Martin put his hat down and hooked his umbrella over his arm and wound the tin monkey and set it on the counter.  “Come and look at this, Derbs,” he called across the shop to Stephen who was inspecting the model cars, which were far too expensive.  The angry-looking tin monkey in its red tailcoat and oriental fez, performed a mad dance, jigging up and down, clapping its hands (or were they paws?) together before finally becoming exhausted as the spring unwound.  Stephen felt a little exhausted himself, but Martin remained unquenchably enthusiastic.

“We’ll take a dozen of these too,” he said to the assistant who was busy with his notebook.  “So that’s a dozen of the monkeys, a dozen of the pig violinists, the same of model flying boats, two dozen of the celluloid dolls and 18 bears— they’re for the very little ones.”  Most of these toys were of German make, but things were tough in Germany too, observed Martin.

“What about the older children, I often think they miss out?”

“I don’t know, Derbs, what do you think?”

“Well, could we afford swimming costumes; the American ones by Jantzen are very nice, but they are twelve shillings?  I think there are about 15 young people coming.”

“I think that’s a marvellous idea, Derbs, but we’d better get the committee to estimate the sizes so we don’t insult the young folk—they can be quite sensitive at that age.”

The committee that Martin referred to was comprised of, apart from themselves, the vicar and Mrs Destrombe, Mrs McGrath from the shop, Miss Tadrew and Mr Whipple the chemist— despite the widespread knowledge that he wore a toupee in the privacy of his own home, except on Sundays.  Its object was to organize a Christmas party for distressed local families on the estate and Martin had dug deep into his financial reserves to make it a success.

The slump of 1929 had turned into the financial crisis of 1930 and now, in 1931, the word ‘depression’ was almost all that people talked about.  On the estate there were many families whose breadwinner had lost his job and even more who were on short time—maybe just two or three days a week over at Tatchell’s or at the spinning mills in Wimbourne Minster and the local farmers, with the depressed prices for farm produce, were not hiring as many casual labourers as they had in better times. 

Up at the golf links the hotel had many empty rooms and membership dropped away each July when it came time for members to renew their subscriptions.  This year, during June, a rumour had gone around that the Prince of Wales and his brother, Prince Henry, were to play in a tournament and when Sir Bernard Bonnington came to present the membership figures for the current year it appeared that numbers had miraculously held.

“How did this rumour about the Princes get started, Sir Bernard?” asked Martin as he perused the happy figures at the club’s meeting.

“I’ve no idea your lordship,” said Sir Bernard, turning rather pink and looking up at something on the ceiling that must have just caught his eye.

In the three villages on the estate there had been a noticeable contraction in custom in the shops and some adult assistants had been let go or replaced by boys, however the Green Gables tea rooms prospered for some occult reason or perhaps it was just that a sixpenny tea was an inexpensive treat compared to something else.

At the school there were six fewer teachers and parents tended to remove their daughters as soon as they were legally allowed to work and even their sons would be pulled out if a job were forthcoming.  Ramsay McDonald’s Labour government, who Martin thought were not up to the mark at all, did however make good on their promise of an infant school in Branksome-le-Bourne, which was now operational three days per week in the Woman’s Institute Hall until economic conditions permitted the construction of a new building on land that Lord Branksome himself had donated.

1931 had been a miserable year by any measure and the Christmas party was seen as a welcome bright spot.  There was to be a Christmas dinner ‘with all the trimmings’ and a present for every adult and child.  It was quickly apparent that the W.I. hall would be too small, so Martin offered his own house and kitchens for the event.  One hundred guests soon became two hundred and they would be sat down in the Gothic Dining room into which a second table was to be squeezed and there would be trestle tables and chairs set up in the Great Hall and in the Spanish Dining Room as well.  The staff from London would come down to serve and extra hands from the village would be employed in the kitchens. 

Martin had come up with a clever present for the adults: a delightful drawing of a nativity scene was combined with a representation of their own little church with its square tower.  When this was opened, it ‘popped up’ and a fresh pound note was found inside wrapped in red ribbon.  “Money is more useful to these people than anything else, Derbs.  I know that they will not be insulted by the gift.” 

***** 

Martin and Stephen had just returned from a meeting of the committee where the presents had been wrapped and the pound notes tied.  “Chilvers,” said Martin to his butler, “You will be very busy on Christmas Day, are you sure you will be able to manage— I mean none of us are getting...?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Chilvers slightly annoyed, “of course I will manage.  In fact I expect I will have very little to do if I organise properly beforehand.”

“You surely don’t mean you would be capable of undertaking even more duties?  That would be remarkable and certainly a tribute to your professionalism.”

“I’m quite sure,” replied the servant tartly.

“Well then, we want you to be Father Christmas.  We have the costume already.”

Chilvers realised that he had fallen into a trap— a cleverly sprung one.  “Very good your lordship,” he said and he meant it. 

***** 

A year before Martin had received a surprising letter in his morning post.  He shook Stephen who had gone back to sleep after a hard night’s work.  “Derbs, listen to this.”  Stephen rolled over and opened one eye.  “…I am very interested in establishing my factory in Dorset in a rural location and I would like to discuss the possibility of locating to a site on your estate.  What do you think of that?”

“What do you think, Mala?”

“I think he has a damn cheek.  I will never countenance filthy factories with smoking chimneys and slag heaps here.  Why doesn’t he go to Wareham or Leeds or somewhere?”

“It does seem an odd choice, Mala.  Let me see the letter.”  He sat up, scratching his naked chest and read the letter that Martin passed over to him.

“He wants to manufacture speakers for talking pictures, Mala.  I doubt if it will be a factory like you are imagining.  His present factory in Portsmouth just operates in an old Salvation Army hall and it is being demolished for an extension to the Royal Naval Dockyard.  He says his wife’s people came from here and that’s why he wants to return.”

Martin did not look convinced. 

