Glass brought in the afternoon post and Martin eagerly rifled through the letters.  At last he found the one he was looking for— a thick Manilla envelope— and Glass passed him the letter opener with which he sliced in savage anticipation.

“Here it is, Glass, the sixpenny Kenya, Uganda and Tanganyika,” he said, extracting a postage stamp from the envelope with a pair of tweezers.  “That makes all of them for there, but I’m still waiting for Niue and Guinea.”  Glass noted the atlas opened at the Pacific Ocean and a magnifying glass beside it.

“Are you sure that Guinea is one of ours, your lordship?”

“Oh? Isn’t it?  Perhaps you’re right, Glass, I hadn’t thought of that.  It might be French or Portuguese or something.  What about Niue?”

“A dependency of New Zealand, sir, and you will find it to the right of Fiji and below Samoa.”

“Well done Glass.”

“I had a cousin who was a missionary in Tonga sir.  Strict Methodists and they cover up now.”

Martin had been very excited by the King’s Silver Jubilee and thought he would like to collect the ‘omnibus’ set of stamps that was being simultaneously issued for every dominion, colony and protectorate in His Majesty’s Commonwealth and Empire.  The issue itself was an attractive stamp with a portrait of the King on the right and a view of Windsor on the left.  Each bore the name of an exciting and far off place like the Falkland Islands or Dominica, which added considerably to the to the modest thrills of philately and so Martin was busy with gummed hinges and ruled album pages where he carefully inked in the names in the title block, all the time patriotically thinking, with each post, that it really was an empire upon which the sun never set.

Stephen came in and bent down to pick up the One Pound Trinidad and Tobago that had fallen to the carpet.  “Been to the club, Derbs?”

“No.”

“Out shopping?” said Martin who had not looked up.

“No”

“Well, the cinema then?”

“No, I’ve been for a ride on the Tube, Mala.”

Martin put down Australia and turned around.  Stephen was blushing.  “It was exciting, Mala, I wanted to see the new stations and so I went out to Arnos Grove and then on to Cockfosters and then down to Morden.”

“Where’s that?”

“You will never need to go there, Lord Branksome,” said Stephen laughing.  “I hope you don’t think I’ve been childish?”

“Of course not,” said Martin, realising it was too late to put away his stamp album. “I think the Underground is just marvellous, I especially love the new station at Piccadilly Circus.” 

“Do you know that The Plunger has been asked to do a design for an advertisement? I saw it on Thursday when I went to spar with him.”

“What’s it like?”

“Well, it is to advertise the greyhound racing at White City and he has the train beating the electric hare and all the dogs, with their tongues hanging out, are looking perplexed.  It’s quite amusing.  Shall we go up?”  This last referred to a visit to the upstairs sitting room at Branksome House being used by Princess Mata, Martin’s wife and her lover, Dr Erna Obermann, who were both carrying Stephen’s unborn children and who were now very close to their time.  The whole household had therefore relocated to London, for the ladies, at Erna’s insistence, were intending to have their babies in a hospital— a new one in Hammersmith.

“But you surely don’t want to be in a place full of other people,” Martin had remonstrated when this became known.  He was almost going to say ‘common people’ but bit his tongue.  “Wouldn’t you rather have it home here, in privacy, with just the midwife?  I was born in this house and so was my brother.”

“Nein, Martin.  A hospital with a proper gynaecologist!  I have see things go wrong and a house is not antiseptic and there is no oxygen or anything,” said Erna adamantly, “and we have come a long way from your Charles Dickens’ Sarah Gamp.”

Erna would not be moved and Mata was with her, so their doctor from Harley Street would attend them at the Royal Masonic and Martin kept his Victorian views to himself and confined his actions to visiting the women half a dozen times a day as they struggled with their bloated bodies and all the usual attending discomforts and indignities.  Martin had purchased a very smart new Bakelite wireless to help them pass the time and he could hear the soft music of a concert as he and Stephen approached their apartment.

“Derby, if there is a boy, he might like to collect stamps,” said Martin trying to imagine such an eventuality.

“Or he might like trains,” added Stephen thinking of the extensive new Hornby set that they had recently purchased and carefully inspected or indeed the glorious full-sized one on which he’d passed the afternoon.  “But if they are girls?”

“Well, we’ll play games like with Sachs girls and there are sure to be horses and girls can play cricket I’ve heard tell.”

“Certainly Mala.  Our girls have just beaten the Australians in a Test.  I’d like a little girl.”

Gertrude admitted them and brought Mata’s knitting to the chaise longue upon which she reclined awkwardly while Erna sat surrounded by wood shavings as she sliced purposefully at a piece of wood with a pen knife.  “This is going to be Däumling,” she said as she continued to whittle.

“Tom Thumb by the brothers Grimm,” explained Mata.

“Ja Tom Thumb” confirmed Erna, “genau wie Stephen.”

The two women giggled and held their bellies and the boys looked at each other, not quite catching the joke.

“The music is nice,” said Martin.

“It is a concert in Luxemburg.  Thank you for the wireless, Martin; it has a lovely tone.”  They looked at the whimsical new instrument.  It was an Ekco and shaped like a doughnut and stood upon two stumpy legs made of the same green Bakelite as the case.  The speaker formed the hole and a glowing crescent indicated the stations.

