The Dust That Falls from Dreams (30 page)

D
aniel’s squadron was back from France, along with all their machines, and based temporarily on the enormous playing fields of a large, architecturally intriguing, but academically undistinguished public school near Brighton. The magnificent but ill-equipped cricket pavilion held the separate offices of the squadron’s three flights. The Snipes and the two RE8s were lined up at the eastern edge of the cricket pitch because the prevailing wind came from the west. In the absence of hangars they had been covered with tarpaulins, and roped to stakes, just in case a high wind should flip them. They were awaiting the arrival of some Besonneau hangars, which seemed unlikely ever to come. Small white tents, most of them empty because the personnel had found lodgings locally, were laid out in lines in one corner of a field, where they were sheltered by a row of elms. Six Nissen huts and sheds stood elevated upon railway sleepers, containing the messes of the sergeants and officers of the three flights.

For the schoolboys it was utterly thrilling to have real aeroplanes and real pilots in the grounds, many of them the owners of noisy and wondrous motorcycles, and the 1st 11 had already lost 2–1 at football against the airmen, and won 3–2 against the ground-staff. In the summer it was anticipated that the school cricket 11 would probably triumph because they had two fast bowlers, whereas the squadron could boast solely a leg spinner, and had no wicket keeper. Daniel had high hopes of fielding a good tennis team, and the squadron leader was fully intending to defeat the schoolmasters at golf. He had ordered Daniel to become good at it by Easter, and submit cards for a handicap.

At thirty-two, Squadron Leader Maurice ‘Fluke’ Beckenham-Gilbert was old by pilots’ standards, since most had not managed to survive more than a few months in action. He had started his military life in the Green Howards, and seen enough action on
the ground to make him envious of the men circling above. He had risen from second lieutenant to acting major in six months, and calculated that he would be lucky to survive another two. His own father had been something of an aviation pioneer, having had the money and enthusiasm to invest in a Blériot monoplane not long after one such had been the first to cross the English Channel. His father had survived many prangs more or less intact, and had been the kind of father who was quite prepared to allow his heir to take to the skies with minimal instruction. It was therefore easy for Maurice to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, on the grounds that he already had his ticket and knew how to fly. He had survived service in Rumpties, had got through the Fokker Scourge, had flown Camels and Nieuport 17s, but he maintained that the Sopwith triplane was the sweetest of all. He had actually managed to cadge one from a unit of the RNAS after they had switched to Camels, and now it stood alongside the SE5s like a small lovable terrier at the end of a line of wolf hounds. Fluke had never wearied of each day’s improvised adventures, and now wondered somewhat wistfully what possible use the peace might be to him.

When Daniel arrived at the field, he parked his combination amongst those of the other officers, and followed his first impulse to go and check on his machine and have a word with the riggers. He had concerns about the rudder being somewhat creaky and unresponsive. He inhaled deeply. He would never tire of that wonderful smell of aircraft dope, exhaust gas, oil and petrol. It was the smell of his recent life and the months of danger and comradeship that he had managed to come through. All that was missing was the roar of the Viper engines.

Then he went over to the cricket pavilion and knocked on the door of the room where the pads and gloves and stumps were kept. He was immediately called in, and found Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert seated at a small desk amongst the boxes of paraphernalia. Daniel saluted and the Squadron Leader said, ‘I am not wearing my cap. If I am not wearing my cap, and I am seated, it is not customary to salute. Not in this outfit, anyway. It may be different in the Guards, for all I know, or one of those godforsaken Scottish regiments.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Daniel. ‘You get things drummed into you, and then you do them without thinking. And every unit seems to have different rules.’

‘You’ve been with us for years, Daniel. Remove your cap. Then you can call me Maurice. Or “Fluke” if you insist.’

‘In the office I think I would rather call you sir, sir, if you don’t mind. I like to call you Fluke when we’re outdoors.’

‘Oh well, Daniel, as you like. What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to ask your permission to get married, sir.’

‘Oh dear, I am most terribly sorry,’ said the Squadron Leader sympathetically.

Daniel was taken aback. ‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He paused. ‘I think this calls for a snifter, something medicinal. Would you care for a whisky? I have a good single malt from Skye, or my cousin sent me something rather interesting from Ireland.’

‘Irish, please, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever tried it before. Did you know that they make quite good whisky in Brittany?’