“Mala, I think you should at least agree to see him.  Even a small factory could employ a lot of local people and, believe me, it won’t look like Tatchell’s foundry with blast furnaces and great steam hammers; it will be clean and all-electric I should think.”

“If you say so, Derbs,” said Martin, losing interest and reaching under the blankets in the hope that a steam hammer of another sort might be working another shift. 

In the event, Mr Sutton, the factory owner, proved to be a very pleasant young man who arrived for dinner in evening clothes with his very attractive wife, their baby daughter having been left with her nurse at The Feathers.  Martin and Stephen liked them instantly and there was something in their attitude— something hard to define— that seemed to suggest that they understood and were accepting of the relationship between their hosts.

“You have been friends with his lordship for a long time, Mr Knight-Poole,” said Mrs Sutton pleasantly to Stephen, who was seated next to her, “or so my mother tells me.”

“Yes, since we were lads,” replied Stephen.

“I envy you; I grew up in an army family and my parents were constantly moving and John has moved— I don’t know how many times—getting this business started and I hope that this move, if it happens, will give us some stability.  We have our daughter to think of now.”

“Well, I have always lived right here.”

“But not always in this house I believe?”

“No,” said Stephen smiling guiltily, “and I now live in London as well and I have a little cottage in France.  I’m very lucky.”

“Well I’m lucky too.  I have found my John and I love him and believe in him…and I think you’re lucky too,” she said looking up the table to Martin who was talking to her husband.

Stephen gave a curt nod in affirmation.

“My grandmother had told me all about you, Mr Knight-Poole.  She said you were the finest young man on the estate and also the most handsome.” 

Stephen blushed and fiddled with his fish knife.  “Yes, I knew her and she was very old and her eyesight was weak.”

“She did wear glasses,” said Mrs Sutton laughing, “but her judgement was unimpaired until the end.  “My grandfather loved you too.  Do you remember Abel Henchard?

“Yes, I used to visit him in the Infirmary and talk to him about cricket.  What did he say about me?”

“That he looked forward to your visits and you were a fine all-rounder with a devastating off-break.  My grandmother used to say that the estate was in safe hands with you up here with Lord Branksome after the old Lord Branksome died.  And am I right in saying that you will not be leaving him?” 

Stephen went red but could not be offended by Mrs Sutton’s personal questions, as she was so beautiful.  “No, I will never leave him.”

“I didn’t think so.”  She moved in her chair to face him.  “Mr Knight-Poole, I think I should tell you something.  I hope with all my heart that we can move here, but I have something to say that might change your opinion of us, but I somehow doubt it will.  Perhaps you understand the necessity of living a lie in order to make any sort of decent life possible; sometimes a wrong thing is needed to produce a greater right one, don’t you think?  I mean the sort of wrong thing that doesn’t hurt others.”  Stephen looked at her, but said nothing.  “I am not Mrs Sutton, Mr Knight-Poole, not legally at any rate.  One day I am going to have to explain it to little Susan; we live together as man and wife but John is still legally married to another woman.  They married towards the end of the War, but she was troubled and it did not work out and she won’t divorce him.”  She saw Stephen give her a look.  “I did not meet John until just four years ago and I assure you I was not the cause of the estrangement.  Have I shocked you?”

“A little, Mrs Sutton —I’m sorry, but I can’t think of you by any other name.  You are right; I do understand about subterfuge, but I think you or your husband should tell Lord Branksome if you think it relevant to the factory, but I don’t see how it could affect the manufacture of electrical equipment.”

“As to the first, I do hope you will call me Diana.  I was hoping that you could tell Lord Branksome yourself, when you think it might be a good moment.”

Stephen paused in thought.  “I will tell him when we are in…” he was nearly going to say ‘bed’ but pulled up short then said: “…undisturbed.  And it’s Stephen, please.”

“You see, Stephen, other people might think that a man who would lie about his marriage would lie about other things— business things.”

“But surely not if they knew he had a woman like you, Diana,” said Stephen focussing his blue eyes under their dark lashes intently upon her.  A lock of his black hair had come loose while he had been enthusiastically eating his sorbet and had now fallen adorably over the left one.

“My grandmother said you were a charmer and now I’ve seen it for myself, but thank you for saying it.”  She gave him a lovely smile, full of understanding, and Stephen smiled back radiantly causing her to drop her napkin.

At the other end of the table Martin and Myles were engaged with her ‘husband’:

“I understand Mrs Sutton’s mother is from here, Mr Sutton,” said Martin.

“Yes, Lord Branksome, from Pendleton.  She was Sarah Byles and her eldest sister was a maid in this house, her name is Liah.”

“I remember her.  It was when I was still at my prep school and she used to pack my box at the end of the holidays and always made sure I had a Madeira cake in a tin to take back.  She left us to marry a fellow from Lyme— a rent collector.  Am I right?”

“Exactly and they live there still, although he has long since retired.  Have you given any thought to my proposal, Lord Branksome?”

“Well, I don’t quite understand it.  You will be making speakers?”

“Yes, we make them for cinemas— you have them in the hall in Branksome-le-Bourne.”  Martin considered this; the hall had been leased three evenings a week to a company that screened talking pictures, but it had not been a success and most people took the bus to Wareham to go to the films in a proper theatre.  “And we hope to manufacture smaller ones for wireless sets, but have not been able to break into that market yet.”

Myles spoke up: “But you have chosen a place with no access to ports or coal and there isn’t even a railway line, Mr Sutton; we are just a farming community.”

“We do not need those things, Mr Myles.  Our materials arrive by van and we rely on electric power.  Clean air is most important for the manufacturing process.”  He turned to Martin.  “It is clean and quiet process, Lord Branksome, I don’t think you need fear a noxious trade.  I presently employ 25 hands in the factory in Portsmouth—half of them women—and five women and three men in the office.”

