1982 - An Ice-Cream War (13 page)

“Naughty,” she said warningly. Gabriel’s arms were tight around her.

“Mummy’ll be cross,” she said, without thinking. Gabriel’s lips were on her neck. Then lower. Suddenly his hand was cupped round a small breast, then, with a shock of horrified surprise, she realized his lips had slid down her chest and fastened on to a nipple. She felt the wet warmth of his mouth and longue, and the tug on her breast as he sucked.

My God!
was her first reaction, what in God’s name does he think he’s doing? She felt the pressure and nuzzle again, and unthinkingly put her hand on the back of his head. Gabriel, she thought…she didn’t really understand. She leant slowly back against the headboard, feeling the unfamiliar length of his erection pressing against her thigh. “Who’s a naughty boy,” she said softly, unreflectingly easing her position. “Who’s a very naughty little boy?”

When she awoke in the morning, Gabriel was already up and dressed. Charis’s first thoughts were of the previous night. Now at least she knew what an ‘issue of semen’ was. Pale yellowy, cloudy, sticky stuff, that required vigorous sponging to remove from cotton nightgowns. Gabriel had apologized for his precocity as Charis changed. But they had slept in each other’s arms. When she got back into bed Gabriel had snuggled up close to her, resting his head on her breasts, kissing her throat and hugging her, telling her of his love for her, and promising fantastic happiness and bliss in the manner of a seventeenth-century poem.

Charis had stroked his fair hair, happy at least that their marriage had attained some kind of normality. But she was, nonetheless, confused. Gabriel was big and strong, so proud and handsome. She didn’t want to mother him. But then with a flood of charity she thought why not? Every man needed simple comfort in his private moments. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Gabriel had been denied the normal care and affection a child should receive in his peculiar family. All those sisters, and sisters can be so bossy, resentful of little brothers.

And Felix was the real baby of the family too. Mrs Cobb seemed to dote on him to a foolish and exclusive extent. Under the circumstances, she reflected before going to sleep, it was an entirely reasonable, natural thing for Gabriel to seek that sort of affection from his wife.

She ushered these thoughts through her mind again as Gabriel came over to the bed and sat down. He smiled tenderly at her and took her hand.

“Are you all right, darling?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said with some irritation. Why was he always asking her this, as if she were some kind of invalid? Surely
she
should be the one being solicitous? But she checked herself. “Of course, darling,” she repeated.

“What do you feel like doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Is it a nice day?”

“Super. We could bathe.”

“What about taking the steamer to Le Havre?”

“Or there’s a concert in the Casino this afternoon.”

“Oh not stuffy concerts, Gabriel. Please.”

He laughed. “All right. There’s a ball there on Saturday. Hope you won’t find that so stuffy.” He stood up. “Look lazybones,” he said. “I’ll see you downstairs. We’ll have a confab. over breakfast.”

Charis lay in bed for a few minutes after he had gone. She thought about the summer months ahead of them. The West Kents were still in India. Gabriel wasn’t sure whether to rejoin them or be temporarily re-gazetted to another regiment in England. Henry Hyams had said he could probably find Gabriel something in the Committee of Imperial Defence where he worked. Gabriel said it was tempting.

Charis wondered what it would be like living at Stackpole in the little cottage, wondered how much they would have to see of the other Cobbs. But no, she thought, she had ten whole days of her honeymoon left, she should concentrate on that. For the moment the future could take care of itself.

Perhaps
everything
would be perfect now, now that she knew what to do.

When she walked down the stairs into the large hall of the Angleterre she saw Gabriel bent down over the reception desk reading a newspaper with the assistance of the reception clerk. He broke off abruptly when he saw her and escorted her into the breakfast room with a frown on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she said, as she took her place at the table. “Can’t we get the steamer till this afternoon or something?”

“No,” he said, “it’s nothing like that.” He ran both hands over his hair. “That was a French newspaper. That chap was giving me a hand at translating. It’s just as well I spotted the headline. You know we don’t get the English papers until two days late.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Austria’s declared war on Serbia.”

She laughed with relief. “Serbia! Is that all? Another silly Balkan war?”

Gabriel looked grim. Really, she thought, never marry a soldier.

