Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 12
Le Bijou
Stephen was trying to distract Martin. He tried to interest him in the doings of village cricket team from which he was granted a leave of absence if he promised to be back for the match against old rivals Holes. Even this thrilling topic did nothing to help. He tried to talk about the funny things that happened at school and how Christopher had unsuccessfully tried to smuggle a girl back to his room and only narrowly avoided being caught by Mrs Leybourne by hiding the poor girl amongst the washing on the line in the backyard.
There was a pile of magazines between them in the carriage and Stephen was just about to open them again when Martin spoke: “I know it’s silly Derbs, but I can’t help but think of poor papa. It must have been somewhere near here that it happened and it is just a year ago.”
Not caring that there were other people in the dining car, he reached over and gave Martin’s hand a squeeze.
It was high summer and the boys were off to Antibes to see, for the first time, the old shop that was now the property of Stephen. They wore their travelling clothes, but they had packed their fishermen’s outfits as for working because they would be virtually camping out. They weren’t even sure that they’d be able to sleep in the derelict building. However their meagre personal luggage was supplemented by a large trunk containing things they thought they might need for their new house.
The magazines before them contained items of more than usual interest. ‘Country Life’ had the most wonderful spread on the cottages on the Croome estate with their picturesque new bathrooms and it was accompanied by an advertisement for the Crittall Company and one for the company supplying the kitchen ranges. There was an especially charming picture of a thatched roof that overhung the side street at the end of a row. On the wall of the house was painted the Poole coat of arms and beneath it stood a bench for the comfort of the idle villagers, a rustic having been carefully positioned to demonstrate this facility. The article praised the Poole family for its enlightened attitude, but unfortunately no mention was made of Stephen.
Stephen had indeed been reluctant to come to France at all because it was during the warmer months that Mr Moss had put their careful plan to quickly construct a large number of bathrooms into full swing—an ambitious target of a further 28 pairs. There had to be a perfect coordination of tradesmen and construction, especially with the pouring of the concrete floors over tarred paper. More pairs were to have shingle tile roofs because, although the reeds for the thatching were locally sourced, there was a shortage of skilled thatchers. There were several other adjustments made to the designs to make them more practical and to bring down costs. A large firm of architects even paid 200 pounds if they might use Stephen’s design elsewhere, although there was no copyright to them. Martin insisted that this money should be Stephen’s. Their erstwhile advisor, John Monash (as he now spelt his name on becoming a Lt Colonel in the Australian army) had referred to the Croome project in an article on military engineering techniques.
‘The London Illustrated News’ carried many pages on His Majesty’s coronation and in one of them, with the aid of a magnifying glass, the faces of Titus Knight, Stephen and Miss Tadrew could be glimpsed watching the procession from an open upper window in Piccadilly. Knight had had a marvellous outing and, like Stephen, had been keen to ride on the Underground. He also went to the zoo and the Tower. Martin found the ceremony spectacular but could actually see little and hear even less from his position in the Abbey.
‘The Studio Magazine’ contained a single photograph under the heading “Studio Talk (spelled ‘Stvdio Talk’) with the caption ‘Schoolboy’s Advanced Sanctum.’ The photograph showed a folding screen decorated with brightly coloured and crudely-painted lumpy nudes with big hands and feet; some pink ones were vaguely European and intent on pouring water from vessels; others were decidedly brown Moors who were engaged in picking fruits. Nearby, the chair for the desk and the curtains were all busy with brightly abstracted leaves and squiggles. The scholar apparently did his prep by the light of a pair of tall candles with shades, the reader was told, decorated by a Mr Wyndham Lewis. Further reading disclosed that this was none other than the bedroom of the Hon. Archibald Craigth and was an instance typical of the modern movement that was sweeping British public schools.
*****
As the mauve evening skies of France deepened into purple outside the window of their compartment, Martin lay with his head on Stephen’s shoulder. He was feeling better and was quite sleepy. Stephen kept looking down at his beautiful face with its full lips and feeling how muscular and hardened his young body had become.
Martin was drowsily reflecting on how little time they actually spent together and how these next few weeks alone would be a test of their relationship. Stephen was thinking along these lines too and how unbearably he missed his Mala during the long weeks of term time. He voiced this and also told Martin how worried he was about his friend Christopher Tarrant and related the following…
Stephen had ached for Martin so greatly one night, finding the pillow no substitute for flesh and blood, he got out of bed and quietly knocked at Christopher’s door. Chris told him to come in and Stephen admitted that he was feeling very depressed and asked if they might talk, even though it wasn’t a Wednesday. Christopher pulled back the covers and told the naked Stephen to get in, ‘before your balls freeze.’
“Why are you wearing those?” asked Stephen, pointing with contempt to Christopher’s pair of striped flannelette pyjamas, tied with a cord.
“I was cold,” replied Christopher.
“Well, you won’t be cold with me in there.”
“And there’s another reason: if I wear them I won’t feel like touching myself and I feel like doing that too much.”
“But I thought we’d been through all that. You don’t mind touching yourself on Wednesday nights?”
“No, when I’m with you it’s different: I don’t feel that it is wrong; but when I’m by myself I can’t help but think I should try to stop. I lay here and think of what my father said when I was at home.”
Stephen felt exasperated, almost angry, but simply said: “What did your father say?”
“Well, he called me into his study and asked me if I’d been having impure thoughts and had been touching myself. I told him that I had.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “He told me that he loved me and wanted me to lead a clean life and be a model to my younger brothers. And he does love me, Stephen, he’s really a very good father and I do love him, honestly. He had found one of my postcards and he showed it to me—it was the one of the two blonde ladies.’
