“Turn left here at Thornley Road; that becomes Purley Way,” said Martin looking at the map that showed the newly opened ‘by-pass’ road.

“Very good your lordship.   I presume I will be paid extra now that I’m a chauffeur as well as a valet.”

“No you will not, Carlo, but I will remember to put it on your reference when I sack you,” replied Martin with a straight face.  “Now, have you the tickets?”

“Yes your lordship and I will meet you at the George V late this evening.   I should be there at about 10:00.  Will you and Mr Stephen be alright to dress yourselves?” 

“Yes, and undress each other too I hope, Carlo,” said Martin with a wink— for it was impossible to be cross with the valet and there were no secrets between them.

“I said we will manage our clothes, Derby!” shouted Martin turning around to Stephen in the back seat.

“Yes, we’ll go somewhere where we don’t have to dress tonight and then I’ll give you a good fucking, Mala.”

“You are so romantic, Derbs,” said Martin sarcastically but secretly looking forward to what Stephen had in mind.

The boys were off to Paris by aeroplane.  This was a thrillingly novel way to travel.  Stephen, who had flown during the War, was a little apprehensive, but Martin felt only excitement.  Carlo would travel by more conventional means, taking their trunk, while Martin and Stephen would be in Paris in just two and-a-half hours compared to Carlo’s eight.  It was a wonderful age.

They were beyond the suburbs now and in the green fields could be seen the vast hangars associated with the aerodrome.  A left turn brought the Rolls Royce up to a large modern building in white stucco that looked as if it had been lifted from The Embankment and dropped into its rural setting.  The central feature was a square tower of four floors with a gallery all around for spectators.  Atop this was a tall lattice radio mast braced by wires at the four corners. Through the swing doors was a handsome galleried ticketing hall and Carlo carried their single small suitcase up to the counter.  The case was weighed and then Martin and Stephen had to step onto the scales too.  They were early and so Carlo was dismissed.

“Oh, your lordship, might I wait and see the aeroplane take off?  I’d like to go up onto the roof to watch.”

There was no objection to this and Martin himself was quickly absorbed in the scene outside the big windows as they drank their tea.  On the smooth sward, aeroplanes ‘taxied’ into position facing into the wind and with a roar of powerful motors, hauled themselves into the heavens, bound for Le Touquet, Brussels and Cologne.

Stephen looked around too but was not overly keen on what was going on outside.  The new building had only recently been opened amid great publicity by Lady Maude Hore, the wife of the Secretary of State for Air and the daughter of the Earl of Beauchamp.  It was all very complete, with facilities for pilots and their crews, for wireless operations and for the comfort of the passengers.  There was a large hotel to one side for travellers.  A series of clocks caught his eye; they displayed the times in various capitals and Stephen was suddenly conscious of how small the world had become.

Just before 11:00 they were ushered outside towards their ’plane which neither of them had seen get into position.  It was called The City of Birmingham and was an Armstrong Whitworth Argosy biplane with three giant motors and a metal hull slit by a bank of windows.  A set of steps was positioned below the door to allow the passengers to board.  Stephen, holding the small suitcase and Martin with his overcoat over his arm, stood back to let a pair of attractive young ladies board and then an elderly lady and her husband.  There were half a dozen other passengers—mostly businessmen.

Inside the cabin, wicker armchairs were arranged facing forward on either side of a narrow aisle.  At the rear was a small cocktail bar and the steward pointed out the lavatory next to the tiny kitchen—for this was the Silver Wing Service and luncheon would be served whilst in the air.

Stephen and Martin were seated opposite each other.  Martin looked across and saw that Stephen was rather tense.  “Look Derbs, can you see Carlo up there on the balcony next to the clock?”  Stephen did chance a look out of the little curtained window and spotted their valet on the rooftop.  He gave a small wave and Carlo must have seen him, for he waved back excitedly.  “We will have a drink before luncheon, won’t we, steward?”

“Yes, your lordship, but not until we have taken off.  You might like to take some barley sugar so that your ears do not pop as we climb—some find it unpleasant.”  He handed a jar to Martin and then to Stephen.  Martin was glad of any distraction for his friend.  It took some minutes for all the passengers to settle and to stow their luggage in the overhead racks.

