Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2017 20:12:16 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 10

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com  This work
fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much
you're enjoying the story and please keep writing to us and watch for
further chapters.

For all the readers enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty
needs your donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any
amount will do. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 10
The Big Wheel


"Look at you, with that fat tummy and stumpy legs!" laughed Martin.

"Well, you have the most enormous head--like a troll!" cried Stephen.
"Turn sideways, Jean, I want to see Mrs Pinocchio."

"Oh Plunger, that is very rude!  Do it again!" screamed Martin.

In the Hall of Mirrors, all was illusion.  Many of the looking glasses
seemed to uncannily magnify one's worst tendencies or else one suddenly saw
friends as so many Mr Hydes from our nightmares.  One laughed almost in
relief that they were not accurate, but the impression lingered that they
nevertheless revealed a glimpse of some deeper, more troubling, truth. In
other looking glasses, by some optical magic, there was no reflection at
all-- as if the viewer were from the spirit world.  These were the most
disturbing of all.

Stephen had brought Martin to the British Empire Exhibition to see the
wonders of the Empire, but all he wanted to do was ride on the `dodgems',
and indeed the amusements and the spectacles in the giant stadium were the
most popular attractions with the general public as well as with the upper
classes.

Jean and Sophia rode on the `Neverstop Railway' and waved back at the boys
who stood in the drizzle and watched.  They all thought the rodeo was
simply marvellous; here, pretty girls stood astride pairs of galloping
horses.  Stephen, however, hated the elephant that played musical
instruments and wished he (or she) would squeeze the life out of the
loathsome keeper.

Sophia Vane-Gillingham, Martin's cousin, had come with her fiancé
who was taking a day off from the bank in the City where he worked.  His
name was Brian Chetwold and he seemed a very nice sort of fellow.  Martin
hoped he was well off, because Lord Hector had not left his widow or
children particularly well provided for when he inconsiderately collapsed
and died at Goodwood many years ago.  Even the betting slips they found in
his pockets were duds.

While the two couples went on the romantic boat rides, Martin was made to
go along with Stephen to look at the Palace of Engineering, which was a
huge structure made of reinforced concrete and about which Stephen was
terribly excited.

"But I wanted you to take me on the boats, Derby," whined Martin.

"You don't want to go on those soppy things, Mala," said Stephen, not
looking at him, "And we can't leave The Plunger alone."  Martin did want to
go on them and refused to look at the building and instead turned his
petulant attention to the splendid green locomotive called The Flying
Scotsman and also to a machine that noisily span artificial silk, which he
actually wasn't interested in at all.  It was therefore timely when The
Plunger came up to them with the news that he had discovered the wet
canteen and the restaurant and they decided to walk to these as soon as the
couples reached dry land again.

They had to pass the Indian Pavilion, which was the most lavishly decorated
of all the buildings and looking rather like a film set from Hollywood.
Martin sorely wished his Uncle Alfred had lived to see it.  He had died
just two months before and had suffered greatly in his last weeks.  His
friend, the young Maharaja of Rajpipla, had come to see him and he had
rallied for one afternoon, but otherwise it was days of nurses and drugs
and anxiety until the end.

At the reading of his will it was clear that Lord Alfred had been well off,
but by no means a millionaire.  He made bequests to several people, to an
organization for care of the harijan in India and there was the surprising
allowance to be paid to Mrs Polk-Stewart whose daughter was now married to
Martin's second cousin (one removed), Lord Philip Rous-Poole of Tetbury
Park, Gloucestershire.  The balance of his estate had passed to Martin with
the stipulation-- or rather suggestion--that the money be used for central
heating at Croome.  Lord Alfred had always hated the cold.

The main problem had been what to do with Lord Alfred's valet of many
years, Higgins.  Higgins had been left a very nice sum of money and Martin
was at pains to make it clear that he could stay at Branksome House until
he found somewhere else but Martin and Stephen had no use for another
valet--Carlo doing for the both of them. "Had you thought of setting
yourself up in some sort of business, Higgins-- a boarding house perhaps?"
asked Martin at an appropriate time.

"I don't think a boarding 'ouse or 'otel would h'exactly suit me, your
lordship.  I think I would like to remain in service."

"As a valet?"

"Yes sir, here or in h'India, sir"

"Well, I'll see what I can do.  You know, Mr Stephen is pressing ahead with
the golf links and hotel.  I'm sure we could find you something there."

In the end, Higgins was found a position with Lord Delvees in Somerset.
Higgins said he was used to the ways of elderly gentlemen and this position
would not cut all ties with Croome.



The Wembley visitors were slightly tipsy when they left the restaurant.
While Martin led one group into the Canadian Pavilion to look at a
refrigerated sculpture of the Prince of Wales done in butter, Stephen led a
rival group to see, in Australian butter, Jack Hobbs being stumped in the
Sydney Test.

