“It’s true I tell yer.”

“How do you know, Dibbler?”

“I hears it from Greenock who got it from someone up t’house,” said Dibbler, tapping his pipe on the windowsill.

“A princess coming t’here, to Branksome?”

“Princess Mary, t’Princess Royal?” asked Reed as he accepted his pint from Oakgate. 

The old men were in the taproom at The Feathers and seated on the long wooden form colloquially known as Death Row and reserved for the most venerable of the public house’s regulars.

“No ya daft bugger, I said she were t’foreign princess from one of them countries what starts wif ‘A’.  It’s in’t news on t’BBC.”

“Abyssinia?” said Oakgate.

That’s probably it and she is t’great beauty sez Greenock”

“I’ve seen t’Abyssinians,” said Reed with authority, “when we was in t’Sudan with Kitchener and they is all fierce and t’black as yer ’at.

“Are they same as t’Nubians?” asked Dibbler.

“Aye, as good as, and t’Nubian wimmin is all lookers, tall wif  bodies like this,” and here he made snaking movements with his palms “and they ’az tiny ’eads.”  The others tried to imagine as they sipped.  “And they puts copper bands around their necks to stretch them like this.”  He craned his neck and pushed up a collection of chins between his thumb and index finger until he started to cough.

“Why does they do thart?”

“Reckon they’s more beautiful wif long necks, like— same as our lasses wear stays,” said Reed.

“Where have you been Silas Reed?” said Oakgate.  “Lasses don’t wear stays nowadays; tiz all t’corsets n’ t’brassihairs.”

“What’s a brassihair?”

“A halter for the titties” said Oakgate in a whisper.

“And no whalebone and lacing?”

“No, ain’t yer seen t’adver-tisemnts?  My grandson travels in ladies smalls so I knows all about ’em.”

“Do ’ee?” said Dibbler, chortling and raising his eyebrow.

“Now, none of yer cheek Dibbler” said Oakgate.

“And this princess is a Nubian lass?”

“Seems so and she’ll probably be wearin’ long robes o’henna colour n’ a tea towel on ’er head”

“And the copper bands?”

“Aye, an’ t’bands, certainly.  They is beautiful lasses.  When I were in the Sudan I walked out wi’ one.  Actually she were a Dervish lass.

“Is that good?”

“Aye,” said Reed meditatively, going back forty years.  “An t’Nubian lads is all big fellas too.”

“How do you mean?” asked Oakgate.   Reed whispered in his ear, but Dibbler and several other people in the pub would have easily heard, as Oakgate was quite deaf.  “You mean like Mr Stephen?”

“Now don’t you go sayin’ things against Mr Stephen, Walter Oakgate” said Reed angrily.  “He be no Dervish, but tis the finest lad in this village an’ t’stepson of ole Titus Knight and is t’captain of the First XI.”

“Aye and he took 3 for 20 on Saturday,” added Dibbler.

“I weren’t meaning nothin’,” said Oakgate, “but if these Abyssinians is anythin’ like our Mr Stephen, then they will be good at more than just cricket.”

The others managed a private smile and each separately decided to go to the station to see the arrival of the exotic princess in the morning. 

In fact there was quite a crowd on the platform at Branksome-le-Bourne when the 11:29 chuffed in.  The stationmaster had on his best uniform and had made sure his assistant had swept the platform and watered the geraniums.  Martin and Stephen were there of course and were slightly astonished at all the activity about them, unusual for an ordinary Thursday in October.

A number of people alighted, including Lady Bonnington who initially thought the reception was for her, but soon saw that all eyes were drawn to a carriage further back from which emerged three ladies.  There was a murmur of disappointment, for although the first lady was very beautiful, she was clearly a European woman and, far from appearing in exotic robes, she was dressed in a tailored travelling suit that reached down to mid-calf and this was topped with a little cape of the same material.  Her head was of the more usual size and, while her dark hair was waved and adorned with a tiny hat tilted to one side and her lips were painted red, there were no signs of rings about her neck made of copper or any indeed of any other material.

Her Serene Highness, Princess Mata von Mecklenburg-Weid-Neuweid-Streliz was followed by a stockier figure—a brown-haired woman in a severely cut coat and peakless forage cap.  She wore no make-up and was lending a muscular arm to the third woman who was struggling with suitcases and who was clearly a maid.

Martin and Stephen advanced and greeted them while the men in the crowd murmured amongst themselves as they left the station, some of their wives pausing to note the details of the clothes the princess wore, no doubt with a view to their interpretation and adaptation for the more humble realm of Branksome-le-Bourne.  

***** 

Several weeks previously, the boys had gone on holiday to Stephen’s old house in Antibes on the French Riviera.  Stephen and Carlo had just returned from Liverpool where the exciting construction of the Mersey Tunnel had been studied and it was fortunate that Carlo had very little packing to do as he seemed curiously exhausted from his week away with Stephen, although a visit to Dr Markby was not required after all, despite Carlo’s initial concerns for his structural integrity. 

Indeed Stephen was happy because he had at last achieved a little goal he had set himself: he had always wanted to be able to travel to Antibes free from the burden of luggage.  In his bedroom in Antibes, in what once must have been the bedroom of the maker of coffins whose workshop was now their sitting room, hung the striped shirts and loose trousers worn by the local fishermen and in the freedom of these clothes Stephen intended to pass his holiday.  He persuaded Martin to do the same, merely taking a safety razor in his pocket and a book– The Good Earth– to read on the train.

