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 3
Fit for Heroes 

Martin felt he was being held fast by a great rope around his torso—a thick, hairy hawser of some kind— and he could not budge. He must be on board a ship, he reasoned, but he couldn’t be quite sure.  What was the matter with his brain?  The Australians (were they Australians?) had taken him to somewhere hot.  He was sweating profusely and terribly thirsty.  The sound of their infernal machine could be heard but he could not see it for it was somewhere behind him.  It rasped away remorselessly, perhaps it was a device for sawing him into pieces before he was thrown into the sea.  Their leader (it must be their leader) pressed a pistol into the small of his back.  He dared not turn around, but if he only could he could see his face because there was something familiar… Who was it?  The answer was just on the edge of his consciousness.

Martin roused.  He was in bed and everything was wonderful.  They were far from Australia; he was in fact in his own bedroom at Croome and he was being pinned by his lovely Stephen’s right arm, which was a dead weight draped around him.  The noise was his abominable, but reassuring, snoring and the thing being pressed into his back was Stephen’s urgent erection.  He had been hard all night as usual.  Yes, all was right with the world and he squirmed with delight and curled his toes in the knowledge of it.  The rest of his life was going to be just like this: safe and warm in bed with Stephen; the texture of Stephen’s naked flesh, the smell of his hair, his black whiskers—soft, not really rough—his broad shoulders and big cock and, yes, his snoring which to Martin’s ear was as beautiful as any work conducted by Thomas Beecham. 

“You’re wriggling, Mala” said Stephen sleepily.

“Yes, I’m happy and you feel so nice.”

“And you feel nice too.  Did I tell you that?”

Stephen had told him that.  “You feel nice, Mala,” Stephen had said when they were on board the Demosthenes on the voyage back to England.  It was Christmas morning then and Stephen had fucked Martin hard and was now idly sliding his flaccid cock in the blonde cleavage of Martin’s buttocks as he gently kissed the nape of his neck.

It had been a wonderful voyage.  Martin had begun by having Carlo trim and sculpt Stephen’s raven public bush (which had grown unruly in the colonies) once again into the shape of a heart. “That is because you are made for love, Derby.  I don’t want to be reminded of the War anymore.”

“What about my moustache, Mala?  Should Carlo shave it off?”

This was a good question.  Stephen had grown the moustache when he joined the Royal Engineers because it made him look older.  It was barely a moustache at all, just a pencil thin line above his top lip.  It did remind Martin of the War, but it made Stephen look so devastatingly handsome that Martin thought it must remain, even if Stephen refused point blank to be a ‘major’ in civilian life.

“This is new, Mala,” said Stephen when he withdrew a pair of curious objects from the box.

“Yes, they’re called Burmese Balls and I got them from Mr Weintraub.”  Martin gave a dumb show of how they worked.  “Mr Weintraub was asking after you, Derby.  He asked if you would be interested in having your photograph taken.”

“Certainly not, Mala.  I don’t want my face plastered all over London.”

“It wasn’t your face that he wanted to photograph.  He said he’d pay you.”  Stephen dismissed this idea and Martin carried on.  “I went to his new establishment with The Plunger. He has moved from Soho to very nice premises in Bond Street.  You ring a bell and are taken to an upstairs room. He recognised me from his wife’s description, Derbs, and he was ever so grateful that I got him released from detention—quite tearful really.  Mrs Weintraub has been elected to the Parish Council and is back in the G&S Society.  She’s very happy, also.  He gave us a present.” said Martin and produced a dildo with a flourish. “See?  It’s made of flexible rubber, but there is a spring inside it to keep it hard.”

“Not as hard as me,” Mala, said Stephen boastfully as he handled it.

“Oh no, Derby, perish the thought.  But Carlo used it on me and it was quite nice.”

Martin pulled out a box. “Bunny and Dwight sent this.”

“Young’s Rectal Dilators.  The F.E. Young & Co. Chicago Il.” read Stephen.  He opened the box and there were four plugs of varying sizes made of smooth rubber.

Thus there were many delights to ease the tedium of the voyage, not the least of which was that, to Stephen’s great joy, the Australian cricket team was journeying to England for the first test match since the War.  Stephen spent a good many hours with them and was allowed to join in their practice on the after deck.  He was in seventh heaven.

It was after the drunken fancy dress ball just out of Cape Town where Stephen wore his gladiator’s outfit (supplemented with a Bike Jockey’s Strap) that Martin (who had gone as a Mandarin) woke up with his face under the leather tunic and his nose pressed into the fabric of the strap. “I love the top of your thighs, Derby, where they meet your buttocks.  They’re very nice,” he said dreamily.

