Stephen stared at the pipe on his dressing table.  It was, of course, Titus Knight’s and it was the physical object he most associated with his stepfather, although it never seemed to stay alight, and he closed his eyes and pictured him fiddling with it, cleaning out the bowl with a silver penknife that Stephen had given him, tapping it on the grate as he made a point, snorting through the stem to purge it and doing all sorts of tricks to make it draw properly.  Each of these gestures was painful with familiarity and Stephen forced himself to concede that he would never see them again.  He would never see Titus again, nor sit by the kitchen fire in companionable silence, nor work with him on the estate nor mend a bird’s wing or help a bitch whelp.  This was all dead and Stephen suddenly felt the full implication of that word.

Titus had been a country man; a man of few words but, to Stephen, a man of immense moral authority.  He could think of no one who was more at one with his world and at peace with himself.  Stephen did have grave doubts about his stepfather’s religiosity however, for although Titus attended church in the village with the same naturalness that he attended The Feathers, he had no time for dogma and, as far as Stephen knew, gave no great thought to the workings of the trinity or the miracle of transubstantiation, but remained all his life in awe of a blackbird’s egg and an elm leaf’s skeleton.

Stephen was trying to decide if this was a simpler view of the universe or indeed a far subtler one.  He picked up an old ledger that was also on the table— the writing was a trifle uncertain, but the spelling was accurate.  This was Titus’s recipe book for folk potions and he opened it idly at a page that listed the ingredients for a poultice for horses’ hooves and remembered vividly an occasion when he worked with Titus on one of Lord Branksome’s hunters—that must have been the year he met Martin, he calculated.

It was his stepfather, Stephen reflected, that set his own moral compass—even though he knew in his heart that he behaved immorally quite often; it was his strong natural urges that made him do these things—Titus understood about these— but it was Titus who would have insisted that others came before oneself and that real strength came from within and that resisting the gaudy, the expedient and the selfish were the touchstones to a man’s character. Stephen hoped he had not disappointed his stepfather too badly, but he knew he could only ever aspire to be as good a man as Titus had been.  He blinked a few times, determined not to cry.

It had taken Martin and Stephen eight days to reach home, having secured with difficulty a cabin on the Berengaria whose Britishness was oddly comforting in this crisis.  There was a certain amount of socialising that was unavoidable, but Stephen remained very quiet and Martin tried his hardest to do what he could and Stephen acknowledged this.  There were more telegrams exchanged and it had been decided to delay the funeral.

At Southampton they were surprised to be met by Mrs Capstick and Louche from the garage. They had driven all the way to Hampshire in the Pan and the Rolls Royce respectively so that the travellers might be brought back to Croome more expeditiously; it was the greatest distance that the housekeeper had ever driven and Stephen gave her an extra hug in appreciation.

The circumstances of Titus Knight’s death were broken to Stephen.  They were unremarkable, but Mrs Capstick was still careful how the news was delivered, as she was greatly fond of Stephen.  Apparently a heart attack as swift and sudden as a sneeze had carried off the old man.  The postman on his rounds reported hearing a noise over the hedge; it had been the short ladder toppling over.  Apparently Titus was about to do some work in his little orchard when he was struck down—the ladder falling from his grip.  It was ‘a good death’ everyone concluded and Stephen tried to see it that way too.

“I should have been here instead of abroad,” he said to Martin when they were alone.

Martin had been waiting for this.  “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Derbs.  You couldn’t have prevented a heart attack and you would never have forbidden him to work in the orchard, would you?”

Stephen conceded that this was true, but still wanted to find some fault in himself to make the whole thing mean something and to fill the aching, guilty void of the random and the inexplicable. “I had been neglecting him, Mala.  I left him too often.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all.  He found enjoyment in your life, Derbs.  They found your postcard from New York in his pocket.  You two were close even when you were apart.”

Stephen wanted to cry, but found he couldn’t.

Perhaps the most surprising thing was how big the funeral was.  There were Titus’ few living relatives from neighbouring villages of course, and the many from the estate, but a great number of Martin and Stephen’s friends from London came too, including many that Stephen had thought of as being more Martin’s friends than his own.  As a consequence the house was full and the number of servants swelled by those from the London house who were the fondest of Stephen and knew of his love for his stepfather.  Many of the Sans Culottes from that part of England also came while those who couldn’t wrote cards and letters.

In their absence, Myles, Chilvers, Mrs Capstick and Miss Tadrew had formed a committee to organise things.  There would be a service in the little grey church presided over by Mr Destrombe, then The Feathers had been booked for a wake.  For special guests like Daniel Sachs, Sir Danvers Smith, Charles and Jack, The Plunger and Teddy, Donald, Lord Delvees, Lady Asquith and Custard Featherstonehaugh there would be a grand dinner in the evening at the house.

Titus had ‘not held’ with eulogies so there wasn’t one.  Stephen and Martin and four of the younger men from The Feathers solemnly carried the coffin to the churchyard.  The coffin had been made by Owens the chair bodger from an oak that had been felled when the new school had been constructed in 1914.  It was a lovely summer’s day as they carried it across the little ground strewn with the headstones of all those that had gone before to where the dreadful hole waited in the rich brown soil of the district— the source of its wealth.  Martin felt that there should be some commensurate turn in the weather, but there wasn’t and the sun shone unheeding of the occasion and the birds sang unfeelingly as the coffin was lowered into the void.

