L’Arc-en-Ciel ploughed through the choppy grey-green waters of the Mediterranean, trailing in her wake a great plume of greasy, black coal smoke that vomited forth from her single funnel.  She was an old ship whose rust was concealed beneath many layers of paint and she vibrated dreadfully and seemed to strain at every rivet to make the 12 knots.  The bow plunged into a great trough and then, as it rose, a large wave smashed across the bow, covering the deck with spume, and Stephen lost his footing and his right shoe and was saved from being swept to his death only by his strong grip on the rail.  “Are you alright, Mala?” he called out when he had spat out a mouthful of Mediterranean and, from an upper deck, beneath where the tricolour strained not to be torn from its mast, came a damp answering cry in the affirmative.

The paquebot was just over a day out from Sète bound for Tangier and this was the most dangerous part of the voyage.  The civil war raging in Spain had drawn in the European powers and the Falangists had already secured Andalucía but the Republic maintained Catalonia, Valencia and the port of Alicante on the Mediterranean coast.  Capitan Guillon had made the decision not to call at Alicante because there had been a serious bombing raid and the harbour was reported to be ablaze and now Malaga, further south, had also fallen to Franco’s troops.  Added to this was the danger posed by German and Italian aircraft, which had been known to strafe foreign vessels and, more particularly, by Italian submarines, which posed a lurking threat as Mussolini was determined to starve the Republic through a blockade that Britain refused to condemn.

When news of the air raid on Alicante became known, Captain Guillon gathered some of the senior first class passengers— six Frenchmen, an American and three Englishmen—in the dining saloon.  “I fear this is the danger most terrible,” he said, “and I propose that we make straight for Tangier as fast as L’ Arc she will go.” 

He was not a young man and his weathered face and strained grey eyes, showed the effects of long years at sea and were thus reassuring, despite the gravity of his message.  “I do not want the passengers— especially the excitable Italians and Arabs on board— to panic— and the ladies of course must not be alarmed.  Général Tessier,” he continued, bowing in the direction of an elderly Frenchman with a very fine pair of moustaches, “has suggested that some of you could supplement the crew in keeping watch for the aeroplanes and the submarines for the next eight hours, after which we will be in the safer waters.”  He ventured a little smile.

“M. Knight-Poole, le Général informs me that you are a man most brave and have won the Croix de Guerre.”  Stephen said nothing.  “Would you please to take the first watch on the port side on the fo’c’sle deck and Lord Branksome, I am sure you have the very good eyesight from the fox hunting and the cricket so would you please to take the port side on the bridge deck…” and so he continued and distributed similar tasks to those remaining in the saloon and then he abruptly left after excusing himself when the wireless operator brought him another message. 

Martin scanned the sea, not realising how hard a task it actually was, especially in such weather, and in the diffused light the spray tended to play tricks on the eyes and submarine periscopes tended to form themselves out of wave crests and seabirds became Heinkel 111 bombers.  Despite his task, the danger remained an abstract one in Martin’s mind.  He never felt afraid when he was with Stephen and if the worst were to happen he would die happily if he was with Stephen, he silently said, only then to pull himself up short: I have a son and a reason to live, he sternly reminded himself, and there was his wife, Princess Mata, at home in England with the boy, not to mention Erna Obermann and her little daughter, Charlotte.  In fact there were quite a few reasons to go on living and so he renewed his concentration on the grey line that indistinctly divided heaven and earth.

The reason for the journey to Tangier was to see his cousin, Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis who had surprised Martin with a letter postmarked from the Moroccan city informing him that he was living there.  It did not reveal why he had moved from Berlin and the four of them supposed that the German government had posted him there in some capacity.  The letter was followed up by a telegram and, at Mata’s urging, the boys had cut short their holiday in Antibes and had taken the train the 300 kilometres to Sète for the boat to Africa.

Martin was thinking of Friedrich, to whom he bore a passing resemblance but of whose character he had developed reservations, especially since Friedrich had joined the Nazi Party, in order, it seemed, to advance his career.  More seriously, Martin could never be sure if his cousin had played any part in betraying his own cousin, Mata, who had been forced to flee from Germany in dramatic circumstances and having found it convenient to marry Martin in the process.  If he had, should he be grateful or outraged?  Such questions— no such answers— would be rarely pure and simple, Martin reflected as he stood there and people’s actions were nearly always painted in murky shades of grey and so neither clearly sea nor sky.  But perhaps even through the most fuscous fog that shrouded any such judgements of the human character, there was always to be glimpsed a glint of something hard and certain amidst all that grey sea and cloud— a diamond perhaps or the steely point of a dagger…or an aeroplane…

“Aircraft off the port bow!” bellowed Martin in the direction of the bridge, hoping he had not mixed up the sides.  The call was returned and all eyes now turned in that direction.  The steely glint was now plainly visible and it grew and sprouted wings.  The drone of engines could now be heard.  Some passengers turned their gaze briefly to the mast to make sure that the tricolour was still there.  There was nothing that could be done: L’Arc-en-Ciel could not hide beneath the waters, nor could she outrun an aeroplane; she had no guns.

“It is a Potez 540!  C’est un avion Français!” shouted Captain Guillon who was looking through his binoculars.  A cheer went up and in a moment the machine was upon them and the noise was deafening and then it dipped its wings in salute as if to honour the labouring but gallant old vessel.  Arms were raised and hats torn from heads.  Several of the Frenchmen were weeping as the ’plane then banked and headed towards the grey horizon.

It was several hours later but still light when those on board the packet boat sighted the coast of Africa and soon the port of Tangier hove into view.  The sun was now shining and the town presented a remarkable sight.  There was a long, flat coastline where rundown piers and wharfage could be seen and immediately behind this was the crowded native town with its souks and the Great Mosque and then the newer town with more spacious boulevards and modern buildings while behind rose still more white houses, sometimes set in greenery, and to the right was a great forested mountain which descended to the sea in rocky bluffs that, as they knew, separated the Mediterranean from the Atlantic.

It was terribly warm even four hours later when they crossed the gangplank from the lighter, having taken their leave of Captain Guillon who remained on board— much warmer than Antibes.  While France was familiar, here suddenly everything was strange and foreign— the buildings, the people, the sounds and the smells.  It was Africa, the Barbary Coast.

Apart from the clothes they stood up in, Martin and Stephen only had a small suitcase each and Stephen now possessed only one shoe.  They stood on the quay and gazed at the great variety of robes— white and coloured; falling straight and elaborately swagged; and hats— hoods, turbans, large straw sombreros and red felt tarbooshes.  There was the impression of brown bare legs and only the occasional pair of trousers marked out a European.  Cargo was being carried in modern motor lorries and on the backs of ancient donkeys that looked to have been from the time of Christ.  It was all rather wonderful and Martin felt a rising sense of adventure.

