“Gerald, I want you to meet these divine young Englishmen,” she said.  “They are just so British and they are dreadfully amusing.”  Mrs Murphy held out her hand in the direction of her husband who had just entered the dining car.  She was a very handsome woman of about forty with a mouth that was sad in repose and at odds with her tremendous vitality.  She possessed a delightful way of saying unexpected things— often very direct— and she was full of fun.  She had dark blond hair that was always on the verge of being out of control, like her personality, and her eyes and complexion spoke of a love of the outdoors.

Mr Murphy looked younger; he was a slight figure but with chubby Irish cheeks.  His hair was thin and he had a rather weak chin, but when he spoke he was engaging and attractive and displayed an intellectual’s interest in all aspects of modern life and especially the arts. His tailoring was immaculate and he carried a sort of fabric envelope in which he kept his cigarettes, papers and handkerchief.  It was quite distinctive.

The couple had the manner of Americans accustomed to great wealth and they ordered very good champagne in excellent French and they both radiated the sort of bonhomie that was infectious to those around them and the boys all found themselves drawn in to their world. This effortless world seemed to be one that had turned its back on their native land and had embraced all things avant-garde and European.  Mrs Murphy had a lively wit and a gift for whimsy that Martin had found rare in the American character.  Murphy was a modern aesthete and spoke readily of Picasso and other artists who were in their clearly very bohemian social circle in Paris.  All this was of tremendous interest to The Plunger.  They were also very attractive because of their evident affection for each other.

“We’re orphans, aren’t we Gerald, from our homeland, so we live mostly in Paris.  Have you been to America Mr…

“Poole”

“…Mr Poole?”

“Stephen and I were there during the War.”

“Well you would know pretty well what my country is like then.  Since the War the blue noses are in control.  Have you read Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt?”

Martin hadn’t but he knew Stephen had.

“The man doesn’t write fiction, Mr Poole.  Prohibition, Sacco and Vanzetti…that slob Harding and now that philistine Coolidge in the White House.  It was no place for Gerald and me.”

“If you take an interest in a book or an exhibition or the ballet— in anything that isn’t down on the sidewalk, well, they look at you as if you’re screwy,” interjected Murphy, with some heat.

She went on to talk about their wandering life.  “You know my family didn’t want me to marry Gerald—thought his money wasn’t good enough because they owned a store.”

“Was yours an old landed family Mrs Murphy?”

“Mercy no.  We Wiborgs were related to General Sherman but my father has an ink and varnish factory in Ohiah.  Have you ever been to Ohiah, Mr Poole?”

Martin said that he had and was again utterly puzzled by the social snobbery of the Americans.

The trip to Antibes this year was already different.  The south of France had become even more popular than it had been before the War, especially with Americans like the Murphys who didn’t even have to worry about the favourable exchange rate.

“Mr Knight-Poole and I have been coming to Antibes since before the War, Mrs Murphy.  He has a little house there in the old town, but we’ve only been back a couple of times since.”

“Oh,” she said, a trifle flattened, “Gerald and I thought we had discovered it for ourselves— at least for summer vacations.  We came over 1921 and had been thinking of buying a villa and so now we have decided to build one of our own at Valescure.  Gerald is designing the garden.  This year we’re stopping at the Hotel du Cap.”

“But I thought that would have been closed in August?”

“Oh no, Gerald booked the whole hotel for the summer; we have lots of visitors and who knows who will be there when we get back.”

“You boys will join us, won’t you?” said Gerald Murphy, leaning over.  “We’ll have all sorts of interesting people for you to meet.”

Apparently the Murphys also lived a great deal in Venice where they rented a palazzo on the Grand Canal and in Paris they had a house in the Rue Monsieur.  They were just retuning to the Riviera after having seen their three children off to Boston where they would be resuming school in a few weeks.

To cater for this new class of traveller, there was a new deluxe train from Calais all the way to Italy, whose modern steel carriages were painted dark blue and comprised only first class sleeping cars.  The food was of the standard of the best Parisian restaurants and five courses was the norm and the Murphys’ champagne was its equal.  Only because it was August was the Blue Train not full.

When the Murphys had finished talking about themselves and their interesting circle of friends, it occurred to Gerald to ask about the boys.  He now knew that The Plunger was a graduate of the Slade School and that he was a fellow painter.

“Craigth?” he said after learning that ‘Plunger’ was indeed not his real name.  “I think I heard Leger mentioning your name to the Comte de Beaumont.  You’re a friend of Guevara and Tsindis aren’t you?”

The Plunger tried not to beam and instead fitted his monocle and admitted this was so.  And you, Mr Knight-Poole, have just finished University and you too Mr Selby-Keam?”

“That’s right, Mr Murphy.  The War interrupted things,” said Stephen.

“You were in the War?  Gee I only made it to the dock in Hoboken.  I wish…”

“Don’t wish for that Mr Murphy, don’t.”

“And you, Mr Poole, did you say you were a farmer?”

Martin went red and said: “I wasn’t actually very ‘straight’ with you Mr Murphy; my name is Martin Poole, but I’m actually Lord Branksome.”

“Well hush my mouth,” said Murphy jovially and turning to his wife said: “Won’t Scott tie himself up into knots; he pretends to hate the British aristocracy but is such a snob he’ll have you in one of his stories quicker than you can wire Scribners.”

“Is that the novelist Scott Fitzgerald?” asked Stephen.  The Murphys said it was and Stephen mentioned that he had read This Side of Paradise.

“He’s over here working on a draft of a new one, but it’s the devil’s own job to get him to write,” explained Murphy.  Stephen had also read a book by John Dos Passos who the Murphys knew and he mentioned Sherwood Anderson whom the Murphys hadn’t met, but Stephen and Martin had.  Thus the Murphys formed a favourable opinion of the boys and this was reciprocated.