There was good cheer at The Feathers and Lady Asquith particularly enjoyed herself, sniping at the locals.  Stephen tried his best to engage with people, but his heart was not in it.  Many came up to him and, shaking his hand, said what a grand old age Titus had achieved and what a good life he had enjoyed.  Stephen smiled weakly at this oft-repeated sentiment but felt that it was of little comfort, but understood that it was well intended.

Martin walked back to the house with Stephen.  They stopped at the cottage and entered through the familiar door.  Stephen stood there in the kitchen and looked around.  He stifled a great sob and Martin put his arm around his shoulder.  Stephen picked up Titus’ old pipe and put it in his pocket and then he spied the recipe book and tucked that under his arm.  He wiped his eyes and said to Martin: “I’d like this cottage to go to a family who needs it, Mala. It’s a lovely cottage and it’s the only one in the village with a telephone.”  He smiled with effort and added: “You know, he let everyone else use it and I can’t recall him using it even once.”  

***** 

Stephen stayed at Croome over the following weeks, letting the authors of London go hungry and denying his friends at the Saville Club the privilege of drinking his beer.  He had taken to sitting alone in the red drawing room listening to Martin’s new gramophone, which echoed hauntingly in the vast chamber.  Irritatingly, he favoured two tunes above all others: Bye Bye Blackbird sung by an American ‘crooner’ and a maddening repetitive dirge called On the Riviera, which Martin was sorry he’d ever bought.  Stephen listened to these over and over, lost in his own thoughts.

“I suppose I feel rather at sea, Mala,” said Stephen.  They were walking together down to their swimming place on a warm August day with Stephen’s dogs, the pack now augmented by Titus’ young Border Collie.  Only Stephen could tell them apart and could call them accurately by name.  They gambolled about and fought over sticks that Stephen threw and eyed the sheep in the fields suspiciously: There was whole flock of idle sheep and these undisciplined creatures should be herded; work for dogs going begging.  They looked questioningly at Stephen.

“I mean I used to look to Titus for what to do and for what was expected of me and now I have no one.” Martin ignored this unintended slight and asked for an example. “Well, when I first started to play cricket for the village there was a catch I dropped at deep fine leg.  I knew that the ball touched the ground before I caught it, but I waited for the umpire to call it and he declared the batsman was out.  I told Titus that night that I was troubled by what I had done.”

“What did he say, Derbs?”

“Nothing, he just let me talk and I knew that I had done the wrong thing.  Then he caught me masturbating in my room.” Martin giggled.  “He didn’t say anything, but just closed the door and I knew then that I was not doing anything wrong—he caught me lots of times, Mala, because I rather enjoyed it but I never thought it was wrong and he wasn’t fussed about me walking about the house with no clothes on.  He’d say I was a fine looking lad, but I’d better put something on because he could see Miss Tadrew walking towards the cottage.”  Stephen grinned.  “And when the other boys had cornered an injured vixen by the school and were stoning the poor creature and I took them all on and broke the nose of the ringleader and was severely punished by the teacher.  I knew that Titus approved of what I had done and the caning I received didn’t hurt at all because of this.”

By the time Stephen had finished his story they had arrived at the hidden spot deep within the beech wood.  Stephen immediately shed his clothes.  “The dogs will warn us if strangers come,” he said with great confidence.  Martin removed his clothes too and Stephen grabbed his hand so he could not squib and they went running down to the water’s edge and jumped straight in.  It was icy and Martin thought for an instant he would surely die, but Stephen was so full of energy that Martin caught the contagion and found he was enjoying himself too as they wrestled, with Martin succeeding in ducking and tripping Stephen a number of times and drenching him when it was his turn to drop from the rope that hung from a bough above the pool.

Then they found themselves standing together on the sandy bottom, up to their waists in the green water of the brook. “And so I really don’t know what to do with my life, Mala and I’m all confused.  Should I try to take more engineering work and make practical use of my education?  I feel that London and all those parties are a bit frivolous and perhaps I should just stay down here where I truly belong.  I mean travel takes me away from my responsibilities and I don’t feel so certain about what is right and what is wrong when I’m away from home; if I hadn’t been in America…”

“No, that part is silly, Derbs,” said Martin firmly; he had been merely a listener up until now.

“It would have made no difference and Titus would not want you to live all your life in this village like he did.  He knew you were made for a different life and often said so.  Isn’t that the truth?” Stephen conceded that it was.  “Titus’ wisdom came from understanding the world he belonged to; it can be the same for you whatever and wherever your world is.  Your world doesn’t just have to be this village and there is also some value in knowing something about how people live and think in other places, Derbs; both are important, surely?”

They were now up on the slope that ran down to the water.  It was always deep in fallen leaves, even in summer, and they were reclining on their towels. “You are lucky, Derbs,” continued Martin, “because you can carry around the memory of your stepfather with you and use him as a touchstone for right and wrong and for all that is good and for what is worthless.  In fact it is now your duty to keep this alive.  I have no one—apart from you—who I can look to; certainly not my own father and I was too young when Mother died.”

“You look to me, Mala?” said Stephen in genuine surprise.

“Of course, you must know that.  If I didn’t have you I should be utterly lost.”

“But I’m still just a boy from the village, Mala, inside,” he said tapping his naked chest with a pointed finger, “and I’m not sure I’m ready to be an example to others.”

