by William Boyd
“Sorry, sir. Pm a parcel porter, sir. Can’t fetch luggage.”
Felix unloaded his trunk himself, then went in search of another porter who, when found, wheeled his trunk into the station yard. Felix had cabled the time of his arrival to his mother but, as usual, there was no one to meet him.
He had smoked three cigarettes before he recognized the Humberette turning into the yard. He was extremely surprised to see Charis at the wheel. She stopped the car and got out.
“Hello, Felix,” she said cheerily. “I had to go into Sevenoaks and your mother asked me to collect you. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long. Oh,” she pointed to the cigarette butts. “You have. I am sorry. Anyway, welcome home.”
She put out her hand and leant forward automatically as if for a kiss. Felix took her hand, but hadn’t thought of kissing her, or anybody, come to that, because of his cold sore, so held back for a moment. By the time he thought, really, he should kiss her, she was family, and leant forward himself, she had withdrawn her face. They see-sawed this way for a brief while until their cheeks eventually brushed. Felix kissed mid-air and felt the touch of her lips on his ear. It made him shiver but he covered it up with a nervous laugh. They both got into the car with red faces, then got out again because they hadn’t loaded the luggage. Felix found that the Humberette was too small to take everything and realized that he’d have to leave the cabin trunk.
“Don’t worry,” he said, as he packed in his two suitcases. “Leave the trunk here. I can pop back down to the station and pick it up later.”
To his consternation he saw a look of intense grief cross Charis’s face and her eyes fill with tears.
“Good Lord,” he said. “What did I say?”
Charis rubbed her forehead. “No, it’s silly me. You just reminded me of Gabriel then. Something you said. It was when we were in Trouville. I am sorry. I just can’t help it. It happens all the time. People think I’m an awful noodle.”
They got into the car, Felix taking the wheel, and drove off.
“Has there been any news?” Felix shouted over the noise of the engine. “About Gabriel?”
“No. But all his things have been sent back. They arrived last week. There’s a letter for you.” She paused. “I’ve got everything at the cottage. Would you like to come down and have tea later?” She shot a glance at him. “I wanted to ask you something. About Gabriel.”
He could see she was about to go sad again. “Of course,” he said quickly. “About half four?”
Charis’s spirits picked up and she prattled on in what Felix recognized as her usual bright but fairly mindless way for the rest of the drive back to Stackpole. Felix dropped her at the cottage and drove on up to the house. The bare trees and the untended lawns and borders amplified the familiar depressing effect the sight of his home had on him. His mother had heard the car and came running to the front door and folded him in a powerful two-minute embrace.
They went into the hall where he greeted Cressida. A boy whose face seemed vaguely familiar took his cases up to his room. They were walking down the passageway to the inner hall when a squat figure in a dressing-gown came hurrying towards them.
“Hello, Father,” Felix said, offering his hand. “Good to see you. You’re looking well.” It wasn’t true. His father’s face was as sallow as ever, but the flesh seemed to have lost its firm rotundity and now hung from the bones. His side whiskers were long and untrimmed, his dressing-gown carelessly tied. He looked like some demented Victorian cleric, Felix thought.
His father stared at him, ignoring his proffered hand. “I know your type,” he said malevolently, “I suppose you think this is…this is some kind of health spa!” he shouted, and hurried on his way.
“What on earth is he on about?” Felix said, astonished, as his mother ushered him into the inner hall. “Is he all right?”
“He’s been terribly upset, my darling. About poor Gabriel. I think it’s to do with the nature of the wounds…you know. The bayonets seem to bother him awfully. Says he dreams about it—can’t get it out of his mind. Anyway, here we are, home again.” There was a huge fire roaring in the hearth. “Sit down, darling. Now, tell me. Are you well? What’s that dreadful sore? Don’t you think he looks a bit pale, Cressida? Darling, promise me you’re eating properly.”