“Thank you Mala.  I’ve always thought so myself.  Could you ring for Carlo?  I’m exhausted.”

Carlo came into their cabin and began to straighten out the mess.  Amid protests from Martin, Stephen was eased out of his heroic costume, which had begun to chafe, and they were both placed into the large bath that came with the first class cabin.

“Mala,” said Stephen at last as Carlo soaped them and tried to wash semen from Martin’s golden hair.  “I think our new life has to have some purpose and order.  It can’t all be parties and pleasure.  I want you to help me make a list of things we will do when we get back home.  I think a list will help me find myself again.”

Martin could find no argument with this and he knew Stephen loved a list of any kind. Besides, he would do whatever Stephen wanted as long as he did not go away again.

So part of everyday was spent in adjacent deck chairs when the weather was clement or sitting up in bed when it was rough, and, in another exercise book, Stephen and Martin mapped out what seemed at the time to be the rest of their lives.

“The first priority must be people, not things and not ourselves, Mala,” said Stephen as the list began to take form.  My stepfather first, then the people who were affected by the War. After that it doesn’t matter.”

“Derby, I’ve been thinking about what Sir John Monash said about electricity.  Do you think we could have the whole estate electrified?  I mean they’ve had it for years in Lyme Regis and our dynamo at Croome seems rather selfish and old-fashioned.  It is 1920 after all.”

“I approve of your vision, Mala,” said Stephen a trifle sententiously, “however it will have to be the local authority.  It’s too big a project for just us on our own but it will make a difference in people’s lives.  Old people could have electric fires and there’s no danger from overturned candles.”

By the time they glimpsed the white cliffs of Albion a plan had been formulated; only a trifle less complex than one of Sir John’s plans of battle, and the flexible dildo was showing distinct signs of wear and the smallest of Dr Young’s medical instruments was missing, presumed lost overboard during a starlight tryst on the boat deck. 

***** 

There was quite a crowd to meet Stephen on the platform.  While there was no banner and brass band, there almost could have been, such was the ripple of excitement as the train chuffed into the station and this grew to actual applause when Stephen alighted with Martin and Carlo.  The crowd were anxious to shake his hand and inspect the prodigal for any signs of change.

The first thing he did was move in with Titus Knight, his stepfather, where he stayed in his old bedroom for a week. “I’m glad thou hast come home, Stephen,” was all he said, but added: “I will need some help with t’hedges down by Oakapple.”

On his first night, Titus climbed the narrow stairs to the little attic room. “You’re far too big for that bed now,” he chortled.  “And I could never keep clothes on you even when you were a bairn.  Do you remember when I used to read to you?”

“Of course, Titus, I loved that best of all.  Read to me now.”

“Now? A big lad like you!” he cried. “Besides my eyes ain’t too good and my readin’ weren’t never up to much.”

“Go on, Father, read me Treasure Island.  It will help me sleep.”

Titus Knight searched the shelf for the well-worn volume. “Have you still been having the horrors at night, Stephen?”

“Not so much this last year.  I think I’m putting it all behind me, but I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“Aye, you bin seen too much; too much for a heart that is as big and gentle as yours, Stephen.”

Squire Trelawney, Doctor Liversey and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down all the particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in this year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow Inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.”

Titus paused to draw breath and saw, to his amazement, that Stephen was asleep with a look of singular contentment upon his young face.  

***** 

Seventeen inhabitants of the estate had lost their lives in the war, with an eighteenth succumbing to the effects of mustard gas the week the boys returned. Ten of these had left widows, five with children.  Martin was determined that, along with their War Widow’s pensions from the government, these women should have life tenancy of their cottages, despite the loss of revenue to the Estate that this would mean.  This resulted in eight cottages being given over to the bereaved women— the other two having left the district to live with family.

“That’s very generous of you, Mala.  I’m so proud of you,” said Stephen giving him a hug when this was announced. “And Mala, there are two more cases: Mr Bradshaw has lost an arm and I’d like to find work for him.  John Clarke is so incapacitated I don’t think he will ever be able to work again, but his wife has a plan: If we could finance some alterations to their cottage, they could let two rooms and that would provide them with an additional income as they have no children.”

Martin nodded and they immediately went into further details. “Derbs,” Martin suddenly said, “could Bradshaw work as a clerk for Blake?  I know he’s not an engineer or anything, but I think Blake could use some assistance in the office, don’t you?”

“You mean an ‘extra hand’?”

“Oh that is a cruel joke, Derby, but Bradshaw beat you to it yesterday.”

