Martin slid into bed and Stephen, without taking his eyes from the page, put his right arm about him and Martin snuggled into his side.  He lay there quietly for a time, then could not help himself:  “What are you reading Derbs?”

“Something by Wells,” he said and continued to read.

“What is it?”  Stephen turned the colourful paper jacket so he could read: The Shape of Things to Come.  “What’s it about?”

Stephen knew that it was useless to continue.  “He imagines a future world; I’ve only got to 1950 yet.  There’s been a very long war in Europe ¾ mainly between Germany and Poland ¾ and all countries suffer from the economic crisis which gets worse and worse and then there is a plague…”

“It doesn’t sound very cheerful.”

“I don’t suppose it is; it’s silly in places.”  Stephen put Mr Wells aside as he realised that Martin wanted his attention. 

“It’s nice with the Sachs here, isn’t it Derbs?”

Stephen said it was.  There had been a by-election in which Daniel had stood for the Conservative interest.  Martin had campaigned vigorously for him and was surprised that Mr Tatchell, the industrialist from Wareham, had also backed him.  Before the War Tatchell had been an unsuccessful candidate for the Liberal Party and had opposed Martin’s family, but now things had changed.  “We need to rebuild this nation’s economy, Lord Branksome, and we need to be the equal of Germany in manufactures and in armaments and to do that we need infrastructure; we won’t get that with the steady-as-she-goes policies of the present government,” he had said and Martin had found himself agreeing with his former foe.

As the result of Daniel Sachs becoming the new member for South Dorset and Purbeck, he had decided to establish his family in the county and, in the meantime, had been invited to stay at Croome for as long as he liked until this could be affected.  Martin and Stephen delighted in playing with the three little girls¾ the oldest two now having their own ponies¾ and it became a common sight for Martin to be seen walking alongside them as they trotted down the road to the village as Stephen carried the youngest, Gisella, on his shoulders and who had only recently pressed her suit and had again asked Stephen to marry her when she grew up.

“I used to think Croome was as big as the whole world when I was a boy, Derbs,” said Martin dreamily as he lay with his head on Stephen’s broad chest.  “But I now know it’s terribly tiny; a tiny and fragile bubble in a very big and frightening world.  You’ll help me keep it safe, won’t you Derbs?”

“Of course I will Mala.  We’ll do it together, like we’ve always done.”

“I’d hate to be Mr Wells.  I don’t want to see into the future.  I suppose I’m a pessimist.”

“You can’t be blamed for that, Mala.”

“There’s probably no future for Croome,” he then said with bitterness.  “I will probably have nothing to leave you, Derbs.  The government will have taken it all or the banks will have seized it or aeroplanes will have dropped bombs on it.”

“It might not come to that; I might die first.”

“Don’t say that, Derbs,” replied Martin, distressed.  “I want to die first; it would be no good without you; you must promise me that!”

Stephen promised. “Young Georgie will certainly see a different world when he becomes the Marquess of Branksome.”  This last referred to Phillip Rous-Poole’s new baby son, which Constance had presented him with before Christmas. 

“He looks like his father, don’t you think, Derbs?  Poor Constance.”

“That’s a dreadful thing to say about any infant, Mala, but it is a pity he doesn’t take after Constance.  Don’t be gloomy, Mala.  I hate it when you’re like this.”

“Sorry Derbs.  I’ll be more optimistic, it’s just that I wish…” He rubbed Stephen’s big balls under the blankets.

“That’s nice, Mala,” said Stephen who found just about everything Martin did to him nice and he spread his legs to give him more access.  “Keep rubbing and a genie will appear.”

Martin laughed and said that he’d make a wish.  There was silence for a minute and Stephen thought about picking up his novel again when Martin spoke: “Derbs, why don’t we go on a picnic tomorrow?  It’s going to be fine.”

“Shall we take the girls?”

“No, just us¾on our bicycles.  We could stay out all day.”

Stephen thought that would be nice and Martin rang for Chilvers who appeared in his dressing gown.  “Chilvers, we are going on a picnic tomorrow on our cycles.  Would you get cook to make us a hamper?  Surprise us with nice things.”

“Very well your lordship.” replied the retainer and withdrew. 

***** 

They rode by way of Pendleton with Stephen’s dogs bounding alongside, unwilling to let their master out of their sight.  When they came to the Infirmary Martin pulled up.

“I want to see old Grindling,” Martin said, “Mr Destrombe said that he’s very frail.”

They set their bicycles by the gates and Stephen waved his hand and said something that may have been in Romany, which the dogs took to understand meant guard the machines and the hamper, and went in.

The old man was in bed and was unshaven and very wheezy.  His eyes were dull and sunken back into his skull but they brightened when he saw the boys.  “It bin’ very good of you t’visit an auld fossil like me, your lordship, I iz sorry I can’t stand.  Is thart you Stephen?” Stephen stepped forward and a few words were exchanged about cricket. “And thou bin an’ took five for twenty-nine against Wimbourne Minster?”

“I did, Mr Grindling,” said Stephen, “but that was five years ago.”

“Were it?  Ar, git fuddled I do.  Thou is’t good lad, Stephen, an’ a big lad too, I hears,” he chuckled before it turned into a coughing fit, “a big lad thart makes t’village proud.”  There was a pause while this was digested.  “I knowed Titus when he were a young ’un,” he said in a far off voice “and I knowed your grandfather, your lordship, a’ fore he married her ladyship— she were a German you know.”  Martin said that he knew.  “That were in the time when the Old Queen were still the Young Queen.  Does thou bin rem’ber Queen Victoria your lordship?”  Martin said that he didn’t.  “They wuz all for marrin’ t’Germans; we thought t’Germans wuz alright then.  Your grandfather he were a right bastard, your lordship,” he said suddenly.  “Beggin’ your pardon like…”  The conversation continued in a rambling way, punctuated by coughing.  “Tiz nice of you to come, your lordship and you too young Stephen, but didst thou bring t’Princess?”  They said they were sorry.  “Ar, were better’n draught from t’doctor for an old fella like me, were t’Princess.”  He gave a wink before more coughing put an end to the visit.