It was now time for dinner, although the summer sun lingered in the sky.  They returned to their respective compartments to dress (de rigueur on this train) and agreed to resume their pleasant conversation at the deuxième séance. 

***** 

The Blue Train now stopped right in Antibes and the boys alighted with their suitcases and walked the short distance to Stephen’s house, while the Murphys were met by an enormous Voisin driven by a chauffeur who took them down to the hotel—or rather to their hotel.

The boys put on their old clothes and dusted and swept the house.  “I hate having to wear evening clothes when I’m here, Mala,” said Stephen as he cleaned out his bathtub, which stood on the terrace under a grape vine.  “But I need to bring them if we’re to travel on that train and I suppose we will have to dress for the Murphys now too.  The idea was supposed to be that this was the simple life.”

Martin couldn’t fault his logic and shortly afterwards, in the old trousers and stripped matelot shirts they habitually wore they went out to buy provisions.

That dined at the bistro.  “How is Hélias?” asked Martin.

“A new man!” exclaimed his aunt in French and went on to give a full account of Hélias’ effort to work hard and make as much money as he could for the good of his wife and daughter.  She backed this up with a kiss for each of Martin and Stephen.

“We met some Americans on the train, Madame, are there many here?” asked Stephen.

“Some,” she conceded, “but they don’t often come to this part of the town.”  Stephen and Martin assumed that this meant they patronised the more glamorous district down on the peninsula. 

***** 

“Are you coming to tuck us in, daddy?”  The cheeky voice was that of Donald who had slipped into The Plunger’s bed rather than take the one offered downstairs.  Stephen, who was on the landing, sauntered in wearing just his favourite lemon silk pyjama bottoms and these sat low on his hips.  He propped on the edge of the bed and chuckled at the sight of The Plunger and Donald sitting up and drinking champagne. “I see you too have developed a taste of the high life like our new friends, the Murphys.  Are you looking forward to seeing them tomorrow?”

“I am,” said The Plunger.  “Gerald has taken up painting and he said that Picasso might be there.  You do know who Picasso is, Stephen, don’t you?”

“Of course; I’d be curious to meet him too.  And you, Don?”

“They seem exciting people and I don’t mind a little excitement.  There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“No, no, of course not.  We’ll have a good time.”

“Stephen, I think Archie is wearing pyjamas, I think you’d better check.” 

“What is it Derby? You look troubled,” said Martin when Stephen walked back to their room.

“I just don’t want Antibes to be spoilt, Mala.  I love it here because it’s a beautiful old fishing town with simple, warm-hearted people like the de Blazons and Hélias.  I’m a bit frightened that it will become like Le Toquet and Deauville or like Newport in America.  I mean the Murphys and that Count de Beaumont are hardly likely to want to come to this old house.”

“I don’t know about that, the Prime Minister and Mr Churchill have enjoyed it here and the Marquess of Branksome likes it too— even more so if you get into bed with him.”  Stephen slid off the trousers and threw himself on the bed with a heavy sigh, nearly causing Martin to be tumbled to the floor.  “I think the Murphys are nice, Derbs, and I’m quite sure they’re real cognoscenti— is that the right word?  As well as being terribly glamorous and I can’t imagine that Senor Picasso would swan around down here in evening clothes.”

“I don’t want us to change, Mala.  Just like you still want to ride your bicycle at home, I don’t want to have cocktails and sit on Louis chairs as if we were at the Carlton Hotel.  We came here because it wasn’t Cannes.”  

***** 

It was late in the afternoon heat when the four boys took a taxi down to the Hotel du Cap-Eden Roc.  The white slice of wedding cake sat as ever in a lush tropical garden on the cliff. On the terrace were Sara and Gerald Murphy and their friends lounging in striped deck chairs.  They were wearing their bathing costumes and dressing gowns.  One woman was wearing beach pyjamas and a broad-brimmed straw hat.  The boys felt overdressed in their suits and ties.

“Ah, les Anglais!” cried Gerald Murphy and welcomed them fulsomely.  There was already a trolley with a cocktail shaker and several bottles of whisky.  Stephen asked if he might have beer and Martin had champagne while Donald and The Plunger had ‘Bronx’ cocktails, which Gerald Murphy mixed himself with all the care that the priest takes with the sacrament.

Introductions were made and Martin felt he couldn’t remember a single name. Stephen must have felt the same because he was smiling more than usually radiantly to avoid talking.

“We feel you have the advantage of us, Mrs Murphy,” said Martin indicting his own suit. “We should have come calling in our bathing costumes.”

“Well, why don’t you go back and fetch them—Ferdie will drive you.”

“Would you like that Derbs?”

Of course Stephen would and Donald and The Plunger nodded too.  The chauffeur was summonsed and Martin disappeared with him.

“You’ve read my first book,” said one man to Stephen.  He was a young American, about his own age.  He was nice-looking and Stephen thought that he would be slightly wan in complexion if it were not for his tan from the sun.  His fair hair was wavy and parted in the centre like an American college student and his light eyes, turned up nose and thin upper lip spoke of Irish heritage.

“I have if you are Mr Fitzgerald,” replied Stephen.  “You recommended it too me, didn’t you Donald?”

“I did.  I thought it was fresh and new.  I felt it spoke to our generation—although I never went to Princeton University or had the romantic adventures of Amory Blaine.”  Stephen shot him a look, knowing that Donald probably had many more romantic adventures of quite a different order at Cambridge.  “I liked Bernice Bobs Her Hair, even better.   You wrote it beautifully with an economy of words.”

