“Poor Myles has had some bad news, Mala,” announced Stephen.  Martin had just returned from London where he had been meeting with Miss Foxton and Daniel Sachs about the Trust.  Stephen had driven down to the little station at Branksome-le-Bourne to meet him and to help Carlo with the bags.

“Well I have some news too, Derby, but tell me yours first.  What’s happened?”

“It’s his mother: she had a fall and broke her leg or something and it became infected and she contracted septicaemia.  Her heart gave out.”

“That’s terrible.  It was only a year ago that he lost his father,” said Martin.  “Does he need to go up to Norfolk?”

“I suppose so, he only learnt it this morning and he’s too upset to think straight.”

“We’ll do what we can—if for no other reason than he’s turned our lives around as well as being a pleasant young body around the place.  My news is that Philip Rous-Poole and Constance are expecting.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, conscious that Martin’s third cousin was heir presumptive to the title and was possibly under the misapprehension that he would also succeed to the estate, which had formerly been entailed, but was now to pass to Stephen if Martin should predecease him with no heir.  Now a baby, should it be a boy, would smack of a line of succession and only reinforce Martin’s feelings of inadequacy.

“Yes, Aunt Maude saw Mrs Polk-Stewart who lives not far from her new flat.”  Lady Vane-Gillingham, Martin’s maternal aunt, had recently given up her elegant house on Lowndes Square for a more manageable establishment in Hans Crescent.  She was hardly roughing it, however, and still had her cook, lady’s maid and the butler, Kant.  “She said Mrs Polk-Stewart was very excited.”

“I’ll bet she is.  That poor infant!”

Martin found Myles at his desk with the diary open, trying to keep it up to date.  “I’m terribly sorry, Harry,” said Martin as he entered.  Myles turned around and his eyes were red; he’d been crying and his normally rosy Norfolk cheeks were sunken and pale.

“Poor old Mum, I should have been there for her, Martin.  She was quite well you know, up until the fall and then…It’s been a terrible two months for her— a lot of pain…”

“I want you to leave in the morning and spend some time in Norfolk.  You’ll have things to do— to arrange.  You have a sister, don’t you?”

“Yes, but she’s in Durham; it will be up to me.  I don’t like to go and leave you, Martin— you’ve got the Parish Council and you’re sitting on the bench on Tuesday and there is the Infirmary Committee on Tuesday night.  On Thursday you are due to meet the librarian in Bournemouth and the school prize-giving is on Friday…”

“I’ll be alright, Harry; I only have to read the diary and collect the file for each one before I go.  You must put yourself first.  Would you like Stephen to go with you?”

“Oh I couldn’t ask that!”

“Of course you could.  I’m sure he’d be pleased to keep you company.  Just look after him,” said Martin making a joke.

Martin quickly sought out Stephen who was down at the village gymnasium.  There was quite a crowd of the local lads and those that were wearing them touched their caps when Martin entered.  Stephen was exerting himself on the rowing machine and sweating profusely, his muscles glistening and his manly thighs filling the boxing trunks he wore.  His black locks had drifted loose and fallen forward and were now plastered across his left eye.  He saw Martin and stopped.

“Derbs, I’ve just spoken to Myles.  Would you go up to Norfolk with him for the funeral? I’ve told him to take a few days.  I think he’d like you to go.”

Stephen walked deep in thought to the locker room and put a towel about his neck and hung on to the ends.  “Mala, do you trust me?” he said in a low voice, looking into Martin’s eyes with a dark, furrowed brow.

Martin tried to keep a straight face, as Stephen seemed so sincere.  “I think it’s important that you offer what comfort you can to Harry, Derbs; I’ve always found you can be very ‘healing’ and your ‘medicine’ is better than any draught from Dr Markby.  Besides, he doesn’t seem to have anyone else and he’s very fond of you and in this instance you would be a great help to him in organising things, I imagine, rather than the other way around.

Stephen’s frown became a smile.  “Yes, you’re right; I’m his big brother.  I’ll just have a shower and come up to the house and have a talk with him.”  Martin looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.  “Oh, you don’t want me to shower, Mala?”

“We can take our time going back to the house,” said Martin, leaning forward to inhale.

“Myles won’t be leaving until the morning and I think I need to be comforted by the sweaty village stud myself— in that coppice of scotch firs, I think, and I must be made to take my medicine.” 

***** 

The next day was devoted to travel, with Myles and Stephen going up to London where they took a taxi from Waterloo to Liverpool Street.  “Stephen, I don’t know how to thank you for this,” said Myles for the twentieth time.  “I feel that I’m taking you away from your work.”

“My work, Harry?  You work; I don’t work.  I’m just the apprentice lord of the manor,” Stephen added with a touch of bitterness.

“Don’t joke, Stephen.  It scares me when you talk like that.  You scare Martin too.  You hold that estate together, we all look to you for leadership.  We’re always saying: ‘What would Stephen say? I wish Stephen was here; we’ll ask Stephen when he gets back.’  It was the same during the War.  You remember Auchonvilliers, don’t you?”

“I do Harry.  I was scared then too.”

“I needed you then and there you were.  You’re like that for everybody.”

“Am I Harry?  It’s just that I feel I don’t know who I am sometimes.  Unlike other chaps, I can’t say I’m a postman or a poacher or even an engineer…”

“Your Martin’s partner.  Isn’t that important?”

Stephen smiled. “Yes it is, but I can’t say that either.” There was a pause.  “I was being silly and it isn’t helping you.  Now what is ‘beheaded actress is a sailor’— three letters; the middle is an ‘A’?”