The boys continued their ride, going up into a stretch of woodland in the far northern part of the estate that bordered Sir Bernard Bonnington’s.  A dense canopy of beech formed the forest, but there were some fine old oaks and, where it was lighter, rowans and heaths grew upon the poorer soils. They stopped to watch some deer flitting through the trees.  Soon after Stephen said he was hungry¾ although it was only half-past eleven¾ and they found a clearing on a slope overlooking the valley where the roof and chimneys of Croome could clearly be seen in the distance.  There were wild rhododendrons and bronze bracken growing in the sunny spot they chose to spread the checked travelling rug and Stephen’s dogs quickly found a spring nearby whose icy, crystal water bubbled up from some rocks in a little ferny glade set in a bower of alders.

In the wicker hamper was a tablecloth and when that had been removed they found cold chicken, tongue sandwiches and curried hardboiled eggs.  “Not too many of those,” warned Martin to Stephen who was already onto his second egg, which he was washing down with bottled ale.  Crusts were thrown to the dogs and the boys lay propped up on their elbows in companionable silence as they munched and took in the prospect.  “Leave some for later, Derbs, we may want a picnic tea,” said Martin after they had discovered a fruitcake in a tin.  They chatted about Daniel Sachs MP and about old Grindling.  “Can you imagine that his father actually fought alongside the Duke of Wellington, Derbs?  It seems incredible.  What changes he must have seen in his 94 years.”  Stephen agreed, but soon his eyes were closing under the influence of the food, the beer and the warm sun.  Martin decided to let him sleep but after 20 minutes he deliberately called one of the dogs over and a cold nose and a wet tongue elicited an oath and roused Stephen from his postprandial slumber.  “Oh you’re awake, Derbs.  I’m glad because I had no one to talk to.”

“Do you want me to make love to you, Mala?”

“Not exactly, Derbs.  That does sound rather too much like a dainty expression used by lady novelists when they mean something else; I want you to fuck me hard and unremittingly for the rest of the afternoon¾ well at least until tea time¾ we may want our tea.  Derbs, I want to have a baby; that is what I wished for this morning, although I know I’m not supposed to tell.  Do you think you’re up to the job?”

“Well maybe I shouldn’t have had that second bottle of beer, Mala, but I’ll see what I can do, if that’s what you want, but we really should have had triplets by now, I’ve tried so hard.  Do you have any Spong’s?”  Martin did and produced the convenient travel-sized tube bearing a design of the Eifel Tower and the Empire State Building. 

“Let me take off all your clothes, Mala.  It will feel good to be naked out here and I can look at you.”  Martin was stripped and his clothes were neatly folded and it did indeed feel thrilling in the gentle breeze, just as Stephen predicted.  Martin was a little less patient as he fumbled with Stephen’s tie and shirt buttons, but soon he too was naked and his cock was eager and arching out before him like an elephant’s trunk in search of a currant bun. 

Stephen gave instructions to the dogs to keep watch for strangers and, after clearing away empty bottles and chicken bones, Martin willingly allowed his face to be pressed into Stephen’s groin where he sniffed and licked and kissed before finally taking Stephen’s member into his mouth.  He concentrated on the head under its long foreskin and used his tongue in the ways he knew Stephen appreciated.  He passed it many times over the tender slit, which sent Stephen into paroxysms and rewarded Martin with the juices extruded in Stephen’s excitement.  He then applied more pneumatic pressure with his lips and bobbed up and down, taking as much of Stephen as he could¾  even getting him a little way down his throat which he knew Stephen liked best of all and which, at that moment, he thought he deserved.  Soon Stephen was very hard and Martin’s teeth rattled when Stephen arrogantly slapped his face with his engorged cock. 

“Your hole is already open, Mala, how did you do that?”  Martin didn’t know and soon felt Stephen’s anointed fingers probing deep into his noble recesses.  “You like that, Mala?”  Martin liked it and indeed liked anything that Stephen did to him.  Soon Stephen had mounted him and was fucking him hard while Martin had his legs wrapped around Stephen’s waist, pulling him in like the worst slut, Martin thought to himself, and he tried not to giggle as it might put Stephen off.  Stephen turned him over and turned him around and later had him bent double while he drove in from above.  It was all very ugly and beautiful at the same time.  Martin felt Stephen spill inside him, but the sweat-soaked village stud and leg seam bowler for the Branksome-le-Bourne First XI continued without a pause, pummelling Martin’s body into a limp rag until he almost passed out.  Stephen spilled again and Martin forcibly pulled him out of his aching rectum and dived on the slicked and dripping organ in order to demonstrate his appreciation and to satisfy his own yen for the taste.  This was gentler, but Martin kept sucking until Stephen started to harden again.

“I want more Derbs; please fill me up,” he pleaded as he pushed Stephen’s sweat soaked hair back from his blue eyes.  Stephen complained that he wasn’t as young as he used to be and in fact thought that old Grindling was feeling more fit than he was at that moment but, nevertheless, he began all over again, with techniques and positions culled from his large repertoire until he spilled for a third time and rolled off sideways, panting for breath.  They lay there for a few minutes before Martin used the tablecloth to scrape Stephen down, like a horse after a hard ride.  Martin felt wonderful and told Stephen so as he helped Stephen pull up his trousers which he fastened with a button.

“I’m glad, Mala.  I’m only happy when I please you.”

They were dressed now and dosing.  Stephen however had his oozing cock hanging out through his flies.  “I thought you might like to look at it,” he said in all seriousness and Martin looked into his earnest blue eyes and thanked him for the thought and tried to repress a smile at his vanity— and it was rather nice to look at, as was the rest of Stephen at any time.

A noise from the dogs alerted them and Stephen put his cock away.  “It must be someone we know,” said Stephen by way of interpretation of the dogs’ barking and sure enough a familiar figure pushed through the rhododendrons.  It was Reuben Owens who had only returned to the district in the last few years.  “Your lordship, Stephen, I thought I knowed your bicycles on t’path and then your dogs come up to me, Stephen.”

Greetings were exchanged.  Reuben had used his War Gratuity and his brother’s inheritance to lease one of the farms on the estate on which to establish a modern commercial piggery.  It had been quite successful so far for Reuben and for Clifford, his young partner, whom Martin and Stephen guessed must also be his lover.

