1982 - An Ice-Cream War

by William Boyd

  “Gabriel?” she said quietly.

  “Yes?” he said. He hadn’t moved from the door.

  “Are you all light?”

  “I’m just letting my eyes get used to the dark. Fiendishly dark in here…with the lights out.”

  “Oh. I see. Yes, you’re right, it is dark.”

  “I think I can make things out a bit clearer now.”

  “Good.”

  He came uncertainly over to the bed. She felt it give as he sat down. A spring creaked.

  “Just taking my slippers off.”

  “Fine.” Charis congratulated herself on her calmness. She knew exactly—from a physiological point of view—what was going to happen. She felt it was a woman’s duty to know. Or at least that was what Aunt Bedelia had said. Aunt Bedelia could be a rather fierce person, and, Charis now realized, she had ‘advanced’ ideas. She had given her ambiguous, wordy books to read and had explained certain things to her. But her aunt, who had never married, couldn’t tell her what it would feel like. Charis was in genuine doubt about this. Eleanor had implied it was extremely unpleasant, though Eleanor had had no more opportunity to test her theories than Aunt Bedelia.

  Finally Gabriel eased himself into bed beside her.

  “Hello,” he said. She felt his hand grip hers.

  “Hello,” she replied, her voice suddenly thick in her throat. She felt him roll towards her. His nose touched her cheek. She smelt the mingled scents of tooth-powder, brandy and cigars on his breath. He threw his right arm haphazardly across her body, just beneath her breasts. His left hand still squeezed her right hand. He kissed her and Charis tried to abandon herself to the mood of romance that she felt must be welling up somewhere inside her. But instead she was only conscious of a mounting sense of curiosity and alarm. What was Gabriel going to do next? What, if anything, should she be doing to help him?

  Suddenly, with his lips still applied to hers, Gabriel heaved himself on top of her, his weight driving the air out of her lungs. She broke off the kiss and inhaled as quietly as she could. Gabriel’s face was now buried in her neck. She felt him shifting and her legs obediently widened. The hem of her nightdress rose still further up her thighs; she seemed to be excruciatingly conscious of its passage against her skin. She felt it being tugged gently higher. Gabriel’s right hand! His left still faithfully clasped hers. And now her heart did begin to thump and echo in her chest. The hem of her nightgown was now above her pubic hairs. Dear Gabriel, she said to herself again, dear Gabriel. She felt the thick cotton of his pyjama trousers against the inside of her thighs. He made tentative thrusting movements. Lord! she thought. Now his ‘erect member’ should penetrate her ‘vagina’. She had seen naked men, in statues and pictures—even swimming in rivers; glimpses of a white sausage thing hanging from a dark clump of hair. Now she felt something squashy pressing intimately against her, but there was, she was sure, no penetration of any kind. The weight of his body between her thighs was pleasant, so too was the way his nudging thrusting movements rocked her. But she knew it had to be hard, and there was nothing hard there, or so she thought.

  Then Gabriel rolled off her. Charis lay immobile with astonishment.

  “Are you all right?” Gabriel whispered.

  “What?”

  “You’re all right? I didn’t…upset you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad. I didn’t want to, you know, upset you too much, the first time.”

  “No I’m fine, really. Fine.”

  “Good, good.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Night-night, Carrie,” he said, his tone buoyant with relief. “We’ll go to the chateau tomorrow, shall we?”

  Charis lay back in bed. Tonight, she said to herself, Sunday the twenty-sixth of July 1914, I, Charis Cobb, nee Lavery, became a woman.

  The next day they hired an excursion-brake and went to the Chateau d’Hebentot, about ten miles away from Trouville. They stopped for a picnic—provided by the hotel—on the way, in the Forest of Toques. Gabriel was in a good mood again, and after their picnic offered Charis one of his cigarettes. The day was hot and cloudless. Charis sat with her back against a tree and Gabriel stretched out on the ground with his head in her lap. She puffed her smoke up into the branches above her and her uncertainties about the previous night disappeared under the onslaught of Gabriel’s relentless good humour. She was left, though, with the abiding thought that something had gone wrong last night; that in fact very little had occurred which should have, and this she found lingeringly discomfiting.

