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 17
Les Pecheurs

“Stabil halten! Standfest!” cried the nackte Junge.

He was The Leader, a blonde boy of 16 with fierce blue eyes.  The bottom row of the pyramid consisted of Stephen, The Plunger, The Leader and a well-hung French boy, Marcel.  They were bent on their hands and knees in the firm sand.  The next row stood uncertainly on their backs with their legs spread wide to steady themselves and with their arms extended over each other’s shoulders.  Martin felt very vulnerable with his privates so exposed here on the beach and his hands not free to protect them. He was holding on to The Leader’s younger brother who grasped Donald Selby-Keam who, in turn, had his arm over Christopher. Now the smallest boy, a German lad called Knut, also naked, was clambering over the others to reach the top, putting his finger nails into shoulders and his feet painfully into groins.  He was small but athletic and at last he managed to stand for a wobbly second or two with his arms spread wide. “Germany has its place in the sun!” cried The Leader from down below, referring to the Kaiser’s unexpectedly belligerent speech of last August.  It was of short duration and the pile slowly collapsed amid much laughter and then the boys ran nosily into the waves to cool off.

It was the morning of their arrival at Antibes and they had gone almost immediately down to the small cove near Cap-Eden Roc where costumes were not worn.  The five had made a very lively party on the Calais-Méditerranée Express.  Naturally they had gone first class, with Martin discreetly paying Christopher’s fare.  He assured him that it cost very little to live in the south of France and not to worry about money.  Martin’s main worry had been The Plunger.  He thought with alarm of the primitive conditions at Stephen’s house, under conversion from a ruined shop, when he saw The Plunger at Victoria Station.  The monocled figure was dressed in a superb white linen suit and a matching Italian hat made by Borsalino.  He was waving his stick to the porter who was struggling to wheel a commodious Pullman trunk down the platform behind the striding figure.

To his relief he discovered that The Plunger seemed only brought one other suit.  Indeed he had been doing extensive research and, with the aid of his valet, Gertie, had come up several very striking outfits that smacked of theatrical versions of French onion sellers, the cast of La Bohème and Provençale pêcheurs.

“They’re marvellous, Plunger,” said Martin as the clothes were hung on a row of pegs mounted on the stone wall of the new bedroom. 

“Thanks, Poole.  They’re really down to Gertie you know.  He used to work as a dresser at Covent Garden before he came to us. Have a look at these.” He held up several of those floppy silk ties that artists are characterised in Punch as wearing.

Stephen came in and with Martin admired the new bedroom.  The ceiling had been completely replaced and the plaster on two walls had been renewed and on the other two it had been removed entirely to reveal the stone.  It was now possible to walk out onto a tiny balcony propped over the vegetable garden, a replica of the one over the street.

Downstairs there was a bathroom built under the stairs.  Annoyingly Helias had made the door swing outwards and the tap for the hot water that came out of the geyser for the shower seemed to be on the wrong side—or perhaps they were reversed in France.  Otherwise the tin and cement shower looked a very neat job.  Best of all was the handsome lavatory.  Unlike plain English ones, the plumber had found an example embellished with elaborate decorative designs of plants that may have been seaweed.  “It’s Art Nouveau,” explained Archie.

The cellar had been cleaned out and the timber racks removed, but it was still a gloomy space for the window remained boarded up and the door to the street was stuck fast. “This will be our job to complete this week, said Stephen, that’s if you fellows don’t mind helping.  Chaps, do you want your beds down here or up in the big room?”

“It’s cool down here said Donald, I’d like to sleep here.  What about you Tennant?”

Chris said he would like it too but looked a little pained at the thought of the folding beds.  Stephen saw him looking.  “Yes, we will go right now and buy two beds and order feather mattresses from Mme de Blezon’s sister.”

“Do we need two beds?” asked Donald innocently.

“No, that’s fine by me Selby-Keam,” said Christopher, “but there are certain rules which I will explain to you later.”

So the boys, now in their relaxed Provençale clothing, invaded M. de Blezon’s bistro where Mme de Blezon made a terrible fuss over them, calling the particularly grand fisherman with the monocle “Your lordship” and insisted that it was far better to give her the order for the matelas de plumes than see her sister who was so busy right now.