Next was Sgt Louch.  The formerly legless soldier whom Stephen had befriended in 1916 was now fit and mobile, after a fashion.  Stephen had him brought down to Branksome-le-Bourne where he was put up in a cottage (preferring this after one night at the big house) until the motor garage was constructed.  “Derby, do you think it could be thatched?” asked Martin, alarmed at the prospect of the village being spoilt by such an intrusion.

“No, Mala,” said Stephen kindly, for Martin had been very good about all this, “I don’t think that would be very appropriate for an entirely new sort of building.  It would to ‘too bogus’ as they say now.  My design is for a neat brick building with a pan-tiled roof.  The dwelling house will be out the back so there are no stairs for Louch and I have had one idea: The Bowser Pump Company in America supplies pumps for petrol, which can be stored safely and out of sight below ground.  The operator works a handle and the petrol is drawn up and then is fed into the motor— all very neat.  Already there are two of these in England; I want us to be third.”

Martin thought underground tanks were to be preferred and so approved.  The building would be started straight away and the tank would be installed as soon as the pump arrived from Indiana in the United States. Meanwhile, Louch was making himself useful repairing all manner of things and his gammy leg did not seem to inhibit his work to any great extent. Stephen spent a pleasant hour or so with him most free afternoons at The Feathers and saw to it that he, a fellow from South London, was well accepted into the village.

Stephen turned his attention to the redbrick-and-tile gymnasium that he had built, from his own fortune, just before the War.  The Red Cross had long departed and groups of village lads were using it occasionally as they had Mr Destrombe’s exercise equipment in the Women’s Institute Hall.  Stephen now walked around the charming new building with the Vicar.

“Mr Destrombe, I believe that we need to get properly organised.  Don’t you think we should have a committee?”

“That is the way we English do things, Mr Stephen, and I think that those who use it should pay a small sum for membership—sixpence a week perhaps.”

“We probably need more equipment, although we still have all that the Maharaja of Rajpipla gave us.  That punching bag looks like the stuffing is coming out through the seams and those Indian clubs are a disgrace.”

“Some of that might be down to you, Mr Stephen, you do have a good right.”

“Thank you, Mr Destrombe.  And a billiard table for upstairs.  I wonder how much they are?”

“A wise investment.  It will provide an alternative to spending idle hours at The Feathers.” Stephen looked at Mr Destrombe quite hard.  “I mean there’s nothing wrong with an honest pint,” he added hurriedly, “I’m no Methodist, but billiards does improve the mind, I’ve always thought.”

And so Stephen dipped into his money once again and a handsome table was purchased and installed with some ceremony.  Several chairs from Croome now flanked the fireplace and the building started to take on some of the aspects of a private club.  Mr Destrombe, Stephen, Reuben Owens and the postmistress’ son formed the committee and sixpence a week with thruppence for casual users was agreed upon.  The key was to be kept with Mrs McGrath at the village shop.

All seemed well until Stephen was buttonholed one Sunday after church parade by Tillie Forbes, the daughter of a tenant farmer.

“Stephen, some of us ladies want to join the gymnasium.  How do we go about it?”

“Sorry Tillie,” said Stephen kindly, “but it is for chaps only.”

“Why?” asked Tillie.

Stephen paused and tried to find a ‘why’ and, unable to at that moment, simply said: “It wouldn’t be suitable for young ladies, Tillie.  Some of the lads wouldn’t be properly dressed and…”

“Stephen Knight!” she said crossly, “Most of us girls have seen you naked time enough, down at the swimming place.  We don’t want to look at boys, we want to do physical culture.”

“Tillie!” said Stephen, shocked, “I thought that was our secret.  And I was only twelve.”

“Thirteen.  And that still doesn’t answer my question” she said and snapped open her umbrella is a very resolute manner and walked away, displaying her figure to Stephen as the most effective of arguments.

Thus a Ladies Auxiliary was formed with its own committee and schedule of fees and mutually exclusive times were agreed upon, with the ladies showing little interest in the new billiard table.

Then Stephen received an unexpected shock when he slit open a letter from the Ladies’ Committee containing a most astounding proposal for him to be their president.

Stephen sought out Tillie who was busy getting her father’s midday dinner. “Til, there must be some mistake.  I can’t be president.  I’m a man.  It should be one of you girls.”

“There’s no mistake, Stephen,” said Tillie, brushing back her hair from her eyes as she lifted a heavy stew pot onto the range, “We voted on it three times—show of hands and secret ballot— and you were elected every time.”

“But I haven’t nominated!  I’m not even on your auxiliary!”

“Show me where it says we can’t elect whom we like as president.  Charlie Chaplin was the only other candidate and he only received one vote.  You’re our president, Stephen Knight-Poole, so stop your whining.  Democracy has spoken.”

