“Look at you, with that fat tummy and stumpy legs!” laughed Martin.

“Well you have the most enormous head—like a troll!” said Stephen. “Turn sideways, Jean,

I want to see Mrs Pinocchio.”

“Oh Plunger, that is very rude! Do it again!” screamed Martin.

In the hall of mirrors, all was illusion. Many of the looking glasses magnified our worst tendencies or we suddenly saw ourselves and our friends as so many Mr Hydes from our nightmares. One laughed almost in relief that they were not true, but the impression nevertheless lingered that they revealed a glimpse of some deeper, more troubling truth. 

In other looking glasses, by some optical magic, there was no reflection at all — as if the viewer were from the spirit world. These were the most disturbing of all.  Stephen had brought Martin to the British Empire Exhibition to see the wonders of the Empire but all he wanted to do was ride on the ‘dodgems’, and indeed the amusements and the spectacles in the giant stadium were the most popular attractions with the general public as well as with the upper classes.

Jean and Sophia rode on the ‘Neverstop Railway’ and waved back at the boys who stood in the drizzle and watched. They all thought the rodeo was simply marvellous; here pretty girls stood astride pairs of galloping horses. Stephen, however, hated the elephant that played musical instruments and wished he (or she) would squeeze the life out of the loathsome keeper.

Sophia Vane-Gillingham, Martin’s cousin, had come with her fiancé who was taking a day off from the bank in the City where he worked.  His name was Brian Chetwold and he seemed a very nice sort of fellow.  Martin hoped he was well off, because Lord Hector had not left his widow or children particularly well provided for when he inconsiderately collapsed and died at Goodwood many years ago.  Even the betting slips they found in his pockets were duds.

While the two couples went on the romantic boat rides, Martin was made to go along with Stephen to look at the Palace of Engineering, which was a huge structure, made of reinforced concrete and about which Stephen was terribly excited.

“But I wanted you to take me on the boats, Derby,” whined Martin.

“You don’t want to go on those soppy things, Mala,” said Stephen.  “And we can’t leave The Plunger alone.”  Martin did want to go on them and refused to look at the building and instead turned his petulant attention to the splendid green locomotive called The Flying Scotsman and also to a machine that noisily spun artificial silk, which he wasn’t actually interested in at all.

It was therefore timely when The Plunger came up to them with the news that he had discovered the wet canteen and the restaurant and they decided to walk to these as soon as the couples reached dry land again.

They had to pass the Indian Pavilion, which was the most lavishly decorated of all the buildings, looking rather like a film set from Hollywood.  Martin sorely wished his Uncle Alfred had lived to see it.  He had died just two months before and had suffered greatly in his last weeks.  His friend, the young Maharaja of Rajpipla, had come to see him and he had rallied for one afternoon, but otherwise it was days of nurses and drugs and anxiety until the end.

At the reading of his will it was clear that Lord Alfred was well off, but by no means a millionaire.  He made bequests to several people, to an organization for care of the ‘harijan’ in India and there was the surprising allowance to be paid to Mrs Polk-Stewart whose daughter was now married to Martin’s third cousin (one removed), Lord Philip Rous-Poole of Tetbury Park, Gloucestershire.  The balance of his estate had passed to Martin with the stipulation— or rather suggestion—that the money be used for central heating at Croome.  Lord Alfred had always hated the cold.

The main problem had been what to do with Lord Alfred’s valet of many years, Higgins.

Higgins had been left a very nice sum of money and Martin was at pains to make it clear that he could stay at Branksome House until he found somewhere else but Martin and Stephen had no use for another valet—Carlo doing for both of them.  “Had you thought of setting yourself up in some sort of business, Higgins— a boarding house perhaps?” asked Martin at an appropriate time.

“I don’t think a boarding ’ouse or ’otel would h’exactly suit me, your lordship.  I think I would like to remain in service.”

“As a valet?”

“Yes sir, here or in h’India, sir”

“Well I’ll see what I can do.  You know, Mr Stephen is pressing ahead with the golf links and hotel.  I’m sure we could find you something there.”

In the end, Higgins was found a position with Lord Delvees in Somerset.  Higgins said he was used to the ways of elderly gentlemen and this position would not cut all ties with Croome.

The Wembley visitors were slightly tipsy when they left the restaurant. While Martin led one group into the Canadian Pavilion to look at a refrigerated sculpture of the Prince of Wales done in butter, Stephen led a rival group to see, in Australian butter, Jack Hobbs being stumped in the Sydney Test.

At the West African Village, where shivering and depressed-looking natives squatted to carve idols and weave baskets in living dioramas, they came upon Mrs Leybourne, Stephen’s former landlady from Blandford Forum.  She was talking to the women from the Gold Coast and probably making a nuisance of herself, thought Stephen.  Pleasantries were exchanged and the boys promised to visit in the near future.

