William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

He crept through the tall grass as quietly as possible. Soon he saw the remains of the shamba that had stood behind the house. It had obviously been burnt down some considerable time before. He paused, crouching behind the knobbled bole of a euphorbia tree. Across a forty yard gap of broken ground lay the house. He felt a sensation of enormous relief to have made it back to Smithville again. It was followed by an equally forceful sensation of tiredness, all the tension of the day, which somehow he’d been holding off, descended on him. If he lay down and shut his eyes he knew he would fall asleep immediately.

From his position the bulk of the house obscured most of the view. He could see nothing of the other farm buildings — hidden anyway by the rise on which the house stood — and nothing of the sisal fields beyond. From what he could make out the linseed plots that led down to Lake Jipe were not the scorched wasteland he’d been expecting. He felt suddenly elated. Perhaps Smithville had escaped largely unscathed? Just the waggons and livestock, the trolley lines and the sisal crop the price he’d had to pay?

He stirred himself into action and scampered from his sheltering tree into a small grove of dead banana trees nearer the house. He noticed that the tops of the trees had been neatly cut off to prevent them bearing any further fruit. Someone had been thorough.

He peered through a gap between the fibrous trunks. He felt a little foolish, a fat sweaty man, trying to run as light-footedly as he could, a tiny blade gripped in his fist. But nothing, and no one stirred. He broke cover again and ran up to the house, flattening himself against the wall. He inched forward towards the kitchen door. The windows on this side were securely shuttered, a hopeful sign that the place was abandoned. He tried the kitchen door. It swung open. Still no sound. Everything was completely quiet in the afternoon heat.

He stepped in. And stepped out again immediately, hacking and coughing loudly. The smell! He felt his stomach heave. He spat on the ground, and wiped his brow. Jesus, he swore. Shit . The house smelt like a giant’s shit hole. It was humming with flies too. Millions of flies, the air seemed solid with them. One thing was certain though. There was nobody in the house. Nobody with a functioning nose could last more than a few seconds.

He calmed himself down. He took a huge breath and, holding it in, re-entered the kitchen. It was dark and all the shutters were closed. He blundered over to the windows and flung them open, then leapt outside to recharge his lungs. He peered cautiously in through the door. Every surface — shelves, table, chairs, cooking trough — was decorated with coils of human faeces, as was the floor. The air danced with black sated flies. Streaming plumes of them escaped through the newly opened windows. Taking a deep breath, and watching where he placed his feet, he went into the dining room and flung open the shutters there, before clawing his way outside again. He was like a swimmer bringing up treasure from a river bed. He could only do it little by little, as his breath lasted. It took him twenty minutes to open up the house. Not a single room had been spared. It looked as if a battalion had marched in, lowered their trousers and, on the given command, had shat where they stood.

Temple felt exhausted and mystified. What was going on? He felt his head throbbing and pounding from all the breath-holding he’d done. He took a few paces back and leant dizzily against a banana tree trunk, overcome from his exertions. Who had fouled his home? Why had it been done? Unanswered questions tumbled in his brain.

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He gave a bellow of alarm and flung himself madly round onto the interloper, his hands clawing for the stranger’s throat, beating him to the ground.

“ Bwana! ” came a terrified croak. “It is me, Saleh!” Temple released his grip. Sure enough, it was Saleh on whom he was now sitting. The little man seemed in unspeakable agony, his head jerking to and fro, his mouth gagging for breath.

“Saleh,” Temple cried. “What’s wrong?” Salelis hands plucked weakly at Temple’s sleeves. “Bwana,” he gasped. “Get off. I beg you. I can’t breathe.” Apologizing profoundly, Temple got to his feet. Saleh lay motionless on the ground, limbs askew, as he fought to regain his breath. He sat up groggily. Temple helped him to his feet, and stood patiently while Saleh dusted off his ragged tunic. “Bwana,” he said finally. “A terrible thing has happened.”

“I know,” Temple said. “I’ve just been inside.”

“No bwana,” he said soberly. “This way.” He led Temple some way off to the side. As they walked away from the house the farm buildings came into view. To Temple’s relief they were still standing. A bit ramshackle but no serious damage was visible. The sisal fields had disappeared under weeds and grass but he could see the great spiky leaves poking through the vegetation. Reclaimable certainly, with some hard work. He was beginning to feel his luck had held out. Von Bishop, it seemed, had been as good as his word. He felt a pang of guilt over Mr Essanjee’s death. Had there really been a need to bring him all this way to make the assessment?

Thoughtfully he followed Salelis thin body. Where was the man taking him? To his village? Perhaps the German askaris had laid it waste? But Saleh had stopped. With a sudden shock Temple realized they had reached his baby daughter’s grave.

It had been crudely opened. The mound of stones scattered and the remains of the little coffin and its contents were strewn haphazardly around as though some larger beast had been digging there. On the wooden cross was set a tiny skull the size of an apple.

Silently Temple and Saleh garnered the bits and pieces — brittle ribs like thin claws, vertebrae the size of molars — and replaced them in the hole. Temple picked up the skull. It was bleached and dried, it hardly weighed anything in his hand, a gust of wind might have blown it away. He laid it in the hole. With his boots he shovelled the earth in and then they rolled back the rocks.

“When did they do this?” Temple asked.

Saleh told him it was just before the soldiers left, two days ago. There were always soldiers billeted at Smithville, Saleh said, sometimes as many as a hundred. Two days ago they had all left. Temple felt his exhaustion returning. The sun was heavy in the sky. He thought it was time he was getting back.

“Don’t worry, Saleh,” he said, moved by the man’s woebe-gone expression. “It’s just bones.” He tried to say something comforting. “The baby’s soul has gone to heaven.” He thought he sounded like the Reverend Norman Espie. “Anyway,” he said, remembering, “Mrs Smith has a new baby girl now.” He patted Salelis shoulder. “A new baby.” He hitched up his trousers and let out a great sigh of breath.

“We’ll all be back here soon,” he said, talking in English. “You’ll see, this war is nearly over. We’ll get the farm going. Yes?” He tried to cheer up the morose Saleh, who was now struggling to comprehend. “Farming again, Saleh, farming. Plenty of work. Get the Decorticator going and—”

He turned abruptly on his heel and ran down the slope towards the Decorticator shed. Behind him he heard Saleh shouting, but he paid no attention. As he approached the wooden building a feeling of ghastly premonition built up in his chest. He stopped short, gasping for breath before the large double doors. He paused for a moment, willing everything to be all right. Then he swung the doors open.

Temple walked disbelievingly into the large empty shed, his boots ringing out on the concrete floor. He moved uncertainly about the vacant space as if expecting any moment to make contact with some ghostly machine. Orangey wands of sunlight sectioned the floor, squeezing through slits and gaps in the plank walls. Temple looked at the archipelago of oil stains, the fixing bolts set in the concrete, a few inches of tattered canvas drive-belt.