The Dust That Falls from Dreams (28 page)

T
hey sat side by side on the same bench, well wrapped up in heavy coats, looking out over the water. ‘They say the Tarn has no bottom,’ said Christabel.

‘Like love,’ said Gaskell gloomily.

‘It has no top either,’ replied Christabel sensibly. ‘If you think about it, love isn’t a three-dimensional thing, is it? Space words can’t apply to it.’

‘Oh my gosh,’ said Gaskell, ‘you’re immune to the power of metaphor.’

‘What’s the matter, darling?’

Gaskell shrugged. ‘I can’t help thinking about us.’

‘And?’

‘I can’t help thinking that, no matter how wonderful it is, one day you’re going to leave.’

‘And so might you.’

‘And so might I. But it’s more likely that you will.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Because you’re not entirely like me.’

‘Aren’t I?’

‘One day you’ll start wanting to have children, and you’ll meet a nice man, and then you’ll be off.’

‘Don’t you want children?’

‘Of course I do. But I’m not going to have any, am I? It’s not in my nature…to be able to bring it about. I absolutely couldn’t bear it, in fact. And I think that you could.’

‘I don’t want to think about it, darling. We have such fun, don’t we? And we’re such a success. We’re filling the galleries already! We’re kindred spirits. I don’t want it to end, ever.’

Gaskell tucked her arm through Christabel’s. ‘I don’t like to talk much about the past. I like there to be a clean canvas…but I’ve been in love twice before.’

‘And?’

‘They both gave me up for a man, because they wanted children.’

‘Were you heartbroken?’

‘Of course. Both times. You’re very like them. You see, I can only love women. I think you’re the kind of woman who can love either. I just happened to come along first. Aren’t you often attracted to men?’

Christabel thought, and then nodded. ‘But with me it seems to be the person that counts.’

‘I thought so,’ said Gaskell. ‘That’s why I’m down in the dumps.’

Christabel said, ‘You have the most fascinating and beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I could live inside them. I really don’t think I could ever give them up.’

They looked out over the water, its surface rippled by smart gusts of wind. ‘Don’t you envy the ducks?’ said Gaskell. ‘Such a lovely simple life.’

‘No one to judge them, or make them feel ashamed.’

‘Mind you,’ said Gaskell, ‘they do get crunched by foxes.’

D
aniel was as nervous as he had been the first time he flew solo. He was in the dining room with Mr McCosh, who was in a good mood because his investment in Argentine railways was paying off handsomely. He had Caractacus, now half grown, in his arms.

‘I thought it wise to seek your advice,’ said Daniel. ‘I feel I’m on shaky ground.’

‘You certainly are,’ said Mr McCosh, stroking the cat’s head.

‘Yes?’

Mr McCosh indicated a chair and said, ‘Do sit down. Cigar?’

‘No, thank you, sir.’

‘Very wise. I am beginning to convince myself that they’re toxic. I dare say I’ll be giving them up one of these days. After I smoke one I often feel a mite dizzy, and I can feel my heart fluttering.’ He paused. ‘You do realise that she was engaged to Ashbridge from next door?’

‘Everybody keeps reminding me. A childhood friend, if you remember. We were “the Pals”. I saw him briefly in the trenches, early 1915, and he told me then that he and Rosie were engaged. I was very fond of him.’

‘As were we all. My wife refers to him as “our lost son”. But Rosie was utterly devoted to him. She thought he was made in Heaven specifically to be with her. When he was killed, well, she hasn’t been the same since. She has become increasingly strange.’

‘Strange?’

Mr McCosh looked out of the window. ‘What do you think about God? Religion?’

‘I have nothing to do with it to tell the truth. I’ve never seen any sense in it.’

‘Well, you would be quite incompatible with Rosie. She adores
Our Lord more than she adores anyone, perhaps even more than she adored Ashbridge. The Bible is her reference for deciding absolutely everything and anything. She’s almost a Roman. It wouldn’t surprise me if she became one. How can I put it? Her religiousness is altogether vehement. I don’t see how you two could possibly get on if you’re a sceptic. You may not have realised it yet, Daniel, but a couple can’t get on if they don’t have the same assumptions. You would irritate and bewilder each other. I might add, she has a strong puritanical streak, which is completely absent in you, and she does things out of duty even when she knows they’re not right.

