Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013-2014 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 29
For Those in Peril
“And how in the bleeding hell are we going to do that?” asked Carlo.
“Yes, you can’t hegxactly ’ide an horse,” added Higgins, “let alone a groom.”
They were sitting in the butler’s room built into the half level below the stairs at Branksome House. It was a neat little room with white-painted woodwork and a tiny high window that gave onto the ‘area’ below street level so it was possible to identify visitors who approached the kitchen door down the steps or to front door from the east. A few steps up took the butler to the front door and a few down led to the kitchen and the servant’s hall. The electric bell indicator and a speaking tube were new conveniences from the minds of the architect, Lutyens, and Higgin’s master, Uncle Alfred.
“Look,” said Glass, taking off his trousers, “The horse will be hidden in the stable across the mews. Young O’Brien will be lodged in the room above—our old room, Carlo. Mr Stephen will be at the university during the day and so O’Brien can come across for his meals then or we can take them across. He’s hardly likely to come down into the kitchen.”
“Yes he is,” said Carlo, “he often drops down for a chat if he knows we’re not busy, lovely boy that he is.” Carlo removed his boots and shirt.
“Well, we’ll just have to be busy and send him away,” countered Glass who was now naked.
“What about the ’ay,” said Higgins, “’ow are we goin’ to ’ide the ’ay being delivered and the hoats too, that the bleedin’ ’orse will be eatin.’ And then there’s wot comes out t’other hend.” Higgins lowered his trousers.
“We’ll disguise all those things,” said Glass loftily, not really knowing how. “It is only until Christmas anyway.”
Glass dropped to his knees and took Carlo’s Italian cock into his mouth and began to pleasure him while Higgins looked on and stroked his own member.
The horse and its groom were a Christmas surprise for Stephen. Stephen had been riding hired hacks in the park for his morning exercise and Martin thought it would be nice if he had his own mount. O’Brien had selected a sweet tempered mare for the purpose while buying horse flesh in Ireland and had returned with his young cousin, Sean, who was to be the groom at the London house. Martin would eventually send up one of his own horses so he could join Stephen in this pleasant form of exercise, feeling sure they would both cut very elegant figures in Rotten Row. The stables at Branksome House, idle since 1899, would now be back in use even though London these days was full of motors and this thought pleased Martin immensely.
Martin was excited when school broke-up for the Christmas holidays. Despite William’s death he had not fallen behind in his work and he had a bag full of books and essays to read. The Plunger said goodbye at Winchester and changed trains. He would come to Croome for the New Year’s hunt and travel to Antibes with them.
Martin thought he would start as he intended to go on and so took out one of his English texts and tried to read it in the carriage. A tall man in a beard got in. He was evidently cold because he was wrapped up in an overcoat and a muffler and he put the window up. He then took out a piece of newspaper from his pocket and unwrapped a piece of stinking fried haddock and commenced to eat it, filling the compartment with a nauseous odour. Martin glared at him, but the man behind his thick glasses seemed oblivious. The wretch then produced a pipe and filled it with shag and lit it, polluting the air in the compartment with acrid fumes. Martin lowered the window but the man raised it again, indicating by flapping his arms that it was too cold. Martin tried to concentrate on his work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man remove a pinching boot and he wiggled his smelly toes. Then there was a worse smell. The man was farting. This was all too much.
“I say, this is a non-smoking compartment. Would you please put your pipe out?”
“The man shook his head and actually blew smoke into Martin’s face.”
“Why you rude swine. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, I do, you’re Lord Branksome and you can suck my cock,” said the passenger.
Martin’s face lit up. “Derby, you swine. It’s you!” He leapt across and pulled at the beard, which came away in his hands and he threw off the hat and scarf. There, revealed, was his Stephen, grinning. “Oh Derby, I love you so much, I think I’ll burst.” He threw himself on him and kissed him, getting some wisps of beard and spirit gum on his own face.
*****
Christmas that year was kept up in fine tradition, but it was inevitable that this one was not as joyous as more recent ones when William had been well enough to participate and so the toast to ‘absent friends’ took on a particular poignancy, however they made an effort for Thayer and Fortune who were their guests and had spent many Christmases alone.
Following his mother’s German custom, gifts were exchanged on Christmas Eve. Stephen handed a small box to Martin; inside was a pair of goggles. “The rest of your present is outside, Mala.” They went to the window. In the moonlight, with flakes of snow drifting down from the black sky stood the most beautiful thing Martin had ever seen. It was sleek and scarlet save for the long bonnet, which was silver. The immaculate red paintwork caught the lamplight from the windows: it was a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.
Martin, not heading the weather, rushed out to where Jackman was standing by it.
“I didn’t hear you drive up to the window, Jackman.”
“She’s very quiet. No vibration at all. She’s splendid isn’t she your lordship? This is the 1914 model: electric lamps, drum brakes, 50 horsepower. The touring body is by Barker. Six cylinders in two blocks…”
“How fast will it go?” asked Martin, eyes shining in the moonlight.
“Perhaps as fast as 80, your lordship, but only on special racing track.”
“Oh Derby, she’s beautiful!” He hugged Stephen. “I hope it wasn’t too expensive?” said Martin disingenuously.
“Oh no Mala, it was a snip,” lied Stephen, thinking that the chassis alone cost nearly a thousand pounds. You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Oh yes, Derby. Jackman will come with me at first, won’t you Jackman?”
Jackman blanched and said, “I will drive if your lordship prefers.” His lordship did not prefer.
