“Well I think its queer, Mr Glass,” said Lily.

“But you said their clothes were the very latest designs from Paris.  They were in Paris before coming to London, Lily.  I don’t think that’s odd at all.”

“That’s just it, sir—the clothes is beautiful but there’s nothing wot’s old— there’s nothing from America, sir.  You’d think they would have some undergarments, or a favourite blouse at least, that they had brought from home or had kept for more than a year.”

“Well, perhaps they felt their American clothes were a trifle démodé, Lily, and they bought everything new in Paris.”

Lily knew about ladies of fashion and she also knew all about obtuse men.

“What, a rich American woman would have not a single shred that was chic?  I don’t believe it.  And they don’t tip the servants after a weekend.”

“But they’re family, Lily, you don’t expect Lord Martin and Mr Stephen to leave tips for us?”

“It’s not the money Mr Glass,” said Lily getting quite angry.  “If either of those ones gets their hooks into our two lovely boys, why I’ll…” She couldn’t finish she was so furious. “They’re not all they seem, Mr Glass.  Mark my words: they ain’t so sweet when they thinks no one is listening and both of them can speak quite sharp to the servants too.”

“Keep all these speculations to yourself, Lily, and don’t say anything to the other servants,” said Glass, thinking that this is what he should say.  “They may not be staying for that much longer in any case.”

Lily turned to go.  She was still angry and her mouth was a tight line like a pillar-box.  She was the oldest and most experienced of the maids and had been at Branksome House since well before the War and for this reason she was acting as a lady’s maid to Constance-Polk Stewart and her mother.  “I’m not stupid, Mr Glass.  I know how it is between Lord Branksome and Mr Stephen and that’s just another reason why I don’t want to see no trouble.  Them two boys is the loveliest thing on God’s earth.”  And with that she swept out without another word. 

Stephen and Carlo had left that morning for Yorkshire.  They were going to visit the Sans Culottes and the families of its two fallen number in the north of England.  Martin had gone out with Constance—they were going to visit the National Gallery, then attend a thé dansant at the Savoy.  Glass was glad he had this information, for he put on his overcoat and slipped from the house and crossed Piccadilly and headed east the short distance to the Ritz.

Martin had at first enjoyed showing his half-third-cousin-from-America the sights of London.  He remembered how he had done the same with Stephen all those years ago.  She looked very pretty on his arm and many people turned to admire the attractive young couple.  However, Martin couldn’t help but compare her with Stephen.  Stephen had been wide-eyed and eager to drink in new experiences that he absorbed quickly to form a deeper understanding of the wide world and how it worked—although the principle foundation for this, Martin was sure, had been laid with his knowledge and understanding of the smaller world of Branksome-le-Bourne and by what he had learnt at his stepfather’s knee.  Or perhaps Stephen was simply born with a quick and instinctive understanding of people and things?  He couldn’t be quite sure.

Constance on the other hand, looked but did not comprehend.  She seemed little interested in the paintings in the Gallery, nor was she impressed by St Martin’s-in-the-Fields or Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop in Portsmouth Street—she hadn’t read the story.  Neither the view of the Thames from Westminster Bridge nor the great panoply of the Lord Mayor’s Parade called for more than five minutes of her attention before she asked if they might have some ice-cream.  She was more interested in the ladies’ fashions in the West End and Martin was at last glad of something, although Oxford Street was of little interest to him.  She then tried to please Martin by endlessly asking at every stately pile they came to: “Who lives there?”

“It was the Duke of Wellington’s House…Mr Rothschild…Lord Berners…Aunt Maude—you were there two days ago…I don’t know…Lord Londonderry…It’s the Midland Bank.” And he was also becoming weary of her blushing, which he now thought merely irritating. 

*****

“Hullo George.”

“Mr Glass, sir,” said the doorman.  It is nice to see you.  How is his lordship?”

“Dancing at the Savoy, George,” said Glass.  “I wonder if you could tell me about two of your guests—just if they are still in residence, that’s all.”  George looked at Glass.  He liked him and they often shouted each other a pint when off duty.  Glass had also put George in the way of a good jewellery repairer whose name he had passed on to the Aga Khan and for which he received a handsome tip.

They went inside to the desk and George spoke to the manager and then allowed Glass to ask: “Mrs Polk-Stewart and her daughter: are they still in residence?”  The Manager consulted a ledger. “No, sir they left four weeks ago.”

“Don’t you mean one week ago?”

“No sir,” he replied looking down again.  “They were here from the tenth until the fifteenth. We were to forward any letters to The Commercial, which I believe is Pimlico.  We have some here if you would care to inform them.”

Glass did not care to and wondered what it all meant. 

*****

Four days later Stephen had returned.  Martin was glad of it for he had been with Constance—well, constantly—save for an afternoon when she had gone shopping with Sophia and Jean who reported that she had done a great deal of looking and ‘trying on’ but had brought nothing but a pair of gloves.  They did not think that particularly strange.  “Maybe she only patronises dressmakers—and probably only ones in Paris,” said Sophia.

At dinner Stephen gave an account of his trip.  He still cared deeply for his men.  Most of them had settled into civilian life whose blessings had not yet lost their lustre.  Three had married and one had been deserted by his wife.  Stephen could only shrug.

