“Phew!” panted Her Serene Highness, Princess Mata, Marchioness of Branksome.  She paused and smiled.  “These stairs are too steep,” she said, hanging onto the banister for a moment to catch her breath.  She was six months pregnant as was Dr Erna Obermann, except that Erna was taking the stairs two at a time even though she was red in the face.

“It is not a race!” cried Martin who was climbing up to the old schoolroom in Branksome House behind them in the company of Stephen and The Plunger.  The room, which would be the new day nursery, was now completed and only awaited the birth of the two infants.  The mural that The Plunger had painted around the dado was delightful, with colourful cartoons of familiar London sights linked by ribbons and balloons and red buses whose passengers, upon inspection, were rabbits in frocks or bowler hats.  A close inspection of a Beefeater at the Tower revealed the features of Stephen while a pearly king at Smithfield bore a likeness to his lordship.  They had all seen it before, but they were still enchanted and exclaimed how wonderful it was and how clever was their friend the artist.  There was, however, a further surprise, for The Plunger had made a unique light fitting for the centre of the ceiling.  Three brightly painted wooden hens had been careless with their eggs, which had fallen and broken with the light globes forming the yokes.  Mata clapped her hands in delight while Erna looked around the room with sterner approval.  The floor was covered with hygienic cherry-red linoleum and the woodwork was in cream enamel paint.  Two cots were also in glossy lacquer and there was a miniature table and chairs and the usual sort of furniture, all brightly painted.

“The babies will come into the world with everything they will need,” said Martin, looking around.

“And they will be loved,” added Stephen to the group.  There was silence while this profound comment was digested.

“I want you to come down with me to Hampshire,” said The Plunger as the boys descended the stairs, leaving Mata and Erna enjoying sorting baby clothes.

“What’s in Hampshire?” asked Stephen.

“Stockbridge— it’s a village on the Test; Teddy and I have bought a country house there.”

“Well, that’s marvellous, Plunger!” exclaimed Martin, thumping him on the back.  “Glass can mix us cocktails and you can tell us all about it.

There was much to tell, for The Plunger, as usual, had kept things close to his chest until now.  “I don’t want to live at Fayette, he said, taking a sip of an icy sidecar.  “It is far too big and it’s really Mother’s house.  Jean and Antony can have it if they like— when the time comes of course.  I hope you don’t think I’m being callous, Poole, but I want to get my life sorted before I’m forty.”

The house, Broughton Lodge, was apparently on the bank of the lovely Test River and about a mile from the village.  “Why that’s only about fifty miles from Croome,” said Martin.

“Yes and it’s only about 70 miles from London so Teddy can get up to Whitehall quite readily.  We’ll still keep our digs here in town of course.”

“What’s it like?” asked Stephen.

“You’ll see it tomorrow, but it is a kind of folly and was built in 1800.”

When they came upon Broughton Lodge, Martin felt that he had never seen a more delightful and picturesque house and one that exuded such warmth and delight.  It was a white affair— the walls resembling the cob houses of Branksome-le-Bourne and the roof, now tiled in shingles, must have once been thatched.  “I’ll see about replacing the roof,” said The Plunger as they stood on the riverbank and looked up the slight rise to the house.  It was clearly what the architects called a ‘cottage orne’ in that it was a kind of practical folly that had probably been built from a pattern book as a fishing or hunting retreat belonging to some great house, now vanished.  It was symmetrical in plan, with windows and bargeboards in the ‘Gothick’ taste of Regency times and indeed it shared something of the delight of the Brighton Pavilion on a miniature scale. There were plenty of wide windows with pointed arches and Georgian tracery, especially in the central section, which had an expansive bow profile.  Eccentric chimneys formed clustered stacks towering high above the steep roof.  A rustic porch turned out to be made of cast iron.

The Plunger had the key and they entered.  The floors were bare and the place was unfurnished.  It was immediately apparent that there was much work to be done, as there were cracks in the plaster and some damp patches.  “It’s been empty since the War,” explained The Plunger as he led them into the living hall with a Tudor fireplace.  There were no corridors, the rooms just opened off one another, and they passed through a doorway with a trefoil design into a commodious drawing room and then into a smaller room, which was once perhaps the dining room but was now in poor condition where rain had entered.  “Teddy is going to decorate this in the Empire style and he has some fine pieces of Biedermeier furniture from Vienna.”

 “What style is that?” asked Stephen and The Plunger explained.

“I thought you were a modernist, Plunger,” said Martin.

“I am, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate the modernists of a century ago.”  Martin thought that this was a very good answer.

The finest room, however, was the circular one that formed the bow front.  Here the windows went down to the floor and seemed to bring the bright green of the meadow right inside.  The ceiling was a shallow dome where faded paint indicated that it had once been painted as a cloud-filled sky.  “I found this paper behind a cupboard,” said The Plunger producing a scrap of wallpaper.  It was in the Chinese style in tones of pink and green with roses, butterflies, peacocks and other exotic birds sitting on branches.  “I am going to have it reproduced, for I always liked the Chinese Room at Croome, Martin, and I will use this room as my studio.”  They all thought it would make a splendid studio and could imagine marvellous parties being held here.

There was an old kitchen and scullery and three or four rooms that would have been for servants.  “How are you going to run the house, Archie?” asked Stephen.

“Well, Gertie will come down.  I will buy him a bicycle so he can ride from the station.”  They all paused and tried to imagine Gertie Haines on a push-bike.  “I think two maids and a cook and a couple of men for the grounds will suffice.  It’s not a big house and the village may be able to supply staff.”

“You would need discreet staff, Plunger,” said Martin thoughtfully.

“I know.  I don’t like to resort to it, but I think I may have to ask Gertie to find people; God only knows what creatures he will come up with from theatre land.”

They returned to the hall and mounted the stairs to the first floor.  There was no modern bathroom but there were three or four good-sized bedrooms, two of which had the most wonderful views over the River Test.  “This will be your room,” said The Plunger when he threw open a door.  The room was filled with afternoon light from the dormer windows.  The ceiling sloped and there was an elegant eighteenth century fireplace.  “Why this is lovely, Plunger!” exclaimed Martin as he took Stephen’s hand.  The Plunger’s Van Dyke beard twitched— he was trying to repress a smile and Stephen realised that he had obviously been looking forward to this ‘casual’ disclosure.

“We would love to be your first guests, Archie,” said Stephen and The Plunger relinquished his struggle to keep his emotions under control and suddenly hugged them both.  He was an odd fellow, but very sweet.

“Have a look in here.”

They entered the next room— another bedroom and the largest.  In the middle of the room was an enormous bed that looked as if it were part of a fairground for there were plumes and pineapples and Chinese figures and Moorish fretwork.  It had quite a few parts missing and was in rather poor shape, but it was as splendid as anything at Croome or Branksome House.  “It was obviously too big to take out and too complicated to disassemble so it was just left behind.  Teddy’s very excited and is trying to find out who made it.”

Stephen and The Plunger sat on the bed while Martin looked out of the window.  “There’s a lovely walled garden down here,” he said.

“Yes, I know.  You will have to teach me about gardening, Martin.  All I know is that Teddy and I hate rhododendrons because our parents love them.”

“That’s a bit hard, Plunger.  I certainly don’t consider them vulgar or suitable only for stockbrokers; it’s not the plant’s fault.”