“We’ve got to go home,” he said firmly. “I knew it would happen. There’s nothing else for it. It’s the European war, Charis. We’ve got to go back. Right now. Today.”

The War

9 August 1914,
Smithville, British East Africa

The Finnegan and Zabriskie Sisal Decorticator thumped and banged away with an immense din, shaking and rattling, throwing up clouds of dust, smoke belching from its exhaust stack. Temple Smith watched it with the delighted satisfaction he always experienced when his cherished machine was in operation. At one end Saleh and some farm boys fed in the spiky faggots of harvested sisal leaves. At the other, damp, chewed, pale yellow strands were flung out, were collected in loose bundies and taken away to hang in the sun on drying racks.

Temple approached the thundering machine. The huge spinning drive wheels and flapping belts fanned the fibrous air around him. He could feel the powerful vibrations running through the concrete floor, causing his legs to tremble visibly. He reached out and placed his hand on a steel plate. The thrum and shudder set up a tingle in his finger tips. He shut his eyes. He was at the centre of the world: every functioning sense claimed by his machine.

Then, as though from a great distance, he heard a faint shouting noise. He turned round. Some six feet away stood Wheech-Browning, his arms raised protectively as if to ward off a blow. Temple saw his mouth opening and closing. He couldn’t make out what the man was trying to say.

“
What?
” Temple roared back. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He was exasperated to see the Assistant District Commissioner here. Wheech-Browning had been trying to get him to pay customs duty on the coffee seedlings he’d bought in Dar for weeks. Seedlings that were now so many tinder-dry, shrivelled weeds despite the fanatical care and attention they’d received. The last time Wheech-Browning had called Temple had taken him out to the patch of hillside where he’d envisioned his field of coffee bushes and shown him the forlorn, wasted rows.

“Defective goods,” Temple had said. “Diseased, useless plants. You can’t make me pay duty on these.”

Wheech-Browning, on his part, apologized and assured him he could. As a result Temple was not predisposed to welcome further visits. Wheech-Browning was now pointing at the shed door and mouthing ‘outside’. Temple reluctantly followed him out.

In the open air the noise of the Decorticator was still considerable, but it was possible to speak. Wheech-Browning removed his sun-helmet and mopped his sweating face with a handkerchief. Then he swept his white jacket free of the shreds of sisal fibres. Temple noticed his boots and trousers were thick with dust. Looking back up the hill he saw Wheech-Browning’s mule tethered outside the house, guarded by two native policemen. Surely the man hasn’t come to arrest me? Temple thought wildly for a moment. Surely the British wouldn’t clap a man in prison for the late payment of customs duties?

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” Wheech-Browning said, delivering crisp blows to his thighs with the brim of his topee. Small clouds of dust rose up.

Temple waved away a couple of buzzing flies. “What?” he said. “Stand what?”

“The noise. The din. The hellish din.” He pointed his hat at the Decorticator shed and the clouds of smoke issuing from the engine stack.

“Oh, the Decorticator. You get used to it. You don’t even notice it after a while.”

Wheech-Browning replaced his hat. “Bad news,” he said, looking sternly at the Pare Mountains. Temple felt a flutter of panic in his chest. He could arrest me, too, he thought. It’s exactly the kind of thing the English would do. You can’t break the rules and get away with it.

Wheech-Browning switched his gaze back to Temple. “It’s war,” he uttered prophetically.

This was ridiculous, Temple said to himself. The man’s taking it far too personally.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll pay.”

A brief look of incomprehension crossed Wheech-Browning’s face. Then it cleared.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right. We’ll all pay.” He looked down at his large feet. “In the end,” he added gloomily. Then, “
Bloody
flies!” he suddenly exclaimed, swatting the air about his head with his hands.

“We’ll
all
pay?” Temple repeated slowly. He was lost.

To Temple’s surprise Wheech-Browning suddenly leapt four feet sideways leaving the two flies circling aimlessly in the space he had occupied a second before. It took them a moment to find him again.

“Telegraph came three days ago,” Wheech-Browning said. “I’ve been riding round the district since then, letting everyone know. It seems we declared war last week, on the fourth. The news has just taken a little time to reach us here in the sticks.”

Temple began to comprehend and relax. This had nothing to do with him.

“You mean the British are at war?”