With them were Harry Myles their secretary and their friends, The Plunger and his boyfriend Teddy Loew.  The Hon. Archibald Craigth (‘The Plunger’ in the cruel parlance of schoolboys for his dissimilarity to that base tool commonly used to unblock drains) was not one to travel light and he had command of a large suitcase and a small Pullman trunk as well as his painting things.  Teddy, by way of contrast, had a small suitcase and even this had been commandeered to take The Plunger’s new navy and white shoes which he thought could be tried out first on the Cote d’Azur before they were unleashed (if wearing shoes could be so described) on London.

Their happiness had been increased by the news that Martin’s distant cousin, Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis, had accepted Stephen’s invitation to join them.  Since the War, Friedrich had all but abandoned his family’s estate in East Prussia and had moved to Berlin.  On their last visit, Stephen had assured him that a holiday in Antibes would be inexpensive, as Friedrich was rather pressed for funds and had no employment.  For the Englishmen, sterling had dropped, but the franc had fallen even further, so it was still cheaper to live in France than to remain in England.

The joys of a holiday are those of slipping into a different routine and recalling with pleasure the festive traditions associated with it.  For Martin and Stephen it was adopting loose clothes, more appropriate to the heat and native informality of the ancient stonewalled Provençale town and the anticipation of carefree weeks away from the dreaded word ‘Depression’ and other such ominous clouds that seemed a world away down here.  And, as usual, the holiday began with Stephen’s ordering a cleaning of the old house to the not very exacting standards of four boys. 

Stephen assigned himself to the sweeping the boards in the main room and removing the homes of French spiders in the rafters by means of a rag tied to a broom handle.  Teddy was dispatched to the second bedroom upstairs, which contained only a bed, a chair and a row of pegs and enjoyed an attractive prospect over the vegetable garden and olive trees tended by the patron of the bistro opposite.  Myles was sent the cellar room he was to occupy with Stephen’s exercise equipment.  Sons of the Baronetage who were not peers had to do the other bedroom.  Peers of the realm, by ancient custom, were required to remove their trousers and, with a stiff brush, scrub out the bathroom under the scrutiny of Stephen himself who occasionally administered a slap to the exposed and tempting rump by way of critique.  The attic would remain for those whose names appeared in the venerable Almanach de Gotha who might arrive on the following day’s train.  Although none were accustomed by birth or circumstances to housework there were no complaints because it was Stephen’s house, Stephen had desired it and, besides, Stephen made it fun.

The boys quickly relaxed into the warm indolence of the place and delighted, as usual, in the simple but excellent cuisine and local wines to be found at the Bistro de Blazon.  The talk there and at Mrs Chadwick’s was of the electrification of the old town.  The current had already been demanded by the owners of the big houses down at Cap Eden-Roc, although it was noted that several of these, including the last to be finished, now languished unoccupied.  Mrs Chadwick had already been consulted and approved of the design for street lamps to be attached to the walls of the buildings in the narrow streets by means of curly brackets.  The lighthouse, the most prominent feature of the town, was also to gain an electric lamp.  “Does this mean we should have a wireless and a toaster and everything, Derby?” asked Martin.

Stephen gave it much thought.  “I don’t want a wireless when I’m here—it’s too modern an intrusion and the news is always bad— even in French.”  Indeed it was bad for not only was unemployment at 15%, but the President of the Republic had been assassinated and France and Germany were at loggerheads over reparations and the Saar Mandate.  “But a toaster and lamps I don’t think would spoil our life.”  The activities of the electrical authority could be seen everywhere and Martin and Stephen chose some lamps that were not offensive and their old paraffin lamps were consigned to the box room for emergencies.

Mrs Chadwick was little diminished by her advancing years—she must have been in her seventies, Martin estimated— and she pleaded with Martin for an injection of capital into the Trust as calls upon it had increased while returns from investments had fallen.

“There’s the orphanage run by the Little Sisters which needs the plumbing seen to.  We’ve had a 13% increase in abandoned children just in the last two years,” said Mrs Chadwick as she passed the homemade cake to Myles who had gone to tea there with Martin and Stephen.  “The perfume industry has collapsed and down at the Mission to Seamen there are many young sailors with nowhere to sleep.  Their captains cannot find a cargo and so the sailors are paid off, but they soon spend their money and, well there you are…Do you think you could find time to go and talk to the poor fellows, Mr Knight-Poole?  Some of them are just bits of lads really and Mr Worth says they are dreadfully prey to the drink and to communist agitators and to the girls of course.”  Stephen said he would look into it personally.

The next day Friedrich arrived and they met him at the station.  He had travelled first class and stepped down from the express in a smart new suit and hat.  He directed the porter with his stick to an opulent set of pigskin luggage, which was loaded into an old Renault taxi that made its way through Antibes as they made small talk about the weather and recalled the last time Friedrich had been there.  “Cousin,” he said after he had been introduced to the others, “I have had some good news:  I have been given a position in the civil service of my Land—do you know what I mean?”

“You mean the state of Prussia?” said Martin.

“Ja, the Preussicher Landtag—von Papen’s new government offered me a position in the Ministry of the Interior.”  Friedrich smiled.  “They are dismissing all the Social Democrats and appointing anyone with a monocle or a ‘von’ to their name.”

“What do you do?” asked Stephen as they went across to the bistro for coffee.

“Start work at 8:30.” said Friedrich.  “I have already bought an alarm clock.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure, but it is something to do with the Junker estates in the east.  The SPD had wanted to seize them.”

“That would be terrible,” said Martin thinking of Croome.

