Noblesse Oblige
Book Four
The Hall of Mirrors

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 2
With a Twitch Upon the Line 

1919 had not been a good year for the Marquess of Branksome.  On a bleak January day he had gone down to Tilbury with The Plunger and tried not to cry as he said goodbye to Stephen who was bound for Australia. The next day he was to cross the Channel himself to attend the Peace Conference.  He had decided to take Carlo, with him for company.  In their many journeys, including travelling right across the United States, the cheeky ship’s steward-turned-valet was a boon companion.  Many of his mannerisms were copied from Chilvers, the revered butler at Croome, but his own character was never far below the surface and he could be cunning, wise and resourceful in turns.  Above all, he was loyal and loved Stephen almost as much as Martin did—or did Chilvers for that matter—or Mrs Capstick or Miss Tadrew…in fact everyone loved Stephen and now he was gone from their lives and the loss would be a grievous one indeed and Martin didn’t know how he’d bear it.

Although fate had turned once again and the King of Portugal was restored to the throne thus vacating the best suite at Le Meurice, Martin chose to stay at a much less pretentious establishment.  He realised that it was for Stephen’s enjoyment that he had made these big gestures, for Stephen had grown up in very humble circumstances and Martin’s great joy had been introducing his friend to an utterly different way of life and through his eyes Martin again could take measure of their value, if not their worth.

He could already see that the Peace Conference was going to be a disaster.  President Wilson arrived with his ‘14 Points’ and little understanding of foreign policy.  He immediately fell ill and Colonel House, whom Martin remembered from their brief meeting in Washington, seemed to make all the running.  It was already decided that Germany would be blamed and punished— Clemenceau wanted revenge for the millions of dead Frenchmen.  Even the Australian Prime Minister, whom he had also met while at Hamel with Sir John Monash and Stephen, was being difficult and stubbornly arguing with Lloyd George—sometimes in Welsh- as well as turning off his hearing aid when President Wilson spoke.  The Germans themselves were not invited.

Martin’s particular job, however, had been to make an assessment of an obscure border question in eastern Germany.  He merely had to gather information and show that His Majesty’s government had a European settlement at heart.  He was just about to leave for Memel with the French delegation when Stephen’s first letter arrived from Aden.  He read it eagerly.  Stephen had been found a place (with the influence of Monash, Martin suspected) on a ship loaded with returning Australian soldiers.  Stephen was in good spirits in their company and had won 10 pounds in boxing matches, he wrote, but admitting he was pretty knocked around in the last one, which he had lost.  In a paragraph he described passing through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea—places Martin had never seen but now longed to just because Stephen’s eyes had seen them. He concluded with an open declaration of his love, which made Martin’s heart sing.

He read it again and again as he crossed Germany in the train.  It did not seem strange being there.  It was all slightly familiar— as if the War had never happened.  In Berlin, however, it was another story.  Even during their overnight stop in a salubrious part of the town—at the Eden Hotel— he was witness to armoured cars touring the streets and his sleep was disturbed by the sound of gunfire coming from somewhere in Wedding.

At Konigsberg he sent a telegram to his cousin Friedrich hoping that he was still alive and asking if it would be acceptable for him to visit on the return trip in some weeks’ time.  A steamer then took him to the town at the end of the spit that was formerly the northern most point of the German Empire.

The Memel Question was one of those intractable problems, like what to do with Fiume in Italy.  Or with Ireland he suddenly thought.  It had already been decided that it was not to be German, even though a sizable percentage of the population of the town—but not the surrounding district, were Germans and would have surely voted for inclusion within Germany’s borders.  So much for President Wilson’s dictum, he thought bitterly.

The new Lithuanian state was determined to have Memel as their chief port in revenge for the Poles occupying Vilnius and many in the town and beyond were Lithuanians or had some Lithuanian blood.  Then there was religion: The Lithuanians in Memel were mainly Lutherans and looked to Germany.  The Lithuanians in Lithuania proper were mainly Catholics or Russian Orthodox.  All parties agreed that they didn’t want to be part of Poland.  To make matters worse, and with very little trouble, Martin found out there was a secret Lithuanian militia forming with the intention of seizing the town and the peninsula.  The Germans best hope was that it might be declared a free city and that the river might be internationalised like the Danube.  Martin wrote all this in his report, quoting various authorities, having maps drawn and inserting the figures for exports of timber through the port.  In a separate, confidential report he noted that the French delegation was being particularly troublesome and that it might be best to give the French enough rope.

Martin left as quickly as he possibly could and made his way to Ritterburg, the seat of the von Oettingen-Taxis family who were Martin’s cousins.  Friedrich was there to greet him.  He looked older but was still blond and good-looking and he was now head of the family, his father having died of the Spanish Influenza only two months before.  “I’m sorry Friedrich.  I’m sorry about everything,” he said, sincerely, while shaking his hand.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Cousin?” said Friedrich rather mischievously and kisses were exchanged that were slightly beyond the familial sort.

