Martin stalked around the lake slashing angrily at long grass with his stick.  The lake was serpentine in outline and the grass ran down to its margins on the side closest to the house, but presently Martin plunged into scattered trees so even if he had wanted to look back at the house he had just quitted so peremptorily, it was now but an indistinct outline through the branches. Then, on the far side, the path passed into actual woodland¾ or rather an artificial forest planted by the landscape gardener of the ‘naturalistic’ school in the eighteenth century¾ and he and the house¾ the scene of the shocking revelation¾ were completely lost to sight.

He was hurt and fuming at the betrayal he had suffered at the hands of the others and most of all he was furious with Stephen.  Their careful agreement¾ an agreement codified by Stephen himself, Martin told the imaginary jury¾ had been most wilfully and most flagrantly breeched.  It was Mata, his own wife, who was supposed to conceive with the tactful and dispassionate help of Stephen, as a kindness to a woman who desperately wanted to have a baby and to Martin himself who desired an heir but had no appetite for the intimate act that this outcome required in the usual run of things, as Stephen very well knew, he reminded himself.  And now he had made Erna Obermann with child as well.  That was nowhere stipulated in the Potsdam Agreement¾ Martin was quite adamant on this point.  And the thing that hurt most of all; the thing that showed their heartless disregard for his sensitivities as they no doubt laughed at his naiveté behind his back as they romped (yes, that was the word) and the thing that exposed the utter selfishness of Stephen whom he loved, was that the sacred task vouched safe unto him, with all the seriousness it demanded, had been obviously lightly undertaken and gaily executed with an evident measure of carelessness, if not an actual callous and deliberate disregard for all the proprieties and for his own noble feelings.

Martin was getting nicely worked up and had swayed the invisible jury with his eloquence when he found, to his annoyance, that the path had come to the Chinese bridge.  This meant that he must now be on the return leg of his orbit of the lake and that he must, in the course of things, return to the house.  Moreover, it would soon be time for tea and it being a Thursday there would be muffins and Madeira cake and Martin cursed his base desire for these dainties. 

He tried to shut out thought of food and turned his mind to the dilemma that Stephen had placed Erna in, for he blamed Stephen most of all for the abandoned way in which he had broadcast his voluminous seed.  While technically a married woman, with Herr Komorowski working as a journalist somewhere in Paris, her production of a child was bound to raise suspicion and give rise to unpleasant speculation and legal and ethical complications.  Martin was just trying to work out what these were exactly when he came upon the roaring Cyclops fountain.

Martin glared at the monocular giant who glowered back as he leaned on his rude staff.  About him, on his marble island, were strewn the thunderbolts he and his brothers had forged for Zeus and also a trident, a bow and the helmet of invisibility¾ all manufactures which Martin himself thought he might find useful.  There were also the gruesome human remains from his cannibalistic feasts as well as a number of sculpted prancing horses, sparkling in the spume, for no particular reason at all.  “It’s all very well for you!” said Martin quite testily to the statue.  Then he then found himself wanting to laugh, conscious of the folly of men who were not, after all, gods.

The path was now in open land and the house grew larger.  Stephen should still suffer a little, he thought.  Not because I am cruel, but because it would be good for him to reflect on his conduct.

Martin was still in time for tea but the treats had lost their savour as Martin made a point of ignoring Stephen and instead talked to Mata and Miss Tadrew who had joined them.

“Carlo,” he said when he went up to dress, “if Mr Stephen is feeling frisky in his bath or anywhere else, I do not want you to be of assistance.”  Carlo looked at him in surprise.  “You have my orders, Carlo and I have my reasons.”

“Does that include the application of the Spong’s Epsom Equine Emulsion, your lordship?”

“Most particularly that, Carlo.”

At dinner Martin was frosty with Stephen and he fancied he was adopting an aloof and dignified demeanour.  “Are you alright, Martin?” asked Myles.  “You look uncomfortable; do you want Chilvers to bring you the prunes again?”

“No, Harry,” replied his lordship acidly, “I am perfectly well and I will thank you not to mention the prunes again.”  Myles looked at the others and pulled a face.

At the bridge table Martin made sure he was partnered with Miss Tadrew while Stephen was with Mata.  Martin again was short with Stephen, pleased that he was up two-and-six and was able to point out that Stephen had revoked.  However, this was undone when it was apparent that Martin was a hand behind and that it was indeed clubs, not spades and that Stephen was innocent.  Presently the rubber came to an end with Martin down ten shillings due to reckless bidding.  Fortunately Miss Tadrew played the next few brilliantly and they finished up only a shilling down when it was time for their supper.

Martin slid into bed and turned over immediately to go to sleep.  Stephen, who was sitting up reading, looked over at his back.  “Mala, my cock needs some attention,” he said knowing full well that this would provoke a reaction.

Martin tried to remain impassive but could not and, boiling, sat up and rounded on Stephen.  “Don’t think I’m going to do any of that until I get an explanation for your reprehensible behaviour and the betrayal of trust.”

“How have you been betrayed?”

“You’re having a baby with Erna, of course.”

“Isn’t that Erna’s business?”

“It was not meant to be and you have placed her in an impossible position.”

“Well, she doesn’t seem to be worried.  Is it you, Mala, who is worried about the disgrace?”

“Derby, don’t you dare put it back on me!  You were supposed to take this seriously and it clearly became some sort of bacchanalian carnival.”

“Look, Mala, this was your idea.  I love you and I don’t love Mata or Erna¾ well not in the same way¾ and if it was a little light-hearted, surely that allowable in place of love?  I don’t think I could have done it in the cold-blooded way you seem to have wanted, besides, I was trying to make them happy; it was your choice not to be there.”

“Clearly I should have been there to keep things under control.”

“But don’t you like it when things become spontaneous, Mala?  And don’t you like to watch me?”

“Yes, but this was different.  I like to watch you with strangers¾ sailors for instance.”

“But not with friends?”

“Well friends, yes, like The Plunger and Donald…”

“But not with ladies because you’re jealous.”

“Yes…No! Well, I suppose I am a little jealous,” he said a little sheepishly.  “Derby, I’m always frightened that I will lose you to a lady.  There, I’ve said it.”

“Mala, you donkey, I’m not going to leave you for any lady¾ except in emergencies of course and any missions you might send me on, like this one, for instance.  I just put everything into it; you can’t blame me for that.”

“And you put it into everything,” retorted Martin allowing himself a little snigger.

“What I am sorry about is that I didn’t consider your feelings.  I’m very sorry Martin.   I hope my giving you a baby¾ or rather two babies¾will make it up to you.”

“Yes,” replied Martin, now having decided to forgive Stephen and to look at developments in a more accepting light, “we will have two babies.  They can be company for each other.  Derby, I think we need another meeting in the Adam Salon very soon because I’d like to get an agreement that the children should know who their real father is when they are old enough to understand.  I don’t like secrets and they store up trouble in the future.  Do you agree?”