Martin then wanted to return to the amusements; so far they had had their fortunes read (with no surprises) and tried several of the sideshows.  Martin’s favourite ride was on the “Big Wheel” which was a slippery spinning disk set into the floor.  If you could climb to the centre you spun more slowly and could even stand up, but if you were flung to the outer edge you rotated at a terrific rate or slid off altogether.

They were all convulsed with laughter and the men had lost their hats and the girls fought to hold their dresses down.  Martin however was very determined and he doggedly crawled like and insect to the hub.  When he turned he found Stephen was following him.  “Come on Derby!  Keep low and don’t look back!”  He lay on his stomach and extended his arm to Stephen who clutched it.  Martin used all his strength to pull Stephen to him and at last he fell on top of him in a heap.  They carefully untangled themselves and managed to stand upright, with their arms about each other’s waists.  They chanced a look of triumph at each other and then looked at their friends on the circumference who were spinning so fast their faces were a blur while Martin and Stephen, like figures on a wedding cake, revolved serenely above the throng.

By six o’clock they were all at Branksome House in the drawing room, laughing and playing the gramophone.  Glass entered pushing a trolley, which contained the cocktail shaker and some plates of tiny canapés, which M. Lefaux was so skilled in creating. Martin had his usual White Lady while Stephen had a Sidecar.  The others chose between these two or tossed down a Satan’s Skin — whose exact recipe was known only to Glass.

“These are delicious,” said Brian who had picked up a green olive stuffed with a nut and then dipped in Gentleman’s Relish.

“What about these grapes with cream cheese?  Too yum-making!” said The Plunger.  “Don’t ever let M. Lefaux go, Martin; Gertie complains if I want more than a soda cracker.”

“Why don’t you get rid of him if he’s such a bad servant, Plunger?” said Antony.

“Oh I’ve got used to him, I suppose.  He says he has an old mother to support— or sometimes it’s a grandmother.  He’s like one’s old hat or something.”

The gramophone was wound and Jean and Sophia were jigging up and down to the marvellous music from ‘Lady Be Good’, which had been sent to Martin from America by their friend Bunny. They were attractive and vibrant young women.  Both of them now had their hair cut short; Jean’s raven hair (so unlike The Plunger’s) was as short as a boy’s and it showed off her pretty ears, when they weren’t being covered by her cloche hat. Sophia wore her brown hair in a bob with ‘bangs’ over her forehead.  The cut was exact and precise, as if done with a razor, and she looked very smart.  Both girls wore coat-dresses that buttoned or had a tie way down on their hip; Jean’s had a fur collar while Sophia’s had a fur hem.  They were very chic young women indeed, thought Martin.

“

Are you boys coming to Dongo’s party tonight?” asked Sophia, mentioning the Duke of Donegal who was a friend of theirs and lived in a big house in Park Lane.  Martin looked at Stephen and Stephen nodded.

‘Yes, we’d love too.  Plunger?”

“Yes, I’m coming.  I want to see Donegal House too.”

The Plunger went back to Chelsea where the resentful Gertie laid out his evening clothes.

“Lift your chin up, dear,” he said struggling with the stud. “Or should that be chins?”

“Gertie, you utter swine.  I don’t have a double chin!”  Nevertheless, with his collar unfastened, Archie rushed to the looking glass to inspect.  No, there was assuredly only one and it was held high in the fashionable aristocratic manner.

They dined at Branksome House and then called in at Stephen’s club, the Saville, for an hour or so and were slightly ‘tight’ by the time they walked around to Park Lane.

Stephen was wearing yet another new dinner jacket; this time it was double-breasted.  Mr. Gibbons, his tailor, had throbbed with excitement when Stephen had shown him the picture of Jack Buchanan wearing one in an illustrated paper and the finished product, it goes without saying, looked very well on Stephen indeed and made Martin and The Plunger feel quite démodés.

His Grace, the Duke, was not much older than they were.  Martin had been at school with his younger brother Pongo and their fathers had sat in the Lords together many years ago.

“Poole,” he said rushing up.  I think my party is a success, if I do say so meself.  Cleever reports that there are no less than 16 ‘gate crashers’ and I know that chap over there,” and here he pointed to a young man in a badly fitting set of evening clothes, “is a gossip columnist for Lord Beverbrook!”

A servant passed with a tray of glasses and Dongo removed three and gave them to the boys before scuttling off to some other region. About ten minutes later they found Jean, Antony, Sophia and Brian.  They were in a room where there was dancing and a number of tables had been set out as if for a cabaret.  Dongo had engaged a marvellous American jazz band led by Paul Specht from Lyon’s Corner House.  They played the sort of American music that had become a positive passion with Martin and had led to Stephen buying him an expensive new gramophone for his birthday. Martin now had an extensive collection of American, French and British records.  Martin and Stephen had a dance each with Jean and Sophia and then with two other girls whom Sophia knew.  