The Plunger was not about to move on this resolve so early in his gardening career so instead he said: “I think I would like a wild garden; one that looks like it is from Sleeping Beauty.”

Martin was about to say how difficult it was to affect neglect, but did not want to sound discouraging so he simply said:  “They are lovely old yew trees over there.  They must be terribly old and the give real character to the house— not that it needs it.  It’s a wonderful house Plunger and I envy you.”

“Thank you, Martin, I love it too and I’m prepared to spend to bring it back to life.  I feel it is almost a duty.”

The other two agreed with this sentiment and knew that Archie had enough money to undertake such a mission for his father, now Lord Craigth of Altnaharra, was one of the wealthiest men in Britain and certainly the owner of the largest and most modern brewery in the country.

“Teddy can tell you a lot more about the house than me; he will be driving down after work.  Shall we wait for him and dine at the pub?”  Martin and Stephen had no pressing engagements so they agreed.

“What can we do until Teddy arrives?” asked Stephen with a disingenuous note in his voice as he bounced on the old mattress as if to test it. 

The other two looked at each other and then Martin said:  “Derbs, not every occasion is suitable for that, besides, there are no coverings on the bed and it will be too cold.”

“I think this is a very suitable occasion, Mala; it will crown a very happy afternoon for Archie and christen his home.  We can get the travelling rugs from the car and you won’t be cold with me.  Am I right Archie?”

“Yes, he is, Martin.  I feel so happy I could burst.  Teddy can join us in an hour or so.”  Martin looked at his two grinning friends and then went to get the rugs.  When he returned they had both shed their clothes and were sprawled on the bed with their legs apart and their cocks looking eager.

“Come on Mala,” said Stephen, “you know what you must do.”

Martin threw the rugs aside and knelt on the mattress, taking in his lips, first The Plunger’s white circumcised member surrounded by red public hair and then Stephen’s altogether larger instrument.  He opened wide and used his tongue as Stephen had long instructed him to do, and pleasured him under his foreskin first before working his mouth down the thick shaft until Stephen felt the delight of his cock coming up hard against Martin’s gullet and making him choke.  Stephen was unselfish, however, and pulled Martin off by the hair and pressed him down upon The Plunger’s neglected cock when he thought that this might be timely.

Suddenly Stephen rolled over on his stomach, scattering his two companions.  He pulled the cheeks of his buttocks apart and words were superfluous to this lewd invitation.  The Plunger and Martin looked at each other for a moment and then Martin drove his face into the intimate recess, feeling the silky black hair of Stephen’s muscular buttocks on his own cheeks.  “Bend your cock backwards, Derbs, I want to see it.”

“I can’t Mala, I’m too hard.”

“I want that cock, Derbs; make it bend!” he said sternly but giving a wink to The Plunger.  He backed up his demand with a resounding slap with the flat of his hand on Stephen’s vulnerable gluteus maximus.  Stephen could not very well object to this heartfelt and persuasive argument and so raised himself and struggled, but managed to do as Martin asked and was rewarded with the kisses from both of the boys upon those parts now exposed and so conveniently juxtaposed. 

It was about an hour later that they heard The Plunger’s yellow Renault pull up on the gravel somewhere below.  They heard the front door open and Teddy call to Archie from the hall.  In a few minutes Teddy was up to the bedroom.  There he stood in the doorway in the striped trousers and black coat of a Whitehall functionary, brief case in hand.  “Well, well!” was all he could say as he gazed upon the bed and its occupants.  It was a cosy but decidedly un-Biedermeier-like composition, for sitting up from under the tartan rug were the naked forms of the three friends, with The Plunger and Martin on either side of Stephen who had his arms firmly about them.  They were all grinning broadly and were far from cold.

“Come on Teddy, join us; we’re christening the house,” said The Plunger. “He’s satisfied us both.”

“I’d like some of your cock, Ted, if you’re not too tired,” said Stephen, “and I think I might still have some in reserve, Archie, if I could have a taste of ginger to encourage me.”

Martin laughed and Teddy put down his case and loosened his tie.

*****

Daniel Sachs made a short speech about the government’s unshakable commitment to the health and welfare of the rising generation and passed the scissors to Princess Mata who was to open the new building that was to house an infant welfare centre and kindergarten.  Mata wore a warm wool-and-silk coat trimmed with red fox, for it was a cold day, but her full figure could not be disguised and the people gathered at the event all whispered about the appropriateness of a prospective mother being the one to open the building.  “I look forward to bringing my baby to this wonderful centre that so many have worked so hard to see realised— especially my husband— but I would like one who has also worked tirelessly, one who will also be a visitor and one who is a highly respected authority on children’s education to do the honours.  Dr Obermann, will you please cut the ribbon?”

This had obviously not been rehearsed for Erna was nowhere near the front and was in fact standing next to Mrs Loache from the garage who was also expecting.  She looked a little shocked but pushed her way to the front and took the scissors.  She applied them to the blue ribbon but it would not cut.  She tried again and the material slipped irritatingly to the side of the blades.  Erna handed the scissors to the Vicar who had stepped forward to fussily offer assistance to a lady and, brushing Mr Destrombe aside, she rent the ribbon with her bare hands.  “It is now open,” she said simply and was the first to march through the double doors.

The general public followed the dignitaries inside and although it was crowded it was clear that the new centre was a very pleasant and modern building.  Externally it had many of the attributes of a normal bungalow home, with a roof pantiles and walls of pebbledash, but the wide doors and sheltering porch were designed for perambulators while inside was given over a large room with a linoleum floor that was to be the kindergarten and a smaller room with equipment for the weighing and measuring of infants.

Everyone remarked on the sweet miniature tables and chairs and the spotless lavatories that were also built at child height. The back wall was largely made of glass set in steel frames and doors opened to a sheltered play verandah for wet weather and beyond that, in a yet-to-be-formed garden, lay a sand pit and swings and already some children, in the sensible uniform of the institution, consisting of short pants called ‘rompers’, a little blouse and sandals, were enjoying themselves in the fresh air.  The nurse demonstrated the folding cots for the children’s afternoon naps and cupboards were opened to reveal the toys, books and equipment transferred from the Women’s Institute Hall.

All assembled remarked on how marvellous was the scientific age they were now privileged to live in, although Martin overheard Mrs Larchpole recommending to Mata ‘a drop of gin’ for baby if he refused to settle.  He rescued his wife and squeezed her hand:  “That went very well, Mata.”

“It was only your persistence that made it happen; you’re a good man, Lord Branksome.”  Martin smiled at the compliment and they walked to the door while the others were still drinking tea.

“Vitamins, Dr Obermann?” Martin heard Mrs Larchpole say quite clearly above the general hubbub, “I’ve had six children and brought up the four live ones with none of this fuss.  Show me a vitamin and I’ll believe in them.”

*****

Daniel Sachs and his family had moved more or less permanently to Dorset.  They occupied a newly completed house on the Golf Links Estate of no particular style, but perhaps with a nod to the eighteenth century, which pleased Martin because it was built of an attractive brick, which already held the promise of becoming mellow and even more attractive with the years and as the garden around it matured.  Sachs was a rich man, but the house was quite modest, with just three commodious reception rooms in sand-finished plaster and half a dozen bedrooms and his study.  The cook and chauffeur were brought down from London, but the two maids were local girls recommended by Mrs Capstick, and it being a modern house, there was much that was termed ‘labour saving’ when it came to keeping house and entertaining.