“Doling’s family aren’t doing too well, Mala,” said Stephen using his pet name for Martin in front of the others.  “His father has lost his job and he needs to find money so that his surviving son can take up an apprenticeship in the printing trade.  The boy idolised his older brother.  I loaned them 15 guineas and told them to repay it when they could.  They were too proud to accept it as a gift.”

Mildred Polk-Stewart wanted to ask: ‘What was this family to you now that the War had been over for nearly four years?’ but she bit her tongue, for what were she and Constance?

“We came back through Norfolk.  Myles can’t find a job.  You remember him, Mala?”

Of course Martin remembered young Myles: a cheeky and bold fellow who worshipped Stephen.  Stephen had told him what had happened when they had been trapped in a shelled farmhouse in Flanders.  Martin could see the concern in Stephen’s eyes.

“He’s a draftsman, isn’t he?” Stephen nodded.

“Mildred and I have found out some most interesting history,” said Uncle Alfred changing the subject.  “We’ve been to Somerset House and the day after tomorrow we are off to Windsor to see the fellow who is writing a history of the British Army.”  He looked at Mrs Polk-Steward who smiled at him and did seem genuinely enthusiastic for the dusty topic.

Uncle Alfred continued:  “Dama Desideria-Luiza and her two daughters, Olivinha Poole and Djanira Poole, left hurriedly for Brazil with Queen Maria in March 1807 on board a British vessel.  It was our idea to move the Braganzas out, you see.  We wondered if Thomas Poole settled some money on her and the girls—he’d have to really.  It was only a few months later that the decree absolute came through.  Divorce was by act of Parliament in those days and Thomas must have had to raise quite a good deal of money to push it through in such a hurry.  Thomas and General Cavendish-Bentnick’s niece married almost straight away.  We thought it was because the French were poised to divide up Portugal and the British Army was down at Gibraltar.

“But Lordy no!” said Mrs Polk-Stewart, taking up the thread with great delight. “The young devil had got your great, great grandmother pregnant.  The baby was born only a month after the marriage.  I bet the General held a shotgun to Thomas’ head.  That’s the way we do it out West.”

“But the money, Mildred; don’t forget the settlement.”

“Yep, there was that that mess of money too.  Maybe the shotgun wasn’t needed, but the divorce sure was.”

“Yes, the Cavendish-Bentnicks would have moved heaven and earth to get that divorce through Parliamant to protect the honour of their dishonoured niece.  I wonder what sort of person she was?  I think we know his type right enough.”

“It is certainly fascinating, Uncle Alfred.  Don’t work too hard on it.  You’re looking rather tired,” said Martin.

Yes, tired and thin, Stephen thought.  Mrs Polk-Stewart must be wearing him out.

That night in bed Stephen went over his trip again. “Do you think we could find Myles a position, Mala?”

“As a draftsman?  I don’t know Stephen; if you think so.”

“You’re not jealous are you?”

“No Derbs, not at all.  I understand how it was, I think.  Actually I’m always a little bit thrilled when other people love you as much as I do.”

“You’re the only one I love, Mala.  Except when…”

Stephen’s no doubt intriguing explanation for his behaviour was forever lost, as at that moment there was a soft rapping on the bedroom’s outer door.  Stephen froze then went to leap out of bed.  Martin put a restraining hand on him and motioned for him to be quiet.  The rapping was repeated and then there was a soft voice.  The handle was tried, but the door was locked.  Presently all was quiet again.

“How long has that been going on, Mala?”

“All this last week. What should I do?”

“Do you want to sleep with her?”

“No!” said Martin firmly.  “I don’t want her and wish she’d go away.”

Stephen made no comment.  Presently he said: “Will you come with me to Sir Thomas’ tomorrow. I’ve made an appointment for 11:00.  We must do something for Hélias.”

Martin readily agreed and he was glad that he would not have to take Constance out in the day as well as to a ball in Grosvenor Square in the evening. 

*****

They walked to Harley Street, talking about their respective worries.  They rang the bell.  The maid opened the door and they stepped back to allow a gentleman to pass.  “Uncle Alfred!” cried Martin.  “I didn’t know you were coming here today.”

His uncle smiled and said that he would see them at home and departed in the direction of a taxi.

Sir Thomas Barlow must have been nearly 80, but was still bright and told them about a paper he had just delivered and that had been well received.  Then he settled down to listen. Stephen and Martin took it in turns to describe Hélias and they showed him their photographs of his twisted, lame leg.

“He’s a carpenter by trade?” asked Sir Thomas Barlow peering at a photograph with a magnifying glass.

“And a builder and mason.  He was at Verdun.”

Sir Thomas nodded sadly.  His own son, Patrick, had been killed.

“It may have been improperly set.  It may have shrapnel in it.  If we operate—say to break it and reset it—there is a risk of infection.  That would have to be explained to him.  Does he speak only French?”

“More Occitan than proper French, but yes.  We will have to convince him to come to London first.  He’s newly married you see,” said Martin.

“And you would operate—if necessary— Sir Thomas?” asked Stephen.

