“Carlo, get the towel ready,” said Martin making to rise from the bath.

“But Mala, you haven’t finished doing me yet,” cried Stephen, drawing attention to his arching erection that rose like Excalibur from the bathwater.

“Really Derby! Get Carlo to do it, I’m already late for seeing Captain Hill because of you.”

Stephen grinned and spluttered.  “Do you hear how he talks to me, Carlo?”

“Indeed sir, most ungrateful.  I will be back when I’ve helped his lordship dress.”

“Never mind, I will do myself.”

“Oh sir, please don’t start until I get back; I’d like to watch.”

“Well at least someone appreciates my efforts,” called Stephen after the departing figures as he picked up the soap and started to wash his chest.

The Captain Hill that Martin was so anxious to see that he would neglect his other duties, was an architect with a reputation for eccentricity.   Alec Cunningham-Reid, an old school friend of Martin’s whom Stephen also knew from the Royal Engineers, was a handsome brute and had married well.  Martin joked that he had copied his moustache from Stephen.  At Boodles, Cunningham-Reid suggested that Martin seek out the architect who had recently remodelled his father-in-law’s house in Westminster, which had appeared in The Studio.  Captain Oliver Hill was adept in giving his clients stylish modern interiors, without the severity of the Continental horrors that Martin had seen on his travels.

“I want something modern for Croome, Captain Hill; it will be my contribution to the old house.  The present dining room was built after my Grandfather returned from a visit to the Great Exhibition and it has everything wrong with it.  I’ve often thought that dinner parties go flat because the room is so depressing, especially on a winter’s day; it faces northeast you see and the windows actually seem to have been designed to exclude the light, I’ve always suspected, and I love the sun.”

“So do I, Lord Branksome,” said the architect with almost childish enthusiasm as they were striding through the streets of London.  “In fact I try to spend as much time as I can out of doors in my garden at Valewood.  I prefer to work and rest in it without clothes¾ I hope I do not shock you.

“Not at all, Captain Hill, in fact sunbathing is all the rage at Croome and we have designed a place for naturism on the roof that gets the sun most of the day.  Mr Knight-Poole and I have managed to convert some of the upper servants to the value of the sun¾ just the men you understand.”

“The value and the pleasure, Lord Branksome,” he said with relish and expressed the hope that he would find time to see it for himself, but he was very busy with commissions at the moment, with a new house in Surrey and a seaside hotel in Lancashire.

By this time they had reached Gayfere House in Great Peter Street.  It was a beautiful London townhouse of red brick and Portland stone with deep Eighteenth Century sash windows.  Hill was very proud of it.  He boldly mounted the steps and rang the bell.  A servant answered and admitted them.  “Her ladyship is out, but begged that you and Lord Branksome should look around, Captain Hill,” said the butler.  So they did and Martin was entranced.  The house was in perfect taste and much more modern on the inside than he had imagined, with rich materials and a blending of the old with the new. 

Lady Mount-Temple apparently had an excellent eye for the beautiful and the unusual.  The highlight was her ladyship’s bathroom that Martin had already seen in a magazine.  Here the walls and fittings were all made of mirror tinted in a delicate shade of grey and teamed with gold-flecked metal and blue glass.  The floor was a slab of polished onyx.  Even the crystal tap handles in the form of eagles’ heads carried through the vitreous theme.  “They are the mascots from motorcar radiators, Lord Branksome, and are made by Lalique.”  It was more like a jewel box than a room in a house and the effect of the multiple reflections was entrancing.

“It’s stunning, Captain Hill, but the dining room at Coome is of course a very large room and I don’t think such rich materials would suit it.  I was thinking of just one wall of mirror and wood veneer for the others.  Could I have carpet as it is so cold?”

Hill thought about these prescriptions and nodded.  “Yes, it has to be suitable for its purpose— that’s the essence of modernism and a dining room in a country house is different to a lady’s bathroom, but I think the room would need to have some theatrical flair as you no doubt entertain a great deal.”

“Well, there are weekend parties and the County expects me to give them a good dinner, Captain Hill.”  They wandered back through the house and took a last look at the furnishings and the following weekend saw Hill an overnight guest at Croome joining The Plunger and Teddy who were down there for the weekend.

Almost immediately they adjourned to the Gothic Dining Room, which they saw at once was in a sad state of repair, especially where the rain had rotted the sham fan vaulting, which had proved to be only made of plaster.  The ‘leather’ panelling with the gilt trefoils was also exposed as being just Japanese paper.  It was dark even at noon and the electric lights didn’t help very greatly so the exact dimensions of the chamber were not immediately evident.

Nevertheless ideas tumbled from each of them.  Martin discussed the proposed mural in the form of a frieze and telling his family’s history and Hill nodded.  The Plunger produced a single sketch that he had done: It showed the notorious Thomas Poole’s father in wig and hose against the suggestion of palm fronds and cane fields in which toiled Negro slaves.  A ship sat on a wavy line that represented the sea.  “It’s marvellous Plunger; it tells how he made his fortune in the West Indies.”

“Yes, Poole, and the shapes are simple enough to be translated into marquetry.”

Hill knew a father and son in Kensington who were traditional craftsman but worked on modern commissions and who might be able to execute such designs, but he ventured that the background wood should be lighter than palisander which was also terribly expensive, he said. “Queensland ribbon maple is a rich honey colour and would make the room lighter and I think it would look effective if set between narrow chromium strips to emphasise the horizontal.”  Martin tried to imagine this.  “The corners here and here should be rounded as the veneer is easily bent and will give better acoustics.  I think that the ceiling is far too high so I suggest we put in a false one.”  He held a hand to his eyes as if he was looking into the sun and the others copied him.  It was just possible to imagine the ceiling lowered to about 14 feet.  “But we won’t make it flat, we’ll raise it into a trough running the length of the table and conceal the lights in it.”

“Could the lights be coloured as well as white?” asked Stephen.  “They could be adjusted for marvellous effects, if you don’t think that too vulgar,” he added as an afterthought.

“It is vulgar, Derbs, but I like it!” said Martin.

Other ideas followed: The fireplace in the wall of mirror must be made lower, the ornate skirting boards should be replaced by chromium metal and the radiators concealed. The curtains were to slide into recesses when not closed.  Hill wanted a black marble floor, but Martin held out for a plain fitted carpet.