Daniel had placed the day to day running of his City firm in the hands of his partners and settled down to becoming a sound Conservative member for the district and was already making his way in Westminster where he had taken a flat convenient to the House of Commons.  He had already been sounded out for an under-secretaryship sometime in the vague political future.

The three little girls had taken to country life and the eldest two, Lila and Eliana, were madly devoted to the horses that Martin had given them.  To this end, Daniel had built stables along with the garages and had secured agistment for the animals from a neighbouring farmer.  The girls had left their London prep school and were enrolled in the local school at Branksome-le-Bourne, but Lila was to go away to boarding school in the following year.

Rather than being tearful and fretful as Martin remembered he had been at the tender age of nine, Lila at 12 was terribly excited and could talk of little else, save for the detailed doings of her mare.  She begged Martin and Stephen to accompany her parents when they were to make their third visit to the school, which was located on the Cornish coast.

“Did I tell you, Uncle Martin,” she said holding his hand, “that the school has its own stables and the girls are allowed to bring their own horses?”

“I think you did mention it, Lil,” replied Martin,

“And there is a groom to look after Rainee and I will be allowed to go down to the stables before breakfast to muck out and exercise her and I can ride on a Sunday and when I have no prep.  Olive,” she continued, mentioning the name of a girl from her former school in London, “is bringing her bay mare down and so we will be together.  Don’t you think that will be fun?”

Indeed Martin did, for it sounded a lot more jolly than his gloomy school where, he realised, he had been all but abandoned by his father all those years ago.  Lila rattled on as they walked in the direction of the Green Gables tearoom where Martin had promised her ice-cream (Mrs Graham having at last purchased a refrigerator) and Lila talked excitedly about the four towers of the school, which formed the ‘houses’ and contained the dormitories and about the swimming pool down in the ragged rocks of the coastline which was reached by a cliff path, and when Lila had paused in her fulsome description of the uniform: summer, winter and sports, he said, knowing the sort of fiction that she loved at present: “It sounds just like the sort of school in a book, Lil.”

The day of the trip to Cornwall arrived and Martin found himself with the Sachs being driven by the chauffeur while the three girls insisted on travelling with Stephen in his Packard roadster with the top down and the dickie seat open.  Little Gisella had the front seat while Lila and Eliana were in the rear but fully engaged with Stephen and asking awkward questions about the possibility of Rainee being got with foal.

In the adults’ vehicle the conversation was inevitably about politics, as everything seemed to turn in this direction in these times. “MacDonald is failing badly, Martin.  It’s hard to tell what he’s talking about in the House most of the time and the feeling is that he should step down.”

“With Baldwin back in?”

“He seems the most likely and he’s quite committed to new housing, but some of us are very concerned about his attitude to rearmament.”

“Well, MacDonald is still quite opposed to it isn’t he?”

“Yes.  He damns the French and Versailles but is blind to what is happening all over Europe— and in China for that matter.”

“Well I hated what went on in 1919, Daniel.”

“Of course; but Hitler is using the Treaty’s shortcomings as a justification for both rearmament and for the repression of the Jews in his own country.  And the French do have cause to fear a resurgent Germany.  Idealists are often wilfully blind, Martin.  Now Baldwin assures us that Britain is well ahead of Germany in airpower, but Churchill says that he is underestimating the Germans’ strength and that they have a secret air force.  And if Baldwin believed in his own assurances, why is he supporting the creation of 40 new squadrons over the next five years?”

“But the cost, Daniel!  We should be spending the money to create jobs and better housing.”

“I wish that it were so, Martin.  Be assured, that if we do take rearmament as seriously as Germany does, it will lift the economy of the country— including your investments.”

Martin sighed.  He did not expect the world to be in this state just fifteen years after the end of the great conflict; he had naively believed in the politicians rhetoric about a land fit for heroes and the politicians had apparently believed it themselves.  Yet he couldn’t blame them in some ways and Macdonald had been an earnest pacifist in the last war and now he was an old man…The last war?  Had he really spoken those words in his own mind?

Mrs Sachs talked about her Jewish refugee committee and then they fell to the more agreeable topic of Lila’s new school.  “I’ll miss her, Lord Branksome, but she is so excited as you know.  And I am also fearful.”  Martin turned to her and saw her face was clouded.  “In London it was different, but down here…I don’t want her to be an outcast…a foreigner among English girls.  How will the other girls treat a Jewish pupil?”

“School children can be very cruel.  I am trying to remember if we had any Jewish boys at my school.  I can’t think of any.  I know girls can be worse than boys, but if Lila has a strong personality, perhaps she will cope with any prejudice.  Her love of horses and games will be an asset.”  Mrs Sachs nodded, but was tight lipped.

“Lord Branksome,” she said, never having fallen into the habit of calling him by his first name, “we are going down to Cornwall again because the school has not finally agreed to take Lila.  We haven’t told Lila that there is any doubt, because they accepted her friend Olive without the need for interviews and references and she has her heart so set on going, but I think they take a suspicious view of Jews from London.”  Martin wanted to say that that was unlikely to be true, but he couldn’t and could all too easily imagine the sort of understated conversation that might take place between the headmistress and the school governors.

In a few hours they were on the Cornish coast and enjoying lunch in a public house overlooking the sparkling sea that swept into a little cove protected by stone moles.  The children had to be restrained from taking off their shoes and socks and running on the sands.  A short drive brought them to the school, which, as Lila had described with the fidelity of a Baedeker, occupied an old fortified house with four towers.  She hung on to Martin’s hand and pointed out all the features that had imprinted themselves on her memory from her previous visits.  The visit to the stables had to wait until they had had tea with the headmistress, Miss Greyling.  When the Sachs were inspecting framed photographs on the other side of the room, Martin found himself alone with the headmistress.

“Yes, I have heard your name, Lord Branksome and I have read about your recent marriage to Her Serene Highness.  May I offer my congratulations, your lordship?”

“Thank you, Miss Greyling,” said Martin who quickly realised that she was flattered by having a peer visiting the school and was probably a snob.  “My wife is expecting, Miss Greyling, and if the baby is a girl, I would like her to go to a school like this one— Lila has told me a great deal about it already.  Lila is a bright girl and an enthusiastic equestrian; she has learnt to ride at Croome.”

“Lila and her family are frequent visitors to Croome, Lord Branksome?”

“Indeed, Miss Greyling, until they moved into their new house, they were living with me and I have known the Sachs since before the War.  I am honoured to count Mr Sachs as one of my closest friends.  Of course now that Mr Sachs is in Parliament he must divide his time between his constituency and Westminster.”

“Of course Lila seems a very well-mannered girl and her interest in sports and the outdoors is very commendable— just like an English girl.”

“I believe she is English, Miss Greyling.  She was born in London like her father.”

“Yes, of course, but I meant English in a cultural sense, but I am worried about her fitting in; there are prayers you see and…”

“Do not Jews pray, Miss Greyling?  Perhaps even atheists at odd moments.”

“Of course, although we do it on a Sunday, not a Saturday, and I wouldn’t want her to feel different from the other girls.”

“She would feel very different if you were to exclude her from your school because she was Jewish,” said Martin with sudden intensity.  Miss Greyling was flustered and demurred and said something vague about a Roman Catholic girl and two families of Methodists.  “Miss Greyling, I was much interested in your honour boards in the hall,” began Martin, seemingly afresh. “You have had some fine scholars as well as athletes.”