“No, not me, but I will refer you to a surgeon.  I gather that you will be paying for this poor young fellow’s treatment, your lordship.”

“Stephen and I, Sir Thomas.”

“That’s a very fine thing indeed!” he said, patting Martin on the knee.  “He’s a handsome young fellow too, isn’t he?  Well, let my nurse know if and when you can get him across the channel. 

***** 

Higgins had been worried about his master too.  He had just said so to Glass and Carlo and was just leaving Glass’ room below the staircase and crossing the marble-tiled hall when Constance and her mother bustled in from the street.  They had been to tea at Aunt Maud’s but were clearly having an animated conversation about something.  They swept passed the valet and headed to the small dining room.  They were just closing the door when he heard Mrs Polk-Stewart say: “In here.  I don’t trust that Lily.”

In a flash Higgins was down the stairs and into the kitchen.  He propelled Jane unceremoniously out of the scullery where she had been washing up and closed the door.  He opened the hatch to the service lift and listened.  From a distance he could hear voices down the shaft: “…don’t bother then, my girl.  Do you remember that bull we had in Sparks— the one who was no good with the heifers, no matter what you did?  Well his lordship and Mr Stephen are just the same.  Nice boys, but not breeding stock, I reckon, and I don’t think ever will be. They’re hitched already; not even good for steaks.” She gave a laugh.  Higgins tried to imagine the look on Constance’s face, but couldn’t.  “There’s still the old boy.  There might be some life in him yet.”

“But mama, he’s 80!”

“No, only 73 and I’m still in my prime.  Your father was nearly sixty when you were born so it’s not beyond the realms…”  He heard a disgusted snort that must of come from Constance. Mrs Polk-Stewart continued: “Your ma has another plan, Connie…”

They must have walked away from the lift because Higgins couldn’t hear them.  At the same time M. Lefaux was rattling the door and emitting a string of French expletives.  Jane was beside him looking aggrieved.  Higgins left the room and walked right past them to report his findings (or rather listenings) to Glass. 

*****
 

At dinner that night Uncle Alfred gave them an account of the previous day’s work at Windsor.  “Sir John Fortesque the Librarian and I were at school together, as it happens, and Mildred and I learned all about Lord Thomas Poole and General Cavendish-Bentnick in the Peninsular War.

“They served together in Portugal then in Spain and then in France itself.  The escape of Queen Maria and her court to Brazil on the 29^th of November 1807 was a great setback to Napoleon because they were able to take thousands of troops and officials and most of the navy with them and thus avoided capture when Lisbon fell just two days later.”

Mrs Polk-Stewart spoke up: “But our Thomas didn’t go with them.  He fled to Spain with Cavendish-Bentnick and his niece who had by then become his mistress.  They joined up with Wellington to fight the French while she went down to Gibraltar with the wives and camp followers.  She was pregnant, so it couldn’t have been an easy journey in the heat. Then they were back in Lisbon after the French were defeated.  That’s where they were married and your great grandfather was baptised.”

Uncle Alfred said: “At Battle of Vimerio, the Duke of Wellington (as he was to become) had defeated the French at Lisbon but he was overruled by two old fools, Dalrymple and Burrard, who signed a treaty with the French at Cintra that allowed the French be transported with all their weapons back to France.  You can imagine the scandal when this was known!  Dalrymple was in disgrace as were all those who had agreed with him.  Lord Thomas, you won’t be surprised to know, came out of it well and went on to fight alongside Wellington again.

“Most interesting of all, is that Sir John said that there is an engraved portrait of Donna Desideria-Luiza Molsomo with Queen Maria in a volume in the Quelusz Palace.  I would love to see her face.  One letter from the wife of the British ambassador en passant describes “the beautiful Portuguese lady who was the dama companhia to the Queen and is now the wife of Lord Thomas Poole.”

Constance looked bored so the ladies retreated and left the dining room to the gentlemen.

“Boys, began Uncle Alfred, “I have to tell you frankly I am not particularly well; Sir Thomas thinks I have a tumour — quite advanced apparently.”  He tapped his stomach.

The colour drained from Martin’s face. “Oh Uncle Alfred, that is horrible! It can’t be true.  You mustn’t die; I’d have no one left!”  He rushed around the table and hugged his uncle.  “There, there, Martin, I’m not dead yet.  And you do have someone left.”  He looked at Stephen who was still sitting opposite and looked stunned.  He held Martin’s hands in his own.  “Martin, my boy, I have understood about you and Stephen for a long time.  You are the same as Vijay.  It is not my way, but I think I know when two people love each other.” he paused for a minute. There were tears in his eyes.  “You know, neither of us has produced an heir, but I do not want you to marry someone…” and here he raised his eyes in the direction of the drawing room, “…just for the sake of it.” He adjusted himself in his chair and cracked a walnut.

“Me, I’m enjoying myself with Mrs Polk-Stewart.  Yes I know she’s a bit dreadful, but we do love doing the history together.  It is good to have a companion again.  You know, when I was a young man I had my share of women— and a few boys at school—but I was never inclined that way afterwards.  There was a girl in Africa and my Colonel’s wife in the Deccan.  At twenty-eight I took an Indian woman as my mistress.  No one at home knew of course.  I loved her deeply and she bore me a child—a son who would be the heir had he been legitimate and had he not died.  They both died.  She was only twenty-two and the boy but a year.  So I want you to understand that your old uncle knows about love…and a little about death too.”