At precisely 11 o’clock the idling engines roared into full life.  It was deafening and the ’plane began to move along the bumpy ground.  Martin wished with all his heart he could have held Stephen’s hand and he saw Stephen gripping his armrest in fear.  Then the ground miraculously fell away and they were up.  Martin loved it—even the feeling in his balls and the pit of his stomach.  He looked out of the window in fascination at the patchwork of fields and roads—like a map come to life.  Then he tore himself away to look over at Stephen and was relieved to see that he had relaxed a little.  It was too noisy to speak, so he gave him a brave smile that was returned.

Martin sat back, sucking his barley sugar.  It had been an interesting year.  At home he had been frustrated in having got no further with his library, but the first building allotments overlooking Pendleton had been successfully leased and the outgoings on the estate had fortunately slowed while income had increased slightly.  When Carlo’s broken arm at last came out of plaster, just after Christmas, Martin was determined that he should learn to drive and so he took lessons from Martin along with the farm agent, Blake, for whom Martin had purchased a ‘baby’ Austin motorcar so that he might better get about the estate.

There had been the February marriage of Louche from the garage to Miss Yates from the haberdashery.  Then there was the christening of Angela Rous-Poole, the baby daughter of Charlotte (nee Polk-Stewart) and his third cousin, Lord Philip.  Martin smiled.  Constance, the poor dear, would have to submit to her husband’s repeated love-making until a male heir was produced.  The death of the Earl of Asquith had come as no surprise, but it was sad none-the-less.  Poor sharp-tongued Margot was now alone.

Stephen had worked from November until April on an engineering project with Jack Thayer— it was a study into the possibility of building a new type of concrete bridge to replace the crumbling Lambeth Bridge.  The French engineer, Eugene Freyssinet, was already constructing a similar one near Brest and they were examining it.  The project was greatly fraught, with the Board of Works favouring a conventional steel bridge, and then came the worst floods on the Thames in living memory and Stephen’s project came to nothing.  But at last there was the opportunity for the two of them to travel to the Continent, first to Paris and then on to Berlin where his cousin Friedrich was now living.

Martin must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, for the steward was now at his elbow with a gin and tonic.  Stephen was already half way through his and was looking anxiously out the window where, through the clouds, could be seen the English Channel.  The craft was now flying level, and the noise had decreased somewhat but the vibration was still disturbing.  Up ahead, one of the pretty girls was looking rather distressed and was being comforted by her friend while the steward was preoccupied with serving the luncheon.

Martin motioned with his eyes to the scene and Stephen saw at once what he must do.  He left his seat and went forward and crouched beside the ill young lady.  Martin saw him give the girl— give both the girls— a brilliant smile and he produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.  She turned a little and Martin saw her smile and she dabbed at the margin of forehead that peaked from beneath her cloche hat.  She must have asked him the time because Martin saw Stephen flick his manly wrist from beneath his immaculate cuff and look at his watch.  I love his wrists.  Then Stephen offered his overcoat for her knees; she declined but her friend took it while the ill girl accepted his copy of The Tattler to read.  This edition had a photograph of Stephen taken at a ball at the Park Lane Hotel and the young lady would be sure to come across it.

Martin watched the little scene: Stephen’s broad back and shoulders, the turning of his head from side to side to encompass both young ladies in his conversation, their coquettish responses to his gallantry…Yes, but he’s really all mine, thought Martin with a delightful squeal of selfishness.

The luncheon was a light one whose principal course was cold chicken, but the tea was hot.  They ate while France slipped by beneath them.  “Were cruising at 90 miles per hour,” said the steward as he removed their plates, “so we should reach Le Bourget early.”

“So we’ll be in Paris just after 1:00,” calculated Stephen, “that’s 2:00 Continental time; Carlo will be just arriving at Victoria with the whole trip ahead of him.”

“Yes, it’s amazing, Derbs.  I wonder how your friends are?” said Martin, nodding in the direction of the two young ladies.

“I’d better go and see,” said Stephen who seemed to have completely overcome his own nerves.

Excitement grew among the passengers as Paris was approached and it was fortunate indeed that the pilot had to travel right over the City of Light – although it was daytime– to make his approach to the aerodrome, which was to the northeast, just as the clouds were breaking up.  With gasps, the familiar landmarks were revealed from new angles before the machine dropped lower and lower and Stephen’s apprehensions returned.