A third bed was ordered and it could be delivered the following day.  Some whitewash and brushes were also purchased.  They boys set to work applying the paint to the walls of the cellar and it started to look brighter already.  Stephen got the door to the street unstuck, but the lock was broken.  At least the new bed could be carried in this way.  He set off to find Hélias to see about the door and the window.

Hélias’s mother directed him to another house and there was the handsome carpenter, naked from the waist up, cigarette drooping from his pouting lip, working on putting up some shutters.

“M. Etienne!” he cried. “Comment allez-vous?” He kissed him on both cheeks.

Stephen relied that he was all the better for seeing Hélias.  Hélias then insisted that they must immediately go and drink coffee and cognac “Prendre une boisson avec mon ami.” The friend was produced.  He was a good-looking boy of about 18, also shirtless, and Hélias put his arm around his shoulder, grinning, and asked what Stephen thought.

“He’s very good looking Hélias,” said Stephen and Hélias smiled while the boy just blushed.

After the formalities were completed at the café, Stephen asked if Hélias could help with the cellar as he had several guests staying.

“Ce sont des jeunes Anglais?”

Yes they were English boys replied Stephen, giving The Plunger the benefit of the doubt.  Hélias replied with alacrity that they would be there at 7:00 tomorrow.

When Stephen returned it was sunset.  The boys had already applied one coat of whitewash.  A second was deemed desirable and it was decided to do this the following day.  Stephen explained a little about Hélias the carpenter and his expected arrival on the morrow and then said. “The smell of the whitewash is rather strong down here.  I think you’d better bring your beds up to the main room.”

“Couldn’t we sleep with you or Archie,” said Christopher, “just for tonight?”

Stephen just looked at Martin, who rolled his eyes. “We can decide on the complexities of that later.  It’s now time for my bath.  Martin, would you please buy a bottle—no two bottles—of champagne from the patron and also some of those little olives stuffed with anchovies.  I think I saw him outside just now by the tomatoes.”

They followed Stephen out into the garden and Martin went across to M. de Blezon who was drawing up a bucket of water from the well.  Stephen turned-on a brass tap and the old bathtub, now shaded under its new pergola of saplings, slowly filled with water.  He lit the new iron stove in the corner of the main room with some difficulty but soon there were some pots of boiling water ready to add to the tub.  Martin had returned with the wine and the olives and the boys settled around the bath sitting on the steps and on the rush-bottomed chairs brought from inside.  With great ceremony Stephen removed his shirt and trousers and passed them to Martin.  With his cock and balls swingingly freely he descended into the delicious water.  Martin handed him a tumbler of champagne and Donald held out the bowl of olives.  The tableau was complete.

The boys fell to talking about how wonderful France was and how delightful it was on the plage.  Then there was a hotly contested rivalry to wash Stephen in which much champagne was spilled.  Martin shooed them away and declared that it was his privilege, but all watched with envy as Martin soaped his lover, paying particular attention to the area under his foreskin, which needed repeated cleansing.

In the evening they ate at Bistro de Blezon and walked along the old wall of the town, looking at the lights and taking advantage of the sea breeze.  At another café they drank wine and watched the sailors.  A small piano was noticed and Donald was persuaded to play some ragtime.  He obliged with the permission of the patron and soon the sailors could not resist dancing to ‘Come Josephine in My Flying Machine.’ They danced with each other in a wild and lively way, knocking over tables and chairs.  Then Donald played ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ and, laughing, they pulled the English boys from their seats and danced with them, holding them around their waists or around their necks and pumping vigorously with their other hands.  Martin felt the cock and balls of his one grinding into his own.  He managed to run his fingers through the matelot’s pubic hair that showed so abundantly above the gaping waist of his bell-bottoms, before being swung off his feet and spun around and passed to another sailor who smelled unbearably of garlic.

Then suddenly, as if on a signal, the sailors released their dancing partners and left the café en masse amid noisy farewells and hearty laughter.  Donald stopped playing and the patron came over, looking annoyed. Martin counted out 20 francs and his smile returned.

They retraced their steps to the house (for it was no longer thought of as a shop) and lit the lamps and sat at the big table and had a few rounds of the new American game called ‘gin rummy’, Archie teaching them the rules.

It was nearing midnight when Stephen quietly asked Martin if he’d come out for a walk as it was still hot. They slipped out and walked arm in arm down to the plage.