The snow increased and Martin was at last persuaded to come inside as the car had to be put away because the top was down. “I’ve a present for you too, Derbs,” said Martin handing over a beautifully wrapped box; inside was a leather riding crop.
“Why it’s the most beautiful leather…” began Stephen.
“No silly, there’s something to go under it. She’s a horse and her name is Aine—after the Irish goddess of love—and she’s up in London. You can ride her in the park. I’ve engaged you a groom called Sean O’Brien—a relative of our O’Brien-—to look after her.”
“Oh Mala, thank you; that will be wonderful. I love the park at dawn, but some of the horses are pretty poor. I’m sure I will fall in love with her.”
“More likely she’ll fall in love with you, Derbs; I know you and fillies.”
*****
On the second of January the party was to return to London. The Plunger’s trunk that contained his immaculate riding clothes, which had been such a success at the hunt, was to be dispatched with Gertie, his manservant, back to Dorking. It was with malicious pleasure that Gertie packed a relatively simple suitcase of garments for his master to wear in France. “She won’t have any evening clothes if the President of France comes to dine and she’ll have to wash out her own smalls,” he said with glee. “Do you think this colour suits me, Higgins?” Higgins had never met Gertie before and didn’t quite know what to make of him. “You mean your ’air dye, Gertie? Is it ’enna hain’t it? Hit’s very…very strikin’ I’m sure.”
“Well done, Higgins. It is henna. Why didn’t you dance with me at the servants’ ball.”
“Coz you’s hain’t a lady, Gertie.”
“Oh but I can be Higgins; I can be. Here, help me close this case. Sit on it. Don’t worry about that; that’s just her camera.”
*****
The luggage, including The Plunger’s meagre suitcase, hatbox and painting things, were sent up with Higgins on the train. In the new scarlet Rolls Royce were placed Jackman, Stephen, The Plunger and Uncle Alfred. Martin was at the wheel.
Martin set the throttle on the steering wheel and threw over the crank. It started instantly and the vehicle on its leaf springs barely vibrated. Martin leant over the side and released the brake and they departed in a hail of small gravel. In an instant they were down the drive where the elms were avoided and the stone bridge in the village was traversed unmolested. The roads were not good and Jackman, with Stephen’s backing, was quite firm with his lordship telling him he wasn’t to go over twenty and that he should pass stationary objects at a slower speed and on the left side for preference.
For his part, Martin did try to avoid people, horses, obstructions and pot holes and by the time they had reached Ringwood, the initial rush of blood had subsided somewhat and they could even begin to enjoy the smooth hum of the wonderful car. An hour later they were through Winchester on the road to Aldershot. At Farnham they stopped to ask directions to Guildford over the Hogs Back and put the top up because it had come on to drizzle.
When the road became wet and muddy, Jackman forcefully told Martin to slow down, which he did, and they reached Guildford safely where they decided to break for luncheon, a picnic basket being produced from a locker on the running board for the purpose.
The Plunger was now on home turf and was invaluable in giving directions, wishing with all his heart that his parents would buy him such a magnificent vehicle and painting pictures in his mind’s eye of the colour it would be, the fittings he would have custom-made and the driving costume he would have tailored.
It was somewhere near Kingston when, to everyone’s relief, Martin suggested Jackman might like a turn at the wheel as he was unfamiliar with London driving. The chauffeur negotiated the thickening snarl of buses, vans, trams and other motors. The suburbs rolled by, the Thames was crossed and finally the Rolls Royce pulled to a smooth halt in front of Branksome House in Piccadilly. A flute on the horn brought forth Higgins—who had been back for several hours—and Glass the butler.
To their joy Donald and Christopher were already there and they left the fireside to goggle at Martin’s splendid vehicle. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t drive us all the way to Antibes—I mean after we cross the Channel by boat of course.”
“No Martin, the roads in France are terrible and you wouldn’t want to damage the car would you?” said Stephen persuasively.
The next port of call was the stable in the mews. Aine was a very pretty chestnut mare, just four years old and about 15 hands high. In many respects she was as beautiful as Martin’s new mechanical beast.
Stephen took to her at once and the horse nuzzled into Stephen’s hand, perhaps looking for sugar, just as Martin liked to nuzzle into Stephen in bed—with or without a sweet inducement.
“Oive been taking her to Hoide Park every morning, Mr Knight-Poole, for her exercise and to get her used to the London traffic. It can get very busy at Hoide Park Corner after 7 o’clock. She’s very sweet tempered. I knew her back home before you bought her.” Sean O’Brien was a young lad of about 14. He was slightly built—like a jockey—but taller; he wasn’t the big fellow that his cousin was.
“And how are you settling in O’Brien?” asked Martin.
“Very well, your lordship. London takes a bit of getting used to. My room is nice. I’ve never had steam heat before-—I won’t want to get out of bed—but there’s no danger of fire in the stable which always worried me.”
“Do you think you could handle another horse? I might send up one of mine.”
“Of course, sir, I had charge of a stable of thirty most of the time back home and I’m used to moving them on the train.”
*****
Tea was served in the drawing room by a good fire. M. Lefaux the chef had made excellent pastries that the hungry boys devoured before going off for their baths to try to remove the dust and grit from the road. The new bathrooms were a splendid success, especially when combined with the modern heating, which Uncle Alfred liked turned up quite high. Fires still burned in the hearths in the principle rooms, but it was no longer necessary to sit on top of them in order to roast one side of one’s body while the other side, like the dark side of the moon, was frozen.