Stephen went away, shaking his head and having second thoughts about women’s suffrage, which he had originally thought was such a progressive notion.  News of the unorthodox move—proof once again that some have greatness thrust upon them—was all about the village and, to make matters worse, the ladies presented Stephen with a special blazer in their club colours of mauve and ‘vieux rose’ (he was told) with the words ‘President’ and ‘B-le-B.W. G. Aux.’ embroidered in gold thread on the pocket.  The damn jacket fitted well (Stephen’s measurements having being traitorously given over to the women by Mrs Capstick) and Stephen thought hard about what to do as he looked at himself in the glass in his dressing room.  

***** 

“Mala, we’re going down to The Feathers for a pint before luncheon,” he said on the following Sunday.  They rode their bicycles down to the pub, Stephen wearing the dainty new blazer.  They entered and breasted the bar.  The locals touched their caps to Lord Branksome and murmured greetings to Stephen.  Then there was silence while the boys sipped their ale and everyone stared at the blazer.  This was broken by Vipond, who made an offensive comment.  Stephen wheeled around and walked purposefully towards him, his cock and balls swinging menacingly under his trousers, had Martin been better able to see.  Stephen came up close to Vipond who was grinning stupidly and he firmly took the pint from his hand and set it down on a ledge.  He then removed his mauve and vieux rose Women’s Auxiliary blazer and passed it to Martin, without his gaze leaving poor Vipond’s frightened eyes.  He then removed a gold cuff link from his right sleeve (one of a pair that was a present from Martin) and commenced to slowly roll his shirtsleeve up to his shoulder.  A murmur went around The Feathers.  Stephen then took Vipond’s unlit pipe from his mouth and placed it in his right elbow.  Still intent on Vipond, he flexed his bicep and there was a crack.  The pipe had shattered.  Stephen stuffed the broken remnants into Vipond’s top pocket and returned to the bar.  Only then did Martin see the broad wink that he gave.

Stephen spent a good deal of time writing to the Sans Culottes and reading their replies.  He planned to visit them all by the end of the year to see with his own eyes how they were faring having been ‘demobbed’ for more than a year.  However, the next thing on the list, which Stephen had pasted inside his wardrobe door, was the visit to Daniel Sachs in London. Both boys were dreading hearing how dire their finances were.  Every day Martin heard his friends moaning into their whiskey at their clubs how the sharp rise in taxes during the war had ruined them.  Along with this, everyone could see that wages had risen and in the great houses retrenchment was the order of the day.  Martin and Stephen looked dolefully about the estate.  The population was now aged and many of the young had left for work in towns and cities.  How could the estate possibly pay its way?  How could Britain compete with the imported meat and grain from the United States and Australia that they had seen with their own eyes?  The British countryside was now an anachronism.  It was in this dark mood that they went up to London in Stephen’s new automobile.

Sachs had moved to even more splendid offices near the Bank.  During the War he had worked for the government, advising on oil investments and the British government’s position in Iraq was very much a product of his advice.

Pleasantries were exchanged.  Sachs now had three children and a new yacht.  The boys wished to be remembered to Mrs Sachs and an invitation was extended to visit Croome.

“I see by your face you are worried, Lord Branksome.  Please don’t be.  There is no shame to be in your position,” said Sachs, tapping a pencil.  “Not a trace of odium will be attached to you.”

Martin’s stomach sank.  Branksome House would have to be sold, certainly, and his red-and-silver Rolls Royce would have to go.  Why had I bought that new tie in the Burlington Arcade this morning?

“Yes, I know Punch pokes fun at profiteers,” continued Sachs, “but I don’t think it applies in your case.”

“Profiteer?  That’s not what I was thinking Sachs; I was thinking that I was ruined— ‘on Queer Street’ as my father used to say.”

“What do you mean, Daniel?  What is our position?”  Asked Stephen sitting forward in his chair.

“Well, you have emerged from the War far better than you went into it.  Of course you would need to in order to cope with ruinously high income tax and falling rents.”

“I am committed to providing some of the cottages on the estate to war windows,” said Martin, firmly, “and there is the bus company that I must guarantee as a matter of honour.”

“That has not lost much money, your lordship,” said Sachs looking as his notes.  “Not everything is about profit.  I myself am backing the Jewish homeland in Palestine.”

“I am setting up a motor garage for a returned soldier, Daniel,” put in Stephen.  “I must do it, even at a loss.”