Felix stepped over the eve-gate, crossed the bridge above the stream that led to the fishponds and set off through the beech wood towards the cottage. He carried a torch with him for the walk back. There was a gloomy, metallic quality to the late afternoon light and a cold wind had sprung up that made the heavy branches sway and thrash above his head.
Charis opened the door and showed him in. The small sitting room had been nicely and neatly furnished, though there were rather too many bits of brass and pewter around for Felix’s taste. There was a photograph of Gabriel in his uniform on the window ledge. Laid out along the settee as if for kit inspection were bundies of clothing, a pillow, a thermos flask, a collapsible canvas sink and other items that Felix recognized as belonging to Gabriel. The sight of these brought an unfamiliar pressure to his throat. The thought of Gabriel without these bits and pieces of his made whatever ordeal he was currently undergoing seem poignantly immediate.
“He left all this on board his troopship,” Charis said. “I’ve not, I’ve not got anything that he actually had with him.”
“I see,” Felix said.
“Do sit down,” Charis invited. Felix smiled at her. She was wearing an apple green dress with a darker green cardigan over it. She had a long string of pearls around her neck with a knot tied at the end. Her dark hair was held up loosely by a finely worked tortoiseshell comb. Felix sat down at the table on which the tea service was already laid out. Charis took a kettle from in front of the fire and set about making a pot of tea in a large silver tea pot. She held it up.
“Wedding present,” she said and gave a rueful smile.
Felix noticed a pile of letters beside her place. Presently Charis sat down and they drank their tea. Felix toasted some buns in front of the fire, which they then ate with some thick strawberry jam. They chatted inconsequentially about this and that. Felix told her he’d failed Pass Moderations in History. Charis provided details of her work with Belgian refugees. Eventually she picked up the letters.
“Have a look at these, Felix,” she said. “I don’t mind. One of them is addressed to you. They were all loose sheets. None had been posted.” She handed him the first sheet.
Felix took it. A pale blue leaf of writing paper. The letterhead said SS Homayun. The date was the twenty-first of October 1914. He read:
Dear Felix,
We are on our way! Do you remember our talks about the European war? I never thought I would be fighting on the ‘dark continent’. I’ve been at sea for weeks. We had to sit sixteen days in harbour before the convoy sailed. Life on a troopship is extremely boring but I have become quite an expert at deck quoits!
I was sorry to hear that your eyesight let you down with the OTC. Never mind! Keep trying. As the war in Europe progresses we are sure to need every ‘man jack’. I hope to see you soon. We should sort everything out here by Xmas.
Love to all at Stackpole Your affec. bro.
Gabriel Cobb.
Felix felt unaccountably moved by this bland letter. He remembered Gabriel the day before his wedding, swimming in the willow pool. Felix kept his eye off the photograph. He forced a chuckle.
“Old Gabe wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest letter writer, was he?”
Charis didn’t reply. She handed him the other sheets. Felix accepted them with sudden misgivings. He had always made a point of not thinking of Gabriel and Charis as man and wife, had never speculated on the nature of their relationship. He wasn’t sure if this invitation to share their privacy was something to be welcomed. There were a dozen sheets of paper all from the Homayun, all undated.
My darling Charis,
Our ship is still in Bombay harbour. Sorry not to have wri
tten before but if
That was all. Felix turned to the next. Darling,
How I miss you! This war
And the next, My darling darling Charissimus,
I do hope
Felix quickly riffled through the others. They were all the same. The greeting, the beginnings of a line and then blank. On one sheet the ‘g’ of darling’ had been slashed down the length of the page. “What do you think it means?” Charis asked quickly. “I wrote to him every day. I never had a single letter in reply.”
Felix felt himself stiff with embarrassment. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. He tried to be light-hearted.
“You know Gabriel. He…he probably couldn’t express himself. He may have been terribly busy. You just can’t tell.”
“But he wrote to you. Your father had a letter. Sammy Hinshelwood got a postcard from Bombay. Why couldn’t he write to me?”