“Mala,” began Stephen, “I haven’t had an opportunity to tell you about the weekend with Christopher, Julian and Donald.  I couldn’t write it all in a letter and I want to tell you before you hear anything from Chris.”

Martin repressed a sigh.

“Well you see, Mala, I always fancied that I’d like to watch Julian Newell with a woman.  He’s a big, strong fellow as you know—lots of hair on his legs and chest—and we’d seen each other plenty of times in the changing sheds.  He used to pick up doxies at The Nelson and once I saw him going off with two girls.  I almost followed him to see what he did.

“So you saw him with a woman?”

“Not exactly.  He came into my room and I let him fuck me.”

“Did you?” said Martin, smiling to himself in the dark.

“Yes I did and it wasn’t exactly an emergency either Mala. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Derby.  I think I understand how it was.  And how was it, seeing I wasn’t there to see for myself?”

“Well he was pretty blunt and not as skilful as you,” added Stephen diplomatically, “not as rough as that guardsman though.”

“I might have to get a bit rough with you, Derby, would you like that?”

“Oh Mala! I just like it the way we do it now.”

“What, you mean in our bed with three other people?” said Martin thinking of the card players at home.

“Yes that might be a problem.  But are you sure you’re not cross about Julian?”

“No, Derbs. You are incorrigible though— or should that be insatiable?”

“Oh, and Mala, there was this woman who felt sorry for me because I was an orphan and…”

Martin hugged the stud and thought what might have happened had it been a week and not a weekend.

When they returned home Stephen drew up a complicated schedule for the privilege of sleeping with him. Martin had a permanent booking. The Plunger was to give up his comfortable bed for tonight for Donald and Christopher and sleep with Martin and himself and the next night it would be Donald’s turn and so on, depending partly on the arrival of the new bed and the drying of the whitewash.  Stephen added several more codicils to the agreement until all parties were satisfied—or potentially so.

The Plunger was especially pleased and went away to look for his cock ring, which he hoped Gertie had packed while Stephen made sure that Christopher and Donald were safely tucked in and not wearing drawers.

The purple Mediterranean night was not quiet, for over the sound of the waves and penetrating the shuttered windows of the establishment that had formerly made cercueils—coffins—for that sleep that is both very still and of a very long duration, could be heard the sounds of grunts, cries and exclamations.  

***** 

In the morning Martin opened the door to Hélias and his friend Joni at 9:00.  Kisses and hugs were exchanged and they were introduced to the household who were sitting at the big table eating croissants and drinking English tea.  Hélias was very disappointed to have not arrived earlier, but circumstances had delayed him and all the boys were dressed, save for Stephen who swaggered into the room naked and half hard.  Hélias nudged his friend who was wide-eyed.  Stephen pulled on a pair of fisherman’s trousers and directed Hélias to the cellier and showed him the door and window.  He then took him back upstairs where two cups of coffee were fetched from M. de Blezon’s and Stephen explained the need for a cupboard with shelves to be constructed in an angle in the wall near the stove. This was to be a garde-manger or larder for there was still no place to store foodstuffs in the house.  Hélias understood and a price was negotiated which shamed neither party.

While the boys worked on a second coat of whitewash, Stephen went out with Martin to the market.  Three large rag rugs were ordered and more pottery and glasses were purchased.  At a second-hand stall a doorknocker in the shape of a dolphin was found.  Martin bought it for Stephen.

“Derby, if you don’t mind me asking, have you had to use up all your money in fixing up the house?  I wouldn’t want you to go short.”

“Bless you Mala,” said Stephen, “but I’ve paid for it out of my savings.  I still have the money that William gave me.”

“But how is that possible Derbs?”

“Well I bought shares, through Daniel Sachs, in Tatchell’s and they have done very well over the last year plus there was the money I received for selling my bathroom designs.”

Martin’s admiration for Stephen’s brains was justified once again and they paused to buy some towels, which they hitherto had shamefully neglected—although Stephen liked to dry himself in the sun—and additionally thought the purchase of a quantity of smaller towels might also be advisable for more intimate purposes.

When they returned, the cellar was almost completed and was bright with the morning sun. The second coat of paint was just being finished and Hélias had the window onto the side street unblocked and was repairing the frame while Joni was measuring the glass that was needed.  Already the room looked perfect as a hot weather bedroom.

