Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 8
Bases Loaded
The Senator gestured with his stick as the chauffeur piloted the large open motorcar along leafy boulevards that afforded glimpses of water through trees that were clothed in the tender green of early spring.
“All this was brackish swamp 20 years ago,” he said. “No one in the City government would do a damn thing to improve the life of the ordinary citizen. Our elected officials were only interested in lining their pockets and perpetuating vice, corruption and tenements. It was our great shame. The elections were rigged and patronage ruled. It was our progressive City Commissioners that cleaned matters up to some extent, gentlemen, both literally and figuratively; professional planners were brought in to administer the City and now we have this Park System that runs all the way from the Charles River to Franklin Park.”
They had now entered a shaded forest, which Senator Lodge said was called the Arnold Arboretum. The Senator’s mood darkened appropriately and he spoke of the need for America to take decisive action now that they were in the War. He thought Wilson was not up to the job and praised his friend, ex-President Roosevelt, whom he said embodied all the virtues he admired most and thought the country sorely needed. Stephen and Martin listened attentively for he was a good speaker and, as he continued his discourse, only his white pointed beard seemed to be animated whereas his general bearing remained still and patrician.
They emerged from the artificial world of landscaping into the more gritty streets of Boston, heading towards the golden dome of the State House, which they knew was close to their hotel. Referring to the great sombre mass of humanity from Italy, Russia, Poland and other distant places all about them, Senator Lodge launched into his other favourite topic: the need to restrict immigration. “We cannot continue to absorb such great numbers, gentlemen, not if we want to make proper Americans out of these newcomers. They must be able to read and write English. Let them cherish the memory of their old lands, but make them into Americans first! What is the point of merely perpetuating the evils of their homelands here on American soil?” He was a very impressive speaker, even in an automobile. “Ah! Here we are back at the Parker House. Stop here, Alfonso. I will see you gentlemen at Harvard this evening. Welcome again to Boston, my British friends.”
Martin and Stephen had come north to New England on their speaking tour. Upon their arrival, they had been intercepted in the ‘lobby’ of the gracious old hotel by reporters from The Globe and the Christian Science Monitor. Stephen was compelled to tell the story of his Military Cross and Martin had to explain how he came to be a baby-face colonel in the British Army. They were at pains to point out that they were not warmongers and prayed that the conflict would soon be over, but they did not know if these sentiments would make it into print.
A note had arrived from Senator Henry Cabot Lodge’s secretary to their hotel and they accepted the auto-trip with its disquisition from the distinguished citizen.
They went out to Harvard in the late afternoon. It was in the district called Cambridge, which Martin thought appropriate. They took tea with President Lowell and were conducted on a tour. Martin thought it was the most charming place he had seen in the United States. The redbrick buildings had the quiet dignity of parts of Chelsea, he thought, but the buildings and grounds were better preserved and cared for than they would have been back home where the pure lines of the eighteenth century were usually desecrated with additions and alterations from Queen Victoria’s awful reign or disfigured with advertising hoardings. None of these horrors was apparent in serene Harvard Yard.
One building that did not speak of mellow pre-Revolutionary days was the new Widener Library. Martin and Stephen thought this Greek temple in light-coloured stone was a most magnificent modern building. Professor Lowell and the Head Librarian told something of its history and of Mr Widener’s collection donated following his drowning in the Titanic. Stephen was full of praise for the completeness and efficient organization of the whole thing and could well imagine that it was indeed the largest library in the world.
Stephen asked who the architect was who had designed it and was told that it was a Mr Abele who came from Philadelphia like the late Mr Widener himself.
They were being shown various items from the Treasure Room when the Librarian, Mr Atkins, said: “But of course you have a first edition of Caxton’s Chaucer in your own library at Croome, Lord Branksome.”
“Do I?” said Martin who was just glad that he knew who the poet was.
“Why yes, your lordship, it is referred to in Kells’ wonderful catalogue of your treasures.”
“Mr Kells has written a book?”
“Indeed, sir, it’s terribly well-known in academic circles and the Chaucer first edition must be worth thousands of pounds.”