‘French whisky? Gracious me. Do sit down,’ said the Squadron Leader. He got up and flipped open the lid of one of the boxes, disinterring a bottle and two glasses from amongst the cricket pads. He poured two large tots, and handed one to Daniel. ‘Sniff it first,’ he said, ‘it’s ambrosia.’

Daniel duly sniffed, and felt the rich sharp fumes scrape at the back of his throat.

‘Good health,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert, taking a sip and sighing appreciatively. He reflected a while, and then said, ‘I do hope she’s not English.’

‘Half Scottish,’ offered Daniel.

‘Just as bad, for our purposes, old boy,’ said Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘You’re half French, aren’t you? Why on earth don’t you marry a Frenchwoman?’

‘I didn’t fall for one, sir.’

‘That’s too bad,’ said the Squadron Leader, ‘altogether too bad.’

‘Perhaps you could explain, sir.’

‘I am married to an Englishwoman. I have two children. And now I might as well not be married at all. Do you catch my meaning?’

‘I’m not sure I do, sir.’

‘Think about it, Daniel, old boy. I now have enormous expenses and responsibilities, and no pleasures to speak of. An Englishwoman, Daniel, switches off the moment she has the number of children she wants, unless there’s something else she happens to want and hasn’t got yet. An Englishwoman, at least a respectable one, is, in my opinion, about as much fun as a BE2c. It’s like a lifetime of CB, old fellow, believe me. The unrespectable ones, on the other hand, are second to none, especially if they are partial to a drop. I imagine you’ve found a respectable one, you poor sap.’

‘I’m sure they can’t be all the same,’ said Daniel.

‘One listens to one’s friends,’ said the Squadron Leader. ‘Naturally, one hears only hints. One observes. One draws one’s own conclusions. For God’s sake marry a Frenchwoman. You must have noticed that the French have much larger families than we do. It is not a coincidence.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘A Belgian would do. The best option would be to marry an Indian, disappear to the subcontinent, somewhere nice like Simla, and live in a large bungalow thronged with servants and children. One can only dream. A dusky maiden! How the heart yearns!’

Daniel looked around at the Sidcot suits that adorned the pegs where cricket whites used to be. He could tell from the way that they hung and their unique patterns of oil stains to which of his comrades they belonged. Each one was accompanied by a canvas bag hanging from the same hook, from which protruded the pilots’ fur-lined flying helmets, goggles, or their strange and enormous gauntlets with coarse yellow hair on the back. He thought of all the mess-mates who had gone topsides. Then he recalled himself, and asked, ‘Do I have your permission to marry, though, sir?’

‘Well, of course you do, old man. One has no right to intervene to prevent private mistakes, except amongst one’s own relatives. If you want to be a booby and a BF, you can be one. I have done my duty in warning you. Have you spoken to the sky pilot? It seems to me that he endures a particularly miserable marriage, and may be able to persuade you out of it.’

‘My fiancée has a very passionate nature,’ said Daniel, almost convincing himself.

‘Let’s go up in a Harry Tate,’ said the Squadron Leader suddenly. ‘We’ll toss for who’s at the joystick and we can take the dogs. Where does she live?’

‘Eltham, sir.’

‘Eltham? Jolly good, that’s very manageable. Chart a course, would you? Let’s find the place and buzz it. You telephone and tell her we’re coming.’

‘We could take two Snipes and loop some loops. A fly-past at eighty miles an hour by a solitary Harry Tate isn’t one of the world’s great spectacles, is it?’

‘You take a Snipe and I’ll take the Tripehound – even better!’ cried the Squadron Leader, standing up and emptying his glass. ‘It’s a lovely day to go buzzing a fair maid, even if she’s English. Or half Scotch. But how sweet it would be to go and buzz a French one. Alas, those days are gone.’

‘You could take leave and go back,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s not far.’

‘And buzz her on a bicycle? I’d rather she remembered me in all my glory.’

‘Take the Tripehound,’ said Daniel, ‘everyone knows you don’t officially have it.’

‘Ah, my lovely Tripehound,’ sighed Fluke. ‘Who needs a woman if one is blessed with three wings and a lovely warm Le Clerget and a clean pair of Vickers? Remember I can’t go as fast as you can.’

‘You lead, I’ll follow. That means you get to do the navigating. Never my strongest point. When we get to Eltham, waggle your wings and I’ll take over.’

