William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“I wish it were,” Gabriel said. “I’m afraid I’ve wielded nothing more lethal against my fellow man than a polo mallet.”

“That’s good,” Felix cried. He always liked to celebrate Gabriel’s rare sallies of wit.

“I’ve stuck a few wild pigs, though,” Gabriel said.

“Disgusting habit. Did they squeal terribly? Do stuck pigs squeal?”

“I should say they do. I would squeal if somebody stuck me.” Gabriel looked serious for a moment. “I may soon be doing worse than that. We all may.”

“What? Worse than sticking pigs?”

“No. Raising arms against our fellow man.”

“What are you talking about, Gabriel?”

“The Anglo-German war. It’s coming, Felix. I’m sure of it.”

“Do they only take the Daily Mail in your mess?” Felix scoffed. “I’ve never heard such rot. There’s not going to be any war.” He ran ahead, leaping and bounding in a theatrical imitation of euphoria. “Holland says everyone is having far too good a time to go to war. Don’t you think this is the most wonderful time to be alive, Gabriel?”

Gabriel smiled. “Well I suppose I do. But then I’ve got my own special reasons.”

“So have I,” Felix said, “I think I’d rather be living now than at any other time. Don’t you think so? There’s so much in the air.” They climbed over a gate.

“Besides,” Felix went on, “they can’t have a war. I’m going to Oxford.”

“Oh well then, of course not. I’m sure the Kaiser will wait until you’ve got your B.A.”

They had reached the river. It ran turbidly between wheat fields, before some subterranean impediment caused it to take an unusually sharp bend. At this point five mature weeping willows grew over the large pool formed by the swerve in the river’s progress. The gentle current eddied and swirled, slowly cutting into the facing bank. On one side of the pool was a mud and pebble beach. On the other the overhanging bank shadowed a wide channel some six to eight feet deep. It was possible to climb the willow trees and drop into the cool green waters from a considerable height.

“Looks inviting,” Gabriel said, unbuttoning his shirt. “It seems to get bigger every year.” He slipped off his clothes until he stood naked.

“I hope there’s no country maiden passing by,” he said and climbed easily up the accommodating boughs of the willow trees, before launching himself with a whoop into the pool. He swam splashily across to the far side and sloshed out of the water on to the beach.

“Superb,” he called. “Come on, slowcoach. It’s not a bit cold.”

Felix stared for a moment at his brother’s powerful naked body, dappled with the knife-like shadows of the willow leaves. He had a broad slab of a chest covered in a sprinkling of fine blond hairs. His abdomen was flat and muscled and the line of his pelvis was clearly marked. His ruddy, pink cock and balls, tensed from the cold water, were compact in their nest of gingery brown hairs that spread across his groin over his heavy thighs. Water runnelled off his chest and stomach and dripped in a stream from his stubby cock. His scrotum, big as a fist, was wrinkled and firm.

Felix felt himself blushing. He folded his trousers and shirt with undue care and laid them at the foot of the willow. He was conscious of his white half-formed body, his thin chest, his little tuft of pubic hair. Gabriel seemed so solid in comparison, his body tapering from broad shoulders. Felix felt feeble and soft. He undid the cord on his drawers and let them fall to his ankles. He climbed the tree and almost immediately felt dizzy and insecure. He looked down at the swirling shifting mass of the water, the frolicking prisms of light, some twelve feet below. It seemed like a hundred and twenty. He hung on to a branch, gathering his courage. Gabriel stood waiting on the mud beach, arms akimbo.

“Jump, Felix. Leap in. It won’t hurt.”

Felix let go of his reassuring bough and fell.

♦

Felix dried his hair with the towel and ran it one last time over his naked body. A beam of afternoon sun broke through the willow leaves and warmed his left hip and thigh. Holding the towel in front of him he covertly ran his hand over his cock and balls, feeling the sensations swarm and jostle. If Gabriel hadn’t been present, he thought, he would have frigged there and then, in the open air.

Gabriel pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his flannels. He held out his arms and breathed deeply.

“Ah, splendid,” he said. “I used to dream about this sort of afternoon when I was in India.” He ran both his hands through his damp hair. “Got a comb?” he asked smiling.

Felix was silenced for an instant with a sudden tingling surge of inarticulate love for his brother. He felt numb and weightless with its power. He swallowed. “No,” he said. “Silly. I should have brought one.”

“Never mind, never mind.” Gabriel clawed his hair into shape with stiff fingers. He looked at Felix.

“Felix, you know I wanted to talk to you about this best man business?”

“Don’t worry, Gabriel. I’ve been working on my speech for days. Very funny, have everyone in stitches. Nothing improper, mind you.”

“Oh.” Gabriel looked pained.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, you know I asked you to be best man because I thought that Sammy — Sammy Hinshelwood, in my battalion — wouldn’t be on leave…”

“Yes. I don’t quite see.”

“Well, he is. On leave. He told me last week. He telegraphed.”

Felix felt his face tighten.

“Well, old chap, I’ve known Sammy for ages, and that was the original plan and—”

“You’ve known me for ages too.” Felix somehow managed a laugh.

“I would have told you earlier but it’s all been so hectic. Sammy’s down here now staying at the pub in the village. Charis knows him too. She’d like Sammy to…We had the rehearsal last night and everything. I said you wouldn’t mind. But look, old fellow, I’d like you to be chief usher, if you would. Be an awfully big help.”

Felix pulled on his drawers and tugged his shirt over his head. He relaxed his facial muscles for the instant his face was covered, then clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. Stupid rotting wedding, he thought, as his head pushed through the collar. I don’t care.

“Don’t worry, Gabe,” he said with a bright hard smile. “I can see your problem. No, fine. Glad to do your ushering for you. It was a pretty dreadful speech anyway, I’m sure.”

♦

Felix gazed out of his bedroom window at the south lawn and the fishponds. He saw Cyril, the gardener, trudge across it from the orchard, a heavy bucket in his hand, on the way to feed the carp. As if to complement Felix’s mood the brilliant day had suddenly clouded over, as it can in an English summer, and had become cool. The fishponds, before a deep and placid blue, were now mouse-grey and crinkled by a breeze.

“Charis knows him too. She’d like Sammy to…” The words hummed in his head. He knew who to blame for his bitter disappointment. Damn Charis, he thought. Damn bloody Charis. During the walk back from the willow pool he had been brittle and gay, expressing all sorts of outlandish opinions on White Slavery, the Cailloux case in Paris, the assembly of the fleet at Spithead and had loudly announced his plans to take dance lessons in order to master the Tango and Maxixe. This was a Felix Gabriel knew well, and he had laughed and humoured him, apparently glad to see him back on iconoclastic form.

Once back in his room Felix had punched his pillow, sworn and impulsively ripped his best man’s speech into pieces. He was annoyed to find his eyes smarting with tears of frustration and hurt. He resolved to be steely and cynical at all costs. No one should guess how he felt let down and betrayed. Sammy Hinshelwood. Another wretched soldier, boisterous and hearty. How he detested the army!