They returned to their crossword in the Telegraph, these puzzles having become a positive craze in the last year.  Myles looked anxiously at Stephen, fearing for just a moment that another certainty in his life might not be so secure after all.  “Tar,” he said and Stephen nodded and wrote it in with his pencil.

 At Norwich they boarded a branch line train for the remaining nine miles to Aylsham.

The town, which was Myles’ home, was just as Stephen remembered it from previous visits: a handsome collection of redbrick and slate buildings on the River Bure.  They went first to his house, which stood on the road to Bickling Hall where Myles’s late father had worked for Lord Lothian.  It was a very attractive mellow brick house standing in its own small grounds— more than just a cottage.  Stephen realised some time ago that Myles’ father must have been important to his lordship.

“I have always thought this a beautiful house, Harry,” said Stephen with genuine enthusiasm.

“Mother loved her garden, Stephen, and my father was handy about the place until he became ill.  I was happy here,” he said looking around as if to search for some allusive fragment of past joys that might still be clinging like spider’s web to the poplar trees, the roses or the front gate.

They went inside and Stephen thought immediately how he had felt—so dreadfully hollow—when he looked around his own home after Titus had died.  He put his arm around Myles in empathy.  “Do you feel like sleeping here or would you like to put up at a hotel, Harry?”

“Oh no, here please, Stephen, if it’s all right with you.  They’re all pleasant memories.”

Myles lit the fire to make the place seem more cheerful, even though it was not cold, then he carried their suitcases upstairs.  Stephen followed him, noting all the little domestic touches that made the house so sweet.  “You’re in my old room and I’ll have this one.”

“Harry, I think you had better sleep with me— that is if you want to.  I couldn’t bear to think of you not in your old room.”

“Oh that’s easy; we could swap rooms,” said Myles with his tongue in his cheek.

“And of course you might be lonely in the night.  I couldn’t sleep myself if I thought you were lonesome.  Martin said I was to take care of you the best way I know how.”

“He also told me to take care of you, so we’ll be busy,” he replied, smiling, “but we’d best go back to our own rooms when my sister and her husband come tomorrow.”

They refreshed themselves with some tea and then went to the vicarage to see Mr Dossiter who was conducting the funeral.  He was a nice, elderly man who had known Myles as a boy.

“And so you are not pursuing your career in drafting and surveying, Henry?”

“Not a great deal, Mr Dossiter.  I’ve done some work with Mr Knight-Poole who is an engineer, but my chief duties are as secretary to Lord Branksome.”

“He also organises me, Mr Dossiter; he’s really secretary to us both,” said Stephen, “and invaluable.”

“And you are related to his lordship?”

“Distant cousins, sir,” said Stephen conscious of his betrayal of the real depth of their relationship.  It will be ever thus.

The arrangements were not difficult and Stephen made some helpful suggestions and then Dossiter and Harry fell to talking about Mrs Myles.  The vicar insisted that Myles go with him to look at the church and then to see several ladies— old ladies Stephen presumed— who were friends of Mrs Myles and were anxious to see Harry.  Stephen excused himself and said that he would walk into Aylsham and meet Myles at home.

The walk was a short and pleasant one and the countryside was lovely— although flat and dominated by lazy shallow rivers like the Bure and so quite different to Dorset with its hills and deep lanes.  Aylsham was a market town of some importance and there were signs that cloth and timber had once been important.  There was a quaint village pump with a thatched roof.  Stephen was intrigued by this but then chagrined to find that it was of recent origin.  The old coaching inn was called The Black Boys and Stephen was just about to go in to quench his thirst when he spotted the estate agent’s office almost next door.  In the window were pinned cards telling of places to let and fields for sale.  Almost without thinking he went inside.

The agent emerged and greeted him.  “There is a redbrick house just beyond the village, Mr Tighe, on the road to Bickling Hall.  It stands in a pretty garden…”

“That is the Myles house.  Mrs Myles has only recently passed away.”

“Yes I know; I’m a friend of her son, Harry.”

“I see,” said the agent, not really seeing.

“Is it owned by Lord Lothian?”

“No sir, it is owned by the publican of The Black Boys— or rather his wife.  It was her uncle’s house I think, but it has been let to the Myles family for more than twenty years.”

“Would she consider an offer for the freehold, do you think?”

“The lady might do so.  I could show you some other fine houses— finer indeed if you were wanting to make Aylsham your home, sir.”

“No, that is the only one I’m interested in.  Could you ask her and let me know?” Stephen handed over his card.  The agent read it and noted the two impressive addresses.  The house would not come cheap, Stephen knew that, but his blood was up.  “Please keep this confidential, Mr Tighe.” 

Stephen emerged onto the pavement.  He had only been five minutes, but he felt suddenly very light hearted; he was making a difference in someone’s life, maybe that was his life’s work, he thought.

That evening the two dined at The Black Boys and walked back to the house with Myles pointing out scenes from his childhood.  This continued in front of the fire with some more beer, Myles producing some photographs of his parents and his sister and the older brother who died in the War and they talked long into the night.

“Come on Harry or I’ll be too drunk to do anything,” said Stephen, slapping Myles on the knee.

“Stephen, you don’t have to do anything.  I’m really quite alright.  Just having you here has made all the difference in the world.  I would have been very depressed had I come here alone.”

“Oh!” said Stephen, his face dropping.  “It’s just that Martin said…but if you don’t want too...”

“Martin also told me to look after you, remember.  I bet you don’t get many knockbacks.”

“Well, no and I do need to keep myself occupied.  We did enjoy ourselves when we were up north together and in France of course, didn’t we?”

“You know you really ripped me apart that time in Auchonville.  I was only 17 and you were a grown man.”