Stephen was so excited that he went into the bathroom that Donald and The Plunger shared between their respective rooms and tested the radiators with his hands and made sure that they had warm, dry towels. Not content with that, he filled the bathtub and added a few drops of the lemon verbena salts that Chilvers like to use. He then went into the adjoining rooms and insisted that the boys undress and he put them in the bath together, The Plunger’s long pink, white and red form contrasting with Donald’s shorter, more brunette one. Stephen knelt at the side of the bath and soaped them and washed their hair. “Do you like that Donald? Am I washing it all right Plunger?” enquired Stephen seriously. Both boys agreed that he was doing an excellent job. “But why aren’t you hard? I’m always hard in the bath.” The boys tried a little harder and presently were a little harder which pleased Stephen who was merely trying to be a good host.
They dined with Uncle Alfred at the round table in the new dining room. Martin delighted in pressing the electric button with his foot when it was time for Glass to bring in their coffee. Uncle Alfred talked about what a magnificent stable of horses his friend the Maharaja of Rajpipla had and then turned to the extravagant number of Rolls Royce motorcars that had been shipped out to his state. “Why don’t you invite him down to Croome Uncle Alfred? I’d love to meet him. He could come on the weekend when the Prince of Wales is coming.” Uncle Alfred replied that he would consider it and Martin extended the invitation to the others and then went on to talk about the school and the new bus service that would operate. He hoped to drive the bus himself sometimes.
“I’d like to build and equip a proper gymnasium in the village, Mala, said Stephen. The Woman’s Institute hall is increasingly being used to show moving pictures. I know exactly how I want it to be. Could it be built near the school?” Martin thought that was a wonderful idea. His contribution was to say that he wanted to extend the infirmary in Pendleton and to provide some small cottages for distressed old people. “Could you help me design them Uncle Alfred?” he asked. Lastly Donald spoke of how wonderful Cambridge was, Martin paying particular attention. “I have taken up rowing—I’m the cox and I’m very good at motivating the crew,” he explained. Martin thought that rowing would be just the sport for him and that it would go well with Philosophy.
Despite The Plunger’s protests at not having evening clothes, they went out to a music hall where the chief attraction was Miss Daisy Taylor who sang a song about bagpipes called ‘You Can’t Make Music with That’ and another about her ‘Popsy Wopsy’.
The boys were a bit drunk when they returned to Branksome house in the snow, although The Plunger was warm in his expensive new overcoat with its astrakhan collar. Stephen implored them all to sleep with him but this delightful idea was found to be impractical and so he happily settled for his Mala alone where he wasn’t too drunk to fuck him near insensible until the wee hours.
Carlo found Martin very sleepy but very happy in the morning. It required some effort to get him cleaned up in time for breakfast and the early train. Mr Stephen he found bright and cheerful as usual. He had already been out for a ride at first light, despite the weather. He returned Aine to O’Brien and was full of praise for how tractable she was for Stephen admitted he did not feel a skilful enough horseman to break in a really difficult mount. He helped dry her and put on her stall blanket and fed her some small pieces of apple. Aine looked for more, but had to be content with a stroke from Stephen, who could hardly wait to ride her again when he returned from France.
The Rolls Royce took them to Victoria Station. Several people stopped to stare at the magnificent red chariot as it slid under the veranda. Jackman was to return to Croome and Martin cautioned him to be careful driving.
Soon they were on their way and Christopher entertained them with stories about his lodgings in Leeds. “When I’m in my bath I can hear giggling outside the door. I’m sure its Myrtle looking through the keyhole—she’s the youngest one—too young for me; I prefer an older more experienced woman. Don’t you agree Stephen?” Despite Stephen preferring the younger and more male Martin, Stephen made noises appropriate to a fellow man of the world. “Besides she now wears spectacles.”
“Well, what do you do Tennant? Do you cover the lock?” asked Donald.
“Oh no, I give her a bit of a show. Besides it would be a pity for her mother to have wasted all that money on the spectacles.”
“And the other sisters?” enquired Martin.
“And the mother,” added Christopher. “They are really nice but they do fuss a lot and are always making excuses to come into my room when I’m not quite dressed and such. But I’m not really interested in them.”
“There’s another?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, she works at the picture palace—she’s assistant manageress really—with special duties in relation to sweets and such. Well, we often talk and I have been out walking with her twice.”
“Have you fucked her?” said The Plunger with some asperity, as he did not like this sort of talk.
“No, not exactly, but I have held her hand and kissed her and she has let her hand slip down here.”
“And a very nice cock it is too Chris. Make sure she gets to share it,” said Stephen. “Now who’s coming out in the Joue Rose this year?”
The excitement of the trip south into warmer climes and the anticipation of a splendid holiday in the luxurious simplicity of Stephen’s little house in Antibes were as keen as ever.
*****
“Last August you wondered if we’d ever go back, Mala and here we all are, the same fine fellows,” said Stephen as they squeezed together in the lower berth.
“Yes its funny, isn’t it Derbs? I recall saying it but I don’t know why I said it. You know, I’m so happy, yet I’m sad for poor William. It would have been cruel to wish that he was still alive as he was, wouldn’t it, Derbs?”
“I think so, Mala. There are some things worse than death. Cruelty is one. Perhaps it is the only genuine sin. It’s a truism I know, but it is a blessing that William went. I haven’t liked to say it before because of—you know—the money, but I mean it, and I say it only to you. One of the most wonderful things about your brother is that he was always happy for us. He lived through us. If we waste our lives or allow ourselves to be unhappy—especially when there’s no good cause—it will be wasting what William found was the greatest treasure of all. It will dishonour him, don’t you think?”