Stephen and Martin exchanged glances. Martin swallowed hard. “Could we lend you the Chaucer for display alongside your second and third editions here, Mr Atkins? Naturally I could not think of selling it (‘yet’, Martin silently added). You would have to send someone over to find it and bring it back I suppose…”
Mr Atkins was weeping and the President was comforting him. “Lord Branksome, that would be the most wonderful gesture and a great ‘draw card’ for this university. It will have to wait until after hostilities have ceased of course, we don’t want another disaster…”
“And you must not stamp the due date on the inside cover,” added Stephen trying to be humorous. He received a horrified look from the President and the librarian burst into tears again.
When Mr Atkins had recovered they went back to the President’s study where he produced some single malt whiskey and one toast was made to Lord Branksome and another to Geoffrey Chaucer.
They were to speak in the Alumni Hall in the Memorial Building, which, externally was perhaps one of the Universities less attractive structures— being a rather provincial and fussy Victorian Gothic pile—but the chamber they were led to was quite different, with a great beamed ceiling, walnut panelling, beautiful stained glass and a stencilled ceiling, reminding Martin of the Houses of Parliament.
By 6 o’clock the Hall was filled, with the majority of the assembly being young men from the University. The crowd seemed decidedly pro-British and they were enthusiastic in their applause. Martin tried to emphasises how the war was not like the conflicts of the past, but a great national effort that not only involved ‘the upper levels of society’ (he did not like to use ‘class’ in this democratic republic) from the great schools and universities—but from all strata of society, including those conscripted. Civilians were also part of the war effort with men and women toiling in munitions factories, enduring rationing, volunteering in the Red Cross and as the victims of coastal shelling and attacks from the air.
It all went well and they departed.
As they were hurriedly dressing for dinner, Carlo said: “Excuse me your lordship, but I am going to a café called ‘Green Shutters,’ tonight.”
“Yes Carlo?”
“Well you may like to go to the Café Dreyfus; both were recommended to me by my ‘soda jerk’— as they call dispensers of temperance beverages, sir. He is a native of Boston, you see.”
First there was dinner at the house of a Mr B.B. Crowinshield who, with his wife, was gracious to the visitors and terribly interested in designing racing yachts, as were many of the other distinguished Bostonians at the dinner party. The boys left at 11 o’clock and found the Café Dreyfus located within a ‘downtown’ hotel.
It was a most unusual experience, for in the upstairs room to which they were shown by a young man, Henry Dreyfus, the crowd was all men, many of them youthful college boys. They were talking together, some openly holding hands and while others had their arms about each other. When music from a small orchestra played some danced. The boys sat at a table and drank beer, trying not to stare.
“This is extraordinary, Derby,” said Martin, “Fancy being able to hold hands and kiss in front of everybody.” Stephen clutched his hand and they shared a beery kiss.
“Excuse me, but you’re Col Poole, aren’t you? And Captain Knight-Poole?” The boys looked in alarm in the direction the slightly drunken voice. “I’m Sexton, Harold Sexton, and I was at your talk tonight. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell Professor Lowell. I’m in my final year. What do you think of my friend Dreyfus’ café?”
“We have nothing like it in London, Mr Sexton, at least not in my knowledge,” said Martin.
“Why don’t the police close it down?” asked Stephen.
“Don’t know, perhaps they bribe them. Hey, here’s the Chief of Police himself!”
A nice-looking boy came over. “Hello Harry, who are your pals?” he asked giving him a kiss.
“Don’t you recognise them? They were our speakers tonight. Col Poole and Captain Knight-Poole, this is Eugene Cumming; Gene this is…?”
“Martin and Stephen,” said Stephen.
“Well, I should have remembered you, handsome, I was hard for 50 minutes looking at you- can’t remember what you said, but I’m joining the Army if they all look like you in uniform.”
They giggled at his cheek.
“You two a couple?” asked Sexton.
Stephen and Martin looked at each other. “Yes,” they said in unison.
“Well, kiss then,” said Cumming. They shared a peck.
“More beer, Ned!” called Sexton, “His lordship is paying.” Martin looked annoyed at his title being referred to, but willingly brought another round of drinks, although Sexton was already quite drunk.
Two tall women came in. No, they were…
“That’s ‘Alice’ and that’s ‘Amelia’” said Sexton. “You know what ‘drag’ is?”
Stephen and Martin replied they didn’t and, to their alarm, the two were hailed. They sashayed over and were introduced. They took off their summer furs and slung them over their chairs as they sat. They exuded an air of overpowering femininity.
