William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“Surely you are not going to deny the fair sex some innocent pleasure?” Felix said.

“Innocent?” the major gasped. He seemed genuinely shocked. “How dare you!”

He banged the table again with his fist and this time all the lights went out. Eustacia gave a little scream at the sudden gloom the room was plunged into. A greyish evening light filtered in through the south windows; everyone looked sick or old. Hattie — or was it Dora? — started to cry.

“For God’s sake, Agatha,” the major bellowed down the table at his wife. “This is all your fault. What was wrong with the gas, that’s what I want to know?”

“Don’t panic,” called Henry Hyams, still clutching the carving knife and fork. “Women and children first!” He started roaring with laughter, which only incensed the major further.

“Ring the damned bell,” shouted the major. “The bell. Get a servant in here, for God’s sake.” He jumped to his feet and followed his own advice, striding to the bell push set in the wall and, jamming his finger down on the button as if it were a detonator, held it there.

“Father,” Felix said, getting up. “I’ll go. The generator will have broken down, that’s all. By the way,” he said casually as he left the room, “you’re wasting your time. It’s an electric bell.” He quickly pulled the door shut behind him as he heard his father’s wrath erupt again.

He looked about him: the entire house was in darkness. He could hear a babble of voices from the kitchen. He walked down the passageway and through the swing doors.

“Hello, May,” he said to the cook. “Generator gone, I suppose. Cyril about?”

May was a thin elderly woman with a sourer expression than Eustacia’s, which effectively contradicted any vernal notions summoned up by her name. She jerked her thumb at the back door beyond which lay the coal store and wash house.

“He’m out back, Mister Felix. Shouldn’t take him a minute. ‘S always stopping these days.”

Felix stepped outside. The cool gloom of a cloudy summer night caused him to shiver. He walked quietly down to the wash house, part of which had been given over to the new electric light plant. Cyril, the gardener and handy man, was bent over the machine, peering at it with the aid of a torch. Felix paused at the door and listened to him muttering.

“Fuckin buggerin no good bit a bloody lump a scrap metal. Most shittin buggerin useless fuckin heap of shite I’ve—”

“Evening Cyril.”

“ Chroist! Ooh God. It’s you, Felix. Whew, gave me a bloody fright though. Jesus. How are you?”

Holland had told Felix it was a worthwhile exercise to get on friendly terms with someone from the working classes. Felix had chosen Cyril.

“Very well,” he said. “Machine packed in?”

“Forgot to put the bloody Benzol in, didn’t I?” Cyril rubbed his hands on his waistcoat. He was a big lumpy young man. Clean shaven with an unlined, almost Chinese look to his face. His hair was black and wiry and combed straight back which gave an odd streamlined bullet shape to his head.

“Like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it, pouring Benzol in that machine,” Cyril averred. “Here, I’d better get it going. Won’t be a tick.”

He unscrewed the top from a can of Benzol, placed a funnel in the generator’s fuel tank and poured the fuel in with a tinny gurgling sound. The smell of Benzol filled the cool room. Felix smiled to himself. Although it had started as an exercise to improve his conception of true socialist thinking, he found he liked Cyril a lot and enjoyed his candid, foul-mouthed company. Cyril told him anything he wanted to know.

Felix wandered over to the line of huge basins and picked-up an oily pamphlet that lay on the draining board. It was an instruction manual for the small motor that charged the battery the lights were run from. Holding it to the faint light coming in a window, he flicked through the pages.

“Cyril,” he said, chuckling to himself. “It says here that ‘an unskilled servant can do the work without any knowledge of electricity’. What’s going wrong?”

Cyril swore again. “I knows all about beggin’ electrics. I just don’t know how many people are going to be puttin’ up at the house do I? I sees it all lit up like some kind of…of a palace down the drive. Christ, I says, Cyril boy, if you don’t get some soddin’ Benzol in that motor them batteries’re going to be flatter than a stepmother’s kiss. And look what bloody happens just as I’m topping her up.” He jerked the lanyard on the motor and with a clatter the engine started up again.

“Bastard,” Cyril addressed the shuddering unit. The lights flickered and went on. He turned to Felix.

“How are you then, Felix? Looking forward to this wedding, then, are you?”

“Well, I suppose so. I haven’t met my future sister-in-law yet. She’s not long back from India. Cigarette?”

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Cyril wiped his hands on his trouser seat before accepting one. He looked at it. “Turkish?”

“Egyptian.” Felix lit both their cigarettes.

“Not bad,” Cyril exhaled. “Think I’ll stick to Woodbine all the same…Nah, I met her.” He adjusted his stance, widening his feet and easing his shoulders. “Day they came to chuck us out of the cottage. Mr Gabriel, Mrs Cobb and Miss…Whatsername.”

“Miss Lavery,” Felix over-articulated. “Miss. Charis. Lavery.”

“Charis, eh? Funny name. No, but, she seemed nice enough, though. Very pleasant. Sort of apologizing. I suppose she were a bit embarrassed seein’ as it were our house, like. Nice little cottage that was. Mind you, there are good things about living in the village. The pub, for starters.”

“Yes.”

Cyril ground his cigarette out with a toe of his heavy hobnailed boots, then picked the butt up and flicked it out of the door.

“I better get back home,” he said. “Or the wife’ll be thinking I’m stopping off for ale.” He put on his jacket, which had been draped over one of the basins. He wore a badly cut suit of thick coarse wool, almost like a blanket or felt. He took a wide flat cap out of his pocket and put it on.

“See you in church then, Felix,” he said, winking. “Cheer-ho.”

“What’s she like?” Felix said. “I mean, what does she look like?”

“Who? Miss Lavery?”

“Yes, I was just wondering.”

“Ooh. Small. Dark hair. Looks like a little girl beside Mister Gabriel. Spoke very kindly.”

“Well. I shall see for myself tomorrow.”

“Yep. That’s right.” Cyril removed a speck of tobacco from his tongue. He smacked his lips. “Don’t half leave a rum taste, those ciggies of yours, Felix. Where did you say they come from? Africa was it?”

“Sort of,” Felix said, lost in thought. “Yes. Africa.”

Felix took his place in the pew and rested his top hat on his knees. The last of the guests were seated and the assembled congregation in Stackpole church awaited the arrival of the bride.

Felix had performed his duties as usher — assisted by Charles — with a fixed polite smile on his face. The congregation was small, composed largely of family, local acquaintances and dignitaries, and on the bride’s side, a solitary aunt from Bristol, a small, plump, cheerful-looking person. Charis was being given away by an old friend of the Cobb family, Dr Venables.

Ever since breakfast Felix had felt he was going to be sick. And once again saliva flowed into his mouth and he had to make a severe effort to prevent his stomach from heaving. He looked down towards the altar and saw Gabriel’s broad back, resplendent in his red and blue dress uniform. He watched him lean sideways and whisper to Sammy Hinshelwood. Felix felt bitter pangs of resentment. He should be sitting there beside Gabriel, on this day of all days, not showing people to their seats like some major-domo. He turned round and looked back towards the church door. Charles had been deputed to stay there and keep watch for the arrival of the bride. Felix saw the two rows of servants from the Manor crammed into the pews at the back of the church. They had been occupying their seats now for almost an hour, having been obliged to arrive well before the guests turned up. Cyril caught his eye and allowed a look of malicious piety to cross his features as he sat beside his thin, hard-faced wife.