The band took a break and was replaced by two coloured pianists, Layton and Johnstone, from the new Café de Paris. They sang several songs including ‘After You’ve Gone’ which was “too thrill- making,” gurgled one of Sophia’s friends.

There was more champagne and more foxtrotting when the band returned.  Martin, Stephen, Sophia and Jean at one point exchanged looks that puzzled the others.  Then Martin walked up to Mr Specht who was vigorously conducting, holding his violin under his arm.  When there was a pause he could be seen talking to him and Specht could be seen nodding to the evident request.

Martin returned to their table and asked Jean for the next dance while Stephen did the same to Sophia.  There was something clearly afoot from the manner of the four of them.  The band struck up a lively jazz tune— a fox-trot— and they were only two of many couples on the floor.  Suddenly the music slid into something more syncopated; it was a ‘hot’ tune with the emphasis on the second and fourth beats.  While the other dancers continued their fox-trotting, Martin, Stephen and the two girls began to swivel their feet and they held each other more loosely.  The other dancers drew back and began to watch them.  They started to do little kicks to the side and at some points faced outwards, only holding each other by one hand. Then there was an audible gasp as the four began to do wild steps by themselves.  They came back together and then broke again as the music became faster and more emphatic.  The girls executed some silly steps together, encouraged by the boys, then Martin and Stephen did a ‘turn’ together, keeping their upper bodies still while their legs were like rubber.  There was a ripple of applause.  The dancers then came back to the fox-trot hold and the music came to an abrupt halt with a crack of the cymbal and each froze with one leg bent backwards.  There was wild applause.

They went to walk back to their table to confess to their secret lessons, but the crowd pulled them back to the floor and the band repeated the infectious, syncopated tune from the American musical, ‘Runnin Wild’ and the other dancers crowded the floor in an effort to copy their movements, without falling over.  The reporter from The Daily Express was busy taking notes on a napkin.  

***** 

“Listen to what The Daily Mail says, Derbs: ‘Peer’s Wild Jazzing: In scenes reminiscent of a Negro camp meeting down south, the ballroom of the Duke of….’” “Hang on,” said Stephen,

“This one is even better: ‘Down on the Levee: Park Lane High Jinx’.”

“What paper was that?”

Stephen turned to the cover of the “Telegraph. And The Express has gone for alliteration: ‘Mayfair’s Modern Morals’.” Stephen opened a magazine and scanned it.  “The Tattler is: ‘Bright Young People Embrace Modern Music’.”

Martin read: “‘Our Jazzing Daughters: A Warning to Parents’.  That’s The Tablet and The Manchester Guardian says: ‘Ducal Home a Speakeasy’— they’re always down on drink.”

“Here’s The Daily Worker: ‘Plutocrats Exploit Coloured Musicians’.”  

“And The Morning Post?”

“No mention at all, Mala. I’m sorry.”

Martin got busy with the scissors. “I’m pasting these in my scrapbook.  It was a very fine party, wasn’t it, Derbs?”

“Well, now the whole country knows it too, Mala.  I think we need to go easy on the parties or it won’t go down well with the people at Croome.”

“Don’t you think they want to see me leading the fashion, Derbs?” said Martin looking up from the pot of paste.

“I’m afraid not, Mala.  They are country folk and they are already suspicious of ‘Lundun ways’.”

“Perhaps, you’re right.  We’ll go down tomorrow, but don’t forget we’re going to Charlot’s Revue at The Prince of Wales tonight.  Jack and Charles are coming for cocktails and we’ll dine quietly at home. M. Lefaux has made truffles aux champagne and chicken Marengo. Why would we dine out?”  

***** 

“Your Lordship,” said Chilvers, after giving a professional butler’s cough, “The servants were very pleased to read of you terpsichorean triumphs in London, sir.”

“Does that mean my dancing, Chilvers?”

“Yes, sir.”

There, Stephen was quite wrong!

“And I have been putting it off, your lordship, but I would like to discuss the indoor staff, sir. We haven’t really looked at it since the War, your lordship.”

“Yes, you’re quite right, Chilvers.  I’ve been neglecting the staff what with one thing and another.  Should we ask Mr Stephen to join us when he returns from the gymnasium?”

“I think that would be a good idea sir.  He thinks very creatively, if I may say so.”

Stephen returned, all sweaty and with bruised knuckles so it was half an hour before he could join them in the Spanish Dining Room where Chilvers had assembled some papers and lists.

“Your lordship, Mr Stephen,” he began.  “We have let the staff run down since the war— really since her ladyship died.”

“I don’t think we can ever go back to those days, Chilvers,” said Martin.

“No, that is so,” sighed the butler whose mind slipped back to the glory days of King Edward for just a moment.  “And good male servants are hard to find and even with this unemployment, there is a limited supply of maids; they’d rather work in factories than be in service. We’ve had to look to the Irish and to the workhouses.