“Ally, tell our visitors what drag is.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Alice in a normal masculine voice, “It is dressing in the clothes normally worn by the opposite sex—men in women’s clothes and women in men’s. We like to do it, don’t we Amelia?”
“Yes,” replied the other in a husky baritone. “It makes us feel good, although it is beyond me how Miss Alice can feel good when she looks like a scrub woman in that frock.”
“Steady on, Ally or I’ll bloody your big Irish nose.”
Alice took out a small looking glass from his bag and inspected his Hibernian hooter and decided to let the insult pass in a dignified silence.
“So you don’t think of yourself as women?” ventured Stephen, trying not to be insulting.
“No, handsome, we don’t,” said Alice. “We’re men who like to wear women’s clothes for pleasure. You’re a big boy, British are you?”
“We both are, replied Stephen, we’re visiting Boston.”
“How did you get those muscles, honey?” asked Alice.
“Well, I do a bit of boxing…”
“Boxing! That sure is swell, ’coz so do I,” exclaimed Alice, his pearls rattling. And so they fell to talking about pugilism while at the other end of the table Amelia was busy applying rouge to Martin’s lips “Not that you need it, honey, you have very kissable lips, don’t he Cumming?”
“Yes he do and are you broken down old broads going to buy a round of beer?” said Eugene Cumming.
“No more for Miss Amelia,” called out Alice from the other end. She belches and farts something terrible. It’s no wonder your wife left you.”
Stephen and Martin swivelled to look at Amelia. “Yes, it’s true,” he confessed readily. “I was married until a year ago. She ran off with the man from the New England Mutual Life.”
There was much good-natured banter and Martin and Stephen enjoyed a dignified dance with Amelia and Alice respectively. More beer was brought to the table by the waiter, Ned. Eugene Cumming then asked Stephen to dance. He didn’t want to but he did so out of politeness. He saw that Sexton was leaning over Martin. He held Martin’s head and kissed him. He didn’t like the look of it. He left the dance floor and returned to the table. Martin looked uncomfortable. “Do you want to go Mala?” Martin nodded.
“Hey, what’s you’re hurry, Steve. Can’t you see he wants to stay and have some fun? Don’t you, Marty?”
“No, I’m tired and we have a talk tomorrow.”
“You’re just saying that, stay here for a bit.” He grabbed Martin’s arm as he rose.
“Get your hand off him, Sexton. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to stay?”
“Who asked…” Sexton never got to finish the sentence because Stephen punched him in the stomach. He collapsed, the air knocked out of him.
“I’m sorry everybody,” said Stephen, putting some money on the table. Harry Dreyfus came over. “We’re just going Mr Dreyfus. You have a very interesting café.”
“Sorry Mala, I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I didn’t like the look of him.”
“No, neither did I— not after he had all that beer in him. Thanks for looking after me.”
“We’re a couple; we look after each other. That was an interesting night, wasn’t it?”
“It was that, Derby.”
“Perhaps wipe off the rouge before we go back to the Parker House, Mala. That colour makes you look cheap.”
*****
The train rattled over a high viaduct made of spidery iron girders. It was terribly long and had Martin looked out of the window, he would have had the impression the train was plunging through thin air. Someone in the club car was informing another businessman that this was the Poughkeepsie Bridge and Martin, half-listening, rather liked the sound of the name. He was tired and a still a little upset. Their last speaking engagement in Boston had been to a hostile crowd of ‘Irish-Americans’ who had been whipped up by a dreadful little man, Mayor Curley, who was supposed to be their host. Curley was clearly a favourite with the crowd and was famous for having been in prison, like his Irish-born father, and for giving handouts to the poor in his ward in return for their loyalty. He proudly told Martin and Stephen that the miserable wretches were lined up outside his house every morning and he never turned anybody away.
Thus it was not surprising that the questions and indeed the rude interjections were all about the troubles in Ireland and there was not much asked about the War at all. Stephen simply did not answer or respond to some of the things said, saying that he’d never been to Ireland. Martin could not say the same truthfully because he had been on a holiday once when he was a little boy.
Many in the crowd were convinced that British troops—and possibly American troops— would be turned on the Irish when the Germans were defeated. Martin at one point tried to be reasonable and said that “I hope that there can be peace for all in Ireland” and that he deplored heavy-handed action by the authorities as did most British people.”