“For my brothers, terrible, but for me not also.  Rittenberg is not profitable and if I could sell it…”

Martin was shocked to hear this and also alarmed at the bitter tone in which Friedrich was renouncing his birthright. 

They tried to avoid the topic of politics but it was almost impossible.  Friedrich spoke of the chaos in Germany and of the Altoner Blutsonntag, where violence between the Nazis and Communists revealed the weakness of the Prussian SPD government and had resulted in the Putsch, which indirectly led to Friedrich’s new job.  “I have bought six new suits and I have moved to a better apartment,” he said proudly.

“But what about Hans and Herr Doktor Huber and your friends?” asked Martin.

“And Lutz?” added Stephen

“Ach!” said Friedrich dismissively.  “I have now risen to an important position and I cannot live like that.  I must have friends that will not bring me shame.”

Martin and Stephen looked at each other and Friedrich went on to bemoan the coming elections where he was sure that the KPD would be victorious and that a soviet would shortly follow.

There was boating almost every day and they piloted the L’Espoir around to a certain cove on the Cape where they could bathe naked.  At night they mingled with the sailors on the Quay but were disappointed at how many of the young ones preferred the talking pictures or Mr Worth’s Scripture Group for which language, apparently, was no barrier.

Another tradition was the late afternoon gathering on the stone flagged terrace at the rear of the house where, under a grape vine, reposed an old bathtub in which Stephen liked to bathe like Cleopatra, surrounded by his acolytes who sat with champagne and lazily discussed the day’s events.

“I was wondering if we should get a refrigerator, Derbs,” said Martin feeling his champagne, which was not as cold as it might be.  “Actually it was Mme de Blazon who asked— I think she would like to use it when we weren’t here.”

Stephen said he would consider it, but would have to decide if it compromised the carefully contrived simplicity of their life here.

“And how is Mata?” Martin asked Friedrich.  “She has been writing, but tells me nothing in her letters.”

“She is fine Cousin.  I see her quite often.  She makes a little now with her lessons and since her uncle died I think she has some more money.  Of course she has a girlfriend now; her name is Erna— they say they are in lurve,” said Friedrich laughing contemptuously.

“They are lesbians,” explained Friedrich bluntly to the others.  There was silence for a few minutes.

“What is it that lesbians actually do?” asked Myles.  It was a good question.

“They follow Sappho and the practices of Lesbos,” said The Plunger with the authority of a man of the world and adjusting his monocle.  They looked at him for more and he became flustered.  “There is a lot of lyre plucking and...poetry.”

“They use their tongues on each other,” said Friedrich with more believability, “and they become very intense and moody and they move in into together almost as soon as they meet and then become vegetarians.  Then they have a falling out and separate with many tears.”

“Their tongues, you mean like us?” said Martin thinking of how he enjoyed using his tongue on Stephen.

“I’d like to see two lesbians using their tongues on each other,’ said Stephen, giving his cock a squeeze at the thought.

“So would I,” said Teddy.”

“Well I wouldn’t,” said Martin.  He saw The Plunger also pull a face.

“They strap on dildos and use them on each other, also” said Friedrich, reclaiming their attention and demonstrating with mime.

“No!” chorused the others

“Ja!” confirmed Friedrich.  “I’ve seen pictures.”

“Surely ladies don’t do that,” said Martin.

“Why not, Mala, you like it,” said Stephen.

“And so do you, Derby, but that’s quite different.”

“I don’t see how…”

The puzzling ways of Lesbians were left for the moment for it was time to go down for a late swim.  The day was spent very pleasantly and they bought langoustines on the quay which they cooked themselves with wine and garlic in the cool of the evening.  They played cards and drank the rest of the wine before retiring for the night.

“So do lesbians want to be men, Derbs?”  The topic had been on Martin’s mind all day.

Stephen propped himself up on one elbow.  “Perhaps some do, but most don’t I should think— look at Mata.”

It was true; Mata was very feminine.  He also thought of Miss Tadrew and Miss Tapstowe, but didn’t voice this to Stephen.  “So they’re not all man-haters?”

“Of course not.  Not all inverts want to be girls do they?”

“Well, I don’t want to be a girl.  Perhaps Gertie does,” said Martin naming The Plunger’s valet.  “He’s certainly very Nancy.”

“What about the men in ‘drag’ we’ve met?”  Martin thought about Lady Austin’s unusual club in London where frocks and inexpertly applied makeup were common among the male patrons and also of the club they had gone to in Boston more than a decade before.

“Well, they liked to dress up, but I can’t say that they actually wanted to be girls—perhaps just to parody them.  I don’t really know.”

“Neither do I Mala.”

“It’s all rather confusing,” concluded Martin.  He ran his hand over Stephen’s naked torso.  Here was the epitome of masculinity, thought Martin, and I want to worship it— possess it even.  What does that make me?  “Derby, I think I need to take a leaf out of the lesbians’ book.”

“You want to pluck a lyre under an olive tree and recite verse?” he said sleepily.

“No, I want to use my tongue— just my tongue— to pleasure you.”

Stephen was alive in a second and was squatting over Martin.

“No, your eyelids first.”

This was nice, but Stephen was every inch a man and thus inclined to be impatient and it was some time before Martin had worked his way between Stephen’s masculine trunks where several sensitive areas were rewarded for their patience.  Martin tried not to cheat and kept removing Stephen’s hand and had to stop himself applying his own teeth and lips, but eventually Stephen could take no more and erupted all over his own torso and Martin’s face which was mashed into it. There was some sticky cleaning up to do and then eventually Martin fell asleep, rather glad that he was not a lesbian or ever likely to be one.