“You put that very well, Derby. He really did come to love you and he seemed at ease with the idea of you looking after me—I don’t want to start that husband and wife thing all over again—but it’s partly true isn’t it?”
Stephen didn’t reply, but simply kissed Martin on his soft lips and gave a lick to his throat with its bobbing Adam’s apple, which he found particularly attractive at that instant.
In the next compartment Donald and The Plunger were saying little, for Donald was at present between The Plunger’s muscular thighs—well developed from athletics and tennis—and sucking on his generous cock with skills, if not developed, then at least honed from rowing on the River Cam between Bait’s Bite lock and Jesus lock.
Further along, Christopher Tennant occupied a compartment alone. Nevertheless he was pleasuring himself using some of the techniques taught by Stephen but whose ultimate origins remained obscure. He was taking himself to the edge of consummation but holding back by an act of will. Although mindful of Stephen, his most vivid thoughts at this moment were for an attractive young married woman who had conversed with him in English at dinner and had laid a gloved hand on his sleeve while smiling in a fashion most entre nous and his fantasies extended to her coming to his door at this hour to aid him in his pleasures.
They left the train at Cannes and a hired carriage took them and their luggage around the coast, now familiar, to the old stone town of Antibes, which stood in sharp relief against that magnificent backdrop of the Alps. The weather was mild but far from warm, however the skies were lighter than the dark wintery ones of home. “We will have to keep the kitchen stove alight if we don’t want to freeze,” observed Stephen.
They managed to get into the little house before Mme de Blazon buttonholed them. The boys set to work, under Stephen’s supervision, sweeping the floors and clearing cobwebs. Martin’s task, despite his elevation to the peerage, was to scrub the lavatory, paying particular attention to the art nouveau majolica decoration. This labour was performed under the strict eye of Stephen who brutally thwacked Martin’s bare, tempting and vulnerable buttocks with a rolled up copy of Le Figaro as he bent over the convenience in order to reach some ceramic dragonflies.
When the work was finished to the not very exacting standards of a group of boys, they crossed the road to pay their respects to the de Blazons, the owners of the bistro opposite whose gay tables that usually filled the road were packed away for the winter. The pair was delighted to see their English friends and Mme de Blazon, who had heard the news from Mrs Chadwick, hugged and kissed Martin and pinched his rosy cheeks by way of consoling him on the loss of his brother. Stephen explained that he was now a Marquess and Mme de Blazon crowned his blonde head with a copper aspic mould and dropped a curtsey as best as her ample form would allow in her worn pantoufles. She promised them a special dinner that night.
Martin and Stephen then cycled over to Mrs Chadwick’s villa. She had just returned from the Little Sisters and gave them all of the news. “Mrs Chadwick,” began Martin, “since my brother’s death, Stephen and I have come into some money. We would like to do some more to help this community where we feel so at home.”
“Well,” said Mrs Chadwick, as she poured out the tea, “there are so many needs and so many projects. There are the orphans at the Little Sisters. Their school needs a new roof and the plumbing is not too good. They would like to be able to take another dozen children, but they will need a new dormitory. Of course the Church will fund much of it, but they are also expected to raise half the money themselves—and there are so few nuns nowadays. I think Mr Podberry and I mentioned the Mission to Seamen. I am also working on a plan for planting trees in the wider streets. I know this isn’t Cannes or Nice, but I think shady trees would improve life for all classes who live here and I have already spoken to M. le Maire at the town hall. There’s also the stray dogs; the French are shockingly cruel to animals.”
“They are all worthy schemes, Mrs Chadwick—none of them particularly large but all good,” said Stephen. We wonder if it might be best if we set up a trust where the interest could be used or accumulated for such projects that the trustees thought worthy.”
“You and Mr Podberry could be trustees. What do you think of that proposal?” added Martin.
Mrs Chadwick was astounded but thought it was a marvellous idea and pressed them to eat another slice of her Madeira cake.
“I don’t know if you know Sir Danvers Smith, Mrs Chadwick,” said Martin, “He is our family’s solicitor. He could devise the trust. It might be better if you could come to England to discuss the details with him.
“To England your lordship! But I haven’t been home for…well I think it was for Queen Victoria’s funeral. My husband was alive then. I don’t know if I could…” she said, quite flustered.
“We would love you to stay with us in London and, of course, come down to Croome,” said Martin, “Do you know Dorset, Mrs Chadwick?”
“Well, when I was a little girl I once visited a great aunt in Wimborne Manor—but that was in 18…well, quite a long time ago.”
“Why, that’s not far from Croome at all!” exclaimed Martin. “Do say you’ll consider it—especially in the warmer weather.”
They left Mrs Chadwick a very happy and excited woman. The prospect of a steady and certain stream of money—even if it were not large—would be just the thing to improve her Antibes (as she thought of it) and she felt a swelling of pride at the thought of herself as a trustee—her late husband would have been so proud. Added to this joy, was that of being given a reason to visit England again. The great and hidden sadness in her life had been the loss of her infant children to typhoid. She had thought she could never face England again. With the passing of the years in comfortable exile she had lost, first her husband, then gradually all her family; she had felt to return would only emphasize her loneliness and the failure of her life, as she saw it in the dead of night.