“I was ever so surprised to receive your letter in the middle of the War,” said Martin.

“It was very bold of me to send it.  But I had the opportunity and we are not at war, are we Martin?

“No Friedrich, never us,” and he kissed him again.

Martin was taken in to greet Frau von Oettingen-Taxis.  Martin expressed his condolences to the dignified but rather severe widow who was now dressed all in black with strings of beads made of jet.  She replied with a tight smile: “Cousin, I have lost my oldest son, my Mutti and now my husband, but it is the loss of my country that I find hardest to bear.  And now, most of all I fear ‘that’ which is just 90 kilometres away.”  Martin looked at Friedrich.

“She means Russia and the Bolsheviks.  They are just over the horizon and we are now a long way from Berlin—a little island inside Poland.”

That night Friedrich made his way to Martin’s bedroom and slipped under the blankets in his red silk pyjamas.  He took Martin’s cock into his mouth and performed on him until Martin spilled with a shudder.  “It has been six years, cousin, but you taste the same,” observed Friedrich, gravely.  “Why is your Stephen not with you, Martin? Is he still your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” replied Martin with more certainty than he felt, “he is working in Australia now.”

“You know Martin, you are like me.  You are unhappy because your Stephen has gone away and you are needing his kisses and his big Schwanz.  You are unhappy like me because you have no master.  We both need to be fucked hard and without mercy by an Übermensch.” Martin wasn’t quite as sure as Friedrich, but there was enough truth in his blunt assessment to strike a chord.  “Mein Eugen has gone to Poland and joined the army.  Also my heart is broken, Cousin.” 

“But he may return, Friedrich?” ventured Martin, “If things are as bad in Poland as you say they are…”

Friedrich merely shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“And your groom,” ventured Martin again, “Roman Kaliszuk?”

“Gone too.  Like the Kaiser, all gone.  Alles ist geschissen.”

“Do you remember when we were here in 1913, there was that funny little man—the Romanian count?”

“Count Osmochescu?  Of course; you will see him tomorrow at dinner.”

“He’s here?”

“Ja, natürlich.  He is engaged to my mother.  Did I not tell you?”

Far from being terrified, Martin just inwardly groaned and rolled his eyes.  Whatever he was up to, he could not hurt Martin now, he reasoned, and as a member of the extended family had even less reason to do so.

“Do you think you can fuck me now, Martin?” said Friedrich wriggling out of the red silk and presenting his blond arse to Martin with little ceremony. 

***** 

Dinner the following day was a far from jolly meal and only the presence of Friedrich and his younger brothers, Arno and Oskar, saved it.  After the meal Count Osmochescu drew Martin aside and said: “Cousin, I may call you that?” Martin nodded and tried to keep his composure. “Cousin, you will have noticed that things are much changed here since the War.”  That was perfectly obvious.  “The table tonight was not as splendid as it was in happier times.”  Martin had to agree that this was so.  “And they have made a special effort for your visit, but everything is in short supply and the Mark can buy very little.  I fear we will have a second revolution if things keep going this way and I know who will swallow us up,” he said, looking over his shoulder to Russia as Frau von Oettingen-Taxis had done earlier.

“Would some sterling help matters?”

“Indeed it would,” said the Count, brightening. “They are too proud to ask, but I can exchange it at a very favourable rate and we could buy some meat and Madame needs a new coat.”

“On the black market?”

“An ugly word, your lordship.  Rather I would say that I have friends who are implementing a new economic reality—a Neue Wirklichkeit as they say now; a Freie Wechselstube I prefer to call it.

Martin left the next day and returned to Paris where he presented his report.  He then sought out Lord Curzon the Earl of Kedleston, and Arthur Balfour.  “I wish to resign my position in the Foreign Office and Military Intelligence,” Martin said simply “and I will leave the army.  I wish to take up my seat in the Lords,” he lied.  The two statesmen considered Martin for the briefest moment, Curzon perceiving the 23 year-old to be no political threat to his own ambitions and Balfour was too preoccupied by the flawed Peace Treaty to do more than shake his hand.  With that Martin was free and a few days later he returned to England with Carlo.  

It was now September and Martin felt miserable.  He read and reread Stephen’s letters and he wrote his own addressed: ‘c/o the Reinforced Concrete and Monier Pipe Construction Company of 362 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria’ where they were forwarded upcountry to the various sites on the Goulburn River where the giant irrigation scheme was being constructed by the government.  In these letters Martin was careful not to sound pathetic, but he was increasingly honest—even blunt—in expressing how much he missed Stephen, just stopping short of begging him to return.  Stephen on his part would report on his doings and the progress of the Eildon Dam and a storage basin lower down, and he would even send pages upon which he had spilled his seed, just like he had done when he was at school.  Martin treasured these, but desired even more to know when he planned to return to England, a question on which he was irritatingly silent.  In his blackest moments he tortured himself by telling himself that Stephen had emigrated to Australia and would not be returning.  To further this he conjured up antipodean boys and girls that Stephen had fallen for and who now replaced him in his affections and he looked in the mirror and found every cause why Stephen should have replaced him.  He tried to pleasure himself thinking of Stephen—he even found the photograph of Stephen in his boxing togs that he had loved so much—Stephen as a handsome 16 year-old— but the delight was an ersatz one, if not stale.