He squeezed Martin’s fingers and then let his hands drop.  “I think we’d better join the ladies. Mrs Polk-Stewart has got something to ask you.”

Martin walked like an automaton up the stairs behind his uncle.  He was numb.  Stephen put his arm about him.  He composed himself and went into his mother’s pink drawing room where Constance and her mother were sitting, flipping impatiently through illustrated magazines.

“Cousin Martin,” began Mrs Polk-Stewart. “Alfred said that I might ask you this favour.  Do you think I might meet your cousin- our cousin- Philip Poole?”

“Why yes, Mrs Polk-Stewart, if you would like to.  Shall I ask him down to Croome?”

Stephen looked puzzled. “Derby, he is my second cousin—that’s right, isn’t it Uncle?”

“Second once removed.”

“His father was the youngest child of my great grandfather, that is my grandfather’s youngest brother.  There was another brother who died young and another one— Lord Harold— who died childless.  Then there were four sisters whom I have met when I was a boy, but they were all just old ladies to me.  I can’t even recall their names.

“Five, I think,” put in Mrs Polk-Stewart. “I am drawing a tree.”

“Ah, then you would know more than me,” said Martin. “Philip has come into his father’s estate, which is in Wiltshire.  He has an older married sister too.  Shall I invite them both?”

“I would like that very much, Martin. Thank you.”

Martin managed a tight smile and the evening passed with Martin’s insides in turmoil.  He was glad to go bed.

The boys talked until the small hours, first of Uncle Alfred’s shocking revelation, then of his accepting attitude to their relationship. “You know, that makes it so much easier to accept the other news, Derby.  He really is a lovely man and so much softer than my own father.  Is that a dreadful thing to say?  I wish he had been my father.  Life would have turned out quite differently for William and me.

Stephen held him and listened and gave him what comfort he could.  Presently he said: “I’m leaving for France in a day or two, Mala, to bring back Hélias.  He’ll need a passport and things.  Will you come with me?”

“I’d love to, Derbs, but I’d better stay here with Uncle Alfred.  Besides, I still have to squire Constance about and then there will be the weekend with cousin Philip.   I wonder what he’ll be like.  I haven’t seen him since I was nine and he was about fifteen.” 

Martin saw Stephen off at Victoria.  He wanted to hug him, but had to try to convey that emotion with his eyes.  He wished he were not going— or that he might go with him.  He felt distraught and would have to cope without ‘his rock’.

Later the same day, seen boarding the train at Waterloo for the familiar two-hour journey to Croome, was the party from Branksome House, including (all in second) Lily the newly promoted lady’s maid, and the two valets, Higgins and Carlo.

In the first class compartment the talk was of Donna Desideria-Luiza Molsomo and the rake, Lord Thomas Poole.  This drifted into discussion about Sir Philip Rous-Poole Bt, Martin’s cousin, and his sister Lady Sylvia Hore, so naturally there was considerable anticipation to see them in the flesh when they arrived on the afternoon train.

Four figures alighted onto the platform—two men, a woman and a boy.  Martin strained to see their faces. Yes, it was all coming back to him: that was his cousin whom he hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years.  His sister he did not recall at all and that must be her husband and one of their children.

“Hullo, Botulus!” cried  Martin.

“Nobody has called me that for a long time,” replied Philip without smiling too much.  “I used to call you Fatuus.”

“No that was William.  You called me Limus because you said I was a lazy slug.”

“So I did.  I’m sorry about William.  He wasn’t a fool at all.”

Introductions were made, but the exact lineage of the Americans was too complicated to relate on the platform and had to wait until tea when Uncle Alfred (who was too tired to go down to the station) attempted to simplify it, but only succeeded to making even Mrs Polk-Stewart confused when she had thought she had mastered it.

“If it were sires and dams Philip would have no trouble with it,” said Sylvia a trifle severely.

“Mummy!” said the little boy.

“It’s not a rude word, Clarence. Don’t be so lower middle class. I blame Herridge for your prudery.”

Clarence took some more cake, but Martin could see he was not convinced.  He looked at the brother and sister.  They were definitely tweedy. Both wore suits that could be described as ‘heather mixture’ and their talk quickly came around to horses and crops.

“ ‘…dig it and dung it,’ I said to him; you won’t grow rhubarb without plenty of dung, cow for preference; I find the pig is too strong, don’t you?”

“Mummy!” cried the boy again.  Cousin Sylvia paused in her disquisition on manures and glared at Clarence.

Philip was quieter— markedly so.  He was slow and gentle in his speech, and probably shy and, well, really quite dull.  Nevertheless, he was not ill looking: he was perhaps near 30 and had lifeless grey eyes.  He was a rather big, square fellow—but quite different to Stephen however and he did not have the blonde hair that Martin had inherited from his mother’s German ancestry.  He looked, as he was, like a country squire.