“Heavy handed ya calls it?” squealed one little man, “Shootin’ down women and children in ta street o’Dublin like dogs is mudder. There’ll be no peace till all the English are driven into the Irish Sea.”
His friend jumped up and recounted the story of a family that Martin happened to know who had their house burnt down in 1916 in reprisal for the poor treatment of their tenant farmers.
“But they are Irish too,” responded Martin. “I know for a fact that they have lived in Waterford since 1590.”
“No, Colonel, they are not true Irish,” shouted the man, “even though they might know a few words of Gaelic. They are Protestant English and can never be true Irishmen!”
“But many of you are members of the Hibernian Society and you call yourself Irish-Americans. You’re still loyal Americans, I’m sure.”
There was a rumble from the crowd. “That’s totally diff’rent, ya idjut!”
Mayor Curley who was enjoying this immensely used the hiatus to call an end to proceedings. He shook the boys’ hands with mock bonhomie and said, “Don’t worry, they will enlist. They love a good fight and I dare say they don’t like the Germans much either.” There was scarcely any applause when they stepped down from the stage, but at least they had not been shot at.
*****
Their new hotel made Martin feel immediately better. He decided he liked American Hotels very well indeed. Their suite at the enormous Bellevue Stratford was on the 12th floor and looked down on the narrow streets of Philadelphia, which were lined with buildings nearly as impressive as those of New York. “The other cities of the country must always compare themselves with New York,” observed Stephen, “it isn’t really fair.” The sideways view down Broad Street was interrupted by an ornate Town Hall with an enormous tower, curiously topped by an over-sized statue. “I suppose that’s George Washington or Charley Chaplin,” he continued.
“No it’s William Penn, the Quaker who founded this city of ‘brotherly love’,” said Martin who had a guidebook open on the bed. “His nose is a foot long. Which reminds me, could we spend the afternoon here in bed, I’m feeling awfully frisky? What time is our next engagement, Carlo, and where are you sleeping?”
Carlo consulted their diary and said: “8:30 this evening at the Union League of Philadelphia, your lordship, and I have a room through here,” he said indicating a door that Martin had thought led to a ‘closet’.
“Will you wake us at 3:00? And could you find out where the Hotel Lorraine is? I sent a telegram to The Plunger’s parents inviting ourselves to tea. That’s apparently where they’re living. They seem to have forgotten about poor Plunger on the other side of the Atlantic.” Carlo left, determined to do some sightseeing.
“Derby, you get into bed first.”
“Why Mala?”
“Because I always get a thrill climbing in next to you. It’s the same thrill that I got, that first time—you remember—in your little attic bedroom at your cottage. Go on.”
Stephen obliged and his clothes quickly became an untidy pool on the floor while Martin turned his back. When Stephen was in bed, Martin spun around and looked at him, sitting up, bare-chested with his hair untidy. He removed his own clothes, leaving them for Carlo to sort out, and lifted the bedclothes enough to slide in on the cool sheets. He felt his own leg rub against the masculine hair on Stephen’s strong thighs. Then he leaned in and ran his hand over Stephen’s chest and flat, muscular stomach. “Enjoying that?” Stephen asked. Martin didn’t reply but simply put his head beneath the covers and kissed Stephen on the soft hair that led downwards from his navel.
He came up for air and said: “Next time, I want it heart-shaped again. I liked that the best. I don’t want to be reminded of the War when I suck you. And could you get all sweaty for me later? I like you when you’re dripping.” Martin made for Stephen’s armpits with their silky black curls.
“I think I can get sweaty right now, Mala. You’re getting me very hard.”
*****
It was later in the afternoon when they were still in bed, sleep having been foregone, that Martin said: “You know when that idiot Sexton asked us if we were a couple, Derby?”
“Yes,” said Stephen who was holding him in his strong arms.
“Well, I really enjoyed telling him we were.”
“So did I, Mala; more than I can say.”
“That’s nice Derbs. You know if we are a couple I should make a will and so should you. I’d like to leave you Croome and a title, but you know that is beyond my power. I can leave you money and things; it’s terribly unfair.”
“Well, I can’t leave you anything except the money that William left me.”