“So these people would be coming across to us?” asked Stephen who had stopped flirting and was now listening. 

“Only about half— none of the women—and we would be looking to employ local people.  Your bus to Wareham will be vital to us.”

“I should tell you, Mr Sutton,” said Martin, “that the County Council are interested in purchasing the bus company from me when economic conditions permit.”

“We’ve all heard that phrase ad nauseam,” said Mrs Sutton.”

“I don’t think they would be buying it to close it down, although it is not greatly profitable, I must confess.”  Sutton nodded in recognition of his frankness.  “How big would your factory be Mr Sutton?”

“About 13,500 square feet for the factory and it would be over just one level except for a mezzanine.”

“That’s not very big,” observed Myles.

 “There would also be a small administrative block at the front or side; it would be of two storeys, I imagine.”

“There would also be the canteen, John,” said his wife.

“Yes, and we would need to hire staff for that; we don’t have one at Portsmouth.  We would also need a driveway for deliveries and a space for motors and bicycles.  One day we might need to expand.”

“I’ve seen some of the new factories on the Great West Road; they are set back in gardens.  I think I would have to insist on any factory being attractive and I’d want some control over its design—I hope you understand; I have my tenants amenity to consider.”  Sutton nodded.  “I think I could let you have a lease on the land, if the local authority approves it all, at a low figure for the first five years, but I would want rises when the lease is renewed.  Is that agreeable?”  Stephen was impressed with Martin’s business acumen.

“Yes, that is understood, Lord Branksome, but I must emphasise that I think Audion Speakers will bring money into the estate in other ways—there will be a demand for housing and an increase in local business and that sort of thing.”

Martin had grasped this and was pinning much on it being the saviour of the local economy.  They agreed to go and look at sites in Pendleton on the following day and Martin insisted that they must remove from The Feathers and come to Croome and stay for a few days at least.

The conversation turned to more general topics once again and the evening passed pleasantly. 

“So do you think I made the right decision, Derby?”  Stephen moaned.  “Was that a yes or a no?”

“Right,” gasped Stephen who had his head buried in the mattress.  Martin gave one long lick to the length of his exposed and vulnerable cleavage.  Stephen tasted of must and sweat and, well, Stephen, Martin decided.  He was contemplating how Stephen would look with the ribbed dildo made of Vulcanite inserted into him; it would be a pleasure for them both.  His hard-muscled buttocks were framed by his meaty thighs as he knelt on the bed and because they were spread wide, his bollocks swung freely and Martin grasped them in his fist and stretched them, causing Stephen to moan again.

“Mala, I have something to tell you.”  Martin was surprised and stopped his exquisite torture.  Stephen flipped over, his big cock coming to rest just a second after the rest of him.  “Mala, Mrs Sutton told me they weren’t married.”

“What?” said  in surprise, dropping the dildo where it rolled under the bed; Chilvers would fish it out in the morning

“He can’t get a divorce and she asked me to tell you.”

“But they have a little girl and that would make her…”

“I’m afraid so, in the eyes of the law at least, but not in our eyes, surely?”

“But they are going to be living amongst us, Derbs; what will people think?”

“Need they ever find out?  Diana told me in confidence.”

“Diana?  You mean Mrs Sutton?  Or actually you mean Miss Someoneorother.”

“We became quite friendly; she’s awfully nice.”

“I saw that, Stephen, but living in sin; I mean this is Dorset, not Chelsea.”

“Mala,” began Stephen with cunning, “what were you about to do before I spoke?”

“I was going to stick my tongue in your bottom then insert a very large…”

“…into your homosexual lover,” completed Stephen, “who lives under your roof and whose true relationship must only fool the really stupid or naïve.”

“You mean they are the same as us?’

“In a manner of speaking.”

Martin was thoughtful for a few minutes.  “I suppose you are right.  “I was remembering when my father turned out a couple from a cottage in Lesser Branksome.  They were posing as brother and sister, but they weren’t.  I wasn’t supposed to know, but William explained to me what all the fuss and whispering was about.  I don’t suppose there is very much difference and they do seem like nice people.”

“And they confessed on our first meeting, Mala; I think they’re quite honest.”

“Well, we’ll say nothing and hope that the wife doesn’t come storming back.  It is 1931 and I must move with the times.”

“Martin didn’t feel like continuing with his pleasuring of Stephen and instead got into bed next to him and ran his finger lazily over Stephen’s black eyebrows and down his nose, brushing his lips and finishing in the cleft in Stephen’s chin.  “I suppose our life is dreadfully sinful, Derbs,” he said lost in thought, “but we’ll just have to face Our Maker and take it on the chin.  Do you think He understands about love outside of marriage?”

“I’m not sure I believe in God, Mala.  He can’t understand love if he can’t understand how much I love you.”

This gave Martin something to think about and he fell asleep in Stephen’s arms. 

***** 

It was while the Audion factory was being built that Martin took ill.  They had been out to Pendleton on their bicycles to inspect progress, for the construction was being done in record time by local builders anxious for the work and tradesmen could be got for a song.  The two-storey administration block made of clinker brick was the most prominent feature and was, as yet, windowless.  It screened the factory at the rear and was set back some 20 feet from the road.  Low wrought-iron gates gave onto a concrete motor drive that skirted the buildings and returned to the road on the other side.  It was a modern building, but the bricks and the roof of pan tiles were not glaring intrusions and it stood out less than its neighbour, the Infirmary with its tall gables and was greatly preferable to the wood and coal yard that it replaced.

“Come on Mala, I want to have a look at the granolithic floor which Sutton said is dust proof,” said Stephen stepping over some planking.

“You go Derbs, I’ll just stay here to catch my breath.”

Stephen turned to look at him.  “You don’t look too good, Mala,” said Stephen noticing how pale and sweaty Martin was.  “Are you all right?”