Suddenly there was the arrogant honking of a motor horn.  There in his red Mercedes was Friedrich, grinning.  Friedrich looked very different in an unfamiliar white linen suit rather than one he might have worn in Berlin and he looked more than usually well and pleased with himself.  He laughed as Stephen walked over in bare feet.  “One of my shoes was washed overboard,” he lamented.  “It was from Lobb too; I might as well throw the other one away.”

“No don’t,” said Friedrich, “there is a little man in the bazaar, give it to him and he will make you an exact copy for just a few shillings.  We use English money here.”

Soon Friedrich was driving them through the crowded old town until they came to the more spacious roads of the arrondissement beyond it.  Stephen told how he lost his shoe but Friedrich did not seem to be overly concerned with their ordeal and instead chatted on about how wonderful Tangier was.  It was an International Settlement— rather like Shanghai— and the Europeans were under the light direction of an administration made up of several of the great powers and were thus a distinct entity from the Sultan’s kingdom that was divided between the French and the Spanish.  They passed through a dreadful slum and then the road started to climb a mountain.  Although it was now dark, they could sense pine forests and a dark space that must be the sea below.  They rose higher and just as the road took a sharp bend, Friedrich turned into an entrance set in a long wall and they were suddenly in a driveway lined with exotic vegetation.  There was a white house before them, light glowing through the shuttered windows and it promised to be very beautiful.

“Welcome to Bahr-sama” announced Friedrich theatrically—“I made it up myself and it means sea and sky.”

They passed through an archway into a loggia and then through a series of other doors and openings until they reached a drawing room with an elaborately tiled floor.  “Now is my greatest surprise!” announced Friedrich with a flourish.  A tall man with a certain military bearing rose and extended his hand.

“Do you not remember me, Lord Branksome?  It has been some time,” he said in heavily accented English.  Martin was lost and he rudely turned to Stephen for an instant and saw that he could not remember the man either.  Then it came to him.

“Eugen?  Yes it is Eugen!”  I do remember you, but it was before the War and you were in uniform!”

“Ja” said Eugen, smiling.  He shook hands vigorously with one, then the other.

An Arab servant brought in some Spanish wine and they all sat down in low wicker chairs and began to talk all at once.  Eugen had left Ritterburg during the War and had ended up in Poland where he fought for Polish independence.  However as a person of mixed origins— one parent being Lithuanian and a grandfather being Jewish— he fell foul of Dmowaski who wanted an ethnically ‘pure’ Polish state. Nevertheless he remained in the army, rising to be a major until the Pilsudski Coup of 1926 turned the country into a dictatorship.  By 1928 he had left both the army and Poland, going first to Turkey for a shipping company and then to Czechoslovakia where he got a job with Skoda.  It was in a bar in Bratislava that he met Friedrich who was sent there on a mission by his government. The reunion had been a passionate one.

“I had never forgotten my handsome cavalry officer,” said Friedrich in a sentimental tone.  He came and sat on Eugen’s knee and put his arm around him.  Stephen thought to himself that Martin sat on his knee just like that.

“But Friedrich, you haven’t said how you came to be here in Tangier, or is it a secret?” asked Martin.

“Not so great a secret, Cousin.  You know the government forced me to sell to the Army, Ritterburg?”  Martin and Stephen nodded.  “There is left only a small area and my brother, Arno, now farms it, but all the rest is gone.”  He was silent for a moment, perhaps thinking of the truly vast estate in East Prussia and its fortified old castle that had been his family’s home but was now lost.  “The Nazis are damned slow to pay and it wasn’t as much as it should have been, but they did pay.  Slowly, very slowly I deposited the money into a bank in Switzerland.  I had to be very careful because the government watches people who transfer large amounts and it is verboten.”  Here he nodded earnestly, almost at the rightness of such a law.  “Then poor Friedrich fell ill.”  He gave a pathetic cough and put his fist theatrically to his forehead and good old Dr Reichmark said I must take leave from the Wilhelmstrasse at once and seek a warmer climate and here I am!  Eugen had himself posted here too, for there is much business for Skoda also.”

“But will you get into trouble?” asked Stephen thinking of how ruthless the Nazis were.

“Nein, Stephen, said Friedrich grinning.  “They are all stupid fellows and the man now sitting at my desk will not be want me back and they can’t touch me here.  Oh I’ve had a few friendly visits from the local Bund.  They want me to go to party meetings here and are anxious for me to return to the Fatherland to make my contribution to the great national renewal, but someone else can file and fill out forms in my place.”  He grinned again.

“But you were a Party member,” protested Martin.

“Oh that?  What is a badge?  I always told you they were a bunch of gangsters, Martin; none of them is from a decent family— well perhaps Goering— but the rest?”  He pulled the face he had in 1930.  “And if you have any doubts I could tell you things that they have been doing, especially since 1935— and I don’t mean building the Autobahnen.”

This was a distressing topic and so instead they congratulated Friedrich on his escape and praised his cunning.  He then asked after Mata and Erna and the babies and this was a cue for both Martin and Stephen to produce small photographs that they carried in their wallets.  Friedrich said correct things, but he was clearly not as enthusiastic about babies as they were and he then took them on a tour of the fabulous house.

It was apparently built about ten years before by a Spanish executive from the grandiloquently named Compagnie Franco-espagnole du Tanger-Fès and, now that the railway was finished and that his country was at war, he had abandoned the villa and its lovely gardens and his present whereabouts were unknown.  Friedrich was able to buy it cheaply and assured them that many of the elite from the city were moving ‘up the mountain’ where the cooling breezes reached them and the views were stupendous— Gibraltar being visible on a clear day.

There were three reception rooms and half a dozen bedrooms.  Nearly all the rooms opened on to terraces or arcaded loggias, although there was no internal courtyard as might have been expected.  “They shut out the breeze and an oven they make the house,” explained Friedrich.  All the rooms were of white plaster, some having doors and floors of attractive local wood, while others had beautiful tiles with Moorish designs.  Some stairs led up to the roof, which was flat and only protected by a low parapet.  Such houses reminded Martin of the ones in his Children’s Illustrated Bible.  From this vantage point the lights of Tangier could be seen to great effect and Eugen and Friedrich eagerly pointed out the clusters of lights and patches of darkness, which denoted the chief features of the city and where much of one’s social life it seemed revolved around the cafes as in Europe.