Sachs nodded. “Let me see.  On the estate the horse stud has been extraordinarily profitable indeed.  The dairy farm has done well and has repaid your investment already.  You should keep that up.  Grain prices were high during the war and you produced more, despite the shortage of labour.  Clearly these prices will not continue now that submarine warfare is over.”

“Will horses be replaced by motors?” asked Martin.

“Maybe one day, but demand is still high at present.  Perhaps now you should get your man to breed for quality.”

“Now, as to your other investments: the oil stocks have boomed.  Chemicals have too as you would expect.  Aren’t you pleased we did not invest in shipping?  Insurance was steady, but not spectacular.  We lost only on two stocks—and not badly.  Your friend Tatchell has become one of the wealthiest men in your part of England and your shares have done very well too.  The Carlton Hotel has not paid a dividend, but that is to be expected.  Peacetime will see a return to travel and I believe that the Russian aristocracy is making its new home on the Riviera.”

“So we are alright?” asked Martin, hopefully,

“Yes, Lord Branksome,” said Sachs smiling.  “You’re alright.”

“But the future, Daniel?  What do you suggest?” asked Stephen.

“Well, I will draw up a plan.  More of the same, I think.  Tatchell will beat his swords into ploughshares and adapt well to peacetime, I believe.  You once mentioned electricity; I think we should dip our toe into generating companies.  Possibly the government will buy us out, but that will be even better.  On the estate, diversify and modernise.”

“What do you mean by ‘diversify’?” asked Martin.

Sachs explained the term and then Stephen said:  “Would it be a good time to build the golf course…and the hotel?  It would make better use of unproductive land.”

“Maybe,” said Sachs, leaning back and scratching his nose with the pencil. “But two separate companies in case the hotel fails.  We’ll look at it later.  It’s a big step.”

Thus the boys emerged into Threadneedle Street with a great burden lifted from their shoulders. “Sachs is worth his weight,” said Martin.  “I feel like getting very drunk.”

“Mala,” said Stephen when they had settled into a corner of a chophouse. “Have we become rich from an immoral source?  Do we have blood on our hands?”  Stephen looked quite distressed.

“Derbs, it’s true that Tatchell’s made war materials, and chemicals are used for munitions and poison gas and flamethrowers but also they are also used for fertilizers and celluloid collars, which are good things.  Is oil a war material?  What about ships, horses and grain to feed the soldiers?  What about us?  We fought in the War—or rather you did and I sat at a desk.  We’re all compromised.  None emerged pure.  Now we must use our fortune the best we can.”  He wanted to kiss Stephen but instead just said:  “You’re a good man, Stephen. Too good.”

They spent the next ten days in London.  Stephen resumed his club habit of an afternoon and Martin called on Aunt Maude and the Vane-Gillinghams who had set up house in Knightsbridge.

“You must go and see Archie’s new studio, Lord Branksome, said Jean Vane-Gillingham. He will be back from Mexico at the end of this week.  You and Mr Knight-Poole will love it.”

Martin liked the way she coupled their names.  She was a smart woman, she must know about the two of them, she must also know about her brother.  However if she did, she gave no sign of it in her pleasant drawing room in Pont Street. 

When they returned to Branksome House, Glass the butler was quite excited.  “Your lordship, I’ve just received this letter from French North Africa.  It is from M. Lefaux he wants to know if we know of a position in London for a chef.  I thought…”

“Why here of course!” interrupted Martin, with visions of M.Lefaux’s wonderful meals appearing before his eyes. “He was surely one of the best chefs in a private house anywhere.  I never thought we’d see him again.  Where has he been all this time, Glass?”

“Well, sir.  It appears he enlisted in the French Army and then was taken prisoner by the Huns, sir.  When he was released he found it hard to get work because of his criminal record — you will remember sir, he was a bigamist.  He tried the Foreign Legion but refused to cook harissa—some foreign muck I imagine—and was cashiered in Morocco.  That is where this letter came from.  You will remember he has a sister in North London.  There may be trouble with his papers, your lordship.”

“I will see what favours I can call in at the Foreign Office.  Some of those gentlemen will remember his work with gratitude, I should think.” Stephen nodded in agreement.  “Write— no telegraph— and tell him we want him.  Send him some money—not too much or he’ll drink it all—to tide him over.  Oh this is a happy event!”

Charles Fortune and Jack Thayer were pleased to hear this news when they came to dine. Stephen had barely seen them since the War and there was much to catch up on.  Stephen proposed to complete his degree largely by extension classes so he could be with Martin. Jack urged him to write a paper on his Australian experience. “Are you returning to Cambridge, Martin?” asked Charles.

“No, I don’t think so.  All the fellows will be too young and I’ve lost interest in Philosophy.  I want to concentrate on Croome.”