Chilvers came in to announce luncheon in the Spanish Dining Room and was asked for his opinion.  He was reluctant to offer one but was probed until he suggested a built-in serving table with food warmers and an ice compartment might be constructed to occupy the entire wall at the narrow end nearest the kitchen.  Everyone thought this was a marvellous idea and Chilvers tried to conceal his pleasure.  Stephen then said that he didn’t think a single huge window opening would support the wall above it and recommended two be made.  Hill thought three would look more harmonious and that the bands of plate glass should be framed in steel with a set of glass doors in each flanked by fixed windows.

Then they stood staring at the great brute of a dining table with its forty gothic chairs that looked like bishops’ thrones.  Martin said: “One feels pinned to the table and it takes a footman or sometimes a pair of them to free you¾ no wonder the chairs need castors.”  The others nodded.  “I suppose I will have to get a new table and chairs.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of Honduras mahogany, Martin,” said Teddy who knew about furniture. 

“Could you just have the table remodelled to make it plainer.”

“You mean slice off all the gingerbread?”

“Yes,” he replied, caressing the wood with his hand, “and put new legs on it that don’t bark your ankles.  You’d still need new chairs of course, ones with low backs and some padding and that are light enough so you can move yourself because there probably won’t be…” Teddy froze.

“Won’t be what, Ted?” said Martin.

“I’m sorry Martin, but one day there may not be any footmen.”

Martin was silent for a minute.  “I know that one day all this will disappear,” he said, referring to more than just this room, “and I hope you don’t think I’m being foolish.  I am trying to modernise Croome as well as creating employment for people.”

The others reassured him but Teddy felt badly for his ill-considered comment.

Thus they went into luncheon with the scheme largely worked out and Oliver Hill and The Plunger returned in the afternoon to take some preliminary measurements so that sketches might be prepared and then they adjourned to the roof top, for the sun had come out and the architect was anxious to get out of his clothes, save for a large sombrero he had packed.  

***** 

The Depression had hit some of the families of Stephen’s former comrades in the Royal Engineers hard¾ the Sans Culottes they called themselves out of irreverent respect for their senior officer whom they called, behind his back, Captain Foot.  Pengally had sent a letter saying that West was in difficulties.  He had lost his job as a surveyor at the firm of Cubitt’s Estates Ltd and this had come at a time of some bad investments and a new motorcar and other purchases had been made on credit and the payments were now overdue. The worry had exacerbated Mrs West’s poor health.

“She’s gone to stay with her mother, Captain,” said West, falling into the wartime habit.  Stephen suspected there was more to it than this.  The house was untidy and there were signs that West had been drinking.

“Did she take young Walter?” asked Carlo who had gone with Stephen to visit him.

“Yes, and the dog¾ so that he can be company for the boy up in Peterborough.”

They both wanted to ask if it were likely that they would return, but of course that question had to be left unvoiced, but it hung there in West’s front room with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes.

“How much do you owe?” asked Stephen, bluntly, hoping to shake West from his despondency by some hard facts.

“Ninety pounds¾ more if I include the motor,” he said gloomily with a nod out of the window at a Morris Cowley that was parked in the road.

“Do you need a motor?” asked Carlo.

“I don’t suppose so, but the wife likes to go for a drive on a Sunday.  We usually go to the Epping Forest or Richmond Park, but of course not now that she’s gone to Peterborough,” he added.

“And the rent?” asked Stephen looking around at the sitting room in the semi-detached villa.

“A few weeks behind.  I used the last of our savings.”

“Could you take in a lodger, West?”

“I want to keep Walter’s room for if he ever comes back.”  The thought that he might not suddenly caught up with him and Stephen feared that he might cry.

“I think we should go to the pub,” said Stephen suddenly.  He knew that West had been drinking, but weighed this fact against the surety that the sitting room in the house was making him more melancholy.  He was right and West appeared a little brighter after the elapse of an hour.

“Cubitts Estates would take me back, I’m pretty sure of that, that is if things were better.  They sacked nearly all the draftsmen when the Slump hit a development they were engaged on.”

“What was it?” asked Stephen.

“A housing estate out beyond Mill Hill.  They thought that the Underground would be extended out there and had started to plan roads, but that’s all stopped and they couldn’t give away allotments now.”

“So no railway?”

West shook his head sorrowfully. “With the Underground the whole area would have become another Edgware with thousands of homes.”

They fell to talking about their years together during the War and, despite everything, they seemed at this distance to have been happy times when they had been lads of twenty.  Stephen determined to give some money to West and lend him a little more against a time when he could repay the debt honourably and, in the meantime, he and Carlo set about restoring his confidence and encouraged him to look for employment among the people he knew.  It was not a solution, but Stephen thought about the miraculous pace of London’s growth¾that was no illusion¾ and for a moment he could just bring himself to imagine that times might one day get better and that the great army of the unemployed would be decimated.

It was late one Sunday night when Martin and Stephen were driving up to London in Stephen’s roadster.  Despite the cold wind, The Plunger and Teddy had elected to return with them rather than take the train, which The Plunger, by Brentford, had decided two hours before was a great mistake for he was freezing in the dickie seat, despite a thick overcoat, a scarf and Teddy beside him under a travelling rug.

As they gained upon London, the fields and scattered settlements gave way to a strange new landscape of modern factories built, or being built, along one of the new highways that had been inscribed in a clean sweep upon the ancient landscape of hedged fields and rutted rural lanes.  It doesn’t seem like England at all, thought The Plunger to himself as they bowled along the smooth concrete roadway, punctuated at intervals by these floodlit temples that acted as self-advertisements for their owners. 

They were mostly finished in ghostly white stucco and each shone alarmingly out of the blackness as they passed.  The Plunger counted them off: there was one for the manufacture of potato crisps (which he remembered he enjoyed with cocktails) and another one of rakish design was for fire extinguishers.  The Jantzen factory took him back to Christmas two years before at Croome where swimming costumes had been presents.  Up ahead the name ‘Spong’s’ was spelled out in red neon tubing all the way down a square tower topped with a bulbous illuminated clock.  A blue vein of neon emphasised the faceting of the tower and spilled over the administration block that fronted the road behind floodlit lawns.  Next to it was the establishment for a well-known cosmetics firm and this made him think of his manservant, Gertie, and he hoped that Gertie had remembered to turn on the heating in the studio.  An elaborate white structure had been erected for the manufacture toothpaste and The Plunger thought it looked rather like an enormous set of dentures under the harsh white glare.  There were several plants for motor parts and windscreen wipers and others whose products were unclear.  On an elevated plinth had been waggishly placed an illuminated Essex Terraplane, complete with a family of lay figures inside mutely enjoying their static outing.  In another minute they slipped past the long Egyptian frontage of an American tyre manufacturer and then, as a patch of darkness indicated undeveloped land, The Plunger shouted to Martin and Stephen: “That’s it!”