They returned to the bedroom they had been assigned and the Arab boy was busy hanging up Martin and Stephen’s few clothes and Stephen’s solitary shoe had been carefully placed on a tree and consigned to the wardrobe floor.  “He is the third gardener’s son,” explained Friedrich, “and you can sleep with him if you like.”

The other reason for Friedrich’s relocation to Tangier perhaps now became more apparent: The Arab boys would prostitute themselves or their younger brothers or sisters with very few qualms and Friedrich and Eugen took it in turns to relate stories of their sexual adventures and extolled the charms of sweet-tempered Arab boys and the fair-skinned Riffs who were a Berber people, often possessing blond or red hair.  Then there were the Zayans and Chleuh— “I haven’t slept with a Chleuhan yet”— from the Atlas Mountains and the black-skinned Maghrebis who were known to the Europeans as Moors.  “In fact you can get any sort you want here from Esquimaux to Nubians,” concluded Friedrich at the end of his ethnographic dissertation.

They were now at dinner, Stephen just wearing the lemon silk pajama bottoms—they had been easy to pack— and a pair of yellow backless Moroccan slippers that Friedrich gave him.  Eugen wore just a singlet while Martin and Friedrich were in their shirtsleeves for it was terribly hot.   They were served by the Arab boy who silently moved around the table in loose cotton trousers and slippers like the pair Stephen wore. They began the meal with flat bread and a salad made of aubergines and tomatoes and this was followed by a spicy chicken dish served with currents and rice.  The windows to the terrace were open wide and the curtains drawn back and the night view proved to be a perpetual distraction to conversation.

“How is your mother, Friedrich?”

“She is still in Bucharest and she is 80, Martin.  She has not seen Osmochescu since 1934, although he still draws on his account.”  Martin and Stephen looked at one another but said nothing.

It was inevitable that they ended up in Martin and Stephen’s bedroom where they talked and finished their wine.  Stephen was soon persuaded out of his garments (such as they were) and Eugen was keen to see if Stephen was as he remembered him to be and as Friedrich had not failed to frequently remind him. 

“You know what you must do, Martin,” said Eugen, “and you must help him Friedrich.”  Eugen roughly pulled Friedrich’s clothes off and then turned to Martin who was quickly undressing, fearing that his shirt would simply be ripped from his back.  Stephen settled back on his elbows and Eugen hefted his cock and balls.  “Is this what you want, Liebster?” he asked turning to Friedrich and taunting him.  Friedrich’s eyes were shining and he grinned at Martin in the knowledge of the truth of it, but also sharing a joke at Eugen’s expense.  “On your knees, Martin; show your Cousin how to satisfy a man.  Watch Friedrich.”

“Really, Eugen! You have no cause for complaint.”

“We can all learn,” replied Eugen primly.

Martin performed for their education as well as for his own enjoyment and did a number of things too disgusting to record.  Eugen delighted in holding Martin’s head so that he nearly passed out from choking but Martin didn’t feel moved to complain.

“It is your turn now, Friedrich,” he said, pulling Martin off and pushing Friedrich to his knees.  “Show him no mercy, Stephen.  Mercy is a sign of weakness.  Grab his hair.”  Eugen was enjoying himself and was now rubbing his hand over Martin who was standing beside him.  Then he felt his body with his lips.  “Martin, you should shave yourself like your Cousin; he feels just like a young girl when I have shaved him.”  Martin said nothing and did not wish to feel like a girl and was quite sure that Stephen did not want him too.  Or was he just loath to ask?  He would think about that later.

Eugen apparently was not satisfied with Friedrich’s technique and surprisingly volunteered to show him how it should be done.  He was such a good teacher that Friedrich and Martin had to slap him and pull him off so that they might have a turn.  Eugen was a little shamefaced, but recovered enough to fuck Friedrich while he was bent over Stephen.

Stephen had been quiet for some time, except for a series of groans, but was moved to say:  “Eugen, are you man enough to take me?”  Martin looked for a wink from his direction, but none came.  Eugen was trapped by the challenge and his better judgment had been somewhat compromised in his excitement and so before he knew it he was being greased up with Spong’s Soothing Salve (which was available through the British Consulate) and then was placed on his back where Stephen had been.  His observations, and indeed his protests, were muffled by Friedrich sitting on his face, and Stephen preceded to roger him thoroughly, at one point clutching painfully at the hair on his chest for leverage.

Eugen was in quite a state when Stephen at last pulled out and Friedrich allowed him the blessings of fresh air.  He knelt meekly and expectantly before Stephen as Friedrich knelt beside him, partly to make him feel less humiliated, and together they accepted the offering of Stephen’s seed with which their upturned faces were hosed.

Stephen was tired and told them so— he had been up all the night before— and so Eugen and Friedrich went stickily to their bedroom from whence moans and smacks could be heard for some little time as Martin and Stephen lay beneath the mosquito net in their own room, talking for a few minutes before falling asleep.

The next day found Martin and Stephen eating their breakfast on a pebble-floored terrace overlooking the luxuriant garden; it was actually hard to decide where to sit as Bahr-sama offered so many attractive places out of doors, many with spectacular views over the city and sea— a dazzling picture of white and blue in the daylight.  From one could be seen the Atlantic and from another the Mediterranean with Gibraltar on the horizon.  From where they had breakfast, however, they could enjoy the blue-tiled pond and fountain— so typical of Islamic gardens— set amidst the most marvelous fruit trees, with oranges, lemons, dates, bananas and almonds dangling above them as well as a wealth of flowers that Martin could not begin to identify.

The Arab boy once again served them.  He was accompanied by another boy.  “Is he your brother?” asked Stephen in French.  The boy nodded and put his arm around the younger one.  Then they stood in the strong sunlight, which shone through their thin cotton pantaloons, showing they were naked underneath.  The older one was clearly aroused and he smirked at Stephen until Eugen appeared and snapped out some orders at which the pair disappeared into the house.

Eugen was dressed for work and presently a taxi appeared which took him down to his office in the Avenue Belgique and Friedrich joined them at the table.  “Good morning, Cousins.  I am fatigued this morning because mein Eugen fucked me hard last night.  That is thanks to you; you have spurred him on and I am good and sore this morning.” He grinned.

Despite these dilapidations, by mid-morning they were busy tourists in the town.  Stephen’s shoe would be ready at the end of the day and so he contented himself in the native slippers in the meantime and no one took the slightest notice.  The sights in the Grand Socco were the highlight, for here was the very image of the fabled east with the market full of colour both in terms of its people and its wares, with carpet sellers, snake charmers, Berber women from the inland regions, Jewish money lenders, donkeys, fine brass lamps, jewellery and all the atmosphere of the Arabian Nights.  They spent some hours buying presents for those at home and hoped that their charm would remain undiminished under English skies.