“Are you both well this afternoon?”

“Yes, but my ankles are swollen and I keep wanting to go to the lavatory— I’m sorry I have to report this,” said Mata.

“I suppose the baby is pressing on something,” said Martin, going about as far as he dared with the anatomy of ladies.

This set Erna off and she gave a learned dissertation on pregnancy which she illustrated by opening her own blouse and pointing to various bits until Martin’s furious blushing caused Mata to intervene and have Erna stop.

“Would it be alright if Stephen and I went down to Hampshire tomorrow morning?  We want to see The Plunger’s new house; apparently he’s got a team of fifty tradesmen working overtime.”

“Of course it would, Martin.  Go and see Rot and give him our love.  We’ll be alright, won’t we Erna?”

“Ja,” said Erna.

“We’ll telephone from the post office and can be home in an hour and a half,” said Stephen.

“Enjoy yourselves,” said Mata.

“Might we have our dinner together up here?” ventured Martin.

“That would very nice, mein Schatz,” said Mata with warmth and giving a glance to Erna.

Martin rang the bell and told Glass to apologise to their secretary, Harry Myles, and to lay a table in the room.  It would be an odd family circle, thought Martin as they sat there in the quiet with just the soft music from the wireless in the background and the faint click of Mata’s needles, and the periodic rustle as Stephen turned a page of Lost Horizon and the grunts and chiselling sound, with the occasional German oath, as Erna carved her toy, but it was no means an unhappy one.

The next day, as there were no indications of babies, Martin and Stephen set off early for Stockbridge in Martin’s Bentley.  The drive was slow out of London, which of late seemed to be expanding in all directions, but soon they were passing through the pretty town of Chertsey, which was now almost a suburb and then, half an hour on, through the market down of Basingstoke.  In Stockbridge they stopped and made the promised telephone call and they then proceeded beyond the town to Broughton Lodge.

Initially their view was obscured by a long line of vans and lorries and by two old wagons that had been used to transport sacks of cement.  Martin and Stephen were agog at the activity and its magnitude could perhaps be measured by the number of workmen’s bicycles garaged in a makeshift shelter on the lawn.  They found The Plunger who had screwed his monocle into his right eye and was pouring over some plans with the architect and the builder.  It was some minutes before they could speak to him.

“Thanks for coming down, Poole.  I thought you’d like to see how things are going.”

“This is unbelievable, Plunger.  All this for your house!”

“I want it done in three months if possible.  I’m dreadfully scared if it lingers on for a year or more that I will lose interest or at least enthusiasm.  Is that silly?”

“Not at all, Archie,” said Stephen speaking up for his friend.  “If you can afford it, why not?”

The Plunger showed them the trench that brought electricity to the house from the main road and now provided for powerful lamps to allow the plasterers and carpenters to work long hours inside.  Most of the major work was in the ‘usual offices’ where the kitchen and scullery were being entirely remade and a servants’ hall and housekeeper’s flat had been contrived out of existing rooms with a modest extension.  In two rooms the floors had been completely re-laid due to dry rot, and the builder had had to find matching oak and there was also a good deal of replastering work taking place both inside and out.  In several places careful moulds had been taken for the reproduction of missing decorative details and these were now being applied by skilled hands.

Archie then showed them samples of yellow silk for the dining room walls and for rich fabrics to be used in other rooms along with samples of varnishes and paints.  An enormous chandelier with gilt palm fronds, elephants and goodness knows what else was, on that very morning, being raised to the ceiling in the domed studio where the painters and gilders were at work, like the Almighty himself, in creating the sky.  “It is a great prize,” said The Plunger, referring to the chandelier.  “Teddy and I got it from a club that was being demolished in Pall Mall.”  The boys admired its sumptuousness and said how appropriate it looked.  The Plunger beamed.  There were many other interesting aspects and Martin recalled, as they walked around, The Plunger’s long experience in this sort of thing, for not only was there his own unusual studio in Cheyne Walk, but when they were boys he had more than once decorated his room at school with theatrical flair.  This was very much dear old Plunger, but on a vaster scale, Martin realised.

After looking at the sewerage pipes and the water tank by the new garage at some little distance from the house, it was time for morning tea.  A whistle sounded and the hammering and sawing ceased.  A woman in a uniform could be seen behind an urn and soon Stephen and Martin had enamel mugs full of a strong, milky tea.

“Be careful you don’t burn your lips, Lord Branksome,” said Mr Pennell the foreman, “as I suppose you are used to fine china and I doubt someone like you would ever have had builders’ brew from a tin mug.”

“Of course I have,” said Martin a little huffily.  “We had tin mugs in the trenches during the War.”

“Oh,” said Mr Pennell, chagrined, for he hadn’t served and moved away.

“Thank you for coming,” said Archie, warming his hands on the mug.  “I really want this house to be a success.”  The boys assured him it would be.  “I just wanted to do something— to create something— that didn’t belong to this age— oh, except for electric light and all that— I mean times are pretty terrible and there seems to be no time or money to create anything that is just beautiful.  Everything these days has to have a purpose— ‘functional’ they call it— and I wanted something that was just the opposite.”

