet optimism. They fell into step. They had decided to swap being best man, and carried the other man’s ring in their pocket. In Daniel’s case Archie had declined the job, quite brusquely — ‘Out of the question, old boy, couldn’t possibly’ — and Fluke had merely said, ‘Sorry, old fellow, I’ve got other plans. I’m afraid I can’t even turn up until the reception, much as it pains me to say so.’ Strangely enough, the other members of his squadron had told him the same thing. As for Fairhead, it seemed perfectly obvious to him that Daniel should be his best man, since he really had become his best friend in the last few months. Like many clergymen, he really preferred the company of sceptics.

‘I’ve got one more medal than you,’ teased Daniel, as they passed the palace.

‘No one will notice,’ replied Fairhead. ‘We both have quite a chestful, and for all anyone knows, mine might be better than yours. Yours might be for peeling potatoes in the face of the enemy. And you don’t have a silver crucifix.’

‘No, I’m not that kind of sky pilot.’

Ten minutes after the grooms were settled in church, the brides and bridesmaids arrived in an open carriage drawn by a pair of plumed greys. The maids were Ottilie and Christabel, carrying bouquets, and dressed in blue silk that Gaskell and Christabel had designed and made between them, so that they looked like heroines from a medieval legend or a fantasy by William Morris. About their heads they wore garlands of small white carnations and both wore their hair straight, brushed to a deep shine. They had tossed a coin to decide which was to be bridesmaid to which bride, and Ottilie had been assigned to Rosie, and Christabel to Sophie. Rosie and Sophie were dressed very like the maids, except in white silk, with a simple headdress, also reminiscent of medieval times, and also made by Gaskell and Christabel during many long companionable evenings in the Chelsea atelier. Neither Rosie nor Sophie had wanted to wear a veil, and Mrs McCosh would therefore, very grumpily and resentfully, have to forgo that moment in the ceremony when the bride reveals her face to the groom in time for the kiss.

Sophie had been so well made up that she looked beautiful for the first time in her life. Her stiff frizzy hair had been tamed into a bunch behind, and her dress evened out the lines of her small breasts and wide hips. Rosie’s long chestnut hair had been plaited and arranged about her head like a chaplet, exposing the fair skin of her neck and the fine line of her jaw. Both carried a small bouquet of white flowers. They had borrowed a set of pearls from each other, and wore sapphire and topaz earrings inherited from their grandmother. They had each tied a blue ribbon around their leg, just above the knee, where it would not slip.

These young women were handed down by their father, and took up their station at the church door, until such time as the organist would strike up the Wedding March. Sophie stood clutching her bouquet, almost quivering with delight and anticipation, and Rosie stood motionless, feeling that she had been caught up in a strange dream. She looked at the edifice of the church and reflected that this was where she would have married Ash, had he lived. How strange that life was unfolding without him. Her hands were stinging terribly from their burns of the evening before, with agonising flushes of heat coming and going in waves. She now felt ashamed and embarrassed by what she had done, but helpless in its aftermath.