Next they saw the Dar el-Makhezen— the palace of the Sultan, which was beautiful.  Stephen took many photographs with his camera, including charming ones of children and old men framed in keyhole gateways decorated with the most elaborate carvings and mosaics.

That night saw the four of them at a smoky cafe on the Rue Kasbah under whose slowly rotating ceiling fans revolved elegant European women who had emerged in the evening to complement the more usual all-male patronage of Tangier’s fashionable cafes.  Stephen and Martin lacked evening clothes, but at least Stephen now had a pair of shoes, and they found no shortage of charming dancing partners to lure to the small dance floor where an American band played.  However ladies were not on the menu that night, and full of French wine they poured out into the Rue Kasbah and Friedrich led them down a passage called the Bab Gzenaya and then right and then left towards a dangerous locale called the Petit Socco.  “No Eugen, I do not want an Arab boy,” said Stephen and he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.  They parted and Stephen and Martin continued towards the beach, Stephen insisting that Martin walk ahead of him so that he might protect him from ruffians.  “I’d rather pick up sailors, Mala, wouldn’t you?” he said and Martin, who was rather fond of the Navy— and the Merchant Marine for that matter— agreed and it didn’t take them long to find a couple on the Rue de la Marine.

The sailors were French and quite young— but not as young as the Arab boys for sale— and Martin wondered if they were the sons of any of the matelots who had had him so brutally when he was their age.  It was a disturbing thought.  Martin liked the strapping pair; they were jolly and carefree and quite attractive in their uniforms.  Martin insisted that they all go to a cafe first and have more wine before any indecencies took place and so the sailors took them to a low ‘dive’ near the port in the Place Ben Daoud where they proved to be both entertaining and good drinkers.

“We can’t very well take Pascal and Thierry back to Bahr-sama, Derbs.  What shall we do?”

Stephen put the question to the sailors who were having such a fine time that it seemed a shame to end it, but Pascal knew of a place nearby where rooms could be rented by the hour.  Martin felt alarmed and imagined a filthy, flea-infested hole where they would surely be robbed and murdered.  However it turned out to be quite the opposite and in fact, a small hotel in the cafe district that catered for Spanish tourists and where the sailors knew the assistant manager.  It had lovely mosaics in the foyer and Martin would have liked to linger to see them better, but they were hustled upstairs after Stephen had counted out ten shillings.

Pascal and Thierry asked for very little money; like many that Martin had encountered ‘socially’, these two both had sweethearts— in the case of Thierry, a fiancée— at home and their earnings from port-side activities such as this were seen as an easy way to supplement their income, which had usually been straitened by gambling or failure to get signed-on or by girlfriends with expensive tastes.

Stephen surprised Martin by kissing the sailors and removing their blouses and bellbottoms.  He knelt before Pascal.  “I thought you’d want us to do that,” he said in French but Stephen shook his head and pleasured him and Martin knelt beside him and did Thierry. 

Stephen paused and said, “You’re better at this Mala, tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

“Il est bon?” Martin asked Pascal looking up.

“Oui, oui! Il est superb!” cried Pascal in surprise.

“Keep doing that, Derbs.”

Thus both boys unselfishly serviced the French fleet until it spilt.  The sailors were grateful but refused to take the money or leave the room until Martin and Stephen got out of their clothes.  They did and the sailors were stupefied at the sight of Stephen’s cock and balls and took turns in feeling him and then, because they were nice boys, also felt Martin’s privates and were complimentary.  “Give them a show, Derbs,” said Martin and Stephen was persuaded to perform, without accompaniment, to the delight of the visitors.

“They were nice fellows,” said Martin simply in the taxi that took them up the mountain to Bahr-sama.

“I did enjoy pleasuring them, Mala; it is a more subtle pleasure than being on the other end, don’t you think?”

Martin laughed.  “There wasn’t very much that was subtle, Derbs!”

At breakfast the next morning they saw an Arab youth and an older man heading down the drive towards the gate. “That is Ahmed and his uncle,” said Friedrich.  “The uncle insisted on coming to make sure that Ahmed was not mistreated— or so he said— but he was mainly concerned that the boy did not keep back any of the money and didn’t seem to mind what we did to him.”

“That’s his uncle?”

“So he says.  He shaves the boy down to make him appear younger and he likes to watch also.  Ahmed says he’s going into the army soon, so I don’t know how old he is.”

Martin wasn’t sure that he liked all this and was distinctly uncomfortable and thought that their dealings with Pascal and Thierry were somehow more honorable, but he said nothing of this to his cousin.

The next few days were spent sightseeing and they motored to Tetuan in the Spanish zone and on the Saturday Eugen joined them for a journey on the train to Fez.  Morocco was staggeringly beautiful and every place they visited was imbued with the most interesting history going back to the Romans and Martin felt that he should remember it all, but couldn’t.  In this present day, however, all seemed to be vividly alive against the fantastic landscape of mountains and desert with all the colour and oriental strangeness of native life.

Ahmed returned, but without his uncle, and Stephen declined an invitation to sleep with him, but on another night, after much to drink, Stephen slept with Eugen while Martin slept with his cousin.  Stephen awoke to find, almost to his surprise, Friedrich’s servant was also in the bed.

Thus a week passed very quickly and it was with some disappointment, although not with complete regret, that they took their leave for the journey to England via Gibraltar and the Atlantic in order to be back in time for events of the greatest importance.

The P&O liner, Esperance Bay, arrived at the London Docks on the 3rd April after an uneventful voyage and Martin and Stephen found themselves with their suitcases and souvenirs at Branksome House where the first call was upon the nursery where the remarkable growth and development of Will and Charlotte was evident and Martin and Stephen told themselves there had never been in the history of the whole world— well, certainly not in the history of England — two such prodigies.  Marta, Erna and Nurse all contributed to an account of all that the infants had done in their absence, which was truly astounding for personages that could not yet walk or construct sentences.

“Martin,” said Mata at one point, “I have to tell you that Lord Craigth has died.”

Stephen heard too and gave Charlotte back to Nurse, who now had to settle her again after she had been vigorously bounced up and down, and came over.

“He developed pneumonia two weeks ago and died last Tuesday night.  Rot has delayed the funeral until tomorrow hoping that you would be back.”