The plane banked and slowed and the ground came up alarmingly.  There was a bump, but no worse than an omnibus hitting a pothole, and the ’plane coasted to a halt before moving closer to the buildings.  The boys stepped out onto French soil; there were some customs and passport formalities, and then they found a taxi for themselves after Stephen had offered the first one to the young ladies.

 *******

The Hotel George V was quite new and situated in an elegant avenue just off the Champs Elysées and the travellers walked up to the manager’s desk in the lobby, which was manned by a very superior looking person.

“I am the Marquess of Branksome and I have booked a suite and a room for my servant,” said Martin.

He looked at them disdainfully and, for just for a moment, was trying to decide if Stephen was the servant. “Oui Monsieur and your luggage?”

“Nous avons volé.”

“Les anglais sont remarquables.  Vous n’aurez pas besoin de l’ascenseur pour le troisième étage.” 

Stephen intervened.  “His lordship means: Nous avons voyagé par avion…dans  un aeroplane,” he added.

“Oui Monsieur,” replied the irritating functionary with absolute lack of interest.  “If I could just have your details, your valise will be sent up.”

The lavish decoration of their suite in gold and roseate tapestry was ridiculous and they laughed at the obvious comparison with The Plunger’s mother’s house, Fayette, near Dorking.  Several layers of curtains had to be pulled aside before the windows framing the most wonderful view of the boulevard were revealed.  Martin flung them wide and the spring afternoon of Paris flooded into the room.  There was the smell of the leaves on the chestnut trees and the perfume of gasoline from the Renault taxis that honked their musical horns.  There was the clicking of smart footwear on the pavement below and the sounds of voices—French voices—faintly wafting upwards.

If one cared to, one could see many great sights of Paris, with the exception of the Eiffel Tower, which was behind them.  The Grand Palais was just beyond the trees and the Tuileries beyond that.  The dome of Les Invalides across the river rose above the other buildings and they knew Notre Dame was just a little further to the left but obscured by the American Cathedral which was their neighbour.  It was all very lovely.

The boys kept being interrupted by hotel servants but at last they were alone.  “No, not on the bed,” said Martin, eschewing the one in his room, which was a tableau of satin, “here on the floor in front of the windows.  I want to feel the breeze.”

Martin took charge and removed Stephen’s coat and shirt but left his trousers on.  “Arms behind your head!” he commanded and Stephen obliged, flexing his muscles arrogantly and looking at them with his chin resting on his chest.  Martin pushed his head into the fragrant armpits—the black pits of Derbyshire that gave Stephen his name.  “I have decided I love your wrists, Derbs,” said Martin, pulling his right arm free and lavishing kisses on the wrists with their bristly hair which teased his upper lip.  Stephen thought that Martin was becoming over excited so he gently pulled him off and kissed him.  “What is your favourite part of me, Derbs?” asked Martin, as Stephen undressed him.

“You know it’s your rosy cheeks, Mala.”

“They don’t appear very rosy and the moment,” said Martin as he craned his head and eyed them critically in the gilt pier glass.  Stephen gave each buttock a resounding slap with the flat of his hand.  Martin caught his breath and there were tears in his eyes, for it stung.

“They’re rosy now, Mala, just how I like them,” observed Stephen with a trace of evil that sent a thrill through Martin’s being.  Then he knelt down and felt their heat and placed soothing kisses on them.

“No, no, keep you trousers on, Derbs,” said Martin when Stephen stood and reached for his belt.  “I love the feeling of your cock moving down your left leg.”  Martin, who was naked, embraced Stephen and kissed him and ground his own groin into Stephen’s expensive tailoring.

When Martin had enjoyed this long enough, Stephen’s urgent cock was released and Martin prepared himself to be entered.  The Spong’s was with Carlo and the trunk, so Stephen made do with his saliva, miraculously, at one point, putting his own cock into his mouth to prepare it for his lover.

“You think after all this time you’d be loose enough for me to enter easily, Mala,” said Stephen as he began the familiar struggle.

“I’m sorry, Derby, it must be all the exercises you’ve got me doing.”

“No, don’t be sorry, I love it.  I think it’s partly my fault; I think my cock has grown thicker with all the exercises I’m doing.”