“Well, I hate to tell you, Derbs, but you are twenty years too late and if I had to remain a simple villager too I would do so happily, as long as I could be with you in your little attic bedroom.” Stephen smiled at the memory.  “And if you were a cowboy in the Wild West I’d ride alongside you (if you promised not to sing) and curl up with you in blue blankets under the stars.”

“That’s nice of you Mala and if I worked in London?”

“Then I’d wait for you to come home on the train to Barnes or Sutton or somewhere and I’d have had the Chinese plug in all afternoon so I’d be opened up and ready for you when you came in through the door.”

“Charming! I can see it on a poster on the Metropolitan Line.”

“Derby, I’m dreadfully cold.”

“Come here,” said Stephen, and Martin climbed on top of him and he laid on his stomach with his arms tucked in close and put his head on Stephen’s shoulder.

“You’re always so warm, Derbs; you must have central heating,” he said and then continued: “And if you were a lighthouse keeper, I’d crawl on my hands and knees up the iron steps to your bed— or is the bedroom at the bottom?”

“That hardly seems necessary, Mala; I’d be quite happy if you walked and I’d meet you half way— it’s only fair.”

“Derby, I’d be even warmer if you’d stick your lovely cock in me.  Do you have some Spong’s?” A tube was produced from the pocket of Stephen’s blazer that lay nearby.

“Open up for me Mala.”

“Force it in.”

“Open up, Mala.”

“Force it, Derbs; stretch me.”

“Open, if you love me.”

“If you feel anything for me at all, force the damn thing in!”

They met halfway and Martin said: “Mmm, just stay still like that, Derbs; I feel warm all over now.”

“I don’t think I can stay all that still, Mala,” said Stephen, realising the limits of his self-control.

“Derbs,” said Martin, returning to their previous conversation, “I am utterly convinced you have been leading a very good life and one that I know your stepfather was proud of.  In fact you are the best person I know in the whole world and I’m not the only one who thinks that. You can’t shut yourself away down here even if you wanted to.  This is 1927 and even the people on this estate are now tied to the outside world— look at the young Cribbins boy with his motor bicycle and Peter Rogers doesn’t want to work on his grandfather’s farm anymore and has set up as a furniture removalist in Portsmouth. Have you seen Mrs Graham at the teashop?  Shingled by a London hairdresser while her sister has gone in for spiritualism. Don’t move, Mala, it’s nice when you’re still and in deep.”

“Well I suppose I will just have to go on then and I’m grateful to you Mala,” replied Stephen moving imperceptibly like a boat at its moorings.  “I look up to you more than I can say and perhaps I don’t tell you often enough.  You have given me everything, including this estate and I will try to be worthy of it and hope that Titus would approve.  You know there are several cottages that must have new thatching, Blake says, and that will be expensive Mala, and we have to do something about the sugar beets—the government is offering a subsidy to farmers who will plant them.”

“And Derbs, I might need you to come down to the East End with me,” said Martin. “Miss Foxton wants to show me a model workman’s village outside London.   Our life is rich, but I need your wisdom.  What was that Derbs?”

“I’ve spilled in you, Mala.”

“Oh so you have.  I didn’t know you could do it like that— that’s very clever and so subtle!”

“Well I am clever,” said Stephen with his tongue in his cheek, “and I can do all sorts of tricks.  I had a lot of practice as a youth, remember.”

“Well do you think you could do me again in the usual, more vigorous, manner?”

“I think I might manage it in a bit.”

“But do keep the dogs away; I’m frightened of their cold noses.” 

***** 

That night as the boys lay in bed together Stephen talked a little about Titus.  Martin was glad he did and encouraged him to open up.  “He used to come up to my room and read to me.  I made him do it until I was about 14, poor fellow.  I’d lie in bed and close my eyes and be transported by the story.  Titus wasn’t a very good reader and would stumble over long words, but I knew the story and would say them correctly; he didn’t mind.  Sometimes he would chuckle and say, ‘Lad, is thou int’rested in’t Moby Dick or in’t thine dick?’ for often I would be feeling myself under the blankets as I listened.  He didn’t seem to mind, even if I was tenting the blankets, and he never said it was bad.  It’s funny, but I could be so involved in the pleasure of the story that I had to experience that other pleasure equally.  I think Titus knew that.  Mala, would you read to me?”

Martin was surprised at the request.  “Only if you promise to feel yourself under the blankets and don’t correct me.  What would you like me to read?”

Stephen thought of the collection of his juvenile reading that had been brought up to the house when the cottage had been cleared. “Could I have Huckleberry Finn?  I like the chapter where Huck and Jim are on the raft.”

Martin slid out of bed naked and tiptoed to where the pile of books had been left.  He found the volume; it was well worn and the boards were loose and there were scribbles in the margins and some little drawings that Stephen had obviously done when he was a child. Martin was touched.  He came back to the bed and, once again, felt his own leg brush sensuously up against Stephen’s hairy thigh as he slid in.  He consulted the contents and found the right chapter and so he read, trying to give some character to his voice.

Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely.  Here is the way we put in the time.  It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up—nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them.  Then we set out the lines.  Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come.  Not a sound anywheres—perfectly still—just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe.

“That’s beautiful, Derbs,” said Martin pausing.  “I feel so at peace reading that.  The whole world is asleep outside this room.”

Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things—we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us—the new clothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn’t go much on clothes, nohow.

“That’s you all over,” said Martin, greatly amused at the comparison.  He read on.