Stephen borrowed some tools and affixed the handsome knocker while Martin tidied himself up and went to call on Mrs Chadwick on his bicycle.

The maid admitted Martin into the hall, which smelled of beeswax, and showed him into the drawing room. Martin sat there feeling uncomfortable without a tie and jacket.  He looked around the room.  There were vases of flowers obviously from Mrs Chadwick’s garden—larkspurs and delphiniums— and framed hunting scenes and pictures of Cotswold cottages that The Plunger might have envied in the recent past.  Martin was just sniffing the old-fashioned scent of pot-pouri in a china pomander that stood on a doily-draped Sheridan side table when Mrs Chadwick swept into the room.  She too looked like a delphinium herself in a blue morning dress with a great deal of net and a long string of pearls.

“Lord Martin,” she trilled, “how lovely to see you back in France.  Do sit down.  Would you like a glass of sherry?  Too early?  No?  Two glasses of sherry, Clotilde!”

“Mrs Chadwick, Mr Knight and I are so grateful for your help over the last few months.  Without you here we would never have got the stove in and the other work finished,” said Martin.

“Well, I must say I have to agree with you, Lord Martin, for I went over to the house every morning to make sure that devil Hélias was working.  I sometimes called in the afternoon to see that he wasn’t sleeping.  If I didn’t, then his aunt, Mme de Blezon, did.  Are you satisfied?”

“Oh yes, Mrs Chadwick.  It has meant that we can have a group of school chums to stay.  We were hoping that you might be able to dine with us tomorrow night, that is if you don’t mind five boys and I’m not sure that our cooking will be up to your standards.  Also we don’t have any good clothes.”  Martin had almost talked himself out of the invitation.  “Perhaps it’s too unconventional for good taste, Mrs Chadwick.”

“Oh, not at all, Lord Martin,” replied Mrs Chadwick with her lips paused on the sherry glass.  Mrs Chadwick was quite sure that no table would be as good as her own—that was a given— for she had fought hard and bribed unscrupulously until she had secured the best chef on this part of the coast.  She did look down her nose at Martin’s scruffy attire.  Then again she also was anxious to see the house.  The convincing point in her mind, however, was that she would be dining with the Earl of Holdenhurst, who although was still at school and presently dressed as if he should be hauling nets down at the wharf, would make a pleasant entry in her diary which she hoped to publish one day as a memoir of people she had met in years on the Riviera under the title of ‘Hims and Palms.’

Mrs Chadwick rang the bell and had Clotilde bring William’s two paintings that she had collected from the post office and gave them to Martin.  She then began on the absolute necessity for Lord Martin and Mr Knight to employ staff at their house and how at the very least a good bonne would be essential, for, she maintained, men were quite incapable of running a household properly.  She went on to cite terrible instances of how hopeless men were, some of which, including the inattention to napery and the provision of knives and forks, hit home.  She was just starting on changing beds and turning matrasses when they moved into the garden.

“But Mrs Chadwick we don’t need so many cushions and a thing to lift the fish.  We just make do,” said Martin at one point. Mrs Chadwick was not put off by this and began to talk about the vital organization required for proper household maintenance and the number of tasks that must be done, daily, weekly, every spring and so on.  Martin thought of Stephen with his obsessive lists and rules and wished he were here.

Mrs Chadwick paused in her lecture and spoke rapidly and crossly to the two young Italians who were tying up dahlias.

“I didn’t know you could speak Italian, Mrs Chadwick,” said Martin.

“Only in the imperative,” your lordship, she replied. 

When Martin returned the street was once again at a standstill for the new bed was being delivered before the eyes of the townspeople. Mme de Blezon rushed across the street to say that her sister would have the matelas de plumes ready the very next day and suggested that M. Etienne might find it more convenient to pay her today to expedite matters.

Martin went in by the side door from the street that now boasted a lock.  The buckets of whitewash were moved and the big bed was positioned against the wall and admired.  Stephen was taking measurements for shutters for the new window while Christopher was skilfully making a set of pegs on the model of Stephen’s previous work.

As the morning had gone so well, Stephen and Donald went out to buy wine, bread and charcuterie for lunch, which was set out on the big table.  Hélias spurned the use of glasses and the bottle was passed from mouth to mouth.  Stephen then suggested that they should all go down to the beach at Cap-Eden Roc in the afternoon, if Hélias could spare the time.  Hélias agreed with shining eyes.