Fitzgerald was actually listening quite anxiously and Stephen thought it odd that he craved their approval.  “Mr Murphy said you were down here working on a new novel.”

“Yes, Trimelchio it will be called.  I’m afraid I only put in a comma this morning.”

“Is that all?” exclaimed The Plunger.

“Oh no, this afternoon I erased it.”  Fitzgerald laughed and the others laughed too.  

The woman in the beach pyjamas came up with two glasses of whisky and ice and handed one to Fitzgerald.  “This is Zelda,” said Fitzgerald putting his free arm about her.  They quickly became on first name terms.  “You’re an English lord, or something, z’right?” asked Mrs Fitzgerald addressing Stephen in a charming drawl.

“No, that is my friend.  He has gone back to our house for our bathing costumes.”

Mrs Fitzgerald was small and pretty with a broad face under wavy bobbed hair.  She had beautiful full lips, a rather slender neck and a determined nose (if that can be imagined).  Her eyes were her most remarkable feature: they were wide-spaced and intense and had the ability to focus on one, but at other times they were distant and unfocussed and had a slightly haunted look.

“Well, when he returns I think we should all go down to the beach and lie on rubber rafts and watch the sun go down.  We can have the servants in bathing costumes too and they can tip ice cubes in the water.”  They laughed.  “Now Scott, I must go up and do my exercises.”

She left and Fitzgerald watched her intently as she walked up the stairs.  “She’s a dancer,” he explained.  The others looked at him.  “Ballet, not hoochy-koo,” he added with a smile.

The conversation resumed about books and Stephen asked about Dos Passos who had apparently been here earlier in the summer.  Fitzgerald spoke of Chicago and his home in St Paul and Stephen mentioned that he had been there.  “It was during the war, Martin—that is Lord Branksome— and I were on a recruiting mission.”

“You were in the War?”

“Yes, in France.”

“He won the Croix du Guerre!” exclaimed The Plunger who was a little tipsy already.  “And the DSO.”

“And bar,” added Donald.  “He was terribly brave.”

Stephen glared at them.

Fitzgerald looked troubled.  “I never got overseas, myself.  Gerald was in the Air Corps and Dos and Ernest drove ambulances.”

“It was not a good time,” said Stephen in understatement.

“No,” said Fitzgerald hollowly and eagerly added: “and now you’re spending the rest of your life in Europe trying to forget?”

“No, not really.  I had a stint in Australia straight afterwards, but now I’m settled with Martin in England.”

“You feel you can be settled after all that?”

“Yes,” said Stephen frankly.  The Plunger admired Stephen’s honesty and freedom from cant.

From an open upstairs window came the sound of the gramophone.  It was a jazzy paso doble.  It came to an end and there was a pause while the machine was evidently being wound. It was repeated.  They glanced up at the window.

“That’s Zelda doing her barre exercises.”  The conversation paused and more drinks were brought and the paso doble started up yet again.

Another man who had been on the lower terrace came up.  He was wearing a bathing costume, sandals and a dressing gown.  He was thin and with eyes, nose and mouth that seemed slightly too large for his face.  They were large brown eyes, slightly hooded, but they were kind and knowing when he offered his cigarette case around the group.  At the same time Martin returned with the costumes and introductions were made.  “This is Mr Porter, one of our Paris friends,” said Fitzgerald. Porter croaked out a greeting in a rather Bostonian accent. Conversation was rather difficult as the insane gramophone had started up yet again and Mrs Fitzgerald ballet practice was clearly not over.

They moved away and stood next to the Murphys who were talking to a terribly elegant and effete Frenchman with an aquiline nose who was wearing a summer suit and carrying a tall Malacca stick.  He was introduced as Etienne and Martin assumed correctly must be the artistic count.  He was certainly a Nancy, thought Martin.

“Gerald and Cole have written and performed a ballet you know,” said the Count in excellent English.

“Was Mrs Fitzgerald in it?” asked Stephen in all innocence.

“No,” said Fitzgerald, sparing the blushes of the others.  “Zelda has yet to perform in public.”

“This was a modern ballet about modern life in America,” continued the Count.  “It premiered in Paris and went to New York.”  The boys had to confess they had not heard of Within the Quota and, as it was explained to them, it sounded highly innovative and very funny. It apparently told the story of a penniless immigrant’s fantastic rise to become a Hollywood moving picture star and Mr Porter had written the music for it.

“Cole is a very good song writer and we all think he should have another go at Broadway,” said Mrs Murphy.  “And my husband has been making a French movie called The Inhuman One.  We have assembled all the best modern artists to contribute to it.”

The name of one, an architect, was familiar to Martin who said: “M. Mallet-Stevens was the man who I had design the kiosk on the quay in Antibes.  Do you know it?”  They didn’t. Martin went on: “When we were in Hollywood in 1917, Stephen was asked to audition for a moving picture with— who was it Derbs?”

“Theda Bara.”

“Yes that’s her.  He was to play a gladiator in ancient Rome but it didn’t work out…” he trailed off not wanting to give away too many details.

“Our film is to be altogether different to Hollywood stuff, said Murphy, “although I’m sure you would have made a swell gladiator Mr Knight-Poole.”

The others in the group seemed to agree and the Count and Mr Porter were seen to moisten their lips slightly and Martin knew that this was a sign of trouble.

“Perhaps we should change into our costumes before it’s too late,” he said.

So they did.  They marched up to the hotel and changed in the dressing rooms, putting on gowns that a servant brought for them.  When they returned there was another man standing talking to the group they had left.  He was rather short and had straight black hair and dark eyes.  He was bare-chested and was dressed only in a pair of short trousers rolled up at their hems for he had been in swimming and his strong physique was still glistening.