He was referring to the site for his father’s new brewery.  Craigth’s Caledonian Ale, which had long been a staple of the economy of Glasgow, was transferring its operations to the land of the Sassenachs.

“Yes I know we have a long and proud Scottish heritage,” said Sir Gordon as he took the whiskey that Martin had ordered in the members’ lounge at the Branksome Golf Links, “but the other board members, particularly Sir Solomon Hersh and Benjamin Rabinovich, persuaded me that manufacturing costs would be lower in an entirely new plant and Schorr said that West London had all the gas and electricity we would require, as well as road and rail access.  Rabinovich knew Gilbert Scott the architect— you know, of the Battersea Power Station…”

“And Liverpool Cathedral,” put in Stephen.

“Well I don’t know about Cathedrals, Knight-Poole, but he will work on the designs.  We will have the malting and brewing and the bottle manufacture and the filling all on the one site.  It will be the biggest brewery in Britain, but we will keep our traditional Scottish flavour—Herr Zajac, our chief brewer, will see to that.”  He paused to light a cigar and it took a few minutes.

“It must be a costly undertaking, Sir Gordon,” said Martin.

“We’ve had to raise nearly a million pounds, Lord Branksome,” he replied, slightly blanching at the enormousness of the sum that had tripped so easily from his tongue. “And many of our biggest investors are down here in London of course, but the shareholders are nervous and our shares have taken a bit of a hit since the announcement.”

“But it’s really a good time to build and invest,” said Stephen.

“Yes I think so too.  Even in London bidding for new jobs is fierce and interest rates are low.  Since the Slump began sales of beers and ales have actually increased, although I never touch the stuff myself,” confessed Sir Gordon as he lifted his glass of Scotch whisky to them.

“Can you use an engineering draftsman, Sir Gordon?” said Stephen suddenly.

The baronet looked at him.  “Do you want a job, Knight-Poole?” he said in a surprised tone.

“No, not for me, but for one of my men¾ that is, one of my men from the War; he is¾ or rather was¾ a draftsman with Cubitt’s.  It was a big firm but they went under when planning stalled on a proposed Underground extension.”

“Well that’s socialism for you,” said Sir Gordon, but said little more, as nearly everyone agreed that London Transport had been a success.  “Is he any good?”

“I think so.  He used to design loading systems for freight during the War and at Cubitts he worked on road designs and services.”

“We already have our own engineers in our old plant and we were going to get contractors to design the layout of the new one, but as it’s you who is asking, Knight-Poole, I’ll see what I can do.  Give me his name.”  Stephen wrote it on the back of his card and handed it across.

“You know, he will have to go up to Glasgow initially; would he be willing to go?”

“I think so; I will talk to him.”

“Do that and warn him about Scotland; can’t stand the place meself and would live in Italy all the time if it were up to me.  Of course Eudora likes America, but it’s no place for a gentleman I always think.” 

***** 

It was one morning just after Easter that Martin turned to Stephen and said: “I’m not getting out of bed, Derbs; stay here with me.”

“Whatever’s the matter Mala, are you unwell?”

“Just sick at heart, Derbs.”

Stephen put his arm about him and pulled him close.  “We’ll stay here all day if you like, Mala.  I’ll keep you safe.”

These were the words Martin was longing to here and he snuggled down next to his naked lover, placing his blond head on Stephen’s manly chest.  He closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would come and blot out the awfulness of the day, but at the same time fearful that horrible dreams might intrude cruelly on the sanctuary and sanctity of slumber.

The news since they had returned from holiday in France in January had not been good, with the exception of the cricket, which Stephen listened to endlessly on the wireless, rejoicing in the victory of Jardine’s team against the hitherto invincible Australians.  Nearly all the bad news came with the angry image of Herr Hitler in the newspapers or in snippets of his seemingly demented demagoguery on the wireless and in the newsreels.

These were further confirmed in letters from Germany where Princess Mata wrote of the banning of political parties and the censorship of the newspapers.  In one incident forty people had been shot by Hitler’s Brown Shirts and nothing had been done.  The fire at the Reichstag at the end of February had only served to consolidate the Nazi’s grip on power, which was reinforced in yet another set of elections.

From America there were gloomy letters from Bunny.  He distrusted Roosevelt, despite his giving thanks for an end to Prohibition.  Nothing was said about Dwight’s political opinions and the boys privately wondered if Dwight had supported the new president and thought with amusement of the chagrin of his boyfriend if this were so.  Another letter spoke of bank failures and of the ‘banking holiday’ that had been proclaimed and Bunny’s fear that the First Union Trust and Savings would not reopen its doors.  A later letter told of the relief when it did reopen and apparently was considered sound enough for Bunny to leave his savings in without too much concern.

Friedrich’s letters, which were short and confined to staccato facts, told less.  He had been fearful that his position would disappear when the Prussian state government was suddenly abolished but, under General Goering, Friedrich had somehow prospered and was placed in a department that dealt with forestry and hunting—both of which were interests dear to his boss.  He had purchased a Mercedes motorcar and had only had two accidents, which were not serious, and Tsolos’ driving lessons were continuing.

A more recent crop of letters from Mata and Erna spoke of anti-Jewish laws having been promulgated, with arrests and detentions being widespread.  Jewish students had been banned from schools and Jews were being dismissed from the law and the public service.  Erna said that it was only a matter of time before she was dismissed from the University of Berlin, where she had made enemies and she talked about fleeing Germany itself.  Marta wrote: “I don’t know how much longer I will be able to write, dear cousins, because it is now believed that letters to foreign countries are routinely opened.”  Martin thought this was appalling and wrote a letter to the editor of the Manchester Guardian in support of that lone paper’s warnings against Hitler— although it was not a journal that Martin would have ever dreamed of taking himself even just a year ago.

All these things resulted in Martin’s refusal to get out of bed and Stephen, to his credit, understood why.  Martin couldn’t escape into sleep or even close his eyes, so he lay there with his head sideways on Stephen and tried to find an explanation in the pattern of the wallpaper on the wall opposite.  At 8 o’clock Carlo was sent away and Chilvers came at 11:00.  “Shall I send for Dr Markby, Mr Stephen?” he said. “Or Mr Destrombe?”  Stephen shook his head.