Of no small consideration was the cost. While she lived like a rich woman in Provence, her income was limited and the cost of a trip home would be one that she would not normally have contemplated. Life in stately homes as the guest of the Marquess of Branksome was almost too delicious to contemplate—she must think of clothes.
How she blessed the boys.
*****
Martin and Stephen talked over this idea quietly while Christopher and Donald played cards and The Plunger read ‘Art’ by Clive Bell.
“How much money should we put into the trust, Mala?” asked Stephen.
“Well, it would be good if there could be a few hundred pounds a year.”
“That would mean eight to ten thousand pounds in capital perhaps. Could we afford this?”
“I thinks so; half each and we’d only have to do it once. If it were handled properly it would go on producing income forever, if the French government doesn’t interfere. We’ll speak to Sir Danvers when we get back. I really want to do this Derbs. I know Mrs Chadwick can be a bit of a cow, but I rather like her.”
“So do I, Mala. She’s a good sort.”
“Derby, do you want to sleep with Chris tonight?” asked Martin in a whisper.
“I thought that I did, Mala, but I’m not so sure now. Do you think he wants to?”
“Perhaps you should let him make the first move, Derbs. He may have changed since you’ve been apart. I’ll certainly enjoy snuggling up with you; otherwise I’ll have to wear some special woolly combinations I’ve packed.”
“Don’t tease me Mala, I need to be able to see you and feel you. I don’t like things in the way. Perhaps we need to buy one of those oil heaters for the cellar room. I don’t want Chris to be cold. I’ll make a new list of things to buy. Did you bring the Spong’s?”
Stephen did not sleep with Christopher, but when he went down to him in the morning he noticed how cold the cellar was. “I’m sorry Chris I never thought it would be this cool. I’ll get an oil stove put in today.” Christopher was too polite to complain and merely allowed Stephen to lift the blankets to check that his cock was satisfactorily hard and that it was as he had remembered it.
The next day was sunny and quite mild. Stephen went in search of Hélias and found him still in bed at his mother’s house. His mother was pleased to see Stephen and said so as she departed for her job at the perfume factory. Hélias sat up in bed smoking and invited Stephen to get under the covers with him. Stephen declined. Hélias put on a sad expression and said that he had been désolé et affligé since Stephen had gone but recovered when Stephen offered him work. “Where is Joni?” Hélias shrugged and looked under the bedclothes and shook his head.
Hélias assessed the problem of the stove and suggested that a small wood-burning iron stove might heat the cellar better and that he could run the flue out through a neat hole made in the new stone work, which seemed a pity to Stephen but would be better than the alternative. Hélias in fact had just such a stove, which he could let Stephen have cheaply. A deal was struck and he returned in the afternoon with the stove on a cart along with a beaming Joni.
Joni hugged and kissed them all. They all assisted in manoeuvering the iron stove into the cellar room via the street door and then Joni and Hélias set to work knocking out some stones for the flue. The patching up of the hole was a job for Hélias alone, save for his drooping cigarette, and so Joni was allowed to go with the boys down to the quay were the Joue Rose was sat up out of the water. The little craft was lowered into the bay and, as a test of Stephen’s skill, he launched the boat, set the sails and took them all out to sea without any direction from Joni.
The boat sailed along the coast in the direction of Nice ‘before the wind’ before turning back and sailing ‘with the wind’. Stephen couldn’t help but compare the handling of the craft with his beautiful new mare, Aine. He was filled with happiness.
When they returned Hélias had finished. The scar was minimal and the stove was lit with prunings of grape vine, which gave off a delicious smell. Soon the cellar room, so cool in the hot Riviera summer, was cosy and warm on this January day. Chairs were brought down and they all celebrated with wine, Hélias and Joni lying on Christopher’s bed.
That night after they had eaten, played cards and read, the boys went off to their respective bedrooms. Stephen went to say goodnight to Donald and The Plunger but they had already started their love-making without him so he closed the door. Martin was in bed reading Descartes’ ‘Discourse on Method.’ “It’s hard,” said Martin looking up at Stephen, “and I’m slow, but I’m up to part three. Are you going to sleep with Christopher tonight?”
“Oh so you want rid of me?” said Stephen laughing.
“You know that’s not the truth. Friendship is fleeting we agreed and the fuck you miss is the fuck you never had.”
“Did Descartes say that?”
“No I did. Go and make him happy, Derby.”
Stephen disappeared out the back door and down to the cellar. “It’s warm in here, Chris, he began. Are you naked?”
“Of course, Stephen, I wouldn’t dare be otherwise.”
“May I get in with you?”
Christopher lifted the covers as Stephen shed his garments. “This is nice,” he said, feeling Christopher’s legs next to his own, “like old times.” He put his arm behind Christopher’s head as he had used to.
“I’ve missed you so much, Stephen, especially at this time of night. I’d give anything if you were only in the next room to me in Leeds and we could talk like we used to.”
“That’s nice, Chris. I miss you too. Tell me about the girl in the picture theatre again; what’s her name?” Christopher launched into a detailed account of the budding romance and how she regularly slipped him tickets for a seat for the circle for the same price as for a seat in the gods as well as distributing a largesse of sweets which she also enjoyed herself, sitting next to Christopher in the dark when business was light.