“Well, you will have it, Archie.  It is a folly in the best sense,” said Stephen

“You know if anything was to happen to me or, heaven forbid, to Teddy, I’d have nothing to show; nothing to tell anyone I ever lived.  It’s different for you because you will have children and you have Croome, Martin.  Perhaps future generations will think of me when they see Broughton Lodge - if a bomb doesn’t drop on it, that is.”

Martin put his arm around his friend.  “You have a collection of paintings to tell your story, Plunger, not to mention my murals and a poster on the Tube.”

“Yes, I suppose so, it’s just that…” he didn’t finish but said: “It will be fun here on weekends and such, won’t it boys?”

“Of course it will,’ said Stephen, thumping him on the back, “we will have splendid times here and so will you and Teddy.”

The Plunger walked them back towards the Bentley just as the men resumed their noisy labours.  “You know, Teddy’s uncle has been arrested in Hamburg.  They closed his publishing house— art and sports magazines and that sort of thing— and have accused him of promoting degenerate art.  Ted’s asked Sir John Simon if he can help.”  The boys sympathised warmly but impotently and were silent on the return trip.

For the next few days, life passed quietly at Branksome House.  The boys remained at home or just went out on short excursions to their respective clubs while a stream of well-wishers led by Aunt Maud came to pass the odd half-hour with the prospective mothers in their improvised prison on the first floor.  Mata, and now even Erna, complained about their discomfort and were reassured that all was well by Sir William Gilliatt who came weekly to examine them and to stay for a glass of sherry.

Martin stood in the hall and gazed at the oval portrait of his mother by Boldini.  She would have approved of Mata, he told himself.  He reflected on other births in the long history of the Pooles: of Lord Henry Poole who was born on the floor of a post chaise as his mother attempted to flee her drunken husband; of a certain Lord William Poole whose birth was attended by such loyal celebrations that the bonfires got out of control and burnt down half the village; of another Poole—never named— from the 1520s who was said to have been so hideous and deformed that he was confined to a tower in the old house (now demolished) with a keeper until he died, it was said, at the age of 20, having eaten his unfortunate attendant.  Then there was his own birth, the news of which had been brought to Boodles where his father insisted that the messenger wait for a quarter of an hour until the rubber of whist was completed. 

He sighed.

However in this year of grace, 1935, there were no great dramas for history to record and no bright star was seen in the east, nor were there oxen or asses (more than usual) in Piccadilly, and no one wrote that shepherds watched their flocks in Green Park, because they were not there.  But the miracle of birth was none the less remarkable in this noble house and at this time in history than it had been for any other; like its companion, Death, it was the great leveller of prince and pauper alike. 

Erna went first.  The boys were just finishing their breakfast when Gertrude was admitted to the small dining room.  In a mixture of German and English she made it clear that Erna was now in labour.  Stephen asked a few pertinent questions and Martin wiped his mouth on a napkin and rose smartly to bring the Bentley around to the front door and when he came back inside, Erna was making her grand descent into the hall, accompanied by the equally ungainly Mata with Gertrude and Stephen at the rear.

Erna managed to grin and apologise and tell everybody not to fuss all at once and was manoeuvred, as the Mauritania might be chivvied by her tugs, into the waiting car.  Mata and Stephen sat with her and Martin drove them to Hammersmith.

It was a long day and eventually Mata was persuaded to return home while Stephen waited.  It was sometime in the morning that Sir William found Stephen.  “Mrs Komorowski is delivered of a baby girl.”

“Are they…?”

“Yes they’re both well, but Mrs Komorowski is rather tired, naturally, after such a long labour.  Will Mr Komorovski be coming to visit? I don’t believe I’ve…”

“No, Sir William, Mr Komorowski is resident in Paris, but might I…?”

“Yes, of course.  Just for a few minutes.”

Stephen was guided by a nurse through the modern, antiseptic corridors of the hospital and up some stairs until Erna’s room was reached.  There she was in the bed, looking…well looking like a woman who had just given birth...and she smiled when she saw Stephen and Stephen kissed her on the cheek and said what he hoped were appropriate sentiments. 

“I’m sorry, Stephen, but I called you bad names while I was in pain.  I’m very sorry.”  Stephen chuckled and said that his ears were burning but Erna did not understand and then she took Stephen’s hand and pointed the way to the bassinet.

“Look before they take her down to the nursery.  I have just fed her.”

Stephen looked in.  It was a baby.  She was red and wrinkled and Stephen knew that she was expected to be beautiful and that he was expected to say that she was — and she was indeed beautiful, in a way, he decided after a few moments.  He hadn’t expected himself to think that.  She had a lot of dark hair and was quite a good size and he had made her.

“Sie gleicht ihrem Vater” said Erna softly.

“She does rather.  I say, Erna do you think that might be embarrassing?”

“I do not care.  She is my baby and she will love me when I’m old and I will love her always.”

“We will all love her.”

“Ja,” said Erna smiling.  “Tell the others.”

Stephen did.  They were still awake and there was great excitement and Mata asked many questions about the baby which Stephen found he couldn’t answer.  Glass was told the news and Martin said he would telephone Croome himself in the morning.

There was a visit in the strictly prescribed hours the next afternoon following a morning spent on the telephone.  Martin and Stephen left Mata alone with Erna for most of the time.  “Do you remember the baby born to the Belgian refugee at Christmas in 1915, Derbs?”