This was sad news.  The Plunger was Martin’s oldest friend and his sister Jean had married his cousin Antony.  There was no opportunity to see him because he was down at Fayette with his mother but Martin spoke to him on the telephone and expressed his condolences and said that he would see him the following day.

It was a big funeral and St Martin of Tours, the Victorian gothic church in Dorking, was at capacity.  As Martin expected, there were a great many dignitaries present as well as staff from the brewery and the parliamentary colleagues of the late peer.  Mr. Baldwin spoke of Lord Craigth’s contribution to the great affairs of the nation and Lord Spong spoke of The Plunger’s father as a fellow magnate and alluded to his northern origins.  Martin looked but couldn’t see if Lady Eudora grimaced at this geographical reference.  The Plunger then rose from where he was sitting next to his mother, and Martin and Stephen felt nervous for him and could see the strain on his face as his red van Dyke twitched with emotion.  He spoke in the slightly strangulated and affected accent that he had so long ago adopted at school for public speaking and that had now become his own.  It was a very good eulogy and he spoke of his father with affection, although Martin had never been sure how close The Plunger had been to his Pater, and he said how his father had allowed him to follow his own inclinations in the direction of Art, although he himself had little interest in painting.  There were some polite titters as the late Lord Craigth’s philistinism was well known.  The Plunger said what a good and generous man his father had been and this was certainly acknowledged as true by Douglas Hacking, the chairman of the Conservative Party and Martin and Stephen thought of the generous allowances made to his two children.  He finished by saying how much his father had been looking forward to the Coronation, but which had now been cruelly denied him.  Martin suddenly realized that The Plunger, now the 2nd Baron Craigth of Altnaharra, would be going in his place and his heart lifted momentarily in joy.

It was only two days later that The Plunger arrived at Branksome House with Gertie Haines, his manservant.  Gertie was unloading several large boxes from The Plunger’s car and Martin had the temerity to ask if they were moving in.

“No Poole,” said The Plunger, “I thought we might try on our robes.”

This was a delightful suggestion for Martin had already taken his out from storage at Messers Ede & Ravenscroft.  They were the Coronation robes last worn by his father in 1911 and his mother in 1902.  These were different from the robes that peers wore in Parliament and the wives of peers had no special robes except for coronations, Martin explained to Stephen.

It was all rather exciting and Carlo and Gertie fussed terribly in Martin’s bedroom, as the splendid garments were unearthed from the mountains of tissue paper.  The crimson robes were made of the most exquisite silk-velvet and the capes were ermine, which Stephen had never seen or felt before and he rang his fingers sensuously through the fur.  The sealskin spots on the ermine were different; with Martin’s having three-and-a-half rows while The Plunger’s had only two.  The boys swept about the room, although this was harder than commoners might expect as the robes were extraordinarily heavy.

“The coronets!” cried The Plunger excitedly and these silver gilt creations were reverently extracted from their leather cases.  The Plunger looked with envy at that worn by a Marquess as it was much more showy, having both strawberry leaves and balls on stalks around the rim, while his merely had balls that were not raised, which gave the whole thing a slightly depressed look.  He began to see how the peers in the time of the Tudors might conspire against one another in their envy for such honors and the trifles attached to them.

“Hats off, girls and on with your panties,” cried Gertie unfolding the silk knee breeches.

“Keep a civil tongue, varlet or I will send you to the Tower,” replied his master.  “I think I have shapely calves, don’t you, Stephen,” he continued, craning his head to look in the pier glass.  He put on the patent leather shoes with the silver buckles and tried a few dance steps and tittered.

“Mala,” said Stephen, “that won’t do.”

“What?” asked Martin who was pulling up his hose, trying to get the seams straight.

“What are you wearing under those breeches?  You’re not got on combinations, have you?”

“Stephen, of course not!  I just put on some ordinary…”

“Mala, I want you naked under those breeches.”

“Derby!” cried Martin in distress, “I can’t.  These are just silk and everyone would see.”

“Exactly, Mala, I want everyone to see what a fine set of cock and balls (because I’m sure you will see both)  my boyfriend has.”

Martin was distressed but managed to say: “Am I your boyfriend or are you my boyfriend?”

“I see you are a Law Lord; you might like to hand down a judgment on that, but in the meantime, no drawers, Mala.  You know the rule.”

“But Derby,” whined Martin, “there will be newsreel cameras at the Abbey and the BBC are going to film it on television.”

“It is only fair Mala,” said Stephen severely.  “Look at it from my point of view.  I can’t go to the Abbey, but I will be able to look at your privates at the News Theatre in Shaftsbury Avenue and see a Mickey Mouse as well for a shilling.”

Martin could not see it from his point of view at all.  “What about The Plunger?  I don’t see you making him humiliate himself.”

“Mala,” replied Stephen evenly, “I don’t think you should think of it as a humiliation (well not entirely); instead think of it as pleasing someone you love.  As for Archie I will have to leave the matter of undergarments to him.  He does have an exceptional cock for a baron.  What are your fellow peers like, Archie?”

“Well I can’t really say, Stephen as I’ve only been a peer for a fortnight.  I can say that Martin has a very nice cock for a Marquess.  You remember Bingo Cheeve-Brighthelmstone, Mala?”  Martin nodded miserably.  “He was in the lacrosse team, Stephen.  Well, he is now the Earl of Milton Keynes and he had a big cock, I seem to remember.”

Martin sniffed.  “Yes he did, but he will be allowed to wear drawers and won’t be a public spectacle.”

“Just try the breeches on without them, Mala.  Help him Carlo.”  Martin removed the splendid buckled shoes and folded down the silk hose.  Then he removed the breeches and took down his cotton underwear.  Carlo took them in his fingertips to show Stephen that he too disapproved.  The breeches were raised and stretched over Martin’s circumcised cock and his stockings were adjusted and then the four stood critically examining him while the silk teased the tip of Martin’s cock without mercy.

“She’s got big orchestra stalls,” said Gertie, earning another black look from The Plunger.

“I think your shirt tails might cover you if you pulled them right down,” said Carlo stroking his chin.

“I think I have an Elizabethan cod-piece,” said The Plunger, “Do you think that could be incorporated into court dress?”  The others didn’t think so.

“Well I think he looks very handsome,” said Stephen.  “Mala, move about a bit.” Martin did and his privates moved too in their titillating, silken embrasure.  He was mortified as he started to harden.  Martin then put his crimson robes back on and discovered that when he was still, his breaches and hose, and therefore his crown jewels, were completely concealed beneath their folds.

“You will be standing for a good deal of it, Poole,” said The Plunger, “so you will be decent for most of the time.”