“I do Mala and I think of the mystery of my own birth.  Perhaps the children will blame us when they look back or perhaps they will be just accept it; we have no way of telling and, of course, it also depends on how Mata and Erna raise them as well as us.”

“Do you think Erna is happy to be a mother?”

“I think she is, Mala.  She said she never expected to have a baby of her own and was content for Mata to bear the child, but now that fate has stepped in…well, she is quite looking forward to it, I gather.”

“And you, Derbs?”

“Well, I’m delighted of course.”

“The village stud and his progeny?” said Martin with an amused smile playing about his lips.”

“I do have a reputation to uphold, Mala,” he said rubbing his hand over his naked chest.  “Are there any more ladies that I can be of service to?”

“That is quite enough or we will require a kindergarten twice the size.”

“As that is all now sorted, might I remind you that my cock is still waiting or am I still in the bad books?”

“Never in the bad books, Derbs; it was just the shock I suppose and I was a little jealous.  You know, I would love to watch you with some sailors.  Do you think we could have some anonymous fun when we’re up in London¾ like we used to?”

“I could arrange it with a couple of ladies if you’d prefer?” said Stephen in a teasing voice.

“I do not prefer and the Royal Navy is our senior service, I remind you.  Now roll over as I want a bite of what Erna found so tasty, Derby, and then I might think of pleasuring that wilful horse meat of yours.” 

****** 

“Carlo, it’s time for my massage!” called Stephen when he came in from his afternoon with the gymnasium ladies where Erna had been pleased to demonstrate the use of the medicine ball, despite her delicate condition.

“I’m sorry sir, but I have my orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge the titled person’s name, Mr Stephen.”

Stephen rang for Chilvers and the butler was sent to see if his lordship was free for a moment.

Martin came into the bedroom and Stephen confronted him.  “Mala, Carlo says I’m not to have my massages and that the Spong’s Epsom Equine Emulsion has been locked away. 

What does this mean?”

“Really Carlo, what the devil are you playing at; I never said any such thing,” said Martin, not daring to look his servant in the eye.

“I deserve a beating, your lordship, and will give notice at once; I will probably survive on the dole.”

“Get the Spong’s and we’ll do it together.  How long do you normally massage for?”

“I usually find twenty minutes sufficient for us both your lordship; ten minutes for each one.  It worked for the Maharaja of Rajpipla; his Windsor Lad won the Derby in two minutes and thirty-four seconds and he swears by it.”

There were no guests that night and so a meeting could be called in the Adam Salon without inconvenience.  Martin began with an apology:  “I behaved very badly yesterday and I’m sorry for my behaviour and ask you all to forgive me.”

“It must have come as a shock, Martin,” said Mata in a sympathetic tone.

“Well it did rather, but I am very happy that you are having a baby, Erna, and I hope you are too.”

“It vas a little unexpected Martin but I am overjoyed; I vant it so much.”

“Erna, how are you going to announce it?”

“You mean because I have no husband?”

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I do mean¾ people could be quite unpleasant, especially in a small community like our own.”

“Vell, I could pretend that it is Komorowski’s, or I could divorce Komorowski and marry Stephen; that would sure be one big improvement on Komorowski!” she gave a huffing chuff.  “I am making the joke; I am sorry, I do not vant to marry you Stephen.  I am simply not going to say anything but I vill not lie.  Is that alright with you Stephen?  If anyone is to ask who the father of my child is, I vill tell them.”

“I would be honoured, Mata, and my reputation will be both assured and ruined at the same time and every girl who is having a baby will be naming me as the father, so if you can avoid it, I would be grateful.”

“So you are just going to be brazen about it?” said Martin.

“Vhat does that mean?”

“Schamlos, Erna,” said Mata.  Erna nodded and clutched Mata’s hand.

“How would you like to announce it, Mata?”  Stephen said.

“I would like to wait for a while¾  just to make sure, you know,” said Mata.  Erna nodded.

“I think the servants should be told before the Estate,” said Martin.  “Chilvers and Glass should announce it when the time comes.  I would like to tell my friends and family first.  Is that all right with you?”

Martin’s mind ran on ahead and he talked of nurses and nurseries and the things that would be required¾ especially a supply of dolls and a large train set¾ and that he knew that these and more were available in Messrs Harrods because he had already made a tour of that establishment.

“Would you like to come to Antibes?” said Stephen suddenly.

“But that is your place¾ with your friends.”

“But we’d like you to see it, wouldn’t we Mala?  We could make an exception to the rules just this once.”

Martin could see Stephen was quite excited and when he considered it, he could envisage them getting on quite well together and so he nodded.  “We will get Erna’s residency in order before we leave England,” he said, “I don’t want to have trouble in France.

So it was agreed to go up to London again and for the girls to see a doctor in Harley Street at Martin insistence and to sort out Erna’s residency. 

*****

Martin returned from Knightsbridge and Stephen encountered him in the hall as he was leaving for the Saville Club.  “Did you buy a perambulator Mala?”

“No, I will let Mata do that.  Derby, I bought a motorcar!”

“Good heavens!  Won’t the baby be too young to drive?  A Rolls Royce?”

“No, a Bentley and I thought I might drive it myself.  It’s a sport saloon with a body by Rippon’s and it’s in two shades of grey and has shiny disc wheels and is swept down at the back¾ ‘streamlined’ they call it.  It has a wireless and burl walnut and everything,” he continued breathlessly.  “The motor is three-and-a-half litres and it has twin carburettors and overhead camshafts.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but it’s absolutely beautiful; and the four of us could drive to Antibes in it!” 

“You have it all worked out, Mala.”

“Yes, I do and it was a bargain; you see it was ordered by some maharaja or sultan or something and then he didn’t want it; he wanted a grander coupe de ville for a chauffeur and, well, they let me have it for thirteen hundred pounds!”

“Well that’s a snip,” said Stephen with sarcasm that was lost on Martin.  “And did they buy your Rolls?”

“Yes, for 100 pounds— apparently no one wants a 1914 model.”

The news of the motoring trip was broken to the women when they returned from Harley Street and they were delighted and agreeable, even when it was explained to Mata that she would not be able to take her maid or a great many clothes.  She laughed and said that she was used to privations.  They looked at the calendar and then consulted Myles and his leather-bound diaries and picked out a time a fortnight ahead.

That night it was Stephen who was excited and over dinner he was telling the girls all about Antibes and the house and the people they knew there.  He had Glass bring his album of photographs.  He stopped talking and looked up.  Mata had a strange expression on her face.  “What is it, Mata?”

“That coastline¾ the Riviera¾ it brings back bad memories; it was to Monte Carlo that Edrid took me on our wedding tour.”

“So you would prefer not to go?”