“I thought of it only yesterday, Mala, and of how Christopher and I delivered him. Stephen must be 19 now, can you believe it?”

“It seems an age away.”

They had not been home many hours when Mata complained of contractions.   She was quite sure it had begun and there was a repetition of their drive to the hospital.  They felt that Erna should be told, but the rules were strict.  Stephen, however, smiled particularly radiantly to a night nurse who thawed sufficiently to agree to pass on the news to Mrs Komorowski on the fourth floor when she next took the baby to be fed.

“I thought Erna was all in favour of feeding babies with hygienic bottles, Derby.”

“She seems to have changed her mind, Mala,” Stephen replied and Martin wondered how he would cope with ladies—with breasts— feeding babies in such a manner.  He would just have to cope like any man, he reasoned.

Mata’s labour was longer than even Erna’s and after what seemed an eternity; Sir William Gilliatt appeared in the room set-aside for expectant fathers in some remote part of the building.  He was all-smiles and Martin relaxed.  “It’s a fine boy, Lord Branksome and Her Serene Highness asked me to ask you if he is an Earl.”

“I suppose he is.  He uses my second title, the Earl of Holdenhurst,” said Martin, grinning broadly and shaking the doctor’s hand vigorously.  “Thank you, Sir William, thank you so much!”  He departed and, as they were alone, Martin hugged Stephen and they kissed before heading for Mata’s room.

“I’ve had a little gas, Martin,” said Mata who was lying almost flat, “so I’m away with the fairies.  Nurse, bring me my baby.”

The swaddled baby was produced from somewhere and placed on Mata’s chest.  He was a fine baby too and Martin and Stephen were invited to kiss the top of his warm head, which was also replete with black hair like his father’s —or his mother’s for that matter.  The baby’s eyes were closed but he was not asleep.  Mata lowered her nightgown and the baby suckled.  Martin did not faint or froth at the mouth and he knew he would be alright.

“Aren’t we the luckiest people in the world?” said Mata.

The next few weeks were a blur.  Erna and Mata were kept in the hospital for almost two weeks, although they and their babies were quite well but the nurses were very strict, even with the upper classes.  Martin found their attitude rather presumptuous and felt like reminding them that they were giving orders to a princess, and if she wished for a bed pan she should have one, but of course he said nothing.  Aunt Maude came to visit and so did the Plunger and Teddy.  To everyone’s surprise Mrs Capstick, Miss Tadrew and Chilvers arrived unannounced and Martin felt very touched indeed.  “The future of the Estate is ensured,” said Chilvers a trifle sententiously, but Martin knew that most at home would still think in these feudal terms.  They stayed overnight at Branksome House and went back to Dorset by an early train.

At last Erna and Mata were discharged and returned to Branksome House before going down to Croome.  A nurse had been engaged some months before and, after the custom of time, she was simply called ‘Nurse’ but her real name was Cullodina and spoke Scottish Gaelic as well as English and a few words of German and had been recommended by the Sachs.  She was a competent woman and rather severe with adults, but thought that she would find two babies quite manageable.

There were a great many letters and cards, including ones from Friedrich in Germany and Bunny and Dwight in the United States.  A reporter from The Queen arrived with a photographer and interviewed Mata and pictures were taken of the nursery.  Martin had not wanted this to happen, but gave way when he saw that Mata was not bothered and actually seemed to delight in the publicity.

One of the letters stood out, both by the precision of the hand and the stiffness of the paper.  It was from Mata’s Aunt May, who was more familiar to the general public as Her Majesty Queen Mary.  The letter, clearly dictated to her secretary, said that she would be pleased to be the baby’s godmother and gave three imperious dates that would be convenient for the ceremony at St Margaret’s Westminster.

“I would have liked it to take place at Croome, Mata, what do you think?” said Martin when he read the command.

“Does it matter, Martin?  We can’t really refuse, can we?”

“No I don’t suppose so.”

“Have we decided on a name yet?” asked Martin, taking the baby from the nurse for a moment before he made it clear that he wanted to feed and so was passed to Mata.

“Well, I know you want ‘William’ after your brother and father, it’s just that I’m reminded of my Uncle Vidi, the Mbret of Albania, and that is certainly an unhappy connection.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“‘Adolf’- but I don’t suppose that is appropriate now.”

In the end, it was decided on ‘William Alfred Titus Poole’, with the understanding that the baby might be called ‘Will’ if they grew tired of Schnucki, which had stood in pro tem.  Like all babies, by the end of the week he had grown to look like his name.

Erna did not decide by committee.  Her baby would be ‘Charlotte Mary Komorowski’.  “Meine Mutter was Charlotte and Mary is after Her Majesty,” she explained, nodding, “I couldn’t call her after my father who was ‘Wolfric’.”  She laughed.

“Well Charlotte is a beautiful name for a very beautiful young lady,” said Stephen in a singsong voice as he tickled her with just the tip of a finger.

The day of the christening arrived and all in Branksome House was keyed-up for the luncheon that Her Majesty would be attending.  M. Lefaux had been in contact with the Palace in order to find out if there were any royal dislikes and was relieved that Her Majesty enjoyed her food relatively indiscriminately.  He spent several days a nervous wreck, one morning refusing point blank to rise from his bed but, after reducing Hettie, the kitchen maid, to tears and breaking an aspic mould, he calmed down and presented Mata and Martin with his menu. 