“Feel a bit funny Derbs,” Martin managed to say and took a couple of steps before he collapsed at the knees and was sick on the ground.

Stephen rushed over to him and helped him up.  He sat him on the low brick fence that would one day border a little garden that would divide the factory from the road.  “Why Mala, you’re burning up,” he said feeling his forehead.

“I’ve been feeling funny all day.  I think I want to be sick again,” he said in a panicked voice.

“I think we need to get you home.  Come and wait in Mrs Hebden’s cottage and I’ll ride back and bring the motor.”

“No Derbs, don’t leave me; I feel dizzy.  Take me home on your bike.”

Stephen said that he thought that would be difficult, but Martin was insistent— even unreasonable— and so Martin’s bicycle was abandoned and he was propped on the crossbar of Stephen’s cycle with his arms about Stephen’s neck and Stephen proceeded awkwardly for home, having to stop several times for a rest.

At the house the bicycle was dropped in the drive and Stephen carried Martin to the door, alarmed how he seemed to be burning up despite being convulsed with shivers.   Chilvers opened the door and Martin was carried straight up to bed where he was tucked in with a hot water bottle.  Mrs Capstick appeared with a thermometer and when Martin paused in his vomiting, his temperature was taken.

“One hundred-and-three, Mr Stephen; that’s quite high.  I will give him some aspirin if he can keep them down.”

“How do you feel, Mala?” Stephen kept asking.

“I’m aching and light-headed.  Can I have a sip of water?”  Some was given and he was sick again. “I’m cold.”  He didn’t feel cold, but the fire was lit and an extra blanket was put on the bed.

“I think it’s the influenza, Mr Stephen,” opined the housekeeper.  “Shall I ring for Dr Markby?”

“No!” said Martin, “I’ll be better in a little while— in the morning probably.” 

Chilvers, Mrs Capstick and Stephen looked at each other.  “We’ll see,” said Stephen.

When the others departed Martin said: “Get into bed with me Derbs.  I’m cold.”  Then, “Perhaps you’d better not; I don’t want you to catch it.”

Stephen, who never seemed to get sick, already had his clothes off and was under the covers.  He felt Martin; his feet were like blocks of ice but his head and neck were covered in perspiration.  “Thank you Derbs, you are so nice and warm; better than any bottle.  I’ll never be cold again.  I might just close my eyes for a bit.”

Martin spent the rest of the day napping and sweating.  Stephen remained in bed with him except when he needed to change the saturated sheets or call Chilvers for water.  He wouldn’t even get out to eat himself and so a tray was brought to him.

Martin’s temperature was now 104 and he was given more aspirin before nightfall.  He spent a disturbed night and in his nightmares called for his dog Job who had been dead many years and then very softly sang as he had his arm around Stephen’s broad, comforting back.

If you hang on to me while I hang on to you
We’ll dance into the sunshine out of the rain
Forever and a day
We’ll make a cabaret
That’s all I’ve got to say.

Stephen thought he was delirious.  “Do you remember that show?” he said in a weak voice. 

Stephen did.  “Hang on to me, Mala.  It will be morning soon and things will be better.”

But they weren’t.  Martin was still feverish and now coughing and still complaining of aching bones.  Stephen found he was drenched with Martin’s sweat, although Martin himself felt cold to the touch. 

Stephen and Carlo managed to get Martin up and into a warm bath.  Stephen washed him and dried him and covered him with talcum powder like a baby and put him back to bed.  Martin said he felt better but clearly wasn’t and Dr Markby was sent for. 

“It’s influenza.  Now don’t look so alarmed, Stephen; it is not Spanish ’flu; his lordship would be a lot sicker.  There is nothing I can prescribe except rest and cold compresses and aspirin every four hours.  He must drink, but don’t force food on him just yet.  We will have to wait until there is a ‘crisis’ in his fever.”  He left, promising to return the following day.

Again Stephen spent the day in bed with him.  He was terribly worried and Martin told him not to be.  “Will you read to me, Derbs?  I’m sick of just lying here.”

Stephen chose an American thriller called The Maltese Falcon, but after just one chapter Martin said he felt tired and would sleep for a bit.  By evening he was very sweaty again and his fever had increased and Stephen began to worry again, fearing that Martin might have convulsions.  Martin seemed confused and he thought about calling Dr Markby again, but didn’t.  Instead he went to see Miss Tadrew and confided his fears to her.  She sympathised impotently and told Stephen the same things as Dr Markby had.

Dr Markby came in the morning.  Martin seemed no better and his temperature was quite elevated even at this time of day.  His noble face was deathly pale beneath his golden hair and his eyes were red-rimmed and his lips like marble tombstones.  Stephen was pale too— with anguish—as Dr Markby listened to his friend’s laboured breathing with his stethoscope.  There was a discussion about whether Martin should be sent to the hospital in Bournemouth, but this was never resolved. There was another terrible night and then another day with no improvement.  Martin’s cough had become worse and Stephen held him tightly as he racked his sore ribs.

That night Stephen didn’t get any sleep again as Martin thrashed violently about in their bed and was uncontrollably shaking at what Stephen guessed was 2:00 in the morning.  He turned on the lamp and gave him some more aspirin but Martin lost them.  Stephen cleaned him up and finally got back into bed.  Martin clung to him in his delirium, talking all sort of nonsense.

The next day Stephen awoke when Carlo softly opened the door.  He looked across at Martin who seemed to be asleep.  Stephen felt his forehead; it seemed cooler— the crisis had passed in the night and they had danced into the sunshine.

Stephen ate some breakfast at the table in their room.  At 9:00 Martin opened his eyes; they were red and matted and his voice was husky.  He looked around at Stephen, Carlo and Chilvers who were all watching him intently.  “I feel a bit better.  Could I have some black tea and perhaps a slice of toast?”