At Croome Martin walked in the grounds with Uncle Alfred.  They paused at the ruined wing.  “We should do something about this, Martin, it looks terrible,” said the elderly man gesturing with his stick.  “When Stephen gets back we should ask him what we should do,” he continued. Martin nodded.  “Some of the chaps at the club were asking after him just the other day…”

Down in the village Mr Destrombe again spoke of the war memorial.  “Some are suggesting that we should have a practical memorial, like a hall or a belfry.  Others like my wife want an avenue or a flower garden.  I rather favour a statue of an angel bearing the sword of righteousness,” he said, adopting the appropriate stance, which made Martin giggle.  “What do you think Mr Stephen would advise your lordship?”

In the estate office Blake reported that he had been talking to the Tidpits who were weighing up the desirability of increasing the dairy heard and adding another line to the milking machine.  “If Mr Stephen were here he would know what to do.  And they’ve got a new Ford motor tractor over on Sir Bernard Bonnington’s estate.  Mr Stephen will be furious we’re not the first.”

Then there were the letters from Daniel Sachs requiring Martin’s approval for the sale of shares and the purchase of new investments.  He kept insisting that they must have a meeting but Martin felt that he couldn’t think about the future, nor make such decisions, without Stephen.  He was paralysed.

Every week he would seek out old Knight and Miss Tadrew to ask if they had heard from him and they anxiously asked the same question.  “I’m getting old, your lordship, I need my boy close by,” said Titus Knight one day, fighting to hold back the tears.

There was excitement when a new motorcar was delivered.  It was Stephen’s curious ‘Pan’, which he had ordered from Mr Pandolfo two years before when in Mrs Buckweet’s hometown.  The vehicle came with the news that the industrialist had recently been convicted for fraud and would likely go to prison.  However the motorcar was real enough and it was stabled next to Martin’s enormous Rolls Royce Silver Ghost also to await the return of its owner.

“Should I get Cook to bottle the brambleberries this year, your lordship?” asked Mrs Capstick when she came upon Martin moping down a corridor.  “Mr Stephen is the only one who is partial to them and they is very fiddly little things to do— what with those wicked thorns and all—but if Mr Stephen were to have a fancy for them, why I’d sit up all night with the tweezers and never mind a few drops of blood…” Martin had to hurry away and the housekeeper received no sensible answer.

Chilvers came into his room and could see that Martin had been crying and Martin was now beyond caring that he did.  “Your lordship, I will not beg your pardon on this occasion but I will simply say it: When I was a young man—a junior footman in the Home Counties—I had a particular friend.  He asked me to leave service and join him in running a small hotel on the Isle of Wight.  I dithered, fearful of committing myself.  He left, found another and we lost touch.  I have thought of him every day of my life since and have cursed my lack of action.  I think it would be advisable for you to go out to Australia straight away and bring Mr Stephen back here.”

“I should go and chase him?”

“You can call it that if you like, but yes.  You have nothing to lose.”

“But if he wanted to come back he would have done so by now.”

“We don’t really know why he doesn’t move, but I’ll guarantee it doesn’t have anything to do with you, your lordship.”

“But what if I go and he says he doesn’t want to come back?”

“Is it a chance worth taking, sir?”

“Supposing I go out and he is already on his way back?”

“It would be an inconvenience, that’s all.  We will send a Marconigram if he does and you can turn around.  I suggest you take Carlo with you.” 

***** 

Thus it was arranged and Martin felt immediately better.  Passage was booked on the Orient Line’s Orsova with a cabin in first class for Martin and one in second for Carlo.  At the last minute, The Plunger joined them and would travel as far as Egypt where he hoped to meet up with Alvaro Guevara, the Chilean painter for whom The Plunger had an attachment, although it was not an easy relationship.

In the long days and weeks down the Red Sea and across the Indian Ocean Martin and Carlo tried to fill their empty hours and hearts with thoughts of Stephen.

“Your lordship, I think I should take care of that.  Can you find the soap?”

“Oh thank you, Carlo.  It’s here somewhere.”

“This should make you feel better.  Soon Mr Stephen will be doing this and you won’t need me.”

“Or rather you’ll be doing this to both of us— or better still, he will.”

“You must keep in practice sir.  I’ve got the plug, your lordship.  Do you want it fitted this morning?”

“Yes, until luncheon.  I found that I couldn’t play shuffleboard yesterday with it in, so I’ll have you remove it for the finals today.  I have been thinking how good it will be to use some of the things from our box on Mr Stephen, Carlo.  It was perspicacious of you to pack it.”

“Thank you sir, if that means it was a good idea.  Mr Stephen would look very fine being pleasured by that large dildo, I think.”