“The ones walking their poodles?”
“No, the ones marooned with the sailors. He said it was disgusting and that he was disappointed that I didn’t have the strength to resist temptation and that I wouldn’t grow up to be the sort of man who would make a good husband to a girl like my mother. I felt very shaken, I tell you, because my mother is a wonderful mother and I kept thinking of what I had done with Miss Evelyn, and particularly with Miss Constance.”
Stephen was nearly going to ask for details, but saw that Chris was upset. Instead he said: “You are a fine person, Chris, and you’ll make any lucky girl a good husband or lover. It is your father who is wrong, I’m afraid. Don’t you think he did the same things you are doing when he was your age?”
“Oh no!” said Christopher, aghast, “He would never have done those things. That was a hundred years ago, in Queen Victoria’s day. He spent all his time studying to be a doctor and helping grandfather on his farm. He played rugger and sang in the choir. I can’t imagine he would have had the dirty thoughts that I have all the time.”
“Well, you’re here and you have your brothers and a sister.”
“Oh Stephen, don’t even say such things!”
“Sorry Chris, but it’s just too much to believe that our generation invented it. I wish I could prove to you that your father is normal just like you. You should ask him.”
“Ask him that?” Chris almost screamed. “I could never do that. I’d die!” Suddenly an idea struck him: “I could ask my uncle though; he’s father’s younger brother and is a farmer. I always feel I can talk to Uncle Samuel about anything, if I approach it right.”
“Well that’s your homework then. Find out in the holidays and try to stop worrying.”
Chris lay back and thought about the problem. Always Stephen made him feel it was perfectly all right, even having Martin as his sweetheart. He respected Stephen, he realised, as much as he respected his own father and that was troublesome. The comforting warmth of Stephen’s body made him relaxed and drowsy. In fact he was becoming too hot and, with Stephen’s help he removed the pyjamas and Stephen flung them across the room.
Stephen too felt the comfort of the other body. He lay with his big arms clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “I love Mala more than I ever thought could be possible, Chris. It’s not just his body— though hasn’t he got a beautiful body? It is him I love. I love how sweet and kind he is. He’s also very funny. He knows a lot about things that I don’t know about—like how to act and behave in the outside world—but he’s also a good teacher. He’d make a good teacher. I’m so lucky. I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”
Chris made no reply, other than a gentle snore.
Just before dawn Stephen awoke, surprised that he was not in his own room. What had woken him? He felt down on his stomach; it was covered in warm seed, but it was not his own. He looked at Chris, who was snuggled against him, half awake. “Nice dream, Chris?”
It took the boy a few moments to realise what had happened. “Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry. I could just kill myself.” He was red with shame and embarrassment and was almost crying.
“No Chris, it feels nice. I’m really proud of you; it was a big load,” he said, scooping up some to taste. “What were you dreaming about?” Christopher couldn’t exactly remember; there might have been French girls with poodles doing things to him but there was also his father in a navel uniform. It was all rather mixed up.
“How did it feel then, Chris? Can you recall the feel?”
The feeling was still strong even after the images had melted quickly away like snow. “It felt wonderful. I felt so free and so…I don’t know…powerful?”
“Potent?”
“Yes, I suppose so”
“Did it feel wrong Chris?”
“No, it didn’t feel wrong at all!”
“Mala,” said Stephen, nearly the end of his tale, “I got a letter from Tarrant just before we left. Reading between the lines, I think he talked to his uncle. He writes: ‘Uncle Samuel said my father taught him a lot and that a housemaid was asked to leave when my father was 18.’
“Mala,” continued Stephen after a pause, “would you still love me if I wasn’t so good—I mean— supposing I looked like your friend Custard and I had a little cock, would you still love me?”
“What a question!” said Martin, “Of course I would love you and I would think you beautiful no matter what you looked like. But I’m glad your cock isn’t any bigger all the same. It’s not as big as your head. Would you love me if I wasn’t a member of the aristocracy and had awful spots, dark hair and sniffed?”
“Oh Mala, if you weren’t a lord it would be even easier; of course I would love you, but I can’t imagine what you would be like if you didn’t look like you. That day when I was chopping the log I thought you looked beautiful —all golden and shining—but now it’s different. It’s you I love and miss in the middle of the night. I can’t put my finger on it. Just don’t go bald just yet, although if you had ginger hair like The Plunger…”
Martin put an end to this metaphysical speculation with a very un-hypothetical real kiss and asked if they could try and fit into the same sleeping berth.
It was early morning when the carriage bearing Stephen and Martin followed at a distance by the cart bearing the trunk and suitcases arrived in the narrow old street in Antibes. Before they could do anything the patron, M. de Blazon, and his wife who had been washing down the pavement rushed across to them. There was a voluble exhalation of delight in Provencale and much kissing from both of them. Clearly secrets were not kept in this town. Before they even employed the key they had to sit down there and then and coffee and pastries were produced. The boys were hungry but had to stifle their desire to see the old shop while they listened to the history of the building as narrated from the patronne. Apparently it was owned by her brother-in- law or his father (the boys couldn’t be quite sure) and had been empty for a long time and it was now sold to the relief of the family, and thus Martin and Stephen’s acquisition of the valuable property was greeted with enthusiasm by all. Martin tried to explain that it was Stephen’s house but there was some confusion concerning Stephen’s surname and they both addressed him as ‘Sir Stephen’ or, more readily, as “Sir Etienne” which amused Martin no end.
