The Dust That Falls from Dreams (44 page)

‘D
aniel, dear boy, how do you feel about being my partner in a four ball against the One-Armed Golfers Association team? You’re reasonably good, aren’t you?’

‘I’m down to fourteen, sir.’

‘Perfectly acceptable. You can’t make any allowances for these one-armed fellows, you know. It’s going to be tough. One of them’s almost scratch. And how is it going at Henley’s?’

‘Very well, sir. The turnover is good, and all the new ideas are working out. The oil-cooled Bradshaw engine’s a big success, and we’ve got a supersport version with Blackburne engines and a sidecar. We win a great many races, and that’s how you sell.’

‘Still driving everywhere in a truck? Delivering?’

‘Yes, sir, but I do a lot more than that. We’re setting up in France.’

‘Um, well, my boy, I have cornered you in this manner because I am well aware that the situation cannot go on as it is.’

‘The situation, sir?’

‘Yes, the situation. The antagonism between you and Mrs McCosh is painful to all of us, including yourselves. Let me put this all in order, eh? Firstly, you have to keep coming here to be with your wife and daughter, and secondly, Rosie havers and dithers about leaving this house and going to live with you in Birmingham, even though you’ve got a lovely house in a pretty village.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And thirdly, you and Mrs McCosh have become mortal enemies, and fourthly, the occupation you currently have is somewhat below your natural level of ability.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. It’s very interesting, and not at all easy. As you know, I’m very set on engineering. Engineering is the whole future of the world. And naturally one often has to start
at the bottom and work up, and, as I said, I expect to be going to France quite a lot.’

‘Quite so, quite so, but how would you feel about the prospect of a job where the machinery is magnificent and enormous, and made in Birmingham to boot, and the climate exquisite, and where you can live like a king?’

‘Is one able to fly there?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m talking about Ceylon, old boy. Ceylon!’

‘Ceylon, sir?’

‘Ceylon, Daniel! The Pearl of the East!’

‘I loved it in India.’

‘Well, I have a friend who is looking for a manager. It’s a long shot, but they lost an assistant manager who ran off with another planter’s wife, and there’s been no sight nor sound of him for months. I told him all about you, and he recognised the name. My dear boy, I knew you were distinguished, but I had no idea until now how famous an ace you actually were. Why on earth didn’t you tell us? How did that pass us by?’

‘Didn’t seem worth mentioning, sir. As far as aces go, I’d say I was in the first rank of the second-raters.’

‘You are altogether too modest. I asked him what he wanted exactly, and he said he would show you the ropes, and then expect you to manage mostly on your own. You’d have to be good with the natives, learn Tamil, and keep your hands off the wives. You also have to be good at sport, or you won’t have much fun.’

‘I
am
good at sport. There’s nothing I like better.’

‘I understand they even have a wonderful golf course and some trout streams, and plenty of tennis. Well, dear boy, it would be a huge adventure and a tremendous opportunity. Are you prepared to take the gamble?’

‘I’d be very sorry to leave Henley’s. But yes. I think so. I’d do it. The question is, would Rosie? I couldn’t possibly leave Esther for any length of time. It’s bad enough having to be away in the week.’

‘If Rosie is difficult, I will have to steel myself to order her out of the house. We are in a knot, Daniel, and someone has to cut it. First of all we have to see if you and Colonel Bassett get on, of course. I’ve invited him to Sunday lunch.’

‘Colonel? He was a soldier?’

‘Indian Army. One of the Sikh regiments, I believe.’

‘We’ll certainly get on then.’

And they did. No one else at lunch got a word in, because all the talk was of Sikh regiments and sepoys.

Because Daniel was thirty years old, much older than the average ‘creeper’ who came out to learn the ropes, and because he was bringing a wife and child, he was to be treated less harshly than the youngsters. He would have servants, and his bungalow would be a mere mile from the factory, but he would still have to muster at dawn, and he would have to spend six months in the company of a young assistant manager at his division. Colonel Bassett told him he would have to learn twenty new Tamil words every day, and be tested on them, and his pay would at first be a pittance.

