1982 - An Ice-Cream War (26 page)

“Cave-Bruce-Cave is organizing a rat hunt in the quad this afternoon,” Felix said. “He invited me to join in.”

Holland laughed. “He’s priceless that man. He’ll be debagging you next or ragging your rooms. Shall we have him round for tea?”

“Let’s not,” Felix said. “I don’t think I’m up to Cave today.”

They walked on up the Banbury road. The horse chestnuts showed some tiny green buds but it still could have been the middle of winter. There were few people out on the road so Holland put his glasses back on.

“Thank God for the vac.,” Holland said. “I can’t wait to get back to London.” This gave rise to talk about Enid, Holland’s
morphineuse
. Holland was worried in case she was having an affair with the artist she was currently posing for. “In the nude,” Holland added. “You can see it would be difficult to fight off any advances.”

“Doesn’t she mind?” Felix asked. “About, you know, taking her clothes off in front of a complete stranger?” Felix found it impossible to imagine how an artist could simply stand there calmly drawing or painting while a naked woman posed six or eight feet away.

“She gets paid for it, Felix,” Holland reproached him. “It’s her job.”

“I know. But I still can’t see…”

“My dear Felix.” Holland laughed a little patronizingly. “Not everyone is as frustrated as you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Felix replied sharply. Then he grinned. “No, perhaps not.”

“It’s a point, though,” Holland frowned. “It’s almost the done thing for an artist to have an affair with his model. Oh yes,” he said. “Talking about artists, I got a note from Amory this morning.” He drew out a crumpled letter from his pocket.

“Yes, she’s having an exhibition at her art school and she’s giving a little party, at her flat and then on to a club. Why don’t you come along? Twenty-ninth of March. Come and stay. You’ve been bellyaching about your dreadful family. Come up to the bright lights—or rather, come up to the blackout.”

Felix found it hard to imagine better news. It was remarkable how quickly the future could change. “Thank you, Philip,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude. “I’d love to. In fact, it’ll be wonderful. The twenty-ninth? Are you sure?”

“Of course. You can meet Enid.”

A thought crossed Felix’s mind, a glowing coal of a thought.

“Did, um, Amory, actually, you know, ask you to, to invite me? In particular, I mean?”

“What? Oh no. No, she wrote to ask me, in fact. But don’t worry. I’m sure she won’t object if I bring a friend—she has met you before, after all, hasn’t she?”

18 March 1915,
Stackpole Manor, Kent

Felix took off his eye-patch and stepped out onto the platform at Ashurst Station, blinking furiously in the weak early after-noon sun. His compartment had contained two lieutenants and a major all the way down from Charing Cross and he’d had no opportunity to remove his disguise. He had also buried his head in a book to forestall any embarrassing questions (where and how was he injured?) and the effort of reading with one eye unaided by spectacles had given him a dull headache. He had heard, nonetheless, a lot of talk about a victory at Neuve Chapelle and yet again felt annoying stabs of guilt, until he assuaged them with some of Holland’s arguments which had been directed at Cave-Bruce-Cave.

“But surely,” Gave had once said, “we’re fighting for our freedom?”

“Wrong, my dear Gave,” Holland had said. “We are fighting for our golf and our weekends. We went to war to prevent an Austrian and German pacification of Serbia, that’s all. The French allied themselves with Russia because they were terrified there would be a revolution and Russia would default on all the money they owe to France. Now we’re fighting to keep a tyrannical czar on his throne. Now you tell me. Are those causes worth dying for?”

Holland’s logic seemed incontrovertible. Even Gave had gone off troubled and perplexed. Felix ran through the arguments again as he waited for his right eye to adjust to the unaccustomed light. He called a porter over.

“There’s a cabin trunk in the guard’s van. Would you get it for me, please?”

“Sorry, sir. Pm a parcel porter, sir. Can’t fetch luggage.”

Felix unloaded his trunk himself, then went in search of another porter who, when found, wheeled his trunk into the station yard. Felix had cabled the time of his arrival to his mother but, as usual, there was no one to meet him.

He had smoked three cigarettes before he recognized the Humberette turning into the yard. He was extremely surprised to see Charis at the wheel. She stopped the car and got out.