‘Furthermore, my good wife, Mrs McCosh, adored Ashbridge just as much as Rosie did. You must realise that you would have to displace him from the hearts not of one woman, but two. I scarcely think it can be managed.’

‘Are you opposed to the idea of having me as a son-in-law?’

‘Absolutely not, but you should have taken a fancy to one of the others. You cannot possibly be happy with Rosie, or she with you. Do try Ottilie or Christabel if you want to be married. Ottilie is quiet, but there is a wonderful, courageous and very womanly woman smouldering away inside, and Christabel is vigorous and in many ways rather magnificent. She would make a superb companion for the more adventurous type of man. You could take her salmon fishing or climbing in the Himalayas, and she’d catch the biggest fish and get to the top of the mountain several hours before you.’

‘But if Rosie accepted? If I keep proposing, and one day she accepts? I do have the feeling that she’s coming round to the idea. We have a lot of fun together, and she hardly ever turns down my invitations.’

‘I wouldn’t forbid it. Of course not. I merely advise strongly against it. I do very greatly approve of you personally – how could I not? – but she will make you unhappy, Daniel. Be sure of it.

‘We have become exceptionally good friends. She’s a wonderful companion. I haven’t had such fun since I first joined the RFC.’

‘And how do you propose to provide for her?’

‘I’m in the RAF. I have my officer’s salary.’

‘Don’t count on the RAF, old boy. They’ll send you packing the moment they find they have more men than they need. It’s the same in any industry, and at the moment war is an industry in recession.’

‘I want to stay in aviation,’ said Daniel. ‘I love flying more than anything.’

‘There are thousands of aviators left over from the war, and you all love flying. Have you thought of motorcycles?’

‘Oddly enough, I have,’ said Daniel.

‘I am assuming that the motorcycle will be the preferred mode of transport for those who cannot afford a motor car for a great many years to come. Thousands of servicemen learned to ride them in the war, and I am certain they will wish to continue to do so. I know the people who run Henley. It’s a new company in Birmingham. I understand they make very fine machines. Until such time as everyone can afford a motor car, I would venture to prophesy that the motorcycle has a very profitable future. Would you like me to have a word with them?’

‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

‘And another thing, Daniel.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘My wife is not herself. Ever since the Folkestone bombing, it seems to me that her behaviour is becoming increasingly peculiar. We put up with it, of course. We either ignore her or humour her, and she certainly isn’t mad enough to lock up. I wonder, however, how much you will be able to put up with it all. A mother-in-law like her might be a very real strain for someone like you.’

‘I imagine we’d be moving away into our own quarters,’ replied Daniel. ‘And I’m very glad that you would allow me to marry Rosie.’

Mr McCosh put down the cat and went to the window, gazing out at the hydrangeas, his hands behind his back. ‘Ah, but please don’t,’ he said. ‘I will regret it very much when I am proved right. My advice is to go abroad for several months. You’ll find that eventually all your passion turns into a pleasant memory. And perhaps you should talk it over with Ottilie. She has a very good head on her.’

Daniel laughed. ‘Everyone tells me to talk to Ottilie. I already have, sir.’

‘And what does she say?’

‘She tells me to wait, and become friends first.’

‘Wonderful girl, Ottilie,’ said her father. ‘She’ll make a splendid wife one day. Why couldn’t you have fallen for her?’

S
pedegue answered the door with her usual ill grace, but Fairhead gave her the time of day very civilly, and handed her his hat and coat. These days a good maid had become as hard to find as a bag of sugar in 1918. The war had taken them away into jobs that were better paid and offered them more liberty, and afterwards they had not come back, and neither could many people afford them anymore. Fairhead assumed that Madame Valentine owed Spedegue a debt of loyalty, and no doubt they had a certain long-standing allegiance to each other that was unsoured by such drawbacks as mere grumpiness.