…It’s lovely to live on a raft.  We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened.  Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to MAKE so many.  Jim said the moon could a LAID them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

“This is really about you and me, isn’t it Mala?” said Stephen interrupting. “We’re on a raft— this bed could be our raft—and we’re sailing down the great River of Life together, wherever the current wants us to go.”

“I suppose you’re right, Derbs,” said Martin looking at him.

“I always think this chapter has great intimacy—even love.”

Martin wanted to cry, but instead he turned and kissed Stephen on the lips and in doing so, tried to convey all that he felt in his swelling breast at that moment but could not otherwise articulate.

“Can we finish this tomorrow night, Derbs?” said Martin.

“Sorry Mala, was it too tiring to read aloud?”

“No Derbs, it’s just that I’m so full of love that you’ve got to fuck me right now.  Is that terrible?”

“Terrible? Why that’s beautiful, Mala!  I’m full of love for you too.”

“Then show me Derby,” said Martin, wrapping his arms about Stephen’s head and giving himself over utterly to the great upwelling of passion he now felt. 

***** 

Carlo was reclining on his bed reading a magazine when there was an urgent knocking on his door. “Carlo, can I come in?” asked a troubled voice.  It was Lance the young footman.

“What’s the matter, Lance?” asked Carlo when he was admitted.  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to serve dinner?”

“That’s just it Carlo, I can’t get these bloody breeches to do up.” He lifted his braided waistcoat to reveal a v-shaped patch of pretty abdomen decorated with wisps of blond hair where the button and the buttonhole refused to meet. “I think I’ve put on weight and Mrs Capstick says I must be a growing with all that I’m eating, like.”

“I think she’s right, they are tight.  Have you been with Mrs Vetch this afternoon?”

“Yes it’s one of her days—it’s Tuesdays and Fridays now and I’ve just come from the buttery; I think that’s part of the problem, see?”

Indeed Carlo could see clearly the outline of a healthy young set of cock-and-balls and it was obvious Lance was still rather distended from his tryst with the farmer’s wife.  He was annoyed he had missed the day. “What did you two get up to?” he asked salaciously.

“I’ll tell you tonight, there isn’t time now, but you should see what she can do with a duck egg… and a bantam’s egg¾ bloody amazing!”

Lance was made to lie on the bed and breathe in.  Carlo strained to make the twain meet, but without success.  Then, with a flash of inspiration, he used the hook of a coat hanger and, pulling Lance’s trousers up as high as they would go, managed to fasten them “Oh I think you’ve done me a mischief,” said Lance when he gingerly stood.  “Me poor balls¾ first Mrs Vetch and now this.”  Indeed if he could have looked down, there was a series of undulations that left nothing to the imagination and it was perhaps quite painful.

“I suppose we could try putting it down the other leg,” Carlo mused just as Mathew, the other footman, yelled down the corridor for Lance to hurry up.

Suddenly then there was a terrible sound; it was the stitching giving way in the seam of the seat of the young man’s livery. “Oh cripes!” he cried.  Lance turned around and Carlo was amused to see a gore of exposed flesh in the cleavage of the young lad’s buttocks.

“There isn’t time to change, Lance,” said Carlo. “I’ll repair them after dinner.  Nobody will see because the tails of your coat will cover you.” Indeed the livery had elaborate and heavy braiding and brass buttons on the pair of square cut tails. “Does it feel any easier?”

“A bit,” conceded Lance and quickly but carefully left the room in the direction of the kitchen stairs.

The guests that night had been Prudence Plainsong and Miss Tadrew.  Prudence had gone up to London and her father had proved to be more generous than she had initially imagined. Prudence had found lodgings with two other girls and had been for some months employed in a shipping firm dealing with cargos and more recently passengers.  It was not a depressing job and she found that she had a good brain for organization.  As promised, she was taking typewriting lessons two evenings a week and on the others she and her two friends had no shortage of invitations to parties and dances.  Her aunt also provided her with a small allowance that she used to buy clothes unbeknown to her father and in return she visited her aunt regularly and was usually treated to a good tea at William Whiteley’s.  Thus she was grateful to Stephen for his good advice.

Miss Tadrew had been using the opportunity to extol the merits of the Pipkins, a young family who were in desperate need of a cottage and whom she thought would be eminently suitable for Titus’ former home.  Stephen was secretly pleased that the little house would ring to the sounds of children.

Indeed he had been talking to Martin about children just that afternoon as the post came and in it was a letter from the Spinners— his former sergeant and his wife.  They sent their condolences and apologised for not being able to come to the funeral but their new baby girl was their excuse.  Mrs Spinner wrote that the poor little mite had Reg’s ears and her mouth displayed a pursed expression the same as Spinner’s mother.  Stephen read this aloud to Martin.

“You know what that means?”

“Yes, the baby is Spinner’s, for all your effort.  How strange.”

Stephen didn’t know what to think; he was pleased for the Spinners but felt slightly wounded himself.  He had certainly tried hard enough for all those weeks—Mrs Spinner had complimented him on more than one occasion—and even Spinner had said…Perhaps he was infertile himself?  he suddenly thought.  He put the letter aside for it was time for cocktails with their guests.

The dinner was therefore a small one and held just at one end of the huge table in the gothic dining room—a room of stygian gloom even on a summer’s evening and now bits of plaster moulding had taken to falling off into the soup so one had to be careful.  However, the table was impressive in the candlelight and the meal had been excellent.  The ladies had departed to the drawing room where there would be a few hands of bridge when the gentlemen joined them.