There was an audible sigh in the room and Chilvers disappeared on the errand.  “Come and get into bed with me, Derbs and tell me what has been happening,” said Martin in a husky voice that precipitated another bout of coughing.  Stephen shed his lemon silk pyjama bottoms and got in next to Martin.  He did not feel unduly hot or cold today.  “We were worried about you Mala; your temperature was very high.”

“You shouldn’t have.  I’ll be alright, but thank you.  I kept dreaming about you, Derby—silly stuff.”

Chilvers returned with the tray and tried to set it down on Stephen’s side.  It wouldn’t settle.  “Mr Stephen!” he exclaimed.  “I hardly think this is appropriate; his lordship is an invalid.”

“I’m sorry Mr Chilvers, I can’t help it.”  Martin reached across and moved Stephen’s erection to one side so he could have his tea and toast and Stephen grinned at the departing butler.

“You know,” said Martin as he finished the last piece of toast, “I think I could use some of your special medicine, Derby.”

“Do you think you should, Mala?  Chilvers is right, you know.”

“A little bit of what you fancy does you good,” said Martin, quoting Marie Lloyd.

When Chilvers returned Stephen was reading chapter two to Martin, but when the door closed again Stephen was kneeling astride Martin who had taken his cock in both hands and was sucking on the lovely purple head that protruded from the silky brown foreskin.  “Not too deep Mala, your throat will be sore.”  Martin did not take this good medical advice and was intent on pleasuring Stephen.  “Steady on, Mala, you’re supposed to be on a light diet,” complained Stephen as he was being chewed on, but Martin greedily took him and worked him over with his hands at the same time.  Stephen was softly moaning and flexing his hips.

“Spill for me Derbs,” croaked Martin when he took a breather and had another coughing fit.  “It comes without a prescription I hope.”

It did come; four days’ worth and enough medicine for a whole ward at the Bournemouth Hospital.  Martin swallowed more than a vial full and the rest ran down his chin and neck.

Chilvers returned with the post just as Stephen was cleaning him up.  He eyed Stephen’s naked form as he knelt over Martin suspiciously with the towel and thought he could detect something, but could not be sure, but he enjoyed the view for a moment.  “Dr Markby’s motorcar has just pulled up, your lordship.”

Stephen gave a few more dabs with the towel and then leapt from the bed to pull on some pyjamas and a dressing gown just in time.  Dr Markby smiled when he saw Martin sitting up.  “Ninety-nine-and-a-half; that’s better.  Let me look at your poor throat,” he said after listening to his heart and chest and feeling his glands.  Martin said ‘Ah!’ and his tongue was depressed with a little wooden spatula.  “There seems to be a milky discharge on the tonsils, but it’s not coloured.  I will prescribe some senega and ammonia.  You will need to rest for a few days yet, your lordship,” said the elderly doctor, patting Martin’s hand in a fatherly manner.

Martin smiled lamely.  “I will rest in bed, Dr Markby.  Stephen will see to that.”

Stephen did see to that and spent two days largely in bed with his lover with short breaks to walk the dogs and exercise at the gymnasium in the village.  At the end of the week Martin got dressed and came downstairs and went for a walk around his garden.

“Take me to Dr Markby’s, Derbs.  I want to ask him if I’m well enough to go to Antibes.  Will you come— just you and me?”

Permission was given, within certain parameters, and the following week they were on the train and heading into the southern sun.  Due to the economic conditions, the luxury Blue Train had been reduced to just two carriages attached to the Flèche d’Or but Martin and Stephen didn’t mind not dressing for dinner as it made packing simpler. 

As France sped by, Martin sat staring at Stephen who was seated across from him reading.  Who would have imagined that the urbane English gentleman in the expensive double-breasted suit was once the village stud?  He is so handsome and will be so even when that black hair is dusted with grey. 

No, he suddenly thought as he continued to stare, it must be the other way around: he was always meant to be like this but had been transformed into the youthful swain of Branksome-le-Bourne, perhaps by a wicked witch and it was always his destiny to ….No, he thought severely again, there is no such thing as destiny; one simply passes from one room to the next— things just happen.  It was a liberating thought.

“What are you looking at, Mala?” said Stephen glancing over the top of Vile Bodies.

“The man I love.”

When Mme de Blazon heard that Martin was convalescing she sent across special dishes every day and Martin had a string of visitors, including Mrs Chadwick, Mr Worth and Hélias, but most of the first few days were spent in bed cuddling with Stephen.  “It’s so lovely here, Derbs,” said Martin as he lay drenched in Stephen’s seed under just a light sheet as the warm flower-scented Mediterranean air percolated through the green shutters into the shaded bedroom with its stone walls.  “There’s nothing to do but relax and enjoy ourselves and England and the Depression seem a very long way away.  Do you think we can go swimming tomorrow?  I’m feeling much stronger and I think the sun would do me some good.”

“If you like, Mala.  You know, I was so frightened that I would lose you just a few days ago and now this happiness…well I just couldn’t have imagined it.”

“Why Derby, you silly old thing, do you think I would ever leave you?”  He kissed him on the lips and noticed that Stephen had tears in his eyes. 

***** 

The Christmas party would cost nearly £1300 and Martin had to touch some of his capital to make it possible.  During the dreadful years of 1930 and 1931 Martin and Stephen had many gloomy meetings with Daniel Sachs.  Sachs’ own business had also taken a hit—there would be no new racing yacht this year— and so much so that he was often able to spend weekends down at Croome with his wife and three little daughters. 

On these occasions Martin was careful not to mention business, for he liked Sachs and adored his three little girls—they both did—and he thought these weekends should be for pleasure.  Martin always made sure he had books and games for the girls and he would read stories as the two eldest sat on cushions at his feet and the youngest was on his knee wanting to turn the pages.  They loved Stephen too and he made up silly stories and played rougher games.  Growing up in Golders Green they knew little of country life and on fine weekends Stephen would take them looking for birds’ nests and badgers’ sets and he repeated the lore that he had learned at his stepfather’s knee.  Martin usually came along on these excursions, for he did not know a tenth of the things Stephen knew about his own estate and the wildlife thereon.  The two boys discussed getting ponies for the older girls and how much they would enjoy teaching them to ride.

