The Dust That Falls from Dreams by Louis de Bernières – digested read
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Version 0 of 1. The Queen had grown so old and drowsy that she had died. Everyone in the country wondered what the new century would bring, now that the new king had broken with convention and asked the Duke of Norfolk to organise his coronation. Julian Fellowes and the Earl of Grantham were aghast but, in Eltham, Mr Hamilton McCosh believed this to be a good sign. “The Edwardian age is going to be the most glorious era in the history of the British empire,” he announced. “You are so right, my dear husband,” his wife replied. “I do declare the sun has not stopped shining these past three weeks. We are so fortunate to have four daughters, Rosie, Sophie, Christabel and the other one. Do you think it probable that, in 13 years’ time, they might have either married one of the four Pitt boys or the prial of Pendennises who live next door to us?” “Whatever put that idea into your head?” Thirteen heppy years passed in which everyone was terribly heppy and Rosie acquainted herself with the Ladybird book of the Edwardians so she could let everyone know how quickly the world was changing … I be Millicent the maid and I is very fortunate to be working for Mr McCosh. I am Ash Pendennis. I like to write things in journals which will come in handy if there is a war. My God but I love Rosie. I am Rosie and I like to spend the odd chapter thinking things over from my point of view. My God but I love Ash. In August 1914, the war no one had expected during the long summers of the Edwardian era broke out and everyone decided that now was not the time to mess with the dangerously modernist technique of multiple first-person narratives. “In times of crisis, we need to revert to a more traditional format,” Mr McCosh insisted. “I do wish you weren’t going to fight,” sobbed Rosie. “Don’t worry, it will be all over by Christmas!” Ash laughed cheerfully. “That’s what they all say.” It was very muddy in France and Ash was weighed down by the death and destruction he saw all around him. “I wonder if I will get back alive to marry Rosie,” he said as shrapnel sliced through his abdomen. “I’ve heard Ash is recovering well,” Rosie exclaimed. “I’m afraid to tell you he’s died,” said the extremely brave military chaplain, the Rev Fairhead, who had come back all the way from the frontline to bring Rosie the news in person. “War is so bloody bloody,” she wailed. “I know what you mean, old girl. Some of the things I’ve witnessed have been enough to make me sometimes doubt the existence of God.” “How terrible for you. Gosh! Is that the sound of Ash’s two other brothers getting killed? I am going to read a poem by Rupert Brooke.” “Is he one of the Somerset Brookes?” Mrs McCosh inquired. “Definitely not,” retorted Julian Fellowes. “I’ve just seen a lady in Folkestone with her head blown off,” Mrs McCosh ejaculated. “I’m going to try to be less snobbish now.” “Well,” said Rosie. “As I can’t do anything for Ash, I’m going to become a nurse and look after the wounded. I wonder if any soldiers will learn to walk again after being paralysed.” “Why that’s precisely what happened to my son-in-law,” Hugh Bonneville declared. Daniel Pitt had had a good war in the Royal Flying Corps. Not that he hadn’t seen people burning in biplanes like any normal thoughtful person, but he had particularly enjoyed the Ladybird Book of Sopwith Camel Maintenance and the Biggles books by Captain WE Johns. “Look old girl,” he said to Rosie some time in 1919. “Since your sister Sophie has married the Rev Fairhead and Christabel is a lesbian and no one knows what the other one is called, how about we get married? You have to get over Ash sooner or later. “My fiance ’as died of Spanish flu,” Millicent howled. “Oh do shut up. He was one of the lower orders and he shouldn’t have started reading the Ladybird Book of 1919. So what do you say, Rosie?” Daniel begged. “I don’t know if I can ever forget Ash,” she stammered. “But I will give it a try.” For three long years, the marriage wasn’t very successful, despite Daniel’s chance encounter with Bertrand Russell on a train. Moving on after the war was a great deal more difficult than expected as people found it hard to give voice to their grief. “Tu haver to mover on,” said Daniel’s mother to Rosie, parce qu’elle était half française. “Tryer to relaxer un peu dans le sac.” Rosie could now move on. “Great,” said Daniel. “Let’s go to Ceylon. I know a dwarf there.” Digested read, digested: Dulce et decorum est pro Downton Abbey mori. |