Martin couldn’t see Stephen’s face to tell if he was being serious or not.  It may well have done—nothing about Stephen’s cock was conventional—and of late he had been exercising frantically and having a tiresome time of it with his ladies’ group at the village gymnasium.  Every week there was a new demand for their president to instruct them in some new form of exercise, from the Roman rings to the use of the Indian clubs.  On these occasions Stephen wore his Bike jockey’s strap under his short trousers or his American ‘tracksuit’ for modesty and two of these had recently gone missing from the changing room in suspicious circumstances.  Lately he had taken to putting the key in the lock to stop Mrs Whitstable, the sexton’s wife, from peeking when he showered.

“Please keep trying Derbs.”

“You still cry after all these years, Mala.  I do love you for that, although it breaks my heart.”

“They’re only tears of love, Derbs.”

“I’m in Mala.”

“Just stop for a moment.  Look at that view.”  They were on the richly textured carpet, strewn with cushions and pillows and facing into the gentle breeze from the open windows that ran down to the floor.  Martin lay on his stomach, entranced by the prospect, with his elbows on the carpet and his chin propped in his hands.  His posterior was raised on a tapestry bolster for Stephen’s convenience, but his thoughts were momentarily elsewhere and Stephen too was lost in the prospect of the French capital as he rested on top of him.  “This is nice, Derbs.  The air is cool, but you’re keeping me warm all over.”

“My cock’s warm, Mala, but I don’t think I can stay still like this for very long; it’s telling me to get moving.  Do you mind?” 

Martin didn’t mind and gave himself over to Stephen.  He always thought it was important that Stephen be pleasured thoroughly and commensurate with his capacity and was thrilled to be the agent–or should that have been the receptacle?—for this, but he was adamant that he was no limp rag doll under the ruthless pounding of that big cock and he liked to make his own contribution to their love-making.  However this ambition was not always honoured in the observance when electric thrills seemed to paralyse Martin’s own body and Stephen’s superior strength seemed to render him powerless under the onslaught.

Martin was now pushing his buttocks back onto Stephen and was gymnastically flexing his hips, causing the most wonderful feeling on his own insides.  “Just like that, Mala!” gasped Stephen who must have been enjoying it too as he pulled painfully at Martin’s hair for leverage.  I will have to see if I have a bald patch afterwards.

“Lift me up, Derbs,” Martin heard himself say and so Stephen stood with Martin’s arms around his neck.  Martin tried to wrap his own legs around Stephen’s, but his were spread too wide so Martin’s dangled rather uselessly and he thought of a rag doll again— but it was too late.  In this position Stephen had every inch deep inside Martin who was now babbling incoherently as Stephen lifted him by the buttocks up and down on his cock.  Martin tried to look out the window at the romantic view, but it was no use.  He tried to look into Stephen’s sweat-soaked face, but he found that hard too and so kept his eyes shut tightly.  At some point, he felt his imprisoned cock spilling between them and sometime later—was it ten minutes or half an hour? — he imagined he felt Stephen unloading his seed into his guts.

He returned to consciousness but it was only to find that Stephen was still going and that he was now on the hotel drawing room floor on his back with Stephen on his side behind him, lifting one of his legs high into the air to give himself unfettered access to his aching, sopping hole.

Then it was over and they were lying in their own sweat and filth on the floor, their breathing slowly returning to normal.  “Was that alright, Mala?”

“Not bad, Derbs,” replied Martin making the effort to be droll.

“It’s just that you were crying out and saying such lewd things I wanted to be sure.”

“Lewd things?  What are you talking about?  I don’t say lewd things.”

“Yes you do, Mala, and I’m too ashamed to repeat them, but I think some of the Parisiens passing by could tell you.”

“What sort of things?” demanded his lordship.

“Well… there are a lot of rather obvious exhortations—I suppose you mean these as an encouragement to me not to suddenly take it into my head to stop fucking you and go off and drink beer, listen to the wireless or take the dogs for a walk, for example.  Then there are the religious ones and I’m impressed with the number of saints and Biblical figures you can call upon…There are a lot of swear words too.”

“I do not swear and you’re making all this up.”

“I’m not and I love it, Mala.”

Martin was chagrined, but was feeling very happy and there was nothing he could do about it and if Stephen loved it…

They rested and then went for a walk.  On the Champs Elysées they stopped for coffee and cognac and watched the people.  They sought out modest places where they might dine and one on the Rue Dartois looked good and not too grand and they determined to go back there at 8:00.  Then they went south to the Cours La Reine and finally down the steps to the quay.