“This is Pablo Picasso,” said Murphy and introductions were made.  Picasso did not speak much English so French was employed and translations made where words failed.  If Picasso was a genius, he certainly didn’t look like one, but there was something about him that was both intense and child-like at the same time.  The Plunger was disappointed that he was not painting at present and had no canvases with him.  Murphy attempted to assuage his disappointment, with suitable modesty, by inviting him inside to look at the large canvas he was working on.  It was a still life with a razor, fountain pen and a matchbox, apparently, and this was more than enough to spark his interest, so away he and the Count went, following Murphy inside while the rest of the group walked down to the beach owned by the hotel. 

Stephen did not think this beach as fine as the nude bathing beach in the little cove to the east, and he failed to mention it in case he should somehow lose it to them; it was his beach, he thought.

Picasso was very enthusiastic and organised silly games with a ball.  Mr Porter was a good swimmer as was Mrs Murphy who protected her hair under a rubber cap.  Stephen swam out the farthest and the others called out to him to be careful, but Martin wasn’t worried.  By the time he returned they had all left the water and were now sunning themselves on the sand. Mr Porter was looking at Stephen in his revealing costume and said something to Donald who was next to him.  Donald answered him and he looked over to Martin and smiled.

Presently there was noise and they turned to see The Plunger and Murphy, accompanied by Mrs Fitzgerald, walking down to the sand in their gowns, which they promptly shed.  Scott and Zelda dashed into the water, laughing and Picasso and The Plunger followed them.  Porter and Donald announced they were going to walk up to the rocks, because it was too hot to lie for long.  Mrs Murphy then told the servant to bring down drinks and some umbrellas.

The swimmers and walkers came back and thirstily gulped down their cocktails and whisky before flopping on the sand.  Then Mrs Murphy suggested a game of baseball played with blindfolds and the oversized ball they had been tossing about in the water.  It was great fun. Murphy then pointed out his motorboat, which bobbed in the water at the end of the hotel’s jetty.  “I’ll take you in my hydroplane tomorrow if you like.”  They thought that would be marvellous and Stephen found himself inviting them to his house on the day after.

The sun went down and the Murphys, as did the others, insisted they all stay on to dinner as ‘the party was just starting’, although it appeared to Martin to have been going for some days already.

Most of the guests put some clothes on after they had bathed and showered, but no one dressed up, which Stephen was immensely grateful for and they dined out on the same terrace where the hotel staff had set out a long table with pink candles and Sara Murphy spent a great deal of time decorating it with lovely shells, dried seaweed and pieces of driftwood. It looked beautiful.

More people joined them for dinner.  Whether they were new arrivals or had merely been inside during the afternoon it was hard to tell.  The Fitzgeralds’ little daughter came out with her nurse for a few minutes before being taken up to bed.  The Comte de Beaumont and Murphy dominated the conversation at the starlit table, talking about modern dance and painting.  It was all very ‘highbrow’ as Fitzgerald said to Martin.

The charm of the evening was eroded however by the deteriorating relationship between the Fitzgeralds.  Zelda Fitzgerald, Martin found particularly annoying as she seemed to try to be daring and unconventional like Sara Murphy, but with markedly less success, yet Fitzgerald seemed in awe of her and encouraged her outrageousness, despite them niggling each other. She would say something unconventional and Fitzgerald would write it down on a scrap of paper, which he would shove in his pocket. “…Mink? I said; it looks mo’ like a rancid ole skunk to me.”  The others laughed.

She had a rather fey way of speaking:  “When I was a yurng deb-u-tante down in Montgom’ry I must have kissed a whole raft o’ boys the white summer I came out.  You know, I can’t remember their names, only parts o’ their faces.”  Martin rolled his eyes and though rather nastily: Well so have I and I’ve sucked their cocks.   But he kept this thought to himself.

Both Scott and Zelda had had a lot to drink and when suddenly a fight between husband and wife erupted it was a shock to Martin who had never experienced such common behaviour in public, nor of the Irish with their blood up.   Apparently Scott had accused Zelda of stopping him working.   She retorted that he never wrote anything original and was always trying to stop her from writing and painting.  There were other accusations and also some slight suggestion that Zelda had been overly familiar with Stephen, to which she retorted that he was merely jealous.  The four boys burned with embarrassment and Mrs Murphy told them not to worry as ‘this happens all the time’ and they were really ‘crazy about each other.’

The army of waiters appeared and more wine was poured and then there was dancing to the hotel’s orchestra, which had apparently been hired by the Murphys along with all the rest. Stephen was careful not to dance with Mrs Fitzgerald but Martin did and decided that she had mad eyes— an uncomfortable conclusion.

However there were no further arguments, instead there was laughter.  Mr Porter went to the piano inside the open windows and played a silly song he had written about the Ritz Hotel. Then Donald sat next to him and they played a four-hander.  There was applause.  He’s really very good, thought Martin.  He looked over and saw Picasso sketching The Plunger on a napkin with a piece of charcoal.  The Plunger’s long nose was shown in profile and his monocle was a feature of two of his three eyes.  Why have you given him horns, Pablo?” asked Murphy.

 “El es como un toro!” cried the great artist and grabbed The Plunger by the balls causing his monocle to drop from his eye, which was tearful at the compliment.

“What’s a rhyme for ‘duckbilled platypus’, Martin?” called Donald from over at the piano.

Martin thought. “’London General Omnibus’?”  But no, it didn’t work and they were left with their heads together, Porter’s cigarette sending a curl of smoke to the ceiling.

“It’s getting late, Mala,” whispered Stephen.  They made to go, but Donald and The Plunger wanted to stay, so Martin and Stephen were driven back to Antibes in the Voisin by Ferdie, leaving the party still going.

