Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘You mean to say that it is not an official grace?’ asked Mrs McCosh.

‘I am sure it has become hallowed by use in Daniel’s family,’ offered Rosie, who was aware that her husband was once again suppressing the anger that his mother-in-law continually aroused in him, ‘and every grace must have been made up by someone at some time.’

There was a lapse in this conversation as Millicent came in bearing a large silver platter, upon which there was a dish of brawn, compressed whimsically into the shape of a chicken.

They were only a little way into their meal when Mrs McCosh returned to the fray. ‘I am convinced’, she said, ‘that French is an inappropriate language in which to address Our Lord.’

‘Are you proposing that God doesn’t understand French?’ asked Daniel, knowing that he was being provoked, and, knowing that he should not rise to the bait, rising nonetheless.

‘Not at all. That would be most absurd. But French is a light and frivolous language, is it not? One would not expect Him to take it seriously. English has so much more weight and pith.’

‘Pith?’ repeated Sophie, giggling. ‘Pith?’

‘Yeth. Pith!’ said Mrs McCosh.

Sophie’s shoulders heaved and she nearly spat out her mouthful of brawn. She spluttered, got up from her seat and ran out. They could hear her giving way to peals of laughter in the morning room.

‘What on earth is wrong with the girl?’ asked Mrs McCosh.

‘Must have been something you said,’ said Mr McCosh, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

‘I do apologise on my wife’s behalf,’ said Fairhead. ‘I can’t imagine what’s come over her.’

‘When I was a girl,’ said Christabel, ‘and I went to stay with that family in Normandy, I was utterly amazed at the cleverness of the dogs.’

‘Really?’ asked Daniel. ‘Why so?’

‘Well, they all understood French. If you said “ Assieds-toi ”, they sat down.’

‘I think you’re saying that English is the natural language of dogs as well as of God?’

‘That’s what I assumed when I was a little girl,’ said Christabel. ‘Naturally, I am not so naive in my old age.’

Mrs McCosh glared at her. ‘I think you are declaring that I am naive. I am hardly naive.’

‘Philosophically malnourished, perhaps,’ suggested Daniel, under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.

‘How dare you! And, furthermore, I must tell you that I most strongly disapprove of your occasional lapses of manners when you are at this table! In this country it is not customary to sit with your elbows on the table. Your arms should be at your side and you should not rest your wrists on the table. And you should not pick up bones to chew the remaining meat from them. That was done in the past but is simply not done any more.’

‘But brawn has no bones,’ said Christabel, much puzzled.

‘I am referring to the lamb chops we had on Thursday last,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘I didn’t want to say anything at the time, but now I feel I must speak.’

‘To leave meat upon the bones is disrespectful of the creature that died so that we might eat it,’ replied Daniel icily. ‘And, what is more, the sweetest meat is that which is nearest the bone. And as for elbows on the table, in France we have our elbows on the table and we bite the meat from the bones when we are en famille . I have made the mistake of thinking that in this house I am en famille . I apologise. I also apologise for leaving the table before the meal is finished, and before we have given thanks in God’s real language, but I cannot abide it here any longer.’

Mrs McCosh said, ‘Whether you are en famille or not is a matter of conjecture. However, I should think that there is not one of us here, not even your wife, who thinks you can ever replace our poor lost son, or ever be worthy to step into his place.’

Daniel threw his napkin onto his place setting, bowed to the ladies and Mr McCosh, and strode out of the room.

‘Oh, Mama!’ exclaimed Rosie. She hesitated, white with dismay, and then went out after Daniel.

‘My dear, I think you should apologise to your son-in-law,’ said Mr McCosh.

‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Mrs McCosh. ‘I am not in the wrong, and will not be told so. I have taken the trouble to consult several guides to etiquette, including one written by a countess. They are unanimous on the subject of gnawing bones and having elbows on the table! And I will not be told off in front of the children.’

‘We will speak afterwards, then,’ said Mr McCosh, ‘when we are not in the presence of the children. And I happen to know that the late Queen liked to gnaw bones in her fingers. It was often remarked upon. I’m astounded that you don’t know of it.’

Rosie came back into the room, saying, ‘I don’t know where he went. I do hope he hasn’t gone home to his mother.’

‘What? To Partridge Green? At this time of night?’ said Ottilie.

‘Daniel is perfectly capable of driving to Partridge Green at this time of the night,’ said Rosie. ‘His fanaticism for motorcycling is completely inexhaustible, even at night or in the rain. He loves it almost as much as flying.’ She ran to the window and tweaked aside the curtain. ‘His combination is still there.’

‘We would have heard it starting up,’ said Ottilie sensibly.

‘We have lost both Sophie and Daniel,’ said Mr McCosh gloomily. They could still hear Sophie pacing up and down in the morning room, but every now and then they heard a new peal of laughter.

Daniel had gone out of the French windows and into the conservatory. The structure had been rebuilt, and it had lately begun to fill up with plants. During the war, before the glass had been blown out, the family had attempted to grow vegetables in it, without very much success, because they had lacked both assiduity and skill. Somehow the produce had always ended up overwatered, dead from dessication, mildewed, undersized or infested. Now, however, a tiny orange tree was flourishing in one corner, and a lemon in another. A vine was working its way towards the roof, and various pot plants were promising to become worthy of being a centrepiece on the dining table.

Daniel was seeking a refuge where he could calm himself with a couple of cigarettes. In order to get as far from his mother-in-law as he could, he opened the door and took the steps down to the lawn, resolving to go to the far end of the garden where Bouncer was buried. He walked out and looked up at the moon, whose beauty had never ceased to astonish him ever since he had so many times perforce lain out under it en plein air when he was serving on the North-West Frontier. Caractacus appeared out of the darkness and wound himself about Daniel’s legs. He snapped open his case, drew out a cigarette, and then patted his pockets to locate a matchbox. Finding it, he struck a match and shielded the flame in his hands, as he had also learned to do on the frontier. He remembered advising a fellow officer, freshly arrived from Hindubagh, not to have a cigarette when they were resting on a night patrol, and he laughed in amused recollection of the man’s reaction as a Pashtun sniper sent a bullet spinning from the rock next to which the man had been reclining, the moment he lit a match. It was somewhat odd these days, not to be under fire in one place or another, unless one counted the sallies of one’s mother-in-law. Not even she was as bad, he thought, as seeing a row of machine-gun bullets stitching their inexorable way towards you through the canvas of an aeroplane. Mrs McCosh was more on a par with flying through archie and flaming onions, except that archie and flaming onions didn’t leave you seething with fury. He decided all over again that it was an absolute priority to persuade Rosie to leave this house so they could begin to live more equably elsewhere. Of course, first of all he would have to leave the RAF and find a new job somewhere.