The one thing that he would not tolerate, said the Colonel, was Daniel ever thinking that he had become an expert on anything to do with Ceylon and its people until he had been there for twenty years. Until that time, only honest bafflement would do.

‘G
racious me, it’s you,’ said Fairhead, as he stood at the door and looked at his visitor. ‘How on earth did you know where we live?’

‘Well, I am psychic,’ returned Madame Valentine. ‘I have powers, exceptional ones, such as the power to read what you wrote in my visitors’ book! And you have the only house in the street with an unpronounceable name.’

‘Sophie’s idea. It was called The Laurels, even though there aren’t any.’

‘What on earth does it mean? Paleo something or other.’

‘Paleo Periboli? It’s Greek. The Old Garden. Sophie has a notion that we should recreate the Garden of Eden in our own domain, energy and weather permitting. Ah, forgive me, do come in. My wife will be glad to see you, I’m sure. I think she’s in the conservatory mangling some pelargoniums. Darling!’ he called. ‘Madame Valentine is here!’

Sophie emerged shortly, wearing wellington boots, and bearing a pair of scissors and a ball of green gardening twine. ‘Madame Valentine!’ she cried. ‘How positively miradibulous to see you.’

‘Miradibulous?’

‘One of her neologisms,’ offered Fairhead. ‘Darling, should you be wearing wellies indoors?’

‘These are my indoor wellies,’ she replied. ‘They leak, so I can’t wear them outdoors. They are ideal for gardening in the conservatory.’

‘The ultimate fate of all wellington boots is to spring a leak,’ said Fairhead. ‘That is the habitual manner of their demise. In the trenches a leaky wellington boot did more than anything else to make one doubt the love of God.’

‘They make wonderfully eccentric flowerpots,’ said Madame Valentine. ‘Put them by the door with a geranium in each, or a
little clump of marigolds. The leak acts as drainage. One can make use of one’s misfortune.’

‘I shall do it immediately,’ said Sophie, kicking them off so that they flew across the hallway and crashed into the walking-stick stand, causing the canes and shooting sticks to rattle.

‘Do be careful, darling,’ said Fairhead.

‘Henceforth I shall horticult barefoot in the conservatory, and leaky wellies shall be herbiferous.’

When they were seated in the drawing room, with their cups of tea on their laps, and Victoria sponge cake waiting on the trolley, Fairhead asked, ‘And how is Spedegue?’

‘Oh, grumpy and disapproving and truculent, as always,’ responded Madame Valentine.

‘If there were prizes for truculosity she would scoop all of them,’ said the barefoot Sophie.

There was a pause, and Madame Valentine noticed the book that lay upon the small table by Fairhead’s armchair. It was
The Historical Jesus and the Theological Christ
. ‘Is that any good?’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking of reading it.’

‘It’s excellent,’ replied Fairhead. ‘It describes what we can work out about Jesus the man from the synoptic gospels, and then talks about how he got theologised, if there is such a word. I should probably say “Christologised”. The author assures us that there will be no Second Coming, which, I must say, is something I’ve already been suspecting for some considerable time. It’s a marvellously clear read, but I suppose I ought to be resisting anything that might exacerbate my scepticism.’

‘We strongly disapprove of exacerbation,’ said Sophie brightly. ‘It’s so draining. And of course one should definitely eschew egregious obscurantism.’

Madame Valentine laughed, then composed herself, and said, ‘I have come to ask you about something that is very close to my heart, and is causing me a great deal of unease.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Fairhead.

‘Yes. Well, the long and short of it is, do you think I’m a fraud?’

‘A fraud? Good God, no. Why would you think that?’

‘I worry that I might be. I mean, sometimes I don’t know the answers to things, and I just make something up. And then
sometimes the things I made up do come true. Sometimes I’m certain of something and it never happens. I can’t tell you how worrying it is. And sometimes I think that perhaps I am, after all, just another madwoman of a certain age with delusions.’

‘You’re dressed very respectably in tweeds,’ said Sophie, ‘you can’t possibly be mad.’

‘Do try to be serious, darling,’ said Fairhead.

‘Oh, but I am being! Mad people nearly always dress up in odd ways, don’t they?’