***** 

“That was fun, wasn’t it Derbs,” said Martin as they got into bed.  “They certainly enjoy life.”

“Yes it was,” said Stephen shedding his clothes and stretching his cock meditatively.  “I don’t understand modern art very much, but they certainly seem alive to it.  Fitzgerald is a fine writer.  He said to me that he wants to be America’s greatest writer.  That’s ambition for you.”

“I don’t like his wife.  Isn’t she a bit too old to be a ballerina?”

“Clearly mad, Mala, and I think I have sand under my foreskin.”

“Well I think I’d like to clean it out, Derbs. Come over here big boy.” 

***** 

A hammering at the front door woke them. Stephen’s cock was hard so it was Martin who pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs to answer it.

Stephen tried to push his cock down but it resisted so he had to listen from concealment.

“Mrs Chadwick!” cried Martin.  “Whatever’s wrong?”  The lady was a little dishevelled and accompanied by a large French policeman.

“It is your friend, Mr Craigth.”

Panic rose in Martin’s throat.

“Is he alright?”

“Oui monsieur,” replied the policeman.  Martin relaxed slightly and called back to Stephen. “It’s The Plunger; he’s alright but is in some sort of trouble, Derbs”.

The visitors were brought inside and a lamp was lit. Stephen descended the stairs in his dressing gown. “What’s happened?” he asked.

The policeman motioned to Mrs Chadwick to proceed in English.  “It seems he went out in a motorcar with two Americans— a husband and wife.”

“Not the Murphys?” said Martin.

“They’re the people who have taken the whole hotel for the summer?  No, not them, the Fitzgeralds,” she said.  “They appear to have been drunk and were intending to drive to Monte Carlo.  The wife was driving and they fell asleep in the car.”

“Why that’s very foolish of them, Mrs Chadwick. If they are all unharmed then it is no great matter and I’m sorry that you have…”

“No, your lordship,” she continued.  “They stopped the car on the railway line.  They would have been killed by the first train this morning had not an employee been walking along the line to work.  The police were called,” and here she looked at the gendarme who nodded. “And because they knew that Mr Craigth was English and not American” Half English thought Martin and Stephen in unison. “They made contact with me, naturally.”

“Naturally,” they murmured together.

“Where are they now?” asked Stephen.

“In the gendarmerie at Cagnes-sur-Mer.  You will have to post bail.  They will certainly charge the women who was driving.

“Oh dear!” said Martin to Stephen.

Thanks and apologies were distributed and the boys decided to dress and wait until they could hire a taxi to make the trip to Cagnes-sur-Mer.

“Where’s Donald?” asked Martin suddenly.  He looked into the bedroom and the bed had not been slept in.

“Well!” was all Stephen said with raised eyebrows, but added: “We’ll leave him a note.”

The sight that greeted them when they went to the police station was not what they had been expecting.  Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were expressionless and were tucking in to a breakfast of buttered rolls and coffee on a table laid with a white cloth.  This had been supplemented with small glasses of cognac.  The Plunger was trying to look dignified behind bars and had his monocle in, but there were signs of contrition at the margins of his eyes and mouth.

“Hullo Poole.  Good morning Stephen,” he said with studied evenness and Martin hoped he wasn’t going to break down.  Fitzgerald called out: “Hi ya, dook!” while his wife munched on silently.

“I will go and see them about bail,” said Stephen, leaving Martin looking through the bars at the prisoners.

“Your French and Italians are inferior types…” began Fitzgerald and Martin wanted to tell him to shut up, but kept quiet.

“You’re alright, Plunger?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine. It’s just a bit tiresome and tedious in here.  I’d like a bath.  How did you know where to find us?”

“Mrs Chadwick.”

“Oh.”

Stephen came back. “Archie you can go.” And to the Fitzgeralds:  “You can leave too, Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, but they said you had demanded the American Consul come over from Nice.  Do you want to wait for him?  Also the Consul has called Mr Murphy and he is on his way.”

“You boys run along.  We’ll wait for Gerald. Tell that fat fool to bring us some more coffee, will ya?”

“I think we’d better wait until Murphy gets here,” said Stephen quietly, so they waited out in the road.  It was getting warmer and they sought the shade of a palm.  The Voisin was sighted and Martin went back inside to tell the Fitzgeralds.

A few words were exchanged with Murphy and he walked inside.  “Don’t forget to come down this afternoon and I’ll take the boat out,” he called “And are we still on for dinner the day after?”

Stephen replied that they were just as Martin emerged into the sunlight.  They walked to the main road and found a taxi, which took them back to Antibes.

The Plunger had little to tell, although he was clearly upset.  He didn’t remember much except that the Fitzgeralds had insisted that he come out with them in the Count’s car at about two in the morning.  They had taken a bottle of whisky wrapped up in a wet towel with them.

“You know they parked right across the railway line as a kind of dare.  She was taunting him about being a ‘fairy’— he does develop crushes on other men, that’s for sure and he’s obsessed with not getting to fight in the War.  I think they wanted me there as a sort of witness…or sacrifice,” he said with a shudder.  “They’re both very ‘egotistical’ — it’s a word they always use—and they’re careless people; they smash up things and then just don’t care. I told Fitzgerald that.”

They were home now. “Where’s Donald?” asked The Plunger.

“Here I am,” called their friend who came strolling in from the terrace.  “Where have you been?”

They quickly explained.  “And you Don?” asked Stephen.

“Oh Cole and I went out and picked up some sailors— young sailors.”

“No!” said the three of them.

“Yes!” said Donald, grinning.  “I say, that Mission to Seamen is nice isn’t it?”