“I think we have, Lord Branksome,” she said, now feeling on firmer ground, “and many of or girls have gone on to the great universities— you will have noticed our dux of the sciences for 1933 who is now at St Andrew’s studying medicine.”

“I did, but you do not have a prize for scripture; is that now considered passé?”

“Oh not at all, Lord Branksome, we have Divinity classes taught by Dr Trefusis from Truro— a most learned man.”

“I am pleased to hear it in this day and age— when so much else is let slide— for I recall with pleasure my studies at school,” he lied “and would like to donate an annual prize for scripture, if the board of governors would do me the honour of accepting.  It may further the chances of your girls becoming deaconesses in the Church where so much good work needs to be done.”

“Why, we would be delighted, Lord Branksome,” said Miss Greyling, thrilling at the thought of the publicity of having the Marquess of Branksome and perhaps his glamorous royal wife visiting her school. “I think I can say as much on their behalf.  I too think it is a study much neglected in these distressingly secular times.”

“Well, that is settled then.  I will put the offer in writing when we return home,” Martin said, rising and aiming to join the others.  “I hope that I might be invited to present it myself.”  Miss Greying beamed.  “And it will be for proficiency in the Old Testament, Miss Greyling.”

*****

The Christmas of that year was one that Martin tried to make extra special for Mata and Erna— for even Erna felt homesick at this time of the year when the notionally Christian festival was celebrated right across Germany with great enthusiasm.  Mata and the youngest maid decorated the tree that had been felled on the estate and set up in the Great Hall and with Erna, she paid a visit to the kitchens where she saw the enormous plum puddings hanging in their muslin cloths.  This was a curious English tradition they had heard about.  Erna said something in German and Mata laughed.  “She says we look like a couple of puddings ourselves, Mrs Capstick,” exclaimed Mata, patting her tummy for emphasis.

Presents were exchanged on Christmas Eve and these included a calf-bound set of the works of Victor Hugo for Erna to be placed in the house in Jersey and a fine painting for The Plunger and Teddy: it was a wild landscape with an incongruous figure of a Bavarian burgher in a top hat and wearing a pair of tin glasses like Shubert wore.  In his hand was a butterfly net and he was in hot pursuit of a pair of bright blue specimens.  “It might be appropriate for your Biedermeier room, Teddy,” explained Martin, “as Bonham’s said it was from 1840.”

“It’s by Spitzweg,” said Teddy casting a professional eye over the canvas.  “It’s charming and I love it.  Thank you Martin.”

Martin’s present to Stephen had to be given in private: it was new ring for his cock and balls made of thick platinum which opened on a hinge like a bracelet.  “It’s beautiful, Mala, and so heavy.”

“Read the inscription, Derbs.”

“From each according to his ability to each according to his need.  How wonderful, Mala.  I never thought of you as quoting Marx.  I will have to think about it.”

“It’s easy, Derbs: you have abilities and I have needs.”

“I also have needs, Mala and perhaps you have, if not an ability, certainly a facility to cater for them.”

“I never thought of it that way; it’s doubly apt then.  Will you wear it on Christmas Day?  I want to think of your loins girded, so to speak.”

“I certainly will, but I may have to fuck you several times as it’s bound to make me feel randy.”

“Christmas cheer then.”

The next day passed in its traditional pattern at Croome, except that Stephen had been right about the platinum ring whose weight and pressure caused Martin to have to cut short the carolling so that he might explore the Marxist dialectic in its practical application.

The whole household, including the servants under Chilvers and Mrs Capstick, gathered in the Red Drawing Room and listened to the broadcast from Sandringham where the King himself spoke.  It was a curiously moving occasion, for all present felt that His Majesty was speaking to him personally and his simple words and the imagery of the family he invoked touched them all and there was no one there that did not, heeding His Majesty’s injunction, spare a moment’s thought for the sick and unemployed or for those whose Christmas was passed in distant parts of the great Empire.

The splendid dinner with roast goose and the fecund puddings was appropriately held in the George V Dining Room, which was an up-to-date addition to the ancient house where the modernity of wood veneers, plate glass and electricity had been applied in a startling manner, and possibly doubtful taste, to create a theatrical backdrop to feasts such as this that might otherwise have been thought to belong to a distant age.

“But if Audion is doing so well, Mr Sutton, surely you would be thinking about making an extension to the factory,” said Martin as he cracked walnuts and poured himself a generous glass of port.  Outside it was already dark and the sky held the promise of snow, but in the room the guttering candles reflected on the men’s shirtfronts and a myriad of crystal, silver and glass, while overhead Chilvers had operated the electric lights to create a veritable aurora borealis on the plaster ceiling.

“I don’t see myself doing so, Lord Branksome; it’s complicated.  Perhaps we could discuss it tomorrow— I’d value your opinion and that of Mr Knight-Poole.”  Martin was a little shocked at this and took in the troubled visage of the local industrialist who had done so much to add to the prosperity of the district and so he promised to call on the Suttons on Boxing Day when he had finished the ritual of visiting the workers on the estate.

It was an unpleasant afternoon when Martin and Stephen drove across to Lesser Branksome.  The Suttons lived in a new house overlooking the golf course, just up the hill from Daniel Sachs.  The house stood out against the grey sky because it was in white-plastered brick and although it had a roof made of manganese pantiles, it was an ultra-modern house with plain walls and steel-framed windows.  They stood on the small porch where a lip of concrete supported by a slender steel pipe afforded some protection from the sleet and pressed the electric bell.  A servant, old Rogers’ granddaughter Martin recognised, showed them down three steps into the drawing room where a fire burned in a modern hearth, although the room was warmed by Belling radiators.  Sutton and his charming wife, Diana, rose to greet them and tea and crumpets were served.  The talk was general until Sutton asked whether the guests might enjoy a walk in the fresh air.  Nobody could possibly have wanted one on such an afternoon, but the reason was understood and wearing coats and scarves the men went out, their umbrellas little use in the wind.

They made for the golf links and Sutton opened up.  “My wife, as I may have told you, is in a home.”  The boys did know this and the woman back at the house who had so recently poured the tea and had batted her eyelids at Stephen, was, in fact, not legally Mrs Sutton.  “Her condition is a distressing one, your lordship, and it is certain that she will never regain her faculties.  Have you heard of schizophrenia? It is a disease of the mind where the sufferer is tormented by wild delusions and fancies.  It can be accompanied by erratic behaviour.”  He rolled up his sleeve.  There was a faded scar.  “Hester did this when I visited her two years ago— she suddenly attacked me with a shattered teacup under the impression I was her father.  Sometimes she remembers I am her husband, but often now she does not know who I am.  I have actually stopped visiting her.  I hope you don’t think that callous.”

“Not at all,” murmured Stephen.

“Was she always like this, Sutton?” asked Martin rather pointedly.

“Looking back I think she was, but it did not become really apparent until we had been married for two years.  She went through a long period of depression when her mother died and she never seemed to come out of it, despite seeking treatment.  At first she hated herself for being like this and then she was just beyond caring.  I had to have her committed after she became violent, even with perfect strangers with whom she could have had no quarrel.  Then I met Diana who worked for me and…well… you know the rest.”

“That is a distressing story, but what has it got to do with Audion?” asked Martin as they emerged from the bare trees onto the 7^th fairway.