“I’m sorry,” said Stephen, chastened.  “As I said I was scared then.  I can be as gentle as a lamb when I want to be.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to go that far and I’m 27 now and I think I can take care of myself.  Come on, let’s go to my room.”

Stephen brightened instantly and tried to carry Myles upstairs but he was too drunk and Myles was too heavy and they collapsed into a laughing heap at the bottom of the stairs.  In a few minutes they were naked under the blankets in the upstairs room.  There was a quiet moment and Stephen put his big arm around Myles’ neck and pulled him close.  “I hope you will continue to be happy with us at Croome, Harry.  We’re three orphans now and I hope you will look to Martin and me as some sort of family…I know we can never replace your mother and father, but something has brought us together.”

“Thank you Stephen.  That was generously said.”  He laid his head on Stephen’s comforting chest and, finding one of Stephen’s big brown nipples nearby, extended his tongue and caressed it.  Stephen grasped his pectoral muscle and tried unsuccessfully to tilt it in Myles’ direction, but his chest was unyielding.  Myles now sucked on the nipple and tongued the large brown areola.  Stephen still held Myles firmly in the crook of his arm and looked down.  The suggestion of a suckling infant obviously presented itself and Stephen thought of Myles’ mother and then of Constance Rous-Poole and finally of Martin and himself and their inability to have a suckling of their own.  It was all slightly disturbing and Stephen tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate instead on the pleasurable sensations of the moment.

“You can bite them,” said Stephen and then directed Myles to the other nipple while he continued to wonder what arid succour his friend was deriving from his barren breast.  When he looked again Myles was fast asleep and Stephen knew his own cock was as yet unsatisfied.  He went to shake him but stayed his hand.  He has a big day tomorrow and he should get his sleep.  Then he thought that if it were he, he would want to be wakened.  He moved his hand then froze again.  His mother is being buried tomorrow; whatever are you thinking of?  Stephen felt ashamed.  His cock then spoke to him and reminded Stephen that Martin said to take good care of Myles and, as yet, he hadn’t taken him at all. 

Get down!  Martin wouldn’t forgive us if he found out and look how brutally we behaved to the poor lad in Auchonvillers.  There was a pause in the dialogue for reflection.  He’ll probably be randy in the morning if he’s anything like us and then…  A tacit agreement was reached and Myles would reap the whirlwind at daybreak.

Myles’ sister, Pearl, arrived with her husband on the 10 o’clock train.  They were harried and worn out from travelling.  “I didn’t bring Arthur and Loulou, Harry.  I don’t think funerals are suitable for children.”  Stephen wondered about the sense of this as he was introduced and shook their hands.  He gained no particular insight into them except that Pearl didn’t seem very affectionate to her brother and she seemed not greatly overwrought by the occasion.

The funeral was at 11:00 and they walked behind the motor hearse along the Norwich Road to the cemetery just beyond the town.  Stephen was standing towards the back of the small crowd that gathered around the grave when up stepped Mr Dossiter who spoke in a low voice.  “I hope I am not intruding Mr Knight-Poole but I thought you would like to know of my discussion with Mrs Outhwaite, the owner of the house.   She would be willing to sell for 600 pounds.”

Stephen knew that was a London price but nodded.  “Go ahead with the purchase Mr Dossiter.  I will see you before I return to Dorset.”

There was a modest reception at the home of one of Mrs Myles’ friends.  Myles, who seemed to be overcome at the graveside as the coffin was lowered next to the resting place of his father, seemed now to have recovered somewhat.  They dined again at the pub with Pearl where Stephen smiled radiantly and tried hard to charm her, again without success, and at last they retired to their separate rooms for the night.  Stephen was glad to see them off on the morning train for Ely where they would have to change for a train to the north and he thought how truly alone Myles was.

That morning was spent in collecting personal things from the house that Myles wanted to have sent to Dorset.  A second box was to be sent to his sister.  “The other stuff will have to be sold, Stephen, I will see the auctioneer this afternoon.”

Stephen became alarmed.  “Harry, you don’t have to do that today.”

“Yes I do Stephen.  The agent will be wanting to let the house.”

“No he won’t, Harry.  The house belongs to you.”

“No it doesn’t Stephen.”

“Yes, it does.  I bought it for you yesterday.  I wanted to wait until we were back home before I told you.  Martin and I want you to have it.”

Myles was speechless.  “I don’t understand, Stephen.  Why would you do that?”

“Well, we feel that we have denied you your vocation by becoming our secretary and one day you may want to leave us and you wouldn’t have anything; you’d have no home because you’ve devoted yourself to us.”

Myles was covered in confusion.  “I meant to say ‘thank you’, Stephen, but it seems such an inadequate response to such a gift!”

“No, it is quite apt, Harry.  You don’t have to keep it; you can sell it or let it as soon as it’s settled.  Did you want to give your sister an interest?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Myles, who had recovered himself sufficiently to hug Stephen and Stephen was pleased at this.  They finished the two boxes and instead of having to see the agent, spent the afternoon exploring the countryside, finishing up at The Black Boys once again where Myles got rather drunk from a toxic mixture of grief for his mother and happiness at the gift of a home.

That night Stephen made sure that Myles got little sleep and took him athletically in a wide variety of positions and it was reciprocated once.  It was enjoyable, but Stephen was unsure if his efforts were as efficacious in helping another forget his grief as Martin had suggested or that his seed, which Myles swallowed greedily on more than one occasion, was the panacea he had vainly imagined it to be— Myles still shed tears for his mother—but Stephen thought that it wouldn’t hurt, although this was not strictly true either.