“The black one?”

“No, the ribbed one was what I had in mind.  Martin closed his eyes to better imagine.

“And we’ll put his cock strap on him and get him to pleasure himself before us.”

“Both of us, your lordship?”

“Why yes, Carlo.  It will be essential for you to participate.  I wish I could…”

“Could what, your lordship?”

“Oh, I can’t say what I’d like to do most.”

“Do you mean you’d like me to push your head right into his…er…cleavage?’

“Why yes, Carlo, how did you know?”

“Just an educated guess, your lordship.  Let’s write it all down before we forget, but you will have to stop splashing, sir, if you don’t want the ink to run.”

And so a part of each day was devoted to the diverting pastime of compiling a modern Kama Sutra in an old exercise book and there were many erasures, arrows and afterthoughts and diagrams were sketched where words failed.

It was 13 days from Colombo to Fremantle and the weather grew rougher.  Another 1600 miles brought them across the Great Australian Bight to the City of Melbourne, which sat at the head of a wide bay, almost an inland sea, beneath grey skies.

To his surprise Sir John Monash and Herman Moss were on the pier to meet them.  While Martin was unknown, Sir John was now the greatest man in the country and the public stared and pointed at the stout man with the bushy eyebrows and military moustache.

“I insist you dine with Hannah and me tonight at Iona when you have settled,” said Sir John.  “She doesn’t get many peers at her table.  We can talk about Stephen.  I think he has gained a lot of experience out here, don’t you, Herman?”

Moss agreed and the discussion continued at Monash’s fine house in a leafy suburb not far from the busy centre of town, with Monash’s optimism being contagious as he talked about the German processes for utilising brown coal to generate cheap electricity.  Martin felt consciously, for the first time since the War, that the future may indeed be bright—especially an electric one—but feared such schemes may tempt Stephen to stay in Australia.  He resolved that Stephen should have a free hand in modernising Croome should he ever decide to return.  With a pang, the sudden thought that he might not made him feel sick and Lady Monash asked him if he was alright. 

***** 

Martin was alone when he took the train inland to the town of Rushworth.  It was a small town only about 100 miles away, but the trains were slow and he had to change so he found he had been travelling for three or four hours.  The train climbed over the coastal range of hills and down onto the inland plain where the skies were bluer and the heat more intense.  Martin removed his suit coat.  “What am I doing here?” Martin kept asking himself, but the machinery was now set in motion and it would work to its end.  Martin was carried along with it as surely as he was being carried on the train.

The broad, flat valley of golden dried grass and dull green eucalyptus trees was given over to grazing sheep but close to the rivers could be seen dairy farms and orchards.  The train then climbed through open woodland that smelt of the liniment that he remembered his nurse used to rub on his chest when he had a cold. The untidy trees shed long strips of mottled bark and some of their trunks showed scorching from previous ‘bush fires’. 

Eventually the train stopped at Rushworth and Martin alighted and found himself in the hushed heat of the noonday sun.  There were few people about, but the stationmaster offered to find him someone who could take him out to Colbinabbin, the sheep station where Stephen was believed to be living.  A boy was sent across the wide, deserted road to a brick pub that slumbered in the shimmering heat alongside a few squat shops with wooden verandahs over the pavement.

A man in an old hat appeared and asked Martin if he was the gent for Colbinabbin. Martin replied that he was and the man took him around to the yard where there was a buggy parked under a large old pepper tree. Martin found that he had to carry his own case and he swung it up behind the seat and climbed up next to Stewart— for that was the name of the driver.

Stewart kept up a monologue for the several miles it took to reach Colbinabbin.  He ‘yarned’ about the gold rush that had created the town and had now deserted it as the mines filled with salty water.  “Yur from Home?” he asked.

“Yes, just arrived from England a week ago,” replied Martin a little stiffly.

“Be careful of them big bull ants.  They can give yuz a nasty nip on the arse if yer happen t’sit on a nest.”

Martin thanked his Virgil for this tip and promised he would be careful.

As the horse clopped slowly down the earthen road, Martin began to appreciate the strange beauty of the landscape.  It was eerily deserted with scarcely a house sighted and on the entire trip they passed no one.  It was also strangely quiet for even the birds don’t sing when the day is at its hottest.  Stewart pointed out a mob of kangaroos sleeping lazily in the purple shadows of some large trees in a paddock.

They reached a gate with the name Colbinabbin painted on it. Martin hopped down and opened it and made sure he closed it securely as he was told it was a mortal sin to leave a gate open, which might allow stock to stray or mix.  It was still a mile to the house, which proved to be built on a rise and surrounded by a lush garden, protected on two sides by a tall Cyprus hedge.  Two towering date palms gave it a somewhat exotic air.  The house itself was sprawling and comprised only one floor under a slate roof.  Brick and timber construction told of its history.  The wide, shady verandah looked welcoming and spoke of tall, cool rooms within.