Such was Christopher’s enthusiasm for this guardian goddess of the celluloid sphere, that Stephen felt he would be unlikely to be interested in any activities in the here and now. However, as Christopher talked on he was running his fingers absently through Stephen’s soft public hair and then, at the exciting point where she allowed Christopher to take liberties under her skirt, Christopher was taking similar liberties with Stephen’s hardening cock under the blankets “…and she let me put two fingers inside her as we were sitting in the very back row. She moaned really loudly Stephen and I was frightened that the people in front would hear, but the piano was playing particularly noisily so I did it twice more during a chase scene. That was just before Christmas. Do you think she’ll have forgotten me when I go back?”
“I shouldn’t think so Chris. You’re a good looking fellow—and a medical student. Were you gentle?”
“I’m not sure—I was a bit excited and I’d had some beer with the other fellows first. She didn’t complain about my bedside manner, though.”
“Chris, you’re getting me close doing that.”
“Oh yes. It is awfully nice doing it to you. I love your big cock. What would you like me to do?”
“What would you like to do?”
“Could I suck you for a bit?”
“Why don’t we suck each other?” said Stephen and he threw back the blankets and positioned himself conveniently.
“Steady on Chris! Haven’t you already had a big dinner?”
“Oh I’m sorry Stephen, I was getting carried away. I don’t want you to spill yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d really like you to spill inside me—in here—if Martin wouldn’t mind.”
“Martin wouldn’t mind at all, Chris, if you understand how things are between us.”
“Oh I understand, Stephen. Nothing will come between you, but it will mean a lot to me. I’d be yours in another sort of way—at least a little bit.”
“No, a lot Chris. I hope I don’t hurt you.”
“No you shouldn’t. We learnt that the sphincter muscles can stretch much more than you’d imagine—of course that was only theory in a book. Do you use Spong’s? It’s available everywhere and I’ve got the 1/6 tube just here in my case.”
Stephen liberally applied the unction to Christopher, adding one, then two, digits without complaint or the need for loud music, as the lad manfully pulled back his muscular young legs. He then he added some salve to his already moist member. Christopher had positioned himself on all fours, but Stephen insisted that he should sit on top of him, despite a fleeting urge to take his friend’s attractive, slim buttocks, at that moment presented with such abandon, in one brutal thrust.
Christopher pressed down on Stephen’s strong chest and Stephen guided his hard cock into the maiden chute of his best friend. There were tears that Stephen thought would break his heart, but Christopher was determined and finally Stephen found he was all the way in. They paused and Christopher, without any hesitation, leaned down and kissed Stephen. Stephen threw his arm around Christopher’s neck and held him there, letting him know that he appreciated his painful sacrifice.
After some minutes Christopher felt that he would enjoy some movement and so he began to ride Stephen’s cock, aided by Stephen’s upward thrusts. Stephen felt bad that Christopher was no longer hard and used his hands, when not engaged in stabilising himself on the bed, to bring his friend to hardness again.
“I want you to spill on me Chris. Don’t hold back this time; just let go,” he said.
Christopher was lost in a world of pleasure, but understood his riding instructions and through an application of friction and will, presently erupted in an uncontrolled fountain all over Stephen’s torso. Stephen praised him fulsomely and he found that he had no trouble himself spending deep inside his friend who collapsed on top of him in exhaustion.
“Don’t pull out Stephen,” he said lying there. “Tell me a story.”
Stephen was at first struck dumb with writer’s block but presently began the one about the two Roman gladiators, best friends, who were condemned to…But then he realised that Christopher was fast asleep on his chest. He pulled the blanket over them both and held Christopher tight. It was not for some time, and not before he’d shed a few tears of his own, that he drifted off into an exhausted but satiated sleep himself.
*****
The next day Martin expressed a desire to go over to Cannes to see the new Carlton Hotel. The boys shed their usual rough garments and dressed smartly. They took the local train along the magnificent coast and soon found themselves on the Promenade de la Croisette. Stephen looked up at the Villa Eleonore-Louise where so much had happened just a few short years before. A few steps brought them to the new hotel whose rather bloated magnificence now dominated the sea front. They went inside and found the salon where English afternoon tea was being served. Martin wandered away to find the manager to whom he introduced himself. The manager greeted the shareholder fulsomely and stated that the hotel was doing very well, with the summer season, as his father had predicted, being almost as popular as the present winter one.
“There is someone here that has been asking for you, Lord Branksome,” said the manager at last.
“For me?” replied Martin in some surprise.
“Yes, my lord. He asked me to inform him if you should ever come in. I think you will find him in the grand salon at this hour. His name is Count Osmochescu. He said you are old friends, your lordship.”
Martin went pale and hurried back to Stephen and whispered the news to him. Stephen sat upright in his chair. They scanned the room and there, behind a pillar, was the sinister figure, reading a German newspaper.
Martin and Stephen walked in his direction and even before they had reached him the Count had put down his paper and looked up, almost as if he were expecting them. Martin made his mouth into a hard smile, while Stephen was able to fake a more radiant one, showing some teeth at least.
“Lord Branksome, Mr Knight-Poole, how charming to see you again,” he began smoothly and then quickly added, “and how sorry I am to learn of the loss of your brother, Lord Branksome. My sincere condolences.”
“Thank you, very much, Count Osmochescu, it is delightful to see you again. Are you living here on the Riviera?”
“Oh no, your lordship, just passing through, although I do like to leave the colder climes at this time of year at my age. Lumbago. I did have the pleasure of seeing your cousins at Rittenberg again. Such a delightful part of the world. So quaint.”
“You went there after your visit to the United States?”
“What makes you think I went to the United States?” he asked, almost rudely.