The newly minted Etienne explained that the shop was to be converted to a house and the de Blezons looked pleased and offered all sorts of help, mainly from relatives who were marvellously skilled in every trade. Martin asked for directions to the Mairie as Stephen needed to have some papers signed as the house was in his guardian’s name.
At last they were free to go alone to their new abode. Even from the outside they could see that the shop window had been smashed and boarded up roughly and the narrow pair of doors at the top of the steps from the street had not seen a paintbrush for many years. When they pushed the doors open they found themselves in a large room with a beamed ceiling. It had obviously once been two rooms, but the front and back had been opened out with only vestigial stone abutments remaining and another massive beam had been inserted to hold up the ceiling, which sagged rather elegantly. There were spiders’ webs and thick dusty everywhere. It was not possible to judge what the old timber floor was like.
In the back wall there was a large hole where the stones had crumbled and a pleasantly cool breeze could be felt passing between this and the shattered shop window. A smaller window and a pair of Dutch doors gave onto a raised terrace whose stones were in poor order. However this looked out over an immaculate walled garden. “This must be where M. de Blezon grows his vegetables, Mala, isn’t it beautiful?” said Stephen. Indeed it was: there were neat rows of greens and ancient olive trees and some lavender bushes. There was also a good deal of rubbish lying about, including an enormous old bathtub filled with manure and there was an old stone well in the centre. A rather grim privy stood at the end of the garden dangerously close to some beehives.
“Oh Stephen, this is beautiful!” Exclaimed Martin. “Who would want flowers when parsley and tomatoes look so decorative? Look at that lemon tree and the trunk on that olive!”
“I will let M. de Blezon keep this garden,” said Stephen, making the first of many decisions that day.
They tore themselves away from the garden, noting that a pergola made from saplings and a grapevine would be an improvement to the terrace. The main room had a wooden sink and a pump, but there was no stove or fireplace.
Along one wall stood a timber staircase. It had some loose risers and treads, but it took the boys’ weight. It ran directly up to a landing. The first room was the one with the balcony over the street and it had obviously been a bedroom. Behind it was a smaller room with no windows, only a skylight. The third room overlooked the rear garden. When they pushed the door open there was a fluttering of wings for it was open to the sky in one corner and the ceiling had collapsed. The floor was covered in bird droppings. It was a depressing sight and so they pulled the door to again.
“How do we get to the cellar?” asked Martin as they gingerly descended. A door was found at the bottom of the steps from the terrace and it was unlocked to reveal a large room nearly as big as the ground floor. It was dark and cool, but dry. A boarded up window and door that was stuck fast gave onto the side street as the land sloped.
“This must have been where they stored the wine,” said Stephen. However Martin said that the racks built into the stone wall at one end did not look like those for barrels and some pieces of timber and the presence of sawdust seemed to indicate that it was the workshop of a carpenter or joiner. They both decided that this cool place would actually be an ideal bedroom when the heat was at its fiercest.
By this time the waggoner had brought their cases and the big trunk, which had been dumped into the main room. Stephen looked at Martin with eyes shining with excitement and said: “Right, first things first! Get your clothes off!” Martin stripped and Stephen followed. Stephen then lifted Martin into a piggyback and set off running around the house whooping with joy. He did a lap of the garden and then went up the stairs, poking their heads out onto the balcony for an instant and making a silly noise to the people in the street, but were gone before they could look up. Two more circuits of the main room were completed before Martin was set down by the exhausted Stephen. They were both bent with laughter and Stephen was exclaiming how he couldn’t believe this place was theirs. “Yours, Derby,” said Martin.
“Oh very well. Mine then.”
When they dressed again they put on their fishermen’s clothes and felt better. They unpacked some things from the trunk. There were two folding campaign beds, which they set up on the floor of the main room. They tried to lie together but it was impossible. “A new bed is the first priority,” said Stephen writing with a pencil on some paper. There was also a small spirit lamp, a saucepan, some tools, brushes and cleaning materials along with some bedding.
Stephen ruled up the paper and was busy making complicated notes as they talked. This continued as they walked into the street and examined the exterior and crossed the road to the boulangerie and purchased some rolls to eat. They returned and Martin sat on a cot while Stephen positioned himself on the trunk.
“The bed is the first priority. We’ll go out this afternoon and buy one. Next we will clean one room at a time. I think I can board up the hole in this room, but the stone will have to be repaired. The plaster can wait. Do we need to plaster?” Martin didn’t know.
“What about the front window?” asked Martin, “It’s pretty bad.”
“It is,” agreed Stephen, “Why don’t we have it removed and buy one or have one made? A smaller window would make it more like a house. We could have the sides filled in with stone.”
Martin thought that an excellent idea and it was noted as something to be done in the ‘medium term.’ Stephen also thought that a bath and a lavatory could be put under the stairs, which must be fixed soon. The collapsed room was going to be the most expensive job, but could wait a bit longer. Then there was furniture and other matters that rapidly filled the paper and were ordered as to their priority.
They crossed the street and asked the patronne if she and her husband would like the continued use of the garden. She was overwhelmed and called to her husband who came and shook their hands, promising them all the produce they could use. Stephen then asked Mme de Blezon where they might buy a bed. She was delighted with their enquiry and insisted that they come upstairs to her bedroom. The bed was hideous but it was the feather mattress that she wanted them to inspect. Her sister made these matelas de plumes from goose down. Indeed it was wonderfully soft and soon all three of them were on the bed testing it with delight when the patron came up the stairs to see what the noise was all about. Then and there they ordered one and a price was agreed, with a fee silently deducted for the patronne’s entrepreneurship.