‘If you were mad,’ said Fairhead, ‘it wouldn’t explain the noises and the music and the strange apports at your séances, and it wouldn’t explain why you get so many things right. How would it explain the photograph of my sister in Christabel’s camera?’

‘The best explanation,’ said Sophie, ‘is that you have an unusual but unreliable gift.’

‘One clergyman told me it was a gift from the Devil, and he was using me to spread false belief and delusion. That kind of accusation is very unsettling. I lose faith in myself. I wonder if I should give up and simply teach music. I could scratch by on that.’

‘Being a clergyman is no licence to infallibility,’ observed Fairhead. ‘The world is far stranger than I used to think it was. I have considerable doubts myself. When it comes down to it, I am probably more sceptical than Bertrand Russell himself.’

‘Are you?’

‘Oh yes. I question the truth of almost everything I used to believe.’

‘Really? I suppose it was the war.’

‘Of course. The men used to have a prayer which went “Dear God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul.” I know exactly how they felt, as I felt the same myself. The way I see it now is that I am a clergyman because it seems like exactly the right thing for me to be, as if I had little choice in the matter. It is a vocation. I can console a dying person even if I do not believe in the virgin birth or the supremacy of the King, or even if I think the doctrine of the Trinity is an incomprehensible muddle, just to take some examples. I grew up Anglican, so this is where I fit and the place from where I inevitably start. I still
see how beautiful my version of Christianity is. I still love it, as one can still adore an unsuitable lover or a cruel mother. I will work from where I am, in order to do what I am called to do. My advice to you is to see your gift as a vocation, and follow it through even if it troubles you.’

‘As yours troubles you?’

‘Indeed. As mine troubles me.’

‘I have no vocation,’ sighed Sophie.

‘Of course you do,’ said Fairhead.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘you just haven’t perceived it yet.’ She sipped her tea. ‘And there’s another thing. I am concerned about your sister.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one who only came once.’

‘That’ll be Rosie,’ said Fairhead. ‘She stopped coming on the advice of a curate.’

‘She would have stopped anyway,’ said Sophie, ‘you can’t just blame the curate. She does what she thinks the Bible tells her to do, and that’s that.’

‘Oddly enough, a young curate did come and see me for a while. He wanted to know about his brothers. Anyway, that young man who was trying to get through to her when she came is still agitated and still wants to tell her something.’

‘Does he? How do you know?’

‘He tries to come through even when I’m not sitting.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Well, I don’t know. All I know is that he’s got something urgent to say. When I feel his presence I suffer terrible disturbance. It’s hard to take.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sophie, ‘your gift is a bit of a curse, isn’t it?’

‘We’re all worried about Rosie,’ said Fairhead. ‘It’s clear that at times she makes Daniel extremely unhappy, and then they’re all right again for a while. There’s talk of them going to Ceylon. Daniel might have landed a plum job, it seems. Let’s hope it comes to something. By the way,’ added Fairhead, changing the subject, ‘do you think it’s possible that one can, so to speak, project one’s spirit to another place when one is still alive?’

‘Witches used to call it “sending their fetch”,’ replied Madame
Valentine. ‘As a matter of fact, somebody published a book about it a few years ago. Um, it was called
Phantasms of the Living
, I believe. I can’t remember the name of the author, but he was a psychical researcher, and he collected hundreds of stories. It was a frightfully big book.’

Fairhead found a pencil and pad of paper and scribbled the information down.

‘Why do you ask?’ said Madame Valentine.

‘You know that I went to see a great many families of men under my pastoral care who were killed in the war?’

‘No, but now I do. How very good of you.’

‘It was remarkable how many people told me that they’d had inexplicable visits from their loved ones either when they were dying or when they were still perfectly all right in the days just before their death. And Daniel, you know, Rosie’s husband, said that many of his comrades knew exactly when they were about to die, and gave him instructions about what to do, often with some urgency, it seems.’

‘How wonderfully strange the world is!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘Do you think that anyone will ever really understand it? I mean get to the bottom of it? I don’t think they ever will. I’m sure that I won’t.’