At the West African Village, where shivering and depressed-looking natives
squatted to carve idols and weave baskets in living dioramas, they came
upon Mrs Leybourne, Stephen's former landlady from Blandford Forum.  She
was talking to the women from the Gold Coast and probably making a nuisance
of herself, thought Stephen. Pleasantries were exchanged and the boys
promised to visit in the near future.

Martin then wanted to return to the amusements; so far they had had their
fortunes read (with no surprises) and tried several of the sideshows.
Martin's favourite ride was on the "Big Wheel" which was a slippery
spinning disk set into the floor.  If you could climb to the centre you
span more slowly and could even stand up, but if you were flung to the
outer edge you rotated at a terrific rate or slid off altogether.

They were all convulsed with laughter and the men had lost their hats and
the girls fought to hold their dresses down.  Martin however was very
determined and he doggedly crawled like an insect to the hub.  When he
turned he found Stephen was following him.  "Come on, Derby!  Keep low and
don't look back!"  He lay on his stomach and extended his arm to Stephen
who clutched it.  Martin used all his strength to pull Stephen to him and
at last he fell on top of him in a heap.  They carefully untangled
themselves and managed to stand upright, with their arms about each other's
waists.  They chanced a look of triumph at each other and then looked at
their friends on the circumference who were spinning so fast their faces
were a blur while Martin and Stephen, like figures on a wedding cake,
revolved serenely above the throng.

By six o'clock they were all back at Branksome House in the drawing room,
laughing and playing the gramophone.  Glass entered pushing a trolley,
which contained the cocktail shaker and some plates of tiny canapés,
which M. Lefaux was so skilled in creating.  Martin had his usual White
Lady while Stephen had a Sidecar.  The others chose between these two or
tossed down a Satan's Skin-- whose exact recipe was known only to Glass.

"These are delicious," said Brian who had picked up a green olive stuffed
with a nut and then dipped in Gentleman's Relish.

"What about these grapes with cream cheese?  Too yum-making!" said The
Plunger. "Don't ever let M. Lefaux go, Martin; Gertie complains if I want
more than a soda cracker."

"Why don't you get rid of him if he's such a bad servant, Plunger?" asked
Antony.

"Oh, I've got used to him, I suppose.  He says he has an old mother to
support-- or sometimes it's a grandmother.  He's like one's old hat or
something."

The gramophone was wound and Jean and Sophia were jigging up and down to
the marvellous music from Lady Be Good, which had been sent to Martin from
America by their friend Bunny.  They were attractive and vibrant young
women.  Both of them now had their hair cut short; Jean's raven hair (so
unlike The Plunger's) was as short as a boy's and it showed off her pretty
ears, when they weren't being covered by her cloche hat.  Sophia wore her
brown hair in a bob with `bangs' over her forehead.  The cut was exact and
precise, as if done with a razor, and she looked very smart.  Both girls
wore coat-dresses that buttoned or had a tie way down on their hip; Jean's
had a fur collar while Sophia's had a fur hem.  They were very chic young
women indeed, thought Martin.

"Are you boys coming to Dongo's party tonight?" asked Sophia, mentioning
the Duke of Donegal who was a friend of theirs and lived in a big house in
Park Lane.  Martin looked at Stephen and Stephen nodded.

"Yes, we'd love too.  Plunger?"

"Yes, I'm coming.  I want to see Donegal House too."

The Plunger went back to Chelsea where the resentful Gertie laid out his
evening clothes.

"Lift your chin up, dear," he said struggling with the stud.  "Or should
that be chins?"

"Gertie, you utter swine.  I don't have a double chin!"  Nevertheless, with
his collar unfastened, Archie rushed to the looking-glass to inspect.  No,
there was assuredly only one and it was held high in the fashionable
aristocratic manner.

They dined at Branksome House and then called in at Stephen's club, the
Saville, for an hour or so and were slightly `tight' by the time they
walked around to Park Lane.

Stephen was wearing yet another new dinner jacket; this time it was
double-breasted. Mr Gibbons, his tailor, had throbbed with excitement when
Stephen had shown him the picture of Jack Buchanan wearing one in an
illustrated paper and the finished product, it goes without saying, looked
very well on Stephen indeed and made Martin and The Plunger feel quite
démodés.

His Grace, the Duke, was not much older than they were.  Martin had been at
school with his younger brother Pongo and their fathers had sat in the
Lords together many years ago.

"Poole," he said rushing up.  I think my party is a success, if I do say so
meself. Cleever reports that there are no less than 16 `gate crashers' and
I know that chap over there," and here he pointed to a young man in a badly
fitting set of evening clothes, "is a gossip columnist for Lord
Beverbrook!"

A servant passed with a tray of glasses and Dongo removed three and gave
them to the boys before scuttling off to some other region.