Hore, Sylvia’s ruddy-faced husband, said little.  He too was dressed in tweeds, with a yellow waistcoat.  “Do you hunt, Poole?”

Martin said he did and spoke of the New Year meet.  He could remember little of Hore afterwards, only images of him helping himself to a great deal of whisky and his tendency to doze off after eating—of which he also did a great deal.

Dinner would have been heavy going had not the topic of the family tree been fruitful.  While Hore concentrated on his meal, Martin and Philip fell to talking about their childhood memories of visits to their respective estates, Philip remembering Martin’s father much better than Martin recalled Sir Rohan Rous-Poole, Philip’s father, who had died in 1918.

The next day there was a visit to the stables where Philip was at his most animated.  Martin left him with Constance while he walked up to see O’Brien. 

“You’re looking very well, Chilvers,” said Martin archly at breakfast on the following day, Sunday.

“Thank you, your lordship.  It must be the fresh air.  The day is not really cold is it?”

“It’s too damn cold,” said Mrs Polk-Stewart.  “It’s always too cold in this damn country and…” she was going to say ‘this house’ but bit her tongue.

After church, while Uncle Alfred and Mrs Polk-Stewart were in the library and Constance was attempting to teach Philip the rudiments of tennis while the rain held off, Martin climbed the stairs and entered the large cupboard.  He emerged, naked onto the rooftop to find that there was a full-blown meeting of the Branksome Big Boys’ Club already underway.  “Good morning your lordship, said Chilvers from the blanket.  I won’t stand up.” Carlo giggled. “Sifridi, I will fine you sixpence if you make any comments at all!” said Chilvers quite angrily.

Martin couldn’t help but notice that Chilvers was no longer as white as he had been and—yes—he was almost certain, he had trimmed his pubic bush.  It was not as cropped as Stephen’s, but it was less unruly and it allowed a glimpse of a pair of very nice plums.  Martin settled next to Higgins who was the whitest of them all.  His cock was circumcised, Martin was quite sure.

Higgins began to talk slowly.  He knew the rules about ‘shop’ but Martin could tell that the others were on tenterhooks listening.

“It’s not a bad morning, your lordship,” he began.  Then after a pause he said: “Listen to them on the tennis courts.”

Martin could hear the puck, puck of the ball being hit then, ‘Bad luck partner’! ‘Mine I think’. ‘Out!’ and some laughter— Constance’s laugh and then the deeper bass huff that must be Philip’s.

“Miss Polk-Stewart seems to enjoy her tennis, your lordship.” Martin grunted.  “It seems a pity that Mrs Polk-Stewart is shut up h’indoors instead of enjoying the fresh air.  She’s a lady who also likes fresh h’air h’an h’exercise and should be an h’example to us all.”  Martin still said nothing.  

“I mean it’s a long way from Pimlico to Piccadilly, ain’t it?  And she walked it often.  Miss Polk-Stewart too.  But of course now they is wif us they don’t need to walk half way cross London.”

“What are you talking about, Higgins?  They were at the Ritz before coming to us; that’s not two hundred yards away.”

“I don’t think so, your lordship.  I think you’ll find they were at the Ritz for h’only a few days. The Commercial in Pimlico is not the sort of place I should think you would find convenient yourself, your lordship.”

Martin sat up suddenly.  “Here’s two shillings Chilvers — or rather it’s in my trousers in the cupboard.  Now you lot, tell me what you know.”

It all came out: Lily’s suspicion, what Glass had learnt from the Ritz. “…and when I peeled back the label on the trunk it said ‘Third Class: Not Wanted on Voyage’,” said Carlo.  Most painful of all was what Higgins had heard in the lift shaft.

Martin was stunned, but not really surprised. “What should I do, Chilvers?”

The butler was pleased to have been asked.  He sat up on his elbow, his breasts wobbling like jellies. “I would consult Mr Stephen, your lordship.”

“But he’s not here, Chilvers.”

“Well,” said Chilvers. “It is possible that the ladies—your cousins (if that part is indeed true) are not quite so— ahem—‘in funds’ as one would have imagined.  Perhaps there was no silver mine or perhaps the money has all gone.  In any case, they may be desirous of a union that would be of fiduciary benefit to them—either of them.”

“You mean that Mrs Polk-Stewart could marry my uncle?”

“Yes sir.  It has been known.  Elderly gentlemen…”

“But could she provide him with an heir, I mean Uncle Alfred is the heir presumptive?  She’s too old, isn’t she?”

“No she h’ain’t sir,” said Higgins, “but I don’t think my master would fall for it.  Besides, he is not well, as he told you, your lordship.  But she might be just h’after the readies and in that case an early wedding would be quite h’expedient, sir.”

Martin knew Higgins was right.  “And Miss Constance Polk-Stewart?” asked Martin.

“I think the answer to that is on the tennis court, your lordship,” said Chilvers.

Martin lay down again on the warm roof.  His mind was in turmoil once again.  Carlo felt he wanted to hold his hand and the others exchanged looks of great concern between them.

“I wish Stephen were here,” said Martin to the sky. 