“I am being blackmailed, Lord Branksome, and I am frightened to commit myself to greater expenditure.”  At the sound of the word the boys were shocked and looked to him for more.

“Oh I know who it is; it’s my brother-in-law; Hester’s brother, Clarence Lovell, is now her legal guardian.  I not only maintain my wife in the home, but I also provide an income for Lovell on the condition that he keeps an eye on her and that he is silent about my relationship with Diana.”

“But if you are already supporting him, why would he be making demands?  If Audion suffers then he will too.  He’d be killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, if you will pardon my allusion.”

“Not at all; that is exactly right and I can’t fathom it myself.  I might tell you, he already receives four hundred a year and has a house in Salisbury.  He is now asking for double that sum so he can go into real estate in Oxfordshire or somewhere—he’s not very coherent— and I fear that if I don’t he will say something about Diana.  If the community finds out, I am finished here and I couldn’t carry on without Diana and little Susan; just another reason not to expand.”

The boys sympathised warmly in the cold air but quickly turned to the practical.  “If you can’t go to the police, have you thought about receiving legal help?” said Martin putting up his umbrella as the rain was falling in earnest.

“The only legal help that I need would be to gain a divorce, but I can’t as he law now stands.  Hester has grounds to divorce me but won’t or can’t and her brother wouldn’t allow it in any case.”

“I’d still like you to speak with my solicitor, Sir Danvers Smith.  He’s a KC and he might have an angle that we can’t see.”  Sutton nodded.

“I’d like to find out more about Lovell,” said Stephen suddenly.

“I’d be very appreciative if you could but could you do it discreetly?  I’ll be ruined if he found out, Knight-Poole.”

“But I’ll be very careful, Sutton, won’t I Mala?”

“I’d trust him,” said Martin.  “What can you tell us about this fellow?”

Sutton paused in concentration and then spoke in a concise manner:  “He was in South Africa when I married Hester and so I didn’t really get to know him.  He came home just after she was put into the home and she persuaded me to appoint him as her guardian.  I might have refused but I didn’t want to upset her.  He’s her only sibling and is quite a bit older than Hester.  Clarence must be over fifty.  I don’t think he was in the War, but he doesn’t talk much about himself.”

“Married?”

“No, I don’t believe so.  Honesty we deal mostly through a bank in Salisbury and it was only recently that he has been making demands and threats on the telephone, so you see, I couldn’t go to the police without evidence.”

They continued to talk and walked down the fairway and back in the direction of the house where the ersatz Mrs Sutton was waiting to greet them.

Stephen did nothing about the situation for several weeks because there was the New Year’s hunt and then there was a week in Antibes with The Plunger and Teddy.  As they were joined by Donald Selby-Keam, Stephen’s bed was rather full.  Then Martin and Stephen wished to return promptly to England because Mata and Erna were nearly seven months into their pregnancies and they were anxious and excited.

It was only a few days after they were back that Stephen acted.  Carlo got out the slightly shabby suits that they wore when they were picking up sailors in Leicester Square and he was further persuaded to lend them his Austin 7 motorcar for the journey to Salisbury.

It was a wintry drive and they were glad to pull up at the Haunch of Venison, a particularly ancient and quaint pub in whose tiny panelled bars and low-ceilinged rooms there scarcely seemed room for Stephen at all.  Nevertheless they engaged a pair of rooms and retired to the pewter-topped bar to plan in low voices.

Lovell lived in a comfortable-looking semi in Victoria Road.  The boys drove past it once and noted the house with its square bay fronting onto a scrap of garden that had been let go and the lace curtained rooms above it under the shingled gable end.

“Lovell is doing well for himself if Sutton is paying for this place,” observed Stephen. 

Their first tactic was for Martin to knock on the pretext of representing a firm of painters and decorators.  Martin thought he had enough knowledge to carry off the deception.  Stephen parked Carlo’s motor some way down the street and Martin got out and walked.  Stephen saw him open the gate and walk up the path until he was lost to view behind a Portuguese laurel.  Almost at once he was seen walking back to the gate; Lovell was evidently not home.  Then Martin entered the next gate and it was three or four minutes before he was back in the car.

“He wasn’t home, but the lady next door was quite chatty and said that he often has his midday meal at a public house— she didn’t know which— and he comes home at five.”

“What else did she say?”

“I got the impression she didn’t like him much, but she said she thought he was in business but wasn’t sure what it was.  He told her that he had been an officer in the Army and that his father was part owner of a diamond mine— or sometimes a gold mine— in the Transvaal.  He often mentioned a sister, but she has never seen her and wondered if she were in South Africa and ‘he lives in that big house all alone’ and that the back garden is worse than the front.”

“Well done, Mala, you’d make a superb detective.”

“She said I was a lovely young man and that I spoke nicely and she wanted me to give her a quote for papering her front room,” said Martin grinning.

The boys drove around Salisbury and filled in the afternoon looking at the Cathedral and the Chapter House and admiring the Avon from the water-meadows.  At a little after four o’clock they returned to Victoria Road and Martin knocked again to no avail so they sat in Carlo’s Austin, glad of the warmth, and waited.

At ten-to-five a figure appeared on the pavement that might just be Clarence Lovell.  He was wearing a good suit that was visible beneath his overcoat, which was unbuttoned despite the cold.  He might have been 50, it was hard to tell with his hat on and he walked with his head down, but he was certainly older than they were.  He carried no bag or umbrella so the fiction that he was in business would have been hard to sustain.  Martin was just about to say that his gait suggested that he had had a few drinks when Stephen spoke.  “He likes boys.”

“Derby, how on earth can you tell that?”

“I just can, Mala; there’s something about him.”

There was something about him, Martin decided, but it wasn’t that; as he drew nearer and put his hand on his gate, Martin obtained a good look at his face.  It wasn’t an ugly face— quite ordinary in fact— but there was something odd about it, perhaps a suggestion in the eyes and before Martin could look for a second time he was gone.

“So what is our plan, Derby?  Shall I knock and get invited inside to talk about decorating?”

“I don’t know, Mala.  If he likes boys then there is a weakness we can exploit— we could blackmail the blackmailer.”

“I suppose so,” said Martin not quite convinced.  “I suppose this means you will sleep with him.”

“Mala! Don’t sound like that.  I’d only do it if it would benefit the Suttons.  You don’t think I like sleeping with other people?”

Martin wanted to say that he did, but instead said, “No of course not, Derby, it’s just that it is always you in these sorts of ruses.  Perhaps I could meet him in the pub he goes to and get him talking and…”

“That might work, Mala, but you don’t know that he is not violent.”

“Well you don’t know that either.  Can’t you tell from just looking at him?” he added with some sarcasm.

“Actually the pub is a good suggestion, Mala,” began Stephen but then stopped short.  “Look!”

Lovell had left the house having changed his clothes.  He looked a little furtive and unfocussed and directed his steps in the opposite direction.  “It’s funny weather for a walk and there are no shops in that direction, besides it’s early closing.”

Stephen pressed the starter and followed Lovell at a distance to the end of the street where it met another road at a wide junction.  Lovell pulled his hat down further and crossed.  “Look, Derbs he’s heading for the park.”  A triple gate and a lodge on the intersection marked the entrance to a densely vegetated public park beyond.  “It’s dusk and the keeper will have locked the gates,” said Martin.  However Lovell pressed on and the left gate proved to be unlocked and Lovell pushed it aside and entered and was lost to sight.