All through the following week Friedrich kept entreating Martin and Stephen to come home to Berlin with him before returning to England.  For their part, they were curious to see the trappings of Friedrich’s new life as an important state official and to renew their acquaintance with his cousin, Durchlaucht Prinzessin Mata von Mecklenburg-Weid-Neuweid-Streliz with whom they were fortunately on first name terms.  The problem was that they had travelled light and had no clothes suitable for a stay in the German capital.  Thus a telegram was dispatched from the post office to Croome and Carlo was instructed to pack what he thought would be necessary for this sudden extension to their holiday when the others returned across the Channel.

They met Carlo in Paris where they stayed for just one night at a hotel near the railway station and took the Nord Express for Berlin.  They didn’t know what to expect and found the city almost unrecognizable.  On the surface of it there was the hysteria of the impending elections— the second for the year.  The characteristic advertising columns of Berlin, the billboards and indeed the whole fronts of buildings were plastered with huge advertisements for the various party ‘lists’ and sometimes the gigantic faces of the candidates themselves.  There were newspaper headlines screaming from every kiosk and vans with blaring loudspeakers rumbled by.  And everywhere there were flags: the white-black-and-red flag of the old regime, the red hammer and sickle of the Communists and the red-and-black swastika of the Nazis, each proclaiming the loyalties of a householder or shopkeeper. 

There were strikes— one by brewery workers that week and there seemed to be endless protest marches and uniformed parades—the Nazis seemed particularly to specialise in these and it seemed to be very effective, with their supporters on the pavements responding with the stiff one-armed salute of the party.  The Rundfunk broadcast interminable political speeches and there were many reports of party meetings being held or broken up by opponents.  The role of the police was frequently called into question, with the assault and even the death of KDP members ignored.  Even Martin and Stephen were stopped and asked to show their papers on the Bülowplatz.

Beneath this froth there was the hopelessness and despair of the unemployed.  It seemed far worse than at home, except perhaps in the north.  They saw huge crowds outside the employment Exchange in Neukölln and on the Simeonstrasse they were told that a long queue was for people who were exchanging their potato peelings for firewood.

“It looks to me as if the whole of German society is about to collapse,” said Martin quietly as they paused to examine a wall completely covered with screaming posters.

“But don’t tell Friedrich.  See how happy he is?”  It was true; Friedrich’s change in fortune had altered him.  His new apartment in the fashionable Tiergartenstrasse was very large and had been decorated in the modern continental style, which Martin had hitherto only seen in pictures.  The chairs were made of tubular steel and had no back legs.  Martin lowered himself carefully into one and found it springy and quite comfortable.  Much of the furniture was made of metal and glass and it looked cold and impersonal but Friedrich assured him that its rigour was quite ‘intellectual’. 

Frl. Pohl had come from his old flat, but almost nothing else. Then there was Tsolos, a Greek boy whom Friedrich had just engaged as a valet.  “When I buy a motorcar I will teach him to drive and he will be my chauffeur.”  Tsolos was very handsome with a mop of unruly black curls but did not seem particularly useful as a valet, so it was assumed that he had been Friedrich’s lover before his employee.

They settled comfortably into the grand flat and certainly there was plenty of room for the boys and for Carlo too.  They extravagantly admired and praised all Friedrich’s new things and in turn were shown off at a dinner party Friedrich hosted for some of his colleagues in the state government and the administration of Berlin—all slightly surprised to be in the ascendancy in the wake of von Papen’s coup.  They were mainly fat elderly men and their doughy wives from the Junker class to which Friedrich himself belonged.  Martin, as a representative of the English aristocracy, was welcomed and was questioned severely as to why he was not involved in the ruling of his own country.  He tried to explain that it was different from Germany and that while Lord Halifax was an aristocrat from an ancient line, the prime minister was the son of a domestic servant.  Then Sir John Simon could best be described as middle class as could Sir Herbert Samuel who was also a Jew. “Mr Baldwin comes from a manufacturing background like your Herr Krupp,” concluded Martin and all this was translated for those who spoke no English.  The guests shook their heads in disbelief and did not comprehend how rule in Britain worked and Martin himself could only assume that the castes that divided his society were not so rigid as they were in this country and it had something to do with the evolution of the class who ruled, rather than a ruling class.  Here, round this table, was a ruling class that, since the War, had not been ruling and now felt lost.

Carlo knocked on the bedroom door in the morning of their second full day in Berlin and Martin and Stephen sat up.  “Your lordship, Mr Stephen, do you mind if my apprentice brings your tea in?”  Martin spoke on behalf of them both and said he didn’t, but was puzzled.  Carlo wiped what was clearly an extrusion of Stephen’s seed, now dried, from his lordship’s cheek and straightened the bedclothes.  He reached under and grabbed Stephen’s arching erection.

“Your hands are cold, Carlo.” he complained.

“If you will just hold it thus, sir.”

When all was in readiness he returned to the door and admitted Tsolos with the tray, which he gingerly conveyed and set down on Stephen’s lap, while he tried not to giggle at the sight of the two naked boys in bed.  There was no post for them of course and Carlo was telling the boy where it should be placed for Mr Friedrich, should it arrive before he left for Niederkirchnerstrasse where his office was.

“Are you going out this morning, your lordship?”

Martin and Stephen were anxious to see Mata and told Carlo so.  The visit to a lady was explained to Tsolos who giggled again and then he was shown the correct clothes for such an outing and how to lay them out.  Martin’s duck egg blue shirt was wrinkled and Carlo took it away to demonstrate to Tsolos how to use the electric iron.  He paused at the door.  “Do you think Tsolos should be shown how to draw a gentleman’s bath and prepare for his shaving, your lordship?”