“No, I’m being silly.  I would love to see all that you have described and with Erna and you boys it will be quite different.  I will be safe.  It might exorcise some ghosts.”  She gave a brave smile and Martin changed the subject, describing how shocking Stephen’s bathing costume was and then enumerated all the virtues, once again, of his new Bentley which would be coming from the coachbuilders in Huddersfield by the end of the week. 

*****

 “Look, Sir Robert,” said Martin trying not to lose his temper and endeavouring to keep his voice low in Boodles’ Oval Room which overlooked the rear garden.  “This is partly your fault.”

“My fault, Branksome?” said the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office.

Indeed this is how Martin was beginning to see it¾ or perhaps was prepared to explain it in order to get what he wanted.  He had applied on Erna Komorowski’s behalf for British citizenship and he wanted it granted expeditiously.  This was both to give Erna and her baby some certainty about their future life with Mata and, of course, with Stephen and himself, and also to make absolutely sure that if she left the country that she would be able to return and enjoy all the protection that a British passport afforded.  He had been to see the Foreign Secretary, Sir Herbert Samuel¾ a Jew himself¾ who was sympathetic but would only go as far as offering Erna the right to reside in Britain.  Martin did not feel like divulging to him all of Mata and Erna’s story so he tried an indirect approach and cornered Sir Robert Vansittart at Boodles.

“Yes Robert, your fault.  The reason that Dr Obermann and Mata had to flee Germany was because of the treachery of Count Osmochescu who was recruited as an agent by you, in case you had forgotten.”

“We don’t like that word ‘agent’ at the FO and we lost control of the Count long ago.  In fact we can’t be sure for whom he is working.  I might remind you that he is your relative, Lord Branksome.”

“He married the mother of my third cousin; I deny he is a relative at all, although he presumes upon the connection.  Then there is the Albanian angle.”

“How is that?”

“Well, Mata had to seek refuge in this country because she was in danger of being handed over to the Italians by the Germans and then being sent back to Albania to marry her brutal brother-in-law (who I might add has one wife already) and who has designs on the throne.  Mata is the niece of the former German Prinz Vidi of Albania.  But you must know all this, Vansittart.”

“Yes I do, and I’m guilty of wanting to hear your version of it.  H.M. Government, while it has no firm view on the government of Zog, would not like to see an utter Italian puppet or indeed a German one on the throne.”

“And you don’t want Germany and Italy to co-operate, isn’t that it?”

“Yes, Branksome, that is it.  We would like to detach Mussolini from Hitler.”

“Well, that is all very interesting, but I have two frightened women in my household and you could help one of them by ensuring that she becomes a British subject promptly.”

“Very well, Lord Branksome,” said Vansittart signalling to a club servant to bring them two more drinks, “I’ll speak to the Minister tomorrow and I think I can promise he will look at Dr Obermann’s application more favourably.”

“Thank you Robert.”

“Oh by the way,” continued Vansittart as the drinks were delivered, “I believe that Bewley-Vance-Bewley was of some help in Berlin.”

“Stephen and I have every reason to be grateful to Biffo.”

“You know they didn’t find Herr Sauer’s body for two weeks¾ not until they went to assemble that damned eagle.  They’ve arrested Captain Moller; they’re looking for a charge I believe.”

When Martin returned he found Stephen in the hall with the Cains, Flora and Charlie, and their leads.  “Have you time for a quick circuit of the park before we dress?”

Martin took Charlie and the party returned to the street.  Piccadilly at this hour was a mad rush of motors, ’buses, bicycles and the occasional horse-drawn dray that looked utterly out of place in the year 1934.  They walked a little way west and then, drawing a collective breath, stepped out into the road.  Miraculously the traffic stopped and the men and dogs proceeded in safety between the metal studs set in the road until they reached the winking yellow lamp atop the striped metal pole on the opposite pavement.  “That was good,” said Martin as they headed into Green Park, “We’d probably still be waiting to get across if it weren’t for these Belisha Beacons, but I’m still nervous that some drivers won’t stop.”

“Mala,” said Stephen when they were in a little way, “I’ve organised it; everything is ready for tonight.”

“What do you mean Derbs?”  Organised what?”

Stephen’s eyes were shining in the dusk.  “You said you’d like to pick up some sailors and watch me fuck them.  You were serious weren’t you?”

“Oh yes, I’d just forgotten.  It will be safe, Derbs?”

“As safe as I can make it.  I’ve rented a room in St Giles under a false name and I have some older clothes¾ not rags¾ but just a couple of old suits from a pawnbrokers.  No watch rings or money Mala, remember that.”

Martin was getting excited.  “How clever, Derbs.  St Giles?  I suppose we will try Leicester Square?”

“That’s right.”

“I say, Derbs, it is still alright for us to pick up boys, isn’t it?   I mean were are in our thirties after all and we are soon to be fathers and I’m married to European royalty, we could be robbed or blackmailed, not to mention we are breaking the law.”

“Which part of that presents a problem, Mala?” asked Stephen sarcastically.

“None of it I hope,” said Martin, feeling a pleasurable excitement in his loins.

They dined that night with Mata, Erna and Myles.  The Plunger and Teddy were also guests but were going on to the theatre afterwards and so Martin and Stephen would be alone for their adventure.

When Glass had left the room, Erna spoke up.  “I have something to say,” she said simply.  The others put down their dessertspoons (it had been Dartois a la Frangipane with M. Lefaux’s lightest pastry) and gave her their attention.

“Wait,” said Martin and went to the service lift and closed the hatch, leaving the guests looking surprised.

“I am going to have a baby,” she continued, not looking at anyone in particular but concentrating on cracking a walnut with her bare hands.  There was no audible gasp, but the table fell silent.  “It is not the child of my husband; I have not seen Komorowski for more than a year.  Another man¾ another gentleman¾was kind enough to help me have a baby and I am very grateful.” She paused and chanced a look up.  She was greeted with sympathetic eyes.  “The helpful young man was Herr Stephen.”

Stephen’s reputation for kindness and helpfulness was not unknown or indeed unsung and Teddy was first to speak: “Yishar koach!” he said and rising and kissed her on the forehead.

She pushed him off playfully and then said, sincerely: “Baruch teheyeh   ”

“Congratulations,” said The Plunger, “I think that is lovely news.”

“Thank you Rot,” replied Erna who had taken to calling him after the colour of his hair and beard.  Myles kissed her too and Erna squirmed again.  “Mata?” she said.

“I have similar news,” the Princess announced.  “I’m sorry to spoil your news Erna, dearest.  It is news of a similar character—very similar.”

This time there were gasps and Myles, The Plunger and Teddy Loew looked first to Martin who was expressionless and then to Stephen who had the decency to blush.

“Ja, Stephen has been very kind and ‘obliging’ as you English say.

Stephen’s kindness, helpfulness and sense of obligation to others stood particularly high that night and had medals been given out for the siring offspring among ladies who were desirous of children but found themselves inconvenienced by the want of an obliging husband, then on Stephen’s manly chest would have to found room alongside his M.C. (and bar) and the Purple Heart and the Croix de Guerre for just such a decoration. 