Martin told Stewart to wait and stepped up onto the verandah and rang the bell, although the front door stood open behind its flyscreen.  A housekeeper emerged wiping her hands and Martin explained he was looking for his friend, Major Knight-Poole.

“Oh you’re after Mr Stephen are ya sir?  Come in.  He’s out with Mr Winter-Russell but Mrs Winter-Russell will be back in a minute.  She’s just ridden down to the creek.  Can you stay sir?  I’ll send Stewart away. He’ll be wanting to get back to the Criterion at this hour.”

Martin was embarrassed, but said that he would be grateful if he could.  “I have just arrived from England and I am living in Melbourne at present.”

“Yes sir, said the women, not listening.  Give me three bob for Stewart.  I don’t know what he told you, but three is plenty.”

Martin was shown into a lofty drawing room with a timber-lined ceiling that rose into the roof.  There were comfortable sofas, pictures, decanters, a piano, and vases filled with marvellous flowers— presumably from the garden.  Martin had only been sitting for a few minutes when he heard the sound of hooves and the thump of boots on the verandah.  He heard the housekeeper speak and then the door was opened by a woman in her mid-forties wearing jodhpurs.  “I’m Diana Winter-Russell and you must be Lord Branksome.  Welcome to Colbinabbin, your lordship.”

“How d’you do, Mrs Winter-Russell?  But how did you know?” said Martin, taking her hand.

“Oh Stephen talks of little else and we half expected you to come.  I’m sorry if we have ruined your surprise.  And there was this,” she added, indicating a magazine on the arm of a chair.  It was a society publication called Table Talk and upon inspection it reported that The Marquess of Branksome had arrived on the Orsova with his valet and was staying at the Melbourne Club.  On another page there was actually a picture of Martin at Government House where he had gone to see Munro Fergusson, the Governor General, who had been a friend of his father when he was a Scottish MP.  Martin blushed.

“Mrs Gregory said you would stay.  I’m so pleased and my husband will be too.  We’ve put you in the bedroom across the hall.  Stephen prefers to sleep in the shearers’ quarters across the yard —the shearing is over for this year.  Will you have some tea?  I’ll just go and change.”

Martin realised he had barely said a word and his lack of a plan was now glaringly obvious.  How could he explain his presence and what would he say to Stephen?  It was too late.  He would just have to go along with everything and, besides, he needed the tea desperately.

Mrs Winter-Russell reappeared in a floral tea gown and Mrs Gregory carried a tray loaded with cakes and sandwiches out onto the verandah where there was a table at one end embowered by a grapevine.  The vine set off Martin talking about Stephen’s little stone house (converted from a shop) in the old town of Antibes in France.  Mrs Winter-Russell told him of her trip to France on her honeymoon twenty-four years ago.  She then took him around the garden, which was quite attractive and had many plants that Martin had not seen before.  “It was started by my husband’s mother in the 1860s.  We used to own all the land from here down to the river.  Some of it has now been compulsorily acquired by the government for irrigation blocks for returned soldiers and a lot more will be flooded for the Waranga Basin—the new reservoir.”

“How will you cope with the loss of your land?” asked Martin thinking of Croome.

“Oh we will concentrate more on our fine Marino wool.  I can’t see Jim milking cows or picking pears.”

Just as she spoke the sound of horses announced that Mr Winter-Russell and Stephen had returned.  Martin looked up and there was Stephen, eyes shining and his black hair falling down over his left eye.  He was wearing old trousers and boots and a shirt without a collar with the sleeves rolled up.  The sun had tanned his skin.  Martin thought he looked wonderful and could barely take his eyes off him, but politeness mandated that he must also take in his host, Mr Winter-Russell, who was an unremarkable man in his fifties, with straight hair under a hat, Martin perfunctorily and unkindly recorded.

“Mala!  What are you doing here?” cried Stephen as he bounded onto the wooden verandah with a thump. He wrung Martin’s hand enthusiastically.

Fortunately he did not wait for an answer—for Martin did not have one and went on to introduce Mr Winter-Russell who was very cordial and an evident gentleman.

For the next week Martin was entertained royally by the owners of Colbinabbin but seldom got to be alone with Stephen. He wondered what Stephen’s distance meant. Had Stephen made a new life here for himself?

Stephen was at work some days on the Waranga Basin, which Martin was shown over it by the chief engineer.  On other days he was out with Mr Winter-Russell repairing the barbed wire fences on the vast sheep station or burning long grass ahead of the summer fire season.  Neighbours were continually invited for luncheons, teas and dinners all of which were splendid and washed down with great quantities of tea and beer.  Martin found he had to work hard to keep off the asphalt tennis courts where he was always soundly and gleefully beaten.  He determined to put in a second court at Croome and improve his own game. However on horseback he could hold his own over the rough Australian countryside and this impressed the locals who were initially suspicious of the English lord in their midst.

One Sunday afternoon, when the skies were again clear and sunny, the whole family and some of the neighbours loaded up buggies with food and drink and set off for a stony reach of the lazy, brown Goulburn River where there was a fine swimming place— although here costumes were worn.  Chops were cooked on a campfire and the ale and ginger beer were kept cool in the water.  Only the flies spoilt the perfection of the day.

