Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

Everybody knew he had to be killed, but who was going to do it? Whoever did it would start a blood feud, and that might last for centuries. Anyway, it turned out that the man’s brother was there, and he agreed to do the execution, so he went to see his brother up in the tower, and the brother agreed to be shot fraternally. So he came up on the parapet and threw his rifle down, and he opened his arms wide, and he shouted ‘Allah o akbar’ because he knew he was sinless and had done the right thing, and then his brother shot him from down below. He stood still for a second and then whirled round and plunged down into the courtyard. That was the end of sepoy Kabul Khan. Another martyr for the Prophet. He was a Mahsud. Talk the hind legs off a donkey, those Mahsuds. Damned treacherous too. Can’t trust ’em an inch. Great fun to command, though. Splendid sense of humour. Nothing they like more than plaguing the political agent. Last year, one had the damned cheek to come and demand a campaign medal when he’d been on the other side, and wouldn’t give in until he’d got one, either.

Forgive me if I’ve already told you about Bowring. I’ll give your love to the sandflies and mosquitoes, the malaria and dysentery and sandfly fever, the scorpions in my shoes and under the lid of the thunderbox.

It was damn bad luck poor Rosie burning her hands like that, just before the wedding. I do hope she’s all right now.

It’s a pity I never fell for Ottilie. She’s such a sweet girl and I’m very fond of her, but how could I marry her? I’d always be looking over her shoulder at her sister. Every time I saw Rosie I’d get the same lurch.

I’d be a terrible husband. I shouldn’t inflict myself on anyone. Sorry about the stain on the right-hand side of the page. It’s Angostura bitters.

I’m married to the army and the Afghan hills. I pray to God to let me die there with a bullet through my heart, and I’ve told my brother officers I only want a cairn of stones.

I’ve had too many gins to write any more now. I’m in Port Said, and it’s as near to Hell as any man gets on earth. I’m going to seal this up and go ashore and post it, before I think any better of it.

I just wanted to tell you that if I die anywhere but in the Afghan hills, I’d like you to take my bones to Peshawar and bury them there.

God knows when I’ll be back, mon frère. If only one of us can be entirely happy, I’m content it should be you. All my love to you and Rosie. I’ll write to maman when I’m sober.

Archie, ever yours

DANIEL HAD BECOME good at golf quite quickly, as ordered by Squadron Leader Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert, and had performed honourably in the match against the masters and senior pupils. He had also triumphed in the tennis tournament, producing some spectacular forehand volleys and backhand slices, whilst keeping the stub of a cigarette clamped firmly at all times between his lips, at dead centre. The squadron had taken more deliveries of some wonderfully jaunty Sopwith Snipes, the very plane in which Major W. G. Barker had won a Victoria Cross for engaging fifteen Fokker DV11s just two weeks before the end of the war.

Daniel had been married only a month or two, and should have been radiant with happiness, as should Rosie.

Her sisters questioned her doggedly about her obvious sadness, and got nowhere. Mrs McCosh compounded the bad atmosphere by strongly disapproving of Rosie’s state of mind, and blaming Daniel for it whenever he was there. The golf club had mowed a special landing strip for him in the rough on a par five, and he would come by in whatever aircraft was available, once even turning up in a Morane-Saulnier parasol that had been all but obsolete even in 1915.

Daniel was sitting on his own on a bench at the edge of the playing field, smoking a cigarette. It was a lovely day with a light breeze, and seagulls were throwing themselves about overhead, apparently just for the fun of it.

Squadron Leader Maurice Beckenham-Smith was walking his two black setters around the pitch, and he stopped and sat next to Daniel.

‘Perfect day,’ he said.

‘Hmm,’ said Daniel.

‘You mean “Hmm, sir”,’ said Beckenham-Smith. ‘I’m in uniform with my cap on.’

Daniel laughed half-heartedly.

‘Down in the dumps?’ said Beckenham-Smith. ‘Not like you at all.’

‘You were right,’ said Daniel. ‘I should have paid attention. Now I’m scuppered. For life, no doubt.’

‘Tant pis ,’ said Beckenham-Smith. ‘No joy?’

‘None.’

‘None whatsoever?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Gracious me! How long has it been?’

‘Six weeks, sir.’

‘Six weeks. Oh dear, that is too bad.’

‘She always has a good reason.’

‘Headache, tummy ache, earache, tired, indisposed, that kind of thing?’

‘That’s about the long and short of it, sir.’

‘Should have married a French girl. Or a dusky maiden. Oh for a dusky maiden!’

They sat together in silence, petting the ears of the dogs, and then the Squadron Leader said, ‘After a while you can get an annulment for that, you know. Non-consummation.’

‘I know, sir. It might be all I have to hope for. It’s very depressing.’

‘The ancient Greeks believed that the first human woman was created for the punishment of man. Let’s go up in a Snipe,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert.

The two men went up into the sky and blew their worries away high above the seagulls. They buzzed a courting couple in a field, and did a display of loops over Birchington-on-Sea. Then they landed on wet sand of low tide at Margate and were roundly ticked off by a policeman.

Fluke and Daniel left their aircraft on the strand, and went for a wander in the town. They had tea in the Lyons Corner House, and then noticed a small bookshop, which, in the window, had a copy of Eleanor Farjeon’s Sonnets and Poems . ‘I wonder if Rosie would like that,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s a great one for modern poetry.’

‘Don’t see the point of poetry,’ said Fluke. ‘Give me a song to bawl. Doesn’t butter any parsnips, poetry, does it?’

‘It butters Rosie’s parsnips,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ve seen a good poem make her cry. I sometimes wonder if she’s so religious just because the language of the Bible and the Prayer Book is so beautiful.’

Inside the shop Daniel took a look at the little book. It had a very pretty cover, and the first poem was striking. ‘Man cannot be a sophist to his heart …’ He read the second: ‘O spare me from the hand of niggard love …’

‘I’m going to get this,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m certain she’ll like it.’

‘I’ve found a tome about brook fishing for trout,’ said Fluke, brandishing it. ‘Don’t think I can resist it.’

At the weekend Rosie accepted the little book with surprise. Somehow she had not expected her husband to have regard for what interested her, and she realised guiltily that she had never bought him a spontaneous gift herself.

‘Doesn’t she mostly write for children?’ she asked, wondering if it was going to be at all enjoyable.

‘Some of them are for children,’ said Daniel. ‘The sonnets definitely aren’t.’

Rosie settled in the conservatory with Caractacus purring on her lap, and began to read the sonnets. The sun was shining weakly through the glass, and it was deliciously warm. She reached Sonnet XV, and read it over and over again. It spoke directly to her as if the poet were in the room, and she could see her deep, regretful eyes.

Farewell, you children that I might have borne,