“Tis a grand spot,” said Reuben looking through the trees, “and I baint goin’ to bother you no more so I will say…”

“No wait, Reuben,” said Martin.  “Sit with us and have something to eat.  Give him some beer, Derbs.”  Reuben sat down and they chatted.  Martin was feeling very frank and said: “Stephen has just finished fucking me; he did it three times and I’m full.”

“Well I came along too late; thart would have been a grand sight,” said Reuben.  Martin surprised Stephen by wriggling out of his trousers to show Reuben.  “Well thart is beautiful, your lordship,” said Reuben inspecting the inflamed, ravished hole that was now oozing Stephen’s three generous injections.  “It does look sore.  I hope thou is not hurting his lordship, Stephen.”

“Not a bit of it, Reuben.  Would you like to fuck him too?”

“Well that would be an honour, your lordship,” Reuben replied with some eagerness and respectfully taking off his cap, for he had always had a soft spot for his lordship since their days in the Women’s Institute Hall.  Martin quickly removed the rest of his clothes.

“Reuben,” said Martin shyly, “I would like to have Stephen’s baby; I hope you don’t think that is silly.”

“Nowt silly at all, your lordship, I can well understand and tis love that makes us think like thart.  I have a boar wot can make t’most barren sow furrow¾I have made a lot of money walking thart boar in these parts and I reckon Stephen is like that boar; who knows what the future holds¾ tis t’age o’ miracles said t’man on t’BBC just last night.”

There was a pause while Stephen removed his clothes too and they fell to talking about their futures and the future of Croome.  “If you want to know what’s t’come, don’t bother with Mrs Graham in t’tearoom and her planchette; listen t’pigs—they knows a lot, does t’pigs, but most folk don’t take time to listen,” concluded Reuben as he thrust two thick fingers into Martin’s sore bottom.  “Tis a sloppy cunt, Stephen; thous’t done a good job on him.”

“Thank you,” said Stephen after registering that this was a compliment. 

Stephen got Reuben hard while Martin lay on his back, wantonly.  Soon Reuben had entered him, pausing at intervals with solicitous inquires about ‘how it goes’ with his lordship.  Stephen assisted by watching intently and then fed his cock into the unoccupied mouths of Reuben and Martin.  Just as Reuben spilled, Stephen offered up one more load into Reuben’s mouth.

“That wur right tasty,” said Reuben looking at Stephen as Martin mouthed his very words, which he had been expecting, to the amusement of Stephen who could read his lips.

They had some more beer and the cake and then Reuben took his leave saying that the pigs needed seeing to.  “Clifford’s only twenty but t’is a good lad and knows how to keep a Wessex sow happy—aye, and ol’ Reuben too,” he said with a wink, “but I’d best be gettin’ back.”

They packed up and mounted their bicycles¾ Martin very gingerly so¾ and cycled back with several stops because Martin had to dismount and he was glad that they had no one for dinner as he intended to spend much of the evening in the bath. 

***** 

London in the late June of the summer of 1934 had some fine and pleasant days and it was on one of these that Martin was walking the two puppies around Green Park.  His progress was interrupted by people who stopped to coo over the two little brindle bundles and even fashionable ladies emerging from the Ritz Hotel could be heard to exclaim “Why the adorable darlings!” which Martin knew encompassed Charlie and Flora, the two Cairns, but in most cases excluded himself.

When he returned to Branksome House, opposite, and had handed the dogs over to Glass who would feed them, he was presented with an urgent note that had just arrived by hand.  It was from Teddy Loew and begged Martin to meet him at Stephen’s Club, the Saville, in Brook Street.

Martin hurried around and there he found a small group gathered around Stephen and it was Stephen who spoke first.  “There has been some shocking news from Germany, Mala,” he said.

“Yes,” continued Teddy, “we got news of it just this afternoon at the FO and it will be in the papers tomorrow.  There has been an attempt at a second revolution and there has been a great deal bloodshed.”

“You mean Hitler is gone?” asked Martin.

“Not a bit of it, Lord Branksome,” said Sir Robert Vansitaart, “Hitler has thwarted it ¾ if it ever existed at all¾ and has turned the Schutzstaffel and the secret police onto the Sturmabteilung ¾ the Brownshirts.  Have you heard of Herr Rohm?” Martin hadn’t but was informed that he would now never hear from him.  “Hitler arrested Rohm himself and ordered his men to shoot him on the spot along with several others.  They are nothing but gangsters,” he said in disgust rather than in sympathy for Captain Rohm.

“As well as summary executions they have rounded up thousands and Von Papen is under arrest; Von Schleicher is dead and Bruning has fled to Holland.”

“Good heavens, they were noblemen and former Chancellors,” said Martin, imagining himself, for just a moment, being roughly taken from Boodles as he read the Times in an armchair and being hauled off to the Tower.

“The point is,” said The Plunger, “that your cousin Friedrich has also been arrested and your friend, Princess Mata von Whatever is in trouble.”

“She managed to send her maid to the embassy,” said Teddy.

“Then, we must go to Germany straight away, Derby,” said Martin.

“I anticipated that would be your response Lord Branksome,” said Vansitaart, “but you must understand that you are going there as a private citizen and not as a representative of His Majesty’s Government.  The Princess and your cousin are, of course, nothing to do with us.  However, I do urge you to be careful; you can see what they are like and if they are willing to shoot a former chancellor and also their own kind it may well be foreigners next.  Good luck.”

Vansitaart abruptly stood and left.  There was silence for several minutes.

“Martin,” said Teddy at last, “perhaps I should just add that Rohm and several others who were shot were homosexuals.  There’s a purge on inverts in Germany now and they are preparing strict new laws on blood and marriage too.  Robert didn’t want to tell you to your face, but it is just another reason why going to Germany just now will be dangerous.” 

Martin didn’t reply but simply nodded his head gravely.  “Come on Derby, we must pack.”  They said their goodbyes and returned sombrely to Branksome House.

“You will come with me, Derbs, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Stephen shocked at the thought of his doing otherwise.

“I’m sorry, of course you will,” said Martin when he realised how that must have sounded, “I just wanted reassurance.  I think we should take Carlo.  If we pose as tourists at the Adlon, so much the better and he might prove useful once again.”

Carlo was summonsed and took the news calmly and tried to get his head around Brownshirts and Blackshirts, the SS and the Gestapo¾ all of whom increased his distaste for the New Germany.  “Just one large suitcase for the both of us and one for yourself, I think.”