“I don’t see why not, Carlo,” replied Martin grinning.  “Unless you think that the sight of Mr Stephen in his bath might be too much for one so young.”

“I don’t think that Tsolos is all that innocent, your lordship and he has just been telling me what the boys in his village do with the ducks and goats.”

“And with each other?”

“That was understood, your lordship.”

That part of the morning passed pleasantly, but with Tsolos not greatly closer to becoming a gentleman’s gentleman than the goatherd he had been until Friedrich met him on holiday in Corfu.  The boys then walked the half-mile to Motztrasse where the Princess lived under an assumed name to avoid the attention of Xhmel Bey and his murderous Albanian assassins.

A maid showed them in and of course Mata was delighted to see them and there was hand kissing, but no heel clicking.  Unlike Friedrich, she was not so sanguine about the political situation and feared both the Communists and the Nazis.  “It is not like when you were last here, my dear Cousins,” she said, “we will not see those times again.”  She gave them coffee and then shooed them out of the flat when it was time for one of her pupils to come for their English lesson and so Martin and Stephen went to a nearby cafe to wait until they could return. 

They found Mata had kept her pupil there—a dark eyed young Jewish girl— and set up an impromptu English language conversation with them.  It was stilted and very funny and the poor girl blushed at her mistakes in front of the two handsome Englishmen.  “Would you like more sugars in your tea, my dear sir?”

“Yes, Miss Bloch I would like sugar, but ‘my dear sir’ is old fashioned and there is no ‘s’ because you can’t count sugar—only grains of sugar—so the rule is: no ‘s’.”

This was translated for the girl who began again.  “And are there many sheeps on your farm, Martin?”

“No it is just ‘sheep’,” said Mata.  The girl objected saying that she often counted sheeps before sleeping.  The others sympathised warmly but shrugged at the inconsistency of the English language.

“That is a very pretty dress, Fräulein Bloch,” said Stephen.

“Yes it is very pretty, sir.  Meine…My mother bought it for my birthday.  It is made of tree wool, not from sheeps.”  She gave a pretty smile and Stephen smiled back radiantly and the lesson continued for another fifteen minutes in a similar vein.

When Frl. Bloch left they went to a cafe and had lunch, with a bottle of Rhine wine maintaining their good spirits.  “It is good to see that Friedrich is so happy, Mata,” said Martin.

The mood darkened. “Yes, I suppose so, but he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into with that von Papen,” she said, referring to the Minister-President of Prussia who had also been Federal Chancellor for the last few months.

“Is he the von Papen who was ambassador to Washington and Mexico during the War?” asked Martin being reminded of the Zimmermann telegram and his part in it.

“I think so.  He is close to President Hindenburg and governs only by emergency decree. He is a traitor to the Catholic Centre Party and is very puffed up and fond of intrigue and poor Friedrich is so naïve, I have to say.”

They were nearly going to leave, but Mata made them wait to meet Erna Obermann, her lover.  It seemed rude not to do so, so they chatted in Mata’s pleasant sitting room until the sound of the door indicated her arrival.

She was a strong-limbed girl of perhaps twenty-eight.  Her brown hair was dyed a shade or two lighter than its natural colour and it contrasted with her dark, intense eyes set in a face full of character.  It was not a German face.  There was no hand kissing; instead she gave an offhand but friendly wave of her arm that included both of the boys who had risen when she entered the room.  She carried a leather satchel and Mata explained that Erna was lecturing at the University of Berlin.

“My field of study is the education of children,” she said throwing herself athletically into a chair.  Mata moved over and sat on the arm and held her hand.  Erna’s English was not as good as Mata’s, but it was still very fluent and only a slight hesitation showed someone who was picking her words with care for their accuracy, despite her general air of no-nonsense informality.  “Have you heard of Froebel?”

The boys hadn’t, nor had they heard of Maria Montessori but understood about kindergartens and Martin was pleased to be able to talk about the newly established one on his estate.

“I would like to establish an institute within the University for the training of teachers of children,” she said earnestly.  “You have no idea how hard it is to get those old men to make changes and I am dismissed because I am young and a woman, but I have read the latest literature on my subject and they have not.”

“And you have published too, haven’t you, Fräulein Doktor,” said Mata with pride.  Erna did not reply, but it was clear that she had and that she would be a competent, even ruthless academic.

“Tomorrow is going to be a nice day,” Mata said brightly, changing the subject.  “Why don’t we all play tennis?  There are very nice courts in the Tiergarten.”

The boys said that would be fine, with Martin thinking he would send Carlo out to buy flannels and shoes as the Germans would insist on proper dress, and Erna said she would be free in the morning before giving a lecture.

“You saved my Mata’s life, Herr von Branksome,” said Erna as they walked down the stairs to the street.

Martin was nearly going to say ‘it was nothing’ but instead said: “Keep her safe, Frl. Obermann; that killer was in earnest and I have noticed life seems to be cheap in Berlin.”

At the corner were two Brownshirts lounging and smoking, clearly intent on intimidating people who might want to patronise the pawnbroker’s.  They eyed the four of them and said something as Erna passed and one spat.

“See?  It is because I am Jewish that they think they have the right to treat me like that.  I am terrified of the Nazi’s winning the election—they won 123 new seats at the last election and are already the largest party. Who will keep me safe, Herr von Branksome?”