“As long as you leave me feeling satisfied and a little sore, I only want your love, Derby.”
“You were very generous in lending that book to Harvard University,” said Stephen, wishing to change the subject away from death.
“It’s only an old book. How valuable can it really be? Americans are always exaggerating the price of things. I think there is another one there by this fellow Caxton, I remember, called ‘Golden Legend’— my mother used to read bits of it to me. It was all nonsense about the lives of the saints and miracles. It was fun, but I don’t believe in miracles. When The Plunger said it was a miracle you weren’t killed in France, I thought, well, is it a miracle that ‘Jelly’ Tremblay— he was a prefect at school—was shot by a sniper on his very first day at Gallipoli? Or that poor Douglas was killed and Reuben wasn’t? We put ourselves at the centre of the universe and see everything in relationship to ourselves. It’s a form of arrogance, don’t you think?”
Stephen was forced to agree and found that the conversation had come around to death again. “We shall do our wills when we get back to England. I love you, Mala.”
“And I love you Derbs, especially a new part of you that is my current favourite: it’s just where the top of your thighs joins your bottom—well it’s actually two places—I find it strangely attractive.”
Stephen rolled over on his stomach and Martin admired the aforementioned location, tracing with his finger where the line of dark hair on his muscular thighs met the arid zone on his solid buttocks where none grew. He was just kissing these conjunctions of anatomy when Carlo tapped and walked in, “its 3 o’clock your lordship.”
“Thank you, Carlo. Isn’t Mr Stephen beautiful?”
“I believe it has been mentioned before, sir.”
“We’re out of Spong’s Carlo, were you able to buy some more?”
“I’m afraid it does not seem to be sold in America, sir. But I was able to buy this.” Carlo came over to the bed and Stephen rolled over and sat up to look at the tube Carlo produced from a pale blue box.
Martin took it and read: Ee-zo: Columbian Unguent for Ready Relief. Tutti Fruti Flavour. Lincoln Lubricating Company Kalamazoo Mich. Buy US War Bonds.
“Do you think it’s any good, Carlo?”
“I couldn’t say, your lordship, I haven’t tried that flavour.”
“Pity we can’t try it out now; Mr Stephen is worn out and we have to go and see the Craigths. Is their hotel far away, Carlo?”
“It’s about a mile-and-a-half away and it is uphill, but if you were to take a taxi and I don’t think Mr Stephen is quite worn out, sir.” And sure enough, Stephen was stirring.
Thus the American product was liberally applied (as per the directions on the box) and both Martin and Carlo pronounced it to be a great success and determined to try the pecan flavour next—although they were unsure what that was—but both had to confess that they liked Stephen’s flavour the best of all, but as yet, that was not bottled.
The boys were only about a quarter of an hour late when they drew up at the Hotel Lorraine, which they had to admit was the ugliest building in the city. Nevertheless Sir Gordon had taken the whole of what Americans described as the sixth floor on the south side of the building where they had settled comfortably with their chef, valet and lady’s maid.
Lady Eudora had not heard from Archie for some weeks and so Martin and Stephen were able to tell her that they had left him well and in London at Branksome House now that he was removed from the Ritz.”
“We would like to go back,” said Lady Eudora, “but it is so frightfully hard to get a decent passage with all the troops going across—although I know we mustn’t complain at that of course.”
“I have business to attend to; Lord Branksome,” added Sir Gordon, “And I might tell you that I’m now a big supporter of Lloyd George. He will win the war for us, but I’m agin’ those who want tariffs. Restrictions on imported grain will ruin brewing. I can tell you.”
“On another note,” interrupted Lady Eudora who did not like the mention of beer, “We have had some happy news which concerns you, Lord Branksome.”
“Me, Lady Eudora?”
“Yes, Jean, Archibald’s sister, has announced her engagement to your cousin, Antony Vane-Gillingham. Apparently they met out there in Basra. Exotic isn’t it? They won’t get married until after this war is over—and let’s pray that it will be over by the end of the year. Apparently he is a fine young man.” Martin nodded, “And tell me again how he is related to you?”
“Well,” began Martin, looking up at the ceiling for prompts, “his mother, Maude, was my mother’s sister. Their name was Whymondham (which he pronounced as ‘Wind-am’) and her mother was a von Oettingen-Taxis, a distinguished German family. Aunt Maude married Lord Roger Vane-Gillingham who died some years ago and he was the second—no—third son of the Earl of Teme. He’s long dead, of course and so is the eldest son—died in Burma.”