“This is lovely, Derbs.  Can we come back here at night and hold hands?”

“If you like Mala.  We don’t get to do much hand-holding in London, do we?”

Martin sadly agreed. “I’m feeling very romantic, Derby,” said Martin in a soppy voice.  “It must be Paris.”

“Would you like to walk in the Tuileries?”

“No, Derbs.  What I want is to go back to the hotel and for you to fuck me again.”

Stephen hitched up his trousers as if to get ready and they moved smartly up the stairs to the street and headed in the direction of the Hotel George V where Stephen proved equal to the job in front of him.

 *******

Carlo arrived very late and, fortunately, so did their large Innovation trunk.  Martin and Stephen were already in bed when the hotel porter wheeled it into the drawing room where Carlo told him to leave it.  The noise however roused Stephen who came out into the lamplight, naked and scratching himself and looking a trifle haggard with his hair all awry.  Nonetheless he greeted Carlo warmly and asked him about his trip.  Carlo replied that he was tired and asked about his masters’ novel way of crossing the Channel.

“His lordship is quite converted to flying, Carlo, and don’t tell me you’re exhausted because his lordship has been so excited by the flight and by being in Paris and everything that he has worn me out.  I can’t sleep; no sooner do I make it than he is milking it out of me—he’s insatiable, Carlo!  My poor cock is so sore and my balls ache like a bad tooth.”  He groaned and gingerly touched his low hanging balls with his cupped hand.  “And I should have known what would happen after quenelles de chevreuil—he’s always like this when he’s eaten game.”

Carlo had unfastened the wardrobe trunk and was looking in one of the drawers.  “Here, sir, perhaps this might help.”  He held up a black Bike jockey’s strap— the sort that Stephen wore for boxing and for the gymnastic ladies of Branksome-le-Bourne.  “It will give you some support.”  Stephen put it on and felt himself and decided that it did give relief.  Carlo looked at the bulging piece of cloth that fought to contain Stephen’s manhood and at the straining elastic straps, which so attractively subdivided his meaty rump.

“But my cock is dreadfully painful, Carlo.  Do you think these are teeth marks?” he asked pulling the strap down again.  Carlo didn’t think so but suggested some Spong’s Soothing Salve might be efficacious and found one of the large tubes (at 1/6d) in another drawer.

“Allow me, sir,” said the factotum, removing his suit coat and squatting between Stephen’s legs.  He generously applied the emollient to his master’s enflamed member and proceeded to rub it in accordance with the directions written in very small type on the box.

“That’s nice and cool, Carlo, thank you.  You can stop now.”

“Just a bit more, Mr Stephen.”

“Oh no, stop Carlo, it’s hurting!” But Carlo didn’t stop and soon Stephen’s heroic appendage had swelled under the eager servant’s hand—and indeed now two hands were required to slather the proprietary humectant up and down the great shaft.

Now Stephen was groaning with what Carlo vaguely hoped was pleasure rather than pain and urging Carlo to take him into his mouth, which at the moment was slack and drooling expectantly.  Carlo did and knowing that he could not take him all, tried to do justice to the first few inches, paying particular attention to the sensitive head and foreskin, which had been so cruelly abused over the last 24 hours, with his tongue.

Carlo now had a firm grasp on each of Stephen’s buttocks and Stephen was leaning back and brutally pistoning his cock into the back of Carlo’s throat, making him gag and fight for breath with each powerful thrust as Stephen firmly grasped his skull.  It was not going to be quick, but Carlo was determined to milk him and there were frequent changes of grip and technique, including Carlo’s massaging the sweaty cleavage between Stephen’s cheeks with his fingers.  At last Stephen, in a ragged voice, asked: “Where do you want it, Carlo?”

Carlo finally pulled off and said, “On my face, please sir,” as Stephen took over with his own two hands.  There was a climax and an eruption and five jets of Stephen’s seed splattered the valet’s visage.  One hit his eye and it stung.  Stephen apologised.

Carlo was pulled to his feet and they stood together before the looking glass.  Carlo’s face was a sticky mess.  “It looks beautiful, Carlo,” and indeed Carlo thought it did too.  Stephen intercepted a stalactite dangling from Carlo’s nose with his index finger and fed it to him and they returned to looking at themselves in the glass.  “How does it taste, Carlo?”