About ten minutes later they found Jean, Antony, Sophia and Brian. They
were in a room where there was dancing and a number of tables had been set
out as if for a cabaret.  Dongo had engaged a marvellous American jazz band
led by Paul Specht from Lyon's Corner House.  They played the sort of
American music that had become a positive passion with Martin and had led
to Stephen buying him an expensive new gramophone for his birthday.  Martin
now had an extensive collection of American, French and British records.
Martin and Stephen had a dance each with Jean and Sophia and then with two
other girls whom Sophia knew.

The band took a break and was replaced by two coloured pianists, Layton and
Johnstone, from the new Café de Paris.  They sang several songs
including After You've Gone which was "too thrill-making," gurgled one of
Sophia's friends.

There was more champagne and more fox-trotting when the band returned.
Martin, Stephen, Sophia and Jean at one point all exchanged looks that
puzzled the others. Then Martin walked up to Mr Specht who was vigorously
conducting, holding his violin under his arm.  When there was a pause he
could be seen talking to him and Specht could be seen nodding to the
evident request.

Martin returned to their table and asked Jean for the next dance while
Stephen did the same to Sophia.  There was something clearly afoot from the
manner of the four of them.  The band struck up a lively jazz tune-- a
fox-trot-- and they were only two of many couples on the floor.  Suddenly
the music slid into something more syncopated; it was a `hot' tune with the
emphasis on the second and fourth beats.  While the other dancers continued
their fox-trotting, Martin, Stephen and the two girls began to swivel their
feet and they held each other more loosely.  The other dancers drew back
and began to watch them.  They started to do little kicks to the side and
at some points faced outwards, only holding each other by one hand.  Then
there was an audible gasp as the four began to do wild steps by themselves.
They came back together and then broke again as the music became faster and
more emphatic.  The girls executed some silly steps together, encouraged by
the boys, then Martin and Stephen did a `turn' together, keeping their
upper bodies still while their legs were like rubber.  There was a ripple
of applause.  The dancers then came back to the fox-trot hold and the music
came to an abrupt halt with a crack of the cymbal and each froze with one
leg bent backwards.  There was wild applause.

They went to walk back to their table to confess to their secret lessons,
but the crowd pulled them back to the floor and the band repeated the
infectious, syncopated tune from the American musical, Runnin Wild and the
other dancers crowded the floor in an effort to copy their movements
without falling over.  The reporter from The Daily Express was busy taking
notes on a napkin.



"Listen to what The Daily Mail says, Derbs: `Peer's Wild Jazzing: In scenes
reminiscent of a Negro camp meeting down south, the ballroom of the Duke
of...'"

"Hang on," said Stephen, "this one is even better: `Down on the Levee: Park
Lane High Jinx'."

"What paper was that?"

Stephen turned to the cover.  "The Telegraph.  And The Express has gone for
alliteration: `Mayfair's Modern Morals'."  Stephen opened a magazine and
scanned it. "The Tattler is: `Bright Young People Embrace Modern Music'."

Martin read: "`Our Jazzing Daughters: A Warning to Parents'. That's The
Tablet and The Manchester Guardian says: `Ducal Home a Speakeasy'-- they're
always down on drink."

"Here's The Daily Worker: `Plutocrats Exploit Coloured Musicians'."

"And The Morning Post?"

"No mention at all, Mala.  I'm sorry."

Martin got busy with the scissors.  "I'm pasting these in my scrapbook.  It
was a very fine party, wasn't it, Derbs?"

"Well, now the whole country knows it too, Mala.  I think we need to go
easy on the parties or it won't go down well with the people at Croome."

"Don't you think they want to see me leading the fashion, Derbs?" said
Martin looking up from the pot of paste.

"I'm afraid not, Mala.  They are country folk and they are already
suspicious of `Lundun ways'."

"Perhaps you're right. We'll go down tomorrow, but don't forget we're going
to Charlot's Revue at The Prince of Wales tonight.  Jack and Charles are
coming for cocktails and we'll dine quietly at home.  M. Lefaux has made
truffles aux champagne and chicken Marengo.  Why would we dine out?"



 "Your Lordship," said Chilvers, after giving a professional butler's
cough, "The servants were very pleased to read of you terpsichorean
triumphs in London, sir."

"Does that mean my dancing, Chilvers?"

"Yes, sir."

"There, Stephen was quite wrong!"

"And I have been putting it off, your lordship, but I would like to discuss
the indoor staff, sir.  We haven't really looked at it since the War, your
lordship."

"Yes, you're quite right, Chilvers.  I've been neglecting the staff what
with one thing and another.  Should we ask Mr Stephen to join us when he
returns from the gymnasium?"

"I think that would be a good idea, sir.  He thinks very creatively, if I
may say so."

Stephen returned, all sweaty and with bruised knuckles so it was half an
hour before he could join them in the Spanish Dining Room where Chilvers
had assembled some papers and lists.

"Your lordship, Mr Stephen," he began.  "We have let the staff run down
since the War-- really since her ladyship died."

"I don't think we can ever go back to those days, Chilvers," said Martin.

