William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

Afterwards, Dr Venables had invited him for a bracing drink. Felix said he didn’t want one but the doctor was very insistent. He sat opposite Felix now, his unnaturally dark hair shilling damply in the gloom of the bar. He pulled regularly at his earlobes while Felix talked.

Felix was acutely uneasy. For the last few days he had lived — he felt — constantly on the edge of a breakdown. The sense of his own appalling selfishness and lack of insight was a consistent tormenting rebuke. Sharp beaks of guilt stabbed at him. He felt a sense of overpowering, frustrating anger at her death. But somewhere deep inside, like an unfamiliar noise in a sleeping house, a more persistent trouble nagged.

He tried to focus on Charis’s death, on the powerful sense of loss which he knew he felt, in the hope that some expression of grief might relieve or overwhelm the massive doubts and guilts that were building up explosively within him. But, try as he might, impugn himself as he might, it was Charis’s dreadful legacy that obsessed him all his waking moments.

The letter. The letter to Gabriel. What in God’s name had possessed her to send it? He felt grossly ashamed that this was all he could think of. He despised and utterly condemned his highly-developed instincts of self-preservation. He could live with his guilt — just — as long as it remained a secret which he alone knew. The thought of Gabriel ever learning about Charis and him was horrific, the most potent of fears, and it left him weak and trembling.

He had telephoned Henry Hyams at the War Office on the pretext of wondering how the news of Charis’s death could best be conveyed to Gabriel. Did letters, he asked, ever get through? There was a reasonable chance, Hyams said, though it would probably take months, and now, with the British Army well inside German East there was really no telling.

This was both good and bad news. Clearly there was a possibility nothing would happen. Who knew the potential accidents and delays that could befall a single letter on such a perilous journey? But, then again, Hyams had implied that some letters did arrive…He forced himself to stop. His self-disgust was making a nerve tremor in his cheek.

He drained his brandy and soda. Dr Venables called for another. Felix glanced at his epicene features. He looked very grim and serious.

“A terrible business,” Dr Venables said. “Such a charming girl. I’d grown very fond of her, you know, in our work together.”

“I know.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

“Why she did it?”

“No. No.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Why did she write to you , Felix? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”

Felix looked up, startled. He stubbed out his cigarette, his mind racing. “We’d become good friends,” he said slowly. “Of sorts. Since, that is,” he cleared his throat. “Gabriel’s capture.”

“What did her letter say?”

“Well, exactly what I told the magistrate, as far as I can remember. That, um, she was going to go away, and that she was sorry.”

“Those were the words she used?”

“I think so. To be honest I can’t recall exactly. That’s the general drift. I was shocked.”

“Quite so.”

“I’ve looked everywhere for the letter.” Felix took a sip at his brandy. “But I was frantic, running through the woods like that. Perhaps when I dived in the pond…?” Felix left his sentence unfinished. What was Venables driving at?

“That’s another thing.”

“What?”

“Why you went straight to the pond. That pond.”

“I didn’t go straight there. I went to the cottage first.”

“But when that was empty…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was something she said once. I suddenly remembered. It was her favourite place. We often used to sit and chat there. I had this feeling. I don’t know. I can’t explain.”

Dr Venables leant forward. He placed the tips of his fingers together and looked at his large clean hands. Felix stared at them too. He noticed they were quite hairless.

“I want to ask you something, Felix,” Dr Venables said. “And I want your honest answer. Depending on your answer I will then give you some information. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Felix glanced round the bar. It was almost empty and quiet. This wasn’t like Venables at all.

“Total honesty, Felix.”

“Of course.” He felt dizzy with the pressure.

“This is what I have to ask you, Felix. Were you and Charis having a love affair?”

“ What? ”

“You heard me. Were you and Charis having a love affair?”

“No.”

Dr Venables caught his eye. The question was repeated telepathically.

“No,” Felix repeated. The massive effort it took to force his gaze not to waver was exacting an immense toll.

“You were not having a love affair.”

“That’s correct.”

Venables seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“Let me ask you another question, then. Do you know if Charis was having an affair with another man?”

“Another man?” Felix felt his head loud with clattering, unaskable questions. What was Venables trying to prove? “No,” he said. “Not as far as I’m aware.”

“I see.” Venables placed his hands on the table. “Thank you, Felix. I had to ask.”

Horrible suspicions seemed to be squirming in sockets of Felix’s brain.

“Why do you think she was? Having a love, um, affair.”

“Simply seeking for a reason, Felix.” The doctor’s eyes were candid. “Trying to find an explanation.”

Felix’s fingers lightly touched his lips, chin, nose as if discovering his features for the first time. He stood up, and said with absurd formality, “Would you mind if I took a breath of fresh air?” Venables moved his seat to let him get by.

Outside the streets were busy. Motor cars tooted warnings as they reached the sharp bend in the road to the left of the hotel. A barefoot boy, wheeling a costermonger’s barrow full of cabbages, whistled loudly as he trundled his load along the pavement, turning down an alleyway to the hotel kitchens. Felix stood on the little gravelled forecourt in front of the hotel, keeping his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He looked for a while at the passing traffic and sauntering pedestrians.

He went back into the saloon bar and sat down.

“You said,” he began carefully, “that depending on my answer you would give me some Information. What was that?”

“It’s irrelevant now,” Venables said. “You gave the right answer.”

“But what if I’d given another one?”

“But you didn’t.”

“Yes.” Felix looked at Venables. Did he know? Was he guessing? What made him ask now?

“I think we should forget about all further speculations,” Venables said. “This conversation should not be reported or reopened again outside this saloon bar. There is no need to — what shall I say? — give rise to unnecessary suffering in your family. I think you’ll agree that there are problems enough to deal with at Stackpole.”

“Yes,” Felix said, “you’re right.” A thought kept darting elusively through his head like a minnow. It didn’t bear contemplation, or rather something would not allow it to be contemplated. Other more atavistic impulses seemed to be denying it access to his understanding. He let it go. Venables’ sleek, waxy features gave nothing away.

“Can I offer you a lift home?” Venables asked. “I’ve left my motor by the court room.”

“No thank you,” Felix said. “I’ve a return ticket for the train.”

They left the bar and went outside. Somewhere, behind the hotel, the costermonger’s boy was still whistling.