“Thick and nourishing as usual, sir.”

“I’m glad,” said Stephen to the reflections.  He put his big arm around Carlo and Carlo could feel his sweaty armpit soaking his shirt. “Do you think we should go for a walk down the Champs Elysées now?  I could put on my strap so I don’t embarrass you.”

“I would be proud to, Mr Stephen, but it might not be prudent.”

Stephen grinned and wiped his cock on the glass, leaving a trail.  “That’s one his lordship didn’t get.”

Carlo reluctantly washed his face and he cleaned up Stephen with his tongue and a more conventional flannel and then helped Stephen on with the strap.  They tiptoed into the bedroom where Martin was sleeping contentedly in a tangle of stained bedding, like a dog’s basket.  Stephen gently scooped him up— he was very strong— and Martin stirred a little but did not wake.  Carlo remade the bed as best he could and Martin was reinstalled in the cool, crisp sheets and Stephen got in beside him.  “I think I can sleep now, goodnight Carlo.”

“Goodnight, sir,” replied the valet and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

 *******

The next few days were spent very enjoyably in the French capital and it would be hard not to have done so when the boys were young and attractive, with plenty of money in their pockets and attitudes of mind generally open to new sensations and impressions, which Paris unfailingly served up.  They sent Carlo with their cards to call on their neighbour, Comte Etienne de Beaumont, and received an invitation to dine on the following night, which they accepted.  It was, as they expected, an elegant and intellectual affair and they struggled to keep up with the discussion of avant-garde painting and film with which all the guests were intensely involved in between their planning elaborate costume balls and fetes for their own amusement and for the evident provocation of the bourgeoisie. 

The guests on this particular evening numbered a very elegant architect and his wife, M et Mme Mallet-Stevens— whom Stephen realised was the man who designed their pavilion on the plage at Antibes a few years before.  Seated opposite was Mallet-Stevens’ client, the Comte Charles de Noailles and his wife, Marie-Laure (who were evidently great patrons of the Arts) while at the other end of the table were the American photographer who called himself Man Ray and a very odd-looking Spanish film maker named Buñuel.

Martin and Stephen found it hard to keep up with them all and wished The Plunger were beside them.  Stephen was intrigued when there was a discussion about a rich Spanish dilettante who was having a famous architect build him a house overlooking the Arc de Triomphe, whose interiors and exteriors were bizarrely reversed and where the roof garden was to have a carpet of grass and wildflowers on which stood Eighteenth Century furniture made of concrete.  The ornate ‘looking glass’ over the fireplace was really a trompe l’oeil and it actually framed the famous view, it was explained, and the hedges could be slid aside by an electrical mechanism to reveal all of Paris below. “It will a defiant coup against bourgeois convention,” declared Man Ray, and Stephen wondered if the traditional arrangement of house on the inside and garden on the outside was not so worn out after all, and of how many from the middleclass, with its allegedly outmoded notions, would ever get to see this new take on it in any case.

Martin on the other hand was too ill-bred not to ask his host, as the evening wore on, about the footmen who were serving and clearing and pouring wine in the usual manner, but were utterly silent and were wearing papier-mâché masks like death casts and whose features were inscrutably blank.  The Count explained that he had grown tired of his servants’ personal facial gestures intruding on his carefully composed dining arrangements and so compelled them to wear these masks, which they did apparently quite happily—although this, of course, was impossible to verify.

For their part, Martin and Stephen found it difficult to contribute to the clever and elevated conversation at the table.  Stephen made some headway by saying nothing but smiling brilliantly, but then he stopped fearing that this gesture might clash somehow with the Comte de Beaumont’s elaborate table arrangements—although it did not prevent his host from feeling him quite shamelessly under the table.  Martin had a surprising success when he described how Miss Graham of the Green Gables tearoom in Branksome-le-Bourne derived all the recipes for her pastries from beyond the grave as she was in contact with the spirit of a great French chef who had formerly worked, in life, at one of the larger hotels in Paris.  Buñuel did not seem to think that this was odd at all and Man Ray declared that he could certainly photograph this phantom as he dictated his recipes for Eccles cakes and Victoria sponge to the sensitive proprietress of the teashop via the planchette.  Then he found they were all ears for the story of Mr Whipple, the new chemist, who had taken to wearing a toupée on his bald head, but only when he was alone in his own house— this had been reported by his charwomen—and never on a Sunday.  The table all offered their own explanations for this intriguing mystery.