***** 

Stephen had made straight for Antibes on the express.  The de Blazons and Mrs Chadwick were pleased to see him and regretted that his lordship could not come too, but they knew of Stephen’s mission.  He slept but fitfully in the heat.  He missed his Mala and was not used to sleeping alone.  He rose from their bed and walked naked onto the balcony that overlooked the street. There was a breeze from the Mediterranean that caressed his sweaty balls.  He hefted them as he looked up at the sky.  Low clouds obscured the stars.  He returned to bed and pleasured himself, arching his back and spilling far up his chest—a few drops landing on his tongue.  He had not done that for a long time.  It felt good, but it did not help sleep.  Perhaps I should do it again?

In the morning Stephen rode his bicycle the five miles to Vallauris.  He found the house of Hélias’ father-in-law and he was directed to the clay pit on the edge of the town.  There he found Hélias sawing timber.  The saw was cast aside and Stephen was embraced amid an avalanche of Provencale sentiments.

Hélias looked Stephen straight in the eyes.  Hélias’ own were black and liquid and he knew why Stephen had come.  “Je suis très reconnaissant, mon ami. Je vais vous rembourser. Je promets!”

“I know you are, Hélias.  We don’t want to be repaid.  We are doing this for friendship— and for France,” he added with a flourish.  Hélias became tearful and hugged him again.

Hélias’ passport had not arrived from Paris.  They would have to wait.  Hélias took him into the wooden office where his father-in-law was doing the accounts.  There were more enthusiastic greetings and the passport problem was raked over.

“As we cannot leave, Hélias, could you do some work for me in Antibes?  I must have…” he paused “I must have the bathroom altered.”

Hélias thought the salle de bain was perfect as it was, but Stephen insisted it was not satisfactory.  His father-in-law laughed and told him not to turn away work and so Hélias agreed and would come over in the evening when he could get a lift in a friend’s camion.  Before Stephen himself departed he went to the house and drank a glass of brandy with Hélias and his wife and they toasted their baby daughter who was, even Stephen had to admit, a very beautiful baby with black locks like her father. 

Hélias arrived in the evening and Stephen took him across to his aunt’s for a meal.  They bought some wine and went back to the house and sat under the grapevine where Hélias smoked one cigarette after another.  A conversation of sorts was held in French, Occitan and English, with many toasts given— a universal language better understood than Esperanto.

“Hélias, you do understand about the risks of operating on your leg?” said Stephen, using mime to make his message understood.

“Oui” said Hélias and pretended to saw his leg off.  “Je comprends.  Gangrène.”  He looked at Stephen with sad eyes.  “Je ne suis pas un homme entier.”

“Yes you are, Hélias,” said Stephen emphatically.  “You are a whole man.  Two legs do not make you a man.”

“Et cela?” said Hélias with raised eyebrows as he crabbed his crotch.

They sat long into the night, the empty bottles eloquently scattered about them and Hélias was thinking that Etienne was at last living life like a Frenchman.  Stephen already had his shirt off when they climbed the stairs in the early hours of the morning.  Hélias made a polite move to sleep in the second chamber, but Stephen put his arm about him and took him into his bedroom.

Soon they were naked on the matelas dse plumes and Stephen was running his hands over the handsome Frenchman—no longer a lad— as if he were feeling him for the first time.  He slid down and kissed the damaged leg—twisted even now on the bed—as if his kisses could somehow make it better.  Then he sucked with ferocity on Hélias’ big cock and the Frenchman groaned and writhed.  The excitement made Stephen hard and Hélias, aware of this, asked Stephen to fuck him.

“No Hélias. I will hurt you.”

“L’amour est douloureux,” breathed Hélias.

Stephen wasn’t having any of it.  It was not love; he knew that much.  “In the morning, peut-être.”

He motioned that he wanted Hélias to fuck him.  Hélias kissed him with passion and, after some preliminaries, entered Stephen as they locked eyes. “J’ai encore le désir pour les garçons, Etienne.”  Stephen did not know what to say, however he was soon groaning with pleasure and urging the carpenter to fuck him harder, which he did for a long time.  Hélias pulled out and spilled messily on Stephen’s chest where he smeared it with his hand while he was panting. Stephen was worried about his shortness of breath.  Stephen’ cock had remained fairly hard through the ordeal and Hélias finished him off, flooding his chest and part of the mattress with his semen.  They slept with their arms about each other in the foetid bed.

It was not many hours until dawn found Hélias shaking Stephen awake just as the first pale rays of the Riviera sun were slanting in through the shutters.  Stephen kept his promise.  He rolled Hélias on his back and the Spong’s was liberally applied.  Stephen was quickly hard.  He entered him very slowly.  Hélias let out a shout and Stephen had to cover his mouth with his hand. After a pause, he pulled out then pushed in, pushing in deeper with each thrust.  He paused several times more as he had stretched Hélias unbearably.  When he thought it was safe he took his hand from Hélias’ mouth.  Hélias reached back and seized Stephen by the buttocks and pulled him deep inside, causing himself to yelp once again.  Stephen seized Hélias by the ankles, which were above his head, taking no heed of the twisted one, and began to brutally fuck him.  It went on for some time, positions being changed, more Spong’s being applied and Stephen smothering Hélias’ panting cries with kisses.  He really drove in hard.  This must be hurting. What am I doing?  Still Hélias seemed to love it—needing it perhaps.  Stephen pulled out and Hélias wept at the void.  He spilled all over Hélias’ face and collapsed on top of him.