In the morning they lay quietly in the bed.  “I must start a new chapter in my life, Stephen,” said Myles.  “Having this house has given me security, but I’d like to make my home with you and Martin if you still want me as a secretary.”

“Of course we want you, although I was frightened that you’d want to move back here now that you own this place.”

“No, I will let it.  One day Martin might go into Parliament or you might, Stephen…”

“I think that is unlikely.”

“…and you will need a private secretary even more— and perhaps more than one.  In the meantime, would it be alright if I take on some surveying and drafting work— in my spare hours I mean?”

“I think that would be splendid, Harry.  We could set up a room as a drawing office and I think I could get you some work.  We made a good team before, didn’t we?”

“We did, but I don’t want anything to come between you and Martin.”

“Of course it won’t.  That reminds me, Blake let it slip that Martin is thinking of subdividing more housing allotments near the golf links.  He didn’t want to tell me because he was being like his father and pretending to oppose development, but he has really changed his mind.  You could survey that.”

“I could.  I’m still registered.”

“Next we’ll have to find you a boyfriend.”

“Hold on, Stephen, I think that I had best look out for myself.  I’d have to have one with a cock like yours,” said Myles with a twinkle in his eye as he hefted Stephen’s member under the blankets.

“They’re not so easy to come by,” said Stephen with a straight face, “but if you come to Antibes with us, we might find you a big sailor.  Would you like that?”

“Very much, but you must ask Martin first.” 

***** 

“…and so explain it to me again, Derbs.”

“It’s called ‘hiking’ and it’s all the fashion in Germany where they call hikers Wandervögel and there are groups that do it here too.”

“So are they walking for exercise or to visit places like pilgrims?”

“A bit of both; they are walking to experience nature and for the fellowship of being together with a group of like-minded souls.”

“I suppose city dwellers do feel terribly cut off from nature; it’s different for country folk like ourselves.  It’s a cheap holiday too, I imagine.”

“Yes, once you’ve bought the clothes and equipment.”

They were looking at the newsletter of the Peckham Ramblers, which Stephen had inexplicably joined, and it contained items about boots and camping equipment as well as maps and descriptions of rambles its members had been on.  Stephen had become very enthusiastic and Martin knew he chaffed at the strictures of London life after even a few weeks and longed for fields, hedgerows, country lanes and the ways of rural folk— all things he missed more acutely now that his stepfather was gone.  And because it was Stephen, Martin tried to take an interest.

“Mala,” said Stephen, trying not to sound over-excited, “they are organising a ramble to The Peaks district over the Bank Holiday weekend; would you like to go on it?”

“Well, I don’t know Derbyshire at all, Derby,” said Martin smiling at the joke but thinking at the same time of all the ways one could explore the area in luxurious comfort, “but if you’d like me to come, of course I’ll go.  When is the Bank Holiday?” asked Martin for whom the working week and holidays meant little.

Stephen looked serious. “Mala, it won’t be all that easy: it will be 16 miles– some of it very steep and we will have to carry tents and blankets.”

“What for?  Won’t we stop at inns?”

“There aren’t that many on the moors and the idea is to make a camp so we won’t have to walk so far on each day.  Besides, Mala, most of the members of the Peckham Ramblers are not flush with money and we’ll be travelling third to Edale—that’s the nearest station— and we’ll hike to Glossop.”

“Well I’ve never travelled third, so that will be an experience in itself.”

“Mala, we’ll have to get the boots and equipment and practice and everything,” said Stephen, excited, “and Mala…” Martin looked at him.  “Mala, these ramblers are just ordinary folk from the lower middle class and…”

“And you want me to keep who I am a secret because you’re ashamed of me.”

“Ma-la!” said Stephen in a pleading voice, “you know I don’t mean that…”

“I’m teasing, Derbs,” replied Martin grinning.  “It will make things easier, I know that, and I’m used to it when I’m on adventures with you.”

***** 

In the weeks that followed exciting boxes arrived from Austin Reed’s and the Army and Navy Stores.  Martin tried on the boots and thought that they had better be broken in so he gave them to Carlo who was the same size and told him to wear them for a few days.  Carlo looked aghast but obeyed and clumped around the house getting black looks from Chilvers.

On the lawn they practised putting up their tent.  It was a tiny one and it was agreed that Stephen would carry the canvas and Martin would carry the ropes and the poles that screwed together.

 “What will we sleep on, Derbs; the mackintosh sheet won’t be enough?”

“We will have to collect heather and wrap ourselves in the blanket,” said Stephen consulting Scouting for Boys.  Martin was trying to imagine if this would be nice or not.  He went over the list.  They were to bring a tin plate and cup each and had been delegated to bring a frying pan for them all to use.

They tried walking to Pendleton wearing their new clothes and carrying their equipment.  It wasn’t too hard and they had no steep climbs and Martin found that one of the tent poles made a good staff.  The most irritating thing, Martin thought, was the clinking of the tinware like so many alpine cowbells and he resolved to smother these in the blanket when he (or rather Carlo) repacked his rucksack.  They must have looked like a pair of tinkers trudging along the lane and Martin half expected the constable to ‘move them on’ which made him giggle as Stephen took it all so very seriously.

Martin looked around at the early morning crowd on the platform at St Pancras’ Station.  There was no trouble in identifying the members of the Peckham Ramblers as they stood out in their tweeds, rough boots and cumbersome rucksacks.  One couple wore sandals.  Martin stood there for a moment before he realised that no porter would come to help him carry his traps, so he dragged his rucksack and tent poles down the platform.