The furniture shop they were directed to was full of hideous brass bedsteads with ceramic cameos bearing painted cherubs. There were also elaborately carved ones suitable for the more expensive bordellos in Nice. They left the shop depressed but were directed to a carpenter’s shop not far away. It was the Provencal version of something the Owens’ father, the chair bodger, would have felt at home in. Here was plain furniture made of local wood, unvarnished and save for some turning, undecorated. They immediately found a bed, which could be delivered the following day and they promised to order a second one in the fullness of time. As they were leaving Stephen spotted some ladder-back chair with rush seats. The price was modest and was even lower when Stephen rashly ordered ten. Two could be delivered with the bed, but the rest would have to be made.
They returned to the house with a feeling of accomplishment and, following the list Stephen had so carefully composed, set to work sweeping and cleaning the main room, some brooms and buckets having been found in the cellar and some soap borrowed from the patronne.
By the evening, when it was still very hot, the boys were dirty and tired. Stephen had one last job for them to do. The old bathtub in the garden was shovelled clean and scrubbed. A plug was fashioned and it was filled from the pump and augmented by some saucepans of boiling water from the spirit stove. Stephen stripped off and got in. “What happens if the patron comes to water his vegetables?” said Martin in alarm. Stephen simply shrugged his shoulders and lowered his beefy form into the water. Martin knelt at the side of the bath and soaped his lover, washing his hair and using the saucepan to poor water over it until it hung down nearly to his lips. It didn’t take much attention to his hard cock before he insisted that Martin get in too, which he did crying ‘Eureka’ at the displacement. It was beautiful lying there in the hot evening’s last light and both were bathed in happiness.
That evening they went to the Bistro de Blezon for dinner. The local fish and stuffed mushrooms were excellent and they drank plenty of cheap wine. They asked the patron about the former owner of their shop.
“Etail-il un vendeur de vin?” asked Stephen.
“Non, Monsieur Etienne, il etail charpentier.”
“Ah, he was a carpenter,” said Stephen thinking of the timber racks in the cellar. The patron looked uneasy.
“Il a fait cercueils, monsieur,” he added in a grave voice and then crossed himself.
“What was that all about?” said Martin when the patron had gone.
“He said he made coffins,” laughed Stephen. “That’s probably why they couldn’t sell the place. Not superstitious?”
“No, not in the least,” said Martin who smiled but crossed himself all the same.
A little drunk and very happy they retired to their folding beds, adding lamps to the list of purchases that must be made. Martin desperately wanted Stephen to make love to him, but the bed situation made it impossible. Stephen said he feared something would explode if he had to wait another night and so the two had to be content to pleasure themselves in the dark, with Stephen whispering inquiries about what hand Martin was now using, how close he was getting and similar facts that he thought were important to know.
The following day Stephen was up early, excited to begin the day’s work. He went out onto the terrace, his hard cock leading the way, but he quickly retreated, unseen, when he noticed M. de Blezon drawing water from the well.
The hot day held a lot more hard work. Stephen began work on the patching of the hole in the main room, using some of the timber from the cellar. He had brought a hammer but needed longer nails and so he and Martin set off for the ironmonger’s with Martin reflecting that he enjoyed more than anything just being with Stephen doing even the most mundane of tasks.
They were still working when there was a noise in the street and they went to the door to look. A large cart was pulled up, blocking traffic, and watched by an appreciative audience, the bed was unloaded followed by the chairs. It was with difficulty that it was hauled upstairs into the front room, which they had forgotten to clean first, so the jobs downstairs were halted while the floors and walls were swept. When they had finished they stepped out onto the balcony with its delicate wrought iron guard and waved to Mme de Blezon who called out that the matelas de plumes would be here before nightfall. Stephen mentally worked out the position for some tubs of geraniums on the balcony which would give him a measure of privacy from the waist down, especially first thing of a morning, although at the same time, he thought it a shame to deprive the population of the sight of a decent hard cock.
The boys then worked on the stairs, fixing them sufficiently for the time being. “We will need to get some help for the big jobs, Mala,” confessed Stephen as they sat in the bath. A knocking and calling announced that Mme de Blezon and her sister were at the front door with the mattress and Martin leapt out of the bath and pulled some trousers on, Stephen, being too hard to receive the ladies, stayed in the soapy water.
They dined again at the bistro, eating the local sardines, at a table now being recognisably ‘theirs,’ and they reviewed the list. They decided that some of the following day would be devoted to bathing in the sea and Stephen also made enquiries about where they might look for second-hand building materials. Mme de Blezon asked if they were also in need of a builder.
“Nous avons besoin d’un constructeur et maçon, Madame”.
“Mon jeune neveu est un artisan, Monsieur Etienne”
And so Martin and Stephen were given the particulars of the tradesman nephew who was 21 years-old and lived on the western side of the town.
Stephen was very anxious to try out the new bed and mattress—almost their marital bed, he reflected. “Would you fuck me, Mala?” he asked as he undressed him. Martin inhaled in his fragrant armpits and groin then tenderly worked on is brown nipples before enjoying the clean, soapy tang of the cleft between his buttocks, lined with the most beautiful, soft black hair. “Are you hard yet Mala? I need to see.” Martin allowed himself to be inspected, which Stephen did carefully and thoroughly before reaching up to kiss him. With the aid of some oil, the congress was affected to the enjoyment of both parties and the bed was pronounced a success although the new mattress was in danger of staining from Stephen’s sudden eruption of seed.