“Does, Antony and his dear sister…”
“Sophia”
“Sophia have any cousins on that side?”
“Four.” Lady Eudora’ face fell. “The daughter had three daughters and a son.”
Lady Eudora’s spirits rallied. “Go on,” she said.
“The one who died in Burma had been engaged but he died before they could wed. The second one, Lord Ludlow, now the Earl, is married, but has no children. They are both old now, sixty I should think. I haven’t seen them since I was a boy.”
“So Antony is the heir?” Lady Eudora’s mind was a steel trap.
“I suppose so, but there’s no money, Lady Eudora. The father lost it all gambling. There’s only a ruined castle somewhere in Shropshire.”
“Lord Martin, I am not so shallow as to think that money is important. But I must confess the romance of a ruined castle (and a ruined earl) is music to the ears of a Philadelphia girl where castles, as you will have noticed from the train, are very few and far between. And if my daughter should one day be a countess…well, no one could be happier than I, even if they have to eat beans from a can.”
Meanwhile Stephen had been talking sport to Sir Gordon and the baronet expressed an interest in baseball, which made Stephen very curious by the time that tea was laid.
“You must miss your Austrian pastry chef, Lady Eudora,” said Martin.
“I sure do, Lord Branksome—‘cousin Martin’,” she ventured with a giggle, “but I had him interred as an enemy alien. He was a fine chef, but I could never touch his Sachertorte after August 1914 for fear it was poisoned.”
“I might have been murdered at my own tea table by that Hun, Lord Branksome,” interjected Sir Gordon.”
“Assassinated, Gordon; only common people are murdered,” corrected his wife. “We were paying him wages for nothing so, we made a personal sacrifice. This war touches us all.”
*****
The Union League was a large old building opposite their hotel and was gained by a pair of curving steps from the footpath. They were welcomed by a Mr Harrison who promptly invited them to dine at his house in a suburb after they had spoken.
They were shown into the elegant room where chairs were being laid out by the coloured club servants in preparation for their talk. They repaired to the smoking room where our ‘British visitors’ or ‘Our visiting war heroes’ were shown off. Mr Harrison seemed to derive his wealth from sugar refining and they met a Mr Widener who seems to have made his money from ‘streetcars’. “We greatly admired your family’s library at Harvard just two days ago, sir,” said Stephen.
“I am going to lend them a book they don’t have from my family’s library at Croome,” added Martin.
“Well, that is very generous of you, your lordship, but I can’t imagine there would be many books they don’t have already.”
“Yes I would have thought that too. In fact they have got it, but not a first printing. It is a work by Godfrey Chaucer.”
“You don’t mean Geoffrey Chaucer who wrote the Canterbury Tales?” asked Widener, in amazement.
“Yes, I meant Geoffrey, of course. Yes, that’s it. Printed by Caxton in 14 something.”
“Well that is a fine thing. I do hope you can lunch with my wife, Ella, and I tomorrow at Lynnewood Hall? It’s in Elkin’s Park in Montgomery County, not far out of the City.”
Stephen and Martin looked at each other and nodded. “Thank you sir, I only wish we had four mouths and four stomach to do justice to the many kind invitations we have received since being in the United States,” said Stephen. “We’ve quite forgot the rationing at home.”
The boys were next introduced to a Mr Baker who was a former police commissioner in New York but was now the owner of the local baseball team. “These gentlemen have never seen a game, Baker,” said Harrison. “Any chance of getting these soldiers tickets for Friday?”
Martin and Stephen made polite noises, demurring from asking such a favour, but secretly hoping it would be granted. “I have a club to run, Harrison, we have to make a profit. I just can’t give tickets away to every Tom, Dick and Harry.”
“Oh we would pay for the tickets, sir,” said Martin, going bright red and thinking him terribly rude.
“Well that’s different, then. I’ve got books to balance you see…” he said, as he withdrew a bundle of tickets from his pocket and counted off two. “That will be two dollars, gentlemen.”
Martin peeled two notes from his wallet. “May I buy you a drink, Mr Baker? Am I allowed to buy drinks in your club Mr Harrison?”