"No, that is so," sighed the butler whose mind slipped back to the glory
days of King Edward for just a moment.  "And good male servants are hard to
find and even with this unemployment, there is a limited supply of maids;
they'd rather work in factories than be in service.  We've had to look to
the Irish and to the workhouses.

"I would like to have four footmen again, but I will make do with two--they
must be young and matching in height or it will ruin the dining room.  We
need one to make a pair with young Mathew.  Now, as to kitchen maids..."

Chilvers had it all worked out: There were to extra maids to assist Miss
Prims (who was elderly) with the linen and the sewing.  Two extra laundry
maids were required. The demolition of the south wing had made the big
house a little more manageable, but still extra maids, even armed with
electric vacuum cleaners, were required to dust and maintain the dozens of
bedrooms.  There were enough maids for the principle reception rooms, but
they needed a new carpenter and a boy.

"If my new footman is good, I will not need a cellarman, your lordship, but
Cook needs a sous chef -- if only to prepare the servant's meals.  I think
she should be the one to select the right applicant, for you know the
saying about cooks."

By the time Chilvers had finished and the prospective wages bill had been
totted up, Martin realised it would cost an extra £800 a year, and that
they had not even touched on the outdoor staff and the extra gardener that
was required to roll the tennis courts and maintain Martin's new sunken
garden.

They went over the list again and did some pruning.  "What about if we
introduce some modern electrical machinery into the house, Mr Chilvers?"
said Stephen. "American houses are well ahead of us.  They had lots of
electrical equipment on display at Wembley and now that we have a mains
supply..."

"Chilvers," said Martin suddenly.  "When did you last have a holiday?"

The butler thought for a moment with his eyes to the ceiling.  "I had a
fortnight in June of 1906."

"Well, I think you should go to America and investigate how they run their
big houses over there."

"America!" gasped the butler and then added, after he caught his breath,
"your lordship."

"Yes," continued Martin.  "It would be strictly for business, and to get
the names of some of those gadgets they are so fond of over there.  I saw
one that electrically squeezed oranges-- could do dozens in a few minutes.
By the way, you should have tasted the lovely Jaffa oranges at the
Exhibition; we should buy some for breakfast--orange juice is all the rage.

"We can get you the names of some of our friends in New York, Philadelphia,
and Chicago and you could visit their houses.  They'll probably want to
invite a `gen-u-ine British butler' to stay.  But you must promise to come
back to us, Chilvers, no matter how much they bribe you."

"Chicago?" cried Chilvers in alarm.  "You want me to go to Chicago?"

"Yes, Chilvers, that is an order.  Bunny would look after him, wouldn't he,
Derby?"

"Certainly," said Stephen who was also in shock.

"I think you should go in August when we are away in Antibes.  I will write
letters of introduction and organize your passport this very afternoon."

"And Hollywood?" ventured, Chilvers.  "I'm sure they have some very clever
domestic arrangements in that town."

"No Hollywood, Chilvers," said Martin smiling.  "And Chilvers," The butler
looked up, "it will be in second class."

"Very good, your lordship."



The next day Private Myles arrived and Martin and Stephen went down to the
station to meet him.  "It's very good of you your lordship..." began Myles
before Martin held his hand up.

"No, it's me who should be grateful.  You haven't seen the mess my
correspondence is in; you might be on the first train back to Norfolk.
What happened to your last job?"

"Well, it sort of vanished from under me, your lordship.  I was taken on as
the most junior draftsman in a large firm in Norwich.  The owner died and
most of the business went to other firms.  The new owner only kept three
fellows on and I wasn't one of them.  I do have references, your lordship,"
he said looking at his suitcase as Stephen hefted it into his Pan motorcar.

"I think we both know you well enough to not require reference, Myles.  By
the way, do you have some other sort of name?

"It's Henry-- or rather Harry, your lordship."

"Well, Harry, as you are going to be my private secretary, I think you
should call me Martin when we are alone.  You are not a servant, but my
employee, and I would hope that you would dine with Stephen and me when we
are at Croome.  Do you have evening clothes?"

Myles shook his head sadly.  "Well, we'll get you some.  They will be a
necessary part of your job--like overalls," he said smiling.  "I've checked
this all out with Chilvers. He's our butler.  I have to tread carefully so
as not to offend the servants.  It's worse than the caste system in India!"

Myles' mind was racing, trying to imagine himself in evening clothes
sitting at a big table and asking `Martin' to pass him the HP sauce.  He
giggled and Stephen and Martin both threw him a glance.

The sudden appearance of the Croome through the trees stunned Myles, even
though he was familiar with `the big house' where his father worked for a
titled family in Norfolk.  The introduction to Chilvers was negotiated
successfully.

Myles was given a bedroom next to the room where Stephen studied.
Stephen's room would be ideal for Myles' office, Stephen said, as it was
quite large and well lit and he would soon be finished his Engineering
degree in any case.  Tea was brought there and Myles' role was outlined.