“Have you got the Chinese plug, Mala? I want to keep your seed inside me,” said Stephen. But the instrument had been left behind in England.
“You have me, Derby. I will be beside you every night,” said Martin
“I know. I love you Mala. Would you put your cock back inside me until I fall asleep?” he begged in between passionate kisses.
The following morning they went out shopping for lamps and other things. At a market stall they found bright pottery in barbaric stripes and purchased a quantity thinking it would be hard to break and cheap to replace. At another stall were cheap mats made from rag. These wee admired and some were purchased for just a few francs. The stallholder said she would make larger ones to order and the boys said they would return with measurements.
They made their way to the house of Mme de Blezon’s nephew and asked for him. The woman, his mother, had obviously heard of the English lord and his friend, the knight, and welcomed them inside with fulsome Provençal greetings, wiping her hands on her apron. She called out “Hélias” and it was some passage of time before a young man descended into the room. He was not particularly tall but was very good looking with olive skin and raven black hair swept straight back. Strong white teeth were exposed when he gave a lazy smile. He was unshaven and was unhurriedly tucking is shirt into his trousers as he strolled through the archway. His mother said something exasperatedly about him being in bed all day while she had to go and work in the perfume factory that processed the wild lavender and jasmine. The fellow took small notice and merely scratched his balls and smiled again at Martin and Stephen who were watching him.
The conversation was difficult but he agreed to come with them to look at the house. Martin and Stephen exchanged looks. The fellow seemed lazy and unreliable but was so attractive that their judgement was sorely conflicted.
The heat of the day made Hélias’ slow pace and indeed that of all Provençals seem appropriate and Martin and Stephen relaxed into it, enjoying the sights of the old town. Hélias took them to a builders’ yard, which was full of the most delightful objects. Three or four windows, any of which were suitable, were found and Stephen asked for a price. When the man replied, Hélias intervened and a lower price was substituted. “That’s about two pounds” calculated Martin. Stephen had wandered over to some scrap iron. There at the back was a balcony railing virtually identical to the one off their bedroom. “If we fix-up the back bedroom we could build a balcony for that too. All we’d need is some brackets,” said Stephen. They determined to return to the yard very soon.
At the house Hélias was shown the main jobs that needed to be done and with the aid of pencil sketches Stephen made it known what he wanted. Hélias thought that stone could be found locally and that the window could be replaced, although the wide lintel would still speak of the alteration. Martin said that that didn’t seem to matter in the old town where the buildings were all quaint and twisted with curious additions and casual construction techniques. Several were only kept from collapse by massive beams used as props. Helias agreed that the big hole in the main room could be repaired.
Could he build the walls for a salle de bain under the stairs? Helias said he could and he had a friend who was a plombier. Stephen used chalk to sketch out where the walls and door were to go and he got the address of M. Lucatz the plombier and promised to say that he was a friend of Hélias lest he be charged double.
Upstairs, Hélias noted their solitary bed and adjusted his cock in his trousers. The small room he said should have shelves put into it and the boys agreed. The back room he said would be difficult to repair and he may have to employ his two cousins if Stephen and Martin were not in residence.
Lastly Hélias was taken out onto the terrace. Stephen was struggling with his description of a pergola, and spoke of pieux and chevrons and jeune arbre until he caught on.
“Pour une vigne?”
Stephen nodded.
Hélias agreed to start work tomorrow. He would be here at 7:00, he declared as he departed.
The boys quickly went down to the beach, putting their costumes on under their clothes.
“I prefer the beach at Cap Eden Roc,” said Stephen, recalling the nude swimming there.
“But you would deprive all of Antibes of seeing you in your costume,” teased Martin.
“That is true,” declared Stephen, thoughtfully, “and I do want to be a good citizen. You know, we should buy a couple of old bicycles. They’d be very handy. I’ll add them to the list.”
“What do you think of Hélias?” asked Martin.
“Do you mean as a builder or someone you’d like to have fun with?” asked Stephen.
“Was I that obvious?” said Martin, “He is very good looking, rather like you Derbs, but not as good looking of course.”
“Of course. But he was watching you Mala. He must like blonde boys.”
“Would you mind?”
“No, as long as I’m there too.”
“We’ll let him make the first move. We may be wrong, after all the French are different.”
*****
They had not long been home and were unpacking their purchases and placing them on every available surface for they still had no table when there was a knock at the door. When it was opened it revealed a frightfully English Englishwomen in a floral dress with a big hat. She was armed with a parasol. With her was a clergyman.
The women introduced herself as Mrs Chadwick and the man was the vicar of the English church in Nice.
“I like to think of myself as the British resident here in Antibes, Lord Martin,” she said. “My late husband was the consul in Nice and I loved it here so much I couldn’t bear to go back Home, could I Mr Podberry? I did not get the chance to meet your late father, although I knew all about him of course.” Of course thought Martin. “And now that you have come to live here too it is my hope that you will become part of our little colony here. We do need some younger people.”
“Well, this is properly the house of my friend Mr Knight,” said Martin, glad that the pair had called before Mr Knight took his bath in the garden, “and we were only planning to stay here for short periods when we are not at school.”
“Oh Mr Knight, and you, Lord Martin! I imagined you were up at Oxford or Cambridge are you really still schoolboys?” Martin confessed they still were.
Mrs Chadwick then launched into a slanderous attack on the morals and their dismal potential as servants of the Provençals until the Mr Podberry saw that the boys were wearying.
“Are you fond of cricket, Mr Knight, he said, “I do miss it so and I’ve had no luck forming a team here on the Riviera although the climate would be ideal—like Australia, in many respects.”