At 12:00 Martin spoke:  “The trouble arises when human beings are treated as groups rather than as individuals, Derbs.  It is very hard to hate an individual, but it is oh so easy when we classify them as ‘the enemy’ or ‘the capitalists’ or ‘the Jews’ and how simple it is to excuse the faults in individuals by saying they are ‘the workers’ or ‘the Aryan race’— or ‘the British race’ for that matter, don’t you think?  I can’t think of anyone I could look in the eye and say, ‘I hate you’.”

“I think that is very true, Mala,” said Stephen kissing the top of his blond head, “we could never have fought the War if we had imagined the Huns as individual men.  It’s a pity that they don’t play cricket.”

“Do you think that would help?” said Martin turning his head upwards to try to see Stephen’s amused face.  Then suddenly: “Well, we can’t stay here all day, we’d better get up.”

“Mala,” said Stephen, “I can think of something I like almost as much as cricket.”

“Derby, would it be right for you to pleasure me with your big cock, when the world is in such a dreadful state?”

“And now that Japan has withdrawn from the League, Mala, should I allow you to suck on my cock until you gag?”

“You like it when I gag, Derbs?”

“I do Mala.”

“Wally Hammond did make a big score against New Zealand.”

“336, Mala, and that is a cause for celebration.”

“Except in New Zealand.”

“Except in New Zealand, Mala, and that is a long way away.”

“But they are individuals all the same, Derbs.”

“I will bear that in mind while you suck me.”

Thus calmed and able to see the world for what it is, although still short of making sense of it, Martin adjusted his position on the bed so that he might take Stephen’s cock and bring him to a full and glorious hardness and shortly afterwards Chilvers and Carlo, with their ears pressed to the door, were relieved to hear the familiar and happy sounds that, to the untutored ear, could have easily been mistaken for the guttural spluttering of some Central European demagogue or perhaps the sound of Miss Joan Crawford trying to swallow the handle of Wally Hammond’s bat, followed by the sound that could have been General Goering trying to squeeze into a telephone kiosk, but which, to the two devoted servants, denoted that their master was back to normal.

Martin strolled down to the vicarage where he was to take tea.  Mr Destrombe spoke of some sick parishioners that Martin noted required visiting and they turned to the topic of the jumble sale in the W.I. Hall.  Mrs Destrombe was unusually quiet, even as she served the cucumber sandwiches.  “I’m sorry Lord Branksome, what was that you were saying?” 

Martin repeated himself and then the vicar said: “My wife has not been well, your lordship; in fact we are to go up to London the day after tomorrow to see the doctors.”

“Yes, there will be several days of tests, Lord Branksome,” said his wife.

“Oh I do hope that all will be well, Mrs Destrombe.  Where will you be staying?”

“At the Midland Hotel at St Pancras.  That is, Eustace will stay there until he has to come back for the Sunday services and I will be in the Middlesex Hospital.”

“Mr Destrombe, I can’t have you staying at a hotel among strangers.  Why don’t you stay at Branksome House, both of you, there is plenty of room and you will be much more comfortable.”

“Why thank you, Lord Branksome, that is most kind of you,” replied the Vicar, looking at his wife for confirmation.  “I do hope we will not be putting you out.”

Martin assured him that he wasn’t and then he had a marvellous idea:  There were many tenants on the estate that these days had to go to London for such emergencies.  Unlike the Destrombes, most were unable to afford hotels and many country folk found the great capital a hostile place.  His idea was to convert the unused chauffeur’s room in the mews into a bedsitting room for such persons as Mr Destrombe should recommend to him.  A couple, or perhaps a couple with a sick child, would surely benefit from somewhere to call home during a family crisis and an extra bed and a gas ring would make the disused room into a small flat in the centre of London.  By the time he had buttoned up his overcoat in the vicarage hall he had worked the idea out fully in his head and he was anxious to discuss it with Stephen.

Stephen’s dogs were lying outside the village gymnasium when Martin entered and they looked up at his approach.  Inside he could hear voices and the clack of balls that denoted several village lads at play upstairs on the mezzanine where there was a handsome billiard table and a cosy fireplace.  Downstairs, Cedric, the postmistress’ son, was doing sit ups while Stephen was pulling on ropes that lifted weights attached to the wall.  He was wearing just a vest and a ragged pair of short trousers and he was gloriously sweaty and a lock of his black hair had fallen forward where it was plastered over his left eye, perhaps obscuring Martin’s arrival from his view.

Martin continued to watch him, unobserved, as he grunted and strained with the muscles in his thighs and chest bulging and flexing and threatening to burst at any moment from the confines of his clothing where the damp patches of perspiration grew in intriguing patterns.  Martin opened his overcoat and felt himself as he watched, imagining how sweat-soaked his hardworking balls would be by now.  Martin continued to knead his groin, confident that he was not being overlooked, staring straight at his lover until, at last Stephen looked up through his hair and smiled in acknowledgement of his presence.  Martin stopped his self-groping and Stephen, with a slight movement of his head and eyes, told Martin to keep going.  Martin, mesmerised by Stephen, resumed feeling himself through his trousers and increased his movements as Stephen increased his own pace on the machine that Martin did not know the name of.  Stephen parted his lips and a flick of his head and a look transmitted by his blue eyes urged Martin on.  Martin was nearly going to stop, thinking Stephen was conceited enough already, but he didn’t and briefly realised that Stephen was a deity that demanded to be worshipped.

Martin’s eyes rolled back and Stephen understood that he had spilled in his trousers.  He released the weights and crossed to room to the sequestered position where Martin had been standing.  “That was very nice, Mala,” he said as he pulled on an old pair of trousers and an Arran Isle jumper which lay on the floor.  He did up Martin’s overcoat and risked a kiss on his lips before they both headed to the door.  “Are you sticky, Mala?”

“Yes, Derbs, it’s soaked my trousers and is running down my leg.  It’s hard to walk.”

“Good,” said Stephen, pleased to be the cause of this effect, “Carlo will have to get ‘the bottle’ out when we get home.”

The bottle, to which he referred, was Carlo’s secret recipe for removing these stains of love from things such as Martin’s navy serge trousers, the bed linen, the Aubusson rug in the bedroom and a table in Branksome house whose burr walnut veneer was unfortunately ruined by the fluid itself.  The exact ingredients were unknown, but Carlo had let it slip that borax and eucalyptus oil figured in the mixture, with Martin replying that Messers Boots would probably pay a great deal of money for the patent.

“So what do you think, Derbs?” said Martin a short time later.

“I think you are a very kind fellow, Martin, and a good lord of the manor.  I can hardly imagine you are descended for Sir Ayland Poole.”