“I know what this means, Mala: he’s cottaging.”

“What’s that?” asked his lordship, thinking briefly of The Plunger’s ‘cottage orne’ in Hampshire.

“He will be looking for boys at the lavatories,” said Stephen hurriedly, opening the door.

“Wait for me at the Haunch of Venison, Mala.  I might be all night.”  With that he was gone.  Martin slid across and waited ten minutes and was just about to start the car again when he saw the heavy gate open and Lovell emerged and then, a few seconds later, came Stephen.  He inclined his head towards Martin, but was clearly following Lovell, probably at Lovell’s instigation, as he was by no means furtive.  Martin sighed.  Stephen would be having an adventure while he waited behind.  But then again, he thought, would I want to have an adventure with Lovell?  Nevertheless there was still a disquieting feeling in the pit of his stomach and he realised he was jealous and it was probably Lovell he was jealous of as he would be discovering his Stephen’s considerable charms for the first time and he wanted it, quite impossibly, to be himself.  It was all very complicated and typical of Stephen.  He sighed for a second time.

Stephen had entered the dark grove of trees that bordered the main asphalt walk.  Many of the trees were bare, but it was still gloomy at that hour and he was far from the street lamps.  There were some intersecting paths and then there was a metal sign, which he could just make out, that pointed the way to the public conveniences.  Stephen headed down that path and found a brick structure of the usual sort.  An iron gate was shut and locked.

“It’s usually unlocked,” said a voice.  Stephen turned and saw it was Lovell.  “A very inconvenient convenience, I’d say.”

“Yes,” ventured Stephen.  “I will have to make other arrangements.”

Lovell had been looking him up and down in the gloom and said: “It’s bloody cold, my place isn’t far away; you might be able to relieve yourself there.  How about it big fellow?”

“Alright,” said Stephen.  “I’ll follow you.”

Thus they walked in silence back to Victoria Road.  He saw Martin was still sitting in the Austin and gave him a nod that he hoped indicated both success and that all was well.  He was able to form little opinion of Lovell on the journey, just a view of his back and a slight stoop.  His gait was a little odd and not that of a soldier, but he could draw little more than vague impressions until they were on his porch.

“Come into the sitting room and I’ll light the gas fire,” he said as he turned the key.  Stephen followed and without asking removed his coat which Lovell took and hung on a peg in the hall.  The room was comfortable but untidy with papers and other things scattered about.  It lacked a woman’s touch, although it was clear that someone did the dusting.

“What’s your name?” he asked as they both stood next to the fire trying to thaw out.

“Stephen,” said Stephen.  “I’m on a few days’ leave.  I had some pals in Salisbury so I just came down today.  I’m in the Cameron Highlanders— second battalion.”

“No you’re not,” said Lovell, “but I don’t mind.  My name is Clarence.  These pals of yours, do you think they would like to come over for some fun?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You hungry Stephen or do you want to get down to business?”

“I am rather hungry,” said Stephen truthfully.

“Come into the kitchen then.  My daily’s gone home but I’ll cook us some bacon and eggs and you can tell me all about the Army.”

“It’s the Royal Engineers actually,” said Stephen feeling he was on safer ground.

“I thought so.  I knew the Camerons well in the War and the second is out in Palestine and you don’t sound like a Scott to me.”

“What were you in?” asked Stephen, slightly chastened, as he stood by Clarence who had a big black frying pan on the gas stove.

“Me?  I was a captain in the Old Redoubtables— or at least I would have been a captain except that the armistice came too soon and I was out on my arse.”  Stephen did not know who the Old Redoubtables were but did not ask.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes, but I’m moving soon.  I’ve got my eye on a larger place in Oxford but my sister wouldn’t want me to sell.”

“Your sister?  Does she live here?”

“Oh no— she lives elsewhere, but this was a family home— we had several houses and Hester lived here when we all came back from South Africa.”

“South Africa?  I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Well you should Stephen.  It is just the place for a young man like you.  Of course we had a big spread on the High Karoo and my father worked for Milner until things went sour and we all came back.”  He went on with what Stephen was sure was a fanciful confection of stories.  “Asquith seconded me to intelligence during the War even though I wanted to enlist.  ‘Lovell,’ he said to me, ‘we need someone with your knowledge of the Cape.’  It was full of German sympathisers, Stephen, and they had to crack down hard.”  Stephen was nearly going to ask how he became ‘almost a captain’ in the Old Redoubtables if he was seconded, but saw that Clarence was enjoying himself and it seemed cruel to spoil this, so he kept quiet and took another mouthful of the supper, which was really quite good.

They returned to the sitting room when they had finished eating and Clarence was still conversational.  He outlined plans he had for new businesses and suddenly ‘the family home’ became one that he had bought himself from the proceeds of buying and selling motorcars.

“Do you like older chaps, Stephen?” he said at one point.

“Don’t mind,” said Stephen. “They know their way around and how to treat a fellow,” said Stephen, trying to think what Clarence would like to hear.

“When do you have to go back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Would you like to stay— stay with me— do you do that?  I’d like it if you did.”

“I’m damn sure you would,” said Stephen grinning.  The grin was returned. “And it is very nice of you, Clarence.”

“Right then come upstairs.  We’re going upstairs,” he repeated in a louder voice.

“Whom are you talking to?  I thought we were alone.”

“Oh it’s just those Voices.  Can’t you hear them— a man and a Creole woman?”

“No,” said Stephen, slightly unnerved. “But then I wasn’t concentrating.”

“Well you have to concentrate but you don’t have to obey them, do you?”

“Certainly not.”

They had reached the bedroom which, like downstairs was well furnished but untidy.  Clarence switched on a bedside lamp that took the form of a plaster crinoline lady with a frilly shade.  He saw Stephen staring at it and laughed.  “Yes it’s dreadful.  My brother-in-law took the house furnished.”  He was oblivious to the fact that this admission contradicted his earlier story.

“Well, he is very generous and must think a lot of you,” said Stephen as he removed his jacket and tie.

“Yes I suppose he does.  He relies on me rather to advise him with his business— he has a factory you see.  Here, let me do that.”  He stepped up to Stephen and reaching up, for he was shorter than Stephen, unbuttoned his shirt.  “You’re a big lad, Stephen and no vest.  Aren’t you cold?”  Stephen was silent, but shook his head.  “No he doesn’t feel the cold,” he said, apparently to the Creole woman.

Clarence ran his hands over Stephen’s torso in admiration and then undid Stephen’s shoes.  He was clearly enjoying taking it slowly.  He looked at Stephen and Stephen wordlessly granted him permission to kiss him.  It was very nice Stephen had to admit.  Clarence then lowered Stephen’s trousers, noting to The Voices that he wore no drawers either.

 “Good God!” he exclaimed.

Stephen’s handsome cock was hanging halfway down his left thigh and Martin’s Christmas present girded this and his balls.  “What’s that?”

“It’s my cock,” said Stephen laughing.

“That is something you’d see on a farm, but I meant this silver thing.”

“It’s platinum and it was a present.  It makes me feel good when I wear it.  I like the weight.”

“Platinum is from South Africa and I know it’s expensive.  Someone likes you a great deal, Stephen, and I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Yes they do.”

“And you still want to do it with me?  Are you sure?”

“Yes”

“Well then, what do you want me to do?”

“You can do anything to me you like— as long as I don’t end up in hospital.”