There was to be no soup for it was a luncheon, but there were two cold hors-d’oeuvre, namely Avocado Vinaigrette and Endives Crues à l’Ancholiade.  Neither Mata nor Martin had ever eaten the American fruit, but M. Lefaux assured them that they were excellent with his special dressing and he boasted that he did not suffer the common prejudice of his fellow countrymen against them.  He then directed some venom at the head chef at the Ritz Hotel across the street.  The fish course was to be Stuffed Salmon Brillat-Savarin and Ballottines de Poulet au Homard.  “There will be no pork or ham for those guests who do not eat of the pig” he said.

The main course was Pintadeau Marco Polo.  “What are they?” asked Martin.

“Guinea hens, of course,” replied the artist crossly.  “I will substitute quail if I can’t find them.”  Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he explained that they were but a small mouthful and so quite suitable for a modest luncheon.

“Now the dessert will be Soufflé Glace Palmyre, your Serene Highness, which is cold and contains kirsch and sponge fingers and there will be a Cherry Genoise Montmorency if Her Majesty is to stay to tea and I know you like that cake,” he said, finishing with the slightest of bows.  Mata thanked him in French and Martin wondered, not for the first time, how he had managed to find one wife, let alone two at the same time, but also thanked him for his efforts and said that he was the greatest living chef in London.

“Why just London, your lordship?” he retorted crossly.

“Well, England then.”

“And why just living?” he replied, giving Martin an especially irritating Gallic look.

“M. Lefaux, you are the greatest chef who has ever lived or ever will live,” said Martin, exasperated.

“Your lordship is too kind,” replied M. Lefaux with a bow and withdrew to his basement.

The fleet of motors pulled up in the yard outside St Margaret’s in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament.  The gentlemen were all in morning suits and Carlo had found a cornflower for Martin’s buttonhole.  The ladies were veritable fashion plates.

“Do you think the rain will hold off, Mr Carnegie,” said Martin pleasantly to the Rector who had come into the narthex to greet them.

“I hope so, your lordship,” he said but paying him little attention for he was taken up with baby Will who, at this moment, was being carried by his mother who had emerged from the Bentley looking stunning.  Mata was under a hat as big as a cartwheel— which was unusual for her as she had tended to favour ones that were small and chic.  Her fine tweed dress had a pencil silhouette and its muted tones were an effective foil for an outsize bow at her throat in vivid stripes of orange, green and black.  Her black gauntlets matched her hat and shoes.  Sensibly she wore no showy jewellery to compete with her outfit save an emerald brooch, and Will formed an effective accessory on his own in his long French lace christening gown that had been sent up from Croome.  Erna followed her and was no less striking, for she was wearing a tweed suit with trousers, which was oddly quite feminine with its high pinched waist.  The beret was somewhat less effective as its ‘saucy angle’ did not quite suit her.  Martin wondered if Her Majesty would receive a woman in trousers.  Cullodina, in her starched uniform, carried Charlotte.

Martin’s small circle of family and the slightly larger one that encompassed his and Stephen’s friends had turned out in force and the fashionable sight appeared to be one that reporters from The Queen and The Tattler thought worth recording.

Pleasantries continued to be exchanged.  Mr Destrombe had come up with his wife and Miss Tadrew, for he was to perform the sacrament under the eye of Mr Carnegie to make up for it not being held in his parish church and Mr Destrombe seemed to have purchased or borrowed a smart new set of vestments for the occasion.  The babies provided a focus for all attention, especially for the ladies, as all now awaited Her Majesty who was late.

At last the royal Daimler was spotted in its stately progress and the guests hastened inside so as not to be seated after Queen Mary.  The congregation rose to its feet and there was obeisance and greetings and at last Mr Carnegie cleared his throat and began with a discursive welcome which, by a roundabout route, came at last to the value of the traditions of the family in modern society.  Martin spared a brief thought for the decidedly untraditional family under his own roof.

Queen Mary was giving black looks of impatience.  Suddenly she spoke:  “Thank you, Mr Carnegie,” she said tartly, “that will give us all something to ponder during luncheon.  Now you…” she said waving the back of her hand at Mr Destrombe and then, after an infinitesimal pause adding, “Vicar…, might like to begin while the infant is quiet.”

What carefully prepared homily was neglected remained unknown, but Mr Destrombe, at the Royal Command, stuck to the Book of Common Prayer and read rapidly.  Stephen presented himself as the godfather and, with Her Majesty, pledged to uphold his weighty duties.  There was a sprinkling of water from the font and William Alfred Titus Poole was ‘done’—crying but for a moment until comforted by his mother who bounced him and applied some kisses.

Queen Mary looked pleased and then cast her eye in the direction of Erna who was holding baby Charlotte.  “Has that baby been done, Mrs What-ever-your-name-is?”

“Nein Majesty…” began Erna but was cut short.

“Do that one too, Vicar.  Come up here,” — this last to Erna.

“I will be the boy’s godmother as well.”

“She is a little girl Aunt May,” whispered Mata.