Fairhead reflected, and replied, ‘Even if you did, how would know for sure that you had finally arrived? What is the criterion for arrival? Wouldn’t you go on looking anyway?’

‘I think you’d have to,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘even when you were dead. As far as I can tell, even dying makes us none the wiser.’

‘It’s wretchedly frustrating,’ said Fairhead. ‘I’m a minister of religion, and I don’t think I really know a damned thing. Did I tell you about Caroline Rhys Davids, the mother of the ace? She wrote all those books about Buddhism. No? Well, she told me that after he was killed she had long sessions of automatic writing with a planchette, and that he came through very clearly. She said it was comforting, but when she began to feel a bit better she stopped doing it.’

Madame Valentine said, ‘Did you know that fictional characters sometimes come through? What could be stranger than that?’

Fairhead stubbed his cigarette out, and said, ‘Madame Valentine,
what do you think of the idea of collaborating on some books on these subjects?’

‘Collaborating?’

‘Well, it’s a fascinating subject, isn’t it? I mean the afterlife, if there is one. Your experience is vastly greater than mine, but even so, I think I have enough for several volumes of my own.’

‘I have no talent whatsoever for writing,’ said Madame Valentine, ‘I’m a musician.’

‘Well, I do have some facility. I’ll do the writing, and anything you do write, I can smarten up. Shall we? Shall we give it a bash? Think what a success
Raymond
was.’

‘Yes, do let’s. I have so much to get off my mind. I think it might help.’

After she had left, Fairhead said to Sophie, ‘Do you mind, my dear? It was very spur of the moment.’

‘Mind? Why should I mind?’

‘Well, you know, working with another woman. On a project.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Darling, I couldn’t possibly be jealous of Madame Valentine. She is very obviously Uranian.’

‘Uranian?’

‘She bats for the other side. A tribadist. A fricatrice. The other Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name Because It Is Still Unsuspected.’

‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’

Sophie sighed and shook her head. ‘Do I have to speak…darling, she is very obviously Sapphic.’

‘Sapphic?’

‘Yes, an invert. Like Christabel and Gaskell.’

‘Are they? Gaskell and Christabel? Sapphic?’

‘You can’t possibly have imagined otherwise.’

‘I just thought that all the young men got killed, so a lot of girls are left out.’

‘Darling, Gaskell is viraginous. You must have noticed, surely?’

‘What?’

‘Androgynous. Darling, she’s practically a man.’

‘Yes, but Christabel is really quite…feminine, is she not? I know she’s fearsomely lithe and athletic, but even so, she’s an English rose if ever there was one.’

‘Well, I dare say she might have been attracted to a man if the right sort of man had turned up. But he didn’t.’ She paused. ‘I’ve always wondered if Christabel might be a bit of both.’

‘Ambidextrous, so to speak?’

‘I expect there’s a proper word,’ said Sophie.

‘Ambisexual perhaps?’

‘I believe that “ambisextrous” is just catching on.’

Fairhead leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘I really am very sorry that you’ve enlightened me. How am I supposed to feel comfortable with Christabel and Gaskell any more? And write books with a Sapphic medium?’

‘Amor vincit omnia!
You adore them and they adore you, and you firmly believe that Gaskell has the most fascinating eyes that anyone ever saw, and your pen name will be Valentine Fairhead, or Fairhead Valentine.’

‘Better toss for it,’ said Fairhead, ‘or it might lead to bitterness. And for some reason I’ve just remembered that I think it’s high time we got a cat. Caractacus is such a character, isn’t he? It would be nice to have a quirky cat like that, with amber eyes and a lopsided moustache.’

‘Hmm,’ said Sophie, ‘you might have been reminded because “ambisextrous” rhymes with “puss”. Anyway, I couldn’t possibly be jealous of Madame Valentine. She’s not your sort at all.’

‘Yes,’ said Fairhead, ‘I like little waifs like you, but Madame Valentine is “luggage in advance and heavy goods to follow”, without a doubt.’

‘She is macromastic and steatopygous.’

‘Yea, verily.’

Thus it was that Fairhead failed to feel uncomfortable working with Madame Valentine, and the first of their books,
Intimations of Immortality
, was published the following year, in time for Armistice Day.