Joni went out to find his cousin who had a carriage to supplement the bicycles and whose services could be obtained for ten francs.  Stephen was persuaded to put on his new bathing costume for the trip.  Stephen was admired and felt up by several hands and Joni and Hélias held a conversation in rapid Provençale.

The small carriage loaded with five boys followed by Stephen and Martin on their cycles, made its way down to the point.  Near the hotel they were hailed by a figure with a stick and cigar.

“Mr Churchill!” cried Martin, pulling up, “How do you do?”

“Lord Martin, hello sir.  And Mr Craigth and Mr Knight, isn’t it?  Good afternoon.”

“We are off to the beach sir,” said Stephen.

“My wife and I are staying at the hotel,” he said, waving his cigar in the direction of the cliff top. “Mr and Mrs Asquith are with us.  I wonder if you’d happen to be free for dinner tonight?  I know Mrs Asquith would enjoy your company especially.”

“We’d be delighted sir, especially if we could return the compliment tomorrow night.  Mr Knight has a little house here and we are having a dinner with a fisherman’s theme.”

“I will put that to my friends and you can press them tonight.  Shall we say half past eight?”

Christopher and Donald were astounded that the boys should know the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary and Stephen tried to explain to Hélias and Joni but they seemed less impressed.

“I say, you don’t mind that we will desert you tonight?” said Stephen to Chris and Donald. “With any luck you will get to meet them tomorrow.” Chris was actually relived and Douglas said that was perfectly alright.

“This dinner will need some careful planning.  It’s not like home; we have no servants and we don’t know how to cook,” said Martin, “and Mr Churchill looks like a big eater.”

At the beach the boys quickly shed their clothes.  There was much unabashed inspection of each other and Hélias and Joni had another rapid conversation when they leered at The Plunger’s body from which Stephen picked up the words “garçon rouquin.”

A swimming competition was held in which Stephen easily won all the races except for the more elaborate strokes in which The Plunger excelled.  To the relief of Hélias and Joni a game of cricket on the sand was abandoned when the piece of driftwood they were attempting to use as a bat broke, but the ball became the centre of a wild and formless game in the water until they hauled themselves onto the plage, heaving and out of breath.  Stephen personally inspected the boys’ privates for sunburn and applied oil and moved them into the shade of the cliff.  In a more secluded spot Hélias fondled Joni’s cock and balls and showed them off to Stephen who replied, “Très beau,” while the boy gave a secret smile.  Hélias then lit a cigarette and read a popular newspaper while Joni took his cock in his mouth and pleasured him while Stephen kept watch.

“Come for a walk, Mala,” said Stephen as he started to ache from lying on the sand.  They walked across the hot sand and then through the shallows, kicking the water.  Stephen put his big arm around Martin’s neck. They waved to the German boys who were eating sandwiches with their parents.  Stephen went to speak but Martin cut him off and looking into his eyes said, “And I love you too, Derbs.”

When they returned home, having dismissed Hélias and Joni, The Plunger announced that he knew how to cook the fish stew called bouillabaisse.  The others looked at him in astonishment. “Remember I lived in Mentone for some years,” he said slightly wounded.  They all agreed that this would be an excellent dish.

Archie and Donald rushed off, hoping the fish market was still open.  They returned, bearing a parcel of fish pieces and a large iron pot, The Plunger having stopped off at the post office and the ironmonger.  The stove was lit, using Hélias’ journal and any other scraps of paper they could find and presently, amid fishy smells, The Plunger announced that his stock for the bouillabaisse would now have to cook for some hours and that the real work would begin tomorrow at dawn when he’d go to the market.

Space was found on the stovetop for some saucepans and water was heated for Stephen’s bath. They repaired with champagne and olives to the terrace and sat around Stephen in the tub.  Martin was enjoying washing his silky black hair while Stephen planned for tomorrow night’s party.

“We will need brandy and champagne—especially for Mr Churchill,” began Stephen. Christopher noted that down with a pencil. “We will need a pudding.”

“I’ll do that,” volunteered Martin, “if you’ll help me Plunger.”

“I think we should have a cold hors d’oeuvre.  Could you ask Mme de Blezon for some advice on that Chris?” Christopher replied that it was safe to leave it with him.