“No matter.  Young man,” she said picking out The Plunger who was at that moment adjusting his cuffs over his pearl grey gloves and wondering if the opal links were a little outré with his grey-and-mauve cravat   “Oh you’re Lord Craigth’s son,” she exclaimed when he looked up in surprise.  “Well you are dressed for the part, I must say, so come up here and be the godfather to this infant.”

The Plunger, even more than the others, was shocked but meekly followed Erna to the font.  “But I am Jüdin, Majesty…” began Erna, quite flustered.  Queen Mary then saw the trousers but chose not to see them.

“Does not God hear all our prayers, Mr Carnegie?” asked Queen Mary, not in the mood to be put off.

“I have no doubt on the matter,” replied the Rector who did indeed have the gravest doubts but was prepared to crush them.

Thus when the aristocratic party departed St Margaret’s for M. Lefaux’s marvellous luncheon, two babies had been baptised under the auspices of their sovereign’s consort, who failed to comment, if she had been cognisant of the fact, that both babies bore a striking similarity not only to each other but to one of the godfathers as well, and that holy water had not been wasted in both senses, for, as the party joked, it had been after all a year of drought in this usually rain-sodden island. 

***** 

“Derby,” said Martin, “are you happy?”

“Very happy, Mala, surely you must see that?”

“Yes, I can.  And you still love me?”

“Of course, Mala, what a question!  I hope you’re not jealous of our babies just because I love them too.”

“Well I am rather,” said Martin truthfully.  “At least a little bit, for you do spend an awful lot of time with them.”

“But so do you, Mala, and they are just so cute and I’ve never seen such a two for eating.  Nurse said that Charlotte weighed more than when she was born after just a week and Will has actually gained two pounds.  Poor Mata gets no sleep as he wants to be fed all the time, although Nurse is adamant that he must feed only at the routine times—it’s the new scientific way…”  Stephen went on for several more minutes.

‘You know, Derbs,” said Martin, interrupting, “I can hardly remember my father playing with me and I’m sure he never visited the nursery.  I do remember once or twice sitting on his knee while he read to me—I must have been about four.  Things have changed, I know.”

“Yes they have— for the better,” said Stephen, then, “It’s nice cuddling like this, isn’t it Mala,” said Stephen snuggling closer and putting his chin on Martin’s shoulder.

“Yes it is…but…”

“But what?”

“Derbs, when did you last fuck me?”

“Mala!  Why it was yesterday— in the morning.”

“No it wasn’t; that was five days ago and it was only once.  You’re not getting tired of me, Derbs?”

Stephen sat up in alarm.  “Of course not, Mala, it’s just that I didn’t realise that it was so long ago and that I had been neglecting your needs.”

“It’s not just that, Derbs, but you have changed since the babies and maybe your needs have lessened.  Perhaps you just don’t feel like doing it.”

“Could that be?” cried Stephen, trying to examine his feelings.  “Is that what happens when you become a father?”  He was consternated that something that he had taken so much for granted, something that was at the very core of his being, might be slipping away.  It was a profound shock to him.

“Well, you have been putting a lot of effort into being a good father— exactly as I imagined you would— and perhaps you have just been preoccupied.”

“And you haven’t?”

“Perhaps not to the exclusion of other feelings, Derbs,” he replied and then, with a certain mischievous smile on his lips, leaned into his ear and breathed: “I long for your big cock, Derby, I ache for you to…” and so he went on for several minutes, saying filthy, disgusting things in a husky whisper that was too low to be recorded and he knew he was being convincing when he felt Stephen’s hitherto idle member thicken and harden in his grasp.

In fact so successful had Martin been, and so eager was Stephen to make amends and prove his virility to himself as much as to Martin, that when Chilvers arrived with the early morning tea, a single goose feather at his feet drew his eye to a second and then a third and it was quickly apparent that the bedroom was under a drift of feathers from a pillow that had been quite bitten through and that the bed was a tangled, stinking cess pit and that the bed curtains had fallen down and a chair had been overturned— a rent it it’s tapestry seat giving it a kind of eloquence.

“Oh tea!” said Martin brightly as he sat up.  ‘Good morning Chilvers.”

“Good morning your lordship,” replied the butler evenly.  He spied a pair of feet near the bed-head and the sound of muffled snoring indicated that Mr Stephen’s head, face down, was somewhere under the fallen curtains at the other end.  “I’ll just set it down on the table, sir.”

“No, no.  That table might be slightly sticky.  We’ll have it up here.  Derby, wake up!” he said tugging on a big toe.  The snoring stopped and, as Chilvers held the silver tray, Stephen rolled over and righted himself.  His engorged cock followed him and was plainly visible to all and sundry and he made no attempt to cover his nakedness, merely scratching under a sweaty arm and saying something that may have been ‘Good morning’.  Martin looked first at Stephen and then at Chilvers who was staring at Stephen’s cock but trying not to.  “Perhaps come back with the tea in half an hour, Chilvers.”  