Myles took stock: "Well, we'll need some filing cabinets and three trays:
`in', `out', and `pending'.  That should organise your affairs, Martin.
The trick is not to put everything in `pending' and never empty it.  I will
need stationary and do you have a typewriter?"

"You can typewrite?" asked Stephen in surprise.

"Yes, I'm a bit slow.  I need to take lessons, but I can type a letter."

"Why that's marvellous Harry!" cried Martin.  "I never expected that.  And
you can take lessons in your spare time.  I'm sure there is a secretarial
school in Wareham or if not in Bournemouth--that is if you want to."

They fell to the pleasant task of making a stationery list.  Myles said he
could do it alone, but Martin was keen and wanted one of those gadgets that
punched holes and a mimeograph machine.  "Chilvers can use it for writing
menus, instead of sending out to the printer."

Myles was then taken to look at Martin's desk.  It was a lovely satinwood
desk from the 1780s and had a pair of glass-fronted bookcases above it.
Myles admired it; it was elegant.

Martin opened the writing flap, which was supported on brass fittings, and
there was a sudden, dreadful eruption of paper that then transformed itself
into a cascade that rained down upon the carpet.  Martin blushed.

"Oh your lordship!" said Myles, picking up some pieces at random with dates
going back to 1920.  "We will have to sort this lot out."

Martin felt that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and moved
to a large carved box-- the sort that is called a `coffer'.  He lifted the
lid to disclose more of the same.

"Much of this is probably useless by now, Harry," he explained, "but I
began to put correspondence in here after my father died."  Myles gave him
a reproving look while Stephen roared with laughter.

The three of them gathered up piles in their arms and made several trips to
Myles' room where they were deposited on the floor in great paper
slagheaps.

"Martin, I think we will need to make a regular time each day for you to
sign things and to give me your post.  We will also have to make
arrangements for me to come up to London too.  I'm sorry to be so bossy,
but I think that's what you are paying me for."

"Yes, that's right, Harry, I'm paying so I don't feel so guilty.  Stephen,
do you think you should have a filing cabinet too?"

"No, Mala, I'm already quite organised, thank you very much..." and he went
on to explain with relish the complicated system by which he operated.
Myles listened intently.  They were two of a kind, thought Martin.

There were no guests that night and they didn't dress.  Myles' presence in
the Gothic dining room was therefore welcome.  He was a little shy at
first, but not really being shy by nature he was soon joining in the
conversation, which was general and not of the variety that was called
`sparkling' and reserved for the likes of Margot Asquith and Mr Michael
Arlen.

"I gather while I'm here, there won't be any foot inspections, Stephen, or
applications of delousing powder," said Myles, mischievously.

Stephen put down his knife and fork and said: "You can't be too careful of
trench foot and typhus doesn't bear thinking about.  I have Martin on
inspection parade quite regularly-- even in peacetime."  Myles couldn't
work out if Stephen was being serious or not until he looked to see Martin
winking at him.

"I'm still a member of the Sans Culottes, Stephen."

"I'm pleased to hear it," replied Stephen in the same flat tone, "but as I
say to Carlo, that is entirely your decision.  I never asked the men to
copy me."

"No, you never did, but we did just the same", said Myles, and then turning
to Martin said: "He never said a word, but the men tried to imitate him.
Where he trod in No Man's Land, they walked; when he started to use a
periscope rifle, the men copied the design; Stephen began to clean his
rifle with cold tea, they did the same.  He grew that moustache and some of
us grew moustaches like his.  Most importantly, when he was not afraid, we
were not afraid."

"The men were not afraid?" asked Stephen in genuine surprise.

"No," said Myles. "Well... less afraid; they looked to you for leadership."

"But I was afraid all the time.  I think every man should make his own
judgment.  It's unfair to have put it all onto me."

"Unfair," said Martin, "but it is human nature.  There's nothing you can do
about it, Stephen.  People respect you from the Cricket Club downwards."

"Well, that reminds me, Mala.  The chaps are not too keen on me missing
games in August to go to France.  I offered to resign as captain, but they
wouldn't hear of it.  I'm not even bowling all that well."

"See, that's what I mean?  Mr Plainsong wants to retire at the next
election.  You'd be certain to be elected--well at least you'd get all the
votes on the Estate and all the female votes.  I'm on the Conservative
Committee and they'll do whatever I tell them. What do you say?"

Stephen knew Martin had his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. "I don't
think politics is for me and certainly not as a Tory.  I gather by what you
are saying that the successful candidate would have to do what you told him
too."

"Of course, just like Mr Plainsong took his marching orders from my
father."

"Why don't you ask your friend Miss Foxton to stand as a Labourite and back
her."

"Certainly not.  They'll be seizing our country houses and turning them
into collective farms run by soviets.  Besides, Miss Foxton isn't 30
yet--she's too young to stand."

Myles looked bewildered at this exchange and only slowly realised that they
were teasing each other.