When he raised himself Hélias was smiling.

“Encore?”

Stephen opened his eyes wide and shook his head, laughing.  They rested until late in the morning and then came down the stairs.  Stephen bathed Hélias and gently applied some Spong’s.  He inspected him closely for damage.  He was bruised but the swelling would go down.  Hélias didn’t seem to care but Stephen was worried what his wife might think if Hélias should end up in hospital before he went to England.

In the afternoon Hélias altered the bathroom door so it swung inwards.  That meant that Stephen could watch Martin in the shower if he desired to do so.  There was nothing else to do so they went to the plage.  Hélias wanted to wear Stephen’s costume so Stephen wore Martin’s.  Hélias looked very attractive in the skin tight garment where his bulge was quite visible.  They both attracted glances from young ladies on the quay and Stephen wondered how Hélias was going to manage a wife and child and a desire for boys.

Word was sent to Vallauris that the work was more extensive than at first thought and Hélias stayed for another three nights in Stephen’s bed where things were hardly less rough than they had been on the first night.  They went to see Stephen’s new boat.  It was very fine—about the same size as the Joue Rose but it was a nice shade of blue.  Stephen had already decided it would be called L’espoir but he didn’t want to take it out without Martin.

Stephen found small jobs for Hélias to do about the house.  They drank wine, went to the beach, and discussed if the attic could be converted into a bedroom “Pour les garçons seulement?” asked Hélias.

“Yes, only for boys, Hélias.”

Still no passport had come.  Helias at last went back to his wife in Vallauris and Stephen was left alone.

Stephen spent some time with Mrs Chadwick.  They went out to the Little Sisters and inspected the new nursery.  At the hospital they took a peak at the new x-ray machine.  On the promenade of the bathing beach— where Hélias had shown off in Stephen’s shocking costume— there stood an attractive new pavilion.  It was very modern.  Rather than being built of the traditional stone and tile of the town, it was a cutaway pillbox made of concrete with a rough texture.  It had fat, square concrete posts with no capitals.  The roof was flat and served as a lookout or to sunbathing upon, as it could be reached by a ladder.  What few walls it had were mainly of glass in steels frames except for the portion that was devoted to a lavatory and changing room.  Impressed into the smooth concrete frieze was a design of stylized local plants and flowers.  Stephen recognised oleander blooms, the bracts of the bougainvillea, palm fronds and the cones of the stone pine. These were cubist designs and matched the elaborate wrought iron railings.

“They architect is from Paris.  He is planning a large house over at Hyeres,” said Mrs Chadwick, “but I persuaded him to do this little job for us first.”  It was photographed for L’Art Aujourd’hui.”

They next went to the Mission to Seamen.  It’s origins as a stone warehouse was now hard to divine.  A new cement entrance arch with a nautical theme gave onto offices and a reception desk. There was a lounge with comfortable chairs and writing bureaux.  There was a small library.  Beyond the walls of the original building, a new chapel had been constructed in the yard.  It was an extraordinary round room with a shallow concrete dome— like a Buddhist stupa.  The sound of their voices inside echoed hauntingly.  The ceiling was not yet finished and the furnishing incomplete, but around the dome was a painted frieze depicting Bible stories connected with the sea.  Stephen recognised Noah, the miraculous draft of fishes, Jonah and so on.

“The Church of England has paid for this part and will provide a chaplain— probably Mr Worth’s young chaplain.  Have you met him?” Stephen shook his head.

“It will be ecumenical of course; the Catholic priest will say Mass after the Protestant service.”

Next they went upstairs where the main space was given over to a dormitory.  Mrs Chadwick lingered outside lest she see something untoward.  Stephen went boldly in.  There were rows of beds with hospital curtains and lockers for personal effects.  Several of the beds were already occupied by napping sailors.  Stairs at one end led down past the ground floor to the basement where there was large tiled bathroom and a laundry for the sailors’ washing.  Six sailors were noisily showering and soaping their cocks and balls.  It all looked quite luxurious— more like the YMCA than anything else. “The Port Authority has paid for that room,” said Mrs Chadwick when Stephen rejoined her.

“You’re a man, Mr Knight-Poole.” Indeed Stephen was a man.  “What else do you think we should provide?”

“A doctor or a nurse perhaps?”

“We have a room set aside by the front door.”

“Then I would have to think about it, Mrs Chadwick.”

“Would you?  Why don’t you sleep here tonight?  Get to know the men and what they need.”

Stephen repressed the desire to laugh and instead earnestly said: “That’s a good idea.  I will.  I’ll speak to the chap at the front desk to see if there is a spare bed.”