‘Madame is in the séance room,’ said Spedegue, saying the word ‘séance’ as if she were handling it with tongs. She did not announce him or show him in

The sound of a cello piece was coming from that very quarter, and Fairhead pushed the door open gently so as not to disturb the music. He stood very still whilst Madame Valentine finished playing, and then coughed politely after she had had a few moments to savour the aura of the finished piece. Suddenly aware that someone was present, she looked round, and rose to her feet. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

‘I am sorry to have disturbed your practice,’ said Captain Fairhead. ‘You do play very beautifully.’

‘You can’t go wrong with “The Swan”,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘It’s not too difficult, and it does carry one away. Sometimes I think I could play it all day and all night. Of course, one does need a pianist, ideally, or one gets very rusty in the timing department.’

‘Have you never thought of playing professionally?’

‘Oh, I did. I was in a quartet, but the other three were men. Passchendaele, Jutland and Cape Helles, I’m afraid. I hardly have the heart to start again. Such lovely boys. Nowadays I just teach.’

‘You teach?’

‘Don’t be surprised. I’m not a professional medium, you know. Just a very good one. On a good day. Do find yourself a place to sit. I expect that Spedegue will bring tea.’

Fairhead settled into a high-backed chair and Madame Valentine did likewise. He hardly recognised her. Gone were the theatrical trappings of mediumship, and she was dressed entirely like any other large middle-class woman with respectable acquaintances and aspirations.

‘I barely recognised you,’ said Fairhead.

‘One has to dress up,’ replied Madame Valentine. ‘Butchers butcher better in their aprons, soldiers march more smartly in uniform, and no one takes policemen in plain clothes at all seriously. I see you have your dog collar on this time.’

‘I do.’

‘No doubt you know what I mean.’

‘My fiancée says it’s just a normal collar put on backwards. It does seem to have an effect, though, not least on me.’

Spedegue entered with a rickety wooden trolley covered with an embroidered cloth, upon which she had already spilled a few drops of tea. There was a plate of Shrewsbury biscuits which Fairhead soon discovered to be soft.

He produced a small brown paper bag from the inside of his jacket, and took out a photograph, which he handed to Madame Valentine. It showed a young woman smiling and waving at the camera. ‘How did you do this?’ he asked.

‘Who is it?’

‘My little sister. She was killed in a Zeppelin raid.’

‘I don’t know anything about it. What are you asking exactly?’

‘One of the ladies who came here with me had a camera in her bag. When she developed the film she found this picture. It is unmistakably my sister.’

‘Gracious,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘And what’s this? There’s something behind her that looks very like an obelisk.’

‘That,’ replied Fairhead ‘is, also unmistakably, the obelisk of a large and impressive grave a few yards from hers. Major Goodhorn, lawyer and Territorial Army officer.’

‘Gracious,’ said Madame Valentine again.

‘I am thinking of submitting it to the Society of Psychical Research. Would you cooperate if I did?’

‘Cooperate? In what way? I was quite unaware that anything like this had happened.’

‘Do think about it,’ said Fairhead. He paused. ‘But that isn’t the reason I’m here.’

‘No?’

‘I want to ask you about the afterlife.’

‘You’re the clergyman,’ replied Madame Valentine drily. ‘Surely you must be the expert?’

‘I suspect that things may be other than the average Christian supposes. I was at the front for several years. I saw many things. Heard many stories. I have for some time been in doubt. And the odd thing is, the Bible says practically nothing about it. The Jews thought you gibbered away in a place called Sheol, and the more reprehensible souls smouldered on a rubbish dump outside Jerusalem, called Gehenna. The Achaean Greeks apparently thought that you wandered about in a diminished state, with absolutely nothing to do.’

‘And you want to know what really happens? You want to know where your sister is?’

‘I do. And all the dead boys.’

‘All I can tell you is what I think. I have no proofs except circumstantial ones.’

‘Go on,’ he said quietly.

‘What I think is that we do survive death in some form, and that we remain almost exactly as we were. A man who smoked a pipe when he was here smokes a pipe in the next world. I don’t know how long the afterlife lasts, or if there are other deaths to die later or if any of our deaths are final.’