***** 

Some hours later there was the sound of an old fashioned key turning in a lock and a door swung open in a dingy room on the second floor of a redbrick row in Mercer Street, just off Longacre.  Into the room tumbled two sailors followed by Martin and Stephen who were almost unrecognisable.  They wore tight fitting brown suits with chalk stripes and shabby hats.  Stephen had gone to a good deal of trouble and he was especially pleased that Martin’s shirt had but one cuff link of some cheap alloy while the other one was fastened with a bent paper clip.

“These your digs?” said the first sailor in a Cockney accent.  He was in his navy blues and was of a wiry build and there were some pleasant tufts of dark hair protruding from the neck of his blouse and at his wrists.  He was probably in his forties but looked very fit and had an intelligent countenance.

“No, it belongs to a friend who is away for a bit,” said Stephen.

“Scrubs is it?  How long d’get?”

“Eighteen months for receiving,” invented Stephen, “but the landlord is a pal and he let him keep the room.”  He went over to the dresser and opened a bottle of beer and poured it into four glasses that stood there with another three bottles.

“So what’s your line, Stevo?” said the other sailor who must have hailed from somewhere around Birmingham.  He was much younger, probably in his twenties and was slightly bow legged but could with justice be described as good looking.  Moreover he filled out his blue bellbottoms very nicely.

“I work at Harrods in loading and dispatch.  I mainly hump things into vans.”

“That accounts for your muscles,” said the Londoner.  “Ain’t he got some muscles Bert?” 

Bert, who was well muscled himself, agreed and felt them and then Frank, the one from the Midlands, felt them too.

“I work in Harrods too,” said Martin as roughly as he could.  “In the Hall of Food.”

“I thought it must be somewhere posh, the way you talk like,” said Bert.

“I was born in Stoke Newington,” he said plucking a name from nowhere, “and they gives us elly-koosion lessons before we’re allowed on the floor.”

“Where’s that?” said Frank.

“Oh south of the river,” said Martin taking a wild guess.  Do you know Catford?”

“No”

“Well it’s near there.  My old ma is still there.”

The doubtful geography conveyed by even more doubtful acting was put aside while they supped their beer.  Stephen had thought of everything.

“What’s your ship, lads?” asked Stephen.  They had done very little talking since their meeting in Leicester Square.

“The Nelson,” said Bert, indicating the name in gold braid on his cap.

“I’ve heard of that,” said Martin.

“So you shouldha’ Martin.  It were the flagship for the Home Fleet.”

“Tell ‘em the rest Bert.”

“And Prince George, Duke o’ Kent, were an officer on her.”

“I’ve met him,” said Martin, causing Stephen to shoot him a look. “Came into Harrods and the manager made me serve him.  Real nice he was and I recommended some marmalade and an Italian salami sausage.”  This last caused Bert and Frank to giggle at some private joke.

“Tell him the rest,” continued Frank

“You would have heard of our ship because of Invergordon.”

The smile instantly faded from Martin’s lips.  The mutiny of the sailors at the Scottish port was a truly shocking and shameful thing.

“Now don’t go looking at us like that Marty.  We went on strike just like miners, train drivers or shop assistants might.  They wanted to cut our pay by up to 25% and we were just supposed to accept it,” said Bert, his voice rising with emotion.  You have no idea how little they pay us, especially for a married man under 25.”  Martin looked at Frank and wondered if he were a married man under 25.

“We sang some songs,” interjected Frank.

“The Red Flag¾ but we was polite to the officers, but just didn’t obey their orders or allow the ships to put to sea to break us up, but we kept ’em safe.”

“But you take an oath when you enter the service and you can’t mutiny,” objected Martin.

“Well we did.  But why should it be different to other jobs—bein’ a sailor is just a job after all and there are wives and families to be provided for, same as miners.  Because I joined before 1925 my pay was to be cut by a quarter while an officer’s was only to be cut by 10%.  Even 10% means more to an ordinary rating’s family than it do to the bloomin’ Commander o’ the Fleet’s.  If we didn’t protest, we wouldn’t have got ’em to listen and there’d be families genuinely starvin’.  Macdonald betrayed the workin’ man.”

“Are you in trouble?” asked Stephen.

“We sure are.  Lenny Wincott—he was our leader— has escaped to Russia and they’re rounding up the ringleaders right now.”

“Were you ringleaders?”

“Well let’s just say I have plenty of shipmates on the Hood, the Valiant, the Repulse and the Centurion and it was me who took the piano from the officers canteen up on deck for our singsong.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the Navy, it were just our treatment over the pay cuts.”

“I typed Lenny’s speech,” volunteered Frank.  “Some reckon that he didn’t write it himself, that it were the Bolsheviks, but he did because I saw him.”

“Are they after you then?”    

“I reckon so; we expected not to be let ashore at Greenwich, but here we are on shore leave.”

They drank their beer in silence and Stephen rose and opened another bottle.

“So do you chaps want some sailor cock?” said Bert at last.  “That is if our cocks are not too ‘red’ and Bolshy for your taste.

“How much will it cost if Stephen fucks you while I watch?” asked Martin.

“So that’s your game; you two are pretty upfront lads.  Five bob,” said Bert, “for each of us.”

“Do you want to?” Stephen asked Frank.

“Yes, why not?” said Frank removing his tunic.

Martin took Stephen’s shabby suit off him and Stephen stood there bare-chested but wearing a pair of long underwear.  Martin admired him as he quickly removed his own clothes and thought how manly Stephen looked in the unaccustomed garment, which bulged menacingly.

“Will you g’ a look at that!” cried Bert drawing the attention of Frank.  “You’re a big lad Stephen, an’ no mistake, but I suppose you’ve been told that before.”

“See if you can put it in your mouth, Bert,” said Martin, becoming excited.  Bert spent some minutes feeling Stephen through the long johns and then invited Frank to do the same.

“You’re a big slab of meat, Stephen; I bet you can do the work of two men loading them vans.”

“Come on boys, get these drawers off me before they strangle me,” said Stephen who had been silent up until now.  Together Bert and Frank pulled the garment down and Stephen’s cock with its base of dark hair trimmed expertly by Carlo swung free.

“Jesus Christ!” cried Frank.  “I ain’t letting that thing fuck me; I’ll end up in the sick bay I will.”

“I’ll make it a pound each,” said Martin before he could stop himself.

“Well, you are an eager lad, Marty,” said Frank. “Maybe…”  He slapped Stephen hard on the buttocks but the muscle didn’t move, nor did Stephen flinch.  “What d’ya say, Bertrum?”

“I say I need the money, but I also say you first.”  He lent forward and tugged on Stephen’s balls.

“He likes that,” encouraged Martin.

