by William Boyd
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.
Chapter 18
1 July 1916,
Sevenoaks, Kent
“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.”
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 t
he 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.
“Somebody’s happy anyway,” Dr Venables said with a sad smile. “Not that many of us have got much to be happy about in this day and age.” He held out his hand. “Well, Felix. Remember what I said.”
Felix shook his hand. “I shall.”
“And if you ever feel in the need of a talk, come and see me. I used to enjoy our discussions.”
“Of course,” Felix said. Dr Venables still held his hand firmly.
“What are you going to do now, Felix?” The question seemed to be innocent, but Felix realized you could be sure of nothing with Venables.
He decided to be innocent too. “I shall get the train straight back.”
“No. I meant with your future. What are you going to do with yourself ?”
Felix had been wondering the same thing. He had come to some sort of decision.
“I’ve been thinking about that myself, Dr Venables.” He knew, but he was not going to tell Venables. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer at the moment.”
PART THREE
The Ice-Cream War
Chapter 1
25 January 1917,
Dar-es-Salaam, German East Africa
Felix looked out over the guard-rails of the Hong Wang II, a Chinese-crewed tramp steamer that had brought him slowly up the coast from Durban to the entrancing waterfront at Dar-es-Salaam. The widening sweep of the bay, the white buildings set in groves of mango and palm trees, and the cloudless African sky presented a scène of great beauty. Only the ruined shell of the Governor’s Palace on the headland and the wreck of a scuttled German freighter on a sandbank marred the general effect of peace and tranquillity.
Felix looked down at his knee-length shorts, khaki puttees and polished brown boots. He still felt a fool in this uniform. It was extremely odd, moreover, to be a second lieutenant in a native regiment, which he had yet to encounter. This was not entirely true, as one unit of the regiment was on board the Hong Wang II with him. On the fore deck a four-gun mountain battery of the Nigerian Brigade prepared to disembark. These were the stragglers in a large West African contingent that had arrived in East Africa a month or so previously. Felix’s own battalion in this brigade, the 5th, was already entrenched in the front line at a place on the upper reaches of the Rufiji river, wherever that might be.
The Hong Wang II dropped anchor in the middle of the bay. Soon Felix and his kit and the English officers and NCO’s of the mountain battery were being carried in a launch to one of the many wooden jetties that stuck out from the shore.
His kit was disembarked and laid in a pile on the ground. Felix stretched and stamped his feet. All around him was the bustle of the port, the cries of the rickshaw boys, the grinding and clamour of the steam cranes. The air was filled with smells of dust and fruit, dead fish and manure. The sun was lowering in the afternoon sky but still burned with a force that made his new uniform chafe. He felt a sense of exhilaration fill his chest. Gabriel was incarcerated somewhere in this country. They might only be separated from each other by a few hundred miles. The war could be over, by all accounts, in a matter of months now that the Germans were well and truly on the run. Soon, he felt sure, he and Gabriel would be reunited and somehow everything would be resolved. For a moment he felt intoxicated by a sense of his own self-importance, the glamour of the role in which he had cast himself. Now that he was here in Africa he felt he could say that his quest had truly begun.
An Executive Service officer, a captain, approached the officers from the mountain battery and gave them instructions. Felix showed him the sheet of paper that contained his orders.
“Kibongo,” the ESO captain said. “Umm.” He paused. “5th battalion, Nigerian Brigade…Ah-ha. Mmm.” He sounded like a schoolboy who didn’t know the answers to a classroom quiz.
“Tell you what,” he said. “There’s a Movement Control officer at the railway station. He’ll know. I think the head-quarters of the Nigerian Brigade is at Morogoro. I’ll get a boy to bring your kit. Yes, Morogoro, that’s where you’ll be going.”
“No, it’s Soga you want,” the Movement Control officer said. Then added, “I think. Get off at Soga, anyway. They’ll probably send someone to meet you there. Hang on, I’ll get a boy to sling your gear on the train. Soga, remember.”