“Oh its just when we parted at Hull you said you were making for Liverpool and I assumed…”
“Oh, it was to Canada. Montreal. I was only there briefly.”
“My cousin Friedrich never wrote that you had returned to Rittenberg.”
“He was away on army service and my return visit was but a short one on the way to my homeland, but your family is well and Prussia is particularly lovely in autumn. Are you here with friends?”
“Yes, Count Osmochescu, with our school friends.”
“Not with your friends, Mr Churchill and Mr Asquith?”
“No, not this time, but Mr Churchill is coming to dine at Branksome House on the 14th. It’s a pity you’re not going to be in London then. I would have loved you to join us—although it is just a family affair, really.”
“Lord Branksome, that is remarkable. I will be back in London by then. I leave tonight in fact. I would be most honoured to accept your invitation and I would very much like to see Branksome House.”
“How marvellous, Count Osmochescu,” said Martin, with consummate ease. “Will you come and take tea with my friends—I hope you don’t mind noisy school fellows—we are just sitting over there.”
They walked across the room and Stephen was able to surreptitiously congratulate Martin on his flawless performance. In the gentlemen’s lavatory he expanded on this and suggested that the Count must have retrieved his diary on the flying return visit.
“I’ll send a telegram to Churchill tomorrow. This dinner will be an important one,” said Martin, almost enjoying himself.
*****
The following day was grey when Stephen looked up at the sky. All was calm now, but he felt that it might turn stormy later, as there was a bank of clouds building in the horizon. For these reasons he sought out Joni to go out in the Joue Rose as his experience would be welcome.
The five boys, suitably rugged up for the day in fishermen’s knitted jumpers and knotted scarves, trouped down to the quay where they met Joni who was not required by Helias and would be paid for his time.
They were soon off in a very light breeze and Stephen, Donald and Joni worked hard to fill the sheets. The Plunger, wearing a nautical cap, sat by the tiller, picking out landmarks and trying to keep on course as he interpreted Joni’s shouts.
An hour later they were out a good way and the coast was just a thin line below the mountains with their snowy peaks. They were now skimming along; the breeze was stiffer away from the shore and the little craft handled beautifully. The threatening clouds had dissipated but the sea remained grey-green and the low ceiling of flat clouds was the colour of a pewter plate.
The Plunger gave a shout. He pointed to something in the water off the starboard side. With Joni’s agreement he turned the tiller and the boom swung across and they headed in the direction of the black speck.
With horror they saw it was someone in the water and as they drew closer they saw it was a boy who was struggling to stay afloat and could only feebly raise his arm. The sail was rapidly lowered and Joni pulled out the oars, which he fitted into the rowlocks. Donald and Christopher proceeded to pull them in the direction of the drowning boy.
Stephen stood and pulled off his jumper and shirt. He tightened his belt and rapidly tied a line to it. Before Martin could say anything he had executed a perfect dive into the sea and was swimming powerfully away from the Joue Rose. Martin felt panic rising in his chest, but concentrated on the practical: he played out the line, urging the rowers to pull harder so the boat could keep up with Stephen before the rope ran out.
The boy was further away from them than he first appeared and Martin could almost feel Stephen’s arms tiring, but still he ploughed on, arm over arm, agonizingly slowly gaining on his destination. The Plunger was trying hard to correct their course for the drift and he realised with alarm that the boy in the water was also drifting away from Stephen’s course. Stephen must have realised this too, for he changed direction and was now closing in on him.
At last he reached the boy who latched on to him almost pulling him under. Stephen managed to put one arm around him while the boy put both around his neck. Stephen attempted to swim back using his free arm, but Joni called out to him to stay where he was as the boat was manoeuvred to him. Martin now pulled on the line gently and Stephen was hauled towards the Joue Rose. When he was about twenty yards away, Christopher and Joni jumped in and swam out to offer their support. The pair was brought to the side and Martin hauled them on-board with effort.
Stephen was exhausted and heaving. He couldn’t speak. The Plunger removed his scarf and jumper and used them to dry Stephen whose teeth were chattering. He put on his own jumper and Martin and The Plunger hugged him, trying to warm him up.
The boy, who looked about 14, was stripped and dried with sundry pieces of clothing and sailcloth. Christopher, although cold himself, put his own jumper on him while Donald gave him his coat and scarf. T hey rubbed him to try to get his circulation going.
He spoke for the first time, very softly: “Mon père est là,” he said indicating the vast emptiness of the sea. “Il a noyé.” He started to cry and Donald hugged him.
“We must look for his father, even if he is drowned,” said Stephen, who was too weak to stand. The captain’s orders were obeyed and the sail was raised. The oars were stowed and The Plunger resumed his place at the tiller. The others scanned the horizon, but saw nothing.
Joni was now comforting the boy. His name was Peyre Palomer and he had gone out with his father to check some nets. There was only the two of them. Their boat was old—he had warned his father that it was taking water—then the timbers started to go and their boat simply fell apart around them. His father had tried to keep them afloat but he had swallowed a lot of water. He had lost consciousness some hours ago and then a wave had taken him away. The boy sobbed again.
They had turned for home after a fruitless search when Christopher spotted the body of a man, face down, being slowly washed in the direction of the shore. They manoeuvred the boat in that direction. This time it was Martin who jumped over the side into the cold waters of the Mediterranean. He swam to the body, which was again further away than it appeared, and he tied a line to it, trying not to think of the boy’s father as a corpse. He swam back exhausted and Joni pulled him on-board. Stephen dried him and tried to warm him. The boys hauled the dead man to the boat with the line. Donald shielded Peyre’s eyes while his father was rather awkwardly brought over the side. With some care M. Palomer was laid in the bottom and covered with a piece of sailcloth.