“Thank you Derbs.  Shall we look at the mews when we go up to London tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’ve got my luncheon.  Come here first,” he said, pulling Martin to him in the bedroom and kissing him.  Martin’s trousers had already been given to Carlo to be seen to and so it was an easy matter for Stephen to slip out of his own sweat-soaked garments.  Martin loved his smell and wondered if other people smelled so exciting and thought about The Archbishop of Canterbury and Mussolini and decided they wouldn’t and he was just turning his mind to Jack Dempsey and Gary Cooper when Stephen took hold of his cock.  He stroked it gently, for it was still tender and then he took his own foreskin and stretched it around Martin’s cock.  Martin marvelled at the way Stephen always knew of new and exciting things to do and how they always seemed just right.  With the two members thus united Martin was given the job of masturbating Stephen while Stephen leaned heavily on his shoulders and looked down.  When Martin became tired Stephen took over, but when he grew close, he had Martin resume and Martin had the exquisite pleasure of feeling Stephen’s thick cock pulse under his hands (he was using both at this point) as he released his seed in such intimate proximity.  It was beautiful, Martin decided, even though he was a mess again.

The early morning inspection of the mews flat took place after Stephen had finished his exercises with the punching bag in the loose box down below.  They had given up keeping their own horses in London to ride in Rotten Row and the stalls now accommodated Stephen’s motor and exercise equipment.  Martin was more reluctant to bring his Rolls Royce to London.  It was a pre-war model, and although it performed flawlessly, its body was now considered rather quaint like its starting handle.

“I think a hand basin in the corner, there, Mala with a little gas boiler over it on the wall, would be a good idea.  They can use the servants’ lavatory across the yard.  Perhaps an electric fire instead of a gas one would be cheaper.”

“No, Derbs, it’s cold out here and I think a little gas fire would be more cheerful.  The pipe is already there.”  A few more decisions were made and these were communicated to Glass the butler who would oversee it all, with Mrs Beck, the housekeeper, seeing to some chintz curtains and other homely touches.

Stephen’s luncheon that day was given for the novelist Angela Thirkell whose third book owed no small debt to Anthony Trollope but was nonetheless a charming and sharply depicted life in a fictitious county.  It was uncertain if Mr and Mrs Baldwin could also join them— Parliament being in session— and so Martin said he would occupy a seat.  In the end they did come.  Baldwin was Thirkell’s cousin (as was Rudyard Kipling) and a man of quiet charm.  Thirkell, with her cut glass Kensingtonian accent which was not quite up-to-date in the Noel Coward manner, was a witty conversationalist, but Baldwin traded on not being an intellectual but rather an ordinary man with a pipe, a dog and slippers and this, Martin came to realise, was also a form of affectation as mannered as his cousin’s novels.

Thirkell brought with her, her nineteen year-old son, Colin, who was a handsome blond boy and a would-be writer and painter and who was at present working in an office in Brussels.  There was clearly a strained relationship between mother and son.  While she was all Edwardian propriety, he seemed not to miss an opportunity to highlight how passé her world was. 

“It’s all rather safe, mother, and the characters seem far too motivated by minute distinctions of class which means nothing these days.”  The others around the table shifted uncomfortably.

“The subtlety to human society seems to escape you, Colin.”

“The strength of the sex impulse does not, Mother.  People are motivated much more by their carnal urges than anything else and these don’t appear on the pages at all in High Rising.”

“Well, they do keep their clothes on,” she replied sharply, “unlike Mr Lawrence’s characters and I hope I use decent language unlike Mr Joyce.”

“Oh yes, mother, all very suitable for a maiden aunt.” The young man turned to Stephen.

“You understand about the sex impulse, don’t you Mr Knight-Poole.”

“I’ve heard talk of it,” said Stephen, “but I like to read for literary merit and I think the power of literature can come in many forms.”

“But it must say something about life today or else it’s just masturbation.”

There was a shocked silence at the table and Stephen quickly changed the topic to that of the Burne-Jones exhibition, which Mr Baldwin had recently opened at the Tate Gallery, for Thirkell and Baldwin were both descendants of the famous Pre-Raphaelite.

Fortunately The Plunger was a guest and he could talk sensibly about Art and his sister Jean Vane-Gillingham had also been invited and the pair of them directed the conversation into safer waters.

“I understand you lived in Australia, until recently, Mrs Thirkell,” said Stephen over the Sole en Chaud-Froid Curnonsky.

The authoress pulled a face.  “That was my greatest mistake and I’ve never been happier since escaping.  There is no possibility of civilised conversation there¾ with one or two exceptions¾ and the whole continent seems to be populated by the lower middle class.  The Australian never has a single thought beyond the next cricket match and the next pay packet.  “I practically had to do all my own housework, for the servants are the worst Bolsheviks of them all.”  She went on in this vein for some length.

Stephen was sorry he had asked and put Mrs Thirkell down as not being of colonizing stock.

When the conversation turned to the art of 80 years ago, Martin told the story of the Gothic Dining Room at Croome and how his grandfather had sought Prince Albert’s advice for its design.  “And just a few weeks ago, when the workmen were about to begin demolishing the interior and removing the hideous stained glass with its depictions of scenes from Scott’s novels, a man arrived from the Victoria and Albert Museum and he begged me to be allowed to take photographs.”

“I was brought up on Sir Walter Scott,” said Baldwin filling his pipe at the table.  “But I am a plain man without highbrow tastes; Scott and Kipling and Dickens…the hymns of John Wesley, not all this foreign stuff.”

“Well I couldn’t imagine why anybody would be interested in that mid-Victorian horror, Mr Baldwin,” said Martin. “It was surely a low point in British taste and could never be of interest to future generations¾ unless as an example of the bad old days and what to avoid.”

“Don’t be too sure, Lord Branksome,” said the young Thirkell, “that’s what they once said about the Regency and several of the aesthetes up at Oxford have taken up collecting wax flowers under glass domes.”

“Those dreadful things!” cried Mrs Baldwin, “I remember my aunts having them. “It was surely an era devoid of taste.”

“I agree with Mr Thirkell,” said The Plunger, “There is a nostalgia at present for all things mid-Victorian.  There is Lytton Strachey’s Eminent Victorians and Queen Victoria and several artists have recently spoken admiringly about William Frith’s enormous paintings.  Perhaps you have been too prompt in dismissing Victorian Gothic, Martin.”