“That is a pity,” said Jack.

“Yes, it is in some ways.  I suppose the War robbed people like me of the opportunity, although I have had more than my fair share of those,” he added hastily.

After dinner Stephen rolled out the plans for Sgt Louch’s motor garage.  “The floor will be Portland Cement polished to a sheen.  There will be a pit for working on the underside of the motors.  This girder will allow a hoist to be fitted and the whole roof is supported by this zigzag truss which will let in light here and here.”

“Show them the memorial, Derbs,” said Martin.

Stephen fetched a second set of sketches. “These are from the War Memorial Committee at Branksome,” he explained.  “The memorial as you can see will be a simple obelisk in granite to match the Church.  There is a ratio for a slight taper and, like the Cenotaph, there won’t be a straight line in the whole thing— they will be all subtle curves from a point 1914 feet below the datum.”

“It’s quite tall,” said Charles.

“Well it has to be so it doesn’t look like a pimple on a pumpkin next to the church, said Stephen. “We mocked it up with tall poles with a bucket on top to judge the best height.  Martin was the judge.”

The proportions of the stone erection looked vaguely familiar, but neither Jack nor Charles could remember from where.  They would have to consult Sir Banister Fletcher’s History of Architecture for its precedent in antiquity, they thought.

“It’s not overtly religious,” put in Martin, “I had to convince the Vicar that God was not responsible for the War or the Peace.  It just has the names of those who served and a cross next to those who died. Everyone is in alphabetical order and ranks are given, but I’m just ‘Lt Col M. Poole’.  The two nurses and the ambulance driver are also listed, I insisted upon it.  It will be a focus for people’s grief that any other sort of memorial couldn’t be.”

They walked down to the Saville Club and talked some more about the War.  Martin did not want Stephen to dwell on it, but was relieved when he saw that Stephen was not tormented. He must talk about it he said to himself upon reflection.  Bottling it up would be much worse. 

***** 

One fine spring day Stephen decided that he would take his new motor for a ‘spin’ in the Epping Forest.  They threaded their way across London and, beyond the village of Chingford, found that they were on little used roads through the remnants of the ancient forest. Stephen liked his ‘Pan’, which sat high and coped well with bumps and potholes.  It handled easily and Stephen swung the wheel with more confidence than Martin had ever seen before.

Glass had filled the special compartment with ice and bottled beer and a large picnic hamper was strapped to the running board. Just past a bend they pulled over to the side and picnicked, commenting on the beauty of the place in springtime and the cheeky birds, who dared to approach in the hope of crumbs.

Stephen used the mechanism which folded the seats flat to make a double bed.  “I’ve been waiting to use this, Mala.  Isn’t Mr Pandolfo clever to think of us?”  In a moment Stephen had Martin’s trousers off.  “I’m glad you’re not wearing underwear today, Mala,” he said.

“Derby!” said Martin hotly as he sat up. “Whatever is the matter with you?  I haven’t worn underwear for…” here he paused…since 1910—except on games days at school when I had to.  I know you made it a rule.”

“I can never be sure that you’re not secretly wearing those ‘combinations’ you are so fond of when I’m not here.  I need to check more frequently, Mala.”

Martin thought Stephen had gone mad, but then saw the twinkle in his eye; he was being teased.  Stephen continued: “I like to know that cocks and balls are not huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.”

“You make them sound like Americans.”

“Mala, don’t say that.  My father was an American and some of our best friends…”

“Derby, I don’t think you should be doing that.  Someone might see us.”

“I don’t care Mala.  My blood’s up when I’m with you.  Take off all your clothes.”

“Derby!”

“Do it Mala, it’s urgent.”

The sight of Stephen looming over him weakened Martin’s resolve and a few movements freed him from his restrictive garments.

“And your shoes.”

Stephen commenced to plant gentle kisses and rub his lips over various parts of Martin’s body.  Martin shivered in delight.  Sometimes Stephen would rub his unshaven cheek over particularly favoured portions.

At last he produced a tube of Spong’s Soothing Salve from the basket and slicked his hand and Martin’s throbbing, blonde cock that was flat against his stomach.  He masturbated him furiously and Martin, helpless under the onslaught, rolled about on the improvised bed and tried to keep himself stable with his outstretched arms.

“I want you to spill for me Mala,” said Stephen at length, just as Martin heard a noise in the distance.  It was the slow clip clop of a horse.

“Derby there’s…”

“I don’t care Mala,” said Stephen not slackening from his task.  “I need you to spill…I want to see it.”

The sound of the horse was getting closer and Martin wanted to cry out, but he couldn’t.  He writhed and arched his back, shoving his cock deeper into Stephen’s fist.