“I would like to have four footmen again, but I will make do with two—they must be young and matching in height or it will ruin the dining room.  We need one to make a pair with young Mathew.  Now, as to kitchen maids….”

Chilvers had it all worked out: There were to extra maids to assist Miss Prims (who was elderly) with the linen and the sewing.  Two extra laundry maids were required.  The demolition of the south wing had made the big house a little more manageable, but still extra maids even armed with electric vacuum cleaners were required to dust and maintain the dozens of bedrooms.  There were enough maids for the principle reception rooms, but they needed a new carpenter and a boy.

“If my new footman is good, I will not need a cellarman, your lordship, but Cook needs a sous chef — if only to prepare the servant’s meals.  I think she should be the one to select the right applicant, for you know the saying about cooks.”

By the time Chilvers had finished and the prospective wages bill had been totted up, Martin realised it would cost an extra £800 a year, and that they had not even touched on the outdoor staff and the extra gardener that was required to roll the tennis courts and maintain  Martin’s new sunken garden.

They went over the list again and did some pruning.  “What about if we introduce some modern electrical machinery into the house, Mr Chilvers?” said Stephen.  “American houses are well ahead of us.  They had lots of electrical equipment on display at Wembley and now that we have a mains supply…”

“Chilvers,” said Martin suddenly.  “When did you last have a holiday?”

He thought for a moment with his eyes to the ceiling.  “I had a fortnight in June of 1906.”

“Well I think you should go to America and investigate how they run their big houses over there.”

“America!” gasped the butler and then added, after he caught his breath, “your lordship.”

“Yes,” continued Martin.  “It would be strictly for business, and to get the names of some of those gadgets they are so fond of over there.  I saw one that electrically squeezed oranges— could do dozens in a few minutes.  By the way, you should have tasted the lovely Jaffa oranges at the Exhibition; we should buy some for breakfast—orange juice is all the rage.

“We can get you the names of some of our friends in New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago and you could visit their houses.  They’ll probably want to invite a ‘gen-u-ine British butler’ to stay.  But you must promise to come back to us, Chilvers, no matter how much they bribe you.”

“Chicago?” cried Chilvers in alarm.  “You want me to go to Chicago?”  

“Yes, Chilvers, that is an order.  Bunny would look after him, wouldn’t he, Derby?”

“Certainly,” said Stephen who was also in shock.

“I think you should go in August when we are away in Antibes.  I will write letters of introduction and organize your passport this very afternoon.”

“And Hollywood?” ventured, Chilvers, “I’m sure they have some very clever domestic arrangements in that town.”

“No Hollywood, Chilvers,” said Martin smiling.  “And Chilvers,” The butler looked up, “it will be in second class.”

“Very good, your lordship.”  

***** 

The next day Private Myles arrived and Martin and Stephen went down to the station to meet him.  “It’s very good of you your lordship…” began Myles before Martin held his hand up.

“No it’s me who should be grateful.  You haven’t seen the mess my correspondence is in; you might be on the first train back to Norfolk.  What happened to your last job?”

“Well, it sort of vanished from under me, your lordship.  I was taken on as the most junior draftsman in a large firm in Norwich.  The owner died and most of the business went to other firms.  The new owner only kept three fellows on and I wasn’t one of them.  I do have references, your lordship,” he said looking at his suitcase as Stephen hefted it into his Pan motorcar.”

“I think we both know you well enough to not require reference, Myles.  By the way, do you have some other sort of name?

“It’s Henry— or rather Harry, your lordship.”

“Well Harry, as you are going to be my private secretary, I think you should call me Martin when we are alone.  You are not a servant, but my employee and I would hope that you would dine with Stephen and me when we are at Croome.  Do you have evening clothes?”

Myles shook his head sadly . “Well, we’ll get you some.  They will be a necessary part of your job—like overalls,” he said smiling.  “I’ve checked this all out with Chilvers.  He’s our butler.  I have to tread carefully so as not to offend the servants.  It’s worse than the caste system in India!”

Myles’ mind was racing, trying to imagine himself in evening clothes sitting at a big table and asking ‘Martin’ to pass him the HP sauce.  He giggled and Stephen and Martin both threw him a glance.

The sudden appearance of the Croome through the trees stunned Myles, even though he was familiar with ‘the big house’ where his father worked for a titled family in Norfolk.  The introduction to Chilvers was negotiated successfully.

Myles was given a bedroom next to the room where Stephen studied.  Stephen’s room would be ideal for Myles, Stephen said, as it was quite large and well lit and he would soon be finished his Engineering degree in any case.  Tea was brought there and Myles’ role was outlined.