It was a warm night in late July.  Martin and Stephen lay in bed with the
window open and the bright moonlight flooding the bedroom.

"I'm sorry, Mala, that wasn't one of my best efforts," said Stephen.

"Wasn't it?" asked Martin in surprise.  The bed was a terrible sweaty mess
and Stephen had sowed his seed deep into Martin bowels while he made love
to him with all the elegance of a bitch being taken by a police dog.
Stephen had repeatedly and forcefully pressed his face down into the
mattress so that Martin's posterior was raised to a more convenient height
and angle.

"No, my mind was elsewhere and I've been a poor lover."

"No you haven't, Derbs, that was wonderful," Martin tried to assure him.

"No, you're just saying that when you deserve my full powers concentration,
Mala. The mind is everything, you know.  It's all up here," he said tapping
his head.

"Is it Derbs?  I just let it happen."

"How can I make it up to you?  Shall I do you again, maybe with us standing
and your arms about...?"

"Derbs, I would like you to pleasure yourself while concentrating your
mind.  You still like to pleasure yourself, don't you?"

"Oh it is one of my greatest pleasures," said Stephen terribly sincerely,
not realising he had made a joke, "but what will you do?"

"Nothing, just watch you.  No helping.  You can think about whatever you
like.  Don't tell me."

Stephen thought about it for a few seconds and shrugged.  Martin handed him
the Spong's Soothing Salve and he began to give his cock a few strokes.
Stephen felt distinctly odd with Martin so close, but not being a
participant.  He pulled at his foreskin and stretched his balls with his
left hand.  It took quite a few minutes for him to become completely hard.
Sometimes he closed his eyes and Martin was left to wonder what moving
pictures were playing in his head.  At other times he opened his eyes and
looked down, as if to make sure his cock was still there.  He switched
hands a number of times and even did some backhand--they had been playing a
lot of tennis.  Sometimes he would look straight into Martin's eyes with a
frightening intensity.  Martin felt he wanted to look away, but couldn't.
At other times the supposed concentration, or it might have been the simple
ecstasy, caused him to pull the sorts of comical faces--mouth open, eyes
screwed up-- faces that Martin realised we must all show to our lovers.

"Move your bottom down, Derbs."

Stephen skidded down the bed and his rectum was on display.  Martin took
the initiative and applied some Spong's to Stephen's middle finger and with
this anointed digit he began to pleasure himself, eventually sliding it in
past the second knuckle. Martin thought it was an erotic sight to see the
big lad in the throes of self-pleasure. Martin could tell Stephen was
getting close and he commanded: "Into your mouth Derbs."

Stephen craned his neck and then Martin lifted him by the ankles until he
had rolled on his back and his cock was pointing downwards into his own
mouth.  Martin pressed a good deal harder and Stephen was able to lick the
engorged tip.  He was using two hands now.

"Spill Derbs!"

He obeyed and a goodly amount went straight down his throat.  He promptly
had a coughing fit and had to uncurl.

"Oh!" he gasped, catching his breath.  "That was intense.  Do I make you
swallow all that?"

"Yes, Derbs; its nice isn't it?"  The look on Stephen's face was not
entirely in agreement.

Martin assisted in the clean-up while Stephen was lost in a meditative
mood.  Then he said: "See, it is all in the mind."

"Yes and a good, strong right hand helps too," said Martin, chuckling and
causing Stephen to squirm by poking his tongue into his navel."



 *****



The employment of Myles was proving to be a success and within a week there
was a big difference to the running of the Estate.  Chilvers sorted the
morning post and personal letters appeared with Martin's early tea while
bills and other such missives went straight into Myles' tray.  In the
afternoon Martin signed things and dictated letters in time to catch the
afternoon post.  There was a large leather bound diary kept on its own
table.  Here Martin's social appointments were recorded in red ink, while
in violet ink were bills to be paid and other obligations.  Sometimes Myles
let Martin punch holes with the patented device when things were quiet.

Chilvers seemed to accept Myles as a member of the household and Myles
helped Chilvers organise the National Insurance Stamps, which had to be
licked and pasted in a book every week and for every servant employed under
Lloyd George's Act.

"Mr Chilvers," hailed Stephen when he came upon him inspecting the
panelling in the Great Hall for dust.  "Have you made a decision about
Myles?"

"Myles? Mr Stephen.  What about Mr Myles?"

"Is he to be admitted to the Club, of course?"

"Oh sir! Why do you ask me?" hissed the butler in a whisper.  "Why did I
ever get into this?"

"Because you're the Membership Secretary," teased Stephen mercilessly.  "Or
do you propose to conduct an interview?  Or an examination perhaps?"

"Oh sir!" protested Chilvers, starting to giggle.  His stomach wobbled.

"Perhaps he might be blackballed!"

