♦
“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 something 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.”
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?”
“Oh, art students,” Holland said nonchalantly. “Models, quelques putains.”
“Lord,” breathed Felix. The night before they had been to a show at the Criterion. Coming out into Shaftesbury Avenue Holland had pointed out, one by one, all the prostitutes wandering among the crowds of theatre-goers. They had counted more than three dozen by the time they reached the underground station at Piccadilly Circus. With an air of world-weary languor Holland told him about London’s more notorious thoroughfares: the Strand and New Oxford Street commanded the highest prices, Bloomsbury and Charing Cross were distinctly less reliable, and as you went further east price and quality dwindled away to desperation level.
“Shall we go?” Holland suggested. They rose and edged their way out through the mass of bodies. After the heat and press of the Café the night air outside was deliciously cool and fresh. A fine drizzle was falling. The blackout made it hard to distinguish anything and at first all Felix was aware of was the astonishing noise of London’s traffic.