Felix found a compartment and watched the boy stow his kit. Steadily the other seats were taken up by officers from an Indian regiment. Some of them knew about the Nigerian Brigade, but had no idea where Kibongo was. They told him to get off at Mikesse, not Soga.
Felix sat back and told himself to relax. He was sufficiently used to army ways by now not to worry unduly about such vagueness. In fact he was amazed at the way the organization worked at all. He had received written orders, that was sufficient: at some point in the future he and his battalion would meet.
In the stifling heat of the small compartment he watched the sun turn orange and sink behind the railway workshops. There was a further hour’s delay before the train pulled off with a lurch. In the brief dusk Felix saw the acres of coconut trees behind the town, and splendid, solid-looking stone houses set among them.
The twenty-fifth of January 1917: it had been nearly six months before that he had set this particular chain of events in motion that had resulted in him sitting now in a troop train chugging slowly across conquered German East Africa.
A week after Charis’s funeral—a taut, stressful affair—Felix had gone up to London to seek out his brother-in-law, Lt Colonel Henry Hyams, at the Committee of Imperial Defence.
Hyams was surprised to see him and commiserated briefly about Charis’s suicide.
“Bad business, Felix. Terrible shame. Poor girl.” He frowned. “It all got too much for her, I suppose. Gabriel and all that.”
After some more awkward conversation on the topic Felix stated that he wished to obtain a commission in any unit of the British Army that was currently fighting in East Africa. Henry Hyams didn’t ask him why, it must have seemed to him a logical request, Felix thought, based on logical and commendable motives of duty and honourable revenge. Hyams considered that his earlier failure with the recruiting office would present no problems now. That was 1914, he reminded Felix, when—no offence implied—they were only taking the very best. Now that there was conscription they couldn’t afford to be so choosy. He made some notes on a pad and checked a file.
“East Africa, East Africa. British regiments. You have no desire to go soldiering
with the mild gentoo, I take it?”
“No, it must be a British regiment,” Felix affirmed.
“Well we’ve got the 2nd Battalion Loyal North Lancs and the 25th Battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. The ‘Legion of Frontiersmen’. Sound like a fine body of men.”
“Yes. They sound ideal.”
“That’s the ticket then,” Hyams beamed confidently. “I’ll arrange everything. Leave it all up to me.”
Two weeks later Felix was informed by telegram which Officer Training Corps he was to attend. He looked disbelievingly at the address: Keble College, Oxford. For the next three months he was back in Oxford, living in Keble’s sorry red-brick splendour in the company of two hundred other young men seeking commissions. Throughout the end of the summer of 1916, while the battle of the Somme ground itself into a state of inertia, he received instructions on how to command men, drilled endlessly in the University Parks, fired rifles at the butts in Wolvercote and undertook text-book manoeuvres on the level expanses of Port Meadow. He assailed all these distasteful duties in a spirit of unreflecting determination, resolving to acquit himself adequately so there could be no impediment offered to the task he had set himself. In fact, he wasn’t exactly clear what precisely the nature of this task was. It was born out of a mixture of near-intolerable guilt, unfocused motives of purgation and a simple but powerful need to be doing something. The notion of the ‘quest’, of somehow finding Gabriel, took a slower hold on his imagination. It was the most apt penance he could think of; he forced himself to concentrate on Gabriel and their eventual reunion and tried his hardest not to dwell on Charis.
And so the months of training—hurried and not particularly efficient—had gone past and Felix found that instead of regret and melancholy his moods had been primarily ones of deep boredom, loneliness and discomfort. On the day their postings were announced he had clustered round the noticeboard outside the college lodge with the other cadets searching for his name. “Cobb. F. R…”—his eyes flicked across—“5th btn, Nigerian bde, German East Africa.” The Nigerian Brigade? Who or what were they? He received commiserations from his fellow officers. Where was Nigeria? someone asked. Felix had to go and look it up in an atlas.