“No evening clothes?”

“No, not on this occasion and Carlo, you may tell Glass where we are going, but no one else just yet.  Glass may tell Chilvers in a day’s time.”

Stephen was sent out to buy tickets.  When he returned the bags were packed and the passports were in readiness.  “I sent a telegram to the Adlon and booked rooms.  I have had no reply of course.  The quickest route is from Liverpool Street to Harwich and then the overnight ferry to Rotterdam.  From Rotterdam it is another several hours to Berlin, but we don’t have to change trains.”  Martin nodded gravely once again and stuffed a large quantity of sterling into a slim wallet, which Carlo cleverly sewed into the lining of one of Mr Gibbons’ beautiful suits.

At Liverpool Street they waited for their train and read the plaque commemorating the 162 people killed during the War when the station was hit by bombs dropped from German aeroplanes, but their spirits lifted as they sped across Essex and then there was the excitement of the ferry to Holland for which they had a four berth cabin.  The North Sea was rough and Stephen did his best to keep their spirits up¾ Stephen could always think of something to do in any bed¾ or bunk for that matter¾ in order to pass the time. 

Neat, cheerful Holland greeted them the next morning and the train was waiting to carry them across Europe.  Carlo sat with them and they played cards.  It was not even lunchtime when the express was halted at the German frontier.  A surprisingly large number of passengers looked nervous or, worse, tried not to.  A German official came on board and politely asked to see their passports.  “If you will excuse me, Lord Branksome,” said one elegant young man with a half-salute, “we just need to see your passport for a moment.”  Before Martin could protest, it was plucked from his hand and Martin saw a functionary carry it across to a small brick building.  Martin was having the most awful conniptions, imaging what would happen if they did not give it back.  He looked helplessly at Stephen who told him not to worry and just as the words were leaving his mouth the man walked smartly back with it in his fingertips as if it were dirty and handed it to the official who handed it back to Martin with a little bow before proceeding on to the others in the compartment.

At last the train started and Martin found that he had been sweating profusely.  Stephen took him down to the restaurant car and ordered him some strong tea¾ this most English of stimulants being thought more comforting at that moment than any strong spirit.

“What was that all about, Derby?  Why did they want to look at my passport?” Stephen didn’t know and soon the express settled down into the familiar rhythm of all such journeys; novels were opened and then closed, meals came and went, towns and cities flashed by, but on this occasion uniformed figures were frequently glimpsed on platforms and, like some terrible spider, the red-and-black swastika flag could be seen everywhere,

In Berlin everything seemed very orderly on the surface.  They had a suite waiting for them at the expensive Adlon Hotel on the Pariserplaz and one of the bedrooms was to be Carlo’s, as they wanted him close.  Martin went at once to the Wilhelmstrasser to see Sir Eric Phipps, the ambassador and, conveniently, Vansitaart’s brother-in-law.  Phipps saw him directly and gave him a terse summary of events and an even terser assessment of Hitler.  He too was of the opinion that Hitler was governed to a large extent by the extremists in the Nazi Party.  “But of course you are here on holiday Lord Branksome,” he said archly, “and it was good of you to pay your respects here, but your personal business in Germany is none of our concern, you must understand.”  Nevertheless, he wished Martin good luck and said that he would tell Sir Robert that he had seen him.

Martin had only just returned to the Adlon where Carlo and Stephen were still unpacking when there was a knock on the door.  Martin’s heart jumped.  It was a handsome blond official in an immaculate suit.  He was politeness itself.  “Welcome to Berlin, Herr von Branksome.  It is our request that you come to our offices to discuss some matters arising from your visit here, if you could find the time.”

“Well, we are on holiday,” said Martin defiantly, while shaking inside, “we have been to Germany many times since 1913 and I don’t fancy wasting our summer days inside some offices.  It might not be convenient.”

“We were very much hoping that you would find it convenient,” he responded firmly, “especially if you wish to claim the hospitality of the New Germany.”

“In the Old Germany I would not be treated like this.”

“Times, I’m afraid, are quite different and to rebuild our country in the midst of enemies we have to do things that outsiders might find unpleasant; they of course live in countries without our particular problems.”

“And who is ‘we’— which arm of government are you, Herr Sauer?”

“I am from the Security Police —the Sicherheitspolizei of the State Police, Lord Branksome and it is best if you come with us now.  We have a car waiting downstairs.”  Turning to Stephen he said, “We will be going to the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and should not be more than a few hours.”  Stephen had an urge to intervene physically but saw that it was useless.  He hoped that they would not dare touch a British subject and watched Martin go without his turning around.

Stephen and Carlo waited in the hotel room with their arms about each other, mostly not speaking.  Stephen saw that Martin had changed his jacket before leaving; the one with all the money was hanging on the back of the chair.  “Tidy his lordships things, Carlo,” said Stephen kindly, wanting the valet to have a distraction.  Then they were sitting again and had both dropped off to sleep when they heard the door.  It was Martin and he looked dreadful.

“Are you alright, Mala?” said Stephen leaping to his feel and squeezing the breath from his body.

“Yes, Derbs, just very tired.”

‘Don’t speak until you’ve had some tea.  Carlo ring for some.”

Carlo did and Martin sat on the couch with Stephen holding his hand and giving him tight smiles, occasionally closing his eyes in fatigue.  Eventually the tea arrived, Martin took a few sips and then began.

“They made me wait for hours.  The room was not locked but there were guards everywhere. They brought me a ham roll about four hours ago.  I kept asking when they would see me but they always said they were very busy and asked me to be patient.  Eventually, an official came¾ a Captain Moller.  He asked me why I had come to Germany.  I said, for a holiday and then he showed me a copy of the letter I wrote to The Manchester Guardian and asked me why I had come if I did not approve of the New Germany.  I said that I had written the letter on the basis of newspaper reports in England and he said that the Jewish press told lies about Germany.  I wanted to ask him which of Lords Beaverbrook or Rothermere were Jews, but I held my tongue, Derbs, merely saying that I would be able to see for myself now that I was here.  He replied that was so.  I then asked him why Friedrich had been arrested¾I was angry you see and he would have already known he was my cousin.  He said that Friedrich had not been arrested but was merely in Schutzhaft ¾ which I think mean protective custody.  I asked him from what did he need protection and he said ‘evil forces that would destroy the German Revolution’ and that he was sure that he would be at liberty quite soon— his superior had said so.