They set their course for the quay and even before they had tied up, Joni’s shouts had attracted a crowd.
Peyre was handed off and some of the crowd went to fetch his mother and brothers. The body of his father, in its shroud, was laid with some reverence on the stone flags.
Joni explained the circumstances in rapid Provençale while the crowd murmured and hugged Peyre who was now kneeling by the body of his father. Members of Peyre’s family, including one distraught woman who was presumably his mother, now swelled the crowd. How terrible, thought Martin: while her son is saved, her husband is dead. How conflicted her emotions must be. How dangerous was the life of the mariner and how terrible for their families who must always wait at home in dread.
The boys slipped away and walked home in silence. Martin was anxious to look after Stephen who was being supported by The Plunger. The bathtub on the terrace under the pergola with its bare grape vine was filled with very hot water from the kitchen stove and Stephen and Martin were placed into it and their tired muscles were soaped and massaged by Donald while Christopher washed the salt out of their hair. “I’m tired now,” said Stephen. “I think I will go up to bed.” No sooner had he uttered these words when there was a knock at the door. The Plunger answered it and to his consternation it was Mrs Chadwick accompanied my Mne de Blazon. “Good afternoon ladies,” he said in English and French. “I’m sorry Stephen and Martin are in a hot bath and can’t receive ladies they have been in the sea and…”
“We know what has happened, Mr Craigth; the whole town knows,” said Mrs Chadwick.
“They are heroes. I don’t care if they are in the bath.” She pushed in aided by the muscle power of Mme de Blazon and they bustled out the back door to where they knew the bathtub stood.
“Oh your lordship, Mr Knight-Poole what brave boys you are! Well done!” cried Mrs Chadwick, as Martin tried to cover up. Mme de Blazon added her voluble praises, going into the history of the Palomer family and the particulars of various tragedies that had befallen them in her lifetime. Stephen didn’t bother to cover up and merely said it was nothing.
“Nonsense!” cried Mrs Chadwick. “That sea would have been freezing. She put her hand in the water and Martin thought for a moment that she was going to pleasure Stephen’s cock but she merely turned to The Plunger and said “More hot water, please. Mme de Blazon do you have any Epsom salts?”
Mme de Blazon had never heard of des sels d’Epsom, or even of the Derby and Epsom salts remained elusive until The Plunger said, “sels volatiles, madame” and the patronne bustled away and returned a few minutes later with a box, some of whose contents Mrs Chadwick poured into the tub with the hot water. “This will relax your muscles,” she said in a motherly fashion as she swirled the water about. Martin was hoping that all of Stephen’s muscles would remain relaxed to avoid social awkwardness, but Mrs Chadwick seemed oblivious.
Mme de Blazon announced that there was to be a feast in honour of the heroes—all of them—in the Bistro de Blazon at which M. le Maire himself would appear in his sash of office. Stephen didn’t want any fuss but saw it was now beyond his control—besides, the Provençale, he knew, loved a jour de fête.
Stephen was very tired and the ladies showed no signs of leaving so he put his hands on the side of the tub and made as if he was going to emerge. Mrs Chadwick gave a little cry and moved back into the house to talk to Christopher, pulling after her Mme de Blazon who laughed and probably would have liked to stay to watch. Stephen, now in his lemon silk pyjama bottoms, came inside and climbed the stairs, calling down his goodbyes and promising to come to the bistro that evening.
Stephen slept for some hours and Martin did not disturb him, sleeping himself in Christopher’s bed, his own muscles aching and tired. By evening all seemed recovered—such was youth—and they dressed in their best clothes for the celebration, which they could hear in its early stages from across the narrow street.
The boys entered in triumph but red with embarrassment and the crowd parted and M. de Blazon showed them to a high table at which sat Mrs Chadwick and the mayor, each in their own way, the rulers of the town.
A splendid garlic soup was produced and then there was a fish with a sauce made of sea urchins. The main course was daube—a beef stew cooked for many hours and flavoured with nutmeg, prunes and duck fat—however before this could be served M. le Maire rose to his full height of five-foot-one and adjusted his tricolour sash. He began by saying that young Peyre was at home recovering and supporting his bereaved mother and that all of Antibes was moved by their tragic plight. He then went on to describe the treacherous mistress that was la mer who offered up her fruits to the people of the coast, but also exacted a terrible price.
He then moved on to the tale of the English heroes—all men of noble birth—who braved the elements to rescue a Son of France. He warmed to his task and went on to describe Stephen’s swim as if he were there himself. Martin picked up the words orgageux and tempétueux—although he recalled the sea was rather flat. The mayor would have none of that and had Stephen ploughing through gigantic waves while the other boys pulled on the oars like so many Grace Darlings. “Were not the waves terribly steep, M. Etienne?” he asked through Mrs Chadwick.
“Terribly steep, monsieur; très raide.” replied Stephen.
Then there was a colourful description of Stephen clasping Peyre to his breast. Peyre was supposed to have cried “Vive la France!” and Stephen was supposed to have praised the entente cordiale. Then the mayor changed key and soberly described the recovery of the body of M. Palomer and how all in the boat stood reverently and removed their caps.
It was so dramatic that Stephen almost wished he were there. He was made to stand and the mayor kissed him on both cheeks and the crowd cheered. They had their hero.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 01/17/14