William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“Ah-ha!” shouted the major, causing everyone to look up sharply, and a section of fried egg to jerk off Eustacia’s extended fork and splat on the shiny table top.

“Here we are, here we are.” The major cleared his throat. “‘On June the nineteenth British forces in German East Africa occupied the important town of Handeni.’ Where’s my map?” He sprang up from the table and marched out of the room.

Everyone pretended nothing had happened. Felix opened the chafing dishes on the sideboard and helped himself to a large plate of kidneys, scrambled eggs, fried bread, bacon and sausage. He found that keeping his head down while he shovelled in food was the best way of avoiding the pathetic sight of Nigel Bathe across the table.

He sat down. “Well,” he said vacuously, “looks like it’s going to be a pleasant day.” He turned round in his seat and craned his head to see out of the window. His guess seemed accurate enough. The lawn was bright with sun, the fishponds were blue, only a few small indolent clouds occupied the sky above.

There were three letters by his place. A catalogue from a bookseller, confirmation of an appointment with his optician and one, unstamped, in a plain white envelope. He recognized Charis’s writing at once, and with a frown of curiosity tore it open. Nobody paid any attention.

He read the letter.

“Oh God. Jesus Christ,” he said in a shocked voice, getting up from his place.

“ Felix! ” Cressida and Eustacia said in unison.

He ran out of the room, stuffing the letter in his pocket. He rushed outside, sprinting across the sunlit lawn, the heels of his shoes biting deeply into the dew-damp turf. He vaulted over the eve-gate, skidding on a patch of mud beyond and falling over. He picked himself up and pounded through the wood towards the cottage. The back door was locked. He ran round to the front and let himself in. He knew at once the cottage was empty. He stood in the little parlour, looking at the grate of the fire, the ashes of the night before still there. His eyes passed uneasily over the sofa and he saw that the lid of the writing desk was folded down.

He went upstairs. The bed was unslept in. He opened the wardrobe. It was filled with hanging clothes. On the chest of drawers he saw Gabriel’s photograph. The strong square face, the simple smile. He felt an awful turmoil in his body, a sudden sickening awareness of just what he and Charis had done. He recalled the words of the letter: “I have written to Gabriel and told him everything.”

He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. His brain was refusing to work. He realized one trouser leg was thick with mud, also the sleeve of his jacket and his left hand. He stood up. The bedspread was smeared and dirty.

He walked shakily down the stairs. Think, he told himself, think . She seemed to have walked out of the house without taking anything. No clothes, no suitcase…He tried to ignore one explanation which was shouting persistently in his head.

Not Charis, he said to himself. She wouldn’t. The sense of his own responsibility, so successfully evaded for so many months, hit him with full force. He sat down again, on the bottom stair, trembling all over. He patted his pockets for a cigarette, then realized he’d left them in his bedroom.

He got to his feet. The police would have to be informed. Perhaps she’d gone to Aunt Bedelia’s, just fled in a panic for whatever reason? It sounded plausible. But what was wrong? he asked himself. Why should she do it? Why now? She said she hadn’t been feeling well lately, perhaps that could have been a contributing factor. He turned a few more thoughts over in his head. But her note? He took it out of his pocket and spread it on his knee. It was so terse and final. Almost hostile. But why should she write to Gabriel too? This new factor made his head reel. He felt the blood thumping at his temples, he found it difficult to swallow. His stomach heaved and he gagged. He put the back of his hand to his mouth and leant against the wall for support. His mouth was full of fresh saliva, like thick water.

At once he pushed himself off the wall and rushed out of the house. Back through the wood, over the eve-gate, across the bottom of the lawn towards the fishponds. He saw his mother and Cressida standing agitatedly on the terrace. They called his name as he ran into view, but he ignored them.

He leapt down the steps to the seat by the middle pond. His first feeling was one of immense relief as he saw its vacant, glassy surface. The lilies, the reeds, the ornamental bulrushes, all as it always was, sunlit and undisturbed. He stood panting at the edge trying to peer beneath the reflections and the glare of the sun. He could see nothing. But the carp, prompted by his shadow on the water and expecting a feed, began to rise up from the depths. The water swirled, fish bodies coiled and swerved, thick lips and blunt snouts tested the surface.

“Blasted bloody fish!” he swore. He turned round to find a stone to throw — to make them scatter.

Then he saw the pedestal. The marble bust of the Emperor Vitellius was missing.

Felix kicked off his shoes and struggled out of his jacket. His mother and Cressida had reached the upper pond and were awkwardly descending the wide steps, their skirts held up in their hands.

“Felix!” his mother wailed in evident distress. “What’s happening, my darling? What’s wrong?”

He ignored them.

He jumped into the pool. It was deep, eight feet or more, and very cold. He allowed his momentum to take him down to the bottom, feeling the pressure in his ears, and the faint sound of his mother screaming. He opened his eyes, paddling furiously with his hands to keep himself down. Through the murk, all about him, he sensed the carp darting away into their hiding places.

Then one of his beating hands struck something soft. He spun round. Charis’s body was close in to the side. He’d been looking too far out. She was in the attitude of a dive or plummeting fall, her feet trailing up behind her, her head held down, tied in grotesque familiar proximity to the Emperor Vitellius.

Felix felt his lungs were on the point of bursting, but he forced himself closer. A length of twine was tied round her neck, its ends in turn wrapped and secured with many knots about the marble head. Through the drifting clouds of mud and sediment he saw that her eyes and mouth were open, her face relaxed and expressionless. Her hair had loosened itself and streamed weedily about her features, stirred by the currents of water caused by his beating, flailing hands.

“It seems she tied herself — round the neck — to the bust. She just had enough strength to lift it off the pedestal on her arms, take two steps to the edge and fall in. The weight dragged her straight down to the bottom.” Felix paused and took another cigarette out of his case.

“She had tied a lot of knots. She couldn’t even have got free if she had wanted to. She didn’t leave herself any room for second thoughts.”

Felix lit the cigarette. He was sitting with Dr Venables in the saloon bar of a hotel not far from the magistrates’ court in Sevenoaks where the inquest had been held. Dr Venables had been called to give evidence too, as he had performed a post-mortem on Charis’s body. Felix was the only member of the Cobb family who had attended. He was still feverish and agitated from all the lies he’d told.

The inquest had been a mere formality. Felix had told his edited story. He said he’d lost the letter in his panic and confusion. It had simply said, he swore, that Charis intended to go away. No reason had been given. A police constable from Ashurst read out his version of events and then Dr Venables had been called to confirm the cause of death. “A tragic case,” the magistrate had concluded. “Mrs Cobb is as much a victim of the war as our young men who have bravely given their lives in France.”