***** 

Martin was sitting up in bed and doing the crossword in the Telegraph and asking Chilvers for clues when he noticed the quiet.  Stephen had gone for his bath and there had been the usual amount of roaring and splashing— he was worse than baby Will— and then there had been the hum of Carlo’s new electric clippers.  Carlo was really terribly skilled in the tonsorial arts and Martin and Stephen seldom went out to their barber in Jermyn Street and Carlo could also trim and shave even the most intimate areas to their mutual satisfaction.  For Stephen’s birthday, Martin had purchased a pair of real barber’s chairs and these had been set up in the dressing rooms at Croome and Branksome House.  They were in red leather and had adjustable headrests and various mechanisms by which they could be raised and tilted and they were great fun.

“Naked Lord to cavort in London thoroughfare, Chilvers; 3, 4 & 4”

“Old Kent Road, your lordship,” said Chilvers as he picked up the silver toast rack.  Martin wrote it down and found that it fitted

“Stephen?”

“Yes, Mala?”

“Nothing.”

“Carlo!” Silence.  “Carlo!”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Whistle, Carlo.”

“I could hum, sir.”

“No humming won’t do.  I want to hear you whistle or you will be on the dole.”

“To hear is to obey, your lordship,” came the resigned voice of the servant and Martin settled down to his crossword to the wavering and slightly off key strains of The Lily of Laguna.

“‘Song of the proletariat’— aria,” said Martin to himself and reached for the pencil. 

***** 

There was quite a crowd on the platform of the little station at Branksome-le-Bourne when the ‘special’ pulled in on a certain morning in May.  Martin had very grandly chartered an entire train to relocate his household to London for the Jubilee celebrations.  As well as Martin and Stephen and Carlo their valet, there was Mata and Erna and their maid, Gertrude, and the two babies with their nurse.  Harry Myles their secretary was required and Miss Tadrew was to be a guest and reminded Stephen of the occasion of the King’s coronation 25 years ago when she had come up to London with Titus Knight, Stephen’s stepfather.  “I’m older than he was then, you know,” she said, planting a kiss on Stephen’s cheek.  Another guest was Mrs Chadwick who had saved for the occasion and had travelled second class all the way from Antibes.  Like Miss Tadrew, she was now a woman in her seventies but showed no signs of slowing down.  She had, of course, been bursting to see the babies and she spent many wakeful hours in the Prince Regent’s Room pondering on the more specific lineage of the two who might almost be twins.  This was indeed a new age.

There was to be a great reception at Branksome House and so Chilvers, Mrs Capstick and the two footmen, Mathew and Lance, had been brought up.  Herbert, the younger footman at Branksome House, had unexpectedly left when he had been offered a job as an assistant manager at the Gaumont Palace in Hammersmith.  There seemed little prospect of finding a replacement and Glass fretted and Chilvers sympathised warmly with his plight, for it was disgraceful that a great house was to have but a single footman, but it was, alas, a sign of the times.

Also in the party, but not taking up residence at Branksome House, were Mr and Mrs Destrombe and Sir Bernard and Lady Bonnington who were as keen as anyone to partake in the festivities.

Invitations to balls were declined as Mata and Erna were still feeding the babies and Martin and Stephen did not wish to go alone.  However there were a number of teas and concerts that they did attend, both women being very fond of music, and Martin, for the last few years, had been a sponsor of the London Philharmonic.

However the real work was that of the reception to be held at Branksome House to coincide with the Royal Procession, which was to pass beneath its windows in Piccadilly and so for many days the servants had been busy preparing and the railings were decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting while flags hung from every window and, in silver lettering, a large sign which read ‘God Save the King 1910-1935’ had been affixed to the front wall.  It looked really splendid and Martin kept thinking up new decorative flourishes for the house in its prominent location.

Martin’s planned reception for Jubilee Day involved securing an orchestra to play during the buffet luncheon that was to be laid out in the Pink Drawing Room— the ‘double cube’ room whose windows at one end gave on to Piccadilly and at the other to the small garden with its huge plane tree.  Mrs Manville, the American asbestos heiress, had snatched Roy Fox from under his nose and so Martin was forced to go to Maurice Winnick at the nearby San Marco Restaurant and offer such a huge sum for his band and vocal quartet that he dared not even tell himself the cost, let alone Stephen, but he looked forward to Winnick’s smooth, soft jazz style which he thought would suit the occasion very well and, besides, the men his band were all terribly good looking.

Thus on the morning of the 6^th of May Branksome House was jam-packed with friends, neighbours, family and servants and many found it difficult to move through the streets to gain the front door.  Many folk had slept out all night, braving the light rain, in order to gain a good vantage point, but miraculously the day broke fine and the sun shone—‘King’s weather’ said some.  The windows were all thrown wide, with the servants claiming the upper floors and their betters jostling for positions on the first floor in the Pink Drawing Room and the Library which was across the wide landing.

The excitement grew as the booming of guns down on the Embankment could be heard as a salute was fired.  Martin went to say something to Stephen, but saw he had gone pale— it was the sound of cannon fire he suddenly realised, but it passed in a moment and down Piccadilly came brass bands and marching soldiers and then the mounted Household Cavalry in their splendid, but surely uncomfortable uniforms.  Mata was holding Will and trying to get him to acknowledge the horses, but he was far too young and merely looked up at his mother and made a grab at her finger.  Erna was there too and had taken Charlotte from Nurse and was feeding her, save for a shawl, in full view of the crowds below, had they looked up.  Charles Fortune had brought tiny flags with him and distributed them so that they might wave with more overt patriotism. 

