William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

Holland put on his overcoat, selected a walking stick, and they set off. Back to the High Street, along Commarket and into the broad but lopsided avenue of St Giles — young plane trees on the left, fully grown elms on the right. As if to compensate, the plane tree side was balanced with row upon row of parked army lorries.

Holland took off his glasses. He was almost blind without them but hoped that by displaying no obvious infirmity he might attract accusations of cowardice from passersby. This did occasionally happen and gave Holland an unrivalled opportunity for a violent exchange of views. Felix, on his own, often went to the other extreme, wearing his glasses all the time, sometimes slipping a pebble in a shoe to promote a bad limp. When he passed through London he often wore a black eye-patch, to place his non-combatant status above question, or else a silk mourning band on his sleeve, another useful way of avoiding embarrassing remarks. Holland, of course, remained ignorant of these ploys.

“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?”

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.”