“You’re trimmed up nice,” observed Frank.  Stephen kept his valet’s role in this to himself.  Frank took over and played roughly with Stephen’s balls, looking up to see how he enjoyed it.  Bert was watching intently, licking his lips, and Martin stood behind him and watched too, but stroked Bert’s cock to keep him in the mood.

“Can you get it in your mouth?” asked Bert at last.

Frank touched the tip of his tongue to Stephen’s head, which was just starting to protrude from his foreskin and a thin trapeze of Stephen’s clear juices stretched between the two.  He opened wide and slipped it in a little way, but as Stephen hardened, his jaws ached he had to pull off, gasping.  “You try,” he said when he had caught his breath. Bert tried but was not particularly successful. 

“Come on Bert,” admonished Martin, “I need you boys to be able to satisfy him.”  Bert was not moved and so Martin showed him how it was done, twisting his head slightly and adopting a swallowing action until Stephen’s cock was far back in his throat. 

“He’s had lots of practice,” explained Stephen.

“And you have to really want it,” confessed Martin as he pulled off Stephen’s cock which was now well slicked, wishing for the thousandth time that he could take it all.

Stephen was positioned with his legs spread and his arms grasping the brass bedstead and the two sailors squatted fore and aft and pleasured him until Stephen desired a change and sucked on Bert’s member and directed Martin to do the same to his shipmate.

“What do you want us to do, Mala?  It’s your two quid,” said Stephen at last, feeling his sopping groin.

“I would like you to do what you do best to our two friends until they spill, Derbs, while I watch.”

“I don’t think that that will make me spill Marty,” said Bert.  “It will hurt too much for one.”

“Yes, he hurts a lot at first,” replied Martin, “but not after that and I can guarantee that you will spill without having to touch yourself; it is a wonderful feeling.”

Bert had been around the world a few times and was doubtful.  “So you and your boyfriend do this sort of thing all the time?  Not in Harrods’ Hall of Food I hope.”  Martin shook his head and grinned.  “And what about my shipmate?”

“Same thing.”

“He’ll be able to do both of us?” said Bert with some incredulity.

“Oh yes, that won’t be a problem.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Mala; I do have to work at it,” said Stephen in an injured tone.

“Of course you do; it’s simply that I have confidence in your performance.”

“Now, Francis is only a young fellow,” said Bert.  “I don’t know how much cock he has taken; it’s usually blokes pay to suck us, see?”

“Do you want this?” asked Stephen, looking directly at the young, good-looking fellow and then down at his own distended member.  His reply was to kiss Stephen¾a sudden move that startled him.

So it began, first with relocation to the big bed and then the application of Spong’s Soothing Salve to a great many places by busy hands.  In spite of what had been said earlier, it was the older Bert who went first, allowing Stephen to open him up with his fingers and then insert himself.  There were a few grunts, but no tears and soon Stephen was into a rhythm and flexing his hips athletically and Bert, on his back, appeared to be enjoying it and with each thrust, his own hard cock bounced on his belly.  He was turned on his hands and knees and Stephen became more furious.  Martin and Frank began by watching and then had to join in until Stephen pushed them away with a sweep of his arm so that he might have a clear field of action.  He and Bert ended up on their sides, with Bert’s leg held aloft to allow Stephen full access to his ravaged rectum.  Stephen must have been reaching some inner spot, because they saw Bert’s bobbing cock spill helplessly of its own accord, broadcasting the sailor’s seed over his thigh and the bed itself.  Stephen had seen what had happened and brought himself to a climax inside Bert before finally sliding out with an undignified slurp.  He slid off the bed, leaving Bert beached and insensible, and stood panting with his hands on his hips.  He was dripping with sweat, his black hair plastered over his left eye.  “Who’s next?” he said, gulping for air.

This was all Frank had been waiting for, and more, and he sprang on the bed and pushed Bert rather roughly aside and prepared himself.

He let out a yelp and Martin smothered his cries with a kiss.  Stephen gave him as good as his shipmate and Frank was inventive, wrapping his bandy legs about Stephen at one point to hold him inside.  His attractive face looked even more comely in the moments before he too spilled his young man’s load onto his hairless chest.  Stephen pulled out and added his to the pool, before wiping his cock, almost contemptuously (had one not known Stephen) across Frank’s rosy lips.

Bert inspected young Frank to make sure he was unharmed and kissed him too, tasting Stephen upon those lips, still in the bloom of youth.

“Mala, I want you now,” said Stephen.  The sailors were surprised but Martin had been hopeful and they made room for him on the big, old-fashioned bed.  Stephen slid in easily and, when he finally spilled, Martin made sure that he swallowed it all as an object lesson in how to please and satiate a man of Stephen’s unique calibre.

Martin didn’t want the sailors to go after they received their money and so they returned to the bed where Stephen lay, already asleep, taking up more than his fair share of the mattress.  They managed to squeeze in and chatted quietly with Martin asking about their homes and travels without giving too much away about his own circumstances.  Martin had decided that he liked them and fell asleep in the arms of Frank.

When the first light penetrated high walls of Mercer Street, Martin woke to find himself in the strange and over-populated bed in the shabby room.  To his right Bert was sucking on Stephen’s cock.  “Good morning, Mala,” said Stephen.

“It must be a full time job, keeping this big one satisfied, Martin,” said Bert pulling off for a moment.  Martin watched on and imagined himself doing just such a morning service and looking something like Bert whose eyes were bulging.  Martin kissed Stephen in various places and then Stephen arched his back from the mattress and spilled, clamping the sailor’s mouth to his cock.

“Show him, then swallow; he likes that,” advised Martin.

Martin was just thinking about waking Frank when a noise in the street below made him climb over the others and look out of the window.  Down below were some sailors¾ officers perhaps¾ who were knocking at the doors along the street.  Martin reported this.

“What are their uniforms like?” Bert asked wiping his mouth.

Martin waited until he could see clearly. “The one in charge seems to have a navy double breasted coat and a single stripe on his sleeve.  His white cap has a badge¾ I think it’s a wreath with a crown or something in the middle.”

“He’s the ‘Jaunty’¾ the Master at Arms; he’s come to arrest us; I’ve been half expecting it.”

Frank was awoken with difficulty and the tars dressed as quickly as they could while Martin reported on the movements from his window.  “Do you want to do a runner?” asked Stephen.

“No, what’s the use?” said Frank, “they’d only find us and we both would like to stay in the service.”

“What will happen to you?” asked Martin.

“A court marshal and year with hard if we’re unlucky and then kicked out of the Navy; punishment in barracks and sent to other ships if we’re not.”

Martin and Stephen looked at each other.  “We’ll help you,” said Stephen.

“Thanks, boys,” said Bert, not thinking anything of the offer from a warehouseman and a shop assistant.  They spent the next few minutes straightening their uniforms and combing their hair while Martin and Stephen dressed and made the bed.  The sound of knocking on the doors and voices grew closer until at last it was their door that was assaulted.

“Hello, Master, looking for us, sir?” said Bert offering a salute.