Martin had to apologise for not being able to offer tea, for although they now had cups (Mrs Chadwick gave a grimace at the colourful pottery) and a spirit lamp, they had no tea.
“I have it sent out from Fortnum’s Lord Martin. I will send some over tomorrow.”
Martin then thought that the unexpected guests should be given a tour of the house in lieu of other refreshment and he gave a nod to Stephen who was talking about cricket to the vicar, who asked if they would like to see the house and hear about his plans. There actually wasn’t very much to see, of course. Mrs Chadwick made her way carefully up the stairs to emphasise that in her own world stairs were much grander and more stable affairs altogether. Stephen showed her the bedroom, which now had a rush-bottomed chair covered with clothes as well as the almost new bed with its matelas des plumes
“And where is your bed, Lord Martin?” asked Mrs Chadwick.
“Oh mine is this folding one in here, Mrs Chadwick,” he said opening the door to the windowless room. My proper one hasn’t arrived from England yet. I’m having the state bed that Queen Anne slept in sent from Croome to Marseilles. It will be a bit of a squeeze of course and the pineapples might have to be sawn off, but I hope you will enjoy it as much as I will.”
This last remark caused Mrs Chadwick to blush and the Mr Podberry coughed and said that they must be going.
“You will come to my house tomorrow evening for some bridge, I hope? Do you both play bridge?” said Mrs Chadwick.
They confessed they did and now felt trapped, but being well bred they said they would be delighted to pass an evening with her.
“Where is your house, Mrs Chadwick?” asked Martin.
“Oh just tell the driver where you are going, they all know me here,” she said airily as they descended the stairs. I bet they do and would run a mile if they saw you coming.
*****
The following day the boys made sure they were up early. Stephen gingerly peeked over the balcony to see the patron washing the footpath and shifting the tables.
At 8 o’clock the boys were having their coffee at the bistro and there was no sign of Hélias. They commenced work on their own account cleaning the little room and going over the others again. At 10:00 Stephen said he would go back to the builders’ yard to buy a window and the iron railing.
When he returned there was still no sign of Hélias and he was quite cross. He began with Martin’s help to relay the worst of the paving stones on the terrace, using some sand from a pile the patron had shown him. It looked good when it was finished and they took turns in sitting in the rush bottom chair imagining how delightful it would be when the pergola was built, which looked now increasingly remote.
They fetched their good shirts from the laundry further up the street. These looked as if they had gone three rounds with the Owens boys in the ring. After they had eaten dinner they dressed in the unwelcome constriction of their travelling clothes and easily found their way, as predicted, to Mrs Chadwick’s charming villa set in a very tidy English garden with the exotic addition of some palm trees. The maid was English (or rather Irish) and the cucumber sandwiches and sherry all seemed redolent of Tunbridge Wells rather than the Côte d’Azur. The house was filled with good, solid English furniture and the prevailing scent was that of furniture polish. It was clear that Mrs Chadwick was a formidable housekeeper. The company were all paler versions of Mrs Chadwick, some male and some female. The terrible ways of the French was the main topic of conversation, but without a doubt Lord Martin, the Earl of Holdenhurst, was the main attraction.
When Martin had lost sixpence and Stephen had won three shillings they called it a night. The boys decided to walk home in the warm night air, admiring the stars and remarking, with a shudder, that they would have to be careful or they would end up like Mrs Chadwick and her waxworks.
When the next morning Hélias had not appeared again, Stephen was very cross, not the least reason being that he had to unnecessarily cut short the good morning fucking he was giving to his Mala when he saw that it was 7 o’clock.
The boys were just having their coffee when two carts arrived: one with a load of creamy building stone and the other with planks of timber. The boys got up and took the men to the garden gate where they unloaded and departed, not asking for payment.
There was still no Hélias so Stephen went off to the plombier who was found to be working at the Mairie. With the aid of an official who translated the more difficult parts, Stephen’s requirements were made known and M. Lucatz said that he had experience in sewerage work and that he would look at the job the following day.
Stephen decided to call around at Hélias’s house as it was not far. When he got there the door was open. He called and there was no answer. He stepped a little further into the room and called again. A door opened and Hélias walked out doing up his trousers. He had a grin on his face.
“Pourquoi n’es-tu pas venu?” said Stephen crossly.
Hélias just grinned as he picked up his shirt from the floor and shrugged his shoulders. He turned his head and Stephen followed his eye. In the room was a young man sitting up in a rumpled bed smoking a cigarette.
Hélias followed Stephen back on his bicycle, balancing his bag of tools. He inspected the stone and the timber and retired for a cigarette and a cup of coffee with his aunt. A short time later he commenced work, with Stephen and Martin mixing the mortar, and by dusk they stood there admiring the new section of wall in the main room. It was a beautiful job.
In the morning Hélias arrived at half-past seven and after several cigarettes and two cups of coffee commenced work on the rickety stairs. By noon there was a great improvement, Martin and Stephen discussing how to stain the new sections of timber to harmonise with the old. In the still heat of noon they sat under an ancient, twisted olive with Hélias and shared his lunch of bread, cured horsemeat and a bottle of rough wine. They passed the bottle between them, Helias spurning the use of one of their new tumblers. The lunch break was a long one, with all three dozing off in the shade for a time. Then Hélias indicated that he was going to patch some plaster in the main room; some walls were to be repaired whilst others were to have the remaining plaster removed to show the irregular old stone. It was hot work mixing the mortar outside and bringing it in. Hélias made great sweeps with his trowel with his strong right arm and soon the wall became miraculously smooth and level.