“He wanted to, clearly,” Felix said. “At least he started to write. He probably wasn’t sure of—” To his alarm he saw Charis had covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. Felix made a grimace. The stupid girl; she should have spoken to his mother about this, or Cressida. He had no idea what the proper procedure was on this sort of occasion. He rose from his seat. Hesitantly he placed his hands on Charis’s shoulders. He felt them trembling and shivering beneath his palms, felt the hard line of her collar-bone on his finger-tips. Now he was close to her he smelt the same odour of rosewater that he’d noticed at the wedding.
“There, there,” he said, feeling foolish, wishing she’d stop sniffing. He noticed, almost absentmindedly, the nacreous inlay on her hair slide, the small mole in front of her right ear, the shininess of her fingernails.
“Gabriel wasn’t the most articulate of people,” he improvised. “He’d probably never given thought as to how to express his feelings—in written form,” he added. “If you’re going into battle and you’re not used to organizing your, your innermost thoughts on paper, that sort of letter can be, well…” He left the sentence unfinished. It was the best he could do at short notice.
Charis looked round at him. She wiped away a tear with a knuckle. “I’m sorry,” she said more brightly. “I’d sworn I wouldn’t cry.” She sat up. Felix removed his hands from her shoulders and wondered, absurdly, what to do with them. He shoved them in his pockets and went over to the fire.
“Thank you, Felix,” Charis said.
He spun round. “Oh. Nothing.”
“You’re right about Gabriel. That’s what I thought too. But you know how it is: you need to hear it from someone else.”
“Yes, quite.” Felix looked down at his shoes. He wanted to squirm under the assault of her sincerity and gratitude. Why on earth should he know why Gabriel couldn’t write? He couldn’t even understand why he’d married this girl.
“He was extremely fond of you. Is. Is extremely fond of you,” Charis said.
“I’d better be getting back,” he said uncomfortably. Any talk like this about him and Gabriel stirred up his emotions. He found himself suddenly wondering what it must have been like for Gabriel. A bayonet. Bayonet wounds in the abdomen…
Charis saw him to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow probably,” she said. “I’m always over for luncheon.” She put her hand on his arm. “Thanks again, Felix. I’ve been so miserable, you know. I feel a bit better tonight.”
“Ecclesiastes!” Major Cobb shouted. “Chapter six, verse eleven.” There was a rustle of paper as the assembled servants found their places in their bibles. The major stood in front of a large map of Africa. Red and black pins faced each other across the borders of British and German East.
“‘For who knoweth what is good for man in his life’,” the major called out in a clarion voice, his eyes fixed on the library ceiling. He obviously knew the text by heart. “‘All the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow’.” Here the small eyes descended and his gaze danced around the room. Felix pretended to be reading over his mother’s shoulder. “‘Spendeth as a shadow’,” the major repeated. “‘For who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun’.” As he read the last line the major’s voice got simultaneously slower, deeper and harsher. Despite himself, Felix shivered. What a horrible old man, he thought.
“He’s obsessed with this East Africa place and Gabriel,” his mother had whispered as they filed into the library for morning prayers. “He’s been like this for weeks now. He keeps reading the same lessons from Ecclesiastes and Job. The servants have complained to me, but there’s no telling him.”
“Let us pray,” commanded the major.
Afterwards Felix went out into the garden for a walk to calm himself down. He’d only been back twenty-four hours and already he felt like leaving. Thank God Amory’s exhibition wasn’t far away. He wondered how soon he could leave for London. Holland had said he should stay. Amory…
He walked down the avenue of pleached limes. They were looking a bit out of control, green twigs and new shoots springing up all over the place. He cut across the lawn towards the fishponds and met a small boy who was lugging a bucket of corn and breadcrumbs in the same direction. It was the same boy who had carried his cases up to his room when he arrived.
“Hello there,” Felix said, trying to recall his name. His face was smooth, bullet-shaped.
“I remember you,” Felix said. “You’re Cyril’s boy.”