“Derbs, Friedrich is being detained at his own flat, I learned, so I don’t suppose that is as bad as being in some dungeon, is it?”  Stephen agreed.  “And then he said I was free to go and asked if they could find me a taxi.  I walked.”

“They didn’t ask about me, Mala?”

“No, Derbs, not about you or Mata or anyone else.  Can we go to bed now?”

Stephen held him close all night and was deeply impressed by his bravery.  Martin did eventually sleep and over breakfast the next morning said they must go at once to Mata’s.  “Suppose we are followed, Derbs?  I’m pretty certain they will put someone ‘on our tail’ as they say in the films.”

Stephen just said “Hmm” and began to make pencilled notes.  As a result Martin left the Adlon and climbed into a taxi, which took him in the direction of the zoological gardens.  Carlo left through the revolving door ten minutes later and walked to the U-bahn station while Stephen went to Wertheim’s in Potsdamerplatz.  Martin boarded a train, Carlo changed trains and the last minute and Stephen left the department store by a side entrance and took a taxi to a U-bahn station.  With this subterfuge they all ended up together in Motserstrasse and were soon at Princess Mata’s door.

Erna cautiously opened the door, but not before asking who was there.  Inside there were scenes of packing and Mata emerged from the bedroom with an armful of dresses.  She dropped them and ran across the room and hugged all three of them.

“It is lovely to see you dear Cousins, but please forgive me while I pack.  Have you found the hat box, Erna?”  Carlo went to help her lift down a trunk from a high cupboard.

“What is going on, Mata?” asked Stephen.

“We are forced to move; we have been discovered.”

“By the Albanians?” asked Martin

“Partly.”

“The Nazis?” asked Stephen.

“Probably they’re in it too¾ but our visitors were Italians.”

She stopped for a moment and rested here arms wearily on the top of the trunk.  “Two oily diplomats came last Monday.  They were polite, but menacing at the same time if you understand.”  The boys did understand the sinister mixture.  “They said I was in grave danger here in Berlin and offered me the Duce’s personal protection if I came with them to Italy.”

“And you don’t want that?” said Martin.

“If I was put up in a palazzo it might be a fine life, Martin, but that is not what they had in mind.  They talked about me going with Italian settlers to Durrazzo¾ that’s in Albania. They will be back for my answer.”

“But why would the Italians want to do that to you, Mata, I don’t understand?” said Stephen.

“Albania is heavily influenced by Italy, Stephen¾ its economy is run by the Italian banks, but King Zog has proven to be stubborn and has refused to renew the Treaty of Tirana with Mussolini and it’s quite clear that he would like a more compliant ruler and it doesn’t take brains to see that Xhemel bey with a wife from Princ Vildi’s family would ‘fit the bill’ ¾ to use a theatrical expression.”

“And the Nazis?”

“I don’t know,” she said in distress, “maybe they want to appease Mussolini, perhaps, and an Italian Albania would divert them away from Austria.  Your British government is trying to drive a wedge between Hitler and Mussolini and perhaps this is the German way of fighting back?”  There was a long pause to digest this complicated manoeuvring.

“Where are you going, Mata?” said Martin suddenly.

“Erna thought a small hotel in Charlottenburg and then maybe a village somewhere in the country where it will be hard to find us.  She’s lost her job you know; they’ve removed all Jews from the University.”  Mata continued packing while the boys stood by helplessly.

“Mata, I want you and Erna to come to the Adlon with us,” said Martin suddenly. “We can look after you there.”  He saw Mata was going to object and raised his hand.  “I have plenty of money.  We can think more clearly there.”  Mata called Erna and they held a hurried conversation.  Then Erna, with tears in her eyes, strode across the apartment and hugged Martin until the breath was squeezed from his body for a second time.  Mata laughed.

Carlo was sent back to arrange a room while the packing continued.  Stephen went into the kitchen and prepared some coffee.  “Mata,” said Martin, “you haven’t asked about Friedrich.”

“Oh no; have you heard anything?”

“I was taken to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse last night.”

“By the Gestapo?”

“Is that what they’re called?  Friedrich is alright and is just under house arrest.”

“I’m not surprised and they’ll probably let him go when things settle down.”  She was hanging blouses on the fixed wooden hangers in the trunk and getting tangled up.  Martin watched her feverish fingers.  She swore.  “Martin, how did the Italians find my address?”

“I don’t know, Mata…You don’t think Friedrich gave it to them?” he said with horror.

“Maybe or maybe he gave it to his stepfather.  I’m sorry but I shouldn’t say such things, but this place makes…Oh, God I hate this place!”

“Well, perhaps the country will be different.”

“Yes, Erna and I can settle into a pretty cottage¾ there are many picturesque villages in Bavaria.  Have you ever been there¾ perhaps for the winter sports?”  Martin hadn’t.

“How will you live?”

“I have a little money, but Erna is not allowed to work.”

“…or vote or go to the cinema or to study law or medicine…” said Erna who had walked into the room.  “They have had boycotts of Jewish-owned shops and have publicly burned books written by Jews¾ and by a lot of other people.”

“But we have each other my love,” said Mata holding out her hand.

Erna took it and gave her a quick kiss.  “One day we will have ein kleines Landhaus und unser Baby, meine Liebste. mach einen Wunsch.”  Mata looked into her brown eyes for a minute and then turned her attention to the trunk once again.

The Princess drew all eyes as she emerged from the revolving door into the Adlon lobby.  Swaddled in white summer furs, she walked crisply across the floor, taking small steps because her dress was narrow just above her pretty ankles.  The manager could not quite see her blue eyes because they were veiled by a scrap of coarse net that hung from a hat that greatly resembled a pleated napkin from a dining table, but when worn tilted on her expensively waved raven-black hair was very chic indeed.  He fixed upon her lips, which were painted in glossy red rouge and when they moved they announced that she was the Prinzessin Mata von Mecklenberg-Weid-Neuweid-Streliz and that she believed a room had been booked for her.