Myles took stock: “Well, we’ll need some filing cabinets and three trays: ‘in’, ‘out’, and ‘pending.’  That should organise your affairs, Martin.  The trick is not to put everything in ‘pending’ and never empty it.  I will need stationary and do you have a typewriter?”

“You can typewrite?” asked Stephen in surprise.

“Yes, I’m a bit slow.  I need to take lessons, but I can write a letter.”

“Why that’s marvellous Harry!” cried Martin.  “I never expected that.  And you can take lessons in your spare time.  I’m sure there is a secretarial school in Wareham or if not in Bournemouth—that is if you want to.”

They fell to the pleasant task of making a stationery list.  Myles said he could do it alone, but Martin was keen and wanted one of those gadgets that punched holes and a mimeograph machine.  “Chilvers can use it for writing menus, instead of sending out to the printer.”

Myles was then taken to look at Martin’s desk.  It was a lovely satinwood desk from the 1780s and had a pair of glass-fronted bookcases above it.  Myles admired it; it was elegant. Martin opened the writing flap, which was supported on brass fittings and there was a sudden, dreadful eruption of paper that then transformed itself into a cascade that rained down upon the carpet.  Martin blushed.

“Oh your lordship!” said Myles, picking up some pieces at random with dates going back to

1920.  “We will have to sort this lot out.”

Martin felt he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and moved to a large carved box- the sort that is called a ‘coffer’.  He lifted the lid to disclose more of the same.

“Much of this is probably useless by now, Harry,” he explained, “but I began to put correspondence in here after my father died.”  Myles gave him a reproving look while Stephen roared with laughter.

The three of them gathered up piles in their arms and made several trips to Myles’ room where they were deposited on the floor in great paper slagheaps.

“Martin, I think we will need to make a regular time each day for you to sign things and to give me your post.  We will also have to make arrangements for me to come up to London too.  I’m sorry to be so bossy, but I think that’s what you are paying me for.”

“Yes, that’s right, Harry, I’m paying so I don’t feel so guilty.  Stephen, do you think you should have a filing cabinet too?”

“No Mala, I’m already quite organised, thank you very much…” and he went on to explain with relish the complicated system by which he operated.  Myles listened intently.  They were two of a kind, thought Martin.

There were no guests that night and they didn’t dress.  Myles’ presence in the Gothic dining room was therefore welcome.  He was a little shy at first, but not really being shy by nature he was soon joining in the conversation, which was general and not of the variety that was called ‘sparkling’ and reserved for the likes of Margot Asquith or Mr Michael Arlen.

“I gather while I’m here, there won’t be any foot inspections, Stephen, or applications of delousing powder,” said Myles, mischievously.

Stephen put down his knife and fork and said:  “You can’t be too careful of trench foot and typhus doesn’t bear thinking about.  I have Martin on inspection parade quite regularly— even in peacetime.”  Myles couldn’t work out if Stephen was being serious or not until he looked to see Martin winking at him.

“I’m still a member of the Sans Culottes, Stephen.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” replied Stephen in the same flat tone, “but as I say to Carlo, that is entirely your decision.  I never asked the men to copy me.”

“No, you never did, but we did just the same”, said Myles, and then turning to Martin said: “He never said a word, but the men tried to imitate him.  Where he trod in no man’s land, they walked; when he started to use a periscope rifle, the men copied the design; Stephen began to clean his rifle with cold tea, they did the same.  He grew that moustache and some of us grew moustaches like his. Most importantly, when he was not afraid, we were not afraid.”

“The men were not afraid?” asked Stephen in genuine surprise.

“No,” said Myles. “Well… less afraid; they looked to you for leadership.”

“But I was afraid all the time. I think every man should make his own judgement. It’s unfair to have put it all onto me.”

“Unfair,” said Martin, “but it is human nature. There’s nothing you can do about it, Stephen. People respect you from the Cricket Club downwards.”

“Well, that reminds me, Mala.  The chaps are not too keen on me missing games in August to go to France.  I offered to resign as captain, but they wouldn’t hear of it.  I’m not even bowling all that well.”

“See, that’s what I mean?  Mr Plainsong wants to retire at the next election.  You’d be certain to be elected—well; at least you’d get all the votes on the estate and all the female votes. I’m on the Conservative Committee and they’ll do whatever I tell them.  What do you say?”

Stephen knew Martin had his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.  “I don’t think politics is for me and certainly not as a Tory.  I gather by what you are saying that the successful candidate would have to do what you told him too.”

“Of course, just like Mr Plainsong took his marching orders from my father.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Miss Foxton to stand as a Labourite and back her.”

“Certainly not.  They’ll be seizing our country houses and turning them into collective farms run by soviets.  Besides, Miss Foxton isn’t 30 yet—she’s too young to stand.”

Myles looked bewildered at this exchange and only slowly realised that they were teasing each other.