“Could I get some fishing nets and other things to hang up to as scenery?” asked Donald.

“Ripping idea, Selby-Keam!” cried Christopher and the boy smiled as it was noted.

“I think we’ll need some extra plates and knives.  I’ll make a list and get those said Stephen.

Stephen got out of the bathtub with his cock half hard and several boys rushed up to him with towels.  He waved them away and stood in a corner of the garden where the afternoon sun still shone. M de Blezon came through the gate in the wall and waved cheerfully to the boys and had a long conversation about vegetables with Stephen, not taking the smallest notice that he was naked and dripping wet.

At 7:00 The Plunger and Martin shared the new shower, which easily accommodated three it was proven when Stephen insisted on testing its capacity. The Plunger enjoyed being soaped by the other two.

Martin did much eye rolling when The Plunger produced his tail suit from the bottom of his trunk.  This would mean that he and Stephen would be at a disadvantage in only having their travelling clothes to wear at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden Roc.

Without Gertie it took their combined efforts to dress The Plunger.  Christopher fitted his links while Stephen put in his studs.  Martin tried to smooth the waistcoat while Donald stood on a chair with a brush.  With his suspenders for his silk hose found after much searching, at last he was finished and admired.  Stephen threatened to undo all their work when he said he wanted to check that The Plunger wasn’t wearing drawers, but the others assured him that this was the case.  This crisis was interrupted by a rap on the dolphin knocker.  Stephen returned with a telegram for The Plunger and a worried look on his face.  The Plunger tore the envelope open and unfolded a very long message.  He scanned it quickly while the boys regarded him.  He looked up. “Oh it’s just from our cook at home;  I telegraphed for the recipe for bouillabaisse this afternoon and here it is,” he said waving the telegram that must have cost 15 shillings.

The Hôtel was a very grand affair in the Second Empire style and situated in a magnificent moonlit garden.  In the dining room they were greeted by the Churchills and the Asquiths.  In the party were two other couples, very quiet, that Martin took for secretaries and their wives.

The conversation quickly moved away from pleasantries about the weather and the delights of the Côte d’Azur and The Plunger found himself talking to Mrs Churchill about painting.  Mrs Churchill had lived for some years in Dieppe and knew the modern artist Walter Sickert very well.  She also had heard of Tsindis and promised to come to their exhibition.  Churchill also said he was thinking of taking up painting himself and asked difficult questions about square and round brushes.  Stephen kept quiet and smiled a great deal until Margot Asquith asked him what he’d been reading.  Stephen mentioned a comic novel by Arnold Bennett called ‘The Card.’

“Have you read ‘Gertrude’ by Hermann Hesse, Mr Knight?”

“Is he a German writer, Mrs Asquith?”

Mrs Asquith explained how deep he was and Stephen said he’d try to read him in the German, but he’d be slow.

“I’ve also discovered the most marvellous new English poetess who writes about country life.  She calls herself Nancy Nott but that might be a nom de plume.”  She excused herself from the table and returned a few minutes later and handed Stephen a slim volume.  He leafed through a ‘Sty of One’s Own’ and noted the touching verses in the vernacular between the wide margins.

“That one is particularly tender, Mr Knight, said the wife of the Prime Minister, pointing to a love poem about a Berkshire bore.  See how she finds a rhyme for ‘mangelwurzel’?  It’s beautiful.”

Stephen read on “My love be as sweet as t’brambleberry in t’summer’s heat.” A few pages later there was a poem about boxing and plough horses.

“And in this one Nancy Nott rhymes ‘sow’ and ‘thou’ and ‘swine’ with ‘thine’.  Such a feeling for the traditions of the land, I think.  I can’t imagine what a ‘bodger’ is.  Do you know Mr Knight?”

Stephen did know and felt that he must have an urgent talk with Martin but he was busy at this moment talking to Mr Asquith about schools.

The conversation became livelier when women’s suffrage was raised.  Stephen kept quiet when Mrs Asquith railed against it.  The Prime Minister said that the women were not doing their cause any good by their terrible violence and Martin recalled that he’d seen the smashed windows of Swan and Edgar’s in Regent Street. “It’s worse than that, Lord Martin,” said Asquith. “They’ve plotted to kill me…”

“Assassinate, Henry,” corrected his wife.