By way of contrast, the meetings in Sachs’ City office were less pleasant affairs.  The value of all of their shares had fallen but, as Sachs repeatedly told them, their price did not matter unless they were forced to sell.  This, however, seemed to be of little comfort as their yields had also dropped— even for the likes of Imperial Chemicals and the Carlton Hotel—and these had formerly provided much of their disposable income in view of the low returns from rents and farming at Croome.  One bright spot had been the directors’ remunerations for the three big companies on whose boards Martin sat; these remained unaltered and Martin proved to be a surprisingly diligent director who carefully read through his papers, often going over them with a local accountant, to ensure he was not an unwitting party to a fraud.  Mr Hatry was serving a very long sentence.

 “1932 is bound to be a better year,” said Sachs repeatedly, “We just need to hang on, chaps.”  Uncharacteristically this optimism did not seem to be based on Sachs’ usual empirical approach and Martin suddenly felt sorry for him for, like the rest of them, he too needed to have hope, he realised.

“You know, Derbs, perhaps this depression won’t ever end,” said Martin as they walked through London.  “Perhaps this is just the way things are going to be from now on, or maybe until there is a revolution like in Russia.  Just like we could never go back to before 1914, perhaps we can never go back to prosperity.”

“That’s a gloomy thought, Mala.”

“Well, perhaps we are just fooling ourselves with all this cheer up stuff and ‘prosperity is just around the corner’.  I can’t see it.”

“That’s the trouble with corners.”

“Is this National Government a good idea?” asked Martin thinking of the new administration headed by the ailing Ramsay Macdonald but largely composed of Conservative and Liberal heavyweights, like Baldwin and Lord Spong, but not their own local member, Mr Noakes, who remained opposed to it.  “You know, I don’t recall Noakes making a single speech in the House of Commons, Derby. He just seems to draw his salary.  Do you think we need to find a more dynamic local member?

“Yet he agrees with the majority who just keep saying that we must cut spending and reduce wages and the dole.”

“Yes, I suppose they are right and that is what we all must do; I want to buy a new Rolls Royce, but of course I won’t.  Just like us, the government of the nation has to be frugal and try to reduce spending until better times come along.”

“Is it Mala?  That’s not what Mosley and his New Party are saying.  They say now is the time to spend.”

“That’s ridiculous, Derbs.  How could you tell an unemployed miner’s family to spend?  The government’s budget is no different from a household one — it has to balance.”

“Keynes says they’re not the same.”

“Who’s Keynes?”

“The famous economist.  He says that governments should spend to create work and that gives ordinary people money to spend in shops and that creates more jobs and a demand for manufactures.  The money is paid back with increased taxes.  I think I’ve got that right.”

Martin was unconvinced.  “Taxes are already too high and the government can’t just print money.”

“Yes they can.”

“That shows how little you know, Derbs, it has to be backed up by real gold.  It says on a bank note: ‘I promise to pay the bearer on demand five pounds’ and I can go into the Bank of England and exchange it for gold bullion — although that would be rather hard on the pockets.”

“But what is a pound really worth?”

“Twenty silver shillings of course.”

Stephen did not feel like continuing the conversation, so he changed the subject. 

***** 

At Croome Martin had just returned from a Parish Council meeting.  The need for a soup kitchen had been discussed and then dismissed; here in the country people were not short of food or firewood, but that it was discussed at all was a sign of the times.  Martin had set aside some rough land that would be suitable for allotments for those people who desired to grow their own vegetables, although most cottages already had their own gardens and Martin was reluctant to open it up to the unemployed in Wareham who would be unlikely, he thought, to come across on the ’bus just to dig potatoes.

Martin had been asked about the progress on the Audion factory and he was pleased to report that Mr Sutton thought it would be finished by Christmas and that the gentlemen himself was planning to build on one of the larger building blocks overlooking Pendleton.  These had remained unbuilt upon and were sitting vacant waiting until ‘economic conditions permit’.  The Council was very pleased to hear this bright news and Mr Destrombe observed acidly that Mr Noakes MP had done nothing to further employment in his constituency, but this aside was tactfully left out of the minutes as recorded by the secretary.

As Martin came into the Great Hall he found Stephen was waiting for him.  In his hand was a letter.  “It was addressed to the both of us, Mala; it’s from Dwight,” he said, referring to their American friend, Dr Dwight Sleeper Hoyt III from Chicago.  “He’s coming over here for a conference at the BMA and was wondering if he might stay with us— for a while he said.”

“No mention of Bunny?”

“No” said Stephen, looking grave.  “It doesn’t sound good does it?”  Martin shook his head.

A few weeks later Dwight turned up on the doorstep of Branksome House.  “You didn’t say what boat you were coming on, so we couldn’t meet you,” said Stephen, shaking his hand as Glass took his heavy suitcases.

“I went up to Canada and came across on the new Empress— no rolling in the St Laurence.  Could I have some British tea?  I think I need some before I tell you something.”

Of course the something was that he had left Bunny.  This came as no surprise to Martin and Stephen who had noticed the strain evident on their visit two years before and which had been detected in their letters during 1930 and then, this year, they received separate letters rather than ones purporting to come from both of them.

“He’s still in the apartment with Moses; Moses phones me regularly.  He’s a bit of a mess,” explained Dwight.

“Was he badly hit by the crash?” asked Martin.