It was a warm night in late July.  Martin and Stephen lay in bed with the window open and the bright moonlight flooding the bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Mala, that wasn’t one of my best efforts,” said Stephen.

“Wasn’t it?” asked Martin in genuine surprise.  The bed was a terrible sweaty mess and Stephen had sowed his seed deep into Martin bowels while he made love to him with all the elegance of a bitch being taken by a police dog.  Stephen had repeatedly and forcefully pressed his face down into the mattress so that Martin’s posterior was raised to a more convenient height and angle.

“No, my mind was elsewhere and I’ve been a poor lover.”

“No you haven’t, Derbs, that was wonderful,” Martin tried to assure him.

“No, you’re just saying that when you deserve my full powers concentration, Mala.  The mind is everything, you know.  It’s all up here,” he said tapping his head.

“Is it Derbs?  I just let it happen.”

“How can I make it up to you?  Shall I do you again, maybe with us standing and your arms about…?”

“Derbs, I would like you to pleasure yourself while concentrating your mind.  You still like to pleasure yourself, don’t you?”

“Oh it is one of my greatest pleasures,” said Stephen terribly sincerely, not realising he had made a joke, “but what will you do?”

“Nothing, just watch you.  No helping.  You can think about whatever you like.  Don’t tell me.”

Stephen thought about it for a few seconds and shrugged.  Martin handed him the Spong’s Soothing Salve and he began to give his cock a few strokes.  Stephen felt distinctly odd with Martin so close, but not being a participant.  He pulled at his foreskin and stretched his balls with his left hand.  It took quite a few minutes for him to become completely hard. Sometimes he closed his eyes and Martin was left to wonder what moving pictures were playing in his head.  At other times he opened his eyes and looked down, as if to make sure his cock was still there.  He switched hands a number of times and even did some backhand—they had been playing a lot of tennis.  Sometimes he would look straight into Martin’s eyes with a frightening intensity.  Martin felt he wanted to look away, but couldn’t.  At other times the supposed concentration, or it might have been the simple ecstasy, caused him to pull the sorts of comical faces—mouth open, eyes screwed up— faces that Martin realised we must all show to our lovers.

“Move your bottom down, Derbs.”

Stephen skidded down the bed and his rectum was on display.  Martin took the initiative and applied some Spong’s to Stephen’s middle finger and with this anointed digit he began to pleasure himself, eventually sliding it in past the second knuckle.  Martin thought it was an erotic sight to see the big lad in the throes of self-pleasure.  Martin could tell Stephen was getting close and he commanded: “Into your mouth Derbs.”

Stephen craned his neck and then Martin lifted him by the ankles until he had rolled on his back and his cock was pointing downwards into his own mouth. Martin pressed a good deal harder and Stephen was able to lick the engorged tip. He was using two hands now.

“Spill Derbs!”

He obeyed and a goodly amount went straight down his throat. He promptly had a coughing fit and had to uncurl.

“Oh!” he gasped, catching his breath. “That was intense.  Do I make you swallow all that?”

“Yes Derbs, its nice isn’t it?”  The look on Stephen’s face was not entirely in agreement. Martin assisted in the clean-up while Stephen was lost in a meditative mood.  Then he said: “See, it is all in the mind.”

“Yes and a good, strong right hand helps too,” said Martin, chuckling and causing Stephen to squirm by poking his tongue into his navel.”  

***** 

The employment of Myles was proving to be a success and within a week there was a big difference to the running of the estate.  Chilvers sorted the morning post and personal letters appeared with Martin’s early tea while bills and other such missives went straight into Myles’ tray.  In the afternoon Martin signed things and dictated letters in time to catch the afternoon post. There was a large leather bound diary kept on its own table.  Here Martin’s social appointments were recorded in red ink, while in violet ink were bills to be paid and other obligations.  Sometimes Myles let Martin punch holes with the patented device when things were quiet.

Chilvers seemed to accept Myles as a member of the household and Myles helped Chilvers organise the National Insurance Stamps, which had to be licked and pasted in a book every week and for every servant under Lloyd George’s Act.

“Mr Chilvers,” hailed Stephen when he came upon him inspecting the panelling in the Great Hall for dust.  “Have you made a decision about Myles?”

“Myles? Mr Stephen.  What about Mr Myles?”

“Is he to be admitted to the club, of course?”

“Oh sir!  Why do you ask me?” hissed the butler in a whisper.  “Why did I ever get into

this?”

“Because you’re the membership secretary,” teased Stephen mercilessly.  “Or do you propose to conduct an interview?  Or an examination perhaps?”

“Oh sir!” protested Chilvers, starting to giggle.  His stomach wobbled.

“Perhaps he might be blackballed!”

Chilvers had to bite down hard on his finger and scurried away as fast as a portly gentleman could be expected to on a polished floor.  Stephen continued on his way feeling sure that Myles would soon be up on the roof and felt pleased that they had raised more than a pound in fines which would be sent to the Toc H organization for returned servicemen.