Chilvers had to bite down hard on his finger and scurried away as fast as a
portly gentleman could be expected to on a polished floor.  Stephen
continued on his way feeling sure that Myles would soon be up on the roof
and felt pleased that they had raised more than a pound in fines which
would be sent to the Toc H organization for returned servicemen.

While Myles was still busy filing, Stephen said: "Mala, it's a lovely day,
let's drive out to Lesser Branksome, I want to look at the golf links."

"Let's take our bicycles.  You don't think it's unseemly for me to be seen
riding a bicycle now that I'm Lord Branksome, do you?"

"No, Mala, you look like Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands--very
dignified."

"Derbs, put a white shirt on and roll up the sleeves."

Stephen knew what this meant.  It was a favourite memory of Martin's--one
to be drawn on in moments of great happiness or indeed unhappiness, the
memory of them riding their cycles on a summer's day down a certain road.

So they did.  They rode down into the village and Stephen waved to Titus
Knight, his stepfather--shouting out that they would call on the way back.
There was Miss Tadrew in her garden.  Hughes was pushing her wheelbarrow.
There was the grey stone War Memorial and there was the vicar and Mrs
Destrombe walking back from the Women's Institute Hall.  It was like a
village in a child's book.  Their bicycles sped past the garage, but they
couldn't see Louch as he must have been out the back. They turned right
into the road that went to Pendleton.  It was a deep lane bordered by tall
hawthorn hedges and beech and oak that provided deep pools of shade where
their branches met overhead, especially where the lane descended to a small
ford where a rivulet splashed across the road.  They were riding side by
side, freewheeling now down the hill. The wind was pulling at Stephen's
white shirt.  Martin could see his brown arms.  He turned to Martin, just
as Martin wanted him to.  His black hair had fallen down over his left eye
and he took one hand off the handlebars to push it back.  "Mala," he called
out, "you're laughing.  What are you so excited about?  Have you taken the
saddle off again?"

They splashed through the water and presently had to peddle up the hill.
"Thank you for that Derbs.  That was exactly right.  I'm very happy and I
love you very much."

"I know you do, Mala," said Stephen sincerely.

At Lesser Branksome there was nothing much to see, apart from the bright
red telephone kiosk that Martin had worked so hard to get the PMG to
install in the main street of the hamlet.  It was unproductive downland,
with a view to the distant sea. There were rocky tors, heath and some
patches of woodland.  There was some poor farmland where it was flatter.

"I'm having a designer of golf links, a Mr Colt, come down on Thursday,
Mala.  He has laid out some of the best courses in Britain -- Rye and
Sunningdale and so on.  I will get him to look at the land to see if it is
suitable."

"It's very rough terrain in places.  There is lots of heather and gorse.
Are you sure that will be alright or will it all have to be changed?"

"I've seen the links at Broadstone -- it was Lord Wimboune who recommended
him. It is similar and so I think this spot will be ideal.  I hope we can
engage him to lay out the course.  I say `we' but I really mean the
Company."

`The Branksome Golf Links Company Inc.' had recently been set up for just
this purpose.  Daniel Sachs had pronounced that it was a speculative
venture, but not a complete gamble and would have taken shares himself had
that not conflicted with his advice.  Therefore, Martin and Stephen were
the majority shareholders but Sir Bernard Bonnington had taken an interest
as had Lord Delvees.  The Plunger (who had famously disapproved of golf
when at school) and Sir Gordon Craigth, his father, were also in it.

"I'm afraid Mr Tatchell is a keen golfer," Stephen had reported to Martin.

Martin had merely shrugged.  "His money is as good as anyone else's."

"I think we'll need about £20,000 for the course and that much again for
the hotel.  I think we should start off with a small hotel first.  Come and
I'll show you where I think it should stand."

They pushed their bicycles up the hill where the wind blew strongly.  Then
there was a slight dip. In the immediate distance could be seen the railway
line. "That's Lesser Branksome Halt," said Stephen.  "And the Pendleton
road crosses it behind those cottages.  Here would be a good spot.  It's
close to both and it has a view of the sea on the horizon, but there is
just a little bit of shelter.  Some walls and a windbreak of Cyprus trees
perhaps would be helpful."

"I think the hotel should have a big terrace overlooking the course."

"That's a given, Mala.  I think there should be a glazed lounge too.  Mr
Colt will advise the hotel company too.  It's a big risk, Mala.  Golf might
lose its popularity or our links and the hotel might not attract visitors
for any number of reasons."

"Yes," said Martin soberly, not wanting to give Stephen false hope.  "But
if we are cautious and get a range of opinions and if we share the risks--
and of course share any profits--well, it will be a good thing for the
Estate.  It will create jobs and bring visitors."

They peddled back to Branksome-le-Bourne and leaned their cycles against
the cottage gate.  Titus Knight was bending over the stove that was making
the kitchen-- the main room of the dwelling--quite warm and he had the back
door, which led to the porch and bathroom, wide open and the scent of
honeysuckle drifted in.