“…and we’ve had to put shutters over the windows at Number Ten.”

Mr Churchill then spoke and deplored the age of terrorism they were living in and recounted his thrilling exploits in the Siege of Sidney Street where he commanded a detachment of Scots Guards against the Russian anarchist gang led by Peter the Painter.

“I’m not entirely opposed,” declared Churchill returning to the topic of votes for women, “but this damned harpy struck me with a whip at a meeting last year and I couldn’t return the compliment.  And we can’t give them the vote if they all vote for the Conservatives, can we, Mr Craigth?”

“It’s unnatural,” continued Margot Asquith. “What will it mean to the traditional family? It’s ungodly. ‘Man and woman’ that’s how its meant to be, ‘not woman and man.’ What sort of wives and mothers will they make?”

Martin began to think he might be a Suffragette.  What were he and Stephen if not ‘unnatural’ and ‘untraditional’?

The dinner came to an end and a carriage was called to take the boys home.  Martin was at pains to explain that their return dinner was very much in the mode of fancy dress and that dressing as fisher folk would be most appropriate.  He was worried that Mrs Asquith would be too grand for such frivolities, but she had enjoyed having an audience and she found Stephen particularly charming and said she was looking forward to it immensely.

It was late when they returned home.  The Plunger was undressed in the dark and its was hoped that none of his bits were misplaced.  Stephen then went into the other bedroom where he found Donald and Christopher sound asleep.  He picked up Donald like a baby and carried him into his own room while Stephen took his place.  Douglas stirred but didn’t awaken fully and was positioned in the big bed between Martin and Stephen. 

***** 

When Hélias’ knocking on the door awoke the house at 7:00 Stephen looked down to see Donald laying between his spread legs with his head on his right breast and Martin snuggled up next to him with his golden head asleep on his left. With difficulty he extricated himself and walked out onto the balcony, his morning erection modestly screened by the geraniums. “Bonjour Hélias, bonjour, Joni!” he called down and directed them to come through the garden to start work.  He walked into the other room where the naked forms of the Plunger and Christopher could be seen under the sheet and alerted them that their busy day had begun.

There was a parade of naked boys heading to the shower under the stairs and Hélias, cigarette drooping on his lip, would pause in his work on the new garde-manger and direct the attention of Joni.

The Plunger wouldn’t even stop for coffee and headed out to the fish market with his assistant, Donald, bearing the extravagant telegraphic recipe.  Martin helped Christopher sweep the floors and put away scattered clothes.  Then they went out to the ironmonger for another big saucepan and some hooks from which to hang it. M. de Blazon then recommended six bottles of champagne and the same of a dry white and a light red.  The bottle of brandy for Mr Churchill was not forgotten.  Stephen came across the street to help and he fell into discussion with the patron about planting a grape vine over the new pergola. M. de Blazon promised to see to it over winter and Stephen gave him 10 francs with which to purchase a good one.

Martin made various trips to the shops and used his French supplemented by mime to come back with a basket of groceries while Stephen enjoyed chopping wood.

The Plunger returned quite the ichthyologist as he showed them the strange local fish such as rascasse, conger eel and spiny lobster that were vital ingredients.  He set to work preparing the fish and was directed by M. de Blezon to the best tomatoes and herbs from the garden.  He frowned when The Plunger dug up potatoes and declared that it was not a true Bouillabaisse marseillaise. 

Donald returned just as they were having lunch.  He was loaded down with items.  Around his neck hung a life preserver and two of the lamps that the local fishermen used on their boats.  Behind him he dragged an enormous net that was embellished with spherical cork buoys.

“I borrowed it from the fishermen down by the wharf.  It’s an old net that they were going to repair.  We can have these things until tomorrow night.”

Everyone thought they were marvellous stage props. “How much did it cost?” asked Stephen.

“Not a sou,” said Donald turning red.  They all stared at him and he smiled.

“No!” they all chorused.

“Yes!” replied Donald, “The fishermen thought it was a bargain.”

Thus the rest of the afternoon was spent busily preparing.  Martin and The Plunger were fighting for a position at the stove, which was making the room hot.  Martin was covered in flour and The Plunger was stirring his pot, taking quick glances at the telegram.  The net was hung from the ceiling over the table and looked very quaint.  There were many trips to Mme de Blazon for things they had forgotten and when business was quiet she came across herself in her pantouffles and peered into The Plunger’s pot, making suggestions.