Thus it was that Mr and Mrs McCosh, the sisters, the Reverend Captain Fairhead, Millicent and Cookie, a skillet still in her hand, witnessed a most wonderful display of mock combat over their house. Daniel had taken over from the Squadron Leader as soon as the Tarn and Eltham Palace hove into view, and he and Fluke had rolled in unison, side by side, as they roared above the lawns at just one hundred feet. Then Fluke had broken away and climbed almost vertically, spinning once at the top, and then coming down behind Daniel machine. Daniel’s flipped his Snipe sideways, with Fluke on his tail, and they seemed to go in ever tighter circles until it was hard to know who was attacker and who defender.
Suddenly Daniel looped and came down behind the triplane, whereupon Fluke dived. This was most unwise in a real combat, unless you could dive faster than your opponent without shedding your wings, because an enemy can simply dive straight after you and fill you with bullets, but this was for show after all, and he and Daniel came down as low as they dared, swooping up into the air just when it seemed they were going to clip the elms at the end of the garden.

Fluke and Daniel flew wingtip to wingtip, and did their celebrated shuffle. When Fluke turned starboard towards Daniel, Daniel dropped beneath him and came up on his port side. That was how you compensated for the inner plane’s turning circle being too tight to fit inside the arc of the outer one. They did it going the other way, and then back again, over and over. It was elegant and neat and humorous, and those below clasped their hands together and laughed with delight. They flew side by side, Daniel’s two wings tucked inside those of the triplane.

The two planes separated, and the folk below – now most of the neighbourhood – were horrified to see that the two aircraft were hurtling inexorably into a head-on collision. At the very last moment Daniel dived and Fluke went up, almost vertically. At the top the triplane seemed to shudder and stall, and then it started to descend, spinning and rocking slowly, as if the pilot were dead.

Those below gasped, putting their hands to their mouths and clutching each other. Mrs McCosh found herself clinging to Cookie, skillet and all, and got flour on her morning dress.

Daniel’s plane circled Fluke’s as it descended, stricken and helpless. The two vanished somewhere near the Tarn. ‘Oh God,’ said Rosie, fully expecting to see a plume of smoke as Fluke’s craft smashed into the ground and caught alight. Captain Fairhead muttered a prayer.

There was nothing. It seemed as though the whole town had fallen silent. Then the triplane, waggling its wings jauntily, sped over the house with the Snipe corkscrewing behind it in hot pursuit. The two planes returned, looped the loop together, rolled at the top, and disappeared.

‘Oh my goodness, oh my goodness’ was all that the women
could say, and Mr McCosh said to Fairhead, ‘I had no idea that aircraft could be used to such humorous effect.’

‘Two gallant spirits in the prime of life,’ observed Fairhead wistfully, knowing that, for all his own bravery and fortitude, he could never hope to match the wondrous natural elan of the pilot of a scout.

A few minutes afterwards the roar of a rotary was heard again, and they all rushed out into the garden to see the Snipe circling the garden with Fluke nonchalantly sitting between the struts of the starboard wing, his legs dangling over the tip, apparently absorbed in a book. Then the plane disappeared, and not twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door, which Millicent answered, to find the two pilots still in their flying gear, their faces and garments dripping with blackened castor oil, grinning at her together.

‘We landed on the golf course,’ said Fluke.

‘Probably a par five,’ added Daniel.

‘Tucked the babies into the rough,’ said Fluke, ‘on the left-hand side. More people slice than hook, eh? Hope nobody minds. Did you enjoy the Immelmann turn and the falling leaf?’

‘He does an excellent falling leaf,’ said Daniel.

Millicent let them in, not understanding a word of what they were saying. They might as well have been speaking French. As they entered the drawing room they received a round of applause, and bowed ironically.

Later on, Ottilie expressed some curiosity about Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘Why is he called Fluke?’ she asked Daniel.

‘He’s had some extraordinary escapades,’ replied Daniel. ‘He never gets hurt. He attacks whole jastas on his own, head on, and scatters them like chaff. He attacks one plane and one of his stray rounds hits the pilot of another one altogether. His guns jammed once, and he actually brought down a Rumpler with his revolver. He was as reckless as Rhys Davids. Or Albert Ball. He really ought to be dead several times over.’