“Yes,” conceded Stephen airily, “but it will be enough for me just to know that he’s free down there.”  Martin sighed in resignation and there the matter ended.

The dress ups continued and when the two young peers were at their most resplendent, Glass was sent for and he made approving noises and was then dispatched to see if Erna and Mata were free.  They were and Martin and The Plunger paraded down the corridor to their sitting room and swept in trying to keep straight faces.  The two women shrieked in delight and clapped their hands and then they stood and curtseyed.  Mata was persuaded to don her robes that she had been wearing for Philpot’s portrait and which was reportedly nearing completion.  The three figures in their magnificent damson-coloured costumes with their ermine trims, not to mention their splendid coronets, formed a miniature spectacle the likes of which were seldom seen in the more distressingly democratic nations. 

***** 

“What’s the matter, Derbs?” asked Martin.  He looked at his watch and saw it was half-past five in the morning, Stephen’s stirring having awakened him.

“It was just a dream, Mala, it was nothing.”

Martin knew that Stephen didn’t dream—or claimed not to— and he knew by the curious tone in his voice that this was his cue to ask for more, which he did.  Stephen laid his black silky head on Martin’s chest in a reversal of their usual practice and was silent for a few minutes and then spoke quietly into the dark.  “I was with Christopher, I’m not sure where; it was partly my bedroom in the cottage, then it became the card room at the Savile club— isn’t that silly?  I can’t remember Chris having ever been to either.  Then I told him he was looking much better and he said that he had decided not to die after all and I wondered if that were possible, but I said nothing in case I should upset him.  We talked for a few minutes, but I can’t remember what about, only the warm feeling that I felt from having him there again.  I realized that I had missed that particular feeling.  I wanted to help him, but I was vaguely conscious of there being a great deal of life that had happened after Chris and I didn’t know what would happen to that if he came back or if I could somehow go back to the world when he was alive.  Does that make sense?”  Martin said that it did.  “Then I remembered that it was twenty years since he had died and he said that he knew that it had been a long time and asked me for a loan of five shillings to pay Mrs. Laybourne his board and then he was gone and I woke up, but the feeling of being with him remained.”

Martin was quiet for a few minutes and then began gently:  “That’s not an unusual dream, Derbs.  People frequently have ones like that.  It’s a way that people who are gone can be still with us— in our brain— and at odd times we can fish them out and recapture something.”

“I suppose so.  It was fleeting, but very powerful and it felt good to see him again.  Maybe he’s somewhere dreaming about me.”

“We’d all like to believe that the dead can live again, Derbs, but I fear it isn’t so.  It is just our memory and our desire to put to rights things that shouldn’t have happened, but it’s none the less remarkable for that.”

“You mean we live in a reality, but it really should be another one?”

“I often think so.  If the War hadn’t happened…all this…I mean we are really just living amid the ashes of the world before, aren’t we?  It was surely never meant to be like this.  People have died who should have lived and there are people have lived who should have died.  And because of who we are we have this sense of rightness, this sense of justice and we see that many things shouldn’t be as they are and that the world should have gone in another direction if there was any justice to it all.  It’s this consciousness that separates us from the animals and it is perhaps the little bit of God within us.”

“That’s very profound, Mala.  I will have to think about that.  I love you very much, Mala.”

“I know you do,” said Martin and, after some protracted silences, they drifted off to sleep again. 

***** 

The next week was spent in preparation for the Coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth.  It was a joyous time, not just for The Plunger for whom it provided a welcome distraction from the death of his father, but also because the international news was so bad.  Stephen and Erna had been helping Miss Foxton collect funds for the Republicans in Spain, while Mata and Martin disapproved and supported non-intervention until the inconsistencies in this position, as adopted by their own country amongst others, became a scandal too obvious to be ignored. 

The Germans had marched into the Rhineland and were now openly aiding Franco while the anti-Jewish laws in Germany were monstrous with new outrages reported every week.  In Russia, Stalin was putting thousands to death and the Italians had conquered the barefoot Abyssinians by means of aeroplanes and poison gas, while in the Far East the Japanese had gone to war with China and in India civil unrest seemed to push the promise of dominion status further away.

London began to fill up with visitors, amongst whom were Bunny and Dwight who had originally intended to cross on the Hindenburg— just yet one more tragedy in the long litany— and the proposed return visit by the boys to the United States, which had been put off by the death of Lord Craigth, was now openly discussed again.  The Chicago hostess, Mrs. Marion McCormick, had accepted an invitation to stay and had crossed with Bunny and Dwight.  Martin and Stephen were pleased at last to be able to repay her hospitality for the time that they had stayed at her uncle’s fabulous pleasure dome in Florida several years before.

Another visitor was the cause of much excitement both above stairs and below: Mata and Erna had met Miss Bankhead, the famous American actress who was a good friend of Beverley Nichols.  Miss Bankhead had been several times to the house while Martin and Stephen had been in Tangier and now she was going to return for the Coronation and it promised to be terribly exciting as she was both glamorous and unconventional and Martin half-expected to find her standing on her head in the Pink Drawing Room when he came in.

London was brilliantly decorated and it was a glittering Season with balls and concerts and plays and musical revues and military parades and a review of the fleet at Spithead and all manner of things.  There was to be a big reception at Branksome House on Coronation Day itself and M. Lefaux, despite his protestations, always rose to the occasion and the household, under Glass and Mrs. Beck, swung into the efficient routine they had developed for these affairs.  At Branksome House there was now only a ‘staff’ of 10, as servants were becoming known in the more democratic households— just half the number there had been in 1914— and so Mathew, the sole footman remaining at Croome, would be sent up to London to assist with the Coronation festivities. 

At Croome itself, the village of Branksome-le-Bourne was being decorated for the great day and Martin had provided an ox to be roasted on the Green outside The Feathers and in the Women’s Institute Hall streamers and flags were being hung and Daniel Sachs MP had secured a large portrait of the King and Queen and this was hung behind the dais where Mr. Destrombe was busy fitting up a wireless so that all who gathered would be able to hear the broadcast.  Martin wished that he too might remain in the country, perhaps quietly cataloging his new Coronation issues in his stamp albums, for he was not looking forward to the ordeal that was the service in Westminster Abbey, but the people on his estate felt proud that they were being represented on this historic day by their Lord and so Martin kept his views to himself.