  That evening Gabriel again indulged heavily in wine and postprandial brandies. The undressing and getting into bed was achieved with less fuss but with no real alteration in the subsequent events. Gabriel did spend more time kissing her, and for a while hugged her close before rolling heavily on top. Charis, having only a little second-hand knowledge to rely on, and having to use her imagination more than she liked, couldn’t work out what was happening with Gabriel’s anatomy, whether it was functioning perfectly or whether—a worrying idea this—it was some defect in her own make-up. She wondered if she ought to be doing something herself, and Gabriel was being too polite to ask it of her, but he never uttered a word, nor conveyed any hints she was performing inadequately. Once again, the presence of Gabriel between her thighs and such shoving and heaving as went on provided ghostly sensations of pleasure, notions of potential enjoyment. But, she wondered, perhaps this was all anyone ever felt? She knew, from Aunt Bedelia’s instructions, that there should be an issue of semen during the act. When Gabriel lay once more beside her she carried out a covert examination but all seemed to be as it always had. But then she had no real idea what semen would be like, should she encounter it, and so her bafflement remained constant.

  Gabriel, as on the Sunday night, was extremely solicitous, asking her several times if she felt all right and expressing his earnest desire not to cause her any harm or emotional discomfort.

  They went bathing again on Tuesday, Charis braving the bellowing old crone in the bathing boxes, then splashing about happily in the crowded shallows. In the afternoon they walked down to the harbour and fishmarket to watch the fishing fleet come in.

  That evening Gabriel drank two whiskies and soda before the meal, most of a bottle of claret and two brandies afterwards.

  Charis’s preparations took the form of a fresh nightgown. As she pulled it over her head she heard Gabriel blunder into a chair. She felt a surge of irritation that he had to drink so much in order to ‘perform’ in so unsatisfactory a way. For a moment she looked forward to the end of the honeymoon, to the time when the nightly obligation to behave as honeymooners would be over.

  She lay obediently in bed as Gabriel sheepishly emerged from the dressing room and went over to the door to switch off the light. On his journey back to the bed his hesitant, inebriated course caused him to collide heavily with the bedside locker.

  “Ouch! Damn it!” he swore petulantly, hopping about on one foot. “Oui’. Good grief, that’s sore.”

  Charis sat up in exasperation.

  “What’s happening?” she said angrily.

  Gabriel collapsed on the bed. “I cracked my knee on that wretched cupboard-thing,” he moaned in a sulky voice.

  “Let me see.” Charis reached out for him, something in his little-boy tones making her less yielding, more firm. Gabriel levered his way across the bed to her.

  “You great goose,” she said, relenting. “Who’s had too much to drink tonight, eh? Where’s your knee, you silly boy?” She grabbed hold of his proffered leg and started vigorously rubbing his knee. Gabriel rested his head on her shoulder, moaning.

  “And stop moaning,” she said, “Serves you jolly well right.”

  “Oooh,” Gabriel said, pretending to wail, carrying on with the joke. “Not so hard.” He put his arms round her. “Kiss it better. Go on.”

  “No I will not,” Charis laughed, trying to push him away. He resisted. “Silly, drunken
boys get spanks not kisses.” She tried to slap his wrist and they struggled on the bed. Charis felt the ribbons untie at the throat of her nightgown.

  “Naughty,” she said warningly. Gabriel’s arms were tight around her.

  “Mummy’ll be cross,” she said, without thinking. Gabriel’s lips were on her neck. Then lower. Suddenly his hand was cupped round a small breast, then, with a shock of horrified surprise, she realized his lips had slid down her chest and fastened on to a nipple. She felt the wet warmth of his mouth and longue, and the tug on her breast as he sucked.