At 6:00 Stephen declared a halt and announced it was time for his bath and champagne.  As Stephen lay in the cool water (space on the stove couldn’t be spared to heat any for his bath) having his shoulders washed by Donald, he thought again how nice it would be to eat out under the pergola, especially when the vine was planted.  He would start on building a table tomorrow.  The session was not a protracted one for the bath had to be pressed in service to keep the wine cool and the boys must make themselves ready.

When Mrs Chadwick arrived at 8:00, a remarkable sight greeted her eyes.  Apparently the Earl and Mr Knight had scoured the waterfront, possibly even as far as the stews of Marseilles, and brought back a band of roughnecks.  There were fisherboys in striped jerseys and calf-length trousers and two old salts in sou’westers and coarse garments.  They hadn’t even bothered to shave.  Worse still were two slatterns with them, possibly oyster-openers or those whores who waited for the boats to come in and who provided the Little Sisters with such a distressing stream of clients.

However, she began to think something was wrong when she noticed that the most elegant of the fisherboys wore a monocle and the tarts were conversing in the King’s English.

When she was introduced to the Prime Minister and Mrs Asquith and Mr Winston Churchill and his wife Clementine she was so overcome that Martin thought she might faint and a chair had to be produced.  She recovered, but the rest of the evening passed in a sort of dream and she thought only Lewis Carroll could do justice to her next diary entry.

Mrs Chadwick managed to talk about her late husband, the Consul in Nice, and Mrs Churchill listened sympathetically while Margot Asquith was inclined to be dismissive.  Martin hoped she wasn’t offended.  Mrs Chadwick had heard of Archie’s parents from the time of their residence in Mentone and was very impressed by him.  Their conversation soon turned to the correct recipes for various Provençale dishes.

Mrs Asquith formed a surprising attachment to Christopher Tennant and worked out that they were fourth or perhaps fifth cousins and, after a few glasses of champagne, were referring to each other as ‘cousin.’  Mr Churchill was admiring William’s paintings, which now hung on the wall and The Plunger fetched his own folio of sketches.  Donald and Martin were attempting to engage Mr Asquith whose eyes kept drifting in the direction of Mrs Chadwick’s bosom and so he was inclined to lose the thread of the conversation and Martin and Donald exchanged the occasional helpless look.  Upon closer inspection, Mrs Chadwick could see that the application of burnt cork accounted for the unshaven appearance of the two old fishermen and she was slightly annoyed that Lord Martin had not told her to adopt fancy dress, for she was busily thinking of an outfit she could have concocted for herself.

The champagne did its work, Stephen walking around to make sure no one’s glass was empty and the guests even managed to pour their own as they became more relaxed.

When they sat down at the bare wooden table M. de Blezon’s white wine was uncorked and an immense tray of cold meats and vegetables appeared. The guests reached across and helped themselves to lovely things such as tiny pickled Brussels sprouts, cold snails in garlic, mushrooms with truffle oil, carrots dusted with chervil and slices of local sausage.

It tended to be a competition between Mrs Asquith and Mr Churchill for the role of chief speaker, but Churchill seemed to be able to hold his drink more and he gradually dominated, giving an exciting history of the coast in the time of the Napoleonic wars.

The wine was changed when the bouillabaisse was produced and served with the correct kind of local bread.  Mrs Chadwick felt vindicated when the boys realised that there was no soup ladle and Mrs Chadwick though smugly of her heavy silver one at home.  However, a tin cup was attached to a wooden spoon and he stew was poured into the thick pottery bowls and distributed.  It was pronounced a great success and the Provençale peasant was envied.  The Plunger secretly attributed its success to the half a bottle of sherry he added on his own volition not long before the guests arrived.

Mr Churchill resumed his account of the British navy and soon the sounds of sea shanties could be heard floating over the street.  Mr Asquith had a particularly fine voice (possibly from singing in chapel as a boy) while Mrs Asquith could only squawk enthusiastically like a crow.

Just when the festivities were at their height, Martin came to the table with an enormous platter bearing a giant, steaming yellow confection. “Pouding au Tachete Richard avec Crème Anglaise” announced Martin as glasses were refilled and spoons and bowls were passed around.

To be continued... 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.

Posted: 11/08/13