On the morning of the 12th, Glass had all the servants lined up in the hall.  The houseguests gathered more informally opposite and all eyes turned to the elegant staircase that descended into the cool and lofty space.  Holding each other’s raised hand, as if they were just going to dance a minuet, Martin and Mata slowly made their descent in their Coronation robes, their coronets balanced upon their heads.  Mata wore a white gown beneath her crimson and ermine cloak.  The Duke of Norfolk, as Earl Marshal, had directed what should be worn and Mata’s dressmaker had conformed strictly, but had managed to enliven the design with elaborate beading and other features that ladies could put exact names too.  She wore long strings of lustrous pearls, which were her own and had been passed down from her great grandmother from the days when Weid had been a principality of importance.  They both held their heads steady to make sure that they did not lose their miniature crowns and Martin was under strict instructions not to step on Mata’s train whose drag was exactly 35 inches long, lest several inches became detached, she joked, reducing her to a baroness.  There was polite applause and Boots gave a cheeky whistle, which would cost him his next evening off.  Martin smiled and said a few words as he stepped lower, all the while feeling dreadfully exposed in his silk breeches with nothing underneath.  The progress concluded when the black-and-white tiled floor was reached and then there was much excited talk and Mrs. McCormick avidly took moving pictures with her clockwork camera.  Clean fingers were allowed to touch the material, but Bunny was not allowed to try on the coronet.

Then the taxi arrived and Glass ushered them out into Piccadilly, where there was already a huge crowd surging towards Trafalgar Square for the procession and they entered the taxi, holding on to their coronets as Gertrude heaped the train about Mata’s feet.

The splendors of the Coronation that year were well known to all who were in London or who had listened to the BBC or who had watched it on the newsreels.  For peers like Martin and Mata it was a long and exhausting day.  There had been rehearsals of course and on the day they had to be at the Abbey by eight o’clock, well before the service at 11:00.  Martin was dreading wanting to go to the lavatory and had foresworn his morning tea and then his stomach started to rumble and Mata produced a Cadbury bar from her tiny reticule and this helped temporarily, although some melted chocolate managed to get on his cuffs and Martin wondered if Carlo’s mysterious ‘bottle’ would be effective on ermine.  The metal seating in the Abbey was terribly steep and uncomfortable and Martin, looking around, thought the sea of red silk-velvet and the crests of ermine spotted with sealskin seated upon this scaffolding looked very G&S— Iolanthe perhaps and he hummed Loudly Let the Trumpets Bray to amuse himself until Mata shushed him.

“Poole!  Poole!” Came a voice behind him.  Martin looked over his left shoulder but could only see Mr. Litvinov who would be hardly likely to have called out.  He looked over the other shoulder and there among his fellow peers he picked out Custard.  “I’m with The Plunger, we’re coming down.”

This was a risky maneuver as a formidable personage called the Rouge Croix Pursuivant had organized the seating most painstakingly, but the Viscount Delvees and Baron Craigth of Altnahara flexed their feudal muscles and rearranged the seating like some bossy people in cinemas have been known to do, earning black looks from elderly peers and peeresses whose lineages went back to Methuselah’s boyhood.  Soon they were next to Martin and Mata, grinning broadly and breathing heavily.

“I say,” whispered Custard after greetings had been exchanged, “someone’s terribly excited about the Coronation.”  Martin looked down and his cock with its circumcised crown was plainly visible through his silk breeches.  “Look at Poole, Plunger,” hissed the loathsome Custard and The Plunger’s attention was torn from his lace cuffs and directed between Martin’s stocking'd legs.”

“Really, Poole, we are in the Abbey!  What would your Aunt May say?”

“It was Stephen who…” began Martin sotto voce but with tears of fury, but he stopped short and merely made a disgusted noise and closed his robes around himself, despite the heat.  He turned instead to Mata and they whispered about the ball at Buckingham Palace to be held the following night until the sounds of trumpets heralded the arrival of the more important personages and the Coronation began in earnest.

The reception at Branksome House was one of the finest in living memory.  Martin and Mata had bathed, rested and changed into evening clothes, which were as pajamas after their Coronation outfits and Mata’s evening dress of bias-cut, midnight blue silk by Norman Hartnell worn with the Branksome sapphires, caused a sensation as she and Martin stood at the head of the stairs receiving their guests.  Erna was as proud of ‘her Mata’ as might be any lover and she had talked all day to Stephen about how anmutig she was in her Coronation robes and now in her blue gown.  Erna herself wore black velvet culottes and the colourful piece of jewelry worn at her neck made of pierced silver with enamel pieces in red, yellow and purple, she explained to any who asked, was from Catalonia and reflected the colours of the ‘Loyalists’ and this explanation was usually accompanied by a request for a donation to the fund to purchase an ambulance.

The crowd was immense as invitations had been distributed widely and the footmen circulated with champagne and trays of delicious cocktails, including a new one invented by Glass and Martin for the occasion and it is now safe to reveal was composed of equal parts of gin, white mint, and oxygenee cusenier with a dash of framboise syrup.  These were a great success.  At 10:00 the dancing began to the Lew Stone band that Martin had brought from the Monsignor Restaurant for the occasion.  Martin, Mata and Stephen went from group to group as good hosts while Erna entertained Miss Bankhead with her impressions, which were terribly funny, and her one of the late M. Briand, for whom her husband had worked, was really very good.

Martin was dancing with Mata to a sophisticated foxtrot called The Continental and through the throbbing and insistent music was just explaining how Fred and Adele Astaire had danced at Croome before they had become well known, when Glass appeared at his shoulder.

“There is a late arrival in the hall, your lordship.”  Martin raised his eyebrows and went down with Mata.  There was Cole Porter, smiling and looking glossy in his evening clothes.

“I thought it was Queen Mary, for a moment,” said Martin.

“Nearly right, dear fellow.  Mata, how swell you look,” he said and kissed her hand like a European.  Cole was the most welcome of gatecrashers and gave the party even more of a lift.  It wasn’t long before he was seated at the piano and singing (and playing) for his supper and he croaked out one of his own songs as the party gathered around and were greatly entertained.  

www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7NJ9ylAhoswww.youtube.com/watch?v=r7NJ9ylAhos

It was wonderful, but when he repeated it, the last verse contained these words:

And George and Bess
Who now have glamma’
When picked up by Beaton’s camr’a
Then Wallis knows,
Anything goes.

Some in the party laughed while others, especially the older generation, were shocked at the distasteful mention of ‘that women’ on this occasion— all the more so by an American visitor.

However it did not mar the party’s continuing success and even when Lew Stone took his band back to the Monsignor Restaurant at one o’clock, the dancing was able to continue in the Pink Drawing room by means of the gramophone which Glass operated with considerable interference from Martin.