While Myles was still busy filing, Stephen said: “Mala, it’s a lovely day, let’s drive out to Lesser Branksome, I want to look at the golf links.”

“Let’s take our bicycles.  You don’t think it’s unseemly for me to be seen riding a bicycle now that I’m Lord Branksome, do you?”

“No Mala, you look like Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands—very dignified.”

“Derbs, put a white shirt on and roll up the sleeves.”

Stephen knew what this meant. It was a favourite memory of Martin’s—one to be drawn on in moments of great happiness or indeed unhappiness, the memory of them riding their cycles on a summer’s day down a certain road.

So they did.  They rode down into the village and Stephen waved to Titus Knight, his stepfather—shouting out that they would call on the way back.  There was Miss Tadrew in her garden.  Hughes was pushing her wheelbarrow.  There was the grey stone War Memorial and there was the vicar and Mrs Destrombe walking back from the Women’s Institute Hall.  It was like a village in a child’s book.  Their bicycles sped past the garage, but they couldn’t see Louch as he must have been out the back.  They turned right into the road that went to Pendleton.  It was a deep lane bordered by tall hawthorn hedges and beech and oaks that provided deep pools of shade where their branches met overhead, especially where the lane descended to a small ford where a rivulet splashed across the road.  They were riding side by side, freewheeling now down the hill. The wind was pulling at Stephen’s white shirt. Martin could see his brown arms.  He turned to Martin, just as Martin wanted him to.  His black hair had fallen down over his left eye and he took one hand off the handlebars to push it back. “Mala,” he called out.  “You’re laughing.  What are you so excited about?  Have you taken the saddle off again?”

They splashed through the water and presently had to peddle up the hill.  “Thank you for that Derbs.  That was exactly right.  I’m very happy and I love you very much.”

“I know you do, Mala” said Stephen sincerely.

At Lesser Branksome there was nothing much to see, apart from the bright red telephone kiosk that Martin had worked so hard to get the PMG to install in the main street of the hamlet. It was unproductive downland, with a view to the distant sea.  There were rocky tors, heath and some patches of woodland. There was some poor farmland where it was flatter.

“I’m having a designer of golf links, a Mr Colt, come down on Thursday Mala.  He has laid out some of the best courses in Britain — Rye and Sunningdale and so on.  I will get him to look at the land to see if it is suitable.”

“It’s very rough terrain in places.  There is lots of heather and gorse.  Are you sure that will be alright or will it all have to be changed?”

“I’ve seen the links at Broadstone — it was Lord Wimboune who recommended him.  It was similar and so I think this spot will be ideal.  I hope we can engage him to lay out the course. I say ‘we’ but I really mean the company.”

‘The Branksome Golf Links Company Inc.’ had recently been set up for just this purpose. Daniel Sachs had pronounced that it was a speculative venture, but not a complete gamble and would have taken shares himself had that not conflicted with his advice.  Therefore, Martin and Stephen were the majority shareholders but Sir Bernard Bonnington had taken an interest as had Lord Delvees.  The Plunger (who had famously disapproved of golf when at school) and Sir Gordon Craigth, his father, were also in it.

“I’m afraid Mr Tatchell is a keen golfer,” Stephen had reported to Martin.

Martin had merely shrugged. “His money is as good as anyone else’s.”

“I think we’ll need about £20,000 for the course and that much again for the hotel.  I think we should start off with a small hotel first.  Come and I’ll show you where I think it should stand.”

They pushed their bicycles up the hill where the wind blew strongly.  Then there was a slight dip.  In the immediate distance could be seen the railway line.  “That’s Lesser Branksome Halt,” said Stephen.  “And the Pendleton road crosses it behind those cottages.  Here would be a good spot.  It’s close to both and it has a view of the sea on the horizon, but there is just a little bit of shelter.  Some walls and a windbreak of Cyprus trees perhaps would be helpful.”

“I think the hotel should have a big terrace overlooking the course.”

“That’s a given, Mala.  I think there should be a glazed lounge too.  Mr Colt will advise the hotel company too.  It’s a big risk, Mala.  Golf might lose its popularity or our links and the hotel might not attract visitors for any number of reasons.”

“Yes,” said Martin soberly, not wanting to give Stephen false hope.  “But if we are cautious and get a range of opinions and if we share the risks— and of course share any profits—well, it will be a good thing for the estate. It will create jobs and bring visitors.”

They peddled back to Branksome-le-Bourne and leaned their cycles against the cottage gate. Titus Knight was bending over the stove that was making the kitchen— the main room of the dwelling—quite warm and he had the back door, which led to the porch and bathroom, wide open and the scent of honeysuckle drifted in.