Martin, Stephen, and Myles were eating walnuts and having a glass of Tokay— Martin preferring it to port— and were idly discussing Spinner’s baby.  Mathew and Chilvers had cleared and Lance was removing the silver breadbasket.  He stumbled and an errant roll made a bid for freedom beneath Prudence’s empty chair next to Martin.  Lance, who should have known to have left it, tried to catch it (he was usually a better fieldsman and the action was no doubt instinctive) and then he bent to retrieve it.  Even in the subdued lighting Martin saw, between the parted tails of his livery, a very attractive segment of masculine young bottom and (as the tight trousers tended to part the buttocks) there was a glimpse of blond hair lining a crack and a hint of a puckered rosebud beyond.

Martin at that moment desperately wanted to lick it and unfortunately he bit his tongue. “Lanth,” he said in some pain.  “Do you think that thith ith the way you sthould be dressed in the dining room?”

“Oh I’m very sorry, your lordship,” he replied, just then feeling the draft.  He stood up so suddenly that he dropped the rest of the rolls and the silver basket.  “I’ll leave them till later, then shall I?”

“I think it best.  How did it happen?”

“What?” asked Stephen, joining in.

“Show Mr Knight-Poole, Lance.” Lance was burning with embarrassment but oddly bent over for Stephen without demurring.  “Can they be repaired?” asked Martin disingenuously.

“Show me again.”  This time Lance pointed his arse in Martin’s direction and touched his toes.  Martin studied the knotty problem for a minute and said, “Hmm!”

Lance stood upright again, almost knocking over a chair. “I’m sorry your lordship, but these breeches is very tight and uncomfortable and I’m just too big for ’em, I’m afraid.  I would have asked Mr Chilvers for a bigger pair but Carlo…”

“What did Carlo say, Lance?” asked Martin sharply.

“He said that new livery was terrible expensive and that I’d lose my job if I kept growing and demanding new suits all the time so I should try and squeeze into the old one for as long as possible.”

“Did he?” said Martin, trying not to smile, but casting a glance at Stephen. “Well, it is good of him to be concerned with our finances, but I want you to ask Mr Chilvers to get you a new livery made to measure and I will have a word with Carlo.”

“Oh I don’t mean him to get into no trouble, your lordship; he’s been a real pal since I came to Croome.  He’s looked after me, like.”

Lance was dismissed, holding his palm over his bottom and the three boys roared with laughter after the door was closed. 

***** 

The Rolls Royce threaded its way through the City and plunged into Whitechapel Road.  Stephen had not been to the East End more than a couple of times in his life and was looking around while Martin, the old hand, gave him a running commentary.  The Croome Trust for the East End of London had made small contributions to Toynbee Hall since before the War and provided a scholarship for a boy and a girl.  Recently Miss Foxton had persuaded Martin to contribute more and there were now bursaries for London University.  Martin turned his car towards the East India Docks where the road between the warehouses was thick with drays and lorries and the masts and funnels of the ships in the Thames could be seen above the rooftops.  In Poplar High Street they pulled up outside the Borough Hall— an ugly building in the Venetian gothic style of half a century before.

Miss Foxton, a borough councillor, was in her room and was pleased to see them.  She was older than Stephen remembered her— which of course was only to be expected— and she was dressed in a rather severe costume, which befitted her rather business-like manner.  Poplar was a hotbed of red revolution and Stephen was bemused at Martin being here at all.

They were introduced to George Lansbury, the notorious mayor and M.P. who proved to be actually a rather genial figure with white Victorian side-whiskers and moustache.  He had gone to prison with the other councillors in 1921 and Martin tried not to think of him singing the Red Flag or comparing the dear King to Charles I, nor of him using the rates to pay relief to dock labourers who were on strike in defiance of even their own union.

“Until the Poor Law is utterly repealed and the Boards of Guardians are abolished, Lord Branksome, we can never have rate equalisation and the destitute of the East End will be treated differently to the destitute of Westminster or Tunbridge Wells,” Lansbury said.

Martin had to agree with this logic— being a Poor Law Guardian himself—and he thought with horror of the old workhouse at Branksome-le-Bourne that had been torn down when he was a boy.  Lansbury went on to talk about the new library and the street tree planting that he was most proud of.  Stephen responded by telling him about the trees that they had paid for in Antibes.  Lansbury was not so like Lenin after all, Martin concluded when they parted.

The reason for the excursion was to show Martin a glimpse of the future; a future in which factory workers would be decently housed and provided with all the opportunities for recreation and self-improvement— or ‘consciousness raising’ as Miss Foxton termed it.  It was far from Soviet Russia, she explained to Martin who was rather alarmed.  “Indeed it’s more akin to what you are doing on your own estate, Martin.  Mr Crittall is what we might describe as an enlightened employer,” she said.  “He’s a Labour M.P. you know — he was the parliamentary secretary to Lord Thompson in MacDonald’s government.”

“He was Secretary of State for Air, wasn’t he?” said Stephen.

“That’s right and Valentine Crittall has the same grasp of the modern world — although his old father should take some of the credit.”

They motored out into the flat fields of Essex and headed in the direction of Braintree.  Miss Foxton sat in the front with Martin and talked about her work and her desire to go to Russia to see the soviet experiment for herself while Stephen was in the back watching the suburbs of London give way to the countryside.  “I know about Crittall windows, Miss Foxton, said Stephen leaning forward at one point, “we used them when we improved many of the cottages at home and we were featured in their advertising.”