“Archie, that room was a nightmare and falling to bits, as well you know.  I will be long in my grave before anyone lifts a finger to save the buildings from Queen Victoria’s heyday.  It is different with the Eighteenth Century, surely that was the epoch that had the last word on craftsmanship and taste.”

‘Well I don’t think future generations will think anything from 1933 is worth preserving,” said Jean Vane-Gillingham.  “You should see the hideous block of flats going up in the Brompton Road.  These developers are ruining London.”

“That is why I like your books, Angela,” said Mrs Baldwin.  “They almost take me back to before the War when life was settled, not like today.”

“I have a plain man’s tastes,” said Baldwin to the table at large, “and I like a good read and the intricacies of village life are a microcosm of the larger world I always say¾ besides I can see parallels to my cabinet colleagues¾ Una Grey has a passing resemblance to Lloyd George I thought.” The others politely laughed.

After luncheon, Colin Thirkell lingered.  “You were very rude to your mother, Mr Thirkell,” admonished Stephen.

“She’s really the most awful old monster and you should hear dreadful things she says behind people’s backs; I’m just upfront with it.  I can’t wait to get back to the flesh pots of Brussels.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you can have a sailor every day there if you want to¾ all colours.  It’s wonderful.

You should look me up when you’re next there,” he said as Glass helped him on with his coat, “unless you’d like to come down to Earl’s Court with me now?”

Stephen replied that he didn’t think so and was slightly shocked at the young man’s forthrightness.  Where was I at his age?  Then Stephen remembered and withheld his judgement. 

*****

Young O’Brien held one end of a longe while the other was attached to the horse’s halter.  The pony trotted obediently in a circle while the little girl gripped the reins earnestly and bounced up and down with the action of the animal.  “Look Papa!” she cried, breaking into smile and turning sideways in the saddle.  This movement unsettled her and she started to slide.  Martin was there to scoop her up and he placed her upright and the lesson continued.  Daniel Sachs stood at the rails holding Eliana’s hand until it was her turn while Stephen was carrying little Gisella with her arms about his neck.  She was too small for lessons but Stephen had promised to take her¾ and only her¾ to the Home Farm for tea where there would be Mrs Harkness’ Eccles cakes and a litter of five spaniel puppies to be inspected.

The boys loved these visits and were fond of the Sachs.  Mrs Sachs had an easy-going charm, which was in contrast to her husband’s single-minded focus on business¾ excepting for when he was out on his yacht.  She enjoyed country weekends and delighted in getting her fingers dirty in Martin’s new garden and could often be seen in country tweeds with a basket over her arm from which protruded some choice cutting or jar of homemade jam or even a brace of snipe that had been obtained from Miss Tadrew or Mrs Destrombe or one of the other ladies of the village in her acquaintance.

With Martin she would go out to Lesser Branksome where they would critique the new houses and their gardens and where Mrs Sachs confessed that she would love leave London.  “Perhaps when the girls are older and away at school?” said Martin as they had their tea at the Green Gables Tearoom.

“But Daniel would never leave the City, Lord Branksome, although he could easily afford to retire.”

“I suppose so,” said Martin as he bit into a Bath bun whose recipe had come to Miss Graham from the beyond, “and he is really too clever not to do something.”

“I have often wondered why he does not stand for Parliament.  He has a fine mind for detail ¾except at home where he can never remember where anything is¾ and he has a way of convincing others, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Martin.

“Would you or the lady like a reading, your lordship?”  It was Mrs Pettigrew. “My sister will read the leaves for sixpence.”

“I don’t think so, Mrs Pettigrew,” replied Martin and then to Mrs Sachs in a low voice said: “I disapprove of fortune telling; it’s really an easy plot device for a cheap novel, I always think.”

Mrs Sachs agreed and their futures remained undisclosed, as they gathered their things for the walk back to the house.

That evening, after the three girls had had their dinner and baths and had been tucked up in bed and read to, the adults gathered for cocktails and then their own dinner in the Spanish Dining Room.

“Well maybe the Versailles Treaty was vindictive and unfair,” said Sachs, “but it is a great mistake for us to allow the Germans a free hand because of it¾ because we somehow feel sorry for them.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Martin, “it was vindictive and it was Clemenceau who demanded it¾ I was there¾but maybe we need a strong Germany to balance France who is eager to resume her place as the dominant Continental power.”

“I’m sorry Martin, but that is nonsense.  The French may talk big, but France is in a much worse state that Germany; I have analysed all the economic data.  If anything we need a stronger France to stand up to a resurgent Germany.”

“Some say that we need a strong Germany to hold back Bolshevism,” contributed Myles, not wanting to quite say that he thought so himself.

“I think Hitler is relying on that argument too much, Mr Myles, and Bolshevism is less likely to spread by force of arms than through the spread of ideas, although I admit that the Russians give support to the communists in France and other countries, but I fail to see how strengthening Hitler’s arm will prevent the spread of Bolshevism in this or any other country.”

“But surely the Disarmament Conference and the Naval Treaty are the modern ways to prevent another war?” said Stephen, quite distressed, and shocked at even his own voicing of ‘another war’.

“I don’t believe all parties are sincere and that’s the flaw,” continued Sachs, pointing with his knife.  “Baldwin is keen to find any excuse not to spend on new aeroplanes…”

“We should be spending on fighting the Depression, not each other,” interjected Martin. “Or saving money to balance our budget.”

“Rearming would create jobs, just like in the War,” countered Sachs.  “You should read what Churchill is saying; he’s a wake up to Herr Hitler.”

“But Churchill has been wrong about so many things,” argued Martin, “Home Rule, the Dardanelles, India and the gold standard…” ¾ Martin having changed his mind on this last.

“That may be so, Martin, but I think you will find that he was not opposed to Home Rule if it meant a united Ireland and it was the execution of the Dardanelles campaign, not it’s objective, that was wanting.  In any case, do you seriously think that this government is any match for the ruthless types like Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini?”

“And the wily ones like De Valera and Gandhi,” added Mrs Sachs.

The others found themselves swayed by Sachs’ oratory and ready command of facts and examples and by the clear force of his logic and the dinner progressed with Mrs Sachs giving an account of her cousin’s flight to France from Munich.  These were depressing times indeed.

After dinner Martin was alone with Sachs in the library.  “Daniel, I am undertaking an extensive remodelling of the Gothic Dining Room and I’m rather afraid that I have committed myself to expensive plans.  There are to be new walls and ceiling and lots of glass…”

Sachs frowned.  “Spending capital will cripple you in the future, Martin.  You should be buying shares while they are cheap or saving to build up your reserves.”