"Good afternoon, your lordship, Stephen," said the old man straightening
up.  "I'll have some tea ready for you in t' minute and there's a big scone
that Miss Tadrew sent over," he added with a nod in the direction of
something by the fire wrapped in a tea towel.

They grouped themselves in three Windsor chairs--probably made by Owens
long ago.  They were rubbed beautifully smooth through use.  Titus and
Stephen talked of the orchard and the problem of codling moth and of the
large number of rabbits there were this year and the likely causes of this
phenomenon.  "I sees a stone curlew t'other evening.  In't the branches of
t'big oak it were.  I haven't seen one since I were a boy."

"Where did you grow up, Titus?" asked Martin.

"Out beyond Pendleton, your lordship.  The cottage has been gone many a
year.  This place was your mother's cottage, Stephen."

Martin and Stephen exchanged glances.  "Titus," began Stephen.  "What can
you tell me about my parents?"

"Well," said the old man as he filled his pipe and spent a long time
getting it lit.  "Well, I never knowed your father mind.  He had only been
in t'village for a few months a'fore he died."

"What did he die of?"

"Were his lungs.  Affected by t'mines they were.  He'd spent a lot of time
down coal mines and tin mines, I believe, and he were sick when he came
here from Cornwall with you and your mother."

"From St Just?"

"Near there.  That was where your mother's people were from, the
Trethewies."

"What were they like, my parents?  I've never even seen a photograph."

"No, I don't believe there are any.  Pity; your mother was a pretty little
thing, Stephen. A very dainty waist did my Jenny have.  She had the
loveliest nature, Stephen; everybody said so.  You don't look like her, but
you have her sweet nature.  She were a great one for t'chapel-- Primitive
Methodist like a lot from Cornwell.  She were very strict with herself, but
didn't preach about it none.  She didn't drink or dance.  I never heard her
utter an oath or say an unkind word."

Stephen suddenly thought of Dongo's party.

"She never set foot in t'Feathers and didn't like my pipe or t'fact that I
don't hold with church much--praying, yes; everyone should pray, but
t'other stuff-- even if it is in t'Bible, maybe tis a lot o' nonsense--well
some of it is, I reckon.  But not to Jenny. She believed that God created
all t'sweet creatures and that nature was all lovely and God's work and so
couldn't be cruel.  But it can be cruel too!" he said with sudden
vehemence, "Beautiful and cruel.  If God created t'one he created t'other.
But Jenny didn't hold wi' that.

"We lost her too soon.  She were pregnant you see; and the baby miscarried
and she died o' blood poisoning.  It were our baby; hers and mine.  But I
had you, Stephen, I was left with you.  Cruel and beautiful, is God's work.
This were hers.  Do you remember seeing this?"

From book on a shelf he removed a fabric bookmark with a gold fringe on the
bottom. It was a beautiful thing, elaborately worked in fine silk thread
with a design of fruits and blossoms.  Two little birds were perched in a
branch and, in tiny letters underneath, was embroidered a poem.  Stephen
read it aloud to Martin.





            Overheard in the Orchard

Said the robin to the sparrow

I would really like to know

Why these anxious human beings

Rush about and worry so

Said the sparrow to the robin

Friend I think that it must be

That they have no heavenly father

Such as cares for you and me.

Elizabeth Cheney 1859



There were tears in Stephen's eyes when he handed the bookmark back to
Titus. "I never knew.  And you never thought to remarry?"

"No, not after my lovely Jenny.  There was Miss Tadrew, but she were
settled happy wi' Miss Tapstowe and you were enough to fill our empty
hearts."

"And what do you know of Mark Molsom?" asked Stephen after a long pause.

"He were t'American.  Jenny said he were very handsome devil and had dark
hair. The ladies liked him.  I reckon you looks like your father--'cept for
your blue eyes. They're your mother's eyes.  I think Jenny said his were
brown."

"Why did he come here?"

"I don't rightly know.  He had money problems; he owed money.  Jenny said
he had a piece of business to do here, but she didn't rightly know what it
was.  I mean there's no mining here, is there?  And he were in t'mining
game."

"I don't know either, Titus," said Stephen not exactly truthfully, "but I
have learnt something recently.  My father came from America but he was
related to Martin's family." Titus looked surprised.  "Yes, very
distantly. What are we, Mala?"

"Half third cousins.  We had the same great-great grandfather, but not
grandmothers"

"Well that's a turn up," said Titus, calmly, reworking his pipe.  "So were
his name really Poole?"

"It may have rightly been--it's not quite clear--but it was Molsomo--
that's Portuguese."

"Where t'port wine comes from?"

"Yes."

"Well that's interesting.  Families is odd things.  Is it a secret,
Stephen?"

"For the moment it is."

"I see.  Don't want to get mixed up with no foreigners?  Now tell me what's
going on wi' this golf links."

The subject was changed and the boys took Titus to The Feathers for a pint
and pushed their bicycles home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olGkgX9cznI


To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.