It was a disturbing incident, but Martin tried to put it out of his mind by the time he returned to Friedrich’s flat.  He still wasn’t home, so Carlo and Tsolos were sent out to buy tennis clothes at Wertheim’s, Carlo being reminded to adjust for Continental sizing.

Martin and Stephen took advantage of their absence to make love and then take a nap, with the venetian blinds tilted against the afternoon sun.  There was more giggling from Tsolos when he returned with Carlo and their purchases and he saw the sleeping boys, wrapped in a loose embrace.  Carlo spoke to him severely and he was chastened for the moment.  Carlo then instructed him on the parts of a gentleman’s evening clothes and how to brush with the nap and fit the studs to the stiff front made of pique.  These were laid out in readiness and then they disappeared into Friedrich’s dressing room make ready his.

That evening there was a reception at the British Embassy in the Wilhelmstrasse.  The invitation had originally been extended to Lord Branksome by Sir Horace Rumbold who was related to Martin’s godfather, Viscount Delvees, and who been informed by him that Martin would be in Berlin.  Martin then asked Sir Horace’s secretary if he might bring his cousins, Stephen Knight-Poole and Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis, a new member of the upper rank in the Prussian Civil Service and this request had been acceded to.  Many on the diplomatic circuit found these affairs terribly boring, especially with the exciting nightlife of Berlin beckoning, however for Stephen, the glittering sight under the chandeliers was still a novelty and he was agog at the parade of gentlemen in a variety of splendid uniforms or evening clothes garnished with sashes and decorations of Ruritanian proportions and the ladies in long evening gowns which sparkled with honours of their own.

Stephen became separated from the other two and found himself surrounded by three elegant young ladies, one Polish, one French and one from the Belgian legation.  He promised to dance with all of them and the women quickly co-operated with each other making this arrangement feasible.  If only the nations of Europe could work together so co-operatively, thought Stephen.  Then an older woman claimed him.  She was Mme François-Poncet, the wife of the French ambassador, and they talked of more serious subjects.  “Yes, Monsieur Knight-Poole, I too fear for the future.  Our son is only two years old; what sort of world will he be living in by the time his is twenty?  They drank their champagne in silence for a moment.  “Regardez! Here is the delightful Count Osmochescu.”  Stephen turned and there he was, little altered since he had last seen him—When was it? —of course, on the Orient Express in 1927.

He kissed the hand of the Frenchwoman and turned to Stephen and bowing said, “Mr Knight-Poole, my stepson said you were here also.  How charming to see you in Europe again.”

“Yes, Count,” answered Mme François-Poncet before Stephen could think of anything to say, “but in such troubled times, alas.”

“Out of troubled times comes opportunity, is that not also true?”

The Frenchwoman did not answer directly but continued: “We are all worried that Herr Hitler and his party will seize power and tear up the Versailles Treaty.  There is such chaos in Germany at the present and he will surely find an excuse.”

“Perhaps,” said the Count, “but perhaps the Treaty is an obstacle to peace.”

“But not for France, Osmochescu!” cried the ambassador’s wife in outrage and reddening. “We lost two million of our countrymen. Our population is less than what it was thirty years ago and our industry, like our landscape, lay in ruins in 1918 while Germany saw no invasion and her industry is intact and her population is now 66 millions.  You speak of barriers to peace, but what of justice?” The Count offered no answer.

“Your country did well out of it,” said Stephen speaking for the first time.

“That is true, young man.  We obtained Transylvania and Bukovina and territory from our old foe, Bulgaria.  But now the Russians want some of it back and who will protect us?”

“France and Rumania have always had an understanding; our sensibilities are similar,” said Mme François-Poncet who had recovered herself.

“That is true, but if France is exhausted as you say and Germany needs Rumanian oil, perhaps both of our countries should look to Germany as a friend who will stand between us and Stalin.”

These geopolitical questions were left in abeyance when the Belgian girl came to claim Stephen for the dancing.

Meanwhile Martin was being told all about Herr Hitler by the British ambassador, “He is not like von Schleicher or even von Papen,” said Sir Horace Rumbold. “He doesn’t want a military government or the Hohenzollerns restored, but he is a nationalist and aims to convert the whole Volk to his party’s way of thinking.  When he has done that, then he has outlined his military goals, Lord Branksome, and they are to tear up the Treaty, Anschluss with Austria and then press east against Bolshevik Russia to create a new home for millions of German settlers.  These are not secret plans, but all outlined in a manifesto he wrote while in prison.”

“What about his whipping up of anti-Jewish feeling, Sir Horace.  I saw an incident just today.”

“I think he will have to curb that if he ever gains power.  Germany needs her Jewish citizens the same as we do.  However in his book he says he wants to purge them from Germany.  I wouldn’t like to be a Jew in Germany just now, Lord Branksome.”

Stephen was now with Martin as the three dancing partners had fallen into dispute among themselves when the arrival of a handsome young Spanish attaché had complicated their entente cordiale and the Polish girl was insisting that the French girl had forfeited her turn to dance with Stephen and she was next while the French press agent cast aspersions on the jewellery of the Polish secretary with particular reference to the manner in which it had been acquired. 

Both boys now stood in a little group around Baron von Neurath, the new Foreign Minister and lately returned from the embassy in London.  The aristocrat charmed his group of listeners, admitting that Germany was facing a crisis, but assuring all around him that Germany did not want another war and said it would be folly to alienate Britain and France whom he saw as allies against Bolshevism.  He was a Junker: smooth, silver haired and silver tongued and clearly no Nazi thug, but the boys felt less than reassured by his words.