“A suite, your Serene Highness,” replied the manager with a bow and as he raised his eyes he saw a parade of trunks and suitcases and hatboxes and golf clubs and tennis racquets being wheeled across the floor in her wake.  These were followed by Erna, who carried a large suitcase with ease, her maid with a vanity case and coat over her arm and then by Stephen and Martin, who carried nothing at all.  With great ceremony, Mata signed her name and was bowed to the lift where the elaborately uniformed boy operated the control and the Princess was born upwards in splendid isolation while her retinue had to wait until they could squeeze into next available car.

When the others caught up with her in her room and when the last of the trunks had been deposited, Mata let out a long breath, as if she had been inflated for the performance of her arrival, and she slipped off her shoes and unpinned her hat.  “Thank you boys; it is very nice to live under my own name again¾ I’d never thought I would miss it.”

“Would you like Carlo to help you unpack?” asked Stephen.

“Thank you.  In an hour, perhaps, I think I’d like to take a nap.  Would you like to, Erna?”  Erna would and the boys tactfully withdrew and returned to their own room.

“What are we going to do, Mala?” asked Stephen as Martin once again tried the number for Friedrich’s flat without success.

“Do you think they are listening to our telephone calls, Derbs?” asked Martin as he put the receiver down.  “As for Mata and Erna, I have absolutely no idea.  Perhaps we could have a nap too?”  Stephen sprawled on the bed.  “Derbs, do it properly; take your clothes off.”

“If you like, Mala,” said Stephen as he slipped his trousers down and pulled his shirt over his head.  “Come here and let me hold you.” A few minute later Martin wriggled.  “What is it Mala?  Don’t you like this?”

“I do, Derbs it’s very nice, but it would be nicer if you fucked me.”

“Oh of course, Mala, I just thought…”

“Don’t think Derbs,” said Martin holding Stephen’s gorgeous head between his hands, “just act.”

Stephen was rubbing his lips and nose along Martin’s engorged cock when Martin said:  “Did you hear what they said; what they said back in their apartment?”

“That they wanted to live in the country and have a baby?” replied Stephen looking up with his blue eyes fringed by his black hair, which had flopped forward.

“Yes, just like us.  But without a husband she would be thrown out of society¾ and with a Jewish girlfriend even more so.  I think the Nazis take a dim view of that sort of thing.”

“Yes, perhaps they’d even be sent to a labour camp.  It was an odd thing to say.”

They continued their love-making¾ although not in the manner of lady novelists¾ and Stephen was just getting nicely worked up when the doorbell rang.  Carlo was obviously down at Mata’s so there was nothing for it but for Stephen to steel himself and pull out of a severely disappointed Martin to answer the door himself.  He was covered in perspiration and his hair was a mess where Martin had clutched at it.  His cock was distended and his balls were aching as he wrapped his discarded shirt around his waist as the bell sounded urgently again.  Never much bothered by his nakedness, he crossed to the door as the bell rang a third time and opened it wide as he held the shirt from behind.  There stood an elegant and smiling figure whose eyebrows rose imperceptibly at the sight of Stephen caught in flagrante before him.

“Mr Porter, this is a surprise!” said Stephen, “do come in.”

“Mala,” he called out, “Cole Porter is here.”

“I’m stopping at this hotel, Mr Knight-Poole and I saw you and his lordship at the arrival of the Queen of Sheba downstairs just before and I felt that I just had to pay my respects and find out more.  I’m a gossipy old thing.”

By this time, Martin had emerged from the bedroom and had managed to pull on a few items and smooth his hair down.  “Princess Mata is our friend; she is a sort of family connection, Mr Porter, and as she and Miss Obermann are between residences, I thought it would be nice if she stayed with us.  What brings you to Berlin?”

“Well, it’s not Herr Hitler; although some of those blond boys in their uniforms could easily bring out the National Socialist in me¾ don’t you think they are all screaming lavender lads?”

“There may be something in what you say,” replied Martin, “and they are very fond of leather shorts.  By the way, I’ve bought a pair for you at Wertheim’s, Derby,” said Martin with a straight face.  Stephen looked confused for a moment.

“I’m here in Berlin, Lord Branksome,” continued Porter in a serious voice, “because our friend Gerald has his elder boy in school here.  He is thinking of taking him home to the States if things get too hot politically.  His younger son has TB, you know, and has been in a sanatorium in Switzerland and has now gone back home with his mother.”

“That’s terrible,” said Martin in dismay, thinking of the lovely couple, Sarah and Gerald Murphy, who had been so gay and hospitable on the Riviera.

“Yes it is,” agreed Porter, the light gone from his eyes.  “Seeing you there, Mr Knight- Poole has almost made me forget why I came.”

“Oh I suppose I should do something,” said Stephen looking down at the shirt.

“Yes, get rid of that silly, damn shirt.”  Stephen shrugged and whipped the shirt off.  His cock was still plumped and rose slightly from between his big thighs.  “I can see why Hemmingway was so spooked at the Murphy’s that time,” said Porter, looking shamelessly at Stephen.  “I was going to ask if you and the Princess and Miss Whatshername would like to join me for dinner this evening.  The truth is I’m at rather a loose end, you see, Gerald has gone off and left me…”

“And Mrs Porter?”

“Linda is staying at her house in Paris; we don’t live in each other’s pockets.”

“Stephen and I would love to, if Mata and Erna are agreeable.  I will send Carlo to your suite with a definite answer, if that is not inconvenient.”

“No, it’s very convenient, your lordship.  Now I have interrupted your afternoon and I will make myself scarce.”

“Mr Porter, I have never held with that tiresome adage about three being de trop.  Would you care to stay?  We were chatting and I had just this moment said to Stephen “What is this funny thing is called, love, and he was just about to tell me when you arrived.  Do you know the answer?

“Know it? I wrote it,” said Porter as he slipped off his coat.

Some little time later, Cole, Martin and Stephen were still in the hotel bed together and now on first name terms.  “He certainly must eat his spinach, Martin,” said Cole as he lit a cigarette, which was fastened into a holder.  Stephen was enjoying a well-deserved rest and had dozed off. “So you’d like a baby with your big boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And the Princess would like one with her girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Linda and I wanted a child so much, you know; we were unsuccessful— we lost it— and Linda has been much affected.”  The intimacy of the bedroom had encouraged the men to break down their reserves¾ even at the risk of being indiscreet.