“Young Stephen has been a godsend to us, your lordship,” said Winter-Russell as he stood next to Martin and they cast their fishing lines into the river.  “He makes us all smile and there’s nothing he won’t tackle. He’ll drench and crutch the sheep when we’re shorthanded.  He fixed the wind pump and he made a century when we played Murchison two weeks ago.  During Race Week we all went down to Melbourne and he partnered my Esme to a Cup Eve ball.  A regular matinee idol the women folk reckon.”  Martin said nothing. “And I suppose you’ll be wanting to take him home to England, your lordship.”

“That’s the general idea, Mr Winter-Russell.  That is, if he wants to go.  He seems very happy and fulfilled here, but we need him at Croome, the same as you do.”  Martin thought he had a nibble on his line but it was a false alarm.  “He was very unsettled after he came back from the War, you know; he’d had a bad time of it.”

“I’ve seen some of his scars.”

Martin felt a definite nibble on his line and let it play out.  “More than the scars; he took it all to heart and was eaten-up with worry for his men.  He probably wouldn’t tell you, but he won several medals.”

“He didn’t,” replied Mr Winter Russell who was now rebaiting his hook. “But my friend Sir John Monash did.  We were at university together and that’s how Stephen came to be our guest.  Sir John didn’t lie.”  He cast again. “He reminds me a lot of my boy, Ted.  We lost him on the Somme.  I’ll hate to see Stephen go.”

Martin tightened and with a deft twitch upon the line reeled in a beautiful, fat Murray Cod.

“Well done, Lord Branksome.  That’s a handsome one indeed!” exclaimed Winter-Russell in astonishment.

“We used to have a salmon stream in Scotland when I was a boy, sir,” said Martin, grinning.

The next day Martin went on an evening walk with Stephen.  The sky was pink and mauve and it was still light at 8 o’clock.  Martin had quickly grown to love the untidy bush.   The ancient gum trees, which had been left here and there for shelter, had a poetic beauty all their own, especially on dewy mornings when he had been awoken by the haunting warble of Australian magpies and the sun was low behind them and the tang of eucalyptus was in the air.

They headed west from the house up to a stony rise on which stood a metal windmill which clanked in the light breeze as it drew water from underground into galvanised iron tanks that supplied the homestead down below.

“Derby, I’ve missed you,” began Martin.

“And I’ve missed you, Mala,” he replied quickly.  “And yes, I still love you.  Why haven’t you come to me at night?”

How can I?  You sleep with four other men in that hut.”

“It might do them good to see two chaps who love each other having a fuck,” he said, grinning.

“And you haven’t come to me.”

“I was unsure of myself.”

“And are you still unsure of yourself?”

“No, not anymore.”

“Put your hands behind you head, Derby.”  Stephen stopped walking and did so.  Martin thrust his face into Stephen’s armpits, sweaty after a hard day’s work and he sighed.  He then kissed him on the lips and was so overcome, that he forgot to savour the moment as he had promised himself to do for so long.

“Drop your strides, Mala,” announced Stephen at long last.  Martin assumed that this was Australian slang for trousers and did so.  “No drawers.  You know how to please me, Mala.”  He knelt and kissed Martin’s fair, white cheeks, pulling them apart with his work-roughened hands.

“I’ve had Carlo fit the Chinese plug every day, Derby.  I will be opened up whenever you’re ready.”

“Carlo’s here?”

“Yes, in Melbourne.  I’m going there tomorrow.  Will you come with me?” Martin’s heart was racing and the blood was roaring in his ears.  He wondered if he’d even be able to hear Stephen’s reply.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

Martin gulped and prattled on nervously: “Mrs Capstick has made brambleberry jam especially for you and Mr Destrombe wants your opinion on a war memorial.  Your motor has arrived from America.  Did you know that The Plunger is setting up a studio in Chelsea and wants you to see it?  Daniel Sachs also says he urgently needs to speak to both of us.”  They had reached the top of the rise and turned to gaze down through the spindly trees to the valley below.  “Queen Victoria had puppies and your stepfather says he’s getting old…”  Martin dared to look up at Stephen and realised that this last had driven home.

Stephen’s frown turned to a grin. “And you Mala?  Have you had puppies?”

“No, just an itch that needs to be scratched.  It could be fleas, I suppose.” 

“Derby,” said Martin when they were alone in the carriage at last.  “Derby, did you have any…any adventures…while we were apart?  I’m not jealous if you did—well actually I am jealous, but not in that way. You don’t have to tell me, it’s just that…”

Stephen came across and sat next to him and spoke low.  “Not many Mala but there was this strange one not long after I had arrived.  We were working on the Eildon dam and I was billeted with the other men in huts in a little place called Bonnie Doon, which was the construction camp.  We were all men together—it was quite like the army and in fact many of the men were newly returned like I was.  It was pretty rough but good fun and there were plenty of swinging cocks and balls to be seen in the bunkroom I can tell you.