“Ah, il fait chaud,” said Stephen, wiping his brow with his shirt.
“C’est une journée chaude,” replied Hélias, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he dragged the trowel across his work for the finishing flourishes. He put the trowel aside and removed his shirt and continued to work. Martin and Stephen looked at him. He had a magnificent chest and pair of shoulders. He was darkly tanned from his work in the outdoors and a lighter band of skin could be seen where his loose trousers had slipped down from his waist to his hips. His chest was covered in short wiry black hair and he smelt of garlic, Gauloises and sweat.
Stephen too took his shirt off, and although his flesh was pale and less hirsute, his shoulders and muscles were bigger than Hélias’ and he was a good deal taller too. Hélias looked at him with a quizzical eyebrow then looked at Martin who felt that he too must join them so he put down the wheelbarrow and pulled his shirt over his head. Hélias stopped working and stared at him, Martin going pink at the attention. Hélias looked back at Stephen and then took a step towards Martin. He ran his rough hand over Martin’s chest and turned him around and explored the white flesh of his back.
“Il est très beau…comme de la soie blanche” he breathed in an admiring fashion.
Stephen went and stood behind Martin, putting his arms around him but letting Hélias continue to feel. Martin undid his own trousers and they fell to the floor to reveal his nakedness. Hélias’ eyes were wide for he had probably never seen a circumcised cock before, let alone on a member of the English aristocracy. Stephen lifted it up so Hélias could admire it all the better.
“Très beau! Il fuit” he said quietly and indeed Martin was leaking.
Martin could feel Stephen’s cock hardening so he stepped aside and let Hélias admire his Derby. Stephen stood with his legs apart and Hélias ran his hands over his body, muttering Gallic expressions they couldn’t comprehend. Suddenly Hélias drove his hand into Stephen’s groin and clutched at his privates. Stephen stood there and didn’t flinch. Hélias did it again and still Stephen took it.
“C’est unêhomme fort et courgeux,” he said admiringly to Martin.
Martin now stood behind Stephen and undid his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor. Stephen’s hard cock swung free.
“Il est formidable!” he said hefting it. He turned to Martin and said: “Non, vous êtes courageux” and Martin did wonder how he accommodated Stephen in his passion.
The boys now stood watching while Hélias took his trousers off. There was a large bulge in his long underwear and he motioned to Martin to take them off. When he went to grab them Hélias suddenly said: “Utilisez vos dents.” And so Martin pulled at the material with his teeth and managed to slide the garments down, despite the impediment of a half-hard French cock.
Hélias was deliciously hairy with a big cock, lined with hawser-like blue veins. Martin was relieved that it wasn’t as big as Stephen’s, for Stephen’s sake. The nut-brown ball sack hung low and Hélias demonstrated how far he could pull it between his legs, an evident party trick.
Stephen and Martin both rubbed their hands over the hairy young Provençale and he enjoyed it when Martin’s soft lips caressed his nipples. With an eye on Stephen, Hélias pulled those lips in for a long kiss while he ran his rough hands over the succulent cheeks of Martin’s plump but firm buttocks. With another look at Stephen he made his desire known but Stephen removed the hands and said “Non, il est à moi” and Hélias looked suitably crestfallen
“Quel dommage,” he sighed.
Martin did make it clear that he wanted to suck Hélias’ cock which he did while he bent over, presenting his arse to Stephen to fuck. With some preparation Stephen was able to enter Martin slowly and pleasurably, but Hélias pulled the gasping boy off his cock lest he clamp down when in pain. The other reason was so he could better see Stephen’s entry. When all was settled, Stephen began to pound Martin at one end while Hélias, at the other end, thought that the stimulation may be improving Martin’s sucking of his cock that, along with his balls, was now lathered in spit. When Hélias thought he was getting too excited he urgently begged Martin to stop. In return he relished the unfamiliar as he sucked the blonde uncircumcised cock. In doing this he was placed in an intimate position where he could see, between Martin’s legs, the muscular thighs and swinging balls of his lover giving him a good fucking.
Hélias desired Martin’s full mouth around his veiny cock once more and stood. Stephen increased his pace, thrusting with his hips. He hung on to his Mala’s head as Hélias was now thrusting into Martin’s greedy mouth.
The two more active participants then locked eyes across the bent form of Martin. Stephen held out his arms and Hélias did the same, grasping hands. Thus with the extra leverage the two joined forces and spilled into Martin at the same time, Martin clasping at Hélias’s muscular buttocks lest he pull out and spoil his treat.
Martin arose with a very sore back but a very happy expression while the two older boys looked triumphant and congratulated each other. Stephen now sat on the trunk (the only piece of furniture in the room) with his legs apart and his Mala sat between them. Stephen, with one arm around his chest, used the other to offer up Martin’s privates up to Hélias to pleasure. Both boys watched the carpenter at work and Stephen further encouraged Martin’s delirium by biting his ear and pinching his nipples. “Spill in his mouth Mala and make sure he swallows it all,” said Stephen when he sensed he was close. At the critical moment Martin pulled at Helias’s long black hair and held him fast while Stephen reached forward and held his shoulders like a vice. Martin bucked and cried out and flooded Helias’ mouth until he was coughing and spluttering. He arose and knew what he had to do; he kissed Stephen and shared Martin’s over abundant load with his lover.
The boys had dressed and, as it was getting late, and no further work would be done, besides, Hélias said he had a boy waiting at home.