“I want a baby because…I don’t know…because I do and I also would like to have an heir.”

“So a boy would be useful?”

“Yes, although I like my friend Daniel’s little girls¾ they have moved down from London and I take them riding and on picnics and read them stories; Stephen is very good with silly games.”  Porter smiled at his candour.   “Also there is the problem of Mata.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, for political reasons she would be best out of Germany¾ Erna Obermann too for that matter.  Her husband was a brute and his brother is worse¾ they are Albanians.”  Martin omitted that Xhmel bey and his two younger brothers had raped his older brother’s widow and the thought of it now made him tighten his fists.

“Martin, do you see many musical plays.”

“Oh yes, in London and on Broadway when I can get over there.  We saw The Gay Divorce just last November¾ we loved it.”

“Do you remember the plot?”

Martin thought hard.  “Not exactly, Cole, but I remember that it all worked out right in the end.  It was Mimi’s husband who had been unfaithful and she didn’t need to arrange her own divorce with the Italian co-respondent.  It was contrived but neat.”

“Exactly.  You could have a gay marriage.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the answer is obvious: you should marry the Princess¾ you both want a baby, she needs a husband and you need a legitimate heir.  Any writer of a musical ‘book’ could work that one out.

“But I don’t love her; I love Stephen.  Mata doesn’t love me; she loves Erna.”

“Perfect. P.G. Wodehouse couldn’t have devised it better.

“But I like my life as it is, Cole¾ Stephen and…well…sometimes other boys.”

“Linda and I manage very well.  I’m deeply fond of her and we’ve been together since the War, but she allows me my little romances.  Don’t tell me all your ancestors married for love, Martin?”

Martin considered the long line of Pooles from Sir Ayland Poole who had his wife walled up in a nunnery to Lord Roderick Poole who survived Agincourt only to be poisoned by his wife, to his grandfather who only saw his German bride on the day of their wedding and called for a glass of brandy, to his own father and mother who were fond of each other, but perhaps not in love¾ not in love like he was in love with Stephen.  “No we marry for dynastic reasons and for security,” he admitted.”

“Well, there you are!  This would be nothing different and you might have a baby to love¾ that would be real.” 

Martin thought about this: Yes that would be real.  And the child would see his love for Stephen, but what he or she would make of that, he didn’t know, but the Sachs children accepted it without question.

“Mata could emigrate to Britain as my wife,” said Marin thinking aloud, “and as a married women it might mean that she was free from being sold into marriage in Albania.  Wake up Derbs!”

“Give me fifteen minutes, Mala, you’re cruel” said Stephen sleepily.  Martin shook him again and he rolled over and he said: “Get on then, Mala.”

“No Derby, Cole and I want to discuss something with you.” 

***** 

They dined at the Adlon and Martin regretted not bringing his evening clothes.  Mata and Erna had heard of Cole Porter and the conversation ranged over the musical theatre and to the respective merits of London and New York—although Mata had not been to America.  Cole rhapsodised about Stephen’s old stone house in Antibes and Stephen warmed to the praise of his artless good taste.  No mention, however, was made of the extraordinary conversation that had taken place in the rumpled bed just a few hours before.

Porter invited them all back to his suite and his manservant made cocktails; they were very good and Martin made a mental note to get Carlo to ask for the recipe of one that contained Crème de Noyaux.  Porter sat across the room at the piano, lit only by a shaded lamp, and idly played a selection from Sigmund Romberg.

The others chatted quietly as they sipped their drinks.  Martin noticed that Mata had fallen silent and when he looked up he saw that she was crying.  Erna looked too and then moved to kneel in front of her, taking her hand.  Mata broke free to wipe her eyes and tried bravely to smile.  Martin moved to sit next to her.  He looked briefly back at Stephen and then to Mata again.  At the piano Cole Porter drew wearily on his cigarette then put it on the edge of the ashtray where it burned like a sanctuary lamp and took a sip from his cocktail glass.  Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he picked out just a few notes with his left hand.  These became a major seventh chord, which he repeated and repeated —almost idly— for what seemed minutes.  With his unoccupied right hand he took another sip and a drag as he continued to softly play. Then it suddenly all became clear: the music resolved itself, almost from exhaustion, into Night and Day.  He played it slowly and with great feeling, devoid of any of the usual decorations.  Martin suddenly felt that all the weary trials of the times they were living in were encapsulated in that one haunting refrain, and all the world’s griefs and yearnings, private and individual, seemed somehow to find a sympathetic ear in it, levelled by a common humanity.

“Mata,” he said quietly, “I have something important to say, something important to say to all of us.”  Mata screwed her handkerchief into her palm and looked at him in surprise.  “Mata, I want us to be married.”

Her expression changed to one of incredulity and she laughed.  “Martin, what has got into you?  We don’t love each other¾in fact we don’t really know each other.  I live with Erna, you know that, and I’ve never seen two people who love each other more than you and Stephen.  I think you might find he has something to say about your quixotic impulse.”  She ran her fingers through his golden hair condescendingly.

“You don’t understand it would be a marriage in name only.  You could continue with Erna and I could continue with Stephen, but you would be safe in England as my wife.  We could get you residency as Mata’s secretary,” he said looking down at Erna.  “You’d be safe from the Nazis and you, Mata, would be safe from Xhemel bey because you would be married to me.

“But how would we live?” said Erna.

“Why, you would live at Croome and Branksome House, of course.  You might find it convenient to have your own rooms, Mata, I don’t mean for there to be any of the usual…familiarities…between us, if you know what I mean.  I would provide for the both of you financially and make arrangements should I die or should we divorce.  We could cover all eventualities.  You would be the Marchioness of Branksome and Viscountess of Holdenhurst and Baroness Purbeck as well— I know that doesn’t compare to royalty of course and I think you might take precedence over me—I will have to check on that.”

“Martin, dear boy, you are getting too far ahead.  What you say is very generous but…”

“There is another reason,” said Stephen suddenly.  He came over and knelt beside Erna.

“This would be an arrangement between the four of us and, I suppose, is slightly unusual, even for sophisticated Europeans, but Martin and I would love to have a baby or maybe more than one.  Martin needs a son to succeed to the title as you must realise.”