At half-past three, the hard-core of revelers were still going, although many were quite drunk, and silly games were now being played.  Miss Bankhead suggested one of sliding down the double banisters in the hall.  It was fun and Martin was taken back to his childhood when this was strictly forbidden.  Glass looked on in some distress as Miss Bankhead announced an improvement and shimmied out of her undergarments, handing the lacy object to Cole Porter who said “I would have thought you would have come undressed for the occasion, darling.” To which she replied

“Dahling, splinters are already a danger, I don’t need a prick.”

“So I’ve heard— but I do.”

There was no time for more repartee as Miss Bankhead rocketed down the polished mahogany and only prevented herself from being spat out into Piccadilly (it seemed) by the robust statue of Apollo into whose marble arms she was propelled.  Cole followed her, but came off on the curve and had to start again, then came The Plunger, his monocle falling out, and Erna tried and was hefted up onto the railing but somehow remained glued in position and even a mighty push only propelled her a few feet, so she gave up.

When the children tired of this, they returned to the Pink Drawing Room where there was a fresh round of stimulants and Martin restarted the music— although he was now feeling very tired.  Bunny suggested a game very like the English game of ‘sardines’, which was a type of hide-and-seek.  They quickly adopted this after learning the few simple rules, which were all the more complex due to the strong drinks, while Martin meanwhile tried to find his new recording of a mournful bolero— perhaps it was called Perfidia.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=9q3KXAh4ihg

He found it and put it on the turntable listened to the music alone and a sudden thought struck him as the strains died away and he looked up and found the room was empty.   He rose and walked downstairs to the hall and passed the smashed Ming vase and the overturned Kentia palm and went to a housemaid’s cupboard that he knew to be concealed behind the white-painted paneling near a long-case clock— it had been a favorite hiding place of his as a boy and the sounds from within, which might have been deathwatch beetle, but clearly weren’t, informed him that others shared his predilection.

He opened the door.

“Mala!”

“Dahling!”

“I think this one is mine, Miss Bankhead, so I must ask you to relinquish him.”

“Really, dahling, this is not in the rules.”

“And I particularly ask you to remove your hand from that, as it is especially for my use only.  Derby, put your shirt back on and go upstairs,” he said, suddenly reminding himself of the headmaster at his old preparatory school.  Poole, I want you in my study in five minutes and assume the position.

“But Mala we were just…”  Stephen couldn’t think of a satisfactory verb or gerund at that moment.

“Really, dahling, I was just auditioning him for a radio show: Chase and Sanborn…”

“I can already tell you that Stephen’s good to the last drop.”

“I’ve no doubt about that, dahling, but that’s Maxwell House.  I was thinking of Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy— he’s a doll and all wood.”

“I know, and so is Charlie McCarthy!” said Martin, laughing for the first time at his own cleverness.

Tallulah laughed too.  “Very droll, Lord Branksome.  I suppose I will now have to try my luck with the ladies.”

Martin was a little disturbed at this, but pushed it from his mind as he abandoned his own party and mounted the stairs to his bedroom.

“I suppose I’ve been very bad, Mala,” said Stephen who had the decency to look shamefaced.

“Yes, you have, especially as I am so exhausted after today and I didn’t expect to have to watch you like a mother with a naughty child.”

“Does that mean you are going to punish me?”

“It does, remove your clothes— or the rest of the clothes that that vampire has left on.”  While Stephen was doing this slowly and affecting contrition, Martin blew into the speaking tube and summoned Carlo from his room.

“Carlo, I know it’s late, but I need you to help me chastise Mr. Stephen.”

“What has he done, your lordship?  I can’t believe he’d be wicked; look at that face!”

“I can’t tell you what he did, Carlo.  But I caught him in flagrante delicto as we say on the bench.”

“Is that in Spain, sir?”

“No it is in the housemaid’s cupboard.”

“Well, I don’t speak much foreign, your lordship, but what do you want me to do?”

“Witness his humiliation and bring me a cup of coffee.”

The naked Stephen was placed facedown across Martin’s lap as he sat on the edge of the bed.  He was frightfully heavy and his legs were like tree trunks and Martin could feel him trying not to laugh, as he had to lie there, quite still, while Martin took his time finishing his coffee.

“Thank you, Carlo,” he said handing back the cup.  “The charge is that he made a peer of the realm attend the Coronation of Their Majesties dressed immodestly, causing said peer to be the butt of cruel remarks from his friends and rendering the wife of the Master of the Worshipful Company of Haberdashers speechless when the wind blew, not to mention the blushes of the Duchess of Plinth— and the Duke for that matter.”

“I see, your lordship,” said Carlo who was staring at the scene.

“Then he was found with another person— a guest in this house, when he knew I wanted him particularly for myself tonight.”

“Should not the other party also be punished, your lordship?”

“I can’t very well as a good host, Carlo; besides, that would not be fun.”  And with that, he administered the first blow with the flat of his hand on Stephen’s large rump.

“Ow!” cried Stephen, trying not to laugh.

“You will take your punishment and then you will make every effort to fill me up until I can’t take any more.”

There was another smack.  “Will there be any for me, your lordship?”

“We will have to see, Carlo; I may require all he has.  What colour would you say the flesh is?”

“It is pink, your lordship,” said Carlo peering at Stephen who looked like something laid out on a slab at Smithfield.  More slaps were delivered and Stephen was laughing and crying and the same time and with drool running from his mouth and nose onto the floor.  The spanking continued.

“Pillar box red now” commented Carlo who was as excited as Martin was passive.

“I’m sorry, Mala,” Stephen managed to say between blows.  “I was just having some fun and…” the chastisement continued…“and I’m really awfully sore, Mala.”

“It does look tender, your lordship, under the hair like.”

“What colour now, Carlo?”

“Crimson, same as your robes.”

“And has he been enjoying it?”

Carlo looked and then felt between Martin’s legs where Stephen dangled.  “He feels as hard as a rock, your lordship, so I reckon he has.”

“Right, bring me some Spong’s Coronation Mixture, Carlo, my hand is quite sore, and then prepare Mr. Stephen for the rest of his penance.” 

To be continued…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=tXhhHCQ1zN8

The robes: The coronation coronets and robes of a Marquess and Marchioness, comprising: a silver parcel gilt Marquess's coronet by Sebastian Garrard, London 1900, chased with strawberry leaves alternating with silver balls, trimmed with ermine and lined with a red velvet cap of maintenance with a gold braid finial, 20cm (8in) high; a silver parcel gilt Marchioness's coronet by Sebastian Garrard, London 1901, similar, 11cm (4.5in) high, each in a tin case; and the corresponding fur trimmed red velvet robes.