“Well, I had been putting off doing anything, but the room was becoming such a wreck before we had the roof done.  I was also thinking of the employment it would give to others, especially on this estate.  There have been no new houses built around here since Mr and Mrs Sutton’s¾ they’re the people who own the factory in Pemberton ¾Audion Ltd it is called.”

“What sums are we talking about?” 

Martin showed him some quotes for glass and marquetry and the cost of thirty new chairs.  “There are others too,” confessed Martin as Sachs studied the documents.

“You could build several new houses for the price of all this,” said Sachs severely.  Martin felt a bit sick in his stomach.  “How much did you collect from the insurance?”

“What insurance?”

“The insurance on the house and your claim for water damage through the roof?”

“Can I claim for that?”

“Of course; the roof was damaged by storms and water penetrated and rotted the plaster.  Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, but I’m not repairing it, I’m completely redesigning it.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Get the insurance assessors out as soon as possible and lodge a claim.   It won’t come near to what you are spending, but it will defray some of the cost.”  Martin brightened.  “Send the accounts to me and I will sell some shares for you.”

Martin left the library to join the others for bridge feeling like he had escaped a caning in the headmaster’s study.

It was many months later that the Gothic Dining Room was finally completed at its enormous cost.  Martin blanched as he sent off the sheaves of accounts to Sachs from builders, stone masons and chromium platers and he prayed that 1934 would see an increase in returns, for he had spent several thousand pounds of his capital on this project.  He was slightly ashamed that his splendid dining room should come before the more civic-minded village library, which would have to be put back yet again unless the local authority contributed to its cost. The local member, Mr Noakes, had been singularly unsuccessful in lobbying for the library or for a new building for the nursery school, merely telling Martin that his parliamentary colleague, Lord Londonderry, could not get the authorities to build a library at Mt Stewart either and that we all must tighten our belts.

The worst weeks had been during the demolition of the old interior when a terrible black dust seemed to pervade all the downstairs rooms in the house.  Then there were motor lorries and drays delivering timber and plaster and chewing up the gravel drive, and finally the arrival of the enormous sheets of mirror glass, which were nervously handled until securely bolted to the framing constructed inside the old walls to align them correctly.

There was an endless parade of men with sketches and designs to be approved and there were the occasional visits of Captain Oliver Hill, the architect, who had been fined five shillings for discussing ‘shop’ when sunbathing naked on the roof, which he said would be deducted from his bill.

On the eve of the celebratory dinner, Martin and Stephen walked through the completed room.  Outside some men were still at work clearing up fragments of stone, for the local stone mason and his team had been required to widen and lower the old openings and then they skilfully filled-in the old pointed arches with new work and had only just finished pointing the lime mortar the day before.

It was difficult to know where to look first, although Martin and Stephen had seen its progress almost daily over these last months, but perhaps upon entering the room from the Great Hall, the first thing that struck the visitor was that the room was light and a view of the green world outside greeted the eye.  Where the old sham gothic windows were too high to be seen out of when seated, and what northern light was grudgingly admitted was filtered through atrocious mauve and red glass, these new windows ran right down to the floor in three rectangular openings, each of which was subdivided by a pair of stout mullions formed by metal piping which supported the wall above.  The windows themselves were of clear glass set in horizontal bands between steel bars.  The centre lights were actually a pairs of doors that opened out to the lawn that ran up to a bank of trees.  It was not the best prospect from the house, but it was not an unattractive view, Martin considered with a critical eye.

The new room was a couple of feet narrower than the old one and part of this was explained by the clever way that the long curtains were drawn back out of sight when opened.  These were of ultramarine velvet with horizontal bands of gold fringing.  The colour blue was repeated in the plain carpet that was set within a narrow border of parquetry, which was Captain Hill’s way of protecting it from soiling where it met the French windows.  The narrow end nearest the door from the kitchen corridor was completely filled by a built in fitment made of the finest veneers.  It housed the warming trays and ice compartment suggested by Chilvers and in a section with glass doors reposed the enormous Worcester service whose blue colouring had inspired the decorative scheme.  This was his own idea Martin remembered proudly. 

The boys pulled out two of the sabre legged chairs and sat at the mahogany table.  These were upholstered in putty-coloured leather that finished in a scrolled back.  If truth be told, Martin would have preferred a new table in a lighter wood, but this refurbishment made the old table unrecognisable and it was now edged in a simple chamfer rather than the trefoils and quatrefoils and diamond headed studs of the old.  They sat with their backs to the view and stared at their own reflections in the opposite wall.  This was the wall of mirror glass that was the most daring part of the scheme.  The glass was barely tinted in a very subtle shade of gold, which added warmth to the big room.  Only two crystal doorknobs betrayed the location of the concealed entrances to the dining room ¾ a visual trick.  This mirror wall was broken by the fifteen-foot fireplace whose design in white plaster inset with three chrome bands, was of the upmost simplicity.  There was a low mantle-piece and Martin was, as yet, undecided if anything should be placed on its veneered shelf that was cleverly lit from below.

“The wind’s from the southwest; that means rain, Mala,” observed Stephen.  He had been looking at his own special and ingenious contribution: over the fireplace and etched into the mirror glass with acid, was a stylized map of map of Croome, showing the house, the roads and the course of the stream.  Little squares represented the three villages with their clusters of houses and the church, while swirls showed the woodland.  Above it was the monogram ‘GVR’ and over it all oscillated a Plexiglass hand like that on a clock.  This was cleverly connected to a vane on the chimney and swung to show the direction of the wind.  Stephen had designed it and Martin thought it was a most delightful conceit and much better than the prosaic and suburban clock that had originally been suggested.

“Shall we do ‘The Stations of the Cross’?” asked Martin.  This was their name for the marquetry frieze that ran at eye level over the remaining two walls, interrupted by the windows.  These walls were sheathed in timber veneer set horizontally between chrome bands and turned the corner in a gentle curve.  The Plunger’s designs had been carried out faithfully by skilled craftsmen glad of a commission in these times and added sufficient interest to the dining room to make the usual framed pictures and statuary quite unnecessary.