  My God! was her first reaction, what in God’s name does he think he’s doing? She felt the pressure and nuzzle again, and unthinkingly put her hand on the back of his head. Gabriel, she thought…she didn’t really understand. She leant slowly back against the headboard, feeling the unfamiliar length of his erection pressing against her thigh. “Who’s a naughty boy,” she said softly, unreflectingly easing her position. “Who’s a very naughty little boy?”

  When she awoke in the morning, Gabriel was already up and dressed. Charis’s first thoughts were of the previous night. Now at least she knew what an ‘issue of semen’ was. Pale yellowy, cloudy, sticky stuff, that required vigorous sponging to remove from cotton nightgowns. Gabriel had apologized for his precocity as Charis changed. But they had slept in each other’s arms. When she got back into bed Gabriel had snuggled up close to her, resting his head on her breasts, kissing her throat and hugging her, telling her of his love for her, and promising fantastic happiness and bliss in the manner of a seventeenth-century poem.

  Charis had stroked his fair hair, happy at least that their marriage had attained some kind of normality. But she was, nonetheless, confused. Gabriel was big and strong, so proud and handsome. She didn’t want to mother him. But then with a flood of charity she thought why not? Every man needed simple comfort in his private moments. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Gabriel had been denied the normal care and affection a child should receive in his peculiar family. All those sisters, and sisters can be so bossy, resentful of little brothers.

  And Felix was the real baby of the family too. Mrs Cobb seemed to dote on him to a foolish and exclusive extent. Under the circumstances, she reflected before going to sleep, it was an entirely reasonable, natural thing for Gabriel to seek that sort of affection from his wife.

  She ushered these thoughts through her mind again as Gabriel came over to the bed and sat down. He smiled tenderly at her and took her hand.

  “Are you all right, darling?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said with some irritation. Why was he always asking her this, as if she were some kind of invalid? Surely she should be the one being solicitous? But she checked herself. “Of course, darling,” she repeated.

  “What do you feel like doing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Is it a nice day?”

  “Super. We could bathe.”

  “What about taking the steamer to Le Havre?”

  “Or there’s a concert in the Casino this afternoon.”

  “Oh not stuffy concerts, Gabriel. Please.”

  He laughed. “All right. There’s a ball there on Saturday. Hope you won’t find that so stuffy.” He stood up. “Look lazybones,” he said. “I’ll see you downstairs. We’ll have a confab. over breakfast.”

  Charis lay in bed for a few minutes after he had gone. She thought about the summer months ahead of them. The West Kents were still in India. Gabriel wasn’t sure whether to rejoin them or be temporarily re-gazetted to another regiment in England. Henry Hyams had said he could probably find Gabriel something in the Committee of Imperial Defence where he worked. Gabriel said it was tempting.

  Charis wondered what it would be like living at Stackpole in the little cottage, wondered how much they would have to see of the other Cobbs. But no, she thought, she had ten whole days of her honeymoon left, she should concentrate on that. For the moment the future could take care of itself.

  Perhaps everything would be perfect now, now that she knew what to do.

  When she walked down the stairs into the large hall of the Angleterre she saw Gabriel bent down over the reception desk reading a newspaper with the assistance of the reception clerk. He broke off abruptly when he saw her and escorted her into the breakfast room with a frown on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, as she took her place at the table. “Can’t we get the steamer till this afternoon or something?”

  “No,” he said, “it’s nothing like that.” He ran both hands over his hair. “That was a French newspaper. That chap was giving me a hand at translating. It’s just as well I spotted the headline. You know we don’t get the English papers until two days late.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Austria’s declared war on Serbia.”

  She laughed with relief. “Serbia! Is that all? Another silly Balkan war?”

  Gabriel looked grim. Really, she thought, never marry a soldier.

  “We’ve got to go home,” he said firmly. “I knew it would happen. There’s nothing else for it. It’s the European war, Charis. We’ve got to go back. Right now. Today.”