“You’re both under arrest.  Take them away corporal.”

Bert and Frank went quietly and the Master at Arms cast a disapproving look at Stephen and Martin. “What are your names?”

“None of your business,” said Stephen “and get out of my house or I’ll call the police.”

The Chief Petty Officer just snorted and turned on his heel and followed his prisoners down the wooden stairs and into the street.

Martin and Stephen sat on the bed and discussed matters.  Martin disapproved of mutineers and Bolsheviks, but stopped short of thinking that the shore batteries should have fired on the mutinous vessels as had been suggested in the House of Commons; he was not his father.  Stephen argued that the sailors had been cruelly treated in the matter of the pay cuts and in the initial promise that there would be no retribution.

“That’s your friend Ramsay Macdonald for you, Derby,” observed Martin.  “What are we going to do?”

“You mean you will help two mutineers who are possibly in the pay of Moscow?”

“Now you are teasing me, Derby.  I know they are not Russian agents and were probably good sailors until their pay was cut, but it isn’t right for them to seize control of ships and refuse to obey lawful orders¾ it is different to the miners.  Imagine if it were wartime!”

“So what will we do?”

“See Sir Danvers, of course and get them a good King’s Counsel.  We’ll do it anonymously.”

“You’re a good fellow, Lord Branksome.  Let me show you how much I love you.”

“Love me, sailor!” cried Martin and threw himself theatrically onto the old bed.  

***** 

In the following week Martin’s new Bentley arrived and he said farewell to his Silver Ghost.  Everyone was given a drive, including Mrs Capstick and Carlo and some rudimentary lessons were given to Erna and Mata.  Stephen began compiling a list of things required for their trip to France; including two spare cans of petrol, for garages were few on the continent.  Erna spent most days at the site of the new kindergarten and infant health centre and Stephen walked down with his dogs just in time to witness Erna in dispute with the builder. 

Erna was furious and complaining that the doorway was being built too narrow and the plans called for a four-foot width to allow for the passage of perambulators while the builder maintained that it was supposed to be just the normal width for a house.  At the apex of her rage she brushed Jenkin’s foreman aside and, picking up a wrecking bar, toppled the offending brick pier herself to the horror of all around who stepped back as the newly mortared bricks tumbled.  Erna then stalked off to the hut and retuned with the roll of plans, the supervisor following her out with impotent demands for the plans to be returned.  Erna roughly bent an apprentice over and used his back as a desk and pointed in triumph to some lines on the plan. 

“See, it is four feet Dummkopf!” she cried and indeed when Stephen strolled over and took a look himself, Erna had been correct.

“That would have made all the windows out.  I’m sorry Dr Obermann, you were quite right.”

Erna did not gloat but merely rolled up the plans and straightened up the apprentice and grunted and joined Stephen for the walk back.

“Erna, I think I saw a letter for you with OHMS written on the envelope.”

“Vat does that mean, Stephen?”

“It means it is from the government; it could be your citizenship.” 

Erna gave a small smile and increased her pace slightly.

When Chilvers handed her the letter on a salver, Stephen stood back to give her some English privacy, but Erna called him over and asked Chilvers to call Mata and Martin.  At last they arrived and Erna inserted a finger and ripped the envelope open.  Stephen could glimpse a coat of arms and some official typing.

“Ja,” said Erna looking up at last, “I am British; I have been nationalized.”

Martin fought an impulse to laugh and joined in the hugs for his new countrywoman.

“You are as British now as Shakespeare,” said Martin.

“And Henry VIII,” said Stephen.

“And Aunt May,” said Mata.

“And Crippen,” said Stephen, being silly.

“And Henry James,” said Martin trying to raise the tone.

“He was an American, Mala.”

“Oh, then George Bernard Shaw.”

“He’s Irish.”

“Are you sure?”

There were groans at the terrible pun, which had to be explained to Erna.  Chilvers offered a dignified congratulation and Martin thought that sherry would be an appropriate libation at that moment, so they adjourned to the Adam Salon and Chilvers brought the tray and they fell to planning their trip to France. 

*****

Martin was as nervous as a kitten watching his Bentley being lowered onto the dock in Calais, but it was safely done and then there were tiresome French taxes to be paid with assurances that duties would be refunded when they returned to England.

The first stage was the 200 kms to Rouen.  No one had wanted to go by way of Paris, with its still fresh memories of the fight from Berlin, and they reached the old city in plenty of time to find a hotel and rest before the pleasures of dinner. 

Martin’s car ate up the miles and was silent and comfortable.  The girls sat together in the back seats until some tricky navigation required a rearrangement so that Erna was by Martin’s side with the map and abrupt directions.   Despite the confinement, there were no arguments and the four of them were each pleased by this test of their harmonious relations.  Stephen helped by making silly jokes that were translated for Erna and sometimes Mata until Erna responded with jokes of her own which were about as funny as the Brandenburger Tor and just as ponderous, but amused Martin and Stephen because of this.

At their first halt, the Hotel de la Couronne where the duck rouennaise was perfection itself and unlike anything in England or Germany, Martin and Stephen were contentedly placed in one room and Mata and Erna in the one adjacent.  Martin lay with his head on Stephen’s chest, looking for any signs of grey hair in the triangular patch that was the chief adornment of his torso (he could find none) and they idly talked about their day.  “Mata and Erna are easy companions, Derby.  Who would have thought?”

“Yes, they are nice, but I still like being with you most of all Mala.  We’ll have to be a little more restrained at the house in the matter of clothing and doing things when and where we feel like it— it won’t be the same as when we’re just with The Plunger.”

“That’s true.  There can’t be any farting; ladies do not find it amusing, Derby.  I love it when you think of new and exciting things to do like the ‘no trousers days’ and having you and Hélias pose in just tool belts.”

“Yes that was fun, but Bert and Frank were your idea, Mala.”

That’s also true; I must be quite depraved¾ I certainly think they thought we were.  I wonder how they’re getting on.”

“You haven’t heard from Sir Danvers or Mr Hogeboom?”

“Not yet.  They suspect they are holding trials in camera.”

“Derby, what is to prevent Mata and Erna leaving us one day and taking the babies?”

“When it comes down to it, Mala, nothing.  I mean there are financial incentives for them to stay, but a divorce would leave Mata with a generous settlement.  Now that Erna is a British subject she is in no danger of being sent back to Germany and we have no claim over her baby.  But then again why would they leave?  They have a home and a position.  Unlike most wives they also have their freedom.  Of course, they could tire of each other.”

“But so could we, Derbs.  I guess it’s a matter of faith.”

“That’s a good way of looking at it.  Won’t it be exciting to have children¾ I never thought I would¾ although I’ve had plenty of offers.

“Elsie the barmaid?”

“Yes and some other girls when I was young.  I’m afraid some of the women on your estate, your lordship, were very bad girls.”