Stephen introduced him to Newchurch, the Rambler’s president, and his wife.  Newchurch was an earnest-looking man in his late thirties who peered disapprovingly at the world through a pair of round horn-rimmed spectacles.  He was a clerk in the Post Office and his wife, a woman who eschewed make-up, did repousse copper work in the spare room of their home in East Dulwich.  They quickly made it known that they were both vegetarians and Fabian socialists.  Martin admitted he had a farm but made no mention of being a meat-eating Tory.

There were two or three other couples, variations of the Newchurches, and then there were a pair of plain girls who wore berets.  Two lively young boys belonged to the couples that wore sandals.  Next there was an elderly non-conformist parson and a young man with a harelip who stood alongside a young married couple—he worked in a garage Martin discovered—and bending over her disorganised rucksack was a plump woman everyone called Hester who was dressed rather like a gypsy.

Miss Tibbits was quite a different article: she managed to look chic in a tailored pair of trousers and her hair under a military style cap was smartly waved.  “I am interested in geology, Mr Poole,” she said.  “Don’t look so surprised.  My father was a geologist and if I don’t have rocks in my blood, I certainly have them in my head.”  She laughed at her own joke and Martin laughed too.

Martin looked around and saw that Stephen was talking to the young man and the parson.  The guard blew his whistle and just then a middle-aged couple came hurrying up the platform, dropping a tin mug and a roll of lavatory paper and several other items in their haste.  Martin picked these up and handed them to the man after he had apologised profusely and breathlessly to Newchurch before they all piled into the carriage with its meagre comforts.

The journey to Manchester took more than three hours and there was no dining car; Martin should have realised this.  The middle-aged latecomers shared their Thermos of tea with the boys.  He was a bookkeeper and they were both twitchers— bird watchers— and promised to point out some of the more rare birdlife on the moors when the time came.  Next Newchurch came and sat opposite them.  He offered them some dates from a paper bag.  “Are you interested in becoming a member of the Peckham Ramblers, Martin?  We can always use new members and I think I could promise you a position on the committee if you should want it.  As president I hold considerable sway; the members respect me.”

“As this is my first hike, I had better let you know at Glossop, Mr Newchurch.”

“Well perhaps you both would like to come to this,” he said, handing them a leaflet for the Fabian Society.  “Our next guest speaker will be Annie Besant and I think I can promise it will be standing room only.”

Martin smiled manfully and thanked him but complained that farming kept him from enjoying a wider social life in London and that this hike was a rare treat.

At Piccadilly Station in Manchester they changed trains for the final hour’s journey to Edale, the start of their walk.  Miss Tibbits came and sat next to Martin while Stephen was asked to help the two plain girls in berets who could not lift their rucksacks into the overhead racks.

“I know who you are Mr Poole,” said Miss Tibbits in a low voice.

“Oh,” said Martin hollowly.

“Yes Lord Branksome, we met at Crumbles’ party in Park Lane two years ago; you were wearing a sailor’s suit and carried a bucket and spade and Mr Knight-Poole was wearing a napkin and sucking on a dummy dipped in gin.”

“Oh yes, it was the baby party,” said Martin turning red.

“Please don’t be embarrassed; I was being pushed in a perambulator by Custard Featherstonehaugh!  And please call me Catherine.”

“Martin… please.  I say, you won’t say anything will you?  I don’t think that the Newchurches would approve of baby parties or of me, and Stephen wants to do this hike so dreadfully.”

“Not if you don’t tell them that I live in Belgrave Square.  Sandwich?” she asked producing some corned beef and pickle between two robust slices of bread.  Martin found he was chatting pleasantly and was almost sorry when they reached their station.

They had been climbing since Manchester and the smoke and fog of that city had gradually given way to sunshine in the Vale of Edale.  It was a picturesque village of flint cottages nestled into the scattered trees on the valley floor and surrounded by cultivated fields.  All around was the brooding presence of the unclothed high moors where moving clouds suggested that the sunshine should not be taken for granted.

The Old Nag’s Head was the public house and Martin made for its rose embowered doorway before Stephen stopped him.  “The Newchurches are t-total and so are several of the other members.”

“Oh,” said Martin for the second time that morning. 

Instead they went to the village shop and bought ginger beer, sandwiches and bars of chocolate and other things that would be easy to carry; the fresh air had made Martin unaccountably ravenous.  The Ramblers set out for The Peaks and followed Newchurch in an untidy straggle, with the crunch of sturdy boots on the gravel and much clinking of tin plates and mugs.

Martin didn’t find it too difficult and Stephen, who was terribly fit, thought nothing of it, despite carrying several heavy items for the plain girls including two extra pairs of boots and a saucepan.  When Stephen forged ahead these two girls would inevitably hurry to walk alongside him and ply him with questions.  Perhaps to escape their attention Stephen increased his pace, only to be told firmly by Newchurch to keep back as he was the leader: “I am familiar with this walk, Mr Knight-Poole, and I wouldn’t like you to take us all into a peat bog or off a cliff.  Besides, it sets a bad example to the others, so if you don’t mind…please fall back.”

Catherine slid alongside Martin just as Martin noticed the young man with the harelip was now walking with Stephen up ahead.  They talked for a few minutes then silently watched the toiling Hester who was having trouble with her long scarves and oriental costume. Martin could see her plump figure perspiring freely.  “Hester seems to be having difficulties, should I offer to carry her ropes and pegs; she’s dropped them twice?”

“That would be nice of you Martin.  She does struggle— her pack will be full of chocolate and cake— and give the rope to me as I wouldn’t want it all to be lost as we’re sharing a tent.”

“Why does she come?  She’s plainly not enjoying it.”

“Didn’t you know?  She’s Newchurch’s mistress and a fellow Fabian.”  Martin looked at her again and then picked out the spare figure of Newchurch at the head of the group.  “I know,” she said, “they’re an odd couple.”