“Pretty bad, not everything of course, but just about everything he had built up over the last five years.  Property has collapsed all over Chicago, but particularly on the west side; that’s what he was trying to do: develop another North Michigan, but this time on the west side.  He borrowed heavily and was banking on Congress Parkway being constructed; that won’t happen now until economic conditions permit and it will probably be too late for Bun.”  Dwight paused while Glass laid the tea.  “He was obsessed, Martin, you saw that and he had lost all that wide-eyed fun that I loved in him.  Besides, he’s found someone else—a young gun in real estate—that’s when I moved out.”

Martin and Stephen were distressed to hear of this parting, but knew that Dwight was right, for Bunny had changed and in fact had become quite impossible.  “Do you think one of us could ever change like that?” asked Martin as he lay with his head on Stephen’s chest.  “I mean they had been together ever since they were at ‘college’ — as they say — and I would never have thought…”

“And Bunny has been making whoopee.”

“So it appears, Derbs.  What an idiot he is; you couldn’t get anyone nicer than Dwight.”

“Maybe not, Mala, but we can’t interfere.   It’s something that they have to sort out themselves.” 

Dwight attended his conference, which lingered on for a fortnight and he settled comfortably into to Martin and Stephen’s routine of London and Dorset.  He went to each of their clubs as a guest, called on Martin’s aunt and cousins, attended The Plunger’s exhibition (held with some other painters at the Grafton Galleries) and assisted with the Christmas preparations at Croome.  Dr Markby called on him to assist with a diagnosis of Bowen’s Disease.  Some weeks passed and Dwight made no sign of wishing to return home.

In London they saw the Cochran’s Revue and Martin worked very hard for some weeks to obtain, through Mr Noel Coward, seats for his remarkable new musical play, Cavalcade.  The performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, was on the eve of the General Election and it was a white tie affair.  It was a double treat, because it was correctly believed that the King and Queen would attend and even Dwight, a citizen of a vigorous republic, was excited and asked all sorts of questions, most of which had answers that disappointed him.  With the three of them were Teddy and The Plunger who were also anxious to see the spectacular production that was the talk of the town with its cast of more than 400 and its use of hydraulic lifts to change gigantic sets, even bringing a steaming locomotive onto the stage it was said.

When the curtain went up there was the whole panoply of their own lifetimes laid out before them: an authentic music hall on the eve of the Boer War with all the fashions and side whiskers of Martin’s mother’s day; the sinking of the Titanic; the War and all those familiar songs associated with it that the older members of the audience found themselves humming and, after many vicissitudes, a modern nightclub of today with saxophones and chromium furniture where an unhappy modern girl—improbably the daughter of the family’s butler— sang a blues lament.  Finally, despite all that had gone before it, a toast to the future was made by the family’s patriarch whereupon an enormous Union Jack was unfurled and the National Anthem was spontaneously sung—by the audience.  There was not a dry eye in the house, as they say, and Martin was particularly moved and agreed with the author that it was indeed ‘still pretty exciting to be English nowadays’.

They flooded out into the street.

“Wasn’t the relief of Mafeking glorious?  I remember my nurse taking me to the window so I could watch the fireworks over the Embankment.  And did you see their Majesties go up into Mr Coward’s box during the second interval, Dwight?”  Of course he had— the whole theatre had and the King had made a curtain speech.  “And when they went on their honeymoon and we learnt it was the Titanic—that brought back memories!”  It did.  “And the cake walk, remember that dance?  And the zeppelin raids.  You know, Britain is at her best when our backs are to the wall.  It makes me almost burst with pride.”  The others agreed and recalled things that resonated with their own lives.

“Derby, you’re very quiet.  Didn’t you like it?”

“I’ll admit it was spectacular, but I thought the whole thing turned into mere propaganda; a revolting hymn to the status quo.”

Martin was shocked.  “What do you mean?”

Stephen was angry.  “Wasn’t the relief of Mafeking glorious?  No it wasn’t.   How dreadful the war was but so thrilling and so justified…those beastly Huns after all.  It was all so uncritical, Martin; it was jingoism.  There should be no celebration of War and that’s what this whole bloody show was. 

“I thought Coward was one of us,” he continued hotly, “a member of the younger generation who was not going to swallow all that guff, all that warmongering and flag waving and saying that being British is more important than anything else when the whole nation is really in a mess and nobody is doing anything to fix it because if we just go on in the same old traditional way, why, we’ll pull off another Mafeking when our backs are to the wall.  He’s joined the middle class, that’s what he’s done, and they will all now be saying to each other that the boy’s heart is in the right pace after all.”

“But Derbs…”

“And you know what, Mala, your father would have agreed with everything you said.”

Martin was upset and nearly in tears.  The show had not pleased Stephen and he thought that he was shallow and had become like his father.  In bed Martin actually was in tears and Stephen apologized.  “I’m sorry Mala, I shouldn’t have spoken like that, especially after you had gone to all that trouble to get tickets.  I was carried away.  It was a spectacle, I quite agree, and I liked the depiction of the Marryot family.  I suppose I identified more with the mother, Jane.  She was always more reserved than the men when it came to patriotism.  Coward did put her in the plot, so he’s not quite the utter shit I said he was.  But I’m most sorry for what I said about you and your father; you’re not like him at all.”

“I am a bit,” sniffed Martin.

“Only in that you’ve got a big stake in the country and therefore a lot to lose, but I love the way you can be moved by emotion; you’ve got a sensitive heart.”

“Have I?”

“Indeed.  I can feel it beating now.”

“And I do see what you mean, Derby.  We must never have another war at any price and flags and parades sometimes are used to disguise the truth.  Look at Italy.  But there has been something wonderful about the last thirty years, even if it has been terrible at the same time.  It’s a pity that Noel never put you and me in his play.  Derbs, will you fuck me now?  I really want to feel that you love me.”

“Of course I love you.  If you wave a flag I might be moved to give you more than one to show you just how exciting it is to be English.” 

***** 

Not since he was a child had Martin felt so excited by the coming of Christmas.  For a whole week he couldn’t sleep and had even resorted to writing lists like Stephen did and which he was known to consult at odd hours in the early morning dark while Stephen snored on.