In the reflection of a gilt looking glass, Martin noticed Count Osmochescu in earnest dialogue with an attractive young woman and before he could say anything they had both crossed the room and Stephen was detached from his side in response to the Count’s plea for a dancing partner for his attractive countrywoman who had no English.  The Count was now beside him.  Martin politely inquired for after the health of his cousin, Friedrich’s mother, who was now the Countess Osmochescu and then made some bland remarks about the splendour of the British Ambassador’s function.

“Indeed, Cousin.  It makes me proud to hold a British passport and that his Britannic Majesty is so concerned about my ‘passing without let or hindrance’.”  He gave an oily smile and Martin fought back a grimace.  “Have you seen anything of my wife’s great-niece, the Begum Xhemel Bey?”

“If you mean Princess Mata, Count Osmochescu, I have not had that pleasure since my last visit to Berlin.  I understood her to have returned to Sweden— or was it Switzerland? —some time ago.”

“Switzerland, I believe and my wife is most concerned for her welfare and Friedrich is singularly uninformative on such matters— the young don’t understand how people of our age worry.” 

Tennis the next morning was played, in the boys mind, under the shadow of the previous evening.  It was mixed doubles but Mata was so good that she won every set no matter who her partner was.  Erna was quite good too.  Stephen’s serve was powerful, but inaccurate and, unlike Martin, he had no backhand.  Still, it was very enjoyable and they were perspiring freely when they retired to the clubhouse for drinks. 

At a nearby table were two women who had obviously been playing tennis too.  Stephen smiled at them as he took his lemonade and mimed being hot from playing.  To his horror both girls rose and moved to another table, saying something in German about not wanting to sit with Ausländer und Juden.  Stephen was shocked and hoped that Erna had not heard.  He looked over.  She was sipping her drink through a straw and merely shrugged.

“Why don’t you come and visit us in England?” he said suddenly, addressing both women.

“Yes!” exclaimed Martin brightly.  “You could avoid the elections, or perhaps you’d prefer to come for Christmas?”

The women looked at each other, cautious so as not to speak out of turn.  It was Erna who spoke first.  “I would love to come, Herr von Branksome; I hate it here, but I cannot get away before the end of October.  I will have to get my papers in order too.”

“I can come at any time,” said Mata.  “I only have to cancel my pupils and they won’t mind.  I will have to travel under my own name— it might get confusing otherwise.  Oh Martin, this is so kind of you! So kind of you both,” she said looking at Stephen.  She then squeezed Erna’s hand.  “May I bring my maid also?” 

***** 

The Women’s Institute Hall was more than usually full for the monthly meeting of the ladies of the district and Mrs Destrombe, the vicar’s wife, had to scurry about for more chairs.  She was then confronted with the unwelcome sight of Old Aggie and her pal, Dirty Dora, who had ventured inside smelling strongly of gin.  “I do not believe either of you two are members, so I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Argh, go on with yer,” said Dora, not looking at her, but at the alluring spread of cakes and biscuits arrayed on the supper table, “we’ve jest come t’av t’look at t’Abyssinian Princess, dear.  Let us sit down, t’ulcer on me leg is givin’ me gyp an’ Aggie is none too steady on ’er pins.”  The vicar’s wife would not relent and, as the effluvium given off by the two crones was decidedly foxy, she retired in favour of her husband who propelled them in the direction of the door, but not before they had scanned the room for foreign royalty. 

They left with Aggie crying out in a loud voice, “No room at t’inn, vicar?” and emphasised her scriptural allusion by producing an empty Gordon’s Gin bottle from beneath her skirts and hurling it in the direction of Lady Bonnington where it bounced on the floor harmlessly without breaking.

The crowd that had gathered for the impromptu talk by Princess Mata on home life in Albania was an indication of how popular she had quickly become by virtue of her glamour and charming personality.  The villagers had even begun to talk of ‘our princess’ and took a pride in her attentions which contrasted markedly with the infrequent and disinterested appearance of native royalty in their midst.

When Mata tried to emulate the ladies of Dorset by appearing in understated heather-mixture tweeds from Jaeger and sensible walking shoes, there were murmurs of disappointment so these tended to be combined with a white fox fur or a pair of impractical Parisian shoes.  The Princess also had a knack for wearing country clothes with a certain European éclat and for improving on utilitarian garments by perhaps the addition of a scarf from Patou to a camel hair coat or an enormous cluster of diamonds and sapphires in the form of a brooch to a woollen walking-suit.

There was plenty of tennis on the few fine days of the visit and when Mata appeared on the golf links in an outfit from Hermes it was a sensation and those women who witnessed it were quick to their dressmakers if they were comfortably well off or rushed home to their sewing machines and paper patterns if their purses were more painfully flattened.  Indeed the next weekend saw seven women on the course with plagiarised creations and it would have been eight except that Mrs Dunwoody, who was rather short and stout, had burst her zip fastener and had to telephone her husband to bring her home in his motor after having only played one shot for the entire morning.

While Mata toured the Infirmary with Martin, Erna Obermann spent her time at the infant welfare centre.  Her Germanic intrusion was unwelcome at first, but when she correctly diagnosed an outbreak of impetigo and instituted a new regime for sanitising towels, the nurse provided by the local authority was embarrassed but grateful.  She also appreciated an extra pair of hands on the mornings when new mothers came in with their infants to be measured and weighed and on the three afternoons when the older ones came to the kindergarten.  Erna suggested a practical program of games and toys suitable for the intellectual and social development of the local tots and it was found that she had made quite a difference in just a fortnight.