Martin and Stephen didn’t know what to expect, but soon they came upon a large factory with a sawtooth roof.  This was one of the plants that manufactured the widely sold metal-framed windows.  It was neat enough, but unexceptional and the boys were beginning to suspect that they had wasted their time.  Then Miss Foxton directed them into the village proper—it was a completely new township with carefully planned roads— not all of them straight enough to please Bunny and Dwight, but mostly so.  To the left and right could be seen shops and other facilities completed or in the process of building.  “That will be the co-op,” said Miss Foxton.

“Our village shop is in private hands, I’m afraid,” said Martin.  “And the Green Gables tea room is also a capitalist institution.” Miss Foxton caught his sarcasm and snorted.

“There’s a pub and there are plans for a hospital, a clinic and a swimming bath and all sorts of community things.  They show films in the hall—have you seen Battleship Potemkin? And Mr Crittall sponsors the local football team.”

“Well we provide just about all those things too—I don’t see that Mr Crittall has provided a gymnasium and a secondary school,” said Martin defensively.

Just then car swung into a long straight street whose either side seemed at first glance to be bordered by giant sugar cubes. “These are the houses for the workers,” said Miss Foxton, looking to catch Martin’s reaction.  She was not disappointed for Martin’s mouth was agape and he looked horrified.

“These are houses?  Why they look positively terrifying—like something out of a nightmare.”  Indeed they were rather confronting for they had no visible roofs and there wasn’t a slate or tile, let alone any reed thatching, to be seen.  The flat walls were all plastered white with no relief whatsoever and these grim boxes were punctured by distressingly plain windows of Mr Crittall’s own make, without any quaint diamond panes or leadlight to add charm.  “The poor men must not be able to tell if they are at home or still in the factory!’ exclaimed Martin.  “They’re horrible!”

Miss Foxton insisted they stop and get out.  Some of the houses in this street were finished and occupied as indicated by curtains at the severe windows and by the infant hedges that would one day enclose small gardens before each dwelling.  Martin felt some degree of relief at this and then he saw smoke from a chimney — at least they still had chimneys, even if they had no roofs.

“A house without a roof looks like a man without a hat — unfinished, unnatural,” pontificated his lordship.  “We treat our proletariat at Croome much more humanly than this, Miss Foxton.  Here the houses seem more suitable for robots than Englishmen.”

The houses on closer inspection were built in pairs and these were lightly linked together by square archways with gates to the rear gardens. They walked down the street amid the builders’ rubble and came to some houses not yet finished.  “I like these ones a bit better,” said Martin, “see how that staircase window breaks the monotony.”  The others looked at him in surprise and then looked at the houses: Yes these ones were bigger and had a vertical window— like an arris— projecting beyond the flat surface above each front door.  The doors and window frames were cheerfully picked out in a clear emerald green. Miss Foxton boldly led them inside over some planking. Painters were at work.

“Well the rooms are certainly sunny—but you couldn’t call them cosy.  You can have too much sun, I think,” said Martin, now trying to find fault.

“Look,” said Stephen, “all the doors are completely plain and there are no cornices and skirtings.”

“No capitals and no bourgeois trappings,” Miss Foxton contributed slyly, looking at Martin. “But also no dust traps,” she added more conciliatorily.

“Yes, but there’s no decoration to look at,” said Martin, distressed again.  “I hope this is not how we will all be expected to live in the future—it’s inhuman.”

“After the Revolution this is where we will send you,” said Miss Foxton with a wink to Stephen.

“I will listen for the tumbrels.”

The tour continued and the Marquess of Branksome had to admit that the little electric kitchen and the upstairs bathroom were very neat and convenient but with little room for a plump cook and skivvy.  Miss Foxton did some good-natured eye rolling at Martin’s assumptions on how other people lived.  Stephen looked at how they were constructed and was surprised that the walls were really just plastered brick. “Why pretend that they’re concrete?  Why not show they’re brick,” he complained.

The party walked a little further down the street and noted the young trees planted in the margin of turf next to the pavement and they agreed that well grown trees would soften the harsh whiteness of this Arab village planted incongruously in the green fields of Essex.

They were driving away from Silver End when Martin stopped. There were two larger detached houses in gardens. Miss Foxon said that one was for a manager and the other was Mr Crittall’s own new home.

“Now I like this one,” pronounced Martin. “These sorts of Continental houses look better if they are irregular.”  Indeed Mr Crittall’s house was an asymmetrical composition, unlike the ones they had seen. “And I like the corner windows— I would like to look out of them at the garden all around.”

They admired it for a minute and then turned the Rolls Royce back towards London. “You know, I would hate to see horrors like these at Croome, but I think this style would suit a new library very well.  Did I mention that I was thinking of getting a lending library for out village, Derby?”

Stephen said he didn’t recall it being mentioned and Miss Foxton turned around and gave him a little grin; Martin had experienced some small conversion to modernism, if not Bolshevism, in the course of the afternoon. 

***** 

A few weekends later there was a small party down at Croome.  The Plunger had some exciting news and he brought his boyfriend Teddy Loew along and there was also his sister Jean and her husband Antony Vane-Gillingham.  Added to the party, it must be said, were ‘Gertie’ Haines (The Plunger’s factotum) and a nursemaid for Loelia, Jean and Antony’s little daughter who was toddling about and being very adorable.