“Will you see him again?” asked Martin.

“Oh yes.  We’ll all see him when we go out on the hydroplane this afternoon.  But Mrs Porter will be coming down from Paris.”

“His mother?” asked Martin.

“No, his wife!  And who would have thought?” said Donald breathlessly.  “He says he’ll look me up in London.”

“Where are you going to live Donald?”

“I like The Ritz,” announced The Plunger.  The others just looked at him.

“I think all I can afford initially is a bedsit, Archie.  It will have to be near Whitehall.”

“Is Fulham Road too far?” asked Stephen.  “You know Charles and Jack, they have a room to let.”  Donald turned it over in his mind and said he’d think about it.

“Now, how are you going to make it up to Mrs Chadwick, Plunger?” asked Martin.

“Oh God!” groaned The Plunger.  “Is that how I got out so easily?”

“She’s coming to England in November for a Trust meeting.  Why don’t you get her invited down to Fayette.  That would tickle her more than chocolates or flowers.”

The Plunger and Donald caught up on their sleep while Martin and Stephen cycled the five miles in the heat to Vallauris to see Hélias.  It was good to see him moving about with little sign of his previous injury.  “Will you come over and see us in a couple of days Hélias?”

His eyes lit up and he replied that he would and would inspect the house for any repairs that were needed which he would do at no cost to them—unless they preferred to go to the plage?

“We will go out in the L’espoir, Hélias, and drink wine!” said Stephen.  Hélias liked that idea much better.

“I don’t want to lose our old friends for the Murphys’ set, Mala,” said Stephen as they rode slowly back.  “I will go there this afternoon and host them tomorrow for dinner, but I don’t want too many nights like last night.”

“But some aspects were great fun, weren’t they Derbs?”

“Oh yes, don’t misunderstand me; I like the Murphys very much and they’re very stimulating, but they’ll be friends on my terms or not at all.  Is that too harsh?”

“No, I understand what you mean.  This afternoon we will go down and when it stops being fun, we’ll come home.”

And when they come to us, we will entertain them as ourselves—no servants—and I won’t put up with the Fitzgeralds if they’re crazy people.”

The return visit was indeed great fun and the previous evening was not even alluded to— perhaps it was only one of many such.  Gerald took them down to the little wooden jetty and began to fiddle around with the needle-shaped motorboat.  It was a beautiful, sleek ‘Hacker-craft’ with a wooden deck finished in glistening varnish and a tiny windscreen to protect the driver.  As he was working, Cole Porter walked down from the hotel with a terribly elegant woman on his arm.  They were oddly contrasted: she was perhaps ten years his senior and she was tall, Cole was not; he had prominent eyes, hers were deep set and languorous. With her long nose and tilted, pointed chin she reminded Martin of The Plunger, who would have suited her better.  This was only confirmed when she screwed a cigarette into a long holder which she employed like a fashion accessory.  However, they seemed an affectionate, if sophisticated couple.  They were introduced to Linda Lee and indeed she proved to be very charming and lovely in conversation as well and she exhibited great poise even when making ‘small talk’ on the pier—apparently she knew The Plunger’s Cunningham relatives from Rittenhouse Square.  Few women could have worn pearls on the beach with such éclat, but she did and got away with it.

The guests went up to the hotel and changed into their bathing costumes.  Stephen strolled back to the jetty apparently oblivious to the fact that all eyes followed him in his costume which comprised of a white-and-navy tank suit that that scooped low on his back and chest and navy-blue short trunks held up with a white belt that scarcely concealed his virility.  Linda Lee Porter regarded him with a cool eye.  

Murphy started the little craft and took the boys out in twos.  The hydroplane cut the water and bounced along on the crest of the waves.  It was exhilarating. “How fast will she go?” shouted Martin over the noise of the motor.

“Close to 50 maybe,” called back Gerald Murphy as he whipped the boat into a wide circle and headed back.  A varnished wooden board was attached to the back of the craft with ropes and Donald was instructed to drive the boat slowly and steadily.  Murphy lay on the board on his stomach, holding on to another pair of rope reins.  Then he pulled himself upright and stood there, bumping over the water.  Donald slowed down a little too much and the board started to sink in the water and Murphy tumbled himself off.

“Sorry!” called out Donald, who circled back to retrieve him.

They all tried it and it was great fun, even if it did mean hitting the water with great force when one slipped off the board.

At last they had had enough and the throbbing hydroplane was once again moored at the jetty.

When they walked to the end, there stood a magnificent table covered in a damask cloth. There were roses and peonies in a silver ewer and an elaborate silver tea service, almost as fine as the one at Branksome House, with a kettle over a spirit lamp, sugar nips, teaspoons, Derby porcelain and a tall cake stand.  It was all so out of place as it winked and glinted in the Mediterranean sun that Martin burst out laughing.

“I though you boys might be homesick so I had them arrange a real British afternoon tea,” called Sara Murphy who walked down to meet them in a floral frock and sun hat. Indeed it was an English afternoon tea, save for the pastries, which were rich and very French.  They boys partook while the Americans looked on as if it were feeding time at Regents Park Zoo.

“That sure looks swell, said Scott Fitzgerald who had apparently risen from his writing desk. “You sure know how to impress the upper classes, Sara,” he said looking at the tea table.

“Did you get much writing done today Mr Fitzgerald?” asked The Plunger.

“I write by hand, so it is slow, sir, and I am often interrupted.  Zelda asks to be excused.  I gave her a sleeping pill and locked her in her room.  Her maid will let her out about cocktail time, but I got six pages done.”

The others laughed a little nervously and made sure that they had left the Hotel du Cap by five o’clock, but restating the invitation to dine in Antibes the following evening.  