Hélias was packing up his tools when there was a knock at the door. Making sure that all garments were in order Stephen opened his front door. It was Mrs Chadwick and she was admitted.
“Good afternoon Lord Martin. Good afternoon Hélias.”
“Bonjour, Madame,” he replied, casting his eyes down.
“You know our builder then Mrs Chadwick?”
“Oh yes. He has done work for me. Let me tell you, Mr Knight, Lord Martin, that you have to be on to him all the time and watch him like a hawk. Isn’t that right Hélias?”
Helias hadn’t understood what she had said but sensed enough to smile guiltily.
“His work, when he does it, I cannot fault. You do have to watch for missing bottles of wine and things like that, but that’s the way with these people. Also he has about a thousand cousins that I cannot vouch for. If you have any problems, come to me or to his aunt across there,” she said, indicating the patronne’s bistro. He’s scared of her. And now here is the tea I promised and let me look at the progress you’ve made.” She walked about the room and noted the work as Martin felt that he must boil some water and make some tea for their guest.
Hélias hastily departed, vowing to be back at seven. Mrs Chadwick said that remained to be seen. Martin said: “Oh I think he’ll be back bright and early, don’t you Stephen?” Stephen agreed that there were inducements.
Mrs Chadwick got down to business. “Lord Martin, I am having a charity bazaar on Saturday. I do it every year. I open my garden for a few francs and there are stalls, amusements and the usual sorts of things. The money goes to the orphan asylum run by the Little Sisters. They are very hard up and do tremendous good work. Are you experienced in opening fetes and awarding prizes? We would be very pleased if you could spend a few hours with us and, besides, no tradesmen will be working—they will use the occasion as an excuse to have two days off. That’s how it is here.”
Martin confessed that he was experienced and told her something of Croome and this Mrs Chadwick took as a sign of assent. “Good. I am glad we can rely on you. Here is a pot of my orange and lime marmalade. I’m entering it in the show, of course.” She went to place the bribe somewhere but found no rest. “Are you in need of a table, Mr Knight?”
Stephen said he was looking for a large wooden table, possibly of local design.
“I know what you mean. It’s not my taste of course, but I am of an older generation. I believe that in the convent of the Little Sisters they have a large scrubbed table that they no longer need as there are only four sisters now and I’m quite sure they would be pleased to sell it. Might I suggest about 200 francs, that’s four pounds in our money. Offer three. They’ll respect you for bargaining. Are you interested?”
The boys were and she went on to describe what she could recall. “Unfortunately it is so large that I don’t think it will fit through the door- either door. Perhaps it can be pulled apart. It’s very heavy too.”
“Martin, do you think we could knock out the shop window and bring the table in that way and then fit the new one? We could start on that tomorrow, as we have the window, even though I was putting it off.”
Martin thought they could, seeing how quickly the work progressed today and that canvas could make a temporary cover if there were still gaps at nightfall.
“Then tomorrow would you both like come with me to the Convent? Men are allowed in. I will be going at 10 o’clock.”
The boys agreed and the water was now boiling for the tea. Milk and sugar were fetched from the bistro and Stephen’s new house was christened in the most English of fashions.
*****
The boys lay in the billowy feather bed replete and content from a meal of local fish and fat poussins stuffed with walnuts and all had been washed down with a carafe of dry white wine.
“I love it here Derby,” said Martin, as he was running his fingers through Stephen’s pubic hair, “I mean here in France, although I love you down here even more. The house is going to be smashing when it’s finished, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think it will be. We got a lot done today. You don’t mind that it is a bit rough and ready and that there is nothing in it that is new or expensive? There are no servants, Mala, and we have to do everything ourselves, its not what you’re used to.”
“Oh no Derbs, that’s why it’s so perfect. I don’t need those other sorts of things as long as you are here with me. I’ll sweep and mix cement and clean the lavatory— when we get one if it will make you as happy as it makes me.”
“You’re a good boy, Mala,” said Stephen, kissing him on the nose and positioning his hand on his cock. “Which reminds me the plumber is coming tomorrow and we’ve got to see about that table. You know, I thought that Mrs Chadwick was an old bitch, but I really think she’s a softy underneath. What do you think?”
“I think you may be right. She certainly rules things around here. Did you see how scared Hélias was of her? I hope I don’t muck up her garden fete. Damn! I will have to put on my suit and good shirt again; I never expected I would need good clothes so often and I was looking forward to just wearing old things with you all day and not even wearing them at all when we went swimming and were in bed together. Speaking of bed, what about Hélias, you don’t mind about him do you?”
“No, Mala, of course not. He has got a fine body, hasn’t he? You like it?”
“Mmm. Yes I do Derbs.”
“You know I don’t really mind if he fucks you, that is if you’d like him to, as long as I was there to see that he didn’t hurt you. Would you like that?”
“I think I would actually. It’s like an itch that needs scratching and it would be so exciting if you were watching too, Derbs.”
“Well I think it will happen, don’t you?” said Stephen smiling. Martin blushed. “But he really doesn’t have a cock as big as mine, does he?”
“Oh far from it, Derbs. It’s not as big or as delicious. His chest and arms and legs are not as big as your chest and arms. His shoulders are quite narrow compared to your beautiful shoulders and his face is quite ugly, now I come to think of it. In fact I don’t know why I’d even like him to fuck me.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely correct,” said Stephen grinning from under his loose curls that had fallen over his left eye. He suddenly rolled on top of Martin, forcing the breath from his lungs, as he kissed him and drove his hard cock between his smooth thighs.
To be continued...
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 10/25/13