The Plunger’s news waited until he was alone with Martin and Stephen. “Teddy has left his parents’ house and has taken a place just beyond the garden wall in Chelsea,” he proclaimed in triumph.

“Why that’s marvellous, Plunger, so you can be together—well almost,” said Stephen.

“Yes, that’s rather the point.  I’d much rather we were together under the same roof and be able to call it ‘our place’, but the truth is for our kind it is always going to be difficult.  His parents must see that he is not living with me, and so must the Foreign Office.  It would be a scandal otherwise and he would lose his job— or worse.  So it’s through the garden gate at odd hours.”

“How did you get it to happen?” asked Martin.

“Well,” said The Plunger in a whisper, “I suggested to them that they should take an extended holiday to see their married daughter in America.  She is expecting her second child and they haven’t even seen number one yet.  So the seed was planted and all of a sudden Mr Loew says he’s put the business in his partner’s hands and that they were moving to Montclair New Jersey where they would be welcome to stay with the daughter for as long as they like.  Then Teddy says that the house in Belsize Park is too big for just him and that he would like to take a flat nearer Whitehall.  The parents agree, let their own house and give Teddy quite a bit of very nice eighteenth century furniture for his new place to boot.  I’m a modernist, of course, and Teddy’s pictures don’t really go with it, but the bed is very nice, I must say.” The Plunger beamed.

“How romantic!” sighed Martin, who was going through a protracted romantic phase just then.  “I can just picture you slipping stealthily through the garden at dawn and dusk like Romeo and – well Romeo and Romeo.”

“It’s not so romantic when it’s raining and once I went to Teddy’s flat only to find he had come round via the street and was at mine; we’re better organised now.”

There were handshakes and hugs and The Plunger was still grinning.

There was tennis on the Saturday and Teddy did his best with his lame leg, but it was very tiring for him.  Stephen went off to cricket and the party went to watch for a while before deciding on the Green Gables Tea Room.  Mrs Graham, in her notoriously shingled hairdo, greeted his lordship fulsomely.  “I’m pleased to see your business doing so well, Mrs Graham, but there are no free tables,” he said gesturing around the room with his hat in his hand.

Indeed the tiny teashop had every one of its eight tables fully occupied, for the shop was really just the parlour and the kitchen of a converted cottage where a new kitchen had been constructed at the rear.

“Not at all your lordship, come this way,” she said and deftly unfolded a card table and set it up with a white damask cloth in seconds and a small vase of larkspurs was produced from somewhere and plonked in the centre.  Bridge chairs were snapped open, with Miss Graham explaining that she was thinking of setting aside the wide alcove by the chimney as a card room for those who cared to play.  Martin was very impressed with this enterprising woman and when they had settled they ordered the shilling teas, which came with homemade jam and clotted cream.

Martin looked around; Miss Tadrew was taking tea with Mrs Destrombe, Mr and Mrs Harkness were pushing the boat out with the shilling teas also.   Several of the tables were occupied with trippers.  “Sundays are our busiest days, but I won’t allow cards to be played on Sundays,” said Mrs Graham, when she came to clear.

“Do you serve ice-cream, Mrs Graham?” asked Martin pleasantly, thinking this would be a good line.

“We are getting an electric refrigerator soon, your lordship,” she said with a sniff, “and then we might just do that.  I’m sorry if you don’t like my sister’s cakes—she gets the recipes from beyond.”

“Beyond what?”

“From beyond the astral plane, your lordship.  Her spirit guide was the pastry chef at the Hotel Splendide and he passes on all his recipes through the planchette.  All that she has to do is convert the French measurements into English ones.”

“Well that is remarkable, but I meant no slight on her— or rather— his cakes; that’s not what I meant.  If you do buy a Frigidaire, I will have someone bring you the recipe for a ‘banana split’ sundae—they are very popular in America, I assure you.”

“Ah, bananas,” said Miss Graham, somewhat peeved.  “Now where would I get bananas in this village?  This isn’t Hollywood; they’d have to come special from Birmingham or London.”

Martin hadn’t thought of that and so asked for their bill.  Then he realised he had brought no money.  He didn’t want to ask the others, so he apologised to Mrs Graham and explained his carelessness.  She gave him a beady look.  “I’ll put it on the slate then, shall I?” she said in a plonking tone.

“Oh no, Mrs Graham,” said Martin going red, “I will send Mathew or Chilvers down with the money directly—and that recipe.”

“The one that requires tropical fruit.”

“Yes, Mrs Graham,” said Martin feeling quite defeated as he gathered the party who had feasted lavishly on tea and occult cakes that he couldn’t pay for and left Green Gables with as much dignity as he could muster.

On the Sunday the party thought it might be nice to ride over the Dorset countryside.  However, The Plunger reminded them that Teddy was lame and Teddy added, “I don’t know how to ride anyway.  But could you teach me?”

It was Stephen who volunteered while the others galloped away towards the downland.  Stephen admired Teddy’s bravery and found him a gentle old mare with the most tractable of natures.  He was very patient and Teddy was immensely grateful and felt he was able to trust Stephen who was physically strong, yet cognisant of how terrifying it was for a novice, especially for a crippled one.

The first problem was mounting.  Then Stephen realised that if Teddy got on from the other side he could use his good foot in the stirrup.  Grace Darling didn’t seem to mind the unorthodoxy. “You have to press your knees Teddy as well as pulling on the reins— keep them short.”  Teddy managed to make Grace Darling turn to the left and to the right.  Then Stephen though they should try a canter but Teddy’s bad foot lost the stirrup and he dropped the reins in his alarm and clutched desperately onto the mare’s mane.