Catherine now walked alongside Hester and was assisting her while her former position was taken up by the latecomers who prattled on at first about their garden and then their grandchildren.  “Have you ever been to a so-called black mass, Mr Poole?” said the man suddenly.  Just as he spoke Martin noticed that up ahead the young man had slid his hand onto Stephen’s buttocks.  Stephen made no move to remove it and Martin guessed that Stephen felt sorry for him.  He saw him give a little rub to gauge their firmness and Martin knew what the naked hairy orbs felt like through the material.  “I beg your pardon, Mr Withers?” said Martin, pulled back to the extraordinary remark he had just heard.

“I said have you ever been to a meeting of the Esperanto society?”  There was a certain look of relief in the eyes of Mrs Withers.

“Why no, it must be terribly interesting.”

Thus encouraged, Withers gave a full account of the origins and benefits of the artificial language, which were not interesting at all, and the topic of satanic ritual was left stillborn.

Catherine returned and gave Martin Hester’s iron pegs, which he put in his own rucksack.  Up ahead one of the plain girls was used to draw the young man with the harelip away from Stephen and the other one was now at Stephen’s side, adjusting her beret to a more fetching angle.

Presently Martin and Stephen were walking together.  They were now beyond the cultivated valley and were crossing moorland studded with weird rock formations.  Suddenly there was a gunshot and the party halted.  Newchurch held his hand up in warning.  There were no more shots, but the group looked around.  A few minutes later a figure came riding up.  He was dressed as a farmer.  “You’re trespassing; this is private property!” he cried gruffly.

“We’re just using this path to reach Kinder Peak,” shouted Newchurch.  “It’s a public path.”

“It is not sir, it is private property,” he repeated.

“I take issue with that, but what harm are we doing?  This is uncultivated land and we are merely walking across it.”  Martin looked around.  It was bleak and stony and there were not even any sheep.

“Go back the way you came,” cried the farmer “or I will shoot!”

“But we are nearly to the stream—it would be longer for us to go back.”

“I don’t care; you have no right to be here.”  He discharged his gun again into the air, making them all jump.

“Ramblers!” cried Newchurch like Henry IV, “We are going to keep walking to the stream.  If this fellow threatens any of you, I have a pistol in my rucksack and I will shoot him in the kneecaps.”

He waved them forward and they moved at a smart pace in the direction of the stream, which apparently Newchurch knew to be the boundary of the irate farmer’s demesne.  Stephen took Hester’s rucksack from her shoulders and positioned himself between the farmer and Martin.  They almost ran across the little wooden footbridge, but Newchurch kept them from doing so fearing that there might be an accident and to preserve the dignity of the Peckham Ramblers.   When they dared to look back there was no sign of the man.

“Now Ramblers, please don’t be alarmed,” speechified their president, “I have far worse problems to deal with at His Majesty’s Post Office Sorting Office in Clerkenwell every day.” There was a murmur of laughter.  “His type is all bluster and we are only exercising our ancient rights to innocent passage along footpaths and across uncultivated ground.  It is the right of every Englishman…and woman,” he added with a little bow towards his wife.  “We will walk for another hour and then rest while Miss Tibbits tells us about the geology of the area and then about another hour should bring us to Kinder Scout where we will make camp for the evening at the foot of Kinder Downfall.

The next section of the walk was up Jacob’s Ladder— a rocky path with shallow steps that would have been used by packhorses in olden days.  It was a tough pinch and they were glad to pause at Edale Cross, an ancient monument.  “You don’t really carry a pistol?” asked Stephen.

“Of course not, Mr Knight-Poole.  I am a follower of Mr Gandhi and satyagraha— that is, resistance without violence, but,” Newchurch added ruefully, “the risk was that he might not have heard of the Mahatma and he wasn’t to know I was not armed.”

The trees had long been left behind and interest turned now to mosses and ferns that clung to the rocks.  Periodically, when the cloud lifted, someone declared that they could see Manchester on the horizon.  Up on Kinder Low the Ramblers found themselves in a weird world of dangerous peat bogs and narrow ‘cloughs’ with rushing brooks, tumbling to the valley way below.  The tors were carved into fantastic shapes by the elements: mushrooms, woolpacks, chairs, seals and, Martin thought, penises.  It was here that Miss Tibbits gave her talk.  It was quite good, but Martin couldn’t remember any of it and was only conscious that he liked Miss Tibbits and was glad of the rest.

They continued, downhill this time, to a level grassy area below the spectacular waterfall, which, Newchurch told them, flowed backwards when the winter wind whistled up the narrow valley and the volume of water was greater than the meagre summer trickle they could see on this day.  They were lucky because the mist thinned as the afternoon wore on and the views were ‘sublime’, as Martin believed the correct adjective to be.

The little group went about pitching their tents and collecting dry heather.  Some aimed for views of Kinder Downfall while others tried to avoid the wind.  Still others chose the wind in the hope that it would lessen the midges that had swarmed.

Newchurch organised some of the men to head down towards the sheet of water they were told was the Kinder Reservoir where there was a forest.  Here they gathered dried branches and small logs for the fire.  Someone had brought a hatchet.  The fire both cheered and united the group and soon potatoes were being roasted in the coals and sausages were being fried and dispensed to those that were carnivores.  Newchurch held court and talked about the philosophy of rambling and then about the coming vision of the world as prophesised by the Fabians.

It was nearly midsummer and so the sun set very late however, before it had the chance, it became cold and the mist thickened, obscuring the peaks above them and finally everything else outside their fire.  The Ramblers retired to their respective tents.