“Yes, he is a nice boy and very generous,” he said to The Voices.

“Thanks,” said Stephen.

“For what?” he asked as he was swiftly removing his own garments and throwing them over a chair.

“For telling them that I was nice.”

“Did I say that?  I sometimes talk to myself,” he laughed.  “Don’t take any notice of me, but you are nice— just about the most handsome lad I’ve ever met.  Wasn’t I lucky to have come across you at the cottage?” 

He guided Stephen to the bed and paused to light the gas fire and returned to inspect him.  Stephen looked up from the bed grinning, with his hands clasped behind his head and his legs spread wide. He flexed his muscles, clearly showing off.  Clarence stood at the foot of the bead, naked.  His body was that of an older man, but was not utterly hideous; his legs were muscular and quite attractive and his round tummy was covered in a thick pelt of curly hair, but perhaps a once fine chest had run to fat and he made a rueful joke of it as he felt Stephen’s own bronze shield and compared it to his own ‘upholstering’, as he termed it.  Still he seemed reluctant to even touch Stephen or get onto the bed.  He ran a fingertip along the scar on Stephen’s shoulder.  “What caused that?”

“Shrapnel, and this was where I was blown up by a shell,” said Stephen, rolling on his side.  When he rolled back over he saw that Clarence was weeping.  “I’m alright now, Clarence, please don’t cry.”

“It is a sin against God to mark anything as beautiful as you,” he said wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  Stephen was upset for him.

“Look,” he said brightly, “this one is my own fault; boxing with Australian soldiers.”

“I would have been runner up in the Old Hundredth,” he said, sniffing, “but our Colonel put a stop to it.”

Stephen took his hand gently and kissed his fingers, then guided it down to his cock.  “Take the ring off,” he said softly. Clarence did as he was told and brushed his fingertips over the soft sheath of brown skin.

“Does your boyfriend take all of you?” he asked.  Stephen nodded.  “I’m glad, Stephen, a man like you deserves to be satisfied.”  He gently kissed the tip, where Stephen’s foreskin covered the purple head.

“That’s nice,” said Stephen.  “Clarence, I must warn you, even with Spong’s Soothing Salve I hurt.”

“I want you to hurt me, Stephen.”

“I don’t have to, Clarence, you might just want to use your hands and mouth, if you like.  It would still be very nice.”

“We’ve got all night, could we all three?  You don’t strike me as a fellow who would disappoint.”

“I promise I won’t do that,” said Stephen laughing, “If you give me a little rest.”  And with that he pulled Clarence roughly on top of him and kissed him passionately, pausing only to breathe: “You don’t need to treat me like glass, after all you picked me up at a cottage and I want you to enjoy yourself too.”

With that settled, their lovemaking began in earnest.  Clarence began by masturbating Stephen, inserting two fingers inside him and gouging at his insides as he bucked and rode until he brought Stephen to a furious climax that shot his seed as far as the lamp with the frilly shade where it stung the crinoline lady in the eye.  Clarence scooped some up and lewdly tasted it and they both laughed.  “That was intense,” said Stephen huffing.

“I know how to please a boy,” replied Clarence staring straight into Stephen’s blue eyes with his own that were not quite right.  They kissed with passion.  Then they fell to talking; Clarence seemed as starved of conversation as he was for the other thing.  “Our father was a brute and I won’t say what he did to Hester and me; she got the worst of it, along with mother, and because I was ten years older than her I tried to protect her until my father threw me out.”

“In the Transvaaal”?

“South Africa?” replied Lovell incredulously, “No in Hounslow of course.  I love Hester and look after her affairs because she’s not well.”

By now Clarence, all hesitancy gone was between Stephen’s legs licking him in intimate places and then he moved up to Stephen’s hardening cock and took it between his lips.  “It’s beautiful,” he said at one point and tenderly pleasured Stephen until, quite sometime later, Stephen took over and brought himself off, unloading onto his chest.  Clarence went to work with his tongue and a grateful Stephen gave Clarence a treat when he rolled backwards and licked the last drops from his own penis.  “Well that’s a sight!” exclaimed Clarence sitting back on his haunches.

“That is what my stepfather used to say when he caught me doing it, “laughed Stephen.

“Did he harm you?”

“Oh no, he loved me absolutely,” declared Stephen and then he saw tears welling up in Clarence’s red eyes.

There was to be no sleep that night, instead the two lay talking in between tender kisses.  Clarence pulled a blanket over them but Stephen threw it back and, wrapping his arms and legs about Clarence, promised to keep him from freezing.  “My brother-in-law pays the gas bill; he’s a good man,” said Clarence at one point but adding: “although he does rely too much on my advice in business matters as I may have said.  Oh yes, I did say it,” he added, presumably to The Voices.  “The Creole woman thinks you have a very handsome bottom.”  Stephen rolled over so that she might see it better.  Lovell laughed.

“I have a new idea for a business,” he began lazily, well after midnight.  He then said that Stephen should leave the Army and come and live with him.  “I will keep you in this bed all day and night— think of the saving on clothes alone— and I will bring men and women and boys and dogs and brood mares up here for you to fuck.  I will charge them of course and we’ll split the profits.”

“Horses might be hard to get up the stairs.”

“That is a good point, Stephen.  You might have to go into the garden for the animals.  But you’d never have to work again and I’d bring food up to you and feed you here in the bed and bathe you and everything.  I’d like that.”

“Sounds nice.  I’d like a bath; the baths in the barracks are not very good.”

“I’ll bathe you then, but after you have fucked me.  Have you recovered enough?”

Stephen’s answer was in the physical form and, after applications of Spong’s Soothing Salve, Clarence climbed on top of Stephen and lowered himself with little complaint and only a few words directed to The Voices.  It took some minutes, but at last Stephen was deep inside him.  “Oh God that feels good!” cried Clarence.  “I’ve never been so stretched; you’ve rearranged by insides, I think.” He tried to laugh but couldn’t.  “Your boyfriend is a lucky fellow, Stephen,” he said as his eyes rolled back.  Stephen began to lift himself from the bed in powerful thrusts, but then Clarence took over and wildly rotated and flexed his groin about Stephen’s cock.  Stephen thought the feeling was beyond description and Clarence cautioned him not to spill just yet as he intended to make these pleasures protracted ones.  Stephen was writhing and drenched in sweat; it ran from his body soaking the bed and his black locks had fallen forward and were plastered over his left eye.  “Stay hard in me, boy!” commanded Clarence and the exquisite torture lasted for nearly an hour. “Now roll over and fuck the devil out of me!” he said suddenly and so Stephen did.  Clarence spilled on his fat, hairy stomach without touching himself.  “Inside me, Stephen,” he panted and Stephen released and continued on for several more minutes until both parties felt they could take no more.  Never-the-less Clarence cried piteously when Stephen withdrew with a terrible slurp and it was then that he told Stephen that he loved him and Stephen believed it and was in tears too.

Stephen held Clarence tightly and kept blinking away the tears.  Clarence kissed him and began to outline plans for a new business venture, which was incomprehensible to Stephen and then, although it was nearly three, he took Stephen across the landing to the bathroom and switched on the electric light.  It was a cruel glare and both men looked like wrecks.  It was a modern, tiled apartment and Clarence operated the geyser and soon the bath was filled.  “I’m sorry I have no salts; you must be aching.”

“I’m fine,” said Stephen as he lowered himself gently, for the water was hot.