“Hello, Felix,” she said cheerily. “I had to go into Sevenoaks and your mother asked me to collect you. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long. Oh,” she pointed to the cigarette butts. “You have. I am sorry. Anyway, welcome home.”

She put out her hand and leant forward automatically as if for a kiss. Felix took her hand, but hadn’t thought of kissing her, or anybody, come to that, because of his cold sore, so held back for a moment. By the time he thought, really, he should kiss her, she
was
family, and leant forward himself, she had withdrawn her face. They see-sawed this way for a brief while until their cheeks eventually brushed. Felix kissed mid-air and felt the touch of her lips on his ear. It made him shiver but he covered it up with a nervous laugh. They both got into the car with red faces, then got out again because they hadn’t loaded the luggage. Felix found that the Humberette was too small to take everything and realized that he’d have to leave the cabin trunk.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as he packed in his two suitcases. “Leave the trunk here. I can pop back down to the station and pick it up later.”

To his consternation he saw a look of intense grief cross Charis’s face and her eyes fill with tears.

“Good Lord,” he said. “What did I say?”

Charis rubbed her forehead. “No, it’s silly me. You just reminded me of Gabriel then. Something you said. It was when we were in Trouville. I am sorry. I just can’t help it. It happens all the time. People think I’m an awful noodle.”

They got into the car, Felix taking the wheel, and drove off.

“Has there been any news?” Felix shouted over the noise of the engine. “About Gabriel?”

“No. But all his things have been sent back. They arrived last week. There’s a letter for you.” She paused. “I’ve got everything at the cottage. Would you like to come down and have tea later?” She shot a glance at him. “I wanted to ask you something. About Gabriel.”

He could see she was about to go sad again. “Of course,” he said quickly. “About half four?”

Charis’s spirits picked up and she prattled on in what Felix recognized as her usual bright but fairly mindless way for the rest of the drive back to Stackpole. Felix dropped her at the cottage and drove on up to the house. The bare trees and the untended lawns and borders amplified the familiar depressing effect the sight of his home had on him. His mother had heard the car and came running to the front door and folded him in a powerful two-minute embrace.

They went into the hall where he greeted Cressida. A boy whose face seemed vaguely familiar took his cases up to his room. They were walking down the passageway to the inner hall when a squat figure in a dressing-gown came hurrying towards them.

“Hello, Father,” Felix said, offering his hand. “Good to see you. You’re looking well.” It wasn’t true. His father’s face was as sallow as ever, but the flesh seemed to have lost its firm rotundity and now hung from the bones. His side whiskers were long and untrimmed, his dressing-gown carelessly tied. He looked like some demented Victorian cleric, Felix thought.

His father stared at him, ignoring his proffered hand. “I know your type,” he said malevolently, “I suppose you think this is…this is some kind of
health spa!
” he shouted, and hurried on his way.

“What on earth is he on about?” Felix said, astonished, as his mother ushered him into the inner hall. “Is he all right?”

“He’s been terribly upset, my darling. About poor Gabriel. I think it’s to do with the nature of the wounds…you know. The bayonets seem to bother him awfully. Says he dreams about it—can’t get it out of his mind. Anyway, here we are, home again.” There was a huge fire roaring in the hearth. “Sit down, darling. Now, tell me. Are you well? What’s that dreadful sore? Don’t you think he looks a bit pale, Cressida? Darling, promise me you’re eating properly.”

Felix stepped over the eve-gate, crossed the bridge above the stream that led to the fishponds and set off through the beech wood towards the cottage. He carried a torch with him for the walk back. There was a gloomy, metallic quality to the late afternoon light and a cold wind had sprung up that made the heavy branches sway and thrash above his head.

Charis opened the door and showed him in. The small sitting room had been nicely and neatly furnished, though there were rather too many bits of brass and pewter around for Felix’s taste. There was a photograph of Gabriel in his uniform on the window ledge. Laid out along the settee as if for kit inspection were bundies of clothing, a pillow, a thermos flask, a collapsible canvas sink and other items that Felix recognized as belonging to Gabriel. The sight of these brought an unfamiliar pressure to his throat. The thought of Gabriel without these bits and pieces of his made whatever ordeal he was currently undergoing seem poignantly immediate.