The first one showed a fourteenth century scene taken from woodcuts found in the library.  It showed the original house that had stood further to the south in open fields under strip cultivation.  A figure representing Sir Aylard Poole is seen hawking and repressing the Peasants’ Revolt —like the Bayeux Tapestry actions at different times being able to be shown in the one flat plane.  They moved on to the baron who supported Richard III until he deserted to Henry Tudor at Bosworth Field, decisively changing the course of history.  The Plunger had drawn the horses and pikemen with great skill.  The First Earl was shown at the Court of Queen Elizabeth handing over a leaf of tobacco to Her Majesty and counselling the death of Mary Queen of Scots.  The death of the Third Earl at Edge Hill was very moving and The Plunger had obviously delighted in drawing the wonderful costumes worn by Prince Rupert’s Cavaliers.  Next was the slave-trading tableau of Martin’s great-great-great grandfather and this was followed by the depiction of his son, who was shown in Parliament opposing the Reform Bill.  Then there was Martin’s grandfather who had built the Gothic Dining Room.  He was shown wearing a tall hat and tartan trousers with the First Marchioness in a crinoline.  Behind them was the easily recognisable arch of the nave of the Crystal Palace alongside an early locomotive and these belied the fact that he had strenuously opposed the railways and was disdainful of the manufacturing classes in particular — but The Plunger’s frieze was allowed some artistic licence and was not, Martin admitted, delivered under oath. 

Lastly and perhaps most delightfully of all, was the contemporary panel.  Here, against a background of modern liner, the Blue Train and the nose of an airship, the present Lord Branksome was shown wearing a double-breasted suit and leaning against his Rolls Royce.  In the passenger seat, holding a cricket bat, was a recognizable depiction of Stephen.  “Look Derbs,” said Martin, “that must be your M.C. and bar pinned to your chest.”  Indeed, in a tiny sliver of Amboyna burl, the decoration could be made out. “And look, behind the back wheel of my Rolls, isn’t that a border collie?”  It was and it was behaving in a most disrespectful manner.

They reluctantly left the wonderful room but not before playing with the electric lights concealed in the folds of ceiling made of fibrous plaster nailed to a timber frame.  The first switch turned on the hidden globes and the room was flooded with light reflected down from the ceiling.  More switches and rheostats operated the blue, yellow and red globes.  Martin took a plate from the cabinet: under a blue light the plate looked anaemic, but with the right mixture the room glowed.  Curiously the plaster ceiling looked translucent when the colours were mixed.  “Chilvers has been practicing and he has the knack of getting the lighting just right so that everything looks wonderful.  Tomorrow we will dine under candlelight, and he will just have a sunset glow above us.”

The guests began arriving the next day.  There were thirty for dinner and half would be staying for the weekend, so the servants were busy preparing bedrooms and cooking.  Martin drove to the station to meet every train while Chilvers and the two footmen set the new table.  Chilvers used a ruler to get the place settings correct and then ran a critical eye over the silver looking for any tarnish that might have escaped his thumb.  Lance could now be trusted with the best china as he had matured in limb and co-ordination over the last couple of years, especially since Mrs Vetch’s sudden departure for parts unknown with her husband who was reported to have laid hands upon her.  Lance was now walking out with the pretty young teacher of the infant classes and his wealth of his experience under the tutelage of the spouse of the chicken farmer was incalculable, but, of course, the loss of a steady supply of eggs to the great house had to be weighed against this.

When the guests went in to dinner there were pleasing gasps of surprise.  They circulated the table looking for their places, but many rotated more than once so they could examine the frieze and the chamber’s other delightful features.  Captain Hill was seen pointing out the structure of the ceiling to Aunt Maude while Mr Lawrence Rowley was extolling the beauty of the Queensland Maple to the Lord Lieutenant and his wife.  Charles and Jack were studying the windvane while others were examining the historic Poole frieze.  The hungry ones, like Sir Bernard Bonnington, were already seated expectantly.

When the guests settled, they turned their attention to their attractively printed menus trimmed in tartan.  Twenty-eight pairs of eyes scanned the document in hungry anticipation.  They read: Consommé d’orge à la Princesse which most imagined would be a nice soup. This was to be followed by Filet de Truite à la Reine and some wondered which queen liked trout.  Some were surprised there was a second fish and then under the heading of Entrées was written: Zéphirs de Volaille à la Renaissance and Ris de Veau à la Grande Duchesse. 

“What on earth is that?” Charles asked Jean Vane-Gillingham.  She could not enlighten him.

“I think it is a cow’s thymus gland,” replied Dr Markby who had overheard, pulling a face.

Following this was to come a saddle of mutton and Timbale de Chouxfleurs à la Stanley. 

“Stanley who?” asked the Lord Lieutenant of Miss Tadrew.

“Perhaps the discoverer of Dr Livingstone?”

There were several more courses, each with more than one dish and, much further down the lengthy menu, it terminated in a savoury in the form of a soufflé and Oeuf de Pluviers en Aspic. This was unusual for November thought The Plunger.

It was a formidable banquet and one for only the most accomplished of trenchermen and even Sir Bernard was looking alarmed and thinking of the indigestion that lay ahead.  Suddenly Martin spoke:  “Dear friends, the menu before you is the one for the occasion of Queen Victoria’s visit here in 1857.  If you turn the page, you will find the menu for 1933.”

It was with some relief that everybody looked again and there, with consideration to the less robust constitutions of modern times, was the promise of cold hors d’oeuvre followed by a fish, then stuffed snipe, a rice salad, then cheese and a single rich dessert, Soufflé au Grand Marnier.

Chilvers and the footmen, augmented by Carlo, served and cleared with no fuss at all. The plates were warm and the champagne was cold.  Chilvers adjusted the lighting to bring out the best in each course.

Before the dessert, Martin tapped his glass and rose to speak.  He thanked Oliver Hill for his design and The Plunger for his drawings and Mr Rowley for his marquetry.  “Since 1852 this room has been called the Gothic Dining Room; it now needs a new name for a new age.”  He gestured to the monogram above the map of the estate. “This is now the George the Fifth Dining Room.”  There was a toast to the George the Fifth Dining Room followed by a toast to His Majesty himself.

The assembled group departed en masse¾ the ladies and gentlemen together in a show of modernity¾ for the Red Drawing Room and thus crossing a divide of a hundred years to the reign of William IV where vitrolite, chromium and plate glass were unknown and the waltz had just come to enjoy the respectability in which the foxtrot was now held; where faro was played, not bridge, and where men’s and women’s fashions, in the matter of waists, hems, lapels, bonnets and curled hair, were not so different after all¾ perhaps weighing in the favour of ‘now’ rather than ‘then’ in the matter of sensibility, but of ‘then’ rather than ‘now’ in the matter of delight.  Lord Branksome stood among them as his great grandfather must have done on that very spot in 1833, except his descendant was fiddling with the knob to see if he could get Bert Ambrose’s Orchestra on the BBC.

To be continued…