Even in the utter darkness, Martin had the feeling that there was a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing between the tents— especially those of the married couples— and this was accompanied by giggling and even the odd raised voice.  Clearly hiking involved aspects hitherto not disclosed to him.

Martin secured the flap on their tent and felt for their bed on its base of heather.  His teeth chattered.  “Mala, take your clothes off,” said Stephen in the dark.

“But its freezing, Derbs,” he whispered.

“Take them off, I want you naked; you know the rules and you won’t be cold with me.”

This Martin knew to be true and he also knew in his heart that, in this, he was bound to obey Stephen— Stephen with his urgent needs— so he did as he was told.  It was awkward to undress and the cold cut him like a knife but when he wriggled under the blanket, which already covered the unclothed form of Stephen there was the glorious intimacy of their touching skins and Martin could feel both their hearts beating in their chests as they were pressed together— his hadn’t seized with the cold after all— and he was happy. 

There was very little room in the tent and Stephen took up a good deal of what there was and so Martin clung to Stephen for warmth and for lack of room to stretch out.  Martin’s nose was almost in Stephen’s mouth and he felt he was breathing in what Stephen exhaled; it was very intimate.  They dared not talk above a whisper, even though their tent was a little removed from the others.

Stephen rubbed his hands over Martin’s back and pert buttocks.  “Are you warm now, Mala?”

“Yes, Derby.  This is very nice, isn’t it?”

There was little need for kisses as they were already so close as to be almost one.  Stephen was hard of course and he was gently rubbing his member on the blond ribbon of coarse hair that ran down from Martin’s navel.  “Put it between my legs Derby,” he whispered.  Stephen tried to bend it— it was difficult— and Martin assisted matters by lifting his right leg as far as the cocoon of blankets would allow.  With a snap it was between Martin’s buttocks— in the ‘clough’ between his cheeks— and Martin made little movements so it slid pleasantly up and down.

“That’s nice, Mala.”

They could now hear rain falling on the canvas.  It was just a gentle patter at first but it soon became quite heavy and then the sound blotted out the outside world entirely, intensifying the exciting impression Martin held of their being alone in the universe and of his being warm and safe with Stephen.  They could now risk being a trifle more noisy.  “Don’t touch the canvas or it will drip, Mala,” said Stephen.  The tent was so small that Martin dared not move.

“Do you think you could put it in me, Derbs?”

Stephen tried manipulating his big cock; it was a struggle.  “It’s long enough,” he whispered, “but I’m far too hard to bend it.”

“Please try Derby.”

Stephen tried thrusting his hips and groin while Martin tried to move his legs and bottom slightly in the straightjacket of the blankets under the low canvas ceiling.  It was no use.

Stephen then concentrated his mind and, had it been light, Martin would have seen his furrowed brow was beaded in sweat:  Mala wants us inside him so badly; he’s next to us panting and his hole is red and gaping...No, don’t picture that!  You know what you must do; come on, deflate so you can go in!   Don’t tell me you like it well enough as it is; it will be even better when we’re inside him, but you have to bend first.  No, no, I will not think of him begging and dripping for us; that’s just what you want, damn you.  You’re not co-operating and this is not working.  I’m taking action: Cute little kittens in a basket. Sago pudding. Mr Baldwin.  Queen Mary.  Do you remember Miss Tadrew’s winter bloomers on the clothesline?  Think of Mr Chilvers sunbathing on the roof; he’s taking off his dressing gown and his stomach is as white as a lump of butcher’s suet…

 “That’s it Derbs, it’s flexible like a snake,” said Martin feeling behind him.  “Can you put the tip in me now?”  Martin gave a soft groan; it was more than just the tip.  Stephen could feel his contented exhalation of breath, for Martin’s mouth was merely an inch from his own as they faced each other.  “How did you do that?”

“I talked to my penis Mala; it’s my best friend after you,” said Stephen simply.

Martin stifled a giggle.  Martin knew that Stephen’s body was indeed a work of Nature— if not a wok of Art.  This he had known since he first saw him on the log at fifteen.  It should therefore have not been surprising that Stephen had a unique relationship with his own body.  Thus he knew he must do honour and service his demanding lover without bringing down the tent or advertising their lewd activities to the members of the Peckham Ramblers, who were no doubt occupied with matters of their own.

“Does it answer you?” asked Martin after a pause.

“Not always; it can be quite wilful, but I always know what its thinking.  Don’t you talk to yours?” asked Stephen, almost seriously.

“Not greatly, Derbs, mine has only one eye and is blind; I’m not sure if it has ears at all, but nothing would surprise me about your one.”

“Very droll, Mala.”

“But if I did, Derbs, it would surely be jealous as your one is my second best friend too.”

“It heard that, Mala.  You shouldn’t have said it so loudly because it’s conceited enough as it is.” 

***** 

Martin awoke first.  Stephen was next to him with his big arms around him, keeping him warm.  He felt behind—he was still oozing with Stephen’s seed.  He smiled to himself and tried to push it back inside where it belonged.  Then he felt his own dried ejaculation on his stomach.  There was some on Stephen’s moustache.

His little movements stirred Stephen who was awake in an instant.  “I’m going to bathe in Mermaid’s Pool.  Do you want to come Mala?”

“No Derbs, it’s far too cold.  You’d better put on some clothes first.”

Stephen pulled on his trousers and managed to stuff his cock down the left leg and opened the tent flap to emerge into the mist-shrouded camping site.  There didn’t appear to be anyone else about and the fire, doused by the rain, was unlit.