“Good afternoon, your lordship, Stephen,” said the old man straightening up.  “I’ll have some tea ready for you in t’ minute and there’s a big scone that Miss Tadrew sent over,” he added with a nod in the direction of something by the fire wrapped in a tea towel.

They grouped themselves in three Windsor chairs—probably made by Owens long ago.  They were rubbed beautifully smooth through use.  Titus and Stephen talked of the orchard and the problem of codling moth and of the large number of rabbits there were this year and the likely causes of this phenomenon.  “I sees a stone curlew t’other evening.  In’t the branches of t’big oak it were.  I haven’t seen one since I were a boy.”

“Where did you grow up, Titus?” asked Martin.

“Out beyond Pendleton, your lordship.  The cottage has been gone many a year.  This place was your mother’s cottage, Stephen.”

Martin and Stephen exchanged glances.

“Titus,” began Stephen. “What can you tell me about my parents?”

“Well,” said the old man as he filled his pipe and spent a long time getting it lit.

“Well, I never knowed your father mind.  He had only been in t’village for a few months a’fore he died.”

“What did he die of?”

“Were his lungs.  Affected by t’mines they were.  He’d spent a lot of time down coal mines and tin mines, I believe, and he were sick when he came here from Cornwall with you and your mother.”

“From St Just?”

“Near there.  That was where your mother’s people were from.  The Trethewies.”

“What were they like, my parents?  I’ve never even seen a photograph.”

“No, I don’t believe there are any.  Pity; your mother was a pretty little thing, Stephen.  A very dainty waist did my Jenny have.  She had the loveliest nature, Stephen, everybody said so.  You don’t look like her, but you have her sweet nature.  She were a great one for t’chapel— Primitive Methodist like a lot from Cornwell.  She were very strict with herself, but didn’t preach about it none. She didn’t drink or dance.  I never heard her utter an oath or say an unkind word.”

Stephen suddenly thought of Dongo’s party.

“She never set foot in t’Feathers and didn’t like my pipe or t’fact that I don’t hold with church much—praying, yes; everyone should pray, but t’other stuff— even if it is in t’Bible, maybe tis a lot o’ nonsense—well some of it is I reckon.  But not to Jenny.  She believed that God created all t’sweet creatures and that nature was all lovely and God’s work and couldn’t be cruel.

“But it can be cruel too!” he said with sudden vehemence, “Beautiful and cruel.  If God created t’one he created t’other. But Jenny didn’t hold wi’ that.

“We lost her too soon.  She were pregnant you see; and the baby miscarried and she died o’ blood poisoning.  It were our baby; hers and mine.  But I had you Stephen, I was left with you.  Cruel and beautiful, is God’s work.  This were hers.  Do you remember seeing this?”

From book on a shelf he removed a fabric bookmark with a gold fringe on the bottom.  It was a beautiful thing, elaborately worked in fine silk thread with a design of fruits and blossoms.  Two little birds were perched in a branch and, in tiny letters underneath, was embroidered a poem. Stephen read it aloud to Martin.

“Overheard in the Orchard

Said the robin to the sparrow

I would really like to know

Why these anxious human beings

Rush about and worry so

Said the sparrow to the robin

Friend I think that it must be

That they have no heavenly father

Such as cares for you and me.

Elizabeth Cheney 1859”

There were tears in Stephen’s eyes when he handed the bookmark back to Titus.  “I never knew.  And you never thought to remarry?”

“No, not after my lovely Jenny.  There was Miss Tadrew, but she were settled happy wi’ Miss Tapstowe and you were enough to fill our empty hearts.”

“And what do you know of Mark Molsom?” asked Stephen after a long pause.

“He were t’American.  Jenny said he were very handsome devil and had dark hair.  The ladies liked him.  I reckon you looks like your father—’cept for your blue eyes.  They’re your mother’s eyes.  I think Jenny said his were brown.”

“Why did he come here?”

“I don’t rightly know.  He had money problems; he owed money.  Jenny said he had a piece of business to do here, but she didn’t rightly know what it was.  I mean there’s no mining here, is there?  And he were in t’mining game.”

“I don’t know either, Titus,” said Stephen not exactly truthfully, “but I have learnt something recently.  My father came from America but he was related to Martin’s family.”  Titus looked surprised.

“Yes, very distantly. What are we, Mala?”

“Half third cousins.  We had the same great, great grandfather, but not grandmothers”

“Well that’s a turn up,” said Titus, calmly, reworking his pipe.  “So were his name really Poole?”

“It may have rightly been—it’s not quite clear—but it was Molsomo— that’s Portuguese.”

“Where t’port wine comes from?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s interesting.  Families is odd things.  Is it a secret, Stephen?”

“For the moment it is.”

“I see.  Don’t want to get mixed up with no foreigners?  Now tell me what’s going on wi’ this golf links.”

The subject was changed and the boys took Titus to The Feathers for a pint and pushed their bicycles home.

To be continued…

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