Clarence, who was still naked, knelt at the side and gently soaped Stephen, the latter lifting himself to allow Clarence access to particularly dirty regions, and then washed his hair.  “Your hair is beautiful,” said Clarence as he worked.  Stephen said nothing.  At last Stephen got out and towered above Clarence who knelt and dried him and then, to Stephen’s surprise, dusted him with talcum powder.  Then when he was finished, he allowed Stephen to wipe him over with soapy flannel and Stephen dried him off and pulled out the plug.

It was nearing four when they returned to the bed where Stephen pulled the blanket over them.  Again they talked, at one point Clarence saying that he would never see Stephen again.  Stephen felt badly.  He turned the talk to Clarence’s brother-in-law and took every opportunity to suggest that he must be a good and generous man and in the end Clarence agreed and said that the Creole woman was always telling him just that.

“How long have your heard them?” asked Stephen.

“Since I was a lad.  First it was the man only— he’s now with the BBC— and then the woman came along.  I know they are not there, but their voices are there.  You can’t hear them?”

“No, I can’t.” admitted Stephen.

“Then you are all alone in your head.”

Stephen couldn’t think of anything else to say so he simply held Clarence to him until he said:  “May I fuck you Stephen; I’d like to be inside you before you go.”

Stephen had no objection and they looked into one another’s eyes as this congress took place.  Clarence’s eyes were brown and kindly but were troubled and had that haunted look that Martin had observed from the car.  The unspoken dialogue that was running through his head perhaps accounted for the unfocussed stare.  Stephen wondered what cruelty had befallen this man and if such worldly troubles weighed heavier on those who were, by their natures, the most gentle and loving.  And what of his father?  The sins of the father?  About that Stephen did not want to think.

Stephen realised that his own eyes must be unfocussed and he returned to concentrating on present events, for he wanted Clarence to enjoy himself.  At last he pulled out and spilled on the neatly trimmed raven hair around Stephen’s cock.  “That was nice,” Stephen managed to say.

When the grey morning light managed to penetrate the floral curtains of Victoria Road, Stephen found the bed empty.  He must have drifted off.  Certain sounds and smells indicated that Lovell was downstairs in the kitchen and presently he returned with tea and toast and kippers on a tray.  Stephen thought of the parody of Chilvers with the bedtray.

“I’m always hungry,” admitted Stephen as he thanked Clarence and Clarence began to act out his fantasy of feeding Stephen until the bones in the kippers proved too problematic and Stephen had to use the knife and fork himself.

“Mrs Moran will be in at nine.”  Stephen understood what was meant.  “And I must meet a chap in the pub.  He has a business proposition he wants to put to me— it’s to do with second hand motor bicycles.”  Stephen nodded.  When he had finished Clarence wanted to dress him.  “Although if it were up to me, I’d never allow you to wear clothes.  Do you want this on?” he asked picking up the heavy platinum ring.

“No, I’m too sore.”

“Yes I can believe that, for so am I.”

Stephen was barefooted and without his shirt when Clarence had him step into his trousers.

“Down the other side.”

“Oh.”

Clarence was kneeling and admiring the virile bulge in the tweed.  He placed his cheek upon it like Martin did.  Stephen felt a pang.  “You’re quite a stallion.  I’m ever so glad they told me to go to that cottage.  It’s usually only old men there.”

“The Voices told you?”

“Yes, when I returned home yesterday evening.  You’ve changed my life Stephen and I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry.”

“Never be sorry.”

Clarence undid Stephen’s belt and let his trousers fall again.  “Do you think you could do it one more time, Stephen.  He kissed Stephen’s low-hanging balls.”

“Of course, it’s only half-past seven.”

When Stephen returned to the Haunch of Venison he found Martin reading in his room.

“What happened Derbs?”

Stephen found it hard to answer.  Tears welled up in his eyes and he embraced Martin and kissed him.  Martin felt the tears and could even taste the salt.

“Derby, what on Earth…?”

“Mala, he’s such a nice man.  You were right of course; hears voices, but he…”

“But what, Derbs?” said Martin holding his head between his palms. 

“But he loved me, Mala, I think he really did and I felt something for him too.”

“Oh Derbs!” said Martin holding him.  He wanted to be sarcastic but saw how upset Stephen was and tried to understand instead.

“He was lonely and he taught me something, I think, and it hurts, Mala, it really hurts.”  Martin continued to be puzzled.  “Even though he was old and not really nice to look at, he is really a very loving person, Mala.  He cooked for me and bathed me and wanted me to come and live with him and then I told him I had someone else and he didn’t complain.”

“Bathed you?”

“Yes and worked me over good, Mala.”  Stephen sketched a few details and wondered, as his words tumbled out, what Martin thought of it all. “I will tell Sutton that he is slightly deranged— because that is the truth— but there is no harm in him and I doubt very much whether he will blackmail him— it’s not in his nature, sane or otherwise, but I will not tell Sutton what happened and I could never blackmail Clarence, how could I?”

“Yes, you’re right, Derbs.  It would be a vile betrayal of your feelings and it would not be right.  I think I can see that.  I’m just sorry you are so upset.”

“I’m confused more than upset,” said Stephen, “because I know I have been taught a lesson— or perhaps been shown a glimpse of something precious is a better way of putting it— but I don’t really understand what it means.  Is that silly?”

“No, I don’t think so at all,” said Martin, stroking his head.  “Let’s go home.  I’ll drive; you look exhausted.”

“I am rather,” said Stephen in a different voice. “You’re not cross I hope, because I had no idea this would happen.  Do you want to hear about it?”

Martin did. 

***** 

Stephen reported to Sutton and told him he had little to fear and that, in fact, Lovell was grateful to him and only concerned for his sister.  “I’m sure he has schizophrenia too, although I’m no doctor, but if you were to meet him, you can tell straight away something is not quite right with him, but his impulses are all good ones, I’m convinced, although he talks wildly at times.  I say, Sutton, you wouldn’t be able to come up to London on the 23^rd would you?  I’m giving a luncheon and I think you might be interested.”

Sutton was surprised by the invitation, but duly presented himself at Branksome House in Piccadilly at 1:00 on the appointed day. 

The luncheon was to be a literary one with E.V. Knox, the editor of Punch, and a regular at Branksome House, Mary Borden, originally from Chicago and the authoress of remarkable short stories, and A.P, Herbert, the prolific author and humourist and the independent member for the University of Oxford. 

When they went down, Sutton found himself seated next to A.P. Herbert,  ‘A.P.’ talked about his book of the previous year, which concerned life on the canals and then about his latest, Holy Deadlock, which took up the theme of some of his Misleading Cases.  “I have already received much support in the House, Mr Sutton, for a private members bill that I intend to introduce into this parliament.  It may seem like a small thing, but our divorce laws are all wrong.  If two people want to become divorced, why do we insist that one of them has to be a sinner?”

“If one of them should be unable to fulfil their role as a loving husband or wife,” ventured Sutton, “because they are mentally ill, for example, do you think that should be grounds for divorce?”

“Of course, Mr Sutton, most people in this country— even religious people— would concede insanity is more a justifiable reason than adultery; it is no one’s fault.”

“Yes that is a good way of putting it.”

“So I hope my bill will get through this year or the next.”

Stephen saw Mr Sutton close his eyes very tightly.  Was he praying or giving thanks?  He could not tell. 

To be continued…