“No you may not your lordship; but I may. Whiskey Baker?”
“Yes, a double, Harrison.”
“Gentlemen?”
“Oh, beer for us, soldiers,” said Stephen.
Aided by the beer, the boys spoke well at the largely sympathetic gathering of Philadelphia’s well-to-do. Many were clearly Anglophiles, but the democratic traditions of the United States ran strong in Philadelphia and some, even a couple who had been to England, insisted that the British government was personally directed by the whim of the sovereign.
“But George V can’t declare war, sir, not like your President Wilson,” explained Martin in some exasperation. “It is the decision of the Prime Minister and his cabinet who are all drawn from elected members of Parliament. Only recently Mr Asquith lost the majority of support and was replaced by Mr Lloyd George who enjoyed the confidence of the majority and both of them came from ordinary middle class backgrounds, sir.” The skeptics were polite, but not convinced; to them George III was still on the throne.
Mr Harrison’s opulent motorcar swept the boys out to Grey Towers. Lady Eudora had been wrong; there were castles in Pennsylvania and this was a splendid one with none of the traditional disadvantages. The Great Hall rose three stories to a dome and on the landing was a music room, much the same as the ballroom at Branksome House, but on a vaster scale. There were tapestries, statuary, painted ceilings and a salon lined with French mirrors. There was far too much to take in, but their host and Mrs Harrison were charming, although they asked not a single question about Croome which was some four hundred years older than Grey Towers which was a mere infant at fifteen. It was, however, lovely to see their enthusiasm for their own castle and the central heating, electric light and the lift were conveniences the Elizabethans would have surely included if they could have.
Supper followed an organ recital and then Mr Harrison’s chauffeur took them back to the Bellevue-Stafford.
The next morning Stephen and Martin went shopping at Wanamakers, which they thought a very fine establishment. They went to the sporting goods department and saw the latest jockey’s straps made by the Bike Company of Boston and bought two black ones. Then they decided that they made excellent presents, so bought six more.
Lunch at Lynwood Hall with the Widener family was as surprising as the dinner the previous evening. The house could have been plucked right of Eighteenth Century England. “For a people who hate Georgian England so much, they are certainly enthralled by it,” whispered Martin to Stephen. The house had an academically correct classical front over 300 feet long and, with outbuildings; they were informed that there were 110 rooms— possibly more than at Croome, thought Martin, now that the south wing was a ruin. There was a very fine collection of paintings. “We open the house to the public over the summer,” said Mr Joseph Widener.
“Could we do that at Croome, Stephen?”
“Who would come to see it? We’re a long way from London. I doubt the locals would want to spend a shilling. Who was this architect, Mr Widener? Was it the same man, Abele, who did the library—there is a similarity?”
“Yes, he works at Trumbauer’s here in Philadelphia. He’s their chief designer. They also designed Grey Towers where I believe you dined with the Harrisons last night.”
“I would love to meet him,” said Stephen.
“He is a coloured man, Captain, and your social circles are not likely to intersect.”
Stephen was shocked. “Are there many coloured professionals, Mr Widener?”
“Almost none, but he comes from an old family and that counts for much in this city. He was educated by the Quakers and was the only coloured architectural student at Pennsylvania University. And he married a white woman—a Frenchwoman— and I can tell you that would not be possible in states further south. Julian Abele is a most remarkable man, black or white. Perhaps Philadelphia is a bit remarkable too.”
Lunch with the son and married daughter who lived in another splendid house on the estate was very pleasant. There was a tour of the lavish stables and Martin was keen to ride over the 30 acres or so of the attractive countryside within the walls, however they had a speaking engagement and so excused themselves.
Their next talk was in a large hall in the downtown area. Unlike the previous evening, this one saw a wide cross-section of the city represented, even drawing naval recruits from a depot at the confluence of the two rivers upon which the city was situated. As Martin knew that many in the audience would be Quakers, opposed to fighting, he stressed the work that could be done in the ambulance corps and for the civilian Red Cross. Stephen was alarmed that the United States was so ill prepared for war and that matters were still organised on a state by state basis—with Pennsylvania’s main barracks at Carlisle having been closed for some years and turned into a school for Indian children. Some soldiers had come up all the way from Georgia. These misgivings he kept to himself. As usual, Stephen was asked about his medal and Martin was asked how an aristocrat became a baby colonel. When they had finished, the recruiting sergeant took over and many men stepped forward.