Martin pondered this.  There was something about Stephen¾ not just his outward physical being and his big cock¾ but something more intangible¾ charisma from the gods¾ that shone out of Stephen and made village girls want to have his babies.

The next day’s driving was quite easy and in three hours they were in Orleans, but the following day was a long haul of 460 kms to Lyon and Stephen shared the wheel.  Grenoble was less than two hours the next day but after that it was another long haul on the circuitous route down to Cannes and then onto Antibes.

Erna had never been to this part of the world, although she had been to Northern France and Italy, and she was particularly delighted to see the sparkling Mediterranean and the sub-tropical vegetation.  There were the predictable gasps of surprise and delight as they entered the old town and Martin’s motorcar drew a small crowd when it pulled up in the narrow street upon which stood Stephen’s house.

From out of the bistro came M. de Blazon, the patron, with wine bottles full of water in each hand to empty onto the tubbed geraniums and when he looked up, first at the opulent motorcar and then at its occupants, he sent up a welcoming cry which brought his wife bustling out in her pantoufles, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Mata, may I present my friends, Monsieur and Madame de Blazon,” said Martin who had been practicing this speech since Cannes.  “Madame et Monsieur, my wife, Her Serene Highness Princess Mata, Marchioness of Branksome.”

The astonished Patron managed a bow and Mata laughed and took his hand while his wife was in a trance, staring at Mata until she remembered to curtsey and then she wobbled and sat down on the cobbles with a bump and burst out laughing.  Martin rushed to help her up and this action was quickly transformed itself into an embrace and tears flowed from the Frenchwoman’s eyes.  She recovered and was introduced to Erna but no further curtseying was attempted.

At last they got away and pushed open the heavy old door of Stephen’s house.  What the girls thought of the bare boards and primitive facilities was unknown.  Erna lavished praise on the immaculate vegetable garden and Mata directed her attention to the growing gallery of paintings by Martin’s late brother and The Plunger.  They were shown to the second bedroom and exchanged glances at the layer of dust to which the male eye was oblivious.  Mata, although of royal birth, was just about to ask for a duster when they were alerted to a knocking at the door.  It was Monsieur the Maire in his tricolour sash with his little wife beside him wearing a fox fur and an elaborate hat.  He bowed to Mata who stood in the doorway and from the street read an official welcome while a small crowd had gathered and applauded his oratory.  Stephen invited the civic dignitaries inside and a liqueur of some kind was unearthed and after a tedious interval they left and the four slumped into the wicker chairs.

They managed some lunch and then Martin said that they must go and pay their respects to Mrs Chadwick.  There were some loud complaints, but Martin said he wanted to go while he was still respectably dressed.  Cloutilde, Mrs Chadwick’s maid, admitted them into her immaculate hall, which smelt, as usual, of floor polish and the Magna Carta.  She bobbed and made them wait in Mrs Chadwick’s drawing room, which was filled with very English furniture and a profusion of vases stuffed with delphiniums and gladioli.  And as usual they had to wait for Mrs Chadwick herself to appear and Martin had come to suspect that this was a somewhat theatrical device, for Mrs Chadwick would have certainly heard of their arrival in Antibes through her network of ‘agents’ (she, unlike Sir Robert Vansittart, would have had no objection to this word) and this suspicion was backed up by his certainty that he saw the curtain twitch when his new Bentley pulled up at her gate.

At last she appeared in a delphinium blue dress with a pair of gardening gloves tossed carelessly into a trug she carried on her arm.  She reached out in greeting and Martin had the pleasure of introducing Mata and Dr Obermann.  Mrs Chadwick executed a little bob that suffered none of the structural failures of the Patronne’s.  They all sat down and there was general conversation, but Martin saw that she could barely contain her excitement.  She was, however, a well-bred woman and gave equal time to Erna, despite receiving short, direct replies, which were not a great help to the flow of the game.  Mata looked around at the pleasant, sunny room and lit upon a photograph in a silver frame of Mrs Chadwick with Martin and Stephen, obviously taken at Croome.  There was tea and at last they left with Mrs Chadwick recommending the municipal tennis courts to Mata and Erna who had brought their racquets, with Martin recalling silently her trenchant opposition to their construction some years before.

“Oh I nearly forgot to mention, the stepfather of your cousin Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis has been asking after you.”

“You saw him?” said Martin when Erna and Mata were out of earshot in the car.

“No, I have a young friend at the gendarmerie and he told me.  He is a Count is that right?  It was some days ago and he wanted to know from me what train you were expected on.  I couldn’t provide that information of course.”

Martin became very serious.  “Look, Mrs Chadwick, Count Osmochescu is a bad man—I can’t tell you exactly why because it’s ‘hush hush’ as they used to say during the War.  He is also related to Mata and does not wish her well.  It would be best if he did not know Stephen’s address if possible.  He clearly thought we would be arriving on the Blue Train.”

Martin looked at Mrs Chadwick expecting her to be shocked and confused by what he had said.  Instead she nodded in understanding, with a steely look that must have reflected some steely resolve under her pink fleshiness and floral costume.  She gave Martin’s hand a quick squeeze and then waved cheerfully to the others already in the car.

Martin told Stephen what she had said that night when they were alone in bed but Stephen said nothing.  Hélias and his wife had not long departed.  They had come over from Vallauris to pay their respects; Hélias in his London suit and his wife in her celebrated sealskin coat, despite the intense warmth of the evening.  Hélias was assured privately that it would just be boys next time they came and he smiled broadly, showing his splendid teeth.

They continued with their holiday, the Count not being mentioned, and spent long hours on the plage where Mata looked elegant in beach pyjamas with a straw hat and plastic sunglasses and Stephen paraded in his abbreviated navy woollen trunks with the white cloth belt but no top.  Mata and Martin exchanged whispered remarks about Stephen’s lack of inhibitions as he made sure all and sundry got a view of his magnificent figure on the sands.  Then Mata said:  “Martin, I think you should get a costume like Stephen’s; you are good-looking yourself and Erna and I would appreciate it from an aesthetic point of view.”

Martin blushed and said he couldn’t possibly go in for such public nudity, but almost immediately decided he would buy the briefest costume available.  Stephen had already shocked him by insisting that he have his afternoon bath in the garden while his friends drank champagne around him.  “But Derby, it is indecent; we have ladies present and one of them is my wife and of royal blood!”

“Ach!” said Mata smiling, “it is not anything we haven’t seen before.”

“Nein, just a lot more of it!” said Erna.  She had made a joke and the others looked at her in surprise.

“You boys love to take your clothes off; we don’t mind, do we, Erna?”

“Nein, they are only boys, after all,’ she said dismissively.

Therefore Stephen was able to take his cooling bath, but Martin insisted they he parade modestly to it in a dressing gown and he arranged the seats on the terrace at a decent distance from the tub and its wanton occupant, but noted that, as the champagne was consumed under the old grapevine, the chairs edged closer to Stephen and that his careful precautions were thus rendered useless.  In the end, Stephen’s big naked rump was sometimes to be seen around the house and it was, if not unremarkable, then unremarked upon, by the ladies.