***** 

The dinner looked to be very promising.  Archie was in charge of decoration and had chosen a striking colour scheme.  The big table was laid with overlapping triangles and diamonds of orange and black cloth, with yellow as a minor note.  Orange lobster shells formed decorative sculptures and there were Jaffa oranges and some lemons from the tree in the garden and there were orange, yellow and black flowers— these last being simply dyed with India ink- supplemented by birds’ feathers.  An old fur hearthrug, which was nearly bald, had been purchased at a second-hand clothing shop and this was cut up to form bizarre if rather unhygienic place mats.  “I would have liked zebra, but it was too hard to come by,” said The Plunger, but he was handy with some white paint and soon the fur came to resemble the hide of that African animal.  It was colourful and exciting and turned acceptable taste on its head.

“There is to be champagne and local wines, but no cocktails—even if we did have a shaker,” ruled Stephen.

Martin was in charge of the food and he called upon their tour of France the previous year. There was to be a roasted garlic soup, a baked fish with a sauce, which included the roe of the shad and a chicken dish, which contained spicy sausages from the Basque region.  There was a cheese.  They did not attempt a desert, instead buying delicious cakes from a shop. Mme de Blazon, it goes without saying, was helpful.

The guests arrived at 8:00 in two large automobiles but there was no room to park them, so instead the chauffeurs were commanded to return at midnight.  Martin hoped that the affair would be a success until then.

There was champagne out on the terrace.  “It’s a beautiful old place, said Sara Murphy, “I can see why you fell in love with it.”  Picasso said he would like to draw the silver beet.

“We came upon it by accident, while we were still at school,” explained Martin.  “We had been living over in Cannes with my late father in the villa that belonged to Lord Brougham, do you know it?” She did.  “And we came here just to go to the beach and, well, we ate in the bistro across the way and I spotted this and Stephen bought it.

“Croome is one of the largest houses in England, Mrs Murphy, and this place makes a pleasant contrast.  Stephen won’t allow us to have a cook or a charwoman or to bring our valet.”

“It’s like camping out?” 

“Yes, exactly,” said Martin and went to a novel he’d been reading.  He took out a postcard he’d been using as a bookmark.  “This is Croome.  That bit there is gone now; it was destroyed in a storm.” The card was passed around and Croome was admired.

“You people will have to forgive us,” said Scott Fitzgerald.  The Comte de Beaumont was included in this. “Most of us are from the middle-west…”

“Speak for yourself,” said Zelda.  “Linda and I are southern belles.”  Fitzgerald gave them a chivalrous bow.

“Well,” he continued, “This European culture is heady stuff for simple hog farmers and dry goods merchants— you’re all so different.”

“Were not so different,” contended Martin.  “There can’t be many people looking at the Twentieth Century so intently as you Americans are, it’s just that people like me also have to keep one eye on the past too.”

“Our other eye is always cast back to home,” said Cole Porter.  “But I’m never going back to Peru Indiana; that’s where the real Puritans came ashore.  Whoever said ‘westward the land is bright’ sure got it wrong.  We’re the old fashioned country; Europe is where everything is new.”

Martin didn’t agree and told the story of sending his butler to America to study modern houses.  This was considered very amusing and Martin paused to think, for the first time, if Chilvers was alright out there all on his own.

A topic, still apparently fresh, was the fancy dress party given by the Count at which the Murphys appeared as parts of their motorcar.  Their fantastic costumes were described in detail and the Count went on to describe one he was planning where the guests must appear as modern forms of transport— steamships, motor bicycles, dirigibles, the Blue Train and so on. “You must paint the sets, Pablo.”

“Have you seen The Insect Play?” asked Gerald Murphy.  Linda Lee Porter and the Count had, but the others had missed it.  “It is by a Czech writer and describes human society through allegory.  The ants, who are ruthlessly disciplined, are the soldiers and take over the world while the proletarian dung beetle and the social butterfly represent real human types. He also wrote a play about mechanical men— ‘robots’— who lead a rebellion against humanity.”  These sounded terribly interesting and Stephen determined to read up on them.

As they drank their soup, Picasso asked about the paintings on the old walls.

“They were by my brother’s, Senor, said Martin.  He was a friend of Tsindis.”

Picasso nodded but said nothing further.  They fell back onto the topic of the weather, which was a trifle ordinary, but gave the Murphys and Fitzgeralds a chance to say how much they loved sunbathing.  Martin told them a little about the sunbathing on the roof at Croome.

“With the butler and the valet?” cried Sara Murphy in tears of laughter as Martin (rather cruelly) described Chilvers’ embarrassment as he was made to undress, but he gallantly took the blame for forcing the issue upon the poor man.  He trusted that none of the table would ever come to Croome, so Chilvers would not have to face them.

The Comte de Beaumont declared that he would make all his servants— it was an all-male staff, apparently, sunbathe when he returned to Paris, and was heedless of The George V which overlooked his rooftop.

Martin and The Plunger had been up and down from the table, bringing new courses and taking away dirty plates.  Martin returned with the little cakes just in time to hear Mrs Fitzgerald drawl in a distant voice: “I love those days with circus skies where the clouds are prancing horses and the sun is a joyous red balloon.”

The Olympic Games in Paris were of recent memory and conversation drifted from the weather to the arts and, finally, to the successes of the American, Johnny Weissmuller, in the swimming.

“You seem to be a fine swimmer yourself, Stephen,” said Fitzgerald.

“I do like to swim,” replied Stephen, “but boxing is my favourite sport after cricket.  Do you know about cricket?”  None of the guests did, but they picked up their glasses and followed Stephen down into the cellar room where the sporting equipment had been installed.  They lit the lamp.