“I was on a bottom one at the end of the hut.  I’d already had a brutal dose of Australian humour as the pommy bastard with the big…well, you know.”  Martin did know and could also imagine that Stephen would have quickly been a popular figure among the men, just as he was wherever he went.

“There was this older man—rather ferrety-looking and unshaven and he always wore a greasy old hat, except when he went to bed.  His bunk was also on the bottom and continuous with mine— separated only by a foot rail.  Well, we only had rough old army blankets— no sheets or anything; a big contrast to the linen sheets with your coronet on them at home, but I love the feel of an army blanket on my cock.  Mala, could we get army blankets for Antibes I’d like to…Mala, why are you grinning?”

“Well, firstly there is no finer sight that you naked under an army blanket as I saw in France and secondly, you talked about Antibes and so you must really be meaning to come home.”

“Of course I’m coming home.  I’m feeling better in myself and my love for you is unaltered.  Let me get back to the story.  This man used to come home drunk most nights—they all did; I don’t know how they get anything done in Australia, but they can work when they have to—and he would try to get into my bunk and then apologise saying he thought it was his own, but he would always manage to feel me.  I don’t think he was that drunk at all.  Then in the dead of night I’d feel his foot through the rail invading my bunk.  At first it was just the soles of our feet that would touch—‘playing footsies’ as children say.  Then I would feel his toes rubbing my calf.  Each night he would wake me with more of his leg between my own until finally I felt his foot on by balls.”

“What did you do Mala?  Did you tell him off?  Did it hurt?”

“No.  In the morning he just acted as if nothing had happened and of course it didn’t hurt, you know me.”

Martin did know Stephen.  You could do anything to his cock and balls and it didn’t seem to hurt him and anything you did only seemed to make him hard and randy.

“I could pinch your left elbow and you’d say it made you excited, Derbs,” said Martin.  Stephen just grinned.

“So for the following few weeks I lay awake just waiting for him to come home and slide his foot between my legs which he would order me to spread in a hushed voice.  He would concentrate on my balls, kicking them—not hard but persistently.  ‘Are you hard boy?’ he’d quietly ask and I’d reply: ‘Yes.’ He’d keep doing it until he knew I had spilled.  Then he would simply stop and withdraw his leg.

On Tuesdays the other men were working on the night shift—they were working under arc lights on the dam wall for a time—and we had the bunkhouse to ourselves.  On those nights he’d give my balls a real working over—not just kicking them but slapping and stretching.  Of course I loved it and he’d say ‘I knew you were a big lad that could take some punishment.’ Then he’d watch me until I spilled.

“In the morning if we were in the shower shed—if you can call a hut with a suspended kerosene tin a shower—I’d walk right up to him with my hands behind my head and spread my legs so he could take a good look . He’d say: ‘Those boys look pretty red and swollen to me.’ I’d always lie and say that they were and how they ached dreadfully, which they didn’t, but he seemed to need to hear otherwise.

“Once we were out in the bush.  I was supposed to be surveying and he was my assistant.  He really worked me over good then and my cock and balls were actually bruised and puffy for days and then shortly after that he disappeared to another camp and his bunk was occupied by another chap who kept his feet to himself.”

The two ladies who had been sitting opposite before they had gone to the dining car came to the door for a moment, hesitated, and then walked on.

 “And that’s all that happened, Derby?”

“Oh there was the postmistress at Rushworth.  I fucked her— two or three times.  Mala, she did such an excellent job of forwarding your letters.  Then there was this jockey at the Rushworth Races: he blew me behind the betting shed.  Mrs Winter-Russell came to my room one night and kissed me and had a bit of a feel- but I didn’t let her do anything because her husband is such a nice man, although I caught him looking at me in the shower.  That’s when I moved out to the shearers’ quarters.  I was taking their daughter, Esme to dances at neighbouring stations and down to Melbourne.  I kissed Esme, I’m afraid.  But that’s all Mala – oh, except for Mrs Black—that’s Esme’s married sister.  I fucked her too, but I’d forgotten. That was an accident really…”

“Well I’m glad you kept yourself nice for me Derby,” said Martin halting the litany with sarcasm that was lost on Stephen but it was only meant good naturedly, for the perils of walking out with the village stud were not new to Martin.

“What about you, Mala?  Has Carlo been taking care of your needs?”

“It is you who are best able to fulfil that role.  Carlo has been a marvellous support, Derby, especially at bath time but our big bed is lonely at night.  The Plunger has helped out where he could.”

“So you’ve had some ginger cock while I was out here?”

Martin nodded. “It was nice, but not the same without you as well.  Besides, he has been chasing down his painter to South America.  He did come with us as far as Suez, Derby.  He misses you too.  I told you in my letter about Friedrich.”