Stephen carried his towel and some soap down the slope and rounded a tor to find the little pool.  He walked gingerly in, unsure of its depth.  The water was like ice.  He held his breath and dived under only to emerge a few yards away.  He swam back to the bank and picked up the soap.  He stood in the shallows and soaped himself all over, stretching his foreskin and cleaning his second-best friend carefully.  Then he dived into the pure water once again to rinse himself before making for the shore where his towel and trousers awaited.

Noises from the camping ground and the smell of bacon alerted him that the others were up and, realising he was hungry; he hurriedly pulled his trousers on and was still drying himself when he came to the tor.  There stood the two plain girls in their berets that Stephen had come to loathe.  “Good morning, Mr Knight-Poole,” said the first one in a singsong voice.

“We were looking at the view.”  Stephen turned around; the mist hid any prospect.

“They’re cooking breakfast,” said the second one.  “We’ve seen kippers and thick sausages.”  They both giggled.  Stephen nodded and walked on, annoyed that he had been spied upon.

The breakfast was good and the fire brightened the foggy morning.  They spent an hour taking down their tents and repacking their rucksacks.  Finally the group followed Newchurch up the path towards the summit of Kinder Scout.  The fog thickened and it was decided to turn back and head along the path that skirted Kinder Reservoir.  The walk up William Clough to Ashop Head was steep and conversation dried up as the hikers concentrated.  Finally it was downhill alongside the Ashop River; it was easy, but the fog had followed them and soon Newchurch at the head of the group was lost to sight and all Martin and Stephen could see from the tail was the rump of Hester who was also lagging and all they could hear was the occasional tinkle as she dropped her equipment and she’d pause to try and find it in the murk.

Martin took advantage of the fog to place his hand where the young man with the harelip had so enjoyed placing his; he loved feeling Stephen’s muscles working.  Emboldened, he managed to slip his hand down inside the seat of Stephen’s tweeds and felt the naked landscape with its hairy margins.  He saw Stephen smile at him indulgently.  Next he spat on his index finger and worked up and down the narrow valley and finally slipped it in.  Stephen grunted, but did not object.  Martin felt his finger being massaged— even crushed—by the muscles as Stephen walked on and he could see the left leg of Stephen’s trousers distended with his erection and was thrilled that he was the cause of it.   He kept it there for 20 minutes until Stephen whispered urgently: “Pull it out or I will spill, Mala.”

“No Derby, I want you to hold off until we reach the pub,” said Martin firmly.  “You’d better talk to it; I’m not finished with you yet.”  Even through the fog, Stephen could see an evil gleam in Martin’s eyes.  Martin cruelly increased the flexing of his finger while he managed to rub Stephen’s buttocks with his palm.  Stephen let out an involuntary groan.  Hester must have heard because she called back through the fog: “Keep up Ramblers!  Pull your finger out, Mr Poole, and catch up!”

Martin now had his finger in as far as it would go and was gouging at Stephen’s insides. He could see Stephen concentrating, no doubt in silent dialogue with his ‘friend’.  “Please Mala!” he begged.

“No,” said Martin severely.  “I want you to hold off; you know the rules.”

A mile later Martin said:  “Are you ready for a second one, Derbs?”  There were beads of sweat on Stephen’s forehead and an agonised look in his eyes, but he nodded.  There was a pause and then he marched on with his muscular rump tormented almost beyond endurance until ten minutes later a muffled shout came through the fog; the Snake Pass Road had been reached.

“You may release,” said Martin grandly and Stephen used his free hand to undo his flies.  At the side of the road, while Martin increased his ministrations to a frenzy, Stephen gave but two strokes to his rampant cock before a single long stream of his seed erupted forth and disappeared into the thick fog.

He let out a shuddering sigh and Martin extracted his digits slowly, being careful not to tear the tender flesh. Up ahead there was a faint call from Hester: “They’re at the road; are you coming Mr Knight-Poole?”

“Oh Mala, that was intense. Thank you.”

Martin bobbed down and cleaned up Stephen’s obedient friend until Stephen thought it was time for its retirement and he buttoned up his fly.

They were now on a road and there was the inn.  Martin, not caring for the temperance sentiments of the group took Stephen inside and bought him a well-deserved pint.

It was a simple matter now to follow the road over Cold Harbour Moor and then down to Glossop with the train to Manchester.  This they reached by 5:00 in the afternoon.  They managed to settle into corner seats on the London train where they were undisturbed by the others.  “When we get home I’m going to give you a proper bath, Mala.  You will need a careful scrubbing all over.”

“Will you be in the bath with me Derbs?”

“Naturally—I can’t do it from a distance.”

“Well Mala, what do you think of rambling?” asked Stephen after a pause.

“It had its moments, Derbs…”

“But you don’t want to do it again?”  Martin did not reply.  “It’s alright, Mala, I’d rather go rambling with you at Croome.  I’ll let the Peckham Ramblers drop.” 

Martin was now asleep on Stephen’s shoulder but a set of points made him rouse.  “Mala, I can feel my ‘friend’ still oozing from that going over you gave me; would you like to clean him up?”

“We can’t here, Derbs!” exclaimed Martin opening his eyes.

“No, but there is the lavatory at the end of the corridor.”

“Don’t be silly, Derbs, that would be terribly risky—even if we were quick.” 

The train had just left Leicester, gathering speed again and the rhythmic click of the wheels was hypnotic, but Martin was now not sleepy and he took out a pencil and a book of crossword puzzles. ‘No honey from this thorny walk’; six letters, second last is an ‘L’. A bramble is thorny and no honey means subtract a ‘b’- ramble- too easy and what a coincidence!  He suddenly spoke:  “Left or right in the corridor, Derby?”

To be continued…