“Most of my fortune is safe, but not the title.”

“You and Erna wish to have a baby,” continued Stephen, “how were you going to go about it?”

“Well, we hadn’t really worked it out, but I was just going to… you know.”

“But surely it would be better to have the child legitimate?” said Martin, “I mean it could be taken from you or something and an unmarried woman…well…”

“What do you think, Erna?” asked Stephen.

“Well, I want a baby to love and care for and to love me.  I did not want to give birth; that was always going to be Mata.  But I can’t conceive of how we would live, Stephen.  What would the child call me¾ call us?  What would other people say when they find out that the two women were lovers and the two men, also, and that the marriage was a sham?”

“What do they say now?” said Martin.  “I don’t know the answers to those questions.  I don’t even know if we will get along.  I do know I would love our baby and I do want you safe.”

“Please, please don’t say any more!” said Marta who was crying again.  “I want to go to sleep.”  She rushed from the room and Erna stood and looked at the boys.  “I will talk to her,” she said and, dry eyed; she marched stoutly from the room.

Cole was now playing the verse from Let’s Do It but he stopped when he heard the door close and picked up his drink and sauntered over.  “I think it is a good plan and has every chance of working out better than Linda and me¾at least she’s got someone else.”

The next day Friedrich answered his own telephone.  He was guarded and said that he would meet the boys in the Tiergarten by the Victory Column.  They hurried there and waited fifteen minutes before they saw Friedrich emerge from the traffic on the busy road that bisected the park.  He waved to the boys and they turned their steps into the trees where they were less easily observed.  “My telephone will be listened to, Cousins,” said Friedrich, “but I cannot see anyone following me.  I am sorry I was not at liberty to greet you.”

“Are you alright, Friedrich?” asked Martin.

“Yes, perfectly; Tsolos is a bit shaken up and is threatening to return to Greece.  I may have to buy him an auto to persuade him to stay.”

“Why did they arrest you?” asked Stephen.

“Am I so unimportant, Stephen?” said Friedrich, boastfully. “I am, after all, the Assistant Deputy Director to the Third Under Secretary for Reich Forests and I have an office with a secretary and a mahogany desk.  They took in all of von Papen’s appointments.”

“So you have not lost your job?”

“Not at all.  We have reached an understanding.”  The boys looked at him curiously and Friedrich turned back the lapel on his expensive suit.  There, lurking obscenely was a Party badge.

“Friedrich!” exclaimed Martin.  “I’m shocked.  You can’t be serious?”

“Nein, Cousin.  Not serious, but it will protect me until the day when they are all gone.  They had another reason for holding me.  The Wehrmacht want to acquire Ritterberg, zwangsweise— I don’t know the English word.”

“Compulsorily,” said Stephen.

“Ja! It is close to Russia and Poland, of course, and they thought I might need some persuasion.  They were very pleased when I was so cooperative.”

“But it’s your home, Friedrich,” said Martin.

“I’ve already said that I don’t want it, Martin.  They’ll leave the house and a little land, but I don’t think we will be able to use it when they do whatever they plan to do there.  I will divide the money between my two brothers and my sister¾ and myself, of course.  I’ll have to get it first and I suspect they will not be prompt and I won’t be able to take it out of Germany.”

“Do you think it is safe for you to remain in this country, Friedrich?” asked Stephen.

“Natürlich.  I am useful to them and, see, I am all in one piece!”  He held his arms from his side and span around as if to prove the point and grinned.  The boys realised that he couldn’t be persuaded.

“Mata and Erna are with us at the Adlon,” said Martin looking at him hard.

“Are they?” He replied lightly.  “They will enjoy it there I’m sure.”

“I’m not sure that it is any longer safe for them in Germany, Friedrich.”

“Perhaps you are right, Cousin; they might not know how to work with the present regime and perhaps for themselves make difficulties.  It might be best if they settle abroad.”

Martin was shocked at this callous attitude and saw in Stephen’s face that he felt the same.

“Come and look at my new auto,” said Friedrich cheerfully and turned them back in the direction of his flat.  “It was a present from my stepfather and has great speed.  I have done 160 on the AVUS and there was still more in there – just like Stephen,” he said grinning and looking at Stephen who was being compared to the red supercharged Mercedes tourer that was arrogantly parked at the kerb of the Tiergartenstrasse.

When they returned to the Adlon, Carlo handed Martin a note.  It was in Mata’s neat hand. 

***** 

The boy from the post office pedalled his bicycle up the drive, whose sharp gravel had only recently been rolled and so it gave off a high-pitched sound under his tyres rather than the deep crunch when motor tyres had loosened it into deep swales.  He propped his machine at the bottom of the flight of a dozen steps and smartly ascended and pulled at the wrought iron device that rang the bell deep inside the old house.  He straightened his uniform as he waited and when the door was opened he thrust the telegram into the hand of Mr Chilvers the butler whose face was known to everyone in the village.  While the envelope was being slit he felt in his left pocket to check if his yo-yo was still there, intending to get it out for some practice before he had to return to the post office and his important duties there.  He was just going to ask if there was any answer when a loud crash made him look up.  Mr Chilvers had collapsed backwards onto the floor, his head narrowly avoiding a marble table supporting a bust of Charles I. 

The noise drew the attention of the two footmen, Lance and Mathew, who came rushing to the terrible scene.  Mrs Capstick who had been coming down the stairs and had seen what had happened from above, was quickly by the butler’s prostrate body and swiftly assessed that he was not dead but merely in a faint.  She seized upon the magnetic missive which had apparently been the cause of the catastrophe as Lance raised Chilvers’ limp body in his young arms and Mathew applied the palm of his had rapidly to Mr Chilver’s cheeks¾ perhaps with a little unnecessary force as a consequence of Chilvers having rebuked him earlier in the morning for whistling in the George V Dining Room.

Chilvers made a gurgling noise and Mrs Capstick looked back to the telegram and read:

Married Princess Mata Berlin this morning STOP arriving England 3^rd STOP prepare rooms wife, Obermann, maid STOP weather continues charming STOP Branksome.

“Well there’s a turn up, Mr Chilvers,” she said, turning to the butler who had resurrected with the aid of some Sal Volatile. 

To be continued…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgcE6SrMhjs