“Spill for me Mala.  You can do it.  I must have it.  I love you Mala.  Show me how much you love me, darlin’.”  Martin tried to touch himself with his hands.  Stephen knocked them away.  At the same time Martin could hear cartwheels.  The horse was pulling a cart and it must be just beyond the bend in the road.

Martin felt a rush and he erupted uncontrollably just as horse and brake pulled into sight, his seed covered Stephen’s fist and his own chest.  A spurt had landed on Stephen’s cheek.  Stephen cruelly released his grip on the still convulsing Martin and threw the checked picnic blanket over him.  When the cheery party of trippers waved a greeting and all they could see was Stephen kneeling, apparently in the act of packing up a picnic hamper. Stephen called out a greeting and waved, at the same time wiping away the semen from his cheek with the back of his hand.

When they were gone, Stephen uncovered the body.  Martin was a wreck, but he rallied enough to grab a hank of Stephen’s hair and pull him down for a scorching kiss.

As Stephen tenderly cleaned him up, Martin said:  “The best part was when you called me your darlin’.”

“Did I?  Well I think you as ‘me darlin’,” he said in his West Country burr.  “I do love you very much.”

“I like that Derby.  I like that very much.  Derby,” he said after a pause, “Derby, do you think of me as a slut?”

“What a question, Lord Branksome.  I’ll answer it later, but first I’ll give you a shilling if you blow me.” 

***** 

That night Martin and Stephen went to The Plunger’s new studio in Chelsea where a party was being held.  The Hon. Archie Craigth was intensely delighted to see Stephen, for it had been over a year since they had parted at Tilbury.  “Thank you both for coming, he said, after he was released from Stephen’s hug, “and thank you for not wearing evening dress.  This is Chelsea and we’re all rather Bohemian nowadays.”  The Plunger was immediately whisked away from them by some other guests, but then returned with two glasses of champagne and offered to show them around.

It was a splendid big space— actually the top floors of two houses knocked together.  From the big studio window, Cheyne Walk could be seen below and the grey Thames and the Albert Bridge beyond.  The whole place was done out in the most exotic style with great bolts of material looped down from the lofty ceiling and lots of rugs and Turkish divans scattered about.  Of course there was The Plunger’s painting corner supplemented by a very large table, rather like the one at Antibes.  “The whole place is heated by steam,” he said as they stood beside a handsome grand piano.  “And through here is a scullery and here a bathroom with fittings from America.  Through that door is Gertie’s room.”

“You have a manservant in your artist’s studio?” asked Martin, incredulously.

“Of course, Poole,” replied The Plunger with some of his old hauteur.  “It provides employment and he can wash my brushes.”

The greatest attraction was The Plunger’s extraordinary sleeping quarters: a large mezzanine over the main room reached by a steep ladder like a ship’s companionway.  Here a huge tan leather squab filled the entire floor.  It was piled high with rugs and furs of the most exotic materials and there were a great many fat pillows and bolsters with oriental tassels.  Martin was amazed and bent down and picked up a rug. “That’s mink.  And this one is ocelot,” said The Plunger.  “That one is Shantung silk, Stephen.”

“What happens if you roll over, Archie?  You’d have a nasty drop to the floor below.”

I’ve only fallen once; see I’ve placed the divans below it, although it’s best to sleep in the middle.  By the way, I have the telephone here.  Ring Glass and tell him you’ll be staying tonight,” The Plunger said.  “I want you to try the bed,” he added disingenuously.

The party was the most wild that Martin and Stephen had ever been to or even imagined. Men and women— many of them rather odd and some hard to distinguish—behaved as if they were on a picnic.  There were few chairs and so everybody stood or perched on tables or sat on the floor.  The Plunger’s divans were put to good use and as the guests became more intoxicated there were many couples and even trios embracing publically.  The noise was deafening and the modern music relentlessly played on the gramophone could scarcely be heard above the din.  Both Stephen and Martin were much monopolized by people anxious that they should understand their own particular theory of Art or Politics and these tended to make even less sense as the night wore on.

“The Saturn period is the triangle,” the woman was earnestly saying to Martin.  She was dressed in a long gown of batik surmounted by a turban with peacock feather. “Warmth is the original matter of the universe and is in the spherical form.  At least in the material word that is how we see it.  Do you understand?” Martin nodded, but he did not understand and was mesmerised by the feather, which bobbed hypnotically as the large woman spoke. “The triangle is gaseous,” she said with a flutter of her hands that made her ivory bracelets clack. “That is why the new gasworks should be triangular, not rectangular.”  The feather agreed emphatically.  A man came up.  “Now human blood crystals are controlled by the rectangular form while the moon is a…while the moon form is represented to us, on our plane by…What is the damn moon, Quigley?” she said turning to the man.