By now the train was descending through the gap in the Great Dividing Range towards the outskirts of Melbourne, which could be glimpsed on the horizon with the blue line of the bay beyond.  Untidy farmlets and chicken runs gave way to miles of weatherboard houses in the suburbs.  Soon there were sale yards, shunting yards, wool stores and the smoke and masts that marked the docks on the river.  With a bump the train pulled up at Spencer Street Station.

In the confident anticipation of Stephen’s return, Carlo had moved them from the Melbourne Club to a large, old-fashioned hotel, The Federal, where he had engaged two rooms and a bath and a single for himself.  The management made a terrible fuss of their aristocratic visitor.  There had been enquiries from journalists too. Carlo explained that his lordship and Mr Knight-Poole had suffered from Victorian Railways fish and would retire to their rooms, hopefully undisturbed, until they felt better.  The manager apologised profusely on behalf of the cruelly slandered utility and promised they would not be disturbed.

“Carlo and I have drawn up a list, Derby.  It is a list of naughty things we’d like to do—mainly to you.  It is a product of our depraved minds, I’m afraid.”

“Let me see, Mala,” said Stephen grinning. Carlo was called and the exercise book was produced.  Stephen scanned it and deciphered the shorthand in which it was written.

“Do you think you are up to it, Derby?”

“Perhaps not all in the one night, Mala, and this one looks a bit difficult.”

“That was one of mine, Derby.  I think that should read ‘feather’ not ‘father’.

“Well I have one of my own that I’ve been working on and I’d like to try it now…”

Twenty minutes later found Stephen making love to Martin. “Now don’t wriggle Mala, you have to just hold still.  This is done largely by intense concentration.” Stephen had his balls tied with the thin strap from his camera case and was pulling on them.  It looked painful.  “Hit them, Carlo!” he commanded.  Carlo struck him with the sole of a slipper. “A little bit harder, please.” Carlo kept slapping them while Stephen maintained his erection but did not move.

“Is he hurting you, Derby?” called Martin.

Stephen grunted but didn’t reply.  The battering of his low hanging scrotum continued and now Carlo was also pulling on the strap.  All of a sudden Martin felt Stephen spilling inside him.  It seemed to go on for a minute, although Stephen didn’t move.  At last he said excitedly:  “How was that Mala?  What did you think?  There was an awful lot, wasn’t there?”

“I suppose so, Derby.  Very impressive, but I didn’t really get much out of it.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, slightly deflated, like his penis. “Untie me, Carlo and I’ll try to make it up to his lordship.  We won’t need the slipper again.” 

***** 

A week later the Aberdeen Line’s Demosthenes steamed out of the Port Phillip Heads and turned west in the direction of Cape Town.  Only then did Martin feel confident enough to send a cable to those at home.  The prospect of weeks of leisure during which he would have Stephen all to himself was quite delicious and their departure from Australia had been rather precipitous.

“I would like Carlo to throw away your clothes, Derbs, but we must go out,” said Martin as he tried to pull Stephen from their hotel bed. “We’ve been invited to lunch by the State Governor and we must say goodbye to Herman Moss and Sir John.”  So the doings of the young English aristocrat and the holder of the MC (and bar) were again chronicled in Table Talk.

On the next day the cool wind had abated and the sun was very strong by the afternoon.  They took a cable tram to the seaside at St Kilda where there was a funfair with a rollercoaster.  There were handsome boys and pretty girls to be seen on the Esplanade and the two visitors attracted many glances themselves.  That night Martin took Stephen to a marvellous café in Collins Street.  It was of futuristic design and neither had ever seen anything like it.  They wished The Plunger were here to explain it.  In the intimate shadows on a balcony, coloured lights glinted and winked from their angular plaster shades and Martin made his first attempts to try to understand how Stephen was feeling.  Now on board the ship he probed again.

“I felt quite useless, Mala.  No, not useless, more impotent,” he corrected. Martin raised an eyebrow and Stephen laughed.  “No, not in that way.  It was more that I felt there was no purpose to the world anymore so what was the point of doing anything? I’d lost my faith.”

“And now Derby?”

“And now I know that the world is made up of good and evil like we all are; all mixed up.  I was naïve.

“No, not naïve, innocent. We all were.”

“I now realise that we still have to keep going despite it all.  I can’t desert the people I love just because I am disappointed in the world.”

“We must not think of the sorry world.  We should concentrate on just our own little slice of it.  We have each other—two tiny nations out of millions.  We still have Croome and Antibes; they are changed like we all are but we still have them.  We have our friends and you have your Sans Culottes and Sgt Louch.  They will need you more than ever.  We can still make the world better place, just not all of it at once.  Leave that to the League of Nations.” 

“You mean that I have a responsibility to others, Mala?”

“Only if you want it, Derby.  You’re not the Marquess of Branksome…but I’m afraid we do look on you as the master of Croome.  It’s not really fair on you, I suppose, but you have risen to your rank…to your task. It was natural that you did.”

“Noblesse Oblige,” said Stephen with a tight smile. “Now let’s get Carlo’s list.” 

To be continued…

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

Posted: 04/11/14