“He left all this on board his troopship,” Charis said. “I’ve not, I’ve not got anything that he actually had with him.”

“I see,” Felix said.

“Do sit down,” Charis invited. Felix smiled at her. She was wearing an apple green dress with a darker green cardigan over it. She had a long string of pearls around her neck with a knot tied at the end. Her dark hair was held up loosely by a finely worked tortoiseshell comb. Felix sat down at the table on which the tea service was already laid out. Charis took a kettle from in front of the fire and set about making a pot of tea in a large silver tea pot. She held it up.

“Wedding present,” she said and gave a rueful smile.

Felix noticed a pile of letters beside her place. Presently Charis sat down and they drank their tea. Felix toasted some buns in front of the fire, which they then ate with some thick strawberry jam. They chatted inconsequentially about this and that. Felix told her he’d failed Pass Moderations in History. Charis provided details of her work with Belgian refugees. Eventually she picked up the letters.

“Have a look at these, Felix,” she said. “I don’t mind. One of them is addressed to you. They were all loose sheets. None had been posted.” She handed him the first sheet.

Felix took it. A pale blue leaf of writing paper. The letterhead said SS
Homayun
. The date was the twenty-first of October 1914. He read:

Dear Felix,

We are on our way! Do you remember our talks about the European war? I never thought I would be fighting on the ‘dark continent’. I’ve been at sea for weeks. We had to sit sixteen days in harbour before the convoy sailed. Life on a troopship is extremely boring but I have become quite an expert at deck quoits!

I was sorry to hear that your eyesight let you down with the OTC. Never mind! Keep trying. As the war in Europe progresses we are sure to need every ‘man jack’. I hope to see you soon. We should sort everything out here by Xmas.

Love to all at Stackpole Your affec. bro.

Gabriel Cobb.

Felix felt unaccountably moved by this bland letter. He remembered Gabriel the day before his wedding, swimming in the willow pool. Felix kept his eye off the photograph. He forced a chuckle.

“Old Gabe wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest letter writer, was he?”

Charis didn’t reply. She handed him the other sheets. Felix accepted them with sudden misgivings. He had always made a point of not thinking of Gabriel and Charis as man and wife, had never speculated on the nature of their relationship. He wasn’t sure if this invitation to share their privacy was something to be welcomed. There were a dozen sheets of paper all from the
Homayun
, all undated.

My darling Charis,

Our ship is still in Bombay harbour. Sorry not to have written before but if

Darling,

How I miss you! This war

My darling darling Charissimus,

I do hope

“What do you think it means?” Charis asked quickly. “I wrote to him every day. I never had a single letter in reply.”

Felix felt himself stiff with embarrassment. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. He tried to be light-hearted.

“You know Gabriel. He…he probably couldn’t express himself. He may have been terribly busy. You just can’t tell.”

“But he wrote to you. Your father had a letter. Sammy Hinshelwood got a postcard from Bombay. Why couldn’t he write to me?”

“He wanted to, clearly,” Felix said. “At least he
started
to write. He probably wasn’t sure of—” To his alarm he saw Charis had covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. Felix made a grimace. The stupid girl; she should have spoken to his mother about this, or Cressida. He had no idea what the proper procedure was on this sort of occasion. He rose from his seat. Hesitantly he placed his hands on Charis’s shoulders. He felt them trembling and shivering beneath his palms, felt the hard line of her collar-bone on his finger-tips. Now he was close to her he smelt the same odour of rosewater that he’d noticed at the wedding.

“There, there,” he said, feeling foolish, wishing she’d stop sniffing. He noticed, almost absentmindedly, the nacreous inlay on her hair slide, the small mole in front of her right ear, the shininess of her fingernails.

“Gabriel wasn’t the most articulate of people,” he improvised. “He’d probably never given thought as to how to express his feelings—in written form,” he added. “If you’re going into battle and you’re not used to organizing your, your innermost thoughts on paper, that sort of letter can be, well…” He left the sentence unfinished. It was the best he could do at short notice.