Then the Plunger cried out that he could see the royal carriage, but it was only the Speaker in his black-and-gold robes and then came the carriages of the Prime Ministers of the Dominions for which there were some cheers, then came the carriage containing Ramsay Macdonald and his daughter for which there were no cheers.  Next came the Lord Chancellor is his long periwig and some carriages with people, no doubt important, but whose identity was debated in the windows.  The Yorks with the two little princesses came into view next and Martin felt an immediate affinity with them, for he too was a father.  The Plunger waved enthusiastically when he recognised the Duke of Kent and Princess Marina and Stephen immediately recalled their evening at Lady Austin’s and another night at Croome when he had…No he’d better push that from his mind.  The Prince of Wales sat smiling radiantly like Stephen, with an elderly lady.  “That is his aunt, Martin, Queen Maude of Norway, said Aunt Maud, “His Majesty’s youngest sister.”  

There were more troops and then the crowd erupted for the royal carriage rolled into sight and there was King George in a blue uniform looking elderly and Queen Mary, all white and silver, looking splendid.  They were both waving at the crowds in a warm but dignified manner.  As they drew near Branksome House, Her Majesty indisputably looked up at the open windows and waved in Martin’s direction and then she spoke to the King who also raised his eyes in greeting.  Martin felt he would burst with pride and was already feeling hoarse from cheering so enthusiastically.

The excitement ebbed and the crowd drew back and Glass instructed that the windows be closed.  The guests turned to the sumptuous buffet as the servants filtered back to their duties just as Maurice Winnick waved his baton and the orchestra struck up What More Can I Say?

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xj3ve6_maurice-winnick-his-orchestra-what-more-can-i-ask_music

Everybody was in a funny mood, and Martin felt it too.  The Jubilee was a cause for all to reflect on the stupendous changes seen over these last twenty-five years and on their own lives that were irrevocably changed with it.  The King and Queen, rather distant and aloof figures back in 1910, were now known to every Briton from their splendid conduct during the War and now from the intimacy of the Christmas broadcasts and, while not exactly family, they were held in great affection in every heart.

That night, after the band had put away its instruments and all the guests had departed and the babies had settled in the nursery, Martin and Stephen went to join the crowds in the streets.  It was like Armistice night, but admittedly more sedate and there would be no trysts with sailors this night.  They walked the streets for some hours, marvelling at how beautiful the city was with all the decorations and the famous buildings showing up well under floodlights.  The unflagging crowds were densest at Buckingham Palace and they were singing and cheering.  There was an eruption when the King and Queen appeared on the balcony and acknowledged the crowds.  Martin and Stephen found themselves cheering too.  Up the Mall, the elegant Horse Guards was glowing and on the Embankment the new Shell-Mex building glared under the harsh white lights, representing the London of 1935, just as St Paul’s and The Mansion House and the Tower signified the long history of the great metropolis.

“It’s really a pretty marvellous town, isn’t it Derbs?” said Martin in considerable awe as they came back towards Piccadilly Circus with its confusion of bright lights and neon advertising.  “What will it be like when Will and Charlotte are as old as Miss Tadrew and Mrs Chadwick?”

“It will be the Twenty-first Century and who will be our king?”  It was hard to imagine, for they did not have the insight of H.G. Wells they conceded.

The streets were bumper-to-bumper with motors and ’buses and there were well dressed people everywhere, coming and going from the theatres and restaurants or, like themselves, simply out to take stock of their city in this year of grace.  “When I took Bunny to the old Adelphi Terrace, just before it was demolished— I wanted him to see a precursor to his Waker Drive— he said to me, ‘Is it safe here at night?’ and I said to him, ‘Of course it is, this is London.’  I mean were pretty lucky, aren’t we Derbs?”

Stephen agreed and reminded Martin about his very first visit to London in the last year of King Edward’s reign.  “I didn’t know what to expect, Mala.  You had a new suit made for me…”

“Three, if I recall”

“…and we went to The Savoy and the Cafe Royal and rode on the Tube and you were so excited that you insisted on sucking me on the top of the Monument.”

“That’s a lie, it was you who was excited and insisted on that.”

“You didn’t find it exciting and were a reluctant participant?” asked Stephen with his lip curling in amusement.

“Well…I can hardly say that, Derbs, and I’d do it willingly right now in the Tube station except it is rather too busy.  I’m always conflicted, because it is exciting when it is urgent and on the spur of the moment and it is also satisfying knowing that we have a comfortable bed not far away and I can take my time to do you properly.”

“Well, Mala, we could do both you know—just to mark this as a special occasion, of course,” replied Stephen with mounting excitement in his voice.  “The new underground station at St James Park doesn’t have escalators but does have rather splendid automatic lifts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I noticed the other day that if you hold the emergency button down, the doors won’t open— I think an alarm might go off after five minutes— I’m not sure.  You could do it to me there while I kept my finger on the button.”

“That would be quite exciting,” said Martin, squirming a little as he imagined Stephen with his overcoat open and himself on his knees and, taking Stephen by the arm and turning in that direction, said emphatically,  “I’m up for it.”

“Yes, but we’d have to be quick and I don’t know if I could keep my finger on the button and hold you by the ears at the same time, Mala…”

To be continued…