There were swimming races.  Mata and Erna were good swimmers, but did not greatly exert themselves under the circumstances.  Erna enjoyed diving off Stephen’s boat wearing a rubber cap over her short hair with a costume modelled on one that Olympic competitors might wear.  In the purple of evening there were delicious meals at the Bistro de Blazon where their hosts were beside themselves to provide the very best for their favourite and most distinguished customers.

On the return journey to England Erna suddenly surprised them all by requesting that they detour by way of Rennes and then, begging their pardon, asked if she might leave them at that town and meet them back in England.  “But who do you know in Rennes?” asked Mata in surprise.

“I have an old friend there,” said Erna cryptically.

“Can’t we meet them?” asked Mata bluntly.

“No, it would not be for the best.  I will see you in a few days.  I will be alright,” she concluded, tapping her British passport.

They had no alternative but to leave her at a hotel with a small suitcase and continue on to the Channel, but Mata fretted all the way and it seemed to sour their otherwise lovely holiday.  “What has happened to make her act this way?” she asked at intervals.

It was on the third day of their return that Erna walked all the way up to Croome from the station, carrying her suitcase.  It was useless to remonstrate with her.  They were gathered in the Red Drawing Room when Erna, who had continued her evasiveness since her arrival, said:  “I have an announcement.”  They all turned to her.

“Shall we go to the Adam Salon?” asked Martin.

“Ve do not need that, Martin, and who is this Adam Salon?”

There was no sensible answer so she continued.  “I have no friend in Rennes.  I lied to you.”  They looked hard at her and she was almost smiling.  “I left for St-Malo and there caught the ferry to Jersey.  Do you know Jersey?  It is British but not part of the United Kingdom.”  Mata did not follow, but Stephen said he knew Jersey.  “Vell, I have always wanted to live there, ever since reading that Wictor Hugo to there sought refuge.  So on that island I have a house rented! It will be for holidays for you and me Mata— you boys can wisit, of course.”

“Oh how marvellous!” cried Mata and hugged her.

“It is a little house of stones, like yours Stephen and it is in a willage called St Aubin which you reach on a little train from St Helier.  On the ferry from Falmouth, it is only five hours” she said looking at a piece of paper for the unfamiliar name.  The house is overlooking a vide beach and there are beautiful flowers everywhere.  I have a picture.”  She fished into her bag and produced a photograph from an agent’s brochure, which depicted an attractive stone cottage on a steep road that must overlook St Aubin Bay.

They fell into happy discussion.  The house came with a housekeeper who would cook, there was room for Gertrude and there was a spare room for guests.  “For a year I have taken a lease.  The house is for sale and with the Depression there are no buyers.”

“Oh we must buy it, Erna,” exclaimed Mata.  “No Martin!” she said turning to him and pre-empting.  “I want to do it with my own money.”  Martin smiled and shrugged and began think of covert ways that he could help. “Erna, mein Schatz, today we must make the announcement.”

“Ja,” conceded Erna nodding and placed her palm on Mata’s tummy while Mata placed her hand on Erna’s.  Martin though it was odd that Stephen’s seed was responsible for both and he wondered what was going on in his mind at this moment.

The bell was rung and Chilvers was sent to find Mrs Capstick. When the two of them were assembled, standing in the drawing room, Martin said:  “I am pleased to announce Her Serene Highness, my dear wife, is going to have a baby.” 

Mrs Capstick clapped her hands with joy and bobbed but boldly took Mata’s hand between her own and was overcome with pleasure.  Chilvers’ eyebrow was working overtime and so was his brain.  He must have swiftly reached some sort of conclusion¾ no doubt with a view to the wisdom of the production of an heir and the conjurer’s trick, if not a virgin birth.  He bowed to each of them and said how pleasing was the news.

“There is a further announcement,” said Martin taking a deep breath and then expelled it by uttering: “I am equally pleased to announce that Frau Komorowski is also going to have a baby.”

The two servants stood open-mouthed until they remembered their manners and offered their congratulations which were cut short because Martin said:  “That will be all, Chilvers.  Thank you Mrs Capstick.”

Erna was waiting in the Green Gables tearoom until Mata returned from the Women’s Institute Hall.  Mrs Graham bustled out and greeted her and Erna called for tea and scones, adding a belated ‘please’ to the order.  Mrs Graham lingered and made a play of adjusting the flower vase and menu card in its nickel stand.  “I hope you are keeping well, Mrs Komorowski.”

“Ja, quite vell.”

“It is so nice¾ I mean the news of your impending happy event is so nice; there are so few children in the village nowadays and now there are going to be two…”

“Ja, that is very nice, also,” she said, firmly cutting her off and taking a novel from her handbag in preparation for reading it.

“It must be so nice for Mr Komorowski, Mrs Komorowski,” persisted the proprietress.  “I mean it did not come as a surprise to my sister and me, of course¾  she has The Gift you see and saw it in her Battenberg Cakes¾ it was the way they rose in the oven¾ but such happy events can often come as a surprise to the father, don’t you think?”

“Ja, a surprise, certainly,” said Erna opening the book. 

The other ladies in the tearoom became aware of what was going on and ceased their chatter and strained to hear the conversation as they wiped cake crumbs from their rouged lips or fiddled with their bags pretending to search for change.

Mrs Graham thought she had better try harder as she felt the whole of the womanhood in the room¾ if not in the village itself¾ was looking to her at this moment.  “Is this your first, Mrs Komorowski?”

“Ja.”

“Well it must be handy that you are such an expert in child rearing.”  Erna said nothing.  “Of course I only had the one¾ our Joy.”  The other ladies recalled the sour young woman who was now a bookkeeper in Birmingham.  “That is before Mr Graham was taken.  Naturally my sister is in touch with him and he always asks after his Joy and she tells him what a success she has been in her profession.  Will Mr Komorowski be coming to join our little community?”

“He vorks in Paris, Frau Graham,” said Erna not looking up.

“Ah Paris!  I always wanted to visit Paris—perhaps one day I will get there; I will ask my sister if it is in the stars.  What does he do in that wonderful city, Mrs Komorowski?  I am always interested in what clever people do and I’m sure he must be a clever man”

“For La Humanité he is a journalist, Frau Graham.”  Mrs Graham was struggling.  She was vaguely aware that La Humanité was not quite nice¾ not like the dear old Morning Post for example.

“Well with a clever mother and a clever father, the baby will be bound to be clever too and…” she was going to say ‘good looking’, but no one could describe Erna as good looking.

“Ja very much I hope it takes after its father, Mrs Graham and I see her Serene Highness is approaching so I won’t have the tea after all.”  She snapped her book shut, rose and left the shop, making the bell ping.  Mrs Graham straightened herself and received the pitying glances of the other women; she had let them down.

To be continued…