“Thas right, sir.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Feeding the carp, sir. In the ponds.”
They walked down to the ponds together. The boy slung the grain out into the middle and almost immediately the water began to boil as the heavy fish powered up from the depths to fight for the food.
“Some big ones there, eh?” Felix said. He smiled to himself. Fuckin giants, was the way Cyril had described them. Big fuckin beggars.
“Thas right, sir,” the boy said.
“How’s your dad?” Felix asked taking out a cigarette and lighting it.
“Oh my dad’s dead, sir.”
Felix felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He dropped his cigarette and bent to pick it up. It was soaked from the dew in the grass. He threw it away.
“What happened?”
“Don’t righty know, sir. Killed in the war. For King and Country my mam says. In France, like.” He picked up the bucket and walked off back across the lawn to the kitchen.
Felix watched the big fish cruising slowly to and fro just below the surface, searching for any remaining grains.
“Hello.” He heard a voice and looked round. It was Charis. “Just been fed, have they?” She looked up at the clouds. “Not much of a day. Where’s the spring? That’s what I want to know.”
“Did you know Cyril was dead?”
“Cyril? Who’s Cyril?”
“The gardener. Chauffeur at your wedding. Used to live in your cottage.”
“Oh yes. About a month ago, I think. Um, Arras. No. Ypres, wasn’t it?”
“Why in God’s name wasn’t I told?” Felix exclaimed angrily. “He was a friend of mine.”
He saw the look of surprise on her face. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve just found out. It’s come as a shock.” He shook his head in bitter disbelief. He apologized again. “Mother should have told me. But I expect she had a lot on her mind. Poor old Cyril. God, he was excited about going.” He paused. “Is it all right if I smoke?”
Charis said yes and he lit another cigarette.
“Oh God, God,” Felix said, running his hand around the back of his neck. “Holland’s right.”
“Holland?”
“He’s a friend. You remember? I stayed with him last summer.”
“You were at school together.”
“Yes.” He turned away from the pond and they walked back up the ramp of lawn to the house. “I shall be seeing him soon, I’m glad to say. He’s asked me up to London.”
“Oh.” Charis stopped walking.
“Is there someth
ing wrong?”
“Didn’t your mother write to you? No, she couldn’t have. It’s my birthday on the twenty-ninth. She’s having a dinner party for me, perhaps a little dance.” She suddenly sounded very downcast.
“I, we, were expecting you’d be here. I think a lot of the family are coming.” She looked him directly in the eye.
“Couldn’t you postpone your visit to your friend?” she said. “Just until after the party?” She was making a direct appeal, he saw, and a personal one. She had a nerve, he thought. He felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Why were people always forcing duties on him?
“We thought,” Charis said, “that you could act as my partner. Gabriel not being—”
“I’m so sorry,” Felix said firmly. “But I can’t. I’m afraid it’s impossible for me to change my plans.”
Chapter 10
29 March 1915,
The Café Royal, London
The Domino Room at the Café Royal was full to capacity. All the seats around the marble-topped tables were occupied. The babble of conversation was deafening. The rich gilt and plaster mouldings of the ceilings and pillars were almost invisible through the swirling clouds of cigarette smoke. Condensation formed on the huge mirrors that lined the walls. A warm rug of beer, cheap perfume, wet overcoats and cigar smoke enfolded the excited patrons.
Felix leant back and puffed on his cigarette. He was trying to look extremely relaxed, but in reality he was entranced. He’d never seen so many louche women. Had never sat beside couples who embraced and caressed each other in public. Had never counted so many red lips and blackened eyes. The entire room seemed to tingle with the electric potentiality of sex.
“I can’t think where Enid is,” Holland said. “Look,” he pointed out a tall man with a bushy beard and crumpled suit. “That’s the artist chappie who’s painting her.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll turn up at Amory’s.”
“This is an extraordinary place,” Felix said. “Who are these women?”