*****
That night, a crash awakened Stephen. He arose and found that Carlo was having a nightmare and had knocked over a jug of ice water that American hotels habitually provided. The valet was so upset he could not speak for several minutes. “I was back in that trench that collapsed,” he heaved, “the one where his lordship was with us. I was trying to claw at the earth but I couldn’t and the noise…” he sobbed for a minute as Stephen had his arm around him. There was little he could say. Carlo looked up at him with frightened eyes and Stephen spread his legs and Carlo pressed his face to his lap, holding his hands over his ears in an effort to silence the guns of war.
*****
The following day, their last in the city, they went out to the ‘ball park’ by the streetcar. The field was behind a brick wall punctuated by turnstiles. Nearby, however, there was a curious enclosure containing two ewes and a ram. They were looking at this rural sight in the middle of the town when the man behind them in the queue said: “You know what they are pal?” Martin ventured that they might be mascots of the Phillies. “Huh, ya kidding me, right? Baker has ’em to cut the grass. Too mean to buy the team a mowing machine.” He spat disgustedly against the brick wall of the ‘Baker Bowl’.
Presently they were inside the stadium and looking for their box. The facilities were adequate, but not what they expected and certainly nothing like Lord’s. However this was a small consideration when compared against the general razzmatazz of proceedings. There was a brass band, food vendors who walked up and down the aisles, flags, buntings and man calling out incomprehensible things through a megaphone. The crowd, while not actually riotous, was exuberant and became more so as the day wore on. The local team was called the Phillies and wore red and white stripes. They were playing a team from Brooklyn who bore the rather limp name, ‘The Robbins.’
The lack of green turf and the odd shape of the playing surface were contrasts to the sports that the boys were familiar with. Fortunately a man and his son sitting next to Martin were endlessly helpful in explaining things, through cigar smoke, although Martin tried his best to work out what was going on himself. When the man became excited he would slap Martin painfully in the thigh or clap him on the back, dislodging his straw masher and spilling ash on his suit. The son gave him a stick of chewing gum. Martin thought it very nice at first, but then his jaws became tired and then there was the problem of disposing of the used sweet.
The man explained that the Phillies (for whom he ‘rooted’) had had two successful seasons, winning something called the World Series in 1915 and coming second last year. “In what other parts of the world is the series played?” asked Martin.
“Naw, ya chump,” said the man, good-naturedly. “It’s the name of the noispaper that sponsors it—the Noo Yoik Woild!”
Martin was surprised at how swiftly the batting and pitching swapped each inning, but it afforded plenty of opportunities for eating ice-cream and peanuts. There was another sweet that was offered by the man next-door. It was a mixture of nuts and cooked maize covered with caramel. “It’s ‘Cracker Jack’; the more you eat, the more you want,” he said.
The Robbins batted first and were soon in the lead at the “top of second,” said the man. “That’s old Pete pitching,” said Martin, repeating what he had learned, to Stephen who was drinking lemonade. “His real name is Alexander and he has a very low average—like runs off your bowling, Derbs.”
“Try some of this, Mala.” He passed his bottle of the black-coloured beverage to Martin who took a sip. “It’s very sweet, Derbs,” he said, pulling a face.
The Phillies batted well and the score was two “in the bottom of the third.” The centre fielder, Dode Paskert, was an excellent batter. By the fifth inning The Robbins had added two runs with their man called ‘Bunny’ causing a lot of damage. There was a tie at three all.
Stephen signalled to a boy with a box held in front of him by a strap. “Two hot dogs, please.”
“Huh?’
“Two dogs, mustard, Buddy!”
The bread rolls containing the boiled saveloys were passed down the row to where the boys were sitting and the coins were passed from hand to hand up the row to the aisle. They were horrible, but the boys were hungry.
The game resumed and the Phillies added another run in the eighth taking the lead. At the end of the ninth inning there was a general rejoicing. The band played and pennants were waved in triumph. The crowd rose and streamed to the gates. Martin said goodbye to the man and expressed the hope that he might see a cricket match one day. “What’s that, Mac?” was all he said and shoved the stump of his cigar between his teeth.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 03/07/14