“Martin,” said Erna, as they walked along the fairway of the third hole, for they were now on intimate terms.  Martin was searching for his ball but Erna’s powerful drive had placed hers in confident proximity to the green on this par three. “I think that you should build a proper Kinderschule.  For the play of children, the floor in the hall is not suitable.  For the hygiene it should be linoleum,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis.  She went on to suggest between Martin’s strokes that any new building should look like a house rather than the modern factory or laboratory that Martin had feared.  “A house is not so threatening to the little ones or their mothers,” she explained, “and children to keep a house clean and tidy, can be taught.”  She opened her commodious handbag and produced a flat box and handed it to Martin.  He returned his divot-stained club to the bag and opened it.  Inside was a miniature set of cutlery.  “So that children can learn to use tools properly and not use their fingers to eat,” she explained.  “These are made in Germany.  Tables and chairs should be Kinder- masstab also.”

Erna won the general approval of the district as a result of an incident that happened at the beginning of her second week at Croome.  She had been pedalling an old bicycle back from the W.I. Hall.  It was hard work for in the pannier was a set of infant scales and iron weights that she was going to repair back at the house.

In a field she could hear shouting, although at that distance it was difficult to make out what was being said in English.  She pulled up and leaned the heavy machine against a stone fence and looked over.  At some little distance were two men trying to extract a young heifer from a boggy stretch along the bourn.  They were doing a poor job of it; while one tried in vain to dig with a spade, the other stood back criticising his efforts as he smoked a pipe.  Then roles were reversed and the smoker pulled impotently on a rope around the animal’s neck while the spade man stood back, ankle deep in the mud, and shouted unhelpful advice.  The calf was becoming distressed.

Erna pushed the gate aside and marched across the field to the site of the action.  The two men scoffed when they saw it was a woman and Erna said something sharp to them in German and they were silenced.  With sleeves rolled up, she retied the rope so that the beast was not being throttled and told the first man to take hold of it.  The second man she commanded to push the heifer by the rump.  Erna herself grabbed the animal about its torso and, with legs spread wide, she heaved. “Zerren Dummkopf!” she shouted.  The men strained.  It was no use.  She ordered them to try again and let out an enormous grunt.  There was a slurping noise and the heifer raised herself and a few minutes more saw the animal on safe ground.  The farmers were grateful and shook Erna’s hand vigorously and then became deferential, as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand.  She dismissed her own efforts as nothing and gave an offhand wave of her muddy right arm and marched back to her bicycle, smiling to herself at the stupidity of the male sex. 

***** 

“Mata said that I should go ahead with remodelling the gothic dining room, Derbs.”

Stephen was sucking on his cock and having a hard time getting Martin to concentrate.  “Do you want me to stop so you can tell me about it?”

“No, I’m having some of my best thoughts while you are doing that.  We decided that one wall should be all made of mirror glass—even the door— so it will make the room brighter.”

“Like the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles?”

“No, not like that at all, Derbs,” said Martin sharply, looking down on the top of Stephen’s lovely head.  “Modern— and the windows should be knocked together to make one giant window that will open to the outside.”  Stephen was now tenderly kissing the insides of Martin’s thighs, which he knew usually ‘drove him wild’—to use a current expression— but Martin’s mind was still elsewhere.  “Mata said the other walls should be made of wood veneer.  She has excellent taste don’t you think?  What is palisander exactly, Derbs?” Stephen was now standing and kissing up and down the side of Martin’s neck and a grunt signified that he did not know. “And I suggested some sort of mural decoration— a frieze done in marquetry and Mata thought that was a good idea— she liked my idea Derby!  And do you know what she said?”

 “No”

“That the mural should tell the story of the Pooles down through the centuries.  Isn’t that clever?  I thought I could commission The Plunger to design it and look for a craftsman to execute it.  What do you think?”

“I think you will be making your mark on Croome as the Fourth Marquess, after all.”

“Fifth and thank you for saying so Derbs.”

“You like Mata, don’t you Mala?”

“I do, Derbs and it’s not just because she’s a princess; she adds a bit of life around here.”

“You don’t like her better than me, do you Mala?” teased Stephen.

“Of course not, Derby,” said Martin sulkily.  “And do stop talking and fuck me.  Do you think you could do it standing up while you held me?  We haven’t done it that way for such a long while.”

“Certainly and we could have a representation of us doing it inlaid into the mural: ‘1932. The Fifth Marquess being taken by one of his serfs’.”

“Yes,” giggled Martin, “that would look very fine in palisander and zebrano.” 

***** 

They were all at tea in Miss Tadrew’s cottage and had been trying to cheer her up since the death of Coker, the puppy that Stephen had given her so long ago.  They tried not to talk about dogs, but it could not be helped and then they fell to discussing the phenomenon of Dr Buchman and the Oxford Movement, when the BBC broadcast of the German Federal Election results came on.  They stopped talking and listened-in to the wireless intently: The Communist Party had gained 11 seats in the Reichstag and the Social Democrats had lost about the same number.

“The Nazis must be disappointed, observed Erna, “they have lost 30 seats and they expected to gain on the July result.”

“But they are still the largest party,” added Mata, “with 80 more deputies than the SPD.”

“What does it mean then?” asked Stephen as he helped himself to another scone.

“Hindenburg will probably allow von Papen to continue as Chancellor by the Emergency Decree,” said Erna, sipping her English tea thoughtfully. “It will be more of the same, I suppose, unless something unexpected happens, of course.”

To be continued…