 *******

The weather was fine for their last day in Paris so Martin took Stephen out to Versailles.  He had not wanted to go because the events of 1919 were still fresh and painful to recall.  In that dreadful year he had faced life alone as Stephen had taken himself off to Australia.  Still, Stephen was beside him now and the War had been over for nearly a decade and Versailles was a splendid tourist spectacle, just a short journey on the train.

The gardens claimed their first attention and while they loved the playful fountains, the straight vistas cut through the forest left them cold, as did the scrolls and arabesques of the parterre.  “I like the natural style of the grounds at Croome better, Derbs,” he said, waving his stick.  “Our Cyclops fountain can’t compare to all these, but I can see now where the idea for it came from, but it is the absence of flowers—except for those hemmed in by all that box—that I can’t bear; it’s all magnificent but so empty.”  Stephen thought Martin’s critique was heartfelt, but was more interested in how the water was raised for the spectacular display and asked their guide endless questions about the mechanics.

Inside they wandered from salon to salon, usually looking up at the painted ceilings to see how Louis XIV was depicted in allegory or in actuality.  All was glory and vanity.  The absence of furniture gave a curious feeling of poverty to the place— as if the French State had just had the bailiffs in — which perhaps wasn’t so fanciful.  From the Salon de la Paix they entered the Galerie des Glaces — the Hall of Mirrors — which was perhaps the highpoint of the tour.  They tried to imagine it filled with its original silver furniture that must have carried through the architect’s idea spectacularly.

“The table where the Peace Treaty was signed stood here,” said Martin.  “I was away over there out of the way.  Clemenceau sat here, I think, with Lloyd George, and over there was President Wilson with Colonel House— do you remember meeting them?”  Of course Stephen did.  “I was glad that the War was over, of course, but I hated all the dirty dealing and deceit that went on behind the scenes and felt sick — physically sick—when those two pathetic German representatives were made to sign so shamefully.  No one even stood for them.  It was a bloody business, Derby, and I couldn’t wait to get back to Croome.”  Stephen nodded in understanding.

There were 17 lofty arched windows matched by 17 false ones between marble columns topped with the fleur-de-lis and filled with panes of Venetian mirror glass.  Martin and Stephen stood before one of these arches and looked at their own reflections, as kings must have once done, against the backdrop of greenery that lay through the windows behind them. 

Stephen stood a magnificent six-foot-three and amply filled his navy blue suit with its natty double-breasted waistcoat.  He adjusted his maroon tie and the collar of one of his new shirts with the pins and he squared his broad shoulders.  Then, still holding his grey fedora in his hand, he pushed back a stray lock of his wavy jet-black hair that had come loose and had fallen across his left eye— his right eye in the looking glass.  His was a handsome face, still young, with a straight nose and strong chin bisected by a small cleft.  A pencil-thin line of soft black whiskers formed a moustache above his narrow upper lip.  His eyes, beneath their dark brows, shone blue and honest.

Martin stood next to him at five foot ten-and-a-half with paler skin, but noticeably blushed with pink from the sun, and a carefully brushed head of blond hair the colour of butter.  His face was noble and handsome too, but sensitive with it.  His eyes were blue and searching and set in a narrow face—like his father’s—with full lips parted as if he were just about to say something.  His suit was pale grey and his tie was amber with black diagonals above a tight waistcoat with narrow lapels of its own.  Carlo had sent him out with a white rosebud in his buttonhole.  His hat was black and he carried it in his right hand along with the ebony stick with the ivory knob that Stephen had given to him one Christmas long ago.  He watched himself put his free hand nonchalantly in his pocket and survey his own image carefully for any flaws of character.

The guide and their tour group were leaving the room at the other end but they remained behind, with Martin staring transfixed at their images— those cold doppelgängers who stared back and mocked them from their silver plane.  There was only one truth, he said to himself, and it wasn’t to be found in the seductive but deceitful reflections of this place.  It was the truth that came with knowing and loving another human being and through that, oneself, and it couldn’t be seen or photographed or reflected in a looking glass— no matter how magnificent or flattering; it could only be felt in the heart.

To be continued…