Stephen gave a few blows to the punching bag.

“Hold it for me, Cole,” he said.  Porter grasped it and Stephen pummelled the heavy bag.  He began to hit it in a syncopated rhythm and Porter took it up and embellished it into an amusing tune.

“Leave me have a go,” said Fitzgerald, who removed his jacket and took over.  He had a good right arm.  He swapped with The Plunger who adopted his classical stance and jabbed at the bag with his long reach.  Picasso also had a turn.  He would have made a nuggetty fighter, thought Stephen.

“Both of you hold it,” said Stephen, who was now sweating.  He removed his shirt and tie and was standing bare-chested as he slogged at the bag.  The Plunger and Fitzgerald found it hard to hold the bag steady.  Stephen was a magnificent figure— a young man in the prime of life with the muscles of an athlete.

“Il est plus beau que Georges Carpentier,” said Count de Beaumont, touching his lips with the napkins which he had brought downstairs with him, and indeed it was true.

“And Gene Tunney,” added Cole Porter.  Stephen paused and grinned at them.

Martin led the guests back upstairs to the terrace where he had set the coffee out.  Cole and Scott remained in the basement with Stephen where the sound of the punching bag being hit drifted out into M. de Blazon’s vegetable garden.

Sara Murphy began to outline an idea for a fête where all the guests had to dress as athletes and there would be a real boxing tournament staged in the garden of their Paris villa. “Boxing dwarfs sprayed silver and gold— or giants— I can’t decide.”

“But the Olympic Games are finished,” objected her husband.  “Don’t you think that’s a bit passé?”

She reluctantly agreed that this was so and outlined several more extravaganzas that she had been turning over in her fertile mind.  Then they fell to talking about sports they had played. Zelda began dreamily:  “In Montgomr’y, my friend Tallulah and I cut our hair and played golf with the young soldiers at the camp and we would sneak out in the purple ev’ning and go swimmin’ with the boys…we were more like tomboys than young ladies, in fact some of them used to say…” Suddenly she arose from her seat under the grapevine.  Martin realised that the sound of the punching bag had been stopped for several minutes.  She crossed to the short flight of stone steps and descended to the half basement where the faint light from the lamp could be seen spilling from the window and the open door.  Just as suddenly she returned to the table where the conversation had drifted to the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées and the Count was describing the latest unorthodox production where a famous poet sat concealed behind a decorated screen and, in a deadpan voice, read his works through a megaphone.  

A minute later Stephen came up the stairs.  He had his shirt on, but it was unbuttoned and a towel was around his sweaty neck.  His black hair had fallen forward and covered his left eye.  Behind him came Cole and Scott who took seats at the garden table while Stephen excused himself and went inside.  Shortly afterwards Stephen returned in a clean shirt and was carrying two more bottles of wine and the corkscrew.

The Murphys talked about the house they were building over at Valescure above St Raphael. The ‘Villa America’ was to have tennis courts and a swimming bath and many other luxurious features.  Stephen thought of the lovely old town situated below the peaks, where striking red rocks jutted out into the blue Mediterranean and a spectacular viaduct carried the railway to Nice. “What an idyllic spot,” he declared.

“But we love your house, Stephen,” said Sara Murphy.  “It has real charm and reminds me of those cabin resorts in the mountains back home where we used to spend lovely summers when I was a girl.  And Gerald and I love Antibes.”

Zelda spoke up: “Do you have any bourbon, Lord Branksome?” Martin and Stephen shook their heads and apologised. “Well I hate this stinking town.  Let’s go to St Raphael right now— or better still, back to Paris.”

It was now midnight and the cars had arrived to collect the visitors and the boys went up to bed leaving the dishes until the morning. 

***** 

There was an angry hammering at the door.  Stephen sat up.  It continued and he could hear a women’s voice calling out— an American woman—Zelda Fitzgerald.  Stephen put a restraining hand on Martin and got out of bed, covering his nakedness with a dressing gown. He went downstairs but not before popping his head into the other bedroom where he saw the noise had also woken The Plunger and Donald.  “What is it?” asked Donald, sleepily.  Stephen didn’t answer but continued down the stairs into the main room, which he crossed to the old wooden front door, which was standing up well under it pummelling.  He flung it wide.

“Why Mrs Fitzgerald, this is a surprise!  Would you care…?” Zelda pushed past him and stood in the middle of the floor.  She was drunk and she wheeled about, her mad eyes blazing.  “Where is he?”

“Who, Mrs Fitzgerald?”

“You know who; that damned fairy, my husband.  I know he’s here.”

“I haven’t seen him since last night when he left with you.”

“I saw him…”  She never finished her sentence but instead rushed up the stairs before Stephen could stop her.  Martin was alarmed when she poked her deranged visage around the doorpost.  However he managed to show great composure at this outrage and said:  “Good morning Mrs Fitzgerald, has Stephen given you coffee?”  She looked about the room; there was no hiding place.  She departed without a word and dashed first to the boxroom and then into the other bedroom.  The Plunger was still in bed and Donald was to be seen standing against the window in his dressing gown.  She thundered down the stairs again.

“There’s the cellar too, Mrs Fitzgerald.  Would you like to inspect that— or perhaps out in the garden?” said Stephen sweetly.

“Damn fairies.  Ernest was right.”  With that she walked swiftly to the door and out of it.

“Well, I won’t detain you Mrs Fitzgerald,” called Stephen after her, “as I’m sure you have many calls of a similar character to make in the neighbourhood.” Oscar Wilde always had le mot juste.

To be continued…

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.  Just send them to pbruno@tickiestories.us and please put the site name in the subject line.