Croome was now full of staff from London under the charge of Glass and Lily—now Mrs Beck— who had replaced Mrs Smith as the housekeeper in Piccadilly.  The usual guests were also to come on Christmas Day and have the democratic novelty of sitting down with the unemployed families of the estate.  Lady Delvees looked as if the revolution had already sneaked up on her when she learned of the peculiarities of the festival.  In the kitchen there were ten geese to be roasted and ten puddings studded with thruppences to be boiled.  There were Jaffa oranges and nuts and, of course, presents for everyone.  Glass was put in charge of the two hundred hired plates and the two hundred bowls that arrived in the boxes from a catering firm in Winchester. Carlo and Chilvers saw to the drinks.

The first guests arrived at midday and were nervous.  Martin encouraged them to look around, but they were reluctant and stayed together in the Hall.  Stephen broached the first barrel of beer and that loosened things up.  The women were given champagne—sometimes their very first—while the children were taken to the Long Gallery where Dwight and Stephen were in charge of games and the lemonade.  Before Martin knew it there was a big crowd and it was almost impossible to move or be heard.

At 2:00 Chilvers sounded the brass gong and the guests were shepherded to their tables where they sat in family groups.  The first surprise was the pretty cards, each with a name on it, containing the rolled pound note.  There were gasps and a few tears.  First from the ovens came the mince pies, then the great platters of roasted meats followed by the dishes of vegetables and boats of rich gravy.  Each of the guests was served, but then told to help themselves after that.  It took half an hour before everyone had a full plate.  In each of the three rooms there could be heard toasts being made to his lordship and the King.  The meal proceeded as did most Christmas dinners, except on a vaster scale and with perhaps a greater show of appreciation than usual.  There were of course little dramas: quarrels, a few had slightly too much to drink, sick children and the odd broken plate— but nothing that really marred the occasion.

The lights were dimmed for the parade of the flaming puddings, which were carved and served with custard, as that is how Martin liked it.  Then there were carols with full stomachs and finally it was time for the children’s presents.  Father Christmas had evidently squeezed down one of the two chimneys in the Long Gallery and had set himself up on a Queen Anne chair while the party had been busy feasting.  He was assisted by an elf that looked rather like Lance the young footman, whom Father Christmas firmly and repeatedly told to be careful not to drop the presents or the children as he placed them on his knee.

Father Christmas retained his reputation for joviality even when goaded by the most grievous and unseasonal of provocations: uncontrollable crying, point blank refusals to sit on his knee, temper tantrums, tied tongues and, hardest to bear of all, yuletide incontinence.  There were plenty of ‘ho hoes’ and the tin toys, celluloid dolls, German bears, American swimming costumes and the like were distributed to usually grateful recipients under the smiling watch of their parents.

The excitement was dying down and Martin was in two minds about making a speech.  It was difficult to know what to say.  The National Government had been returned in a landslide and the dole was to be cut by 10%.  The prospects for a happier 1932 did not look bright and so it might be better, thought Martin, just to leave people in the present moment, which at least was a happy one.

These thoughts occupied him when Carlo came to his side.  There was a late visitor downstairs he said.  Martin sighed and went down to the Great Hall where the Christmas tree stood in its traditional place, although now surrounded by the debris of the dinner.  There, by a wrecked gravy boat and abandoned paper hats stood Bunny with a suitcase by his side.

“Well Martin, I see you’ve opened a boarding house!”

“Bunny!  Why this is a welcome surprise.  Merry Christmas.”  He wrapped Bunny’s big shoulders in a hug.  “You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid, but we might be able to find you some walnuts or a goose feather and we’re awfully full up so you might have to share a room with Dwight who is here too.  I hope that will be alright.”

“It will, Martin.  It couldn’t be better.”

“And Bunny, there’s no telephone; the storm brought the wires down.”

“That suits me just dandy,” said Bunny, grinning. 

***** 

The news of Britain going off the gold standard hit Martin hard.  He felt depressed and could not comprehend what had happened, even when Stephen tried to explain it to him and Stephen suddenly saw that abstract finance too had its emotional aspect.  Martin moped for a week and frequently referred in sad tones to his late father and what he would have made of it all.  Stephen repeatedly assured him that it would help matters, but Martin remained unconvinced; it was as if the foundations of Croome itself were discovered to be of sand.

Sometime after this earthquake, at the club, Custard suggested there might be an interesting event to watch down at the West India Dock and so Martin drove to the East End with Stephen the following day.  A crowd had gathered and there were newspapermen with cameras, but they were almost outnumbered by policemen and soldiers.  A heavy wooden box sat on a trolley with metal wheels where it had evidently been unloaded from a railway goods van.  A Manilla net had been lowered over the side of a freighter tied up at the wharf.

“What’s going on?” asked Martin.

A reporter wearing a cap replied:  “See that packing case down there?  There’s five million pounds worth of gold bullion in that and another four of ’em is to come.”

“What are they doing with it?”

“Not givin’ it to me, worst luck.  It’s on its way to America—part of our War debt.  Britain pays on the knocker he said half to himself as tried to do the sub-editor’s job.

Martin felt sick.  Here was the country haemorrhaging before his very eyes and the blood of the Empire glistered inside that mean box.  Martin wondered if it would die from it.

“But we were all in the War together, Derbs,” said Martin turning to him in anguish, “and to demand payment in this crisis…”

Stephen said nothing, but the reporter with the cloth cap spoke up:  “A debt is still a debt and it would reflect poorly on this country’s honour if we welched on it, at least so Lord Beaverbrook would say.”

They watched in silence as the net was put around the box and amid much barking of instructions the proof of that honour was hauled aloft where it spun for a few minutes, as if taking a last look around and then it was swung on-board and was lost to sight.

To be continued…