‘One assumes that the hereafter is eternal,’ said Fairhead.

‘There is no reason to,’ she replied. ‘People assume that one becomes omniscient as well, but I have never encountered a spirit who knew much more than when he was alive. Death doesn’t seem much of an improvement in most cases. I have encountered ones who were extraordinarily foul-mouthed. It doesn’t even make you polite.’

‘Heaven and Hell?’

‘Probably not. I think there are levels of existence that you can ascend or descend, like a ladder. Once someone goes a long way up, they can no longer communicate with us. It’s like trying to talk through thick glass. There are those who are very sad, and those who go on quite jauntily. And I often suspect that there are many kinds of entities one has to deal with, everything from mere scamps and scallywags right up to creatures as angelic as angels. It’s the scallywags who infest the drawing rooms of planchette players.’

‘And what about coming back again?’

‘Reincarnation? I have never come across it, but there are those who have, it seems. My opinion is that it is optional. A choice one can make.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s only an opinion.’

Fairhead sat in silence and sipped his tea. It was tepid and oily, and Spedegue had obviously made it with hot water from the tap. He wondered again what the bond was between the two women.

‘She is a poor soul who needs caring for,’ said Madame Valentine suddenly. ‘Her mother was a complete brute who drove her father to suicide. Apprently she was exceptionally violent and he was too much of a gentleman to defend himself.’

‘Who?’

‘Spedegue. You asked me about her.’

‘No, I didn’t. I was just thinking about her.’

‘Oh, I must have picked up on it,’ said Madame Valentine matter-of-factly. ‘She’s utterly hopeless as a servant.’

‘You’re telepathic, then?’

‘I can’t do it on purpose.’

‘You’re a most interesting woman,’ said Fairhead. ‘What do the dead say about the afterlife?’

‘Very little. It’s as if they’re not allowed to. They mainly want to say that they’re all right. Sometimes they want to tell you where to find something. Like a key. Or a will. I sometimes fear that the hereafter is extraordinarily banal. I did come across a spirit who said that she’d seen Jesus.’

Fairhead perked up, reassured. ‘Really?’

‘But she might well have been mad or deluded,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘She was when she was alive.’

‘Oh,’ said Fairhead, disappointed.

‘I fear I have not enlightened you very much,’ observed Madame Valentine.

He shrugged. ‘One always asks too much.’

‘ “Seek and ye shall find,” ’ she said, ‘but more importantly, in your case, “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” ’

‘That’s your advice?’

‘Oh yes, you really should go ahead and give it a try.’

‘You really are extraordinary,’ he said gratefully.

‘Do come and see me again,’ she said. ‘I think we have much to say to each other, and I do thank you for showing me the photograph. It helps to convince me that I am not a fraud. Sometimes I look down on myself and feel utter contempt, because one can’t help having one’s own suspicions. More often than not everything goes haywire. I do wish I didn’t bring on all that bashing and crashing and mad music when one only wants a quiet conversation. Evidence like this brings me great joy, believe me. And the strength to carry on.’

‘You really should,’ said Fairhead. ‘I am sure you are a very good thing.’

She laughed and smiled sadly. ‘Not so long ago I would have been burned at the stake.’

‘Perhaps you were, in a previous life.’

‘Oh, don’t! This life is bad enough! I did have the most awful dreams about it for a time, though, not being able to close my eyes because the lids were burned off, and hearing my own blood hissing in the flames. Do you suppose that’s what used to happen? I always thought that the heat would dry one’s blood up.’

At the door, Fairhead asked her, ‘All those spectacular occurrences…can you do them in daylight?’

She was surprised. ‘I’ve never tried. I don’t do them on purpose anyway.’

‘Why don’t we come back and have a session with the lights on?’ suggested Fairhead.

‘It might be more peaceful,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘I wonder if I’ll be able to get into a trance, though?’

‘You could wear a mask over your eyes.’

‘Gracious, what a good idea. Do telephone. You have my number.’