Stephen returned in the evening with a small bag.  He found a bed and a locker and repaired to the lounge.  It was practically empty.  Perhaps there were few ships in that day or perhaps the men were all in the cafes and brothels.  He found a book in English on the shelves—it was an Edgar Wallace that he had already read.  He began it again, stopping only to make himself some tea from an urn kept warm by a paraffin lamp.  Towards 11:00 men began to trickle in.  Some were drunk.  There were foreign voices among the French.  Some Dutch sailors came up and started a conversation in English.  They were jolly fellows, perhaps in their forties.  “We’d like decks of playing cards and tables.  We’re used to playing cards at sea.”

Stephen thought that was obvious. “Might it lead to fights?”

The Dutchmen dismissed this.  “Not here.  They wouldn’t play for serious money here,” explained one.

“Towels for sale,” said the other.  Stephen noted this.  They continued to chat until the sailors decided to go out again and get drunk.  Stephen attempted to talk to some others, but did not get very far. They were Italians and Portuguese.

“You are Portuguese?” asked one from Brazil in halting English.  Stephen shook his head and the men said something to each other.

Stephen decided to go up to bed.  In the very dim light he could see some of the beds were occupied.  He could hear snoring.  He was pleased that most of the sailors slept naked.  He stripped off and slipped under the clean sheets.  He lay on his back with his hands behind his head.  He went over in his mind Martin’s letter, which had arrived only that day.  It was full of the disturbing news of the weekend with Sir Philip Rous-Poole.  Martin sounded upset and he wished he were back home—but not quite yet.  He loved it here with the smell of men about him.  He smiled to himself and drifted off to sleep.

It must have been nearly one o’clock when Stephen was awoken by a not unfamiliar feeling: someone was down between his legs.  He opened his eyes and sat up.  He could make out two men—slightly drunk by the way they held themselves.

“We saw you getting into bed, big fellow,” said one in accented English.  “Do you want some fun with us, we are Norwegian.” Stephen held no ill views against Norwegians or of Scandinavians in general for that matter and he was very hard under the sheet by now.   The men bade him follow them naked down the stairs to the bathroom, which was brightly lit.

The two were about his own age.  Dagvald was sandy-haired and had tattoos on both arms.  Erlung, who spoke less English, was blond.  They were only in their underwear and this was quickly shed.  They ran their hands all over Stephen’s body and he felt an electric thrill.  He was being worshipped, but was also vulnerable.

“Do you kiss?  Do you kiss sailors, Stephen?” asked Dagvald.  Stephen did and kisses were exchanged.  Erlung then slapped Stephen’s buttocks.  “Do you like that, Stephen?”  He did and it was repeated, the sound reverberating around the tiled chamber.  “I kiss, Stephen.  I kiss like this.”  He knelt down and kissed the end of Stephen’s cock, running his tongue around under the foreskin.  Steven found he had to lean forward and plant his palms flat on the tiles.  Dagvald now had taken his cock in his mouth and was gently sucking on it.

“He is a big boy, Dag, said Erlung.  He deserves to be done proper.  Take more.”  With that he pressed the back of Dagvald’s head until he gagged.

“Get to work!”  said Dagvald, pulling off for a moment, and Erlung knelt behind Stephen and parted his buttocks.  He licked the hairy trench, occasionally pulling back to kiss the fleshy cheeks, before returning deeper and deeper.  Stephen moaned.

“How is he back there?” asked Dagvald after several minutes.  Erlung replied in Norwegian.

“He says you’re sweet and clean, Stephen.  Not that it would have made any difference to him if you weren’t.” Stephen was appreciative and recalled the techniques of Douglas in the Women’s Institute Hall, of happy memory.

The sailors swapped places. Erlung for all his talk could not swallow any more of Stephen than his mate. Dagvald, on his part, could not penetrate his ring and so he didn’t mind that they swapped back.

“Let me see you stroke your cocks while you do that, boys” said Stephen.  Dagvald translated the request in case Erlung had not understood.  Presently the frenzy increased and Erlung was slobbering and biting while Dagvald was sucking furiously and using both hands.  Both sailors gave Stephen’s balls plenty of attention.

“I’m close,” said Stephen breathily. “Ich nähere mich,” he said in German hoping that it was near to the Norwegian.

Dagvald pulled back and Erlung scuttled around beside him.  With a grunt Stephen spilled into Dagvald’s mouth.  He tore his cock out and shoved it into Erlungs’s expectant maw.  Three more ropes of his seed were pumped onto his tongue.

“That was very fair,” said Dagvald.  “Enough for both.  Good Erlung?”  He nodded.  They kissed Stephen and he tasted his own seed.  Erlung had already spilled on the floor, but Dagvald was prevailed upon to spill on Stephen.  It was a good sailor’s load.

“I think there is more in these,” said Dagvald, giving Stephen’s balls a gentle tap.

“He likes!” said Erlung who then hit them harder.  Stephen spread his legs and they took turns in striking Stephen’s balls with just nicely judged force.

“Enough!” cried Stephen, with a mixture of laughter and tears.

The showers were nearby and soon after they were climbing the stairs to the darkened dormitory. They went to their respective beds, Stephen thinking of Mrs Chadwick and how the Mission to Seamen was indeed very complete as it was.  He also thought how he’d love to bring Martin here and watch him being fucked by tipsy sailors.  It had happened before. 

In the morning he saw no sign of the Norwegian boys.

To be continued…

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