“The wave form, Viola, if you believe in all that still, but the new gasworks can be better appreciated by its honest form; you can see what it does and how it works.  You can see the arteries and muscles of the thing.  The comrade gas workers do not want all that sham; they find great joy in stoking coal knowing that they are providing heat for the proletarian masses of South London— or rather they would find joy and fulfilment if the company were not owned by bourgeois leaches who are ruthlessly exploiting them.”

“Magnetism…” began the women, but was cut off by Mr Quigley who launched into a description of a collective farm in the Ukraine where the peasants apparently delighted in making heating gas from their own dung.

Martin felt an arm around his shoulder.  It was Stephen who had come to listen.  It was very nice standing there, in front of people, with Stephen’s arm about him.  He let his own slip to Stephen’s behind where he dared to give a little squeeze to the firm flesh, naked under his trousers.

Gertie swept by with a tray of champagne and Martin, Stephen and Quigley all took a glass. The batik women went to reach and Gertie snapped: “No more for you, dearie.  You are already too much in the liquid condition.  Your head looks like the Moon.”  The woman went to protest but stumbled and Quigley and some other people helped her gently to the floor where she lay for the rest of the evening with people stepping over her while she burbled on, spasmodically, about the four ethers and the bilious condition of matter.

Martin awoke with a start and found he was next to The Plunger.  He was lying on his stomach on the leather mattress with his head resting on a pillow made of zebra hide.  He was naked, but the room was warm from the radiators.  His head ached.  The Plunger was also naked and prone but his monocle on its cord was still about his neck.  Martin reached over to it and put it in his own eye.  Window glass he said to himself.  I always suspected it.  On his left was Stephen, spreadeagled on his stomach.  His lightly hairy legs and buttocks looked attractive in the morning light.  The farting noise that the leather mattress made when Martin shifted on it woke The Plunger.

“Good party, Plunger,” said Martin with more cheer than he really felt.  The Plunger groaned and Martin felt sorry for him so he kissed him on the left ear.

“Ow!  I can’t move Poole.  I hurt all over.  I think I’m full up to pussy’s bow with Stephen’s seed.  How many times did he fuck us?”

“I don’t know.  We’ll ask him when he wakes up.  I think your champagne might have helped.”

“You’re a damn lucky fellow, Poole, but I suppose you know that.”

“I know I am,” said Martin and he leaned over to his left and planted a gentle kiss on Stephen’s buttocks.  “I’m glad I turned into the wood that day.”

“What day?”

“Never mind.  I say, Plunger, can you come to Antibes with us?  We’re leaving in a month and we’re going to drive through France— in my Rolls—Stephen promised me during the War.  It would be great fun if you could.”

“I’m working towards an exhibition, but I’ll put that off.  Of course I’ll come, especially if there’ll be more like last night.”

“Oh I can guarantee that.  Stephen can fuck us insensible and we can drink lovely French wine in the sun and the food…” He was interrupted by the arrival of Gertie up the ladder balancing a cup of tea.

Martin went to cover up with a piece of silk when Gertie said: “Don’t bother to do that on my account, pet.  I’ve seen a lot worse.”  This last directed at The Plunger’s ginger-and-white posterior.  “That reminds me, there are some ripe peaches for breakfast.”  The Plunger turned over and sat up, annoyed, and went to take the cup when Gertie snatched it away. “That’s not for you, your ladyship.  It’s for the big fellow.  He’s the one who did all the work last night.”

“You were watching!”

“Of course, we thought it was better than Tail’s Up at the Comedy Theatre.”

“We?  Have you been sleeping with my guests again, Gertie?”  The Plunger demanded.

Gertie sipped the tea and looked over the rim of the cup.  “I was just showing Pavel a shade of red varnish that I thought would be ideal for his new sculpture—it’s a collection of hammers and sickles welded into the shape of some horrible, deformed woman…”

“Rosa Luxemburg”, said Martin.  “He was telling me about it last night.”

“That’s her, dear.  Well one thing led to another— he had no place to stay—and, well, I made a small contribution to Art meself.”

“Get out, Gertie and bring us three cups of tea.  I should have you flogged.  And some aspirin!” cried The Plunger in frustration. 

Gertie descended the ladder saying: “I think you should let the big one sleep if you want a matinee.” The Plunger threw a fat pillow covered in shagreen and it caught Gertie nicely and he dropped the cup, which shattered.

To be continued…

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

Posted: 04/18/14