“Of course. What do you think I’ve been talking about?” Wheech-Browning looked angry.

“Who with?”

“Good Lord, man, who do you think? Our German neighbours over there.” He waved at the Pare hills. “The huns, jerries, square-heads. The bloody wa-Germani, that’s who with. With whom,” he corrected himself.

“Why?”

“Oh God. Um…” Wheech-Browning looked puzzled.

“They didn’t actually spell that out in the message.” He drummed his fingers on his chin. “Something to do with mobilizing and declaring war on France, I think. Anyway, whatever it was it was nothing we could possibly ignore.”

“I see. Damn.” Temple was thinking that this state of affairs might make it difficult getting reimbursement for the coffee seedlings from the
Chef der Abteilung
in Dar.

“How’s that going to affect us?” Temple asked. “I guess they’ll close the border for a while. But wait, aren’t the colonies staying neutral?”

Wheech-Browning gave a harsh ironic laugh. “Good God, Smith, what do you think’s going on here? We’re at war with Germany. And that includes those swine across the border.” He looked scornfully at Temple.

“We’re expecting an invasion any day. Taveta’s bound to be the first object of an attack. I’ve come here to tell you to evacuate your farm. Same as I’ve been telling everybody close to the border—”

“Hold on one second,” Temple said forcefully. “Just hold on. There’s going to be no evacuation here. I’ve got my sisal harvest to process. What am I going to do with no Decorticator?”

“Look here, Smith,” Wheech-Browning began.

“No, you look here,” Temple said. “You British have declared war on Germany. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m an American. Neutral. I’ve got no quarrel with the Germans.”

“Well you’re a damn fool American,” Wheech-Browning replied angrily, his face getting redder. “My God, if you’d heard the stories going round. Think of your wife and children for God’s sake. Your wife’s English. If you get a company of German askaris in here they won’t stop to check your nationality.”

Temple pursed his lips. “What about the British Army?” he asked. “Where are the troops?”

“We’ve got three battalions of the King’s African Rifles, that’s all. Half of them are up in Jubaland, the other half will have their work cut out defending the railway. You can’t expect them to go running after every crackpot American—”

“Now, just a minute—”

But Wheech-Browning was in full flight, clearly rattled by the prospect of Taveta being overrun by thousands of bloodthirsty native troops. “I’ve got my orders to pull back to the railway at Voi at the first sign of attack. That’s my advice to you. I’m staying with my police askaris at Taveta, but…” Wheech-Browning controlled himself. “Smith, believe me, this is official advice. It’s just not safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” Temple said easily. “Don’t you worry.”

Wheech-Browning made a despairing grabbing motion at the air. “Very well.” He closed his eyes for two seconds. “I’ve told you. I can’t order you. Anyway, I’ve got to get on. Think it over, Smith. It’s not some kind of a game.” He came closer. “There are stories going round. When they attacked the line at Tsavo—yes, already—it seems they caught one of the Indian station managers.” He blanched. “Cut off his…you know. Horribly mutilated, by all accounts. They’re savages.” He paused. “Look, it’ll only be for a few months at the most. They say there are troops coming from India. Once they’re here they’ll tie everything up in no time. But just at the moment we’re a bit stretched.”

Temple patted Wheech-Browning’s thin shoulder. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said deciding on conciliation. “Let me think it over.”

He walked back up the hill and saw the ADC off on his mule, before returning to the Decorticator and his sisal harvest.

Temple did take Wheech-Browning’s advice seriously enough to inform Saleh and his boys and told them to keep their eyes open. He also firmly locked the doors and windows of the house at night and took his guns down from the wall. He told Matilda everything Wheech-Browning had said, adding that he thought it was unreasonable panic. Matilda’s sanguineness remained as constant as ever. She felt sure that no one would want to bother them at Smithville.

As the days went by and nothing occurred to disturb the normal routine of their lives, Temple’s little apprehensions disappeared. One night he thought he heard an explosion in the distance. On another he made out a noise which just might have been taken for gunfire. But it was impossible for him to verify this. He sent Saleh into Taveta, and he reported that, although O’Shaugnessy’s shop was closed, Wheech-Browning was still there with his company of police. The Indian bazaar was trading as normal, nobody had heard of any trouble, of any massing of troops along the border.