They broke for a bit and Teddy dismounted.  “Let’s get you into some jodhpurs and boots, Teddy.”  Hayter found some old clothes that were a reasonable fit and Stephen enjoyed seeing his trouserless pupil standing in his drawers in the stable.  He lifted Teddy’s shirt and whistled cheekily at the prominent bulge revealed.  He helped pull the riding boots on and these seemed to aid Teddy’s weakened tendons in the lame leg.  When he remounted Stephen made sure Teddy had a tight seat.  He ran his hand over Teddy’s groin, feeling his cock and balls. “Just seeing if you’re good in the saddle.”

“Archie hasn’t complained,” retorted the novice jockey.

This time Stephen held the reins and let Teddy get the feel of the motion of the horse as they cantered in a small circle and when the others returned two hours later, they found both sweating boys with their shirts off and Teddy giving a good impression of someone who was now able to ride.  

The boys stood in the corridor between their bedrooms.  They were all in their dressing gowns except for Stephen who wore just the bottoms of a pair of lemon-hued silk pyjamas that showed off his torso very effectively whilst barely concealing his manhood, which at this moment was distended and pulsing with excitement and anticipation.

“You don’t understand, Stephen,” The Plunger was explaining patiently with his arm around the shorter Teddy, giving him a hug, “we’re a couple now and we look at that sort of thing as being special between us.”

“It’s like a sacrament,” said Teddy, gazing up into The Plunger’s eyes— or rather eye because he could only see his own reflection in the monocle. “It is the physical manifestation of all that that is sacred between us.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“When I see Archie, stripped and opened up for my cock, waiting impatiently for me to come home from Whitehall, with that beautiful flaming red bush of his and that ginger hair under his arms and that russet dusting across his athletic white chest —looking like some half-savage Scottish warrior of old…”

“I’m English Teddy,”

“…when I see all that I feel it is somehow sacred; I feel it in my loins, Stephen, and it is knowing that he is doing me the honour of offering up his body, why I just want to make love to him forever—just we two.”

“Oh I understand, Teddy, love is very powerful. I…”

“But do you, Stephen?  Do you understand what a blessing and privilege it is to have a boy like Archie?  And I don’t mean because he is the son of a baronet.  Do you understand how important it is for a man like him to be satisfied by a big cock…?”

“Well Teddy I think I do know…”

“Stephen,” said The Plunger interrupting him, “If my Ted was ever unfaithful to me I know I would die,” he said, sounding rather like Sarah Bernhardt.

“And if my Archie was ever violated by another, I would have to kill that man—and possibly you too Archie, if you enjoyed it,” Teddy added. “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s quite alright, Ted.  So those careless days are forever over for me now, Stephen,” resumed The Plunger.  “Those days when I would slip into your bed with you and Martin where I suffered every orifice being poked and prodded and stretched by you or when we were on holiday and I’d let you lick me in intimate places.”

“What places, Archie, dearest?” asked Teddy.

“On the Riviera mostly.  And where you insisted on sucking me dry and making me swallow buckets of your virile seed.”

“Buckets? And how did you know it was virile?”

“Well a tremendous lot at any rate, Teddy, and it tasted virile.”

“But Archie,” pleaded Stephen who felt this was all getting out of control. “It was only fun and I never thought it would come between you two— it’s not really love, is it Mala?”

“Isn’t it love?” said Martin airily. “You said it was love this morning when I was trying to swallow your balls.”

“No I said it was lovely, that’s altogether different.  I mean I love you Martin, especially when we do things, but I still love you when I do things with other people—like Norwegian sailors for instance,” he said desperately trying to mount an argument and wondering if he was going to cry.

“I believe that has been said before, Derby.  Well, if you say so and perhaps you do, but this is really about you wanting to sleep with Archie and Teddy.”

“Well, I just wanted to sleep with Teddy, I thought that might be nice — you know as a good host and I wouldn’t like Archie and Teddy to feel neglected.”

“All that is closed book for us now,” resumed The Plunger in a weary tone.  “We won’t be treated like so many Sabine women, Stephen.  Besides I would not want my Ted to be stretched ruinously wide— he’s very tight back there you know— and maybe end up in hospital, Stephen. Think of the dilapidations.”

“I’d be very gentle.”

“But what about my Stephen,’ chimed in Martin, “he might come to grief on Teddy’s impressive simitar — no offence, Teddy, but that thing down there could do a lot of damage.”

The Plunger nodded vigorously. “Of course I’m used to it, but I still have to exercise caution. I wouldn’t want you to risk it Stephen.”

“Oh don’t worry about me, it’s just…” but Stephen could think of no further arguments and was left feeling dazed.  This was surely some kind of nightmare, he wildly thought; he had ruined his dearest friendships with his own ill-considered conduct.  How could my moral compass have been so wrong?  He was trying hard to make sense of it all when he became conscious that all during their conversation The Plunger had had his hand inside Martin’s dressing gown and had been stroking his cock.  This too didn’t make sense and he was just about to say something when he felt a hand kneading the length of his own member (which was not particularly robust at that moment) through the material of his pyjamas.  It was Teddy and he was grinning broadly at him and continued to do so as he directed Stephen towards one bedroom, while Martin and The Plunger glided off to the other.  By the time they had reached the door, Stephen’s cock had recovered its elan.

To be continued…