  PART TWO

  The War

  Chapter 1

  9 August 1914,

  Smithville, British East Africa

  The Finnegan and Zabriskie Sisal Decorticator thumped and banged away with an immense din, shaking and rattling, throwing up clouds of dust, smoke belching from its exhaust stack. Temple Smith watched it with the delighted satisfaction he always experienced when his cherished machine was in operation. At one end Saleh and some farm boys fed in the spiky faggots of harvested sisal leaves. At the other, damp, chewed, pale yellow strands were flung out, were collected in loose bundies and taken away to hang in the sun on drying racks.

  Temple approached the thundering machine. The huge spinning drive wheels and flapping belts fanned the fibrous air around him. He could feel the powerful vibrations running through the concrete floor, causing his legs to tremble visibly. He reached out and placed his hand on a steel plate. The thrum and shudder set up a tingle in his finger tips. He shut his eyes. He was at the centre of the world: every functioning sense claimed by his machine.

  Then, as though from a great distance, he heard a faint shouting noise. He turned round. Some six feet away stood Wheech-Browning, his arms raised protectively as if to ward off a blow. Temple saw his mouth opening and closing. He couldn’t make out what the man was trying to say.

  “What?” Temple roared back. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He was exasperated to see the Assistant District Commissioner here. Wheech-Browning had been trying to get him to pay customs duty on the coffee seedlings he’d bought in Dar for weeks. Seedlings that were now so many tinder-dry, shrivelled weeds despite the fanatical care and attention they’d received. The last time Wheech-Browning had called Temple had taken him out to the patch of hillside where he’d envisioned his field of coffee bushes and shown him the forlorn, wasted rows.

  “Defective goods,” Temple had said. “Diseased, useless plants. You can’t make me pay duty on these.”

  Wheech-Browning, on his part, apologized and assured him he could. As a result Temple was not predisposed to welcome further visits. Wheech-Browning was now pointing at the shed door and mouthing ‘outside’. Temple reluctantly followed him out.

  In the open air the noise of the Decorticator was still considerable, but it was possible to speak. Wheech-Browning removed his sun-helmet and mopped his sweating face with a handkerchief. Then he swept his white jacket free of the shreds of sisal fibres. Temple noticed his boots and trousers were thick with dust. Looking back up the hill he saw Wheech-Browning’s mule tethered outside the house, guarded by two native policemen. Surely the man hasn’t come to arrest me? Temple thought wildly for a moment. Surely the British wouldn’t clap a man in prison for the late payment of customs duties?

  “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Wheech-Browning said, delivering crisp blows to his thighs
with the brim of his topee. Small clouds of dust rose up.

  Temple waved away a couple of buzzing flies. “What?” he said. “Stand what?”

  “The noise. The din. The hellish din.” He pointed his hat at the Decorticator shed and the clouds of smoke issuing from the engine stack.

  “Oh, the Decorticator. You get used to it. You don’t even notice it after a while.”

  Wheech-Browning replaced his hat. “Bad news,” he said, looking sternly at the Pare Mountains. Temple felt a flutter of panic in his chest. He could arrest me, too, he thought. It’s exactly the kind of thing the English would do. You can’t break the rules and get away with it.

  Wheech-Browning switched his gaze back to Temple. “It’s war,” he uttered prophetically.

  This was ridiculous, Temple said to himself. The man’s taking it far too personally.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll pay.”

  A brief look of incomprehension crossed Wheech-Browning’s face. Then it cleared.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right. We’ll all pay.” He looked down at his large feet. “In the end,” he added gloomily. Then, “Bloody flies!” he suddenly exclaimed, swatting the air about his head with his hands.

  “We’ll all pay?” Temple repeated slowly. He was lost.

  To Temple’s surprise Wheech-Browning suddenly leapt four feet sideways leaving the two flies circling aimlessly in the space he had occupied a second before. It took them a moment to find him again.

  “Telegraph came three days ago,” Wheech-Browning said. “I’ve been riding round the district since then, letting everyone know. It seems we declared war last week, on the fourth. The news has just taken a little time to reach us here in the sticks.”

  